Author's Note: Hi everyone! I am sooo sorry it's been what, a week? since I last updated. I think it was a combination of the craziness of life and writer's block - once a big event's happened, I can never think of how to carry on. Ormaybe I needed a breather. Whatever it was, I'm sorry. I didn't abandon you, and to prove it and apologise, this is part one of a double update.

Thanks to Spectralprincess, Lady Winifred, steelelf (double thanks), mildetryth, Busanda (double thanks), CarolROI, WindPhoenix,Soignante, TalithaJ, Passed Over and montaquecat (again, I don't know what the words is for 5x, but that many thanks, you're a star) for their latest reviews.

Oh, and thanks to my wonderful Beta, I've edited chapters 40 and 41 slightly - with 40, it's just a bit at the end. Helps it flow a bit better, but again, no major plot changes if you can't be bothered checking. Anyway, here's the latest update. 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 42

She was stunning. The light that focussed on her at first was cold, meant to heighten the poignancy of the first poem. It wasn't needed. She had poured into it all the sorrow and solitude that was required, without turning it into a lament. She had not missed a single note, and though her voice had wavered a few times, he could hear the control and knew that it was deliberate. She had ignored his instruction on that point – and made it beautiful. She didn't obey him blindly. Whilst part of him was indignant that his authority be flouted, he couldn't help but admire the consideration with which she treated the music.

He was truly vexed when she left and hid herself behind the choir once more. They were tolerable, having finally learnt their parts correctly after a little gentle persuasion from the resident spectre, but it was well they remained in the shadows for the majority of the arrangement – they would never outshine Christine.

When they parted and she made her way forward, lit up and radiant in beauty, he could not help but think how like a bride she looked, moving down the makeshift aisle. But not an ordinary bride decked in white: a bride clothed in the night, a bride who belonged to Music. She looked like Katie, but he did not see her. He saw Christine, his Christine. As she sang and the music developed, she was euphoric and there was none in the audience who could not help but feel the joy of the music with her.

She faltered as she began to sing the closing wish. She had done so many a time during there lessons; she had difficulty wishing long life to the ruler of this house, when she could not do the same for her own. She soon recovered, no doubt choosing to honour the memory of her father, rather than drown in it. She was not meant to, but as the chorus sang the final verse, she joined in, unable to resist. It didn't damage the music – she didn't drown out the choir as the harpy no doubt would have, she simply enriched the sound further.

As she sang the closing lines and sank back into the shadows, she paid no heed to the enraptured audience, she remained focussed on the music, allowing it to guide her back and away, returning both herself and everyone else to the silence that had filled the house only a few short minutes before.

The thunder erupted.

Such enthusiasm had not been displayed for any of the other performances for none had deserved it. Christine had triumphed. She had shown them music that had never been heard before and had them hanging on every note. And she had only given them a taste of her true potential. He watched as Carlotta seethed whilst Christine received a standing ovation.

All was right within his opera house. The true diva was in the spotlight receiving the praise she deserved. Christine belonged to him and remained devoted to her lessons.

And he would keep it that way.

It was some time before she returned to her dressing room. He heard Giry addressing her, praising her and giving her time. He had to admire Giry; there were few who had ever shown such common sense and adeptness when dealing with him. Finally, she entered. She was a vision. She called him the Angel of Music; she looked like an Angel of the Night in the most glorious sense. She looked nervous as she stood in front of the door. Did she expect a scathing critique? Surely not. He allayed her fears by openly bestowing that which he had hitherto denied her.

"Brava, brava, bravissima."

Her shoulders sagged with relief; her face brightened and was lit up by a smile of what could only be described as ecstasy.

"Thank you, my Angel." She breathed, finally venturing into the room proper.

Yes, she belonged to him.

He was pleased with her, and he had said as much! She had forgotten how much she enjoyed the stage, the performing and the applause; but it was nothing to the delight of knowing she had pleased her angel. His voice had truly sounded ethereal and were it not for her recent convictions; she would have been convinced once more that he was an angel, or a ghost.

"The crowd delighted in you, child. Soon we shall show them true music and then they will accept no other to grace the stage. I noticed you ignored my instructions in the first song."

"Yes, my Angel. I know it might be interpreted as a weakness in my voice, but I was careful,"

"Enough. It was well done. But you will consult with rather than ignore me in future." He reprimanded gently.

