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 60

At his insistence, Christine had agreed to stay with Madame Giry until the house was once again secure. She knew it wouldn't take long – it hadn't the last time, even if the damage had been significantly less. He had not told her the full extent of the mess downstairs, but she could tell from his stony countenance that it was bad. It had not taken her long to pack a few things together, including her father's violin with the two boxes tucked back inside the case. All the while, he had been stood just on the other side of the door. Even though she had allowed him in, still he kept his word. Had he asked her then if she'd doubted him, she would have answered "Never".

He looked at the case she carried with open curiosity.

"My treasures. If it hadn't been for the state I was in, I never would have left them behind last night." She explained. When he offered to carry her bag, he made no move to reach for the violin, seeing the way she clutched it to her.

Once more she found herself leaning against him as he wrapped his cloak around her – even though she had a jacket this time. They walked slowly to the Giry house; even though he had been insisting mere minutes before that she shouldn't be out late due to her classes.

"We shall continue with your lessons, but we will leave Il Muto for another week. This last has been tiring for you and I will not have your voice strained."

"Thank you, my Angel."

"The role of the Countess will be challenging, although Elissa was, as a character, a good foundation."

"The Countess?" He stopped, and guessing at the doubt and confusion in her eyes, became her instructor once more.

"You will be playing the Countess. There is no other in the Ravelle as worthy of the role as you and there is no other in the Ravelle who will be playing the role in my Opera House." The words were spoken with such a steely conviction that she was once again reminded with the final sentiment that it was not only her Angel keeping her under his wing; she was also under the watch of the Opera Ghost. She also knew that there was no arguing with that tone of voice, so she remained silent – although somewhat anxious.

As they reached the Giry residence, Antoinette opened the door and met them outside, having seen them approaching.

"I saw what happened at the house. Meg is away tonight." She addressed each of them in turn. Christine noticed her Angel rolling his eyes, and then remembered Meg's stories of the dancers' after-show parties, which traditionally happened the night of each closing performance. Suffice to say it was a wonder the Ravelle still stood after seeing so many of them over the years. And that the Phantom would have his work cut out for him keeping the ballet rats in line.

It was with a good deal of reluctance on the part of more than one that Christine was relinquished into Madame Giry's care. Before he allowed her to be taken into the house, he took her hand and pressed one last kiss onto the smooth skin, their eyes exchanging the promise of a meeting tomorrow.

That last look of hers was the one he carried with him as he headed back towards the Ravelle. The ones she had worn the previous evening, the many different sides of terror; they were what fuelled him as he carried out his plan. He had been too lenient last time. They had gone too far in threatening his rose, and it was time they remembered whose Opera House this really was.

He fetched the necessary articles from his lair before beginning his search around the main theatre. When he spied the ballet girls making their usual faltering way around some of the darker corridors, he couldn't resist throwing his voice a little, and allowing a couple of them to spy the edge of his cape – the Ghost did have a reputation to maintain after all. That and their screaming flight would undoubtedly draw his prey to him.

Sure enough, it was only a matter of minutes before Joseph Buquet came creeping around the corner in what could only be described as a laughable attempt at stealth. The man had an incredible talent for finding every floorboard that squeaked – and those that didn't; he managed to tread on noisily anyway. As he shuffled nervously along the wall, his head darted around with every step. Though his desire was clear, even after all these years, he was still presented a very poor challenge. He served more as a comical relief, but all jokes wear thin over time, and he had proved to be too much of a nuisance of late.

Finally, after he had moved about 5 feet down the corridor; the fool was in the right place. A panel slid aside. He stumbled backwards, colliding with something solid. He didn't have chance to look up in fear. The blow to his head ensured that.

The dark figure looked down at his pathetic 'adversary', regarding him as one might regard a foreign insect under a microscope, debating whether to crush it or make further study of it. The old stagehand still had a purpose he could serve. That such creatures could be of use to him was almost degrading – but for the ends he would achieve. Christine was indeed worthy of it, and she had done nothing but prove that these last three days since he had revealed himself to her.

He dragged the still form down the tunnel and to the stage. Yes, he still had a purpose to serve. A message still needed to be sent. After all, the Opera Ghost was not one to be trifled with.

About an hour after he had returned to the theatre, having completed his 'errands', he began making his way back down to his lakeside home. Funny, when phrased that way, it sounded desirable. But for one recent visitor, the true state of affairs could not have been further from the truth.

He stopped. There was a light on in one of the principal dressing rooms. The ballet rats were on the other side of the theatre. Was the harpy acting out her delusions of grandeur? Fading back into the walls, he made his way to the back of the room and peered inside. Once more, he could have been knocked over by a feather at what he saw.

Sliding back the mirror, he moved over to the couch, his fingers a mere whisper against her skin.

"Christine?"

The moment Mother Giry shut the door; Christine knew her Angel was gone. Even though they would be having a lesson tomorrow, strangely it didn't feel right to her, not having him there. Mechanically, she made her way up to the room she usually stayed in and took out the few things she needed.

She turned to see her guardian in the door, tears streaming down her face. Worried, she rushed over to her, placing her arms around the usually severe ballet mistress.

"Oh, my child. You are so like your mother." She whispered, taking Christine's right hand and running her fingers over the ring that rested there. Antoinette and Katie had been the closest friends, having worked at the same theatre for many years. Antoinette had always said Christine would grow to be the image of her mother. But for her hair and the colour of her eyes, that had proved true. Seeing the O'Neill ring finally gracing her hand had made her see the friend she had lost so long ago.

"He put it on my finger." Christine said quietly. Looking her second mother in the eye, she begged for an answer, though she dared not ask the question.

