Author's Note: First of all, apologies to my reviewers if my replies got you all excited. I did have a chapter ready, but it was lacking the seal of approval of my beta, so I had to wait a wee while before I could post.

Second of all, apologies to my beta, I did say I'd post this weekend so I hope the second half passed muster.

Third of all, for everyone else, that last point will probably have made you realise that the second bit of this chapter (everything after the first break) remains un-beta-ed (for want of a real word), so any errors, discrepancies etc: on my head be it.

Thanks to Timeflies, jtbwriter, Lady Winifred, TalithaJ, Opera Lover, Nyasia A. Maire, terbear, Lili Sinclair, montaquecat, slowlygently, KyrieofAccender, chasa, phantom-jedi1, Lovegoddess567 and mildetryth for their latest reviews. And an extra special thank you to my wonderful beta for putting up with all my nagging and still finding time to edit in spite of what sounded like a crazily rotten week of exams. Hope you don't mind me putting this in, but I wanted my readers to know that the slight delay was all in a worthy cause and that your work on this story is greatly appreciated. Also hope the math went OK (if that's possible). BTW, did you all know my beta is a genius?

And without any further ado whatsoever (except to say that I am fulfilling my previous promise in this chapter), 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 6

It was definitely the hair.

Her mother had always said that the hair had made her into the star she was. Without the red wig, she never would have dared get on the stage to perform, and without the wig she certainly never would have talked back to everyone the way she did. It had completely transformed her from a mouse into a feisty tigress that no one messed with – in spite of the many running jokes and banter that were sent back and forth.

Setting foot into that office had felt like walking into the lion's den, and without the O'Neill persona, she knew it would have been otherwise impossible. Trying to recall all the stories that she'd been told over the years, attempting to match faces to names – faces that had aged by two decades – and sorting through all the little quirks and mannerisms her mother had used had had her feeling as though she were drowning on the way down to The Clover. Yet the moment she had put the wig on, the instant she had slipped into the Irish brogue, the O'Neill within had surfaced and it all felt so natural.

Until she'd set eyes on him.

Three years had done nothing to detract from the darkness that rendered him so captivating, and merely looking at him she had once more fallen under the spell of her Angel. How was it possible? What magic had brought him here of all places and without his mask? Vaguely she recalled that he had once spoken of his longings to give his music to the world and she had felt a tremendous privilege at realising the role she had all too briefly fulfilled for him in that respect. Yet now, here he was on a stage. Unmasked. Unafraid. And undeniably perfect.

It was definitely the hair.

If she hadn't had the shield it provided, she would have failed dismally at hiding all that seeing him again had done. There was no way she ever could have anticipated finding him here, nor in such a role. Seeing him on stage, hearing his voice . . . that voice had stolen her breath away and replaced it with all the dreams and memories she had sought so hard to quell – if only for the sake of her sanity. Having to run from him – twice – had brought the most recent of those memories to the surface of her mind and it had refused to sink back down into the miry depths without dragging her with it.

Three years since Don Juan Triumphant. Three years since he had offered her an ultimatum. Three years since she had accepted him.

Three years since he had turned her away.

And in all those three years, not a night had gone by without his grief-stricken face tormenting her in her dreams, nor those words pleading with her and breaking both of them anew.

Christine, I love you . . .

Her days were not much better, though at least she had the myriad of necessary jobs life threw across her path each day to act as some form of relief. Once more she had taken up her mask of old and completely hidden her pain from all except those who knew her. She had thought her degree would help, but it only made the absence of her dark mentor all the more prominent; all the more poignant. Thrust headlong into a new world of music without friends or guide, she had none who could teach her quite as he had, none who could simply be there or say exactly what she needed to hear as he had. Whilst she had excelled, there was always an underlying disappointment from some of her professors that she was not quite living up to all they had expected. The same disappointment lay within herself because she was failing her Angel in the last thing he had asked of her: to sing.

Because he wasn't there.

