A Father's Promise Chapter 21, a phantom of the opera fanfic

Author's Note: I know I promised a double update for every 20 reviews. Sorry this one took me so long. Crazy day, plus I'm having a hard time keeping up with you guys and I didn't know where to start this one or where to end it. . . anyway, here it is. But I'm afraid that (yet again!) I'm going to have to raise the review quota. I'll double update for every 25 reviews I get now, so hopefully I can catch up a bit. I'll try not to raise it anymore in future, because otherwise it'd be getting silly.

Thanks to Soignante, Busanda, Squealing Lit. Fan, steelelf, mildetryth, Rose of Night, WindPhoenix and osdfnsdaf. And a special thank you to Spectralprincess for submitting my 100th review! I know I've said this before, but I simply cannot believe all the support and encouragement I've received for this story. Thanks guys, 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 21

"How long?"

Christine walked with Madame back to the Giry residence, her mother leaning on her arm as well as the cane. She didn't need the extra support, and in truth could probably have managed without the cane completely, but she found it to be a very handy prop both for instruction, discipline, and helping to instil the right amount of respect. Plus it was handy on those days when her limp was particularly bad. Keeping Christine so close also meant that she had little choice about answering.

"The last couple of appointments. It wasn't much at first. Just whispers."

"Why did Gustave not tell me?"

"I asked him not too. He didn't lie. My voice still isn't fully recovered."

"You stayed silent." There was a reproach, but also a question in Madame Giry's observation.

Christine didn't answer at first, trying to formulate her reasoning into something that her mother would understand; an answer that would make her deceit forgivable.

"If I started talking, then I would have to start singing. And I couldn't start singing without keeping a promise. I don't know if I have the strength to try."

Antoinette stopped and looked at the daughter of her heart, knowing full well which promise she was speaking of. She saw the pain that was in her eyes, the torment she had gone through both from the secret and from keeping it. She returned her gaze steadily, hoping to pass on some of the confidence she spoke with.

"You will find the strength, child. You love your father."

They continued the rest of the way in silence. Christine knew why Madame had insisted that she accompany her home – and it had nothing to do with walking difficulties.

They approached the house slowly, only to see Meg dancing around through the front room window. No matter how much she might complain about her mother's strict regime, the girl was a born dancer; and she thrived on it the way Christine thrived on music. She stopped suddenly, seeing the other two members of her family staring at her with slight grins on their faces.

The door flew open and a rather indignant Meg stood there – knowing better than to come running outside in her pointe shoes – the hip hop she had been dancing to blaring out into the street.

"Maman! Hey, Christine. What were you doing just standing there out in the cold? How can you just watch-"

"Hey, Meg." Christine whispered, barely audible against Meg's rant. Antoinette looked at her, grateful that she had silenced Meg – a minor miracle in itself. Meg stood there a moment, her mouth opening and closing, as though trying to find the words to speak.

"What do you mean, 'hey'? You . . . you . . ." She ran out and grabbed Christine in a fierce hug around her waist, tears falling down her face. And then she promptly smacked Christine on the left shoulder.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Marguerite Giry, get back in the house this minute before you do anymore damage to your shoes! Christine, come inside. It is getting a little too chilly for you to be out without a scarf."

"But, Maman-"

"Now, Meg."

Christine was promptly dragged inside by her adoptive sister, who sat her down on the overstuffed couch, shut off the music and promptly began the inquisition.

"Since when? How long? When did you find out?"

"Meg, they all mean the same thing."

"So answer already."

"A few weeks now. I didn't try talking properly until a couple of appointments ago, and only to Uncle Gus."

"Why?"

"She doesn't feel ready to sing." Antoinette answered, sitting opposite her two daughters.

"So? You've got another two months before Gardiner gives you a review. What's the biggy?"

"Papa put a request in his will after Mama . . . There's something he wanted me to do at the funeral, but I couldn't. I have to now, now that I've sung. Now that I can."

"Child, your voice has only just returned, and I am not speaking in terms of time. You can still wait." Advised Madame.

"I've already waited four months. So has he. It's the last thing he asked of me, and I have to fulfil it."

"He wanted you to sing at the funeral?" Meg asked, putting two and two together and for once, getting four.

"He played at Mama's funeral. It was his way of committing her to the angels. It was the only way he could say goodbye. I haven't done that yet. He's still waiting for me."

