Author's Note: Apologies if this feels a bit short. I was going to try and get more content/happenings into it, but it didn't quite work out that way. And I hate writing filler. Hopefully there'll only be one more chapter of it before we get actual plot though.

Thanks to CarolROI, Mystery Guest, Soignante, TouchingTrusting, Timeflies, KyrieofAccender, jtbwriter, snowflake17, Melodic Rose, montaquecat, Lady Winifred, LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath, Passed Over, Busanda, Rose of Night, Metamorphosis x and mildetryth for their latest reviews. Extra special thank you to Metamorphosis x for catching up with whole story in a day! WOW! Well, enough babbling from me, I shall let you get on with this. 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 68

Miss Daaë

May I remind you that my Opera House is a place of music, not a hotel?

OG

She stared at the crumpled note in her hand, still both unable and unwilling to comprehend it. Having resolved not to keep Mother Giry and Meg awake again with her nightmares, and having finally persuaded her, Christine had once again borrowed Madame Giry's key and made her way to the main theatre. The police tape was still around the auditorium, and the paths and stairways that led to the flies, the harsh yellow and black ribbon still a vivid reminder of all that had happened . . . of all that had been done. Suppressing a shudder that did not come from the night's chill, Christine carefully made her way to her dressing room.

Strange: that she should seek solace from the old consuming darkness in the very place that had caused it to threaten her again. And yet within the darkness was a light that had saved her in the past, and that she hoped would find her again. For if she could find its source, perhaps she too could bring him back from whatever darkness he had slipped into. Fingering the envelope in her pocket, she thought of the crumpled rose petals it held. It was the last 'communication' she had received from her Angel, and she still dreaded the full weight of their meaning. Since last night, even in spite of her 'interview' – although interrogation would be more accurate – even though she had tried to protect her Angel, she had still heard nothing from him. And so she was resolved to seek him out. That, and this was his Opera House: perhaps his proximity would ease her troubled mind, even if he refused to do so with his presence.

Nothing felt the same.

When she entered her dressing room and lit the few necessary lights, she could still feel the shiver of outside. Curling up on the couch, she tried to recall when last she had been sat here, safe in her Angel's arms, knowing nothing other than his warm, secure embrace. Knowing nothing other than contentment and . . . happiness. Feeling complete.

In that moment, as in so many others, he had been her world. And he was gone.

'the one person who gave me any kind of hope in this world – the one person who WAS my world'.

She'd said that hadn't she? When she was talking about her father, but she had said it to get this latest set of police to leave her alone. It had worked for both of the men who had been in her life. What else had she said . . .? She sat up in wonder.

She'd spoken of the one person she loved above all others.

That had definitely been about her father. But his wasn't the only face she had seen as she'd spoken, or she wouldn't have said all that she had. Why . . .? What did that mean? Did she . . . was that why she felt she had been cut in half, why the darkness was once again such a consuming void? Or was it simply that she was weak and had grown as dependent on her teacher as she had her father? Was she still so much of a child that she must rely so heavily on a man to complete her world, on someone else to provide her with music? Was she still so much of a child that she believed she must live and breathe that music in order to survive?

Pacing in frustration as her mind swirled with questions, she eventually gave up, too overcome with all the confusion and shock of the last forty-eight hours to give it anymore thought. Throwing herself back onto the couch, she attempted to sleep – it was why she had come here, after all. But her mind refused to be still. And there was no sign of her Angel. She couldn't feel his presence, or hear his music – and this building should have been filled with it. Instead, the silence oppressed her just as much as the air chilled her. Even though she had turned enough lights on, it still felt as though the shadows were creeping in around her.

Closing her eyes, she searched through her mind, trying to find something, anything to send the darkness away. And without realising, her lips began to move, the music pouring out of them as it filled her mind. Though there was no Angel to sing with her, the memories of that night just about managed to be an adequate accompaniment. Though not quite the blissful contentment she had hoped for, in the silence of her solitude she managed to find some small measure of peace. Her memories filled with thoughts of her Angel and she surrendered to her dreams, praying that that was all they would be.

