AN: It seems that whenever I write one of these nowadays, I find myself apologising. Well, not wanting to break with the new found tradition (written with tongue firmly in cheek), here we go again. Sorry for the delay. I know I said I'd still update every week. Unfortunately, a few things known as life and uni got in the way. Plus, some sections of this chapter were tricky to write, and even though I could have posted half of it as a complete chapter a while ago, I really wanted to get it all out of the way so we could get on with the plot in the next chapter. Again, apologies. I have been having a huge guilt trip over this. Thanks for sticking with me, though. I really do appreciate it, and I WILL be completing this story.

I'd like to dedicate this chapter to WindPhoenix - I haven't forgotten about you - and KyrieofAccender - thanks for checking up on me.

In case I confused anyone other than Passed Over, the note in the last chapter was just the bit at the start; any other bits in italics were just thoughts or memories.

Thanks to Melodic Rose, steelelf, KyrieofAccender, snowflake17, jtbwriter, Lothiel, Ohpoorerik (funky screen name), TouchingTrusting, mikabronxgirl, Timeflies, Lady Winifred, mildetryth, Passed Over, Spectralprincess, montaquecat and saphireangelcutie for their latest reviews. And again, thanks to all my readers. I know I can't have been easy to put up with in recent chapters, time-wise. Well, here's a longer one for you, so 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 69

The strains of Delibes' Coppélia provided a welcome escape for the occupants of the car as they made their way out of the small town, away from the Ravelle.

For Meg, the whimsical, magical music was a welcome breath of fresh air compared to the morbid atmosphere that had hung heavy over the entire Institute since the disastrous opening of Il Muto. Plus it meant that she didn't have to feel like the third wheel in the 'conversations' Christine and her mother kept having. With everything that had happened to Christine, it wasn't surprising that there were some things she only talked to her mother about; after all, there were some things only the two of them talked about – which was why she'd been sent round at the start of the year. Still, since the first performances, Meg had felt more and more as though she was being kept in the dark about something; and after Il Muto, it had only gotten worse, with conversations seemingly riddled with double meanings, knowing glances being exchanged, and Christine and her mother staying up at all hours talking about who knows what. Once she heard what had happened before the performance and realised the state it had left Christine in, she stopped begrudging the other two members of her family their secrets; but each day that passed with Christine still refusing to confide in her at all left it all the harder for her to remember. It wasn't simply idle curiosity that frustrated her, it was the fact that her sister had gone back to being the same grieving shell as when her father died; the fact that she was wasting away again and she had no clue as to why. Christine was wearing the mysteries of her grief like a shroud and it refused to budge. Even when Raoul came to visit, the smiles she wore never touched her eyes. He seemed content, but to anyone who knew her, it was just an act. Pity really, he had everything going for him otherwise. All in all, this trip was a relief: at least away from the Ravelle all the mysteries and gloom could be pushed aside for a few days.

For Christine, the light-hearted, carefree dances that took up a good portion of the ballet were a stark contrast to the background story of Dr Coppélius lovingly trying to bring the doll Coppelia to life; and though it felt a little too close to home, it seemed right somehow, as though it were the soundtrack for her thoughts. The last few weeks had been filled with light-hearted moments, but she had not been carefree enough to give herself up to them. Raoul had been true to his word in trying to relive the summers they had spent together as children. After Mama had died, she and her father had always spent a week or two of the holidays travelling, seeing if they could get by with their 'busking' – although more often than not it ended up with their being hired by a café or restaurant for the duration of their stay. It was during one of these summers that they had run into Raoul – quite literally. Christine had been dancing at the seaside, chasing the waves whilst her father had played all sorts of melodies evoking the sea and its moods. Into the mix had come Raoul, chasing after something in the sea, which he assumed to belong to the girl dancing on the edge of the water. Had they been grown, it would have been easy to think it a pick-up technique. Coming from a young boy enchanted by the little dancing angel, it was nothing less than endearing. She never had been able to discover exactly what he was chasing, and whenever questioned, Raoul would always come up with a different answer. It had turned into one of those long running jokes that only family can truly understand and put up with over the years. And with his presence and friendship, that is what Raoul had become once more: another member of the family – although he still felt more like one of those cousins who visits from time to time. With no small amount of conspiring on Meg's part, he had been the one to drag her out of the house for coffee, or to pop round whenever work or the whispers and stares of the students had been getting her down. All in all, he had proved to be a very comforting distraction. But like all diversions, the comfort he offered was only temporary, and when she was left to her thoughts once more, they invariably returned to her Angel; her true source of both comfort and of strife. The last anyone had heard out of him was the note she had received that night – not that anyone outside of Mother Giry knew even of its existence.

And still he haunted her.

When she wasn't reliving it all in her dreams – or rather, nightmares – then her mind would be constantly churning the matter, over and over. He had killed someone. For her. He had killed someone. But no matter how many times those words revolved around her head, she couldn't help but remember why; and that inevitably led to thoughts of everything else he had done in saving her from the darkness, returning her voice beyond anything she could have imagined – and he was always there. Which of course led to the note. It didn't take much thinking to realise why he had abandoned her, but so many times he had implied and even stated outright that he would never do such a thing. Mother Giry had told her he never said anything he didn't mean, so why had he gone back