Author's Note: Thanks to phantom-jedi1, Lady Winifred, Timeflies, mildetryth, CarolROI, terbear, UinenDolothen, erfsings, Lothiel, KyrieofAccender, smartblondee, -19MikaelA87-, montaquecat, Melodic Rose, Nedjset, Lili Sinclair, Nyasia A. Maire (get well soon, hon), pictureperfexi0n, StakeMeSpike04, OperaLover, and Norma Leann Zane for their latest reviews. And also to jtbwriter, yes I did get your message.

Thanks again, everyone, 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 4

As soon as she saw his face, she knew it was a mistake.

When she had finally finished that line, she had clamped her hand over her mouth again to try and stop anything else coming out. If she hadn't, undoubtedly she would have cried to her Angel. Everything was screaming that her Angel was stood on that stage: the way he moved, the way he looked . . . his voice. But for the fact that he was stood on that stage. How was it possible? How was it possible that his face was so . . . perfect? Where were the scars, the marks, the mask even? In their stead was a half to match the other, resulting in a perfect whole belonging to a man who was not clinging to the shadows, a man who was stood openly awaiting praise or criticism – not that there was any criticism to be had – all without fear.

Was this really her Angel?

Hurrying along the little tunnel and into the main corridor, she headed . . . where? Where could she go? Surely he'd still be on stage? Everyone would want to speak with him, review his performance, etc. Absent-mindedly, her fingers found the ring on her right hand, as they were wont to do whenever she was anxious or had her Angel on her mind. Now she was both. As soon as she heard footsteps, she remembered that by her own wishes, she was not meant to be seen and promptly headed back to her mother's dressing room.

When she turned the corridor, she stopped as she saw the figure by the door. She saw him reach for the handle and stop. She saw him let out a sigh of . . . what? Frustration? Then she saw him turn, and she finally saw him.

He'd been at such a distance before, still she had thought it was . . .

Standing so much closer, she saw she had been right: his face truly was perfect now. If it was indeed him, then it was impossible to tell that there had ever been anything close to a deformity marring his features. That was why she doubted, especially now that there was only silence and she did not have his voice to reassure her. It could have been in her mind. After all, how often had thoughts of her Angel eased her fears, no matter how much they tortured her?

Those eyes. Only his eyes could burn like that, as though into the very depths of her soul. Only his eyes had ever poured fire into her veins. Only the eyes of her Angel could possess her so effortlessly and so completely.

Angel

Her fingers reached for the ring before she realised, his eyes followed their path and she saw his look of wonder, of inquiry change to one of recognition.

He knew.

In spite of her behaviour, her appearance, the hair, he knew who she was. There was no denying the presence of the ring on her finger, and she doubted her face had concealed her own astonishment when she too realised who she was staring at.

Then she heard it.

Turning quickly, she saw Danny calling out to her the word that meant she had to disappear. Looking back at her dark mentor, he had begun moving toward her and was mere feet away. Hoping the look on her face conveyed an apology rather than anything else, she ran back along the corridor, hastily hunted out the little mark and disappeared through one of the walls. Closing the panel as quickly as it had opened, she placed her ear next to it and listened. Hurried footsteps paused within inches of her. She knew who they belonged to, heard their heavy tread as they went back to meet Daniel and whomever was accompanying him that she was meant to remain concealed from.

Opening the door behind her, she stepped out of the wardrobe in her mother's dressing room, sank onto the comfortable old couch and summoned up every scrap of will she had left not to cry.

As soon as she saw his face, she knew it was a mistake.

He had been moving towards her, reaching out for her and she had run. She had run away from him and she saw that that was exactly how he had interpreted it. He'd come looking for her! Then why had he refused to enter the room? To even knock? With shaking hands, she reached for one of the bags she'd brought, the one that went everywhere with her. Inside were her treasures – some of them. Carefully, she took out the small case that contained a slip of paper, keeping it flat and safe. Looking over the familiar handwriting, she searched the words even though she had long since learnt them by heart.

I tried to give you your freedom;

But I could not let you go . . .

. . . you haunt me . . .

I will let you live in peace . . .

He had not come in because he always kept his word, and he had promised to leave her alone. But he had come because he always kept his word, and his words said that he could not let her go. Truly, he had met his promise. If she had haunted him at all these last years, then he had more than returned the favour.

Christine, I love you.