Her mother had always said that you couldn't sing – really sing, make true Music – unless you put everything that you were into it. She'd also said that it wasn't truly complete until you'd given it to someone – that that's what made Music really come alive. Christine couldn't pour all that she was into Music, for the one person she longed to give it to held in his grasp the one thing she needed to bring it to life: her heart. The first time she had sung for her Angel and he alone, she had finally understood what her mother had been trying to tell her. Granted, she had sung for her father and her adoptive family before, but that was nothing to the joy of surrendering your music – surrendering your all – the way she had to her Angel. That was the joy he had wanted her to go on experiencing.

But without him, no matter how well trained her voice, no matter how skilled a musician she was, she couldn't sing. And that had only served to compound the torment. Seeing him again in the place where she had thought she might recover something of her voice had only served to bring it all back to light.

And she was once more on the brink of drowning in that darkness.

Ensconced in the bowels of the theatre that her mother had so often called home, she indeed felt that same familiar comfort, though she had never set foot here before. The three small rooms she had taken over at the back of the theatre were extremely out of the way, and had served her mother well as a home when she had first arrived, and indeed for some time even after she had been 'discovered'. And now her daughter occupied them.

And they were silent.

These were the rooms Katie had retreated to when it had all been too much. Surely she hadn't been referring to Music when she'd said that? Why did the silence oppress her now? In order that the pain be complete.

Resolving not to lose herself to the silence and the shadows, she switched on the old radio, somewhat surprised that it was still working. When she finally managed to pick up a station – reception being questionable with no real access to the outside from that room – she collapsed to her knees and curled up into a ball.

There was no escaping it. The Opera Ghost was determined to haunt her.

Either his memories had not served him well, or he had been more ignorant of Music as a youth. Whichever it was, the so called 'musicians' of The Clover had done nothing but fall short of his expectations. The music he had selected for the concert, whilst new, was by no means as demanding as that which he had asked others to perform. Not to mention they'd had it for weeks now, assuring him that they were up to speed and he would be surprised by their progress when he arrived.

They were right. Just not quite in the way they'd intended.

How they thought they could ever hope to pay a fitting tribute to Katie with their currently mangled efforts he shuddered to think. Having spent all morning listening to them butchering not only his music but Katie's memory as well, he cast aside his resolve and finally gave vent to the frustration he'd felt since setting foot outside his door yesterday.

"ENOUGH!!"

The practice room fell silent. Being musicians themselves and having worked at The Clover for long enough, they were used to visiting artists being temperamental. The question was: how were they to deal with this one? The answer became clear soon enough when he finally raised eyes to them that surely would have put Vesuvius to shame and spoke with a voice that had several looking out the window to see if the thunderclouds were without or within.

"Get out."

They gathered up their instruments and music as quickly as they could and left as though the wrath of the O'Neill was at their heels. Well, one out of two wasn't bad.

When he heard the hesitant knock on the door, he didn't bother trying to suppress the groan, experience having taught that it usually worked for getting some peace and quiet – or at the very least, some quiet.

"If noo's a bad time, I can come back later." His head whipped round at the first sound of that voice. Seeing the red hair framing her face, he was overcome and his anger seeped away, only to be replaced by an urgency when she mentioned coming back later, which implied her leaving. Rushing forwards, he barely managed to stop himself a few feet away.

"No. I mean . . ." seeing that he had startled her, he searched for the right words to reach the woman before him, "You came."

Shock flashed across her face, but she almost instantly recomposed herself.

"Sorry?"

"Forgive me for startling you," he moved closer and gently guided her far enough into the room that he could shut the door, "just, please . . . don't disappear." Lowering her head, she smiled sheepishly.

"Aye, sorry aboot that."

"If I may, why did you?" Looking back up, she looked at him as though trying to gauge something – though he wasn't entirely sure what.

"Well, seein' as you're goin' tah be here fur a while, I suppose ah'd better let ya in on it:" turning and moving further into the room, she paced a little as she answered, "it's an old tradition of The Clover, well, of the O'Neills. Katie didnae like to be seen by outsiders if she wasn't supposed to. I mean, if anyone was backstage who wasn't supposed to be, most o' the time, somebody could call out and warn her.

"I reckon the first time I disappeared on you, it was 'cause Danny and the managers were comin' and he wasnae quite ready for them to see me."

"And the second time?" She stopped moving.

