Author's Note: To KyrieofAccender, Passed Over, chrys.cadis.chasa, Lili Sinclair, OperaLover, Spectralprincess, saphireangelcutie, phantomjedi1, StakeMeSpike04 and mildetryth: guys, there is nothing I can write here that can say how much your messages meant to me. 'Thank you' says so much and yet doesn't begin to say enough, but my heartfelt gratitude is yours.

Thanks to mildetryth, Lady Winifred, jtbwriter, Nyasia A. Maire, OperaLover, UinenDolothen, -19MikaelA87-, Timeflies, StakeMeSpike04, KyrieofAccender, montaquecat, laal ratty and OceansAway for their latest reviews.

A special super duper thank you to StakeMeSpike04 for being the one to recommend 'Send Me A Song'. Sorry I couldn't find the reference. Must have been for A Father's Promise. But again, huge thanks for that.

I know I asked for time and thank you for your indulgence. However, the story I wrote for my cousin only took a day. For those who referred to it: I'm afraid it's not the kind I'll be posting here because it's completely original work. Sorry if anyone's disappointed. To make up for it, however: I have a double update for you. Picked yourselves up off the floor? Yes, a double update. Although, it's not entirely unselfish of me: I figured if I didn't give you two chapters, I'd be in a lot of trouble at the end of this one! Enough hints. The wait is over! Go read! 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 11

He was determined to drive her mad.

It was the only thing she could think of. He was the only thing she could think of. She had wanted to scream when Danny had taken her away for rehearsal; and yet at the same time she had felt an overwhelming . . . relief. The first time she had heard his voice again, she knew that no matter what she tried, she would be forever bound to her Angel. Agreeing to rehearse with him had felt like heaven until he had taken the place of that dancer. Then . . . was there even a word for such ecstasy? She found herself grateful that it was not truly his music – even though it had been graced with his touch . . . his touch . . . His music alone had been enough to overwhelm her. To be a part of his music, to have him move as a lover . . . she had been completely consumed. Even had she tried not to give herself up to it, it would have taken only one bar of that . . . of him before she surrendered. As in Don Juan Triumphant, she was burning in the fires of her Angel's music, his passion, his lo-

Was it possible? Everything he had said, done; his every look and caress had dared her to hope that in spite of everything it was not too late. Even after she'd hurt him, betrayed him before the Ravelle; even after she'd left him, was there still hope that those four words still held true?

Christine, I love you . . .

No matter what happened she would never forget those words. Nor could she ever forget the way he had finally delivered them. Whether they were true or not, evidently it hadn't been enough. He had sent her away.

Yet here he was, weaving his magic of old, drawing her in effortlessly; and she all too willingly followed his slightest command. She was being utterly consumed by her Angel, and though it were to break her as thoroughly as the last time, she was powerless to resist. Even if she'd wanted to.

She had been relieved when Danny had taken her away though. Her Angel's every touch still burned like a brand on her body. And there had been a lot. Each note that he'd sung since he'd came, even the words he spoke; his voice drowned out every other coherent sound in her head until even in the depths of the theatre, in her mother's sanctuary: there was nothing but her Angel. She heard nothing but her Angel; felt nothing but her Angel. Yet she could not see him. He wasn't there. Whether she woke or slept – as she discovered the night after Chanson Boheme – her every thought was focussed on him and yet he was not there.

He was determined to drive her mad. And though she was drowning, she was loving every second of it.

Spending the day with Danny had been wonderful. Going over the familiar songs, making them her own was nothing short of a delight. Being able to work with the orchestra on a few had been incredible. Experiencing the joys she knew her mother had felt brought her closer to that woman than she had ever dreamt. Having known her only six short years, her memories were not what she would have wished. Being a part of her world though enriched the few she had beyond compare. And yet, it wasn't quite right. Danny had not been short of suggestions for improvements, a lot of which she had tried. It was only moments before they were interrupted that it had come to her: this was her mother's music.

As a child, she had thought she'd understood what her mother had meant in rebuking her daughter for wanting to sing like her. Now though, she knew it wasn't simply a matter of being encouraged to realise her own potential. So long as she tried – even if it was only a little – to recreate her mother's music, she would inevitably fail and let more than herself down in the process. It had been so easy with Ode to Joy and Mo Ghile Mear to be herself – she'd worked on one for herself before and the other had been noticeably different.

They'd been different because he had been there.

He was the one who had given her Music, and so he would always be a part of it. Otherwise it was destined to be just notes.

That was why – in spite of her earlier misgivings – she was overjoyed to see her Angel to hear him wanting to be a part of her music; and to have him actually be a part of her music.

She hadn't needed to pretend she was in a daze as she'd sung this time: she felt as though she were up amongst the clouds. When he'd begun to sing, she had fallen once more and was lost to the fire of his voice though it was soft and inviting, caressing her in a way Bizet's offerings never could hope to aspire to. As with Chanson Boheme, with him as a part of the music, there had been no part to play: she had simply followed the music and allowed herself to pour out to her Angel. Touching him again, having his arms around her: she had sunk back into him, completing her surrender. She was lost and she never wanted to be found.

When his lips had pressed against her forehead, it had been just like at the Ravelle. Encompassed by music, there was nothing else save the two of them alone. And it was rapture. She had longed to tilt her head and raise her mouth to his. Instead, she allowed him to finish the caress, hoping he would understand the plea of her eyes when he looked at her.

For all that she cared about him, she really wanted to thump Danny when he reminded them that he was in the room. But he had broken the spell. Her earlier thoughts returned, and she could not help but let him lead her away. No matter what they stirred up in each other, unless her Angel was willing to forgive her, she knew it wouldn't be enough. For either of them.

At last, Danny released her, satisfied with her portion of the programme and having scheduled rehearsal time for the last couple of pieces. She ran a hand through her hair, and once again wished it were different. Turning to the CD player she'd smuggled in – in spite of Danny's protestations – she rummaged through her bag and found the CD case she was looking for. Flipping through the discs, she wondered which to try. As always, her fingers lighted over the one that fit the moment perfectly.

She had dreaded the composition element of her degree. Though light in comparison with other courses, it was nevertheless the most daunting aspect of her studies. Her Angel being gone, she had been left devoid of music, unable to even perform as she once had. Yet strangely, when left to her own abandon, the notes and the words had poured onto the page as naturally as if they were coming from her lips. Although having said that, it wasn't all that strange: there was hardly a phrase or melody that wasn't devoted to or inspired by her Angel.

The one that she had chosen to rehearse spoke of the one wish she had never managed to let go of: that somehow, someday, he would send her a song; that he would return to her the music which had been torn away with his presence. But the song had also been one of closure: through those words, she had been letting him go, letting him live and with the hope that one day she too might be able to. The nights had indeed been long without him – longer still now that he was so near – and yet she had always hoped that one day, she would hear his music even if it was only faintly.

Their schedules had been gruelling. She had a full act to prepare from scratch, and he had two to set up and arrange to suit his expectations – which was probably the harder job as far as his co-workers were concerned. With all the practices and running around, they had barely had two minutes together unless they were performing. And the words they had shared: she had been hiding beneath the O'Neill mantle just as surely as he had once hidden within the shroud of darkness. No matter how tiresome she remembered that distance being when they had first begun her lessons; still she couldn't come out from under her shield. There was nothing about the concert that wasn't taxing – and after nearly three years of a schedule that went beyond exhausting, she ended each day feeling thoroughly drained. Summoning the strength to truly face her Angel with all that had passed between them was not something she felt she could do this side of the concert – knowing full well what that performance alone would cost her.

So once again, feeling tired beyond measure but safe within the confines of her mother's old quarters, she freed herself of the O'Neill guise; all but sighing with relief at being able to feel like herself – and not have to worry about the brogue! Not bothering with a drink or any further refreshment, she collapsed on the old bed and sank into its familiar comfort; almost able to imagine her mother was holding her instead of the well-worn springs.

This night as with the last, sleep had not come to claim her no matter how much her body protested the need. This night as with the last, she had instead smiled as she simply listened: to Music! Since he had worked with her on Mo Ghile Mear, she had felt . . . alive! And with that life had returned the full use of her senses and after three agonising years of oppressive silence, she had awakened to hear all the music within The Clover; but most of all, she heard his music. Somewhere in the mix, she could detect her own every now and again, but that was not what she focussed on. Instead she closed her eyes, opened up her mind and let her fantasies unwind in the darkness which she dared not fight any longer: the darkness of her Angel's music.

How long she had lain there last night before sleep eventually suspended being and claimed her, remained a mystery. Equally, she couldn't tell how long she had spent lying there this night, luxuriating in the echo of Music's sweet breath. But somewhere in the depths of her mind, some part of her recognised that she was no longer hearing a mere echo and recognition made her eyes fly open. Rising, her feet led her of their own accord out of her room. Ignoring her lack of dressing gown or slippers, she followed the music, lured by its enchanting call through the bowels of the theatre. Heedless of the dark, of her surroundings, she let the sound of the piano draw her nearer and nearer to the mastery of its spell; binding her ever closer to the one who played the very fabric of her soul as expertly as the ivory keys beneath his fingers. Reaching the stage she saw him in the midst of the shadows as his hands caressed the keys. With each touch of a note, she longed to be under those fingers. Content to simply stand there and bask in the magic of her Angel, she froze as the piano stopped and another more glorious and more terrible instrument took its place. Before he began the accompaniment again, she had sunk to her knees, her hand covering her mouth to hold back the sobs, though nothing could stem the tide of her tears.

The wait had been long, but he knew it would be worth it.

Patience was not something he had ever struggled with as far as his rose was concerned, but these last few days . . . there simply weren't words. She was as near and as far as she had ever been and in spite of all that his music had done, it still felt as though he hadn't reached her.

And then she had reached out to him.

Finally satisfied that no one was around and that the hour was ripe, he emerged from the shadows though still remaining a part of them, having fallen back into the old habit with ease. Making his way down to the stage, he looked at the piano there. It was not a new instrument by any means, but being a well-loved member of The Clover, its condition was as pristine as any instrument of his own.

Almost.

His most precious instrument, the one he had crafted with more love and care than anything else was lying somewhere in this theatre in a condition that was anything but pristine. Hovering his hands above the keys in a habitual but heartfelt sign of respect, he acquainted himself with the piano before he set to work on restoring his most treasured instrument.

After some minutes, he had to catch himself: having fallen prey to his own music, he had temporarily lost sight of his true purpose. Bringing the melody to something that sounded like a natural conclusion – perhaps he would refine it later – he took a breath and filled his thoughts with his rose, his inspiration: his Christine. Following the split second that that took, he focussed on the night he had first composed and played this. He had wanted to know if she heard not only music, but if she could hear him. He remembered the night he had sung it to her: she had been so afraid after those fools had broken into his house and hunted her. And his music, his gift to her had brought her through the darkness of both nights. He did not know the true colours of the darkness she had seemed to be caught in when he watched her practice alone; only that he could not bear to see her trapped within its confines.

Filling his voice with all the power he possessed, he gently broke the silence that had momentarily descended and offered this gift to her a third time, knowing that if she was within the theatre, he would be heard.

"No one would listen/No one but her/Heard as the outcast hears."

Lightly, he stroked the keys, enriching the song; all the while his fingers felt the touch of Christine beneath them. Pouring out his pain, he went on:

"Shamed into solitude/Shunned by the multitude/I learned to listen; In my dark, my heart heard music.

"I longed to teach the world/Rise up and reach the world/No one would listen – I alone could hear the music."

His voice and playing rose with the hope that she had brought to him.

"Then at last, a voice in the gloom/Seemed to cry, 'I hear you! I hear your fears/Your torment and your tears!'"

Calming the excitement in his voice those thoughts always evoked, he focussed on her.

"She saw my loneliness/Shared in my emptiness; No one would listen/No one but her/Heard as the outcast hears."

"No one would listen/No one but her/Heard as the outcast hears."

His fingers froze at the last phrase.

His voice went on, sounding breathless for the first time as he heard a tentative soprano rising in a slow and perfect harmony,

Heard as the outcast hears.

Barely able to breathe, he turned on the piano stool to the wing where that angelic sound had echoed from. There in the darkness, he saw an ethereal figure in a simple white gown of silk, golden strands of hair cascading over her shoulders and framing her face. His heart ached at the sight of his Christine – but not for her beauty. Instead, it all but stopped at the sight of her curled in the corner, tears pouring down her face and a broken look of anguish marring those perfect features. Soundlessly springing to his feet, he hurried near, wanting to take her in his arms and ease the sorrow she now bore, even if he had been the one to cause it.

Until she shrank away.

Crouching down, his eyes silently pleaded with her where words failed.

How could you?

Her words came out on a sob and he was as broken as they sounded.

Watching her run away, all he could do was finish his descent to the floor, feeling the bitter sting of failure and isolation all over again.

AN: PUT THOSE LASSOS AWAY!! I said there was another chapter:) N.