Author's Note: Thanks to Lair Lover, steelelf, Soignante (double thanks), Spectralprincess, Busanda (double thanks), Lady Winifred, mildetryth, TalithaJ and WindPhoenix (double thanks) for their latest reviews. For those of you keeping an eye on the review counter, I should be doing a double post today, but unfortunately seems to be on a go slow. Sorry everyone. I will do at least a double post tomorrow. Promise. 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 37

She stood outside the old door, filled with trepidation. Granted, this was necessary, but it was still unsettling.

"You know that preparations are beginning for the Christmas Concert."

"Yes, Angel."

"It will be difficult for your lessons to continue as they have been, given the schedules that will be kept."

"Do you want to stop the lessons?" Christine asked; her voice filled with disappointment.

"No. Do not think that, child. Your progress is good, but there is still much left for me to teach you." Replied the voice somewhat urgently. "Once the concert is out of the way, Hannibal will take its place, and then the summer gala. I had anticipated this, and have been making preparations."

"What preparations?"

"Come to the stage door at noon for your lesson tomorrow. I believe your schedule will allow for that." He said, knowing full well that she had the entire afternoon off, having spoken with Giry that morning. "You will learn then."

She had gone to the stage door and found a piece of paper tucked just underneath it – much as she had placed her note to the Ghost. It was white, trimmed with black and simply folded over. Written in an elegant hand in black ink were a set of directions, which she had then followed. She'd taken quite a few corners, gone down several corridors, and at last found herself outside a door that looked like it hadn't been used for some time.

Except for the key attached to the handle by a very familiar black ribbon.

There hadn't been a key for the stage door. It had always been open for her. What did this mean? Was he not going to be there as much? Or was this simply the lengths they would have to go to in future?

She took the key and unlocked the door. Experience had taught her not to put any faith in the saying 'don't judge a book by its cover', but in spite of that, she was still astonished. The room was decorated in a soft rose colour which made it elegant as opposed to overly feminine – even though the room was clearly designed for a woman. The room was quite large, had an ornate dressing table and chair, a changing screen, a couch and an enormous full-length gilded mirror directly opposite the door.

The room was so out of the way that it felt like she'd stepped into another world, and were it not for the reflection in the mirror as the door opened, she would have wondered if the dingy hall outside had really been the path to bring her here.

Shut the door, Christine

She recognised the whisper that spoke straight into her ear. It was the same one that had brought her to the stage door that first time. She obeyed her angel. Uncertain as to exactly what the room was for – and why she was here other than that her angel had commanded as much – she leaned back against the door, unwilling to step too far into this new unknown setting, no matter how much she was tempted.

"You are nervous." The voice spoke this time, the lower volume no longer necessary.

"Yes." She whispered.

"Don't be. Do you like your dressing room?" She looked around as she answered.

"It's wonderf- my dressing room?" What he said had clicked.

"You will need one for the galas, and it will serve well as a practice room in the meantime." He explained.

"But . . ."

"You object?"

"It's just that it's so lovely, I'd have thought this would be for a Prima Donna. Not me."

"You will be Prima Donna, and until then, you are more worthy of this than any other performer in the Ravelle."

"Thank you, Angel." Christine answered quietly, her eyes down. She was still overwhelmed; both by the beauty of the dressing room, and the conviction with which her angel had spoken. She did not doubt her ability to excel so long as she had his help. But that she would be Prima Donna? Surely not at so early a stage. Nevertheless she knew the tone of voice with which he had spoken: it was the one that meant any further arguments or protestations were both useless and foolhardy – the few times she had frustrated him with her mistakes or ignorance, he had been quite intimidating.

"You rejected Gardiner's offer of the Christmas finale. Whilst I don't doubt you would be able to pay a fitting tribute to Miss O'Neill, I do however entirely doubt the Ravelle's ability to avoid making it tasteless. You were wise to reject that offer. However, the opportunity should not be denied. There is a score on the table that I believe will be a suitable replacement."

She put her bag and coat down near the couch before moving over to the dressing table. She picked the music up, read the title, read it again – and promptly dropped the papers.

"What is wrong?" Her face had gone white and she had started to tremble.

"I . . . I can't."

"You can't what? Christine, sit down." He commanded, on seeing no further reaction out of her. She sat down on the chair before the dressing table, unconsciously turning it slightly so that she faced both mirrors in the room. She took in a few shuddering breaths, regaining her composure before finally answering.

