Author's Note: Hey guys! I was looking at my hits counter (over 1000! You guys are fantastic! Didn't think I'd get this much interest in my first fic) and I noticed that Chapter 10 (9 of the story) doesn't have as many hits as Chapter 11 (10), which makes me wonder if some of my readers didn't notice it because of the double update. If that's the case: go back and read it! Vital plot developments contained therein that will make the rest of it a bit confusing if unread. If this isn't the case, do pardon the panicked ravings of your concerned authoress.

Anyway, thanks once more to Soignante, Busanda, mildetryth and Lady Winifred for their latest reviews. Here's another double update, since we cleared 30 reviews. Thanks guys! 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 12

The note was gone.

She'd looked for it as soon as she'd gone downstairs this morning. There had not been any windows or doors open. There was no way a draft could have blown it away. There were no signs of a break-in. But that was ridiculous: why would someone break into a big old house and steal a piece of paper that was stuck in a crack under the stairs?

She really was living in his house. That thought had filled her mind all day. She had wondered why there weren't any forms for her to sign. Yes, Madame Giry had said she'd taken care of it, but even so, surely the resident would need to sign something. But she wasn't living in the usual student accommodation. She was living in his house. Whoever he was.

She puzzled over all that Meg had told her; her thoughts blocking out any other attempts made to bother her that day. His methods of dealing with the Institute were certainly disturbing, and yet it seemed they were not without positive results. But to have an entire staff and student body working in fear? Surely there could be no justification for that!

Unless . . .

Christine brushed her hand along the wall again, never quite touching it. The house had been filled with music. His house was filled with music. With music. Whoever he was, his opinion demanded respect – not because of threats, but because he knew.

At least, she hoped this was the case. She really didn't want to go through the hassle of moving all over again. Especially not when this house was so . . . right. There were few places now that could bring even the slightest measure of calm to her soul, and so she cherished those which she had.

She hoped her note wasn't thought of as presumptuous or childish or anything like that. She doubted the full meaning behind it was conveyed, but if he had been paying attention enough to receive it, perhaps he had been paying attention enough to understand . . .

Wait.

Was he watching her? It was his house. Was someone or something watching her every move? The solitude the house brought was apparent, but she had never truly felt alone – a feeling that was unmistakeable if one had felt it before. She had attributed this to the music she felt in the place. After all, how could a child of music be alone when she was surrounded by it?

This train of thought brought tears to her eyes. Her soul longed to hear music again; but her heart could not without being broken again – and it already lay in a shattered ruin.

The idea of having someone watching her was very worrying. But then, Mother Giry had brought her to this place, and she apparently knew this ghost to a greater degree than most. She would never have given her approval if something was amiss. In fact, if something was amiss, she probably would have found herself back under the Giry roof by now. If someone was watching; then it was just a ghost.

Just a ghost?

Christine, girl, what are you thinking?

She walked wearily up the stairs. It had been another long day of dealing with stares from the students and questions from the staff. Somewhere in the mix, there had been work as well, although she may have been mistaken.

Having to climb two flights of stairs after being so thoroughly drained almost made Christine regret choosing a bedroom on the second floor. It was a small room, but south facing, so she could see the sun for longer. Plus it looked like it would be the warmest room in the winter; and it was out of the way enough, that she did not feel like she would be trespassing if she changed it more than the other rooms. It was the one room in the house that truly felt like it was hers.

She had gotten into the habit of retiring early. That way, she did not have the dark of night to deal with. She had always loved the night: that was when magic came alive in all the stories she had grown up with; it was when her imagination soared. And it was when music was at its most glorious, for it was in the dark that all else faded away.

Now though, darkness was something she could not deal with easily. It brought back too many memories; and the more prominent of those memories brought nightmares. Rest was something she needed more of these days anyway, she still had much to recover from – at least that was her excuse. She tried to be asleep before darkness had fallen completely. It was one of the many measures she took to avoid the nightmares – her voice did not need the extra strain that came from all that screaming.

As she readied herself for bed, her fatigue became more apparent. It was always the way: so long as there was nothing to tempt her to rest, she could usually find the energy she needed. Of course, as soon as the idea of rest became a reality, there was little else that could occupy her mind.

Except for today.

If the note was gone, it was because someone had taken it.

If someone had taken it, presumably they had read it.

Since she hadn't heard anything, then presumably, she still had the 'seal of approval' – whatever that might be.

If Madame Giry gave her approval also, then she was safe.

If she worked for this ghost, then she would know if he was watching or not.

If he was watching, then there couldn't be any harm in it. She was still living here after all.

And so long as she could stay, then she had something she'd almost forgotten existed.

Hope.