Author's Note: Double update as promised. Sorry it took so long - bit of a crazy day, so I couldn't really write before now. Hope this makes up for it a bit. 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. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 28

She stood in the darkness once more. This time she was afraid. She had not been led here by a disembodied voice – no matter how divine – she had simply followed the instructions said voice had given last night. Now she stood on a vast stage, alone, and surrounded by the blackness she feared so intensely.

She knew she was on time. She'd checked the hour before coming in. The door had been unlocked, waiting for her. He knew she was here. He had to know.

She cast her eyes around frantically, trying to see anything in the darkness – and having about as much success as the last time. What if someone had broken in, and that was the reason the door was unlocked? What if it indeed was some elaborate practical joke, and it was all about to come crashing down on her? What if-

"You are frightened, child. Did I not say I would continue to keep you safe?"

"Angel." She breathed in relief.

"Did I not say I would continue to keep you safe?" The voice repeated, demanding an answer.

"Yes, Angel."

"Then why do you stand quivering on that stage? Does the idea of my presence intimidate you so much? Are you anxious about being on a stage such as this? Or is your faith in me not what had come to believe?"

"Forgive me, Angel. I did not doubt your word; I only doubted myself."

Her answer was met with silence, so she continued; afraid that she had offended her tutor before he had even given her a lesson.

"I have been praying so long that you would come, and when I finally heard your voice, I was afraid that I had dreamt it, that my longings had finally deceived my senses."

"You doubted me." It was not a question.

"Please, forgive me, Angel. I did not know what to do once I learnt that the promise was being kept. My doubts stemmed from that, and so I doubted myself."

"That is not why you stood afraid." At least he seemed to have accepted her answer. It was true – at least, the side of it that would not offend.

"No. It is probably silly, especially with you watching over me, but I fear the dark."

"The dark cannot hurt you, child."

"Yes, it can." She whispered quietly.

"You speak from experience; else I do not believe you would argue with me."

"I would not." He closed his eyes, fighting back rage as possibilities flew through his mind as to what she spoke of. She, on the other hand, was praying that she would not be questioned further on the subject.

"Let us begin. You have gone long enough without proper instruction. Stand." She was already stood, but knew what he meant and so assumed the proper stance that she had been taught would support her voice fully.

"Lower your chin a little. Bring your right foot forward slightly. Do not wring your hands so. They should remain at your sides unless the music demands otherwise." She adjusted her posture as his dictations came.

A piano note sounded. She whipped her head round, trying to find its source; although like the voice, it too appeared to come from anywhere and everywhere.

"Why do you seek me?" She stopped looking, hearing the slight rebuke that was there.

"Is it wrong for me to want to know the one who has given me hope?" A sigh.

Angels sighed?

"Child, as an angel, I cannot reveal myself to you. Nor would you wish it. I must ask that you do not try to find me. Or that you speak of our lessons to anyone."

She mulled these words over, storing them away in her mind.

"I understand. As you say, Angel."

"C"

He took her through various warm-ups and drills: some, similar to the ones he had heard her practising with; others that were of his own devising. He worked her gruellingly, yet never came close to straining her voice, fearful of any damage that might remain. After an hour though, he realised that the only fault he could detect was a lack of use.

She was overwhelmed by his methods and instructions. Some were familiar, others seemed a little odd, but ended up being far more sophisticated exercises than she had ever come across before. Whenever he instructed her to rest, a little glass of water would appear on the table waiting just off-stage for her. Either he truly was an angel, or else a magician with a phenomenal knowledge of the workings of music.

Having thoroughly warmed up her voice – to say the least – he began taking her through her range. The lower notes were quiet, as was to be expected. When she strained on a high 'A' he stopped.

"You are nervous."

"A little, yes."

"There is no need for bravado, child. You are nervous, and it is telling on your performance. You can reach that note easily; I hear it in your voice. But you are allowing fear to choke it. I know your fears, child. I know your unease over your voice. Put your trust in me. Your voice shall return and together, we will take it to heights you could only dream of."

"I trust you, Angel."

"Do you trust yourself?"

"Angel?"

