Author's Note: laal ratty, TalithaJ, Nyasia A. Maire, OperaLover, Passed Over, KyrieofAccender, jtbwriter, montaquecat, Timeflies, Lady Winifred, Phantom's Elf, UninenDolothen, StakeMeSpike04 (welcome back), mildetryth, OceansAway and phantom-jedi1: guys, I cannot thank you enough for such phenomenal feedback. I have NEVER written anything like that chapter before in terms of either dance or . . . heat for want of a better word, so I was pretty worried about it. But you all gave me such fantastic reviews I simply don't have words to tell you how much it meant to me. I'm thrilled you all liked it that much.

One of my reviewers did mention a spot of confusion (not naming names in case anyone gets embarassed), so I'll just explain: in the previous chapter, the dance was only run through twice even though there were three narratives/descriptions of it. The first one was looking at it from where Christine was stood, though not strictly from her point of view. The second description was the SAME performance, but Erik's thoughts on it. The final description was the second run through with Erik and Christine dancing together. I did it that way - aside from getting the full picture on everyone's thoughts - because that music inspired a very specific routine and I wanted everyone to see that as they read. That's why I was nervous about this: lots of detail for a very short space of time.

Again, a tremendous thank you to everyone who read this. Hope you 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 10

The Clover was buzzing.

Word had soon spread of the temperamental behaviour of their latest visiting artist and as soon as the residents heard that an O'Neill was taking him on, they had flocked to the practice room. The initial performance had been breathtaking. Not for the first time, many had thought – though none had dared say the words – that this O'Neill had an even more magnificent voice than her predecessor. When the second performance began: the anticipation was almost tangible. Few had doubted that she was Carmen and most had fallen under her spell, wondering how on earth she could be expected to improve.

They soon learnt.

Like the figure clothed in black privileged enough to have her attentions focused on him; all those watching were bewitched by the woman clothed head to toe in seduction and allure. And like the man who held her, they didn't want the performance to end; so bewitching, so captivating, so intoxicating it had been that they were too breathless to even think of applauding until silence had fully reclaimed their hearing. Even when the praise began to die down, still the attention of all was fixed unwaveringly on the couple at the centre of the room; who for the most part remained unmoved.

Until Daniel Arneau headed towards them.

Lightly, he touched her arm, trying to get her attention. Instantly, Erik pulled her away from the conductor slightly, glaring at him for daring to touch his rose. Christine looked between the two – mostly keeping her eyes on her Angel, remembering clearly what his temper could be like at times like this.

"I believe we have your repertoire to go over, Miss O'Neill." Danny said carefully, an eye still on Erik. Hearing those words, realising that they meant Christine's departure, he reflexively tightened his hold of her. With a gentle pressure to his other hand which maintained its steadfast vigil about her waist, she managed to soothe him enough that she was able to breathe. Turning slowly to him – giving her time to even out her breathing – she spoke in the brogue which gave her confidence but was starting to fill many (herself included) with annoyance:

"Was there anythin' else, Mr. Destler?"

Fighting every impulse of both mind and body, he shook his head. A few moments later, realising she was still waiting for him, he fought the urge to groan as he removed his arm from around her warm body, breaking the contact he had spent three years yearning for; relinquishing the presence he still craved into the hands of another. Watching her walk away, his eyes were again drawn to the way she moved – not as Carmen this time, but as herself. How was it that Christine was the more powerful seductress? Because she was his. Or had been.

Or could be.

He only managed to quash the desire to throttle Daniel when he realised that his audience had grown immensely whilst he had been otherwise . . . distracted. Turning his attention back to the dancers, he proceeded to spend the next hour instructing them in the tenets of rhythm, tempo; and the true meaning of Chanson Boheme – not that they needed the latter after the spectacle they had just witnessed. If his ire was heightened at times, or his tone warmer at others; for once it was both overlooked and humoured as there was not one who had borne witness to so intimate performance and been left untouched by it. They could not even imagine how much worse the torment was now that it had ended – nor how much more intense the euphoria had been.

"Child, what in the name of The Clover is going on?" Danny rounded on her as soon as they were alone in the practice room, both amazed and horrified by Christine's behaviour. She simply stood by the piano waiting patiently for him to calm down – and be more specific.

