Author's Note: Apologies for the ridiculously long delay. Sadly, life and work got in the way and I lost the will to write (sobs!). However, things have settled down, I'm getting a new job soon that won't leave me so tired and should (fingers crossed as many times as is humanly possible) give me longer evenings which means more time to write. Plus, I gave myself a mental kick up the backside (before anyone took it upon themselves to do it physically) and I think I might be back on the right track. So please forgive your grovelling authoress before her knees wear out. I was hoping to post this over the weekend, but owing to grievous amounts of technical stupidity on my part, it took longer than anticipated to get my beta's approval. Many thanks go to phantom-jedi1 for ironing out the creases.

And on that note, thanks to pictureperfxi0n, jtbwriter, Lothiel, Timeflies, Lili Sinclair, KyrieofAccender, phantom-jedi1, OperaLover, terbear, Melodic Rose, UinenDolothen, Pony210, -19MikaelA87-, Lady Winifred, TalithaJ, mildetryth, smartblondee, Nyasia A. Maire, Norma Leann Zane, montaquecat, Mystery Guest, LoveofOpera, sapgureangelcutie and chasa for their latest reviews.

An extra special thank you to montaquecat, TalithaJ and slowlygently for checking up on me. That was really sweet of you and I'm only sorry that I kept you hanging long enough to merit such concern.

Once more: gratuitous apologies. With any luck my guilt trip can ease up and I can get back to writing. 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 5

Some things never changed.

Long before she saw the manager's office, she heard the voices of its occupants. At least there was only one voice that sounded exasperated, though she couldn't hear the other that she was hoping for. From the sounds of things, the format of the concert was being discussed – which she was surprised about, given that it was barely a week away. Her mother had always said that you heard the managers before you saw them, and the memory coupled with the proof made her smile.

At least until another memory made her frown.

Danny had said to go to the manager's office once she'd finished, meaning he'd probably known about the warning – meaning it probably hadn't even been necessary. If that was the case . . . like her mother, she didn't need the hair to have the temper of a redhead.

Pressing her ear to the wall in front of her, she listened, trying to picture where the voices' owners were within the room. Biding her time, she waited for the opportune moment and quickly slipped silently inside. Thankfully, none saw her until after she'd closed the panel. Unbelievably, the first pair of eyes to find hers were the ones she had convinced herself were not to be found. Her Angel sat staring at her slightly open-mouthed in silent astonishment. Tilting her head a little and raising her finger to her lips – unwittingly in the exact same manner as he had gestured to her during Don Juan – he nodded almost imperceptibly at her request and schooled his features once more.

Standing motionless and silent, she listened to the conversation, resisting the urge to grin – though there was no quelling the sparkle in her eyes – when Danny finally caught sight of her. The other two men in the room remained with their backs to her, seeing as she was standing behind the manager's desk; something that had always driven said manager crazy whenever her mother did it. At present they seemed to be debating a change in the running order or something along those lines, and the loudest (and most exasperated) voice appeared to belong to the only man she didn't recognise in the slightest.

"Well, that's all well and good, but we don't know a thing about her or where she is!" When she saw Arneau cover his mouth in a half-strangled cough, she realised who they were talking about.

"Paul, if you'd give us a chance to explain, I'm sure you'd be amenable to the idea." Daniel attempted.

"Explain? Fine, explain who this mystery woman is, and more importantly, where she is."

"Ach, an' I was waiting for you to shift."

It had taken quite a few minutes before anything the conductor was saying registered. His rose had given an absolutely breathtaking performance. Now he truly understood why she'd said she 'couldn't help but know' that piece. Katie had turned her back on the stage, but she couldn't have turned her back on Music, and she had given it to her daughter. Were it not for the ring on her finger and the wonderful voice pouring from her lips, he would have sworn it were Katie herself on that stage. Everything about what she did was exactly as her mother had done, even when she had looked at the choir flanking her and chewed on her lip slightly.

And the brief conversation she had shared with Arneau . . . it was little moments like that that had been the reason why he'd dared to love Katie O'Neill – though it had taken him years to admit it even to himself. To have her daughter, his rose embodying that . . . magic . . . was breathtaking.

She had learnt to hide her feelings well, but though her face had remained blank, he had not missed the tremor in her hand as he'd taken it. Nor had he missed the look in her eyes when he'd brushed his fingers across the ring . . . his ring. When she had run, he had been all but ready to give up, until she'd met his eyes with regret. Regret at leaving him again? Could he dare hope for that? And yet, what was there in contradiction? True, she had run from him twice, but apparently it had been because of the warnings of old. And she still wore his ring.

