Author's Note: Apologies for the delay, been having a spot of bother with the internet lately. We got this new gizmo that's meant to make life easier, and of course, I haven't been able to get online half the time as a result. Don't you just love technology? Anyway, this chapter was written with all good intentions of being posted yesterday, but that's why it was delayed, so thanks for your patience.

Thanks to Soignante, treblmaker7, KyrieofAccender (double thanks), jtbwriter, scarletghost13, Rose of Night (double thanks), CarolROI, Lady Winifred (double thanks), montaquecat (double thanks), mildetryth, Busanda (double thanks), Spectralprincess (double thanks) and jeevesandwooster for their latest reviews. 4 more and you get another chapter today, guys! 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 61

The traditional congratulatory speech given by the Dean after the close of a production was delayed by a rather unusual – though for some, not entirely unsurprising – turn of events. The performers had been called in early to collect their belongings from their assigned dressing rooms, the crew having already taken their things after the final performance. Everyone else was to gather in the theatre for the afore-mentioned speech.

When Christine arrived in the theatre – taking longer than most since she had woken late – it was to find everyone gathered around the stage giggling. One of the sets from another production had been pulled down to fill the stage. The backdrop was basically a wall with windows in it. Through one of the windows lay Joseph Buquet in such a way as made him look like he'd been half-thrown through it. His legs were still half in the window and written in blood red ink on what had at some long forgotten time been a white shirt was the word:

Trespasser

Though it was not signed with the expected 'O.G.', the large red skull seal on Buquet's forehead made the author of the message unmistakeable. He began to stir, cursing up a storm against the Ghost as he woke. When he tried to get his legs out of the window to stand up, his trousers caught on the broken set piece, and his ensuing struggles turned the giggles into full blown laughter. As he danced about – there was no other word for it, especially not on the stage – a familiar piece of paper fell out from where it had been lodged in his jacket.

"What is going on here?" Dr Poligny roared above the commotion.

Everyone obediently fell silent, moving aside as he walked to the stage. When he reached Buquet, he didn't ask for an explanation, merely looked him over in weary distaste. Seeing as no one else had yet dared, and knowing it would be better than if he were to ask, Meg picked up the note and quietly handed it to the Dean. He scanned the lines, and other than his lips parting slightly for a moment, he exhibited no reaction to the contents.

Tucking the missive carefully into his pocket, he turned to Madame Giry, who nodded.

"Well, since everyone is present, I have a few things to say. First of all, allow me to congratulate all of you on three magnificent performances. Many of the people I have spoken to have said how professional it was and were astonished that the majority of the work was done by our students. A very well done to the first years: the induction year at the Ravelle is by no means an easy one. This is deliberate, as we only expect the best from all of your courses are designed to bring that out in you.

"Secondly, I believe special congratulations are in order for Miss Daaë who stepped in at the last minute to play the lead. An excellent job was done, particularly given such short notice." Prompted by the Dean, everyone gave Christine another round of applause, causing her to blush at the unexpectedness of it. Although, when she looked at the Dean, his knowing look filled her with disquiet.

"Third and finally, with our managers' consent, I would like to announce our next production, which you will begin work on today. The board and the theatre managers have selected Il Muto by Albrizzio. And in order teach and challenge you further, each member of the various departments shall be learning every aspect of the opera that applies to them. Which means, performers, the parts will not be allocated for quite some time, so I expect you all to work hard and earn them, for that is the merit by which they will be given.

"Once again, congratulations, everyone. For a first performance it was exceptional. I can scarce imagine what the next will be like when you exceed it."

Everyone politely applauded as he left the stage. Before he did so, he said something quietly to Joseph Buquet, which caused the Master of the Flies' face to fall. He also stopped by Christine before leaving the theatre.

"Miss Daaë, a word in my office after morning class."

The last time she had been called in before the Dean, she had effectively been on trial for assaulting Carlotta. Now, she really was worried. What had been in the note? The memory of another came back to her. She knew that her Angel objected to Raoul, but why would he go behind her back to warn him away? Didn't he trust her, in spite of all that she'd said? Provided he hadn't changed too much over the years, then there was little chance Raoul would leave her alone if he thought she was in trouble. Ever since they'd met, he'd taken great delight in 'rescuing' her from the many scrapes they'd get into as children.