When she awoke, it was with some disorientation. Of course: she had never slept on the couch before – he'd never let her. Her smile at the thought soon faded as she spied something on her dressing table: something that had not been there before.

Though she knew where, or more to the point who it had come from, the black edged parchment worried her so much she feared even touching it. The red skull seal glared up at her with sightless eyes as though daring her to break it and reveal the contents within. Why would her Angel communicate with her this way? With trembling fingers she broke the seal and read the missive.

And reread it.

And slowly crumpled it in her hand as tears streamed down her unseeing eyes. Her mouth hung open slightly. He never addressed her so formally except in cold anger. Yet there it was: and with it were the words that effectively said she was no longer welcome in his Opera House.

She racked her brain trying to think of what else she had done, what had been said. Surely he could not have misinterpreted her so far that he would . . .

All I know is that the Ghost has brought death back into my life again. You tell me, Inspector, you tell me why I could possibly want or consciously play any part in that.

The Ghost. She had meant the Ghost, not her Angel.

"You said you didn't know the Opera Ghost."

"I don't. I only know my Angel."

"Christine, they are one and the same."

He didn't understand the distinction she made between his two personas, because in truth there was no distinction. Her Angel was the Ghost. Her Angel was the one who ran the theatre through notes and threats and fear. The Ghost was the one who had brought her out of the darkness with his haunting, unearthly music. Her Angel was the one who had k. . .

NO!

No matter what her eyes had seen, no matter what she was told or how many times, she could not place that label on her Angel. And yet unwittingly, she had. Worst of all, she had done so with a cold, harsh dismissal that he had no doubt heard.

And she truly was alone.

Slowly, almost without thinking, she reached into her pocket and took out the envelope containing the last gift of her Angel and put it down in place of the note. Mechanically she made her way out of the dressing room – no longer feeling able to call it her own, even subconsciously – before heading back to the Giry house. Her second mother was already up – the old disciplines of a dancer having never faded in her. She took one look at the stricken face of her second daughter and wrapped the poor girl in fierce embrace.

Eventually they sat at the kitchen table and Antoinette managed to prise the crumpled parchment out of Christine's fingers. Reading it over twice just to be sure, she let it rest on the table and could only whisper:

"Oh, my dear."

Christine heard, though she gave no sign, instead, she reached for the paper that she had scrunched up so thoughtlessly. Handling it as carefully as she had the rose petals on the roof, she smoothed out the creases as best she could, though she couldn't bear to look at the words as they appeared. The note, like the rose, would never be the same, would never again hold to the standard of perfection he demanded in all that he did, but if that was all he was leaving her with, then it had to be preserved somehow. It seemed right somehow: that instead of the perfection he intended, it was marred . . . almost . . . human.

She couldn't give up her Angel just yet, even if he had finally given up on her.

"Come child, you need something to take your mind off all this. Perhaps-"

Antoinette was spared the lunacy of trying to suggest anything that could distract her daughter from her current state of mind by someone knocking at her door. Opening it, she found Raoul stood there, asking after Christine. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell her that it was a bad time when a quiet voice they both recognised spoke from behind her.

"Hello, Raoul."

As the two headed into the living room, Antoinette resolved to deal with this matter today. She had seen Christine's face as she'd smoothed out the note, and it was the very same expression she had worn after she'd kissed her father for the last time: she knew she'd lost someone very important, but was refusing to let it sink in. How her daughter would get through another loss like that, she didn't know. In fact, she doubted she could.

And if she knew her other charge at all, she knew he wouldn't be dealing with it so well. She had warned him that if he hurt Christine, she would make him regret it. Well, he'd done more than hurt her.

And now he had her to deal with.

Strangely, she was actually glad the boy had shown up, even based on her first impressions of him, and the ones she had received from observing the figure concealed in shadow. If Christine welcomed him now, knowing what their relationship had been, perhaps he could bring her out of the despair she was rapidly sinking into. What that would lead to, she could only hope. And dread.

For even though it appeared he had abandoned Christine, Antoinette knew he was far too possessive for that, had spent far too much devotion on her to let her go.

And he had risked too much of his heart to ever give her up to another.