Author's Note:Once again, thanks to Soignante, Mildetryth, Lady Winifred, TalithaJ and Busanda for their latest reviews. You guys really make my day. Thanks, and enjoy! I think this chapter will give you some of the things you've been asking for. 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 11

"Sorelli shows much potential - provided you can teach her to take more pride in her dancing and less in herself - and it would help if she actually listened to the music on occasion. As for that girl Jammes, it would be wise to make sure she does not secure a lead. What talent she might have, I suspect will be wasted within a few more years."

The voice made her jump as soon as she had shut the door. She collected herself before locking it and turning around.

"True. I'm afraid she started too late in life, or she could have been a fine dancer. Sorelli does think of herself above her standing, but most of them do when they first arrive."

"Until Madame Giry has taught them their place." The smile in the voice was slight, yet evident and Antoinette was tempted to offer one in return. It had been a long day of teaching, and she still had work to do. She had thought her office would provide some peace and quiet, but should have known better. The girls' conversation yesterday was unlikely to have gone unnoticed.

"Perhaps your charge is the exception to the rule since she had already been under your influence before coming. But that cannot be. Your daughter does not remember her place so readily."

"Meg is as carefree as her father and she inherited her will from me. She is not an easy spirit to control, nor would I wish to entirely. Am I to take it from your critique of my parenting skills that you were eavesdropping on my daughters' conversation last night?"

"Surely it is not eavesdropping when one hears things in their own home?"

"In a private conversation, yes it is."

"Madame, you would do well to remember that your daughter is not a presence that is easy to miss, and that your charge is residing in my home at my goodwill."

"And you would do well to remember the reputation of the Opera Ghost that you are so determined to instil into everyone. It was inevitable that Meg should be concerned with the situation and speak to Christine."

"Yet you put no words in her mouth?" The icy steel in the disembodied voice was definitely unmistakeable.

"Meg is capable enough without anyone needing to do that. I have warned her time and again against speculating about you or speaking of you to anyone. She has fear enough of you and respect enough for me to heed my advice – except when it comes to Christine. She behaves according to her heart. Just as Christine is like my second daughter, she has always been the sister that Meg never had."

"Very touching. This girl does seem to have a talent for bringing out your more protective qualities."

Antoinette looked to where the voice appeared to be, and indeed, did usually come from.

"Oh?"

She saw the startlingly white half-mask emerge and watched as a tall figure dressed completely and impeccably in black stepped out from the shadows in the back corner of her room.

"You have been watching her." It was not a question, yet her voice demanded an answer.

"You piqued my curiosity, Madame. I am not used to having it go so thoroughly unsated."

She remained silent, knowing something was bothering him, but knowing equally that asking him was the last way to find out what that something was.

"Why is she going by the name of Day?"

She looked at him in confusion.

"In class yesterday, she wrote her name as 'Day', she wrote that her mother's name was 'Catherine Day', yet when your daughter . . . reprimanded her with her full name, she called her Daaë. This is her true name?"

"Yes."

"Then why does she not use it?" The disapproval in his voice was evident.

"She applied by phone. They misheard. To save confusion, she has chosen to go by the name she is enrolled under. She does not disrespect her father's name; she chooses not to play on it."

"Is she a relation of the violinist?"

"Yes, he was her father. You knew of him?"

"I heard him perform only once. He was one of the few musicians I have heard who truly deserved such a title. So that is why you claimed she lived for music."

"Both her parents taught her about music. They never had to teach her to love it. She was a child of music."

"Was?"

"How closely have you been watching her?"

"Closely enough to try and satisfy my curiosity about the person you sent to live in my house. I have not invaded her privacy."

"I did not think you would. Tell me, does she live?"

"I doubt you have the stupidity to treat me like a fool, so I will presume there is some deeper meaning that you are failing to communicate."

"She goes through the motions of life without any spark. Until Meg told me of their conversation last night, I had not known of her to be anything close to happy since her father died. She craves solitude and shuts herself away from everything, even music, because she can no longer bear life."

"What changed last night?"

"What do you mean?"

"You said that until last night, she had not been happy. I can only assume that something changed."

"She stopped worrying about her place at Ravelle. And she believes that the Ghost does not object to her staying in the house."

"I have yet to make my presence felt by the newer members of the student body, Madame. I fail to see why she should be so presumptuous."

"You have done nothing to show that you do object."

They looked at each other for a moment: he trying to decide what make of all this, whilst she tried to read what he was thinking – knowing it was fruitless, nevertheless.

"She can stay." Antoinette's face broke into a smile that seemed to take about ten years off her.

"Thank you, my dear. This means a lot-"

"She can stay, but understand this: so long as she lives in my house, I will be watching her."

"Watching her?" The mother in Antoinette began to take over again.

"As I said, Madame: she has a talent for bringing out protective qualities. She has treated my home with respect, even when she presumed it belonged to no one. You have told me something of her circumstances and yet she possesses a dignity I would not expect in one so young. And I have yet to hear Gardiner praise a new student so well. I will be watching her. I should have thought you would be glad you didn't have to worry about her safety."

"I did not once think I had anything worry about on that score. As her guardian though, I must ask you two things."

"Ask."

"Have you been in any contact with her at all?"

