Author's Note: First of all, I cannot apologise enough for the horribly long amount of time it has been since I last updated this story. I know I said it'd be a week and it's actually been a month, and I have been cringing with guilt and shame for said month. Rest assured, I'm still here, still writing and I WILL be finishing this story, in case anyone was worried. As I mentioned in my last author's note, I moved to Scotland. Unfortunately, I had to go a while without the internet, and by the time I did get it, my uni course was well underway, and it is a LOT more demanding than my last one. The basic idea is: I've got nowhere near as much time as I had before, and when I do have time, I'm too tired to do anything. Plus, this chapter was horrible to write.

Unfortunately, due to the afore mentioned circumstances, I'm going to have to cut down my updates to once a week, but I will do my utmost to get them in at least that often. Possibly more if I get time off . . . we'll see. Sadly, this also means I may not be able to do the double updates every 25 reviews, but again, I will make every effort to reward you for all your lovely reviews. Hope that's OK with everyone. But seriously, many many many many many apologies for leaving this so long. I hope I haven't disappointed any of my readers. I'll try and keep on top of things in future.

Secondly a few queries were raised by some of my lovely reviewers, which I have answered individually, but I'll put them in here as well in case anyone's interested. The meaning of flowers is something I got from http / www . flowermat . com / meaningflowers . htm (just remove the gaps). Go to that and you'll find a table with the meanings of a lot of flowers, and in most cases, pictures. But if you google that or something similar, you can usually find a pretty good list.

The words in the chorus of Siúil a ruin are: 'Siúil, siúil, siúil a ruin, Siúil go sochair agus siúil go ciúin, Siúil go doras agus éalaigh liom, Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán' which means: 'Go, go, go, my love, Go quietly and go peacefully, Go to the door and fly with me, And safe for aye may my darling be.' in case anyone was wondering what he sang to her in the last chapter. And the website where I get my translations for the LOTD/Riverdance songs is: http/ www . geocities . com / celticlyricscorner / soundtracks / lordofthedance . htm (again, remove the spaces (why I am telling you this? You guys aren't stupid, except maybe for putting up with me . . .))

And last, but in no way least, thank you to Soignante, CarolROI, jtbwriter, montaquecat, KyrieofAccender, TouchingTrusting, Mystery Guest, Rose of Night, snowflake17 (double thanks), treblmaker7, mikabronxgirl, Timeflies, Lady Winifred, mildetryth, Spectralprincess, Earelwen (mega thank you for such an enthusiastic catch-up), LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath, jeevesandwooster, Lair Lover (again, mega thank you for reading it all so quickly), Angel or Demon and grannydaisytoo (once again, mega thanks, and I have most certainly not abandoned this story) for their wonderful reviews. You've really kept me going, and the encouragements I've been receiving are quite simply phenomenal.

As I told grannydaisytoo, I have not abandoned this story, and yet again I find myself grovelling with apologies in case anyone thought that. Enough of my babbling, because this 'Note' appears to be rivalling the chapter for length. So I shall sign off with my usual 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 65

Christine could not believe the way her Angel had behaved. Yes, she had faith in him to restore her song no matter what, but usually he was much more considerate than this. He had sat there and held her with so much care and patience that his sudden turn of behaviour was quite simply horrifying. He had become the Ghost, and the Ghost was displeased, and there was nothing she could do about it now other than obey his command. It was with much uneasiness of mind that she allowed Antoinette to fix her make-up. Were one of the wardrobe department to do it, gossip would spread like wildfire about the state she was in and the day had already proven difficult enough, to say the least.

As soon as Christine was ready and sat in her dressing room, preparing herself for the performance, Antoinette went and phoned the police. In the past, out of courtesy to her and her faithful service, the Ghost had dealt with Buquet when he had gone too far in the liberties he took through his position, and it was thanks to these interventions that the ballet girls had escaped most of his 'attentions'. This time though, he would get what was coming to him, she would see to that. Had it been any of her girls, she would have taken this action anyway. To have him hurt Christine . . . that second blow had probably been more vicious than she ought to have dealt, but it was oh so satisfying, and her daughter was worth it and more.