"Forgive me, Angel, but I can't sing that."

"You can, child. You have the range, and I will teach it to you."

"I don't doubt you, Angel. And there is no piece of music I know better than this, but I can't sing it." Well at least her faith in him wasn't wavering, and she did not doubt her ability.

"What troubles you, child?" He asked in the gentlest of voices, which surely could have charmed even death itself.

"This was my mother's song. It was her favourite. She sang it as often as she could get away with, even if it wasn't Christmas. When my father met her, it became his favourite as well."

"And it would pain you to sing it because of this? Your devotion to your parents is admirable, but surely it would be denying their memory to reject music they held in such high esteem."

"It isn't that. Please, Angel. In all our lessons I have never asked you for anything because you have given me so much; but please, don't ask me to sing this."

He looked at her sitting before him, worn out and on the verge of tears. He despised himself for causing her this fresh pain. Giry had told him that morning that she had had to be woken six times during the night because the screaming had begun. She had woken up in terror each time and had had to be coaxed back into full consciousness because her dreams were so intense. It had taken her at least an hour to get back to sleep, and even when that had been accomplished; it was not long before she had needed to be awoken again. As if yesterday's events had not been taxing enough, she had had such a night to get through. She had been worn to shreds and he had only added to it.

"It is a pity. Were you to perform O Holy Night as I know you could, you would surely make the angels weep. I will not ask it of you."

"Thank you, Angel. I am truly sorry. I would love to sing it again." She answered with tears in her eyes – whether they were of relief or disappointment, she could not say.

"I will not press you on this matter. But we must find a replacement. You will not be able to claim the finale with nothing to sing." She sat there a moment, waiting for a suggestion. None came. He was waiting for her – he didn't want to make the same mistake again. She inhaled sharply, the beginnings of a smile on her face.

"Angel? There is something that might do."

"Tell me."

"It doesn't have the same beauty as O Holy Night, but it does have a similar magic. The Fantasia on Christmas Carols by Vaughan Williams." She ventured.

"It is a charming piece, if done properly. But it is an arrangement for a baritone and choir."

"I know. It was arranged for a soprano once though."

"Oh?"

"My father did it. It was something we'd always loved. He wanted to do it." She said in a nervous explanation.

"For you."

"Yes. He wanted to hear me sing it, but I never got the opportunity."

"Bring the music tomorrow. We shall see if this wish of his can be granted."

"Thank you, Angel. What of today?"

"There is some hoarseness in your throat and you look a little tired. I will not push you and risk straining your voice. Find the music and reacquaint yourself. Other than that, go and rest. We shall continue here tomorrow."

"Thank you, Angel." She said in no particular direction, although she saw her reflection in the mirror. She did look tired – but she looked better than when she had come in. She smiled. He really was her angel.

So Daaë had not been content with simply playing music, he had worked with it as well. He would be intrigued to see this arrangement. There were few performances he had been privy to, given by those who understood and knew Music. To see the written work of one of those people would be interesting. To see the work of Christine's father, a man who she clearly valued as a musician as well as a parent: perhaps he would find another way to reach her.

He had been truly disappointed when she'd rejected her idea, but he could not have refused her in that state. Were it not for the fact she was so guileless, he would have thought her very manipulative indeed. Still, all she needed was time.

This was my mother's song. It was her favourite.

He could not have put it better. Katie had truly loved that song. It was not the most challenging piece of music, nor the most elegant or demanding. But she had given it a beauty that even Adolphe Adam could not have begun to imagine. And he knew Christine could do the same, if not better. He had to hear her. He knew that one day he would.

As Christine went her way, her head lost in thoughts of her tutor and the music she would bring tomorrow, she did not see the face watching her from the shadows. Had she seen the Master of the Flies lurking there, she surely would have been more careful. As it was, she went on her way, oblivious to his leer.

Now what could Giry's pet be doing in the theatre at this time of day? His mind went in numerous directions, even lighting on possibilities that included the Ghost. Why had her interest in Box 5 been so different to everyone else's? He'd remembered her. She was a pretty enough little thing, he wasn't going to forget her – especially when so much interest had been shown in her. He left the theatre a little after she had. She was headed away from the halls. Either she was leaving campus or . . . well, well, well! He'd heard the Ghost's house was being lived in. Had the slip of a girl managed to charm her way into it? Or into other things, perhaps? He would keep an eye on this one. Perhaps he would lead the traditional Halloween celebration after all.