The three women sat in silence: two, once again, not quite sure of what to do or say; the other facing the enormity of what lay ahead of her.

"All this time, and you never said a word?" Meg questioned, full of astonishment, indignance creeping in.

"I couldn't."

"Yes, you could! You lied to us."

"I didn't lie to you; I didn't tell you. I couldn't. I was too afraid."

"You were afraid of us?" Meg asked, hurt and incredulous.

"I was afraid if I spoke, people would start noticing me too much. I was afraid that I'd be expected to sing before I recovered enough. I was afraid that it wouldn't come back properly. And I was afraid that it would."

"Why would you be afraid of that? You live for music."

"I can't without him! I can't sing that for him. I can't give him up."

Antoinette joined Christine on the couch and put her arms around her. Meg took her hand.

"You will find the strength, child. You love your father."

She looked at her second mother, trying to find what it was she spoke of. She looked at Meg and saw the apology in her eyes. She looked down at their hands. Both mother and daughter had reached out to her, together. They were family. They understood what it was to have that bond with someone. Madame understood what it was to have it broken.

She brushed the tears away and smiled.

"I know."

You will find the strength, child. You love your father.

She'd brushed aside almost everything that had happened before those words had been spoken the second time. She replaced it instead with the memories she needed: memories of their music. The tears fell freely until she dredged up the discipline that had been instilled in her from her earliest years. She spent the rest of the evening going over her vocal exercises – but not the ones Uncle Gustave had given her. Trying to put aside the emotion that came with the memories of the last time these notes had come from her, she eventually got back into habits that had almost been forgotten.

She didn't overstretch her voice – she knew better than that, no matter what her intentions. But she did exercise herself until she was again comfortably within the range she needed. Even with the proper breaks, she still managed to spend several hours in vocal exercise.

At length, she looked at the clock. It read eleven. It was time.

She went and changed into the outfit she had laid out earlier. She checked the house one last time to be sure she hadn't forgotten anything – she was stalling and she knew it.

She stepped out into the dark.

It didn't matter how dark it was, she would know this path blindfolded. Just as well really: the moon was hidden. She had travelled it many times in her mind's eye, willing herself back to where her father lay, never having the courage to take the steps, never ready for the reality she would find at the end of them.

She still wasn't ready, but she knew it was time. Eventually, she found herself outside the cemetery. She didn't think about the darkness that would ordinarily have had her cowering in a corner – she couldn't. All she could think about was the little tombstone inscribed with the names of the two people she loved above all others.

She found it, overgrown with weeds and dirt. Untended. Unloved. Had she not gotten herself into a state of mind to keep the tears well and truly at bay, she would have broken down in sobs then and there. She knelt and cleared away the mess, tracing the inscriptions, caressing the names.

She could have spent hours in that position, but the cold ground was seeping through her coat. She looked at her watch: nearly midnight – fairy time. She took her glasses off and let her hair down. She removed it to reveal the warm white dress beneath – the one she would have worn the day the coffin was lowered into the ground, had she had a voice. Having made sure her appearance was exactly what her father had requested, both with words and without, she straightened her back, spread her feet a little and – offering a small prayer for endurance – took a deep breath. And sang.

"Pie Jesu, pie Jesu, pie Jesu, pie Jesu. Qui tollis peccata mundi Dona eis requiem, dona eis requiem.

"Pie Jesu, pie Jesu, pie Jesu, pie Jesu. Qui tollis peccata mundi. Dona eis requiem, dona eis requiem.

"Agnus Dei, Agnus Dei, Agnus Dei, Agnus Dei"

"Qui tollis peccata mundi Dona eis requiem, dona eis requiem Dona eis requiem"

"Sempiternam Dona eis requiem Sempiternam Requiem Sempiternam."

She sang the requiem her father had written. He had begun it once he'd accepted the fact his beloved Catherine would hear the angels' song first. He'd played it for her at her funeral; one of the rare times he had allowed his tears to stream onto his precious violin, his daughter at his side.

And he had asked that she sing it for him when the time came, to let him make music with the angels as well. To let herself live.

"For you, Papa. I've kept my promise." She whispered. Her prayer went unspoken in the night wind. The moon chose this moment to come out from behind the clouds, illuminating her completely.

She basked in its light and felt . . . hope.