Not for the first time that day, he began to wonder if he had been as infuriating to her when he'd been the Ghost.

It was a novel experience, being seated in the manager's office as a guest – and a welcome one at that. The vantage point didn't change the lunacy by which they appeared to operate, merely offered a different perspective. Being so directly involved in the conversation, though – he couldn't quite decide if the amusement the situation offered was heightened or not.

Paul Horton – the present manager – had begun the conversation by demanding to know who had been on his stage and why he hadn't been kept informed. Many protestations and accessions later, and they still hadn't managed to get to the point. Arneau had tried to explain that he had brought her in to help with the concert, but hadn't managed to get much further before being censured for going behind Horton's back.

Somewhere in the midst of all this, he had lowered his head and covered his eyes with his hand to try and stem off the inevitable headache. Would that there were a cure as reliable for solving such problems as the mangers were at causing them! When he'd looked up again, it was only to have his wish granted. There she was behind Horton's desk, quietly surveying the scene. How had she gotten in unnoticed even by him?! It was all he could do not to cry out in frustration at the irony when she silently bid him be quiet, just as he had done to her those years ago. Yes, she was her mother's daughter; but she was truly his student. When she'd first entered his world, he had often thought that she would be a suitable candidate for taking up his mantle, should he ever 'retire' from the Ghost business.

There were times when he hated being right.

But, for the sake of satisfying his curiosity and seeing what she would do – and because he could still deny her nothing – he blanked his face, noticing the mirth on Arneau's when Horton pronounced his ignorance of her presence.

"Ach, an' I was waiting for you to shift."

There was the Irish brogue again. It was astonishing how much she sounded like Katie with that accent. Horton whirled around, his face flushed when he heard the audacious and unexpected reply. Hearing him splutter in an attempt at articulation, he could imagine the man's mouth working in a fashion not dissimilar to that of a goldfish, and didn't bother to hide his smirk.

In the true manner of an O'Neill, she rolled her eyes, put her hands on the man's shoulders and guided him into his chair whilst continuing:

"The polite thing to do would be to step aside, invite me in and offer me a seat. What's the matter with you, man? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Now, now, Miss O'Neill, have a little pity. He still isn't quite used to some things around here." She whipped around on hearing that voice, her mouth dropping open a little in surprise. As recognition dawned, he realised he'd actually forgotten how adorable she could be.

"What do you think you're doing here?" She upbraided the elder gentleman who had hitherto remained silent. Hand on hip, head cocked slightly to the side, she went on.

"All that time you spent harping on about early retirement and you're still here? Claude, man, you'd better have a decent reason or I don't know what I'm going to do with you."

'Claude' smiled a little, stepped towards her and took both of her hands in his, his thumb rubbing against her ring slightly – which made one of the seated occupants of the room sit up a bit straighter – before studying her face. At length, he answered almost ruefully:

"For your information, I did retire, but the wind whispered the promise of an O'Neill and I was lured back."

"Well now, how can any lass resist charm like that?" She replied gently.

"Welcome home, Nelly," came the equally soft answer. Groaning, she pulled him into a tight embrace before standing near his side and surveying the rest of the room with a smile.

"'Claude'?" asked Horton with a raised eyebrow, having finally regained some semblance of his composure.

"A nickname that Miss O'Neill came up with and insisted on addressing me by, even if she was the only one." The elder gentleman answered on a sigh.

"And with a name like Debussy, what else were you expecting?"

"Oh, perhaps the respect due to my station."

"And you think being likened to one of the great composers is a sign of anything less?" The redhead answered sardonically.

Incredible. Every other word and he had to tell himself that it wasn't Katie. Of course, for the other half he realised that there could be no mistaking that voice. There was none other that he had crafted, trained, sculpted . . . worshipped quite the same way; and there was no denying its owner.

When Horton let out another demand to be told what was going on, the two remaining gentlemen resumed their seats – leaving none for her. Not looking in the least bit perturbed, she walked straight towards his chair and finally addressed him.

"Mind if I join you?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the two elder gentlemen exchange amused, if slightly puzzled glances as he stared up at his rose, mouth somewhat agape. Uncharacteristically flustered, he all but jumped out of his seat and was about to offer it to her when she put her hands on his shoulders and gently forced him back down.

