Author's Note: Thanks to Melodic Rose (double thanks), phantom-jedi1 (double thanks), Timeflies (double thanks), Passed Over, CarolROI, KyrieofAccender, jtbwriter, Lothiel, Nyasia A. Maire, StakeMeSpike04, Lady Winifred (double thanks), TalithaJ, Lovegoddess567, Ripper de la Blackstaff, mildetryth (double thanks), scorpionorchid, montaquecat, - 19MikaelA87 -, and PhantomPhluter for their latest reviews.

Disclaimer: The characters and storyline of The Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Neither do I own any of the songs or music I make use of or refer to in this story. No infringement of copyright is intended. I have the greatest respect for the creators of all of the above and mean no offence by using their material. This story is a sequel, and this and the original it is based on are my own work with the exceptions mentioned above. Please do not use without permission.

Chapter 2

Armed with the memories of stories both her parents had told her – and a few handy pieces of paper taken from the myriad of things she had brought to The Clover – Christine began to explore the theatre.

The Clover was the original name for the place, but it had long since officially changed its name to The Meyer after being bought by a gentleman of the same name. Said gentleman had not been a particular favourite of those who worked there, and one of their many subversive acts of rebellion had been to keep the original name as far as they were able. That had been long before an O'Neill had set foot in the place, but having been so charmed by the tale – and having such a fierce loyalty to anything remotely Irish – Katie had reignited the tradition that had slipped into myth and only been maintained by a few. That was actually the reason why Christine had had such a hard time finding directions to the place – she'd all but forgotten its modern name. Once inside though, even if it was for the first time, directions were not something she had to ask for.

For the most part, the hallways at the back of the theatre were empty; people either working around the stage or in their rooms – if they were there at all. Once or twice though at junctions, someone walking along a different corridor would see her, and out of the corner of her eye she would catch them doing a double take. Of course, she would then promptly alter her path and make sure she wasn't seen if they came looking for her. At one point, she did run into someone – quite literally – gave a quick apology with a heavy Irish accent and then promptly disappeared from sight. The poor man was left standing there looking as if he'd seen a ghost. From around the corner, Christine smiled, not a malicious smile mind; one of good humour that she knew would be shared once the contagious superstitions of the theatre had been ignited and eventually laid to rest. It was these suspicions that had her wandering so much instead of moving in to her mother's old apartments that were hidden away at the very rear of the building, as she had arranged with Danny. Since the concert had been announced, pictures of Katie O'Neill had been on display everywhere. She'd been the topic of much conversation, seeing as not everyone working at the theatre had their own memories of her or knew why she'd been given such an honour. Once word got out of the redheaded figure in black wandering the theatre, appearing out of nowhere, then it would surely spread – as if the local interest in the event wasn't enough already.

Checking her watch, she altered her course one last time – confusing an unfortunate cleaner who suddenly began to question the contents of her flask – and headed towards the levels directly above the backstage area. Several times she had to pause and hide: if she was going to pull this off, it was imperative that she remain unseen in this neck of the woods.

Satisfied that no one was around, she moved over to one of the walls near the flies, placed her hands on it and began feeling the wood, searching for . . . there! The architect who had designed this place had been covertly attempting to pay homage to the Opera Populaire in Paris and as a result it was riddled with little passages and hideaways. Few knew of them and as far as Arneau had been aware, her mother had been the only one who had known how to find them in . . . more years than he was prepared to admit to. Sliding the panel away, she crept in, crouching down to walk along the low passage. When it finally ended, she knelt down and peered through the grate that granted her a perfect view of the stage. Checking her cramped surroundings, she was relieved to discover there was very little dust; any sound made in here would be amplified and end up making its way across half the auditorium. Her mother used to claim that if a person knew just what they were doing, they could make a sound carry around the whole area.

Calming her breathing, she settled down and waited. It wasn't long before a number of people arrived, setting up various pieces of equipment on the stage, testing for sound and lighting. She could hear the clamour of action backstage, and somehow she knew it wasn't entirely owing to the work that needed to be done. A number of people gathered and seated themselves near the stage. She recognised Daniel Arneau, the conductor who had served The Clover well for many years including when Katie O'Neill had been 'discovered'. Two gentlemen were sat next to him, one of a similar age, one much younger. Management? They certainly bore themselves with enough confident authority. A group of rather excited people soon joined them; probably working for or with the famous Mr. Destler.

Darkness fell.

The entire place was devoid of light and Christine felt the old fears rapidly stirring at the unexpectedness of it – not to mention she was in a tight space hovering a long way above the stage!

Then she heard it.

A lone, rich voice rose out of the silence. Her hand flew to her mouth as she stifled a gasp. Would that she could see! Was it her panicked imagination, or. . ? Surely no two people in this world could have been blessed with a voice like that . . . it couldn't be . . . but she had heard his voice raised in such pain and longing, heard him sing so gently before . . . and there was no other sound to be heard.

"I hear a baby crying, A sad sound, a lonely sound, I want to take her in my arms, And then I dry away all her tears.

"I see a boy, who's frightened, A young boy, with old eyes, I long to say 'You're welcome here, You can be happy now that you're warm.'"

Leaning forward, she heard a piano join in with a soft melody and astonishingly turn the words into something more hopeful.

"We're all a part of one world, We all can share the same dream, And if you just reach out to me, Then you will find deep down inside, I'm just like you."

The music swelled and rose, and with it the lights that had only been faint in the refrain were strong and focussed on the man at the centre of the stage, who sang with passion that sounded as though it was barely being held in check.

"Loud voices raised in anger, Speak harsh words, such cruel words, Why do they speak so selfishly, When we have got so much we can share?

"So let your hearts be open, And reach out with all your love, There are no strangers now, They are our brothers now, And we are one."

He moved around the stage and she watched his every step captivated, though he remained facing the 'audience'.

"We're all a part of one world, We all can share the same dream, And if you just reach out to me, Then you will find deep down inside, I'm just like you."

Returning to the centre, he became still and the music softened until there remained his voice alone – as if any further ornamentation could be needed.

"We're all a part of one world, We all can share the same dream, And if you just reach out to me, Then you will find deep down inside, I'm just like you." The lights went out, and yet one thought still echoed around the hall.

"I'm just like you."

Christine dared not move her hand. The song was perfect, as was the voice that sang it. Whenever her mother had given her her bedtime story, she had always sung her to sleep afterward. And that was one of the songs that . . . but no one knew that song! How was it possible?

The lights came back on.

The dark-haired man clothed simply in black stood there waiting. Still she couldn't see him. Was it really . . .? Would he actually sing something like that? She had heard him sing of darkness, of passion, of music. To sing of such a pure hope, of belonging, of being a part of the world . . . it was more than she would ever have dared to think possible. Still he was waiting.

Conjuring up a yawn, she relaxed her vocal chords. As she let the familiar words pour forth, most were startled and looked about to try and find where the voice was coming from. She saw his shoulders stiffen a split second before his head whipped around to the very place where she was concealed and it was all she could do to finish the simple line.

"Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán."