Authors Note: Thanks to Soignante, Mildetryth, Erik'sLittleLotte (love your screen name!), Busanda and CarolROI for your reviews. One more for another double update guys! In the meantime, enjoy! Nedjmet

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 9

Why don't you want me to live here?

"Christine, don't take this the wrong way, but I just don't think it's a good idea for you to be here."

Why? I'm managing fine. The house is perfect for me.

"If you promise not to interrupt, I'll explain."

Christine put her pad and paper down and looked at Meg, who promptly felt awful. She had seen the calm in her adoptive sister's face when she'd written about the house. And she saw the old wariness that was creeping into her features once again as she waited.

"You know with Maman's job and the dance workshops I took, that I've been here for two years now? It's as long as most people get to attend for, and it's long enough to get to know a place. Plus with what I hear and overhear from Maman, you have to trust that I know what I'm talking about. OK?"

Christine nodded. Meg took a breath, searching for the best way to go about this.

"There was a lot of fuss when this place opened five years ago, what with the press, all the applicants, critics and everyone wanting to see if Ravelle could live up to it's claims. That's why nobody paid too much attention when sheets of music or ballet slippers or whatever went missing, and when notes kept showing up in the dean's and theatre managers' offices telling them what they should and shouldn't be doing.

"They started to get a bit worked up when that was all still happening after a few months, and it was getting progressively worse. The notes became more threatening. At first they were ignored as a sick joke. Then the threats were carried out. Sets were being deliberately damaged, the fire system set off sprinklers during theatre design class which would ruin a term's work. Then people started getting locked in rooms, falling down stairs and swearing they'd been pushed. That's when everyone started talking about a ghost."

"The notes were all signed O. G. - Opera Ghost." At Christine's look of confusion, she elaborated, "The first year, they wanted to make a big impression with the critics, so they adapted The Merry Widow for their main production.

"Anyway, they obviously started taking the notes seriously, which is why you'll be told to stay away from Box 5 on your tour. I know you were taken on one at your audition, but you get another during Basic Theatre Management. That's one of his demands: whenever there's a performance, Box 5 on the grand tier in the main theatre is always reserved for the Opera Ghost. He even gets a salary every month as well, and he always passes notes to the teachers making suggestions about their classes and performances. And woe betide anyone who ignores him."

Why are you telling me? What does it have to do with the house?

"Christine, this is his house." Christine's mouth dropped in shock. She blinked a few times in bewilderment before a look of understanding began to cross her face.

Is that why no-one comes near here? I haven't heard any cars or people except for you and mother.

"Mmhm. This is his house. It was built before the institute, and although they bought it as accommodation, no one has ever stayed here. They say that a few people were listed as living here in the first year, but they soon transferred into other halls, and no one's been here since."

Christine's hands shook a little as she wrote.

Why did your mother arrange for me to live here? How?

Meg knew she was in trouble now. Christine only distanced herself from people like that when she was really upset. She had only referred to Meg's mother as such during heated arguments – after which she apologised profusely.

"Maman works for the ghost. I mean, she isn't paid by him or anything, but she's the one who always reads his notes out whenever they have to be, and she delivers his salary. She doesn't know that I know that; I wasn't supposed to see, but I did. And she looks after Box 5.

"Like you said, this house is perfect for you. She probably arranged it because of that. I don't know how. But I know she wouldn't have even let you near the place unless it was OK. With him, I mean."

Christine dropped the pen and paper and closing her eyes, she leaned back against the couch. Meg watched her a moment, expecting to see the tell-tale signs to suggest tears being held back, or a blast of temper to erupt. For all that she had always been quiet, Christine certainly had a temper on her when provoked enough.

She jumped a little as Christine sat bolt upright and began to scribble furiously.

It all makes sense! It's a man's house. It's filled with music. It's by itself. No one's come here, no disturbances, not even to see who the new girl is. It's his house and he's keeping them away.

Meg read it, looked into her beaming face and said the one thing that came to mind.

"Huh?"

He's letting me live here.

"I don't get it."

Whatever mother said or did to persuade him, he's giving me my solitude. He's keeping everyone away, but he's not done anything to make me want to move out. Nothing missing or broken, no pranks, no disturbances. He's letting me stay.

It dawned on Meg.

"Everyone else moved out after a few days. You've been here for two weeks."

Christine nodded vigorously, then stopped and put her hand to her throat. Meg reached over to her.

"You OK?"

Yeah. I forget sometimes. It's fine.

"Christine, even if you're right – and I think you are – even if he is letting you stay here, I still don't like it. I've been here for two years now, I've seen the things he does, the fear he puts into everyone. I don't want him having a hold like that over you. If he's letting you stay for Maman, that's fine. I just don't want it to be for anything else."

Meg, please don't make me afraid to be here. I couldn't be anywhere else.

"I know. Just, look after yourself, OK? And try not to get on the wrong side of him."

How?

"I don't know exactly. Keep doing whatever it is you do. If you haven't heard anything out of him so far, then he probably doesn't mind. No one really knows how to get on his good side. It's more a case of correcting anything that gets you on his bad one."

Very reassuring.

"Seriously, if this is the first you've heard about him, then you'll probably be fine. I just wanted you to be careful."

Christine couldn't think of anything to say; the whole situation was just too crazy to even think about properly. So she did the only thing she could think of, and gave Meg another one-armed hug.

"What's the latest from the doctors?"

My throat should be fully healed in a couple of months at the most – as long as I don't have any more nasty coughing fits.

"And . . .the other doctors?" Meg asked quietly andhesitantly. Christine looked at her blankly, before her features sank a bit.

Healing nicely. Slower than I should, but that's to be expected. The surgery's scheduled for the start of the holidays. No should see the bandages that way.

"Does it . . . hurt, still?"

Physically, only if it's knocked. Otherwise, only when I see.

Meg hugged her tightly again, being careful as always to avoid her right shoulder.

"Look on the bright side: at least you've finally become a whiz with make-up. I might even let you do me on my next date."

Christine gave her a watery smile.

"You gonna be OK, hun?"

She looked at Meg, and saw what she was asking, and everything that she was trying not to ask.

She nodded.

Meg regarded her a few moments, before nodding in return.

"Good. 'Cause much as I love it, if I have to do too many more ice cream missions, Maman will have my head. I swear, she knows even if I so much as put on half a pound in the wrong place. If I have to hear her lecture about a ballerina's figure one more time, I'll probably be able to pass an anatomy degree."

Well, it's not as if you HAVE to bring ice cream every time.

"Christine Catherine Antoinette Daaë! Don't you even dare suggest such a thing!" She exclaimed, doing her best impression of a horrified Madame Giry.

Christine smiled again. Meg's phone beeped. She didn't even look at it, just gathered her things and started to head towards the door. Christine protested when she offered to help with the dishes.

"Alright, alright. I know. Making me face Maman's inquisition all the sooner."

The sooner it starts the sooner it finishes.

"Thanks." She replied dryly. They exchanged another hug at the door.

"Take care of yourself, OK?"

'Thank you' Christine mouthed as Meg left, causing tears to jump into her eyes quickly.

She leaned her back against the door, much as she had done earlier, except this time it was with a much lighter heart.

She looked at the stairs that loomed in front of her. She saw the door that was hidden amongst the panelling. She remembered quizzing Madame Giry about it, who had merely replied that the key was lost - after recovering from surprise that the door had actually been spotted. She shouldn't have been surprised though. Christine had grown up with so many stories about secret passageways and hidden doors, that finding one was not as difficult as it perhaps should have been.

She thought about the door that was locked on the 1st floor. As far as she could tell, it was a door to either one very large, or several rooms. The key for that was also missing.

She thought about all that Meg had said.

She hadn't paid too much attention to the rooms, as she had more space than she really needed anyway. But based on what she knew now? Perhaps the keys were not so much missing, as she wasn't meant to have them. It was strange though; that a ghost should choose both a cellar and a first floor room.

She looked at the door to the cellar again; then moved to the desk that stood in the front room. She rooted through the various sheets of paper there until she found what she was looking for. Hopefully it wouldn't be considered too childish. She took up a fountain pen and wrote in her neatest script:

O. G.

Thank you.

Christine

She paused a moment, wondering over whether to write her surname. She didn't want to confuse him any. Can one confuse a ghost? She left it as it was. It felt a bit more personal anyway.

She folded it and placed it half under the small crack at the foot of the door. It would be difficult to fit more than a single sheet of paper under there anyway. She was tempted to sit and wait to see if it moved, but then realised there would be about as much point in that as waiting to see if Santa was coming.

She went back to the front room to clear the dishes away, hoping that her little note would be understood fully.

She put the dishes in the sink to wash and put the rubber gloves on before rolling up her sleeves, knowing that her eyes would be straying to the crack underneath the stairs whenever she walked past.

Especially if the note was actually received.