"Christine, my dear, for your mother's sake I watched over you when you came. For your own I ask you now: what is there between you and Erik Destler?" She turned away and began fiddling with the sheet music. Danny watched her, realising as with her mother that if he'd been a few decades younger, he probably would have been trying to charm the young woman before him. Truly she was an O'Neill, for only an O'Neill could make him feel such admiration and loyalty on so short an acquaintance.

"Christine?"

"I don't know." Hearing her natural accent for the first time since she'd arrived, he started to realise the affect all this was having on her.

"Five years ago I lost my voice . . . amongst other things;" he heard the pain she made no effort to disguise and knew better than to probe beyond what was offered, "he was the one who gave Music back to me." she looked him straight in the eye as she spoke, allowing him to see what the gypsy song had brought back to the surface; that which had taken her years to suppress and which had been awakened in her with the very first note her Angel had sung yesterday.

"Child, if this is so, why didn't you say sooner? I thought you didn't know him."

"I never knew his name. We parted three years ago."

"Christine, does he return your feelings?" Daniel took hold of her chin as he asked; wanting to make sure he caught all of her answer.

He knew Katie's philosophies on Music and understood all that Christine had meant with the way she had replied – which made him feel a little better about the dance he had witnessed. Had it been based solely on the heat of the moment and the undeniable amount of lust the whole scenario had generated, he would probably have stopped the music before the second verse could begin. Seeing all that was exchanged between the two leads though, he had only been able to stare in rapt wonder. Now seeing the pain that covered Christine's face, he could only dread her response.

For her part, Christine was thinking over all that had transpired between her Angel, both recently and before. At least, that was how she had begun until Danny's full question had sunk in. Then the old memory had returned to tear at her:

Christine, I love you . . .

"I don't know." More than that, she didn't dare trust herself with. Nor could she have even begun to explain to Danny, who in many respects reminded her of Mother Giry: he knew so much that a lot could go unsaid. But sometimes too much went unsaid, leaving more left untold. Hearing her Angel's voice anew within her mind – all the more keenly now that she had heard it again so recently – Christine felt her heart breaking into yet more shards which only served to stab the old wounds. Witnessing as much of that as her face could convey, Danny took her into his arms and simply held her.

Having not felt a fatherly embrace for five years – the ones from Gustave were never quite fatherly – all Christine could do was stand there in shock for a few moments. When the sensation began to sink in, her arms rose and wrapped around her mother's old friend. Giving in as much as she dared, she allowed a few dry sobs to break past her defences – though she refused to let the floodgates be breached; knowing that once she did, it would be a long while before they closed again. Once she'd calmed enough, Danny spoke:

"Go and rest, child. You've been through enough today." Offering a faltering smile, she silently thanked him.

"Just be prepared to work hard tomorrow." he called good naturedly after her.

She was determined to drive him mad.

When he had let her go with Arneau, he had thought she would be with the conductor for the rest of the day – indeed, the man had confirmed that that had been the plan – but instead he had reached the room to find Arneau leaving and with no sign of Christine anywhere. He had been ready to tear the place apart until Arneau informed him in no uncertain terms that she needed to rest and would be back again tomorrow.

He had waited.

The memories of their dance had driven all thoughts of music and sanity from him; but he had waited.

And she had spent the day with Arneau.

True, he had his own music to rehearse – not that he needed it, but even he couldn't do everything and so he had to suffer through others butchering his work until he managed to get through to them how it was supposed to be. But even with the only distraction that had ever helped in the past; his temper was short, his patience non-existent and his thoughts entirely centred on the red-head who was mere feet away from him, and yet as distant as he had ever made himself from her at the Ravelle.

Was this how she had felt in the months before Don Juan?

Had she felt this same . . . frustration that could only be aptly described as dementia when he had refused to be near her in those wasted months? As if he hadn't done it enough already, he added another layer to his self-loathing which memories of that time had inspired; which in turn added to his frustration.