"I don't know." Had the brogue slipped just a little then? "I reckon it was just Danny trying to put on the whole show as it were. Pulling out all the stops to convince them an O'Neill really was back on stage."

He moved to stand in front of her, noting that she did not back away, though that had clearly crossed her mind.

"And yesterday, in Horton's office?" She was trembling. She had yet to say that she'd run from him, but then again, she'd yet to say she hadn't. Was it fear after all that caused her to behave so nervously?

Cocking her to one side, she put her hand on her hip and with a cheeky one-sided smirk, asked:

"Sorry, did they actually manage to say somethin' else worth hearin'?"

Smiling down at the adorable picture she presented, he couldn't help noticing how appealing her mouth looked like that. Summoning all his willpower – which diminished greatly with each second that she smiled up at him that way – he pushed aside the memories of exactly what that mouth felt like and instead continued:

"Let me guess, another O'Neill tradition."

"No. Just common sense. It's a perk of an O'Neill tradition that I can get away with it."

"Ah." Moving away before he forgot why exactly he was resisting the temptation before him – or before he remembered that he didn't actually know in the first place – he absent-mindedly tided up some of the mess that his 'colleagues' had left behind in their haste to exit.

"It wasnae because o' you," he looked at her over his shoulder, "if that's what you were thinkin'."

"Why would I think that?" He was definitely out of practice because there was no mistaking the fact that his voice had thickened a little. Mercifully, she kept her tone light.

"Well, it's just that you counted three times I ran out on ya, so I didnae want you thinkin' that."

He looked at his rose, wondering if perhaps he dared to still call her that. At the very least, he dared to wonder if there was some significance to the fact that she was now a red rose.

"Thank you. Now, to what do I owe the honour of this visit?"

She'd given up.

After seeing him, listening to him on the radio and having him haunt her dreams all the more vividly, she knew there was no way she could go through with it. She couldn't spend the week being around him, behaving like someone else, pretending that all that had ever passed between them didn't exist without losing whatever scrap of sanity she had left. Not to mention the undeniable fact that if he was going to perform on that stage, there'd be no room for her as far as any audience was concerned.

Having spent the morning plucking up the courage to face him – truly face him – she was caught off guard when she heard him all but screaming at the orchestra members who soon came running out of the room Danny had said he'd asked for.

When she'd walked in and saw him standing, leaning on the windowsill, she'd almost giggled. Some things never changed. Even in The Clover, even without his mask and phantom persona, he still managed to darken and chill everything around him when he was angry. She'd been somewhat surprised at his reaction to her knock, given that he had rarely succumbed to his emotions so demonstratively in the past. At least with anyone else around as far as she knew.

How was it possible that she still had that same effect on him after all this time? He'd moved on, become successful, had finally had his wish granted to serve Music and give it to the world. And still she could calm him with a word.

How was it possible that he still had that same effect on her after all this time? After all the dreams, all the tears and pain, he still made her long for him simply by being near.

Though he tried to brush off the idea that she'd run from him; she knew he had thought that, just as she'd feared. And now having denied that, she had to effectively tell him she wanted to leave. Except that she didn't. Her Angel was here and the last thing she wanted to do was to run away. The fact that he hadn't cast her aside from the first meant that either he didn't recognise her, or that at the very least, he didn't object to her presence. If he hadn't recognised her, then why had he gone looking for her, why had he so deliberately drawn attention to her ring and why did she still have that calming effect on him as of old? Plus, if he objected to her presence, then surely he wouldn't have been so insistent with both his behaviour and words that she not disappear again.

There was only one thing to do: seek guidance from her Angel. Turning to the man who rested against a table, she found it curious that she was neither looking up nor down to see him.

"Well, I was listenin' to the radio last night, only for an hour and a half, or thereabouts. Now, I didnae change stations, but I still managed to hear your music six times and they weren't doin' a feature on you or anythin'. I was wonderin': rumour has it this is your first concert, and I was just wonderin' if you know how well were you plannin' on performing, based on what I heard last night, and the wee bit I caught of your rehearsal?"

"I'm not sure I understand." She moved closer as though that would make her communication clearer.