"So long as you doubt your abilities, especially for something so simple as what I ask of you now, there is little I can do. You must trust not only that I can teach you, but that you have the ability to be taught. Think of your father. He believed it, or he would not have petitioned me for so long."

Christine shut her eyes. He knew exactly what to say. And did just as the last time he had worked this magic.

"You are the Angel of Music. I could not do otherwise." She repeated, believing it.

"Very well. Again." He spoke warmly, gladdened at her choice of words, before returning to his strict abruptness.

They continued in this fashion: testing her range, strengthening her voice with the exercises; until another hour had passed.

"Enough for tonight. Go home and rest, child."

She turned away and moved over to the table, downhearted. All that work and not one word of praise for her efforts. She knew she had made progress. She was no angel, but she could hear the difference in her voice. There was not even a comment to show that he was taking pride in his work. Was she really so badly out of practice?

She stopped wondering.

Next to the newly-filled water glass lay a deep red rose, a black ribbon tied around its thornless stem. The rose spoke of respect, of beauty and of . . . admiration.

She didn't need words. She had his answer.

"Thank you . . . Angel."

He watched her leave. She had progressed well. Far better than he had hoped for the first lesson. They still had a long way to go, but he was more hopeful than he had been in a long while. He had seen her disappointment at his manner. He had also seen the look as she accepted his gift. It would not do to fill her head with words that could induce a prideful attitude. Instead he had left something that had proved far more precious. The flower spoke of many things, but also of an unselfconscious beauty. That was a characteristic she displayed constantly. That was something that he treasured.

She knew the meaning of flowers.

It appeared to have worked better than a note.

Their lessons continued each night. Each night, she would have to come up with something to keep Meg from calling either in person or on the phone whilst she was out. Soon though, she seemed to get the hint for one reason or another. Each night, she would be worked almost to the point of exhaustion. It seemed that the more she learnt, the more she had to prove herself. Her angel was always the same. Only ever criticism, never praise. But always a rose. She had taken to drying them in one of the spare rooms of the house, so that she could preserve them once the blooms started to fade.

There was never anything other than the lessons between them. During her breaks the voice would be silent, only resuming instruction once she had had sufficient time to rest. Christine began to dislike this. She felt as though she had known this . . . being her whole life, and yet he was behaving like a total stranger. Surely if he had been watching over her, he could afford to be a little more familiar at least?

"No, child! Remember your breathing. You cannot hope to call yourself a soprano unless you support the notes properly." She had been told this more times than she cared to count in recent days.

"Forgive me, Angel. I think I must be tired." She did not usually respond: ordinarily she would silently accept the criticism and correct the error as best she could. Her reply had a slight edge to it, however.

"Tired? We have barely begun this evening and already you are tired? Have you commitments elsewhere on which to spend your energies? Or perhaps you have yet to master this fear of yours that prevents you from being true to your art." Came the exasperated reply

"I am tired, but it is not because of these lessons. I have been worked this hard for a long time, and I'm still getting used to it. You know I have no other commitments; that I couldn't have. And it is not fear that holds me back."

"Then what is it?" Her head came up from her usually submissive stance whenever she addressed the Angel. Surely he ought to know? And why had he been so angry: could angels be angry?

"I can't feel the music." Silence. She took the hint. "Before, when I was able to sing, I felt the music everywhere. I heard it wherever I went. I knew its presence, constantly around me. I couldn't help but sing because it bid me do so. I haven't been able to feel the music except when I gave my father his requiem. That was the last that I had in me. I do appreciate all that you have done, all the progress we've made," We. It sounded so beautiful coming from her lips, "but I don't know how to make the most of it as you wish."

He heard her words, the silent plea. Then he did the only thing he could think of that would inspire her. He gave her his music.

He sang.

Author's Note (again): Sorry to leave you guys hanging like that, but there's a direction I want to take this that would basically end up with a really long chapter unless I leave you with this rather nasty cliffy. Much as I'd love to give you a longer chapter, I need sleep, so you'll have to settle for the suspense and wait for tomorrow's update. Sorry (not really)! Nedjmet.