There were only three days to go until the concert, and still he had yet to speak with her. Twice now he had said her name; and still she clung to the façade. At last, the 'musicians' he had to work with finally seemed to grasp what he had been trying to tell them and they played almost without error which meant one thing: he was finally able to leave. Making a beeline for the practice room he knew Arneau had commandeered, his hand had to pause over the door handle when he heard the music; knowing that to enter would undoubtedly interrupt, if not deny him this joy.

The introduction was soft and gentle, with barely anything to it. The voice that filled the void was sweet, poignant and exquisitely Christine.

"I once had a true love and I loved him so well/I loved him far better than my tongue can tell/And I thought that he spoke and to me did say/"It will not be long, love, 'til our wedding day""

A pause as the piano continued its tinkling. He was beginning to despise the bridges that appeared to be necessary in music.

"If I were an eagle and had wings for to fly/I would fly to his castle and there I would lie/On a bed of green laurel I would lay myself down/And with my fond dreams I would my love surround."

"I dreamt last night that my true love came in/So slowly he came that his feet made no din/And I thought that he spoke and to me did say/"It will not be long, love, 'til our wedding day""

Was it his imagination or had her voice faltered with the final verse? He had heard the bliss in her voice with the second, and yet there had been . . . pain at the end? Unless . . . could she possibly . . . had she been thinking of him? He moved silently, often startling her in days gone by. And then there had been that night, the last time they had been together: had things gone to plan, that would have been their wedding night. Or at least given the sure promise of one.

Pushing aside the achingly unearthly vision of her in the bridal gown, he entered. The two figures at the piano looked up, both clearly surprised by his appearance.

"May we help you, Mr. Destler?" Arneau asked, a hint of knowing in his tone. Looking into the familiar blue orbs of his rose, he answered.

"I was hoping I might hear you practice for a while." The pair exchanged looks as he waited with bated breath – a sensation which was only heightened as she walked towards him.

"Well now, that all depends," in Katie the brogue had been part of the charm, in Christine that was also the case, if only it didn't grate so much – he had never hated the sound of her voice, and he certainly didn't want to start now, "would ye be willin' to do me a favour if I say 'aye'?"

Her absence had made him think the worst. That crooked grin on those far too tantalising lips had him willing to agree to anything if only she would let him stay.

"What would you have me do?"

The smile she gave was filled with the same abandon she had shown during Mo Ghile Mear and he found himself echoing it with one of his own – which only grew when she took his arm and led him to the piano.

"Ye see, Danny boy here has had me go over this song," she showed him the sheet music for Our Wedding Day – why had she not said the words? "I don't know how many times, but there's still somethin' missin'. Now I reckon it's 'cause we're tryin' to do it Katie's way, an' I'm no Katie. And you're comin' in has given me an idea."

"I'm intrigued."

"As am I, lass. What are you up to?" Danny enquired with a note of wariness he didn't try to hide.

Christine moved over to the side of the room and once more Erik felt as though he'd lost a limb. Still, the sight of her fishing around in a bag that looked as though it had no end was amusing enough to keep him by the piano. Eventually, she surfaced with the sheets she had obviously been looking for; an adorable look of triumph on her face that reminded him of when she had first danced Chanson Bo- no! calm down.

"There's another song like this one and I've always thought it weird, 'cause it's usually sung by a lass, but it's like the lad's side o' tings. What I'm reckonin', is if we keep the music as is, but we join the two songs together, folk'll get the full story an' you get to sing in my bit as well."

"But the last act is meant to be yours." he offered by way of a very feeble protestation.

"Aye, and the first two are meant to be yours, but look what happened to that idea." she replied with a far too self-assured smile on her face. Knowing he couldn't fight – and that he didn't want to, he repeated:

"What would you have me do?"

Outlining her idea – and securing Danny's approval – she handed him the sheet music to look over. Of course, it took him all of about thirty seconds before he indicated to Arneau that he was ready. Danny looked at him in surprise. Christine looked at him with a quiet recognition and delight.

"Seeing as you're both so confident, why don't we try a proper run-through?" Arneau asked, his voice riddled with scepticism, which the two performers could only smile about – when they weren't facing him, of course.

Christine's plan had been a little vague in places as she'd been relating it, but once the music began, they went to work unheeded by that minor technicality.