"Yes, my Angel. If I offended you, I am sorry."

"There was no offence this time, child. But enough, you have earned a rest and I believe you have friends waiting for you. We can continue our lessons tomorrow."

Christine's face fell.

"Angel, I cannot come to the lesson tomorrow." The air took on a noticeable chill.

"Am I to assume you require more rest?" The voice had lost its earlier softness.

"It is not that. Angel, I'm going away." She replied timidly.

"You're leaving?" His voice rising with incredulity.

"It's just for the holidays. Please, Angel, it's been arranged since the summer. If I could get out of it, I would."

"And I am to believe this? What could be so important that you choose it above lessons you have promised yourself to? Or perhaps you question my approval, which is why you have left it until now to tell me?"

"No!" Christine all but fell at the mirror in her petition. "Please, my Angel. There is nothing that means more to me than your guidance and instruction. I would not give it up for anything. I will be back after the holidays, maybe even before then. Please, I can't leave here with your anger. You're too dear to me for that. Please, my Angel." She finished on a whisper, having sunk to the floor. The tears shone in her eyes as she waited, filled with anxiety.

Just beyond her sight, a figure wreathed in shadow closed his eyes in tortured bliss. He did not want to let her go. The holidays were three weeks long. Three long weeks without her presence, without her voice. His world had become so focussed on her that he did not know how he would survive so long without her without going mad. But he was dear to her. He was important to her. By her own admission his was not an unrequited devotion.

"Where are you going?" He ventured into the stillness.

"To see my Uncle Gustave." She replied quietly.

"Your Uncle?"

"We aren't related. But he's my father's oldest friend and my godfather. I've always called him 'uncle'. He came to the concert. We were going to leave tonight."

"Why did you not tell me sooner?"

"I didn't know how. I didn't want to spoil our lessons or the concert, I didn't want to disappoint you, but I failed."

"Go, Christine. I will not be angry with you, provided you swear to me as you love your father that you will return as soon as possible." He finally answered, resignedly.

"I swear it, my Angel. I will come back to you."

"Until then." He said; the finality in his voice indicating the conversation was over. It seemed to be her night for disobeying him.

"Angel? Before I go, will you grant me one request?" She asked, timidly.

"What is it, child?"

"It's just that it will be quite a while before I hear you again. If it isn't too much to ask, may we sing together?" She held her breath, hoping she hadn't pushed her luck.

"What did you have in mind?" Not that he would have said no. She could not have made a better request of him – he wondered why he had not been the one to ask.

"Do you know 'Lift the Wings'?" She received her answer a few moments later when the gentle sound of a violin filtered into the room. She closed her eyes in the rare but familiar ecstasy as his voice embraced her once more.

"How can the small flowers grow If the wild winds blow And the cold snow is all around?"

"Where will the frail birds fly If their homes on high Have been torn down to the ground?" She replied, echoing the sentiment.

"Lift the wings that carry me away from here and Fill the sail that breaks the line to home" He took the lead again, emphasising the separation of the song.

"When I'm miles and miles apart from you I'm beside you when I think of you, a Stóirín a Grá" She sang the Gaelic a little tremulously, which did not go unnoticed by either of them.

"How can a tree stand tall If a rain won't fall To wash its branches down?"

"How can the heart survive? Can it stay alive If its love's denied for long?" As she sang, her voice thickened, thinking of three weeks without her angel's support.

"Lift the wings that carry me away from here and Fill the sail that breaks the line to home" His rich voice soothed her and gave her the wings he sang of as her turn came.

"When I'm miles and miles apart from you I'm beside you when I think of you, a Stóirín" The violin stopped and his voice quietened.

"And I'm with you as I dream of you, a Stóirín" They sang together, singing to instead of for each other.

"And this song will bring you near to me, a Stóirín" He waited, wondering if she would take her part, hoping that she would whether she meant it or she was simply obeying the music. She raised her eyes and looked straight at the mirror, although not at herself.

"a Grá"

Silence filled the room, but music reigned supreme. Christine moved towards the door, having sung her farewell. As she reached for the door handle, she was stopped by the softest whisper that sang straight into her ear, though she could not feel it this time.

"Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán"

AN: Sorry, me again. The Gaelic will be explained in the next chapter, if anyone's confused or curious. Just be patient.