For all that she adored her Angel; she couldn't help but be wary of the Opera Ghost. She had understood the message that had been Buquet and like most, knew exactly who had sent it. But when the urge to giggle had subsided, she had been a little alarmed that her Angel had actually done such a thing. She knew he had been angry about Halloween – it had been clear in his tone of voice during their lessons immediately after. Though she hadn't known the connection between her Angel and the Ghost, it was nevertheless clear that something had bothered him at the time.

She pushed aside these thoughts, disturbed slightly by the direction they were taking. Man or Phantom, he was still her angel. That she needed the reassurance after all that had happened made her feel as though she'd betrayed him yet again – which she couldn't allow. It had been clear that he still feared as much from her last night when she'd asked her question.

She had never heard such a wonderful laugh before.

What he had been expecting, she did not know, but at least she had defied those anxieties of his. Their journey to his lair had continued accompanied by his answer. The founders of the Ravelle had chosen a picturesque location because they hoped the surrounding forests, hills and river would inspire their students. When the land was surveyed, it turned out that the desired site was partially above a cave network that was still in use by cavers. Most of the caves were blocked off when work began – which had proved to be rather useful for obvious reasons. The lake had come from a subsidiary of the river, hence the passageways the boat had travelled along. It had been stopped when the caves had been blocked off, but was easily remedied, meaning the lair had a constant freshwater supply.

The way he explained it all though – how long had he lived down here? Granted, she knew what solitude was, what it was to cut oneself off from the world; but to go to such extremities? She could not have asked for a better angel had he actually been divine: he knew what she had gone through, and better than she could imagine – or ever want to imagine.

He was her Angel.

That was the thought that pushed her disquiet aside and allowed her to focus on what was left of Gardiner's introduction to Il Muto. She had lost a good portion of it to her thoughts, but from the sounds of things, most of it had already been covered in her lesson yesterday, so it wasn't too great a problem.

When the class ended, Gardiner took her aside to once again congratulate her.

"I must confess: I was quite simply astonished by your performance, Miss Daaë. Why have we never seen such talent in class, or even during the Christmas Concert?"

"I'd only recently recovered my voice, and I still had a lot to learn at Christmas."

"But why have there been no signs of that progress in class?"

"I guess there was something about being on that stage that brought it out of me." He seemed to accept her answer, knowing what it was to perform before one's peers and to perform before an audience.

"Miss Daaë, I think I ought to warn you: in spite of recommendations in your favour, including my own, there is little that can be done to secure the lead for you in Il Muto. I say this because I truly believe you have proven in more ways than one that you are the most deserving student for the role."

"But the Guidacelli's need placating because their support is valuable to the Institution." It probably would have been his job if Gardiner had said anything in reply to that, but his look was enough.

"Ordinarily, Miss Guidacelli would have been suspended for walking out the way she did, but her mother has . . . persuaded the board that given the circumstances, her actions were the only sensible course her daughter could have taken." She heard the warning in his voice, he obviously having been aware of the rivalry Carlotta felt towards her.

"Thank you for letting me know, Professor." Turning to leave, she was stopped by him once more.

"Miss Daaë, my compliments to your vocal teacher. He has done an incredible job."

"Thank you, Professor. I'll make sure he knows."

"Might I ask: who is he? I may know of him." He asked carefully.

"He's an old friend of the family, but I don't think you'll have heard his name." He let her go, realising she obviously had somewhere she needed to be.

Breathing a sigh of relief – something she seemed to be doing a lot of lately – Christine began making her way over to the Dean's office. It being on the other side of campus in the original building, she had plenty of time to think.

Did Gardiner suspect about the Ghost? Of course he did. He had been worried at Christmas because of the interest the Ghost had shown in her, which had obviously not diminished. When asked during the Hannibal dress rehearsal, she'd said she didn't know her teacher's name. It was true, so it hadn't been a lie when she'd told Gardiner he wouldn't recognise it. The managers had obviously resented giving her the part because of the Ghost's support. Gardiner was worried about her because of it. And what the students thought she couldn't imagine – although in one Prima Donna's case, it was pretty obvious. But how could she tell her Angel that not everything he was doing for her was helping? Whenever she had raised even the slightest objection to something he'd done in the past, it had not been a pleasant experience, to say the least. To drop a bombshell like that . . . it was not a conversation she wanted any part in.

A lot like the one awaiting her behind the well-polished door of the office she found herself before.