From one corner of the room, Christine slowly, dazedly made her way lightly to the centre as the introduction set the scene. When the first verse poured from her lips, she cast her spell. Her voice was soft, light, creating the impression that she was singing to herself, as though in a dream. She barely moved her hands, but when she sang of 'far better than my tongue can tell' her fingers rose to her mouth and lingered there as she smiled. The man in the opposite corner watched and understood what the bard meant when he'd written 'O, that I were a glove upon that hand . . .'

The music went on quietly, refusing to wake her from such a sweet dreamlike state, and she moved forwards this time, though still heading towards the other side of the room. With this verse, her actions emulated the words as she fully gave herself over to the dream. Her hands flew up to the castle before smoothing out the laurel on which she would lie. When she closed her eyes in what could only be described as bliss, wrapping her arms around herself; Erik had to once again fight an overwhelming urge to be by her side.

Again, the bridge played out. Christine remained fixed in her position as he slowly made his way towards her.

"My young love said to me, "My mother won't mind/And my father won't slight you for your lack of kind"/And she stepped away from me and this she did say/"It will not be long, love, 'til our wedding day""

His voice was intoxicating in its sweetness causing the melody to wrap around her like the most tender of a lover's caresses. As he sang the third line, she did indeed step away from him, though his hands were mere inches from her shoulders – although it was worth her absence as she looked at him, her lips moving in perfect synchronisation with his for the final line.

"She stepped away from me and she moved through the fair/And fondly I watched her move here and move there/And she made her way homeward with one star awake/As the swan in the evening moves over the lake"

Indeed he did watch her, as she lightly stepped here and there across the room; her movements in echo of the dreamlike state she had created in her verses, her dance meaning she kept looking back to him. As he sang, the music rose in a crescendo, building up and drawing the two to face one another.

For the final verse, Christine joined him, though she sang the words from her portion of the song as they slowly moved ever nearer to one another, their Music becoming as one.

"Last night she came to me, she came softly in/So softly she came that her feet made no din/And she laid her hand on me and this she did say/"It will not be long, love, 'til our wedding day""

Christine did as the music commanded and laid her hand on him. He moved behind her, wrapping her in his arms as she had done to herself only moments ago; an embrace she willingly sank back against. His head bent down as she tilted hers up to meet him and they sang the embellished final line in perfect harmony; the lack of accompaniment making it all the more hauntingly beautiful.

Daniel could only stare in amazement. He already knew how good these two performers were. Having heard Christine's words on what there had been between them, he could only hope and pray as he saw them transfixed by one another.

Unable to bear it any more, Erik granted himself a small release as he pressed a kiss against Christine's forehead; making it as tender and poignant as the music they had just created together. All Christine could do was close her eyes as her hand ran up his arm a little, hopefully conveying to him that it was alright. When he pulled back, he looked down into her eyes and was overwhelmed by the depth of feeling he saw there; though he could not begin to fathom all that it was.

"Ahem."

Danny's gentle interruption had Christine's head leaning back into her Angel's shoulder briefly in the frustration he too was beginning to suffocate under.

"Thank you, Mr. Destler. That was masterfully done." Arneau said as he offered his hand.

Taking the offer and looking into the elder gentleman's eyes, Erik couldn't help but wonder just how much of that statement had been in reference to the music. He was soon answered by Arneau taking Christine's arm and leading her back to the piano, his look indicating that it would be wise for him to leave. With one last look at the woman who never ceased to tantalise and torment simply by being; he left, knowing full well that for both their sakes, it would be unwise of him to stay.

He made his way back to the stage and watched as the various crew members scurried around, creating the setting wherein he would finally give his music to the world and where – no matter how briefly – he would be able to be with his Christine and once more create their music. How strange: even after all the rehearsals and talks with the managers, it still felt . . . wrong to be out here with the others, watching their comings and goings in plain sight. He could probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of times it had felt right to be on that stage, without the old wariness surfacing, making him resent anyone who came near: he could probably count that on the fingers of one hand, because that was about the number that he had been with her. For all that this concert was about Katie, he knew that his portion at least would be for Christine: no one else had ever truly shed light on the darkness of his music.