She couldn't help but worry about her other charge though. Rarely had she seen him so grim and determined on anything outside of his music. Once she had made her call and been assured that the police were on their way, she went in search of him to try and warn him against anything rash – knowing as she hurried that it would no doubt be pointless.

But fate – or her own actions – conspired against her. After a fruitless search of the few passages she knew, one of the ushers found her: the police had arrived and the managers were calling for her to speak with them – anxious to get the unwanted presence away from the grand foyer and the eager ticket holders who would no doubt be put off by them. They were not given much opportunity to question her as the signal was given announcing the start of the performance, though they were assured of both her and Christine's full cooperation as soon as an interval presented itself.

Seeing as they had kept themselves to the front of the theatre, the cast remained oblivious to the officers' presence. As did a certain shadow hovering in the wings. When he had learned that his box had been taken by none other than that boy they called a patron, it had sealed the fate of many as his rage became complete. They were trying to destroy all that was his, all that he had sought to create in his efforts to claim something in this world that was not poisoned by prejudice or tainted by pain: something beautiful, something that was his. And these presumptuous fools would destroy it because they were too blind to see the truth – that the Ravelle prospered under his dominion like no other opera house ever could; that he had a gift to give that the world rejected at every turn.

With one exception.

And they had rejected her too in their futile efforts to quell him. And because of their folly she had been hurt in more ways than one, none of which were forgivable. It was time for them to learn whose domain they dwelt in, whose command held sway: it was time to teach them the true nature of the voice that should never have been ignored.

On stage, Christine was fraught with nerves. Whilst she loved performing, to be the subject of Carlotta's triumphant extravagance was insufferable. Coupled with . . . what had happened, she was in no fit state to be there. She truly was glad that her role was silent – it was work enough making her face consistently display the proper emotion; to have to sing as well with a voice that could fill the theatre . . . were she not on stage, the very thought would have been enough to make her knees buckle, the day had been that straining on her.

And yet, she was to be ready to sing.

By her Angel's instruction she was to be ready. Or rather, by the Ghost's command.

Carlotta's triumphant façade and the promise of misery it presented was not what sent chills down her spine as she replayed those last few moments in her dressing room when her Angel had disappeared so rapidly, leaving the Ghost in his place. Was this what Meg had been trying to warn her about at the start of the year?

There was no more time to dwell on it – thankfully. The music started, and the curtain rose to reveal a set as lavish as that of Hannibal, but at least ten times more ridiculous. Three of the soloists began, taking turns to sing a line or two before joining together as they introduced the story rather blatantly, which had always annoyed both Christine and her teacher – it only served to make the opera more ridiculous.

"They say that this youth has set my Lady's heart aflame! His Lordship, sure, would die of shock His Lordship is a laughing-stock! Should he suspect her, God protect her! Shame! Shame! Shame! This faithless lady's bound for HADES! Shame! Shame! Shame!"

As the curtain rose, revealing the pair, Christine tried to focus on the music as her character Serafimo was called upon to look like he was 'wooing' the countess. She could feel Carlotta's nails digging into her arms as she was held in a 'lovers' embrace'. Well, one thing at least was certain: Christine knew how to act.

"Serafimo - your disguise is perfect." Grateful for the 'knock', Christine turned away at Piangi's entrance and began furiously pretending to dust, relaxing her face somewhat, although the rest of her was still required to put on a show.

"Who can this be?"

"Gentle wife, admit your loving husband."

"My love - I am called to England on affairs of State, And must leave you with your new maid. Though I'd happily take the maid with me."

"The old fool's leaving!"

Ubaldo and Carlotta's dialogue was as overblown as their singing, but for once they were granted an opera where it was actually appropriate. Sadly, this meant that this was even worse than usual as they broke into a duet of cadenzas meant for nothing more than showing off. Eventually though, Piangi left.