"No."

"Then what has brought about this resolve?"

He brought a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and slid it across the table to her. She recognised the yellow roses that watermarked the paper, and the scent of roses she would know anywhere as Christine's.

"She has been in contact with me."

"How . . ?"

"It was half-tucked underneath the cellar door." She read the short missive with horror in her eyes.

"I told her only that the key was missing."

"She appears to be a rather bright girl." She looked up at him.

"She will know it is gone."

"And?"

"What will you do?"

"Do?" Since the direct approach was failing, she tried again.

"She understands the meaning of flowers. Of roses anyway. Do not do anything to hurt her."

"I have already assured you of her safety, Madame. Do you doubt my word?"

"No. But you do not know her. She can be hurt easily, and I am not speaking merely in physical terms. So long as I can help it, I will not let that happen. She has been through more than enough"

"Very well."

She slid the note back to him, and watched the care he took to fold it only where the creases already existed, then tuck it safely away in his pocket. He turned to leave, but was stopped before he disappeared back into the shadows.

"Do you mean to help her?" He paused a moment, debating on whether or not he should simply leave. He held too much respect for Giry to leave her when she allowed desperation to enter her voice like that.

"We shall see."

The shadows enveloped him as he entered the hidden passageway. The Institute was full of the things, but then again, he had made sure of that when it was being built, just as he had made sure that none knew of them. There were some of the more long-serving members of staff whoknew that they were there, of course, but where they were and where they went: only Giry knew the handful that were necessary should she need to contact him in an emergency. There were few in his life who he had trusted as much as her. That's why he had shown her the small number of tunnels that were not riddled with his traps.

As he approached one of the few torches ensconced in the passageway, he paused. He did not need the light; there was nothing about the place that he did not know like the back of his hand. Since he was passing it though, he could not resist taking out the letter again.

He had been hidden in the dining room, which Christine had yet to go in except to clean. Had she decided to show Little Giry her work, it would have been easy enough to avoid their sight. He had positioned himself once again so that he could watch the words she wrote, as well as hear the other side of the conversation. It was a good thing she wrote clearly, or even his keen vision would have had difficulties with such a task.

He had enjoyed seeing the two girls banter and fight – though he would never admit to such a thing. He had been somewhat surprised by Little Giry's reaction to Christine's amusement though. Yet it was true: in all the time he had watched her, she had never smiled. He envied the younger Giry that power she seemed to posses.

The realisation had shocked him. He was the Opera Ghost. He struck fear into the hearts of grown men; he was not one to care about make young girls laugh!

When the conversation had turned towards him, he had been curious to see her reaction, but his view was restricted by the couch, as she was now sat on the floor following their little brawl. He listened with some pride as Giry recounted what he had done. He remembered the day he had set off the sprinklers. He had told the managers that anything other than a contemporary set for Showboat simply was not acceptable, but they had refused to listen. The vain attempts by the students to protect their work was still rather diverting. They really had resembled headless chickens – very appropriate for the distinguished Ravelle Institute!

He was surprised to learn just how much of his working relationship with her mother Little Giry had, but given that she had yet to be any real nuisance, he let the matter drop. Antoinette would not let her only daughter do anything to invoke his anger anyway. When Christine's hand had gone to her throat, he was concerned. How much damage had it received if that was all it took to cause pain?

Wait. Concerned? Him?

The girl, it seemed, also possessed a talent for disruption. And yet she made such an effort to remain invisible?

These thoughts distracted him, and it was not until the conversation had turned to ice cream missions, that his attention was brought back into focus by the sheer stupidity of the topic. He berated himself for allowing himself to become distracted so easily. What was it about this girl? Blasted Giry for making him so curious!

He had been astonished to learn that she was a Daaë. If that made her who he thought, then it was no wonder she had turned her back on music. There were few she could have known of who made music the way Charles Daaë did, few who could have taught her so well, few who could have made music play such a role in her life. A great loss indeed.

When she had begun writing the note, he had almost laughed. He wondered how much more there was to discover that they each had in common. When she came back into the living room empty handed, however, he was curious – yet again! – as to where the note had gone.

He saw the pad she had been writing on earlier and examined it as she was in the kitchen. At least now the conversation made more sense. Needless to say her responses intrigued him.

He did not have to wait long for her to retire for the night. He never did.

Had he been a lady a hundred years ago, he would surely have fainted at the sight waiting at his door. She couldn't have meant to write a note for him! After knowing of him for the length of one conversation?

He opened it now as carefully as he had then. It was written on paper covered in yellow roses, which also bore their scent. It was a simple note.

O. G.

Thank you.

Christine

No last name? She had paid attention as to how he addressed his notes. So she acknowledged that it was his house and he could have been listening then as well as during class?

What was she thanking him for though? For letting her live there? For leaving her in peace?

For helping to give her happiness?

The only person he had ever done that for, was the one to whom she bore an agonisingly close resemblance. Even Gardiner had spotted it.

She understands the meaning of flowers. Of roses anyway.

And she was sending him a message of friendship.

She was not concerned that she lived in a ghost's house? A ghost who could be watching? She really was an intriguing girl. One who he seemed to have much in common with.

And one who he would watch over.

Perhaps it was time for her to begin her healing.