Realising that that darkness was beginning to fill the auditorium, he slowly began the trek back, knowing that every step would take him out of The Clover, away from the music and away from her. Of course, that's probably why his steps led him straight back to the practice room. There was no one else about but even had there been, he still wouldn't have felt a fool for standing there with his head against the door; lacking the strength to enter, devoid of the will to leave. Though leave he did when the sound of footsteps drew near from within. Ducking around a corner, he saw Arneau leave – and had to fight a powerful urge to throttle him for his earlier interruptions. Rushing over to the slightly ajar portal, he stopped short of entering when he saw her: she was leaning over a CD player. Surely Arneau was up to the task, why had she . . .?

She remained near the box, as though unwilling to move. A piano broke the silence, accompanied by melancholy strings; though they were nothing to the dejected sorrow that filled her voice.

"Take the wave now and know that you're free, Turn your back on the land, face the sea, Face the wind now, so wild and so strong, When you think of me, wave to me and send me a song."

"Don't look back when you reach the new shore, Don't forget what you're leaving me for, Don't forget when you're missing me so, Love must never hold, never hold tight, but let go."

The two verses came with barely a breath in between as though she wanted to give voice to them while she could. The piano took over and she finally began to meander aimlessly about the room. From his vantage point, he could see her face clearly and he felt as though he were looking upon her very soul. But for the hair, he was beholding his Christine, guileless, unhidden. And so utterly broken. What had happened to her? Where was the joy that had filled her so easily only hours ago?

"Oh the nights will be long/When I'm not in your arms/But I'll be in this song/That you sing to me across the sea/Somehow, someday . . ."

The music was low, the tempo unhurried. The music was unworthy of her in every way and yet there was such a painful clarity in the way she sang the words that it fit her perfectly. Who was she singing of? Surely not the boy – why sing of distance and music . . . no . . .

"You will be far away/So far from me/And maybe one day/I will follow you in all you do/'Til then, send me a song"

Was it possible? He was impatient with both piano and guitar as they silenced his rose's voice. Such poignant sweetness, if only . . .

"When the sun sets the water on fire/When the wind swells the sails ever higher/Let the call of the bird on the wing/Calm your sadness and loneliness and then start to sing to me"

"I will sing to you/If you promise to send me a song"

She sang of calming the one to whom it was addressed; in doing so, her voice lightened as though she herself were calmed in the process until all of a sudden: she remembered she was a soprano. Briefly – all too briefly – her voice rose to touch the heavens. And yet she did not stay. Was the unworthiness not in the music . . . but in her? How could that be?

A penny whistle joined, its higher pitch seeming to give her the wings she had just sung of, warming her voice as the piano encouraged her to a crescendo that was finally worthy of her.

"I walk by the shore and I hear/Hear your song come so faint and so clear/And I catch it, a breath on the wind/And I smile and I sing you a song, I will send you a song

"I will sing you a song/I will sing to you/If you promise to send me a song"

Finally, she faded away on the closing sentiment as though she dared not make the wish but couldn't do otherwise.

Seeing her in the middle of that room, head bowed, eyes shut in mournful longing; he could barely hold himself back from her side. Yet once again, he denied her his presence, for once again a plan had formed in his mind. Silently closing the door, he allowed her the privacy she had so evidently sought. Retreating into the depths of the theatre, he took up his old mantle and soon disappeared within the darkness; hidden from the eyes of even those who passed within inches of him. There in the shadows he waited until night descended: until he could be alone with his rose.

He longed to be with her at that moment, knowing she needed him.

But she needed her Angel.

With that strange, sad song, she had cried out to her Angel. In doing so she had given him hope beyond any that he had ever dared imagine before. In doing so, she had also asked of him a request.

She needed her Angel and her Angel would answer.

He would send her a song.

AN: The songs are once again from Celtic Woman and Lord of the Dance. I've been over my reviews for this story with a fine tooth comb and I couldn't find the person who recommended 'Send Me A Song', which means it was probably at some point during A Father's Promise. Whoever you are, thank you and that was for you. If anyone else is wondering: that song does have a point aside from being recommended. Thanks again. N.