Quickly and carefully, she replaced her Angel's final note to her lest her tears spoil it as familiar notes of another kind filled her thoughts. He had spoken of love several times, but he had only ever said those words once: still they were as familiar to her as breath. How many times had they possessed her mind in the months following that fateful night? How many times had his broken voice haunted her dreams as she had known it would? How many times had she woken, crying out for her Angel, only to be met with nothingness? All she had to do was think of him, and the words would invariably soon follow. Now that she had at last heard his voice again, they came back all too clearly. Now that she had seen his face, his broken one appeared before her all too vividly, along with the knowledge that she had been the one to do it both then and now.

It had taken her some time to manage it, but she had reconciled herself to the fact that no matter what he felt for her, she had failed him too often, which is why he had remained steadfast in his decision to send her away. There wasn't a day that went by when she hadn't regretted it, hadn't wished she'd tried harder to talk to him, to get him to see reason, to see that she hadn't sought him such harm. Then of course, she would remember that it was what he wanted, and she would fill her thoughts with music as he wished – even though it was usually his music that would promptly haunt her. He had sent her away, had let her go.

Then WHY had he been reaching out for her? Why had he come looking for her?

Hearing the knock on the door, she quickly wiped her eyes and checked that they weren't too reddened. No. Good, at least something positive had come of all the tears she'd shed – she was good at hiding any sign of them.

"Come in." she called, her Irish brogue thickening, as it usually did whenever she was particularly emotional.

"Ready to prove you're an O'Neill?"

"Are you daring to question me on that, Danny boy?" she asked the conductor in half-mock indignation. Looking in the mirror one last time before joining him, she once again saw the face of another and quietly whispered a quick prayer to it.

"Help me, Mama."

She had run.

She had taken one look at him and run. Sitting in the shadows, there was little else going through his mind. What had he been thinking? That she would take one look at him, fall into his arms and . . . he didn't know where that train of thought went, for he had always managed to catch himself before falling into the honey trap of sweet madness.

He had seen in her eyes that she recognised him, even after . . . she still knew him. True, he'd surprised her, probably shocked was more accurate. And she had run. It was probably only to be expected; after all, he'd let her go. How long had it taken her to realise that it was the better decision; that she had simply been caught up in the moment, in trying to save her 'friend'? Even now, his hands clenched thinking about that boy.

Had she even gotten his note? The words he had written remained true, even after all this time: she possessed his every thought, haunted his every waking moment. No matter that he had tried, he could not forget her; would not give up that sweet torment for anything. Yet he had tried, for it had proved to be torment indeed, beyond any other that he had known. He had managed to get to the point where he could have her in his thoughts without going mad; could get through a day without her being so prominent in his mind. But seeing her again, hearing her voice singing for him once more only reinforced all too painfully that it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. Were it not for the fact that he always kept his word, that he could deny her nothing, he would have broken his promise to her long ago – whether it was the promise to live or to let her be, he could never quite decide.

But he had let her go, had let her live in peace. He had left the path clear for her boy. After so long, he would have thought they would be engaged, if not married – no matter how deeply those particular knives cut.

Then why was she wearing his ring? True, it did not grace the hand she had put it on that night, but she wore it nevertheless. And her other hand was bare. He reached for the chain around his neck and felt its pendant beneath his shirt. Why did she wear his ring, and why had she given him her mother's? When he had finally dared look at the ring she'd placed in his hand, he had all but fallen to the floor in astonishment. He thought she'd returned his ring to him as a sign that he was to be free as well. That it was over. But that ring was her mother's, she'd called it 'one of her treasures,' as good as said that she would never part with it. At first, he thought that perhaps she knew. But no, she'd never done or said anything to indicate that, and she had been completely astonished to see him.

What was she doing? What had she done?

She had given him hope.

And then she had run.

When he heard the footsteps approaching, his instinct told him to hide, and indeed for a few moments his reflexes obeyed. Then he remembered that he was 'permitted' to be here, accepted. He would enjoy the luxury and pursue his thoughts later; no doubt they would still be occupying him then.

He was somewhat surprised when a choir began to arrange themselves behind a curtain that divided the stage in two. The orchestra came in and began tuning as he watched on with no small amount of curiosity. There hadn't been word of any other rehearsals today. It took them some time to get set up, and though there was no sign of Arneau, they seemed to know exactly what they were doing – which pages to turn to, etc.