"Serafimo - away with this pretence! You cannot speak, but kiss me in my husband's absence!" Christine, having literally thrown off the maid's portion of her costume, met Carlotta as the two bent towards each other in an exaggerated gesture. Fortunately, it was hidden by Carlotta's massive fan. As they separated, Christine moved towards the back of the stage while Carlotta began the laughing song which her rival had been so reluctant to sing during her lessons.

"Poor fool, he makes me laugh! Haha, Haha... Time I tried to get a better half!
Poor fool, he doesn't know! Hoho, Hoho... If he knew the truth, he'd never, ever go!"

The soloists who had now formed a miniature chorus joined Carlotta on the last line, allowing her voice to rise above them without the music being completely lost. Christine ducked and hid behind Carlotta, highlighting both the meaning of the song and the farce they were all engaged in. Though she felt fairly mechanical in the motions, having surrendered as much as she could to the music, her natural grace meant that there was nothing lacking in her poise or movements.

Until an all-too familiar voice called out, filling the theatre and silencing all those within.

Watching from his position in the flies, he had seen the peacock and her devoted lap dog parading about the stage, making their usual contributions to music: none. And his rose was left wilting in the background as though she were some common wallflower. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Antoinette looking up at him briefly, but he had little concern for whatever was going through her mind, as he saw the boy in his box, smiling down benevolently at Christine as though she were being honoured, as though he had put her there.

He had given them instructions. He had given them warnings.

And they had flouted him at every turn. And he had had enough of their insults.

It was no surprise to see Buquet hovering around, and so he lingered a moment longer than usual, allowing the wretch to catch sight of him before he disappeared into his shadows, heading towards the eaves circling the chandelier. As soon as he could, he looked down at the stage once more, watching whilst it was desecrated by those toneless fools. Christine played her part as well as could be expected, but as was expected, there was no soul in it; none of the passion with which he knew she could perform. His rose was being suffocated, cut off from music which she thrived on and the praise she alone deserved.

That was what caused him to step out onto the balcony circling the ceiling. He was hidden by the chandelier, though it remained obvious there was someone there.

"Did I not instruct that Box Five was to remain empty?"

As the voice echoed around the massive auditorium, sounding as though it were coming from everywhere and nowhere, the music ceased and there were the token gasps and mentions of the infamous Phantom, but it was Christine who held his attention as she turned fearful eyes towards him. How she had found the source of his voice, he could only wonder at; her fear, he could only attribute to the sudden events that had plagued the day. Clearly she recognised him, as he saw her lips forming words to that effect, and clearly she must have spoken for the harpy reprimanded her, calling her a toad. Which gave him a much better idea than the trapdoor he had been planning on making use of.

On hearing nothing further, Carlotta began once more by telling Serafimo that he couldn't speak, no doubt to re-exert her position. Christine was saved the humiliation of having to 'kiss' her tormentor again as a hideous sound appeared to come from her throat.

Yet again, the music ceased, replaced by the curious titters of an amused audience. It resumed soon enough though, and nervously, Carlotta began the laughing song. It was appropriately named, for the audience was soon in hysterics as the poor girl managed to croak during each line. A Guidacelli croaking on stage! Who ever heard of such a thing? She soon ran off and the curtains were hastily drawn to hide her embarrassment and preserve what little dignity she might have left.

Hearing the clumsy attempts at stealth of Buquet, he left, satisfied that all would soon be well again in his Opera House.

Christine stood on stage completely bewildered. When the first croak had come out of Carlotta's mouth, she had simply stood there in astonishment. As the music had resumed, she had taken her place once more, but the second croak soon stopped her and all she could do was stare in wide-eyed horror as it continued. She knew that voice was not Carlotta's, and having heard a similar effect – although nothing like that sound – before, she knew exactly who was responsible for it. It was no surprise when the young Prima Donna ran off the stage. Christine stared after her, knowing full well what this would mean. Those around her shot looks her way suggesting they too knew why this was being done, or at least what would come of it, though little of anything registered in her mind until she found herself being pulled before the audience once more as the managers announced she would be performing as the countess in ten minutes.