"I caught your rehearsal." A nod. "And I heard you on the radio."

"And?"

"And how will either of those compare with whatever it is you're plannin' to do on stage?"

"I hope they will pale in comparison. The thrill of performing is one of the ultimate catalysts for any musician." She studied him carefully, knowing all too well what he was talking about, and knowing all too well just how good he was on stage.

"Right." Turning away, she resumed her pacing, though this time her nerves were far more apparent as she repeatedly gave in to the now old habit of fiddling with her ring. In trying to find out what was on her mind, he almost called out 'Christine', but stopped himself whilst she was still facing away from him.

"Miss O'Neill." Nothing. Just pacing. Relieved to have an excuse, he rose, stood in her path and took hold of her shoulders just before she tripped over her feet trying to avoid walking into him. "What is it?" Raising her face, his mouth opened slightly at the worry written there.

"A lot o' folk'll be comin' for Katie, but most'll be comin' to see you. Well, to hear you, but to see you as well. Once they've heard you though, even if they came for Katie, once they've heard you, I'll be hard pressed to convince 'em that I belong on that stage for an act, let alone that I deserve a finale."

She spoke so quickly and the brogue had thickened so much that even he had a difficult time making sense of it all. But one thought emerged clearly enough: she didn't want to do the concert. At least not the way it stood. Refusing to release her lest she disappear again – though he was convinced that wasn't possible in this room – he urgently enquired:

"Then what would you have me do? Change the order? I won't take the finale from you, not even for – especially not for Katie."

She looked hard at him, evidently surprised.

"What do you mean, 'especially not for Katie'."

"This concert is in memory of her. If you think that anyone else concluding it would be honouring her, then you are sorely mistaken. Now, would you have me change the order? What can I do to put your mind at ease?"

Hearing what was in his voice, she strove to return the favour he was offering. Calming herself, she began anew.

"It's just that, based on what I heard, even if I can revive the old O'Neill magic, there's no way I'd be good enough to follow you. Truth be told, I was half-tempted to ask you to play badly just for one song or something." Seeing the shock and disgust that he evinced, she quickly raised her hands to calm him – though instead of landing on his arms, they ended up on his chest for some reason.

"Don't you be frettin' none. I'd ne'er ask anyone to do that – even if in some cases it'd be an improvement." she offered with a small smile, which thankfully he returned. "Based on what I heard though, I just don't see how this is goin' to work."

Finally realising what it was she wanted from him, he let his hands slide down to her arms – barely noticing that they were practically in an embrace – as he thought of how to provide it. He quirked an eyebrow as an idea struck him.

"Do you truly wish to do this? To be a part of this concert? To honour the memory of Katie O'Neill?" Her face hardened and she all but glared at him.

"You're seriously askin' an O'Neill that?" Smiling, he returned:

"I'll take that as a yes. Go back to your dressing room, or somewhere you can relax. Give me an hour then come to the left wing."

Cocking her head, she smiled that same way again, though without hand on hip this time as they were both resting elsewhere already.

"What're you up to?"

"Do you doubt me?" The question of old caught them both by surprise, though unwilling to answer and face what would inevitably follow the recognition of those times, Christine merely lowered her eyes and shook her head.

"Then go." Silently she obeyed, eyes still fixed on the floor. "Miss O'Neill?" Stopping, she looked over her shoulder, much as he was wont to do. "I almost forgot: you'll need to warm up."

Her mouth opened slightly and she finally met his eyes with her own widened ones. He merely smiled and turned back to his tidying up. After a few moments, realising that he hadn't heard the door open or close, he turned only to find that he was alone in the room. Moving quickly to the portal, he opened it and looked out into the corridor, but there was neither sight nor sound of anyone.

Had he checked the room more carefully, he would have realised exactly where to find the redhead in black who watched his back whilst barely concealing giggles so strong that they were starting to become painful.

AN: In a no doubt vain attempt to convince you that I'm not completely evil: slight cliffy there but the next chapter has been written and is merely awaiting a certain seal of approval. This time though, I will do my beta the courtesy of waiting for it. Hope you don't mind, but I do feel so much better about this knowing all the creases have been ironed out. Thanks again. N.