"Now, now, Mr. Destler, guests always get a seat." Placing herself gently on the arm of the chair, she leaned back into it a little, making him part of her cushion. "If you don't mind, there's never been enough chairs in here anyhow, and I figured this way it'd be harder for me to disappear on you again."

He heard the amusement in her voice, but felt her slight tremble and couldn't help but think he wasn't the only one to feel the spark as her skin brushed against his.

"Quite alright, Miss O'Neill."

"Well now that everyone's settled, would someone please explain what is going on?" Were Horton's face any redder; it would have rivalled a tomato. Fortunately he was more slender than rotund – otherwise the picture would have been ridiculous.

"Danny, where did you boys get up to?"

"I think if you were to start at the beginning of your tale, my dear, that should bring us up to speed."

"Righty hotey. Basically, Danny boy phoned someone who used to work here, seeing if they knew how to get in touch with me. She gave him my number and he gave me a ring, told me a bit about the concert and wanted to know if there was anything I could do to help. So here I am. Although, truth be told, I'm still not entirely sure what he had in mind when he asked for help."

At some point during her brief outline, she had met the eyes of all in the room, and now the focus of all turned to Arneau – with the exception of a cushion.

"Neither was I until you arrived." Daniel turned to Horton expectantly.

"Miss O'Neill, who are you really?" Horton asked, receiving only a bemused and affronted stare in reply. "I mean, is your name really O'Neill or are you just an admittedly excellent look-alike?"

"Mr. Horton, I am an O'Neill and this is the last place you ever want to be suggesting otherwise," she answered in a low voice that produced shivers in more than one spine, "and furthermore, I'm no impersonator. Katie'd have my head if I so much as thought about it!"

"Then why was Daniel looking for you if you're not an impersonator or . . ." He sat back in shock as the reality suddenly clicked. "You're related to her." She merely sat there. "Well, how? Do you have any idea the publicity this could-"

"Stop right there." The voice was quiet but the steel was unmistakeable. The man seated at her side looked up at her in awe, wondering when she had learned to be so . . . so like him.

"My private life is just that. The same applies for Katie and always has. If you've a mind to change that then this conversation is going to end very soon indeed."

Feeling oddly subdued, Horton looked to his predecessor in question, who in turn looked at the redhead, considering her once more before nodding.

"Perfect." Returning his eyes to the younger manager, he went on: "She's perfect. There's only three ways I can spot any difference, and two of those are so minute, I doubt anyone in the audience would notice."

"Audience? Claude, what are you on about?" she asked, sitting up a little straighter, which somewhat irked her cushion.

"And the third?" Horton enquired, ignoring the interruption.

"My memory may have faded, and I hope Katie will forgive me, but I do believe this young lady has an even better voice on her." Approaching the desk, the two managers began to confer, Arneau joining in. Blocking them out slightly, Christine leant back again and turned to the dark figure who had thus far remained silent.

"Do you know what they're on about?"

Seeing the concerned look on her face, he gave into temptation and lightly placed his arm about her waist – after all, she could slip off the arm at any moment – and quietly replied:

"Nothing to worry about, I can assure you."

"Conspiring managers, babbling about who knows what, and it's nothing to worry about? Right." She turned her head as she disbelievingly humoured him. He couldn't help but smile, which she returned when she saw him out of the corner of her eye.

"Miss O'Neill – I'm sorry, do you have a first name?"

"Miss O'Neill will do fine. You only get my first name on a better acquaintance." she elaborated when she saw Horton beginning to protest – although Claude's smile didn't go unnoticed.

"Very well, Miss O'Neill. As I am told you have been made aware, whilst he wasn't the original inspiration behind the concert, we were prepared to hand the show over predominantly to Mr Destler's good judgement. However, with his consent and based on the performance you've given – both on and off stage – The Clover would like to offer you a role in Saturday's performance."

Silence.

"What?" The word was barely audible, and Erik tightened his hold on her when he saw how pale she had become.

"I realise it's short notice, but the concert is in memory of Katie O'Neill, and you could bring her back to the stage."

"My dear, think of it: she hasn't been forgotten, but you can remind people of why that is, and teach anyone else as well." Danny encouraged.

Christine raised a hand to her cheek, unable to grasp the situation.

"Presumably you have some stage experience, Miss O'Neill?" Claude asked.

"Aye, a bit."

"A bit?" Horton repeated doubtfully. Of course, this reawakened the O'Neill spirit within.