She barely heard the announcement about the ballet from Act 3 as she ran back to her dressing room. Mother Giry was already there and waiting for her when she arrived to help her into the corset she would need to wear. For once, she actually looked in the mirror as she hid the marks on her arm. Ordinarily, she would have let her guardian do the task, but they did not have the luxury of time, and so she pushed herself once more to look at the scars that were the ever-present symbol of her pain.

As she applied the final touches and hastened the make-up to dry as much as she could, a flash of scarlet caught her eye. There, on the couch where she had so recently found a haven, lay the gift thereof: a thornless deep red rose, the perfect bloom entwined with a black ribbon. Before Antoinette could try helping her into the countess' dress, she moved over to the couch and lifted the flower as delicately as the fragile petals required.

It was a gift from her Angel. But he only ever gave them at the end of a lesson or performance. Why was it here now? Surely he was not leaving her so soon?

Unless the performance had already ended.

The music from Act 3 was playing. It was the managers' attempt to appease the audience, but they had a far more urgent supplication to make and based on the way her Angel had behaved earlier, she did not think her presence on stage would be enough. Suddenly all her previous fears returned and wrapping the cloak meant for Act 3 around her corseted figure, she ran back towards the main body of the theatre, hoping she could find her Angel in time.

In time for what, she didn't know, but the instant she reached the stage wings, she knew that she was too late.

The clumsy footsteps would have been impossible to miss, even if his hearing hadn't been so keen. Buquet chased the Ghost, and the Ghost led the chase, nearer and nearer to the flies directly above the stage. This was Buquet's 'home ground'; this was where he thought he reigned supreme. For a middle-aged man most decidedly overweight, he moved with incredible agility in his work – mind, it was the only job he'd ever really had, never having been qualified for anything else. That agility was all for nought, for he was no match for the Ghost. The shadow ahead of him darted here and there, disappearing into nothing, reappearing seconds later unnaturally far ahead. Buquet was determined this time; he'd been badly humiliated twice now because of that freak. Pushing aside all thought of his 'injury', save for that which strengthened his resolve, he continued his pursuit; he wasn't going to allow the demon to get away on his turf.

He soon realised that his quarry was thinking along similar lines. Having run over the boards that hung above the stage, thinking he'd seen him go that way, Buquet was horrified to find himself suddenly face to face with the Phantom in all his terrible power. The white mask glared down into his stricken face as the shadowy spectre towered above him. Buquet, finally remembering why the spectre was so feared, fled back the way he'd come, but as he looked around, there was the Ghost just across the way, following him relentlessly, no matter which way he turned.

It was only a few scant moments of running later that he turned, searching everywhere, but there was nothing to be seen. No shape, no shadow, no spectre. Nothing.

The shadow flew down, landing a few feet from the Master of the Flies, who dashed helplessly along the rafters, losing his footing as the boards were shaken.

Turning the portly wretch onto his back, he swiftly fastened the noose around the chubby neck, the subtlety of the rope coming back to him with the same ease he would play any other instrument – and with a similar relish. Looking into the terror-filled eyes, he savoured each moment as the rope tightened. At the last, he leaned his head nearer, drawing out the horror for his prey as much as he could before whispering in the coldest voice he possessed; a voice which promised death above all else:

For Christine

He pushed the form off the clumsy bridge allowing the rope to complete its task, drinking in every scream that erupted from both the stage and the audience as Buquet struggled his last before his neck snapped and he stared out with lifeless eyes. Triumphant that his revenge had been exacted, he turned and left before anyone could find more up there than his shadow.

Had he stayed a second longer, he might have spotted a familiar rose just off stage.

And the ashen face of the figure who held it.

AN (again): I know I promised a longer chapter, but it didn't quite work out that way. And if anyone thinks I'm leaning on ALW/the film a little too heavily for this scene, sorry, but I really didn't have a clue how to change the action, and I'm not going to change the songs. Hopefully my little twists will make it forgivable. Again, I was hoping to do a double update, but the next chapter's difficult, it's late, and I have to be up early in the morning, so I'll try and have it done ASAP, preferably no later than the weekend for you all. Ta muchly, and thanks for putting up with me and my absences. Nedjmet.