Author's Note: Again, sorry this took so long, but I've fallen a little behind. I'll try and catch up so I can keep my updates nice and regular.

Once again, thanks to Spectralprincess, Busanda, Squealing Lit. Fan (intriguing screen name), Soignante, Rose of Night, WindPhoenix, Erik'sLittleLotte and Lady Winifred (double thanks) for their latest reviews.

Here's the next chapter. If you've never heard the music I mention, shame on you! I insist that you go and rectify the situation. It's very easy to listen to and very wonderful - and the third movement is too much fun! Anyway, thanks again and 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 18

She woke to the gentle sound of strings playing softly, but with an energy that bid her wake fully instead of sinking back into lethargy. The easy beauty of Beethoven's pastoral symphony surrounded her. She'd forgotten how wonderful a piece it was to wake up to. As those memories returned, so did others. She remembered the many times she and her father had sat and listened to this symphony to relax or unwind after a hard day at school or one of difficult rehearsals, respectively. How they'd debated the use of period instruments, giving arguments for and against, quoting different pieces to compare; how this recording was always used in favour thereof. She remembered him playing sections of it. Even though it was meant for a full orchestra, he still made it sound wonderful. He'd say it was the mark of a true piece of music. She'd then reply that it was the mark of a true musician. They never could settle that argument. They stopped trying to after a while.

She listened to it, trying to stop the tears that were forming. And failing miserably. They trailed down her face, ruining the make-up that she'd long ago fallen into the habit of wearing, even in sleep – too many mid-nightly check-ups for her to do without comfortably. She remembered that she was not at home. She remembered that her father was not at this moment waking up to the very same piece, listening to the very same notes.

She had set the alarm to go off earlier than usual; knowing that the beautiful swell of the sixth would undoubtedly spark such a reaction – unlike the hideously annoying beeping that she had gotten used to lately. For the ten minutes that made up the first movement, she lay there, lost in her memories and her tears. She had determined not to leave music forgotten anymore, and this was the price she must pay for letting it be forgotten at all.

By the time the second movement had started, weaving its more restful way from the speakers out into the room, she had become lost in the sounds instead. As she removed and reapplied her make-up, she focussed on the pictures the music created; the rolling countryside, the lazy activity of a summer's day. She thought on the beauty and ignored the scars.

She didn't even realise she'd done as much until the third movement came, at which she couldn't help but join in with the infectious happiness it contained. As she allowed the music to fill the house, her whole body gave itself over to it and she danced her way through her morning routine. It had always been the way: whenever she gave herself over to music that did not require a vocal accompaniment, Madame Giry's influence showed.

She did not listen to the fourth movement. Much as she enjoyed the whole symphony, her present mood was too fragile for a musical storm. As the winds, then brass, then strings swelled and blended their way into a beautiful harmony, her otherwise troubled spirits were calmed once more under the power the notes wielded. Antoinette had not been wrong: she was a true child of music, and she had ignored that parent for too long. Returning to its embrace, even if it was only for thirty five minutes, brought a glow to her heart that few others could manage.

It was fortunate indeed that she had allowed its return, for as she closed the door she steeled herself: it was vocal performance again today.

He had been scribbling away furiously; trying to write down all that he had played, trying to recreate that which Giry had interrupted. He was desperate not to let it slip away from him. The power and the passion within the music was something rarely touched upon or even glimpsed by mere mortals, and yet here he was, copying it away; note for glorious note.

Were his concentration not so intense once more, he would have smirked at the irony: the mortals rejected a demon, and through their folly were denied the divine. For he could call himself that with some authority now, since one of their own had dubbed him as such twice.

He threw his pen across the room as another sound invaded his sanctuary, his train of thought lost yet again! He would have cried out in frustration and readied himself to inflict his wrath on whichever fool had dared to invaded his lair this time, but was stopped. This was not the sound of any human intruder. Music had entered the caverns – softly, as though it had travelled a great distance – yet it did not come from the school. He checked his watch. No rehearsal had ever been set so early.

Where was it coming from?

Then it struck him. He snatched up his cloak, fastening his shirt and smoothing his hair somewhat. His appearance was a far cry from the usually elegant and impeccable attire of the Opera Ghost, but at least he was not so dishevelled. He chose his path and ran down it as swiftly and silently as the most stealthy of hunters.

Christine

Had she finally broken the silence?

As the tunnel drew nearer to the house, the sound became clearer. He recognised Beethoven's sixth. It was actually a favourable recording, even if the tempos were different to what he would have chosen. He stopped when he reached the door, hearing footsteps on the stairs above. Yet they were not walking with their usual steady tread.

Once they had passed him, he looked out. His mouth hung open – even if only briefly before he collected himself.

She was dancing! Moving perfectly with the music, her movements emulating the moods behind it completely. Though she did not move with the skill and finesse of a trained dancer, she moved with the beauty and understanding of a musical spirit that was both a rarity and a delight to see.

She turned.

She did not see him, for he remained concealed, but oh! did he see her. Her face shone with a serenity he had only witnessed during her slumbers. Now, with her features alive and awake. . . He had only known one other to become more beautiful each time he saw her; it was almost as though she were before him again.

She did not leave until the music had ended, even though she risked being a little late – a true devotee, it would seem.

He leaned back against the dark wall, stunned.

She had broken the silence. A sign of things to come perhaps? She had been so lovely with the music inside of her.

A smile broke across his features. A smile which turned into an astonished laugh. He had done that! He had brought about that transformation. By giving her some of his music, by answering her cries; he had restored life to her. Even if it was only a little, the change was extraordinary. No wonder Giry had risked coming to see him: she had sought to encourage it.

He had said he would help her.

Beethoven was good, but he still had a lot to learn. If Beethoven could draw this response out of her, imagine the possibilities he could work. If her voice was even half-deserving of the praise Gardiner had bestowed . . . His music, her voice . . . All this waiting was torture!

He would help her.

But he had to hear her.