Author's Note: Thanks to terbear, UinenDolothen, KyrieofAccender, Timeflies, Lothiel, Nyasia A. Maire (double thanks), PhantomPhluter, phantom-jedi1, jtbwriter, mildetryth, Nedjset (double thanks), Melodic Rose, Kinetic Asparagus (double thanks), pictureperfexi0n, StakeMeSpike04, montaquecat, Lili Sinclair, -19MikaelA87-, Lady Winifred and smartblondee for their latest reviews.

Apologies for the slight delay. At last I have two betas! So if anyone notices a sudden improvement in the quality of my writing, the credit now also goes to phantom-jedi1 and GT of Kinetic Asparagus. Guys, one huge great big THANK YOU!! We're just starting out and experiencing a few communication problems, hence the slight delay. I'm not blaming them, just the wonderful weird web.

As requested by several of you, the Gaelic line comes from Siúil a Ruin and I made use of it on a few occasions in A Father's Promise. Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán means 'And safe for aye may my darling be' Our favourite phantom used it to calm Christine after Buquet's attack, and she remembered her mother singing it when she was trying to decide what to do just before Don Juan. Plus, on its own, it kinda works as a goodwill gesture.

If anyone's wondering, this is where I get my translations from for the lyrics: http/ www . geocities . com / celticlyricscorner / soundtracks / lordofthedance . htm

To everyone else: thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.

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 3

Even after so much time had passed, he still sometimes found himself stopping and wondering at the fact he was able to wander in the daylight so freely. Standing before this place though, the feeling was magnified beyond anything he'd expected. So many memories . . . still he couldn't quite shake the feeling that the theatre had been a prison.

Taking a breath, he resumed the walk that would forever change his life and invariably lead to the end of his anonymity. Both Clive and Edward had been urging him to give a performance for what felt like an age. Whilst he knew it made sense – his elusiveness coupled with his voice could end up raising the wrong questions – it was, nevertheless, a very . . . uncomfortable proposition. So long he had dwelt in the shadows; taking this final step and venturing into the light was incomprehensible, even to his mind – or perhaps, especially so. But he had promised that he would live . . . he had promised her.

All this time and he still couldn't speak her name. After she had left, he'd spent countless days thinking he was on the brink of madness or – the more welcome alternative – death, and whilst her name had been his only solace, it had also been a further twist of the bitter knife. Since writing that letter though, he had been able to close the door a little on that, and could now think of her without breaking down – so long as her name remained unsaid. Without a name, it was easier to think of her as a dream. And that was what he needed, seeing as she was the other reason why he had been reluctant to perform: the one and only other time he had sung before others, she had been at his side and in his arms.

But he could refuse her nothing; he would live and so he would perform. And there was nowhere else he could hold his first concert than the place where his musical 'career' had truly begun. Would that Katie were here to see it. But he would still make her proud, show her that her work had not been for naught, show her what she had meant to him; but most of all, he would thank her for the gift she had twice given him, if only for short times.

Entering The Clover through the front door was a truly bizarre experience, particularly in the daylight, but it gave him a certain sense of power; a rush that he felt each time he did something so . . . ordinary. Not bothering to announce his presence, he made his way along the familiar corridors and eventually ran into a member of his crew. It was still strange to have so many people working directly for him without his old ways, and it had taken him some time to 'tone down' his rather abrupt attitude with everyone. A quiet word here and there and his arrangements were made with the assurance that they would be met. Incredible! Relatively unknown, and yet he could still wield influence inside his . . . this theatre. The Clover wasn't his; never had been. It was Katie's, and would remain so as long as her memory was kept alive.

Waiting in the shadows until the lights went down, he silently went over the song he was about to sing. No one in the place knew it – it was one Katie had sung to him when his grief or temper had gotten the best of him and he'd refused to let her near. One song from her and all was right with the world, and she always seemed to know the right one for the moment. The words of One World were not the sort of thing he would ordinarily sing or even consider, seeing as the message within the refrain could not be further from reality if they tried. On the other hand, it summed up so much of who Katie O'Neill had been that he could not begin with any other.

Finally!

Darkness spread its cloak and taking up the familiar mantle, he allowed his voice to carry across the entire room, binding all there within its spell. He did not sing with all the power he possessed – this was not the right music for that – instead he sang with all the knowledge he had of what the song mentioned; pain, longing, rejection, cruelty and even hope – though it was with a great effort that he summoned up the latter memories and kept his countenance.

He had to resist a wince when the lights came back up, but looking out he saw there was no need for it: his audience – such as it was – was spellbound. As darkness fell once more, he continued to watch them as he finished the song; and knew that he'd made the right decision. He would make Katie proud.

The lights came up. Nothing. His people looked confused. Those gathered from The Clover remained still. What was going on? They had shown evident signs of approval as he had performed; listening attentively, the right emotions flitting across their features. Not one word now that they had the chance?

Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán.

It wasn't possible!

Even before the first word had finished, he'd whipped round to look up at the old grate. Moments after it ended, he saw movement and . . . a flash of red! He would have continued staring, but the belated applause finally broke out and he was called back to the task at hand. Absent-mindedly he shook the hands of his audience as they finally made their way onto the stage.

"You seem rather dazed, Mr Destler." Arneau commented, which drew back his full attention.

"Surprised. I didn't expect to be serenaded."

"Yes, my apologies if it bothered you." Paul Horton, the latest manager, replied before calling up to the flies, "You up there, what is the meaning of this? Who was that?"

One of the stage hands promptly called back down:

"Dunno, sir. There's no one here. It must have been a ghost." Horton frowned, clearly not appreciating the answer. Arneau smiled, and Erik wondered – not least at the irony.

"Whatever it was, again allow me to extend my apologies."

He looked at the manager, saw the youth of his years and realised that he probably didn't know.

"There is nothing to apologise for," looking to Arneau for confirmation, he continued, "there are few who are ever given the O'Neill blessing to perform on this stage. I am honoured to be the first in what I can only assume is a long time."

Arneau nodded before adding:

"Indeed. I was sceptical at first, given your previous recordings, but I would not argue with an O'Neill, and I do believe you will more than do her memory justice. Might I ask: how did you know?" Subtly, he gestured to the grate above them to illustrate the full meaning of his question.

"I was privileged to know Miss O'Neill. It is not the first time I have had those words sung to me, though it is the first from this vantage point."

"Arneau, you're not seriously suggesting that Katie O'Neill was singing?" Horton said, trying to laugh it off.

"Sir, I suggest you take Miss O'Neill more seriously. This is still her theatre and even if it were otherwise, she is not to be laughed at. There are many here who would object to such behaviour." Erik said quietly, the icy steel of his voice silencing the young manager far more effectively than his words. Realising he was defeated, and attempting to salvage some scrap of dignity, he bowed his head in polite acquiescence and walked away. Arneau was about to follow suit when a hand on his arm stopped him.

"That wasn't Katie." Arneau's mouth opened slightly in shock. No one ever called her by her first name without either her permission or a serious reprimand, yet the man stood before him made no bones about his wording. He spoke as though to himself.

"Would that it were." Daniel answered carefully. "Do you have any idea-"

"It wasn't a ghost. It was an angel."

He'd spent a ridiculous amount of time with Horton, ensuring that all would be arranged as he'd requested, confirming the outline of the concert, etc. Based on the length of time it took, and the attitude of the man, he spent most of it wondering why he'd ever given up on his original method. Ah, yes: fear bred discontent. This way he had the full support of the management without any 'hunts'. After sitting through that meeting though, he seriously doubted whether the alternative wasn't actually preferable.

Finally free, he found himself in the corridors behind the scenes. Here was the life of the theatre; this was what he had always witnessed, watched over, yet never taken part in. As people passed him, they occasionally smiled, which still caught him off guard – though he had long ago learnt to conceal that.

His feet eventually led him to a very familiar door that had obviously sat unopened for a very long time. Wait! The dust had been disturbed on the handle. Someone had been in here. He looked again in wonder . . .

He had seen her watching performances from up there, auditions, critiquing. Occasionally, she would sing those words indicating that the performer was welcome on her stage. Only she would have the audacity and favour to do such a thing and still perform unscathed. Several times he had watched with her and they would silently converse over the quality of what they were hearing. Yet no matter how many times it happened, his breath would always catch as he heard the notes pour from her mouth.

The moment he heard that voice though, those memories had paled into mediocrity. Was it possible he had forgotten, or had she improved? Wait: was it possible that it was she? He had been thinking of both of them before he'd begun, perhaps his mind . . . no. Even at the height of his depression he had never been driven to such sweet madness. But how could anyone have known who she was? Or had she come forward?

Was she even now behind this door?

Of its own volition, his hand rose to the handle. One move, one touch and he would have his answer.

No!

Every fibre of his being was screaming at him to find out, to see her again. All but one: he had promised that he would let her live in peace. That was why he was going back today – and he had a few things that needed to be taken care of. He had hoped to see The Clover properly, but dared not risk it for fear that he wasn't strong enough. For fear that he hadn't imagined . . . her.

Dropping his hand to his side, he let out a small breath of frustration and resignation and turned to go.

He stopped when he saw the redhead at the end of the corridor staring at him.

Katie

He'd heard her voice, and yet Katie stood before him. His jaw dropped in shock. Katie was dead. He'd seen her grave. He looked again. Katie had green eyes. The woman before him had blue. Unmistakably, she had blue . . . very familiar blue eyes. She fidgeted with her hands and he saw . . .

On her right hand was a diamond ring with a unique design that he would know anywhere. It was the ring he'd given to . . .

Christine