At length, the conductor appeared and, seeing Mr. Destler sitting in the stalls, he moved nearer and invited him down. When would he stop being caught off guard by such occurrences? Soon, he was sitting in one of the wings just off stage, waiting in anticipation for whatever was set to happen.

Within one bar, he knew exactly what that was.

Sure enough, just as the second measure of the opening fanfare began, there she stood, arms by her sides, eyes closed as she let the music wash over her. Her breathing was calm, steady, yet he knew she was nervous. As the introduction proper began, she walked onto the stage, matching the pulse step for step. Stopping as close to the curtain as she could be, she remained facing the side, allowing the familiar words to come forth, turning to face the auditorium with opened eyes as she gestured to the 'sky above'.

"All believing, all embracing; Earth below and sky above. There will never be a power greater than united love.

"O light of hope enduring, ever in our hearts reside. Now, the time to stand together, no man may alone abide."

Again, she switched the gestures, echoing her right hand with her left. Again, she allowed herself to be carried forward with the second verse until she was at the front of the stage for the next refrain, every step and motion growing stronger and more confident along with each note.

"All as one in every nation, by our bearing will be found; Peace the true and humble treasure through compassion will be found.

"O light of clearest vision, no illusion shall divide. Now, the time to stand together, no man may alone abide."

As she gestured to the left for the repeat, her eyes caught sight of him, and though her hands faltered, her voice did not waver. Good girl. When she sang of no illusion dividing the second time though, her eyes were filled with meaning.

This time, as she stepped back, the curtain rose and surprise swamped her features as she saw the choir surrounding her on each side. Still, she chewed her lip a little nervously, but it was with a smile that rivalled the glory of the Ravelle chandelier. When she moved forward, so did they. Though she remained ahead of them, it was not so far that she was not a part of the group – just like Katie.

"Side by side though oceans part us, one by one it's understood; day by day the dawn is breaking on the bond of brotherhood.

"O light of pure intention, all dissension cast aside. Now, the time to stand together, no man may alone abide."

The music died down as she began the repetition, her gestures becoming more subtle and graceful. But when the others resumed their part, the joy pouring off her was almost tangible as she allowed Music to carry her voice beyond their mere mortal offerings. When the music finally ceased, she immediately dropped her hands, eyes shut in the fatigue that comes at the close of any performance.

Silence.

No one moved a muscle, no one spoke. At length, she opened her eyes and – without moving her head – looked around nervously. Finally, she put a hand on her hip, and in that Irish brogue that he couldn't decide whether it was annoying or endearing, she upbraided Arneau.

"Sure, an' I thought if it were that bad you'd 'ave stopped playin', Danny boy."

Several of the older members of the choir looked appropriately shocked. Arneau calmly placed his baton on the lectern and moved towards the stage. Obediently, she knelt down to hear him. He took her hand, kissed the back of it and simply said:

"Welcome home, my dear."

"It is grand to be home." she answered softly. Rising, as her hand was released, she was promptly surrounded by the congratulations of the choir, each of whom she responded to graciously, if somewhat flustered.

Rising from his seat, he made his way towards her, the path before him clearing as easily as if he were guised as the Red Death. Realising that there was someone behind her, she turned and faced him, her features as unreadable as his masks had been. Slowly, he extended his hand, which she accepted. Indulging himself, he brought her skin to his lips as he greeted her:

"Miss . . . O'Neill?"

"Mr Destler." Her speaking voice seemed slightly higher with that accent, or was it something else? The mask slipped as he subtly – though unmistakeably ran his thumb across the ring when lowering her hand and he felt her tremble.

"Nelly!"

The voice came from somewhere up in the sound booth, and she immediately turned to its source, a look of extreme consternation on her features. A light flashed, and she tore her hand away and ran to the back of the stage. Turning, she tapped her foot and the floor below her disappeared; but not before she locked eyes with him once more, a look of sorrow crossing her features. As she sank into the blackness, it was all he could do not to chase after her, but of course that would have been the actions of the Ghost, or at least, someone who knew her – not Erik Destler. Resisting the urge to sigh – or shout and curse as he greatly desired – he simply turned to speak with Arneau.

This ghost business was definitely proving to be rather tiresome.

AN: PLEASE don't hurt me. Come on, that ending's got to be slightly better than the last one. At least they've met, spoken, touched, had an intro of some kind . . . I'm not doing myself any favours here am I? No. Thought not. Well, thanks again from your incorrigible Nedjmet.