"Aye, a bit. It's a wee bit difficult to attend the Ravelle and not get any stage experience."

"You're at . . . the Ravelle? The Ravelle Institute of Music?" the manager replied, his disbelief of a more positive note.

"No. I'm in my last year at the Royal College of Music. I graduated as valedictorian at the Ravelle before I started my degree."

"But . . . but surely if you achieved such high honours at the Ravelle, you needn't have bothered with a degree? The stage would have been open to you."

"Let's just say that I had my reasons. Now, is that enough experience for you?"

"Perhaps." All eyes turned to Arneau in shock. "How well do you know the work of Katie O'Neill?" he asked; something of a twinkle in his eye.

Meeting his gaze evenly, unwaveringly, Christine answered with conviction.

"I know every song she ever performed on that stage. Starting from her second Christmas season here, I know every step she took, every move she made and every costume she wore in performance – most of which I've got and I think I could dig up a fair few cue sheets for the technicians if you really wanted me to."

"I don't doubt it, my dear. Do you think you can bring her back to the stage?" Claude asked, silently pulling rank over the others.

"I'll no' be impersonatin' her." The brogue thickened with the depth of feeling she conveyed.

"Of course not. But can you bring her back? Can you as an O'Neill reclaim The Clover?" The challenge was not one to be refused, not that she had any intention of turning them down, but she was no fool.

"What are you asking?"

"Mr. Destler has agreed to provide either two acts, or one long one. We'd like you to do the final act, although the exact format has yet to be decided." Horton replied.

"Golden oldies and classic O'Neill?" she asked Arneau, who nodded in confirmation.

"And there is the matter of a finale, which we have agreed should be yours, provided you feel up to the task." The manager concluded.

"Finale?" Again, her face paled. Again the hold on her tightened in support. Rising, she brushed her fingers against the arm around her in gratitude before pacing. Turning back to the man whose hold she had left, she asked:

"Are you sure? I mean, you're the main performer, surely-"

"You're the O'Neill."

She ran a hand through her hair in frustration, worry, nervousness – she wasn't really sure which. Turning to Arneau, she exchanged knowing looks with him.

"There's only one thing to do."

"I know how difficult it will be for you, lass, but-"

"No. You don't. You don't know." she cut him off.

Seeing the tension that had suddenly appeared, Paul tried to reclaim some sort of hold over the conversation.

"Miss O'Neill, what exactly did you have in mind? For the finale?" Slowly, the stricken look slipped from her features, though the earlier mirth failed to return. Facing him when she was back in control, she answered:

"That depends. If I do this, were you wanting to give me the finale?"

Sensing there was once again a deeper meaning to her question, he returned cautiously:

"Provided you have something worthy of the occasion, the finale is yours."

"Right then." Turning to Arneau, "I reckon we'd better get started, Danny boy."

As she began to uncharacteristically head towards the door, Horton called out again.

"Then you'll do it?"

"Mr. Horton, no one with the slightest bit of sense would turn down The Clover. And no O'Neill could. I'd be lying if I were to say I hadnae dreamt about it my whole life. Did you not wonder why you were the only one still asking?"

Refusing to give into the folly that answer would lay at his door, he returned to his previous enquiry.

"And the finale?" She answered the challenge evenly, daring him to fight back.

"An old Clover tradition: once the finale's been given, that's it. You leave it to me."

Horton came out from behind his desk and immediately appealed to Arneau and Debussy, demanding to know where such unheard of audacity had come from and why they appeared to be supporting it. Having seen her first attempt at an exit, the two gentlemen rose and joined their colleague, simultaneously blocking his view of anything else. That left the only other witness to the conversation thus far to be privy to its conclusion. He watched as she quirked an eyebrow at him, whether in query, anticipation or concern, he could only guess at. Just as he could only watch as she silently disappeared from view, though this time he saw the path she took. Resisting the urge to follow – and satisfy a few other urges besides – he merely gave into a small sigh that didn't begin to express all he felt in that moment, and settled back to watch the farce play itself out.

Though based on his previous experience with managers, it was anybody's guess how many hours that would take.

AN: Right, based on reviews for the last one, I thought I'd better throw this in before missiles start being hurled. I know there was only a small improvement in the EC interaction. There will be a LOT more in the next chapter i.e. actual prolonged conversation. So please don't hate me as much. I'll try not to keep you waiting so long. Thanks again. N.