"He could not know all that it means."

"I do."

"Christine, do you-?"

"I don't know." She answered helplessly. Deciding not to press her, seeing as she had been through enough the last few days, Antoinette put her straight to bed. Her judgement was proved right when her daughter was fast asleep by the time she had left the room.

Fifteen minutes later, she was running with a speed that belied her limp as Christine let out the most horrific screams she had ever heard. The girl was thrashing about in the bed, her fingers clawing at anything that touched her, even her clothes. Antoinette took hold of her arms in an effort to still them and prevent her doing herself an injury. It took all of her strength, and she had to lie on top of her. Still, her second daughter thrashed around. Still she screamed. Antoinette had never been so thankful their detached house was out of the way and well-insulated. She called out her name, trying to wake her. To no avail. Closing her eyes and quickly begging forgiveness from Catherine and Charles, Antoinette drew back one of her hands and struck Christine across the face.

Silence.

Only when she looked at her with any clarity, did the elder woman move to sit on the bed. As usually happened following her nightmares, Christine's face was horribly white – except for the reddening handprint. And as usually happened: it was not thirty seconds before she was in her second mother's arms, sobbing.

At length, when the worst was passed, Christine lifted her head and asked,

"Do you still have a key to the theatre?"

"Christine-"

"Please? I won't be able to sleep anywhere else." Antoinette looked at her daughter, knowing what she was asking, wondering what this would lead to in his eyes.

"And if he isn't there?"

"It's his Opera House. I'll be fine." Christine answered quietly.

"You trust him so much?" She couldn't help but be concerned at the wonder in her guardian's voice. Was her Angel not worth trusting so completely? Even as she was driven to the theatre, still it bothered her. It was only when Antoinette slid the key into her hand and gave her a tiny smile that she felt reassured.

She made her way to her dressing room. She didn't attempt to call to him – he must need rest as well. Turning on the light, she was grateful for the warm glow the room pervaded as she curled up on the couch. It was comfy, and already she felt better, knowing she was in her Angel's domain.

The nightmares were not something she'd needed to fear last night – her Angel had been looking after her. Without him though, they were made all the worse for what had happened at the house. And without him, there was no one to save her from the darkness. Here at least, she could feel his presence. Here at least, she felt . . . home.

She had barely dozed off for a few moments when she was awoken by a heavenly voice calling to her – a voice she would know anywhere.

"Angel?" Her eyes fluttered open as she answered. Sure enough, knelt beside her, his hand brushing against the right side of her face was her dark angel.

"Christine, what are you doing here?"

"I couldn't sleep. Did I disturb you?" She answered with a whisper. He frowned at the hoarseness she spoke with.

"Of course not. What is wrong?" His hand moved to her throat, as though his fingers could brush away the hurt. She wouldn't have been surprised if they had.

"I was having my old nightmares. They were worse this time. Mother Giry leant me her key."

"Surely your guardian would be able to comfort you." What had Antoinette been thinking?

"That's why I came here." He looked at her in astonishment, momentarily unable to fathom what she was saying. "I didn't want to disturb you, but I knew you were here somewhere. I thought I'd be able to sleep better . . . because of that." Her voice trailed off as she lowered her eyes, worried that she'd been too presumptuous, too hasty.

Her fears were confirmed as he stood and moved away from her. Eventually daring to risk looking at him, she had to do a double-take when she saw him stood in the mirror, holding out his hand – just as he had three nights ago, the first time she'd seen him. He was impeccably dressed, as he had been then, and she was an absolute mess. But she didn't care. Her face broke into the biggest smile she could manage as she jumped up off the couch and moved to take the outstretched hand. When he frowned, she stopped, wondering what she had done now.

"Who did this?" He asked, his voice filled with thunder even as he kept it quiet. As his hand covered the red finger marks on her left cheek that had previously been hidden by her hair, she couldn't help the wince. For someone so petite, Antoinette was an incredibly strong woman. She couldn't answer at first – she'd never heard his voice like that before. Usually his anger was cold and steely; if there had been any doubt about his voice, she could see in his eyes that this anger smouldered and burned.

"Who did this?" He repeated more urgently.

"Mother Giry." At her quiet response, he lowered his hand and moved towards the dressing room door. She blocked his path.

"Christine, I will not allow anyone to harm you. Even her." He explained, trying to move her aside.

"Would you rather I lost my voice again?" That stopped him. "I told you; the nightmare was worse this time. It's only ever been the last resort, but I'd rather this," she said, gesturing to the swollen skin that was beginning to bruise, "than lose my voice and have to endure those dreams any longer."

"Oh, Christine." He whispered, not knowing what else to say as the fire faded. This time when he put his hand on her cheek, though it hurt a little, it was bliss. "Come, you need your rest, and you will not be able to maintain the correct stance tomorrow if you have a stiff neck." He said, nodding his head in the direction of the couch as though it were the most offending thing in the world.

"Yes, my Angel." Smiling, she took his offered hand once more. And once more, she found herself spellbound as he led her down to his home. But this was not a spell of music, nor the black magic of fear: it was the magic of contentment that can only be woven by a select few – it was the magic of coming home.

When he helped her into the boat and had pushed off from the little dock, Christine turned back to him and tentatively spoke:

"Angel, may I ask you something." She tried to suppress the shiver as the atmosphere dropped a couple of degrees at his displeasure, obviously remembering the last time she had asked him that. How did he do that?

"Very well." She hated it when his voice was so devoid of feeling. It was almost as though he was no longer her Angel, as though he no longer wished to be.

"I'm sorry; it's just that I've been wondering something for a while." He looked down at her, silently commanding her to ask and get it over with.

"Why is there a lake down here?"