Author's Note: Thanks to Soignante, Busanda, Lady Winifred, Rose of Night (love your screen name), mildetryth, CarolROI, Spectralprincess, Shayril, BadBugz, WindPhoenix and D. Jenks for their reviews. Congratulations to Lady Winifred, CarolROI and Busanda for correctly guessing the music that was played in the last chapter. I would love to put the rest of you out of your misery, but I'm planning to use it as a plot device, so I'm afraid you'll either have to guess again (and I will tell you if you get it right) or just wait and see. The only thing I will say is that in spite of some of the language I chose to use, the answer is not in fact Music of the Night, as I don't believe that would have been appropriate at this stage. Anyway, here's another chapter to keep you going. 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 14

The warmth of the sun drew her back from her slumbers, and brought a smile with it as it caressed her face. She opened her eyes and sighed contentedly as the light of a new day greeted her.

Christine shot bolt upright in bed.

And silently giggled in astonishment.

When was the last time she had known such . . . peace?

The last time she had known music.

She jumped out of bed, ran out of her room and down the stairs. She stopped on the first floor. Moving as silently as she could to the door she couldn't open, she raised her hand and, out of habit, placed it just above its surface.

She heard it.

The music she thought she had dreamt. The music that had brought her away from the terrors of the dark and reminded her of some of the beauty that was held in the night. The music that had answered the call of her soul; that had spoken of the grief she felt, the longing for what had been lost – the hope that remained.

It hadn't been a dream. She could hear the echo of it, just as surely as she used to hear the echo of . . . Her hand traced a path along the wall – again, never quite touching – as she made her way down the stairs and into the hall. The music filled her mind and she allowed it to flow through each of her senses, losing herself to it once more. She spun around giddily in silent ecstasy.

The sight of the cellar door brought her to a halt.

Could it have been the ghost? Certainly, he claimed this house as his own: this house filled with music; this house where some of her sorrows had been clearly expressed. He must value music to be so . . . ruthless in his dealings with the Ravelle, an attitude which could imply a musical talent behind it.

Could it have been the ghost? Could this mysterious figurehead of the Institute have seen her, heard the cry of her heart and answered it with an insight and skill that could only be described as . . .

Angel

Her thoughts came back to her from when she had drifted off into the only medically unaided rest she had had since her troubles had first begun. Her father's promise. Had it finally been fulfilled after all her tears and yearnings and prayers? But why now, when she was unable to do anything? Was it some fresh torment? Or a test?

Angel or Ghost? Father or Phantom?

Whose was the music that filled her senses? Whose was the voice that spoke to her soul?

Confusion swept over her as hope and reason fought for dominance. But one thought prevailed: perhaps she had neglected music for too long. Now that she had finally remembered, she could not let it forget her.

He sat before the organ bowed over the keys. It was a pose he had adopted many a time. Indeed, he could be found there so often – if he could be found, that is – that one would almost think he was a statue that had been carved that way. It wouldn't be too far amiss. No stance could be more natural to him, no activity more fulfilling to him, than if it had indeed been set in stone or engraved upon his heart.

Yet the keys were silent. Not for a want of inspiration or an inability to transfer the contents of his mind onto the ivory fingers that waited patiently for his own. They were silent because the sheets of paper resting before him on the stand did not contain notes of the musical kind. One was a piece of paper with a fairly well-worn crease across its middle – a sheet that could have almost been made of rose petals, what with the scent it gave off coupled with its appearance.

The other was a parchment of the highest quality; a parchment that bore various pencil lines and strokes, shapes and shadows. A parchment that carried the beginnings of a portrait. His gaze was fixed upon the face that was depicted there as though in sleep. No matter how sorely he may have been tempted, the drawing would remain that: a drawing, without colour; the life contained therein depicted only with light and shadow.

For he realised now that that was her world, a world of some light and many shadows.

But the colour was returning. He had seen it in her eyes each time she had called him 'angel'.

Angel

He had been called many things in his lifetime, few of which were favourable. But he had never once been referred to in such a . . . heavenly light. He was a creature of shadows, filled with darkness. He belonged to the night and yet here was this girl, this child reaching out to him without any real knowledge, and calling him 'angel'.

He looked at the note again wondering, not for the first time, what thoughts truly lay behind it. He looked at the portrait he had done of her at peace. He had caused that. His music had been filled with the pain of solitude, with a longing for music, with the hope that it might be heard. And it had brought the faintest hint of a smile to her lips.

Would it be forgotten with the cruel light of day? Passed over as merely a sweet dream? Surely not. She had heard.

Angel

Would that her voice had moved with her mouth. Two months. Two months, and then he would find out whether or not she could answer his dreams as he had answered hers. Two months, and he would finally learn if she could again be a child of music.

His music.