Author's Note: I did promise a double update once we hit 45, so here you go. 11 reviews for chapter 13. Thank you so much! Anyway, 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 15

True to Meg's word, Christine's class had indeed been given a more thorough tour of the two theatres, particularly the larger one, as part of her first class in Basic Theatre Management. The Ravelle Institute believed that even performers should have an appreciation for the way a theatre was run in every aspect, and so each student was required to take the class, no matter where their 'talents' lay.

They had been guided by the Master of the Flies, Joseph Buquet, who was one of the longest serving members of staff at the Institute. He had been employed from when the Institute was opened, having come highly recommended by Professor Gardiner. Whilst it was clear that he knew his trade and was very competent in it, it soon became apparent that he was given over to, and very fond of, gossip – and his manner was not always strictly professional, as he had told the class to call him Joe with a very suggestive look towards some of the girls, prompting a few giggles.

The tour given at the time of the auditions had shown the extravagant auditorium and stage – the side of the theatre that the audience saw. The tour given by 'Joe' was no less impressive, though perhaps not so elegant. Having been raised on stories of theatres and opera houses – amongst other things, Christine was not entirely unprepared for the extent of things 'behind the scenes,' from all the storage that was needed to the props, sets and costumes themselves, from rehearsal and dressing rooms to the intricate rigging above stage from which hung some of the lights, sound equipment, and even on occasion certain aspects of scenery.

The whole thing would have taken her breath away, however, had that not already been done some months ago, as the Ravelle did things on a much grander scale than she had ever been witness too. It did, nevertheless, leave her fascinated, and though somewhat daunted, she felt a little more at home, knowing she was where her parents had wanted her to be, where she felt like she belonged – or at least she would if her voice returned.

The tour concluded ten minutes before the end of class, which was quite surprising, given all that there was to see and learn about. As they were climbing stairs and the décor became more ornate, it soon became apparent where they were headed, and given Joseph's flair for gossip – which had thus far sounded somewhat sensationalised – it was not all that surprising to Christine when the group found themselves at the door to one of the boxes on the grand tier.

"Now, you've seen the theatre in all its glory, like with any other tour. But now, allow me to introduce you to the side of the Ravelle that few will tell you about, but all should know."

He drew out the last phrase, pausing at the end of it so that the group was hanging on his every word. Truth be told, whilst this did not have quite the same effect on her, as she had been forewarned to some degree; Christine was not unaffected by his words. After all, if this was going where she thought it was, then there was every chance that she was about to learn something more of the mysterious figure whose house she was living in.

"Behind this door lies the most infamous secret of Ravelle, the curse that everyone here is in fear of. Behind this door is Box 5." He spoke in laboured, heavy whispers, which no doubt would have frightened a party of six year olds, but those who weren't looking at him as though he'd lost his mind were instead giggling or merely curious – probably grateful for the diversion.

"And what's so special about a box?" Carlotta piped up and asked, clearly humouring Mr. Buquet.

"This is the Ghost's box." This really did elicit giggles, although Christine's face retained its measure of curiosity.

"So there's a ghost in this place? What, is it the first conductor? Or one of the tenors who was killed on some opening night?" Asked Ubaldo Piangi, an international student from Italy, and one of the many who had taken to idolising Carlotta – although in his case, she had shown signs of actually returning the adoration.

"Laugh now, but he likes to 'welcome' the new students, and we'll see who's laughing then. This place has been haunted by the ghost since it was built. He knows everything that goes on here, and when he's seen, he disappears into thin air before anyone can get a good look."

"Right. And what's so special about this box, then?" Returned Carlotta.

"This is his box. He has it for every performance, but it's always empty. A few years ago, the managers tried to sell it. Well, the Ghost was none too happy about that. Half the sets ended up being damaged beyond repair and the leads couldn't go on. Apparently they'd suddenly been taken ill. Next morning, the managers find one of his notes on their desk, telling them – all nice and polite, mind – that it'd be a good idea not to try selling 'his' box again. It hasn't been sold since."

"How do you know it's not just some prankster? Why not let the police deal with whoever it is?"

"They've tried, lass. Believe me, they've tried. But there's never anything to be found. No clues, no nothing. Just the notes and the damage."

"Come on, Mr. Buquet, do you really expect us to-"

"Joseph Buquet! What are these students doing up here?" Madame Giry's strict tones needed no raised volume to be heard. The class cleared a path for her as she approached the Master of the Flies.

"Madame. I was just giving them the usual tour."

"On the contrary, Monsieur, you were giving your usual tour. I do not believe the Ravelle has yet to encourage detours to the boxes under any circumstances."

"No, Madame. But-"

"That is enough!" Turning to the class, "If you did not know beforehand, allow me to inform you now: students are not permitted in this theatre outside of class except for rehearsals or performance. Your class finished five minutes ago, so I would ask you to make your way outside. As for you, Joseph," she said, only turning her head this time as the students began to file away, "I would advise against these detours. Rumour spreads well enough without your contributions."

With a last meaningful glance that was not lost on a number of the students, she moved over to Christine, who had been looking alternately between the two teachers and the door to Box 5.

"Christine?" She looked at her second mother. "Come, child. We don't want to be late."

They walked out of the theatre and over to the gates of the Institute where a taxi was waiting for them. Madame Giry's limp meant that even though she was licensed, driving was usually awkward if not painful for her, and she had learnt that 'speaking' with Christine in a car was impossible unless she was a passenger.

To say the ride took place in silence would be superfluous, but more to the point, Christine's pad of paper was not resting on her lap, which usually indicated that she did not wish for conversation. She turned to her guardian and looked at her, her eyes filled with questions.

"Meg told you much." She nodded. "And Buquet's 'tour' has no doubt intrigued you." She nodded again. "And now you have questions." Madame Giry asked on a sigh.

Christine looked at her. She seemed to have aged a few years with that sentence. The burdens she bore for her sake were great indeed, and Christine doubted that she had fully recovered from her grief either. If she did indeed 'work' for this 'ghost' then it was no wonder her heart was heavy with this conversation.

She got out her pad of paper, her pen poised above it, as though she was uncertain how to phrase her words.

Antoinette looked out of the window, readying herself for whatever answers or evasions she might need to give. She had never lied about the subject – nor would she start with Christine who had unwittingly become such a part of it – but neither had she ever broken the faith that had been placed in her by more than just 'O. G.'

Do I need to know any more than I've been told?

Suffice to say, she had not been prepared for that. She looked into Christine's eyes, for once: uncertain. She did not have chance to answer as Christine wrote again, having read her second mother's face.

I trust you.

She put the lid back on the pen – a sign that the subject was closed as far as she was concerned.

"My dear, let me say this: if ever there was something wrong, you know I would tell you."

I know.

And you have told me nothing.

Which was written with the hint of a smile and a raised eyebrow. Christine pointed at her previous sentence again, 'I trust you'. Antoinette smiled a little and brushed her hand over Christine's hair, the subject closed.

Almost.

Is he a musician?

"Yes."

Does he write music?

"Why do you ask?"

I do not know the music in his house.

"You do not know all the music in the world, my dear. You cannot expect to be unsurprised by it."

She put her pad away. She had known Madame Giry long enough to tell when she was being evasive; and it was usually a pretty safe bet that whatever she was avoiding would not be said. Antoinette was thinking along similar lines. She knew there was something Christine was not telling her, and she had a pretty good idea what that something was. She looked at her second daughter and saw a light in her face that had not been there for a long time.

She would have to have a chat with the Ghost when they returned.

If only to say 'thank you'.

The taxi pulled up outside of the large white building. Madame paid the driver, with instructions that he was to return in an hour. She went around to Christine's side and opened her door. Christine slowly stepped out and looked up at the building with wide eyes. At least there were no tears. Hopefully that was a step in the right direction, and not a sign that she had gotten good at masking her emotions.

Since her father had died, once she had been released, Christine had had a terrible fear of hospitals and it usually took some time to convince her to set foot inside the place, no matter how well she knew that she needed to go in.

Today, however, she stood looking up at it for a few moments, and then moved forward. She turned and offered her left arm to Madame Giry to use as a support. Who was supporting who was always a matter of debate, but this time, the surprise probably meant that it was Antoinette who was in need.

They made their way through the hospital towards the ENT department where the receptionist greeted them with a familiarity that could only come from regular visits.

"Good afternoon, Madame. Hello Christine. Bit early today aren't we?" Christine just gave her a half-hearted smile as she and Madame filled out the necessary forms and the receptionist phoned their arrival through.

"You're in luck; Dr Valerius is running early today as well, although I daresay he probably would have welcomed a break." She said with a conspiratorial wink. "You can go on through."

Christine moved in the direction of the consultation room. Antoinette put a hand on her arm, the familiar question in her eyes. Christine shook her head. They had been coming to these appointments every month since the fire, with regular checkups by Dr Philips, their family GP. The last few visits though, Christine had gone through the consultation alone, with Madame only being present for the updated reports. She attributed it to part of Christine's healing process, but she couldn't help but wonder if maybe the pressure with the Ravelle had made her more self-conscious. Either way, she did not stop worrying until she had been given the progress report.

Christine carried on as her mother resumed her seat. She went down the corridor and soon came to the familiar brown door. She knocked and a slightly accented voice – a voice which used to bring tears to her eyes because of the memories it evoked – called out to her to come in.

"Hello, Christine. You're early today."

She allowed a small smile to cross her features.

"Hello, Uncle Gustave."

Author's Note: Whilst I know that that answers a question that has been in a lot of reviews and probably on quite a few minds . . . PLEASE don't hate me for that cliffy, but I couldn't resist. It wasn't an impulse, this has been my intention from the start and I promise that there will be explanations in the next chapter. Just an incentive to keep reading. Thanks. Nedjmet.