Disclaimer: The characters and plotline 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. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 4

Mother Giry,

About yesterday; I thought I'd taken care of all the dust, but I missed a spot. At least now I know to be more careful about those lamps.

You're probably wondering why on earth it was so bad. If you are, then I know that whilst I have to rest, I probably won't get much peace until I tell you. I was thinking about Papa. I thought about all the promises he made. I know you don't know all of them, but they mean as much to me as the ones you do know.

I was thinking about the course again. I know we've been over this enough times, but I can't help worrying. I do want to stay here, for Papa, but I still don't think they'll let me. Not when they find out.

Anyway, I was thinking about that when I found the dust, or it found me, whichever. Then I started to think about the what happened.

I think the rest is self-explanatory.

Dr Philips called round yesterday. But I'll bet you didn't need to be told that. He says it probably set me back a week, conservatively speaking. I asked how long, speaking non-conservatively (is that a word?). He said a fortnight.

I think at the rate we're going, if my voice comes back at all, it'll happen by about Spring Break. I can hear you banging your cane as you read that last part. Telling me to stop feeling sorry for myself.

I don't feel sorry for myself, Mother. At least, I don't think I do. I had my fill of pity before. I'm not accusing you or Meg of that. I'm not trying to wallow in it, I am trying to live.

But please understand; there's only so much I can live while my heart lies in a grave. He was everything to me, Mother. That's what I've lost. I can't ignore that pain. I won't. I'm so afraid that if it stops hurting, then it'll be as though I don't care anymore. I'd rather learn to live with it than give it up.

That isn't feeling sorry for myself, Mother. I have enough people to do that for me back home. No doubt there'll be more here if people find out.

Mother Giry, I have to ask; was there someone else there when you found me? Don't say Meg, because if there was someone, then she isn't that tall. It's just that I'm sure I saw someone. Someone with a shining white face. That sounds silly doesn't it? Maybe I was seeing things, but I'd like to know either way.

If there was someone, did they see? I know you wouldn't let someone see if you could help it, but if you couldn't? I just don't want all of that to start again. I will be ready for when classes start, but I wasn't ready then.

Will you tell me?

Anyway, that's what the problem was this time.

I wanted to thank you as well, for finding the house for me. I don't know if you can realise how grateful I am. I've been thinking about it whilst I lie here. I know now why I felt so drawn to this house when I first saw it.

Do you remember how I used to joke that our walls absorbed so much music, you could hear it even when it stopped?

These walls are saturated with music. I thought no one lived for music the way we did, but whoever lived here must have done. I think this is where Papa and I would have lived when people started to listen.

Now they never will.

But we heard the music. It won't go unmissed.

I'll let you in on a little secret – and you know me better than to think this is a sign of madness – but I can hear the music. Not ours. It's different in this house. Every room I go in, I can hear the echo of it. Whoever lived here before me must have been a great man (and I know he was a man because there's no hint of a woman's touch). He must have made music

You know what that means. You must have heard us on the subject often enough.

What I wanted to say was that I don't think I could live anywhere else. I don't think any other house would suit me so well. And I doubt anywhere else would allow me to live.

You know I swore off music. It's because I know I couldn't have stood it. But this house, the music within it: it's unlike anything I've ever known. I think it will help.

Thank you Mother. For helping me like no other. Again.

Your 2nd daughter

Christine

Antoinette looked at the paper. She could see her face as the letter was written; could see when the tears had fallen. Each mention of her past had been blurred to some degree - without exception. That's how all of her letters had looked.

She hated that this was the only way Christine had a voice. The only way that was permitted of course. She would never have believed a daughter of Charles and Catherine would ever turn their back on music. It had always been acknowledged that any child of theirs could not be thought of as anything less than a child of music itself.

That Christine had once again failed to sign off 'with love' grieved her once more. Before it had all happened, not once had Christine ended a phone conversation, a letter or an e-mail without saying something along those lines. Since her voice had been lost, love had not been a part of her vocabulary. Antoinette knew the place that she still held in the child's heart, just as she knew that she had no hope of healing until she allowed herself the luxury of feeling love again.

She reread the sections about the house.

It looked like it was again time for a chat with the other resident.

Author's Note: At time of writing, this story is up to over 120 hits and only one review. This is my first fanfiction, so reviews are a huge encouragement, if only so I know that people like it. I am trying to stay ahead of the story, and currently have five chapters waiting to be posted, but I am determined to keep it to one chapter a day. However, every time the review counter hits a new 10, I promise I will do a double posting. Besides, if I get reviews, then I'll know how to do it and I can start leaving them as well! Thanks guys. Keep reading, and I'll try not to ask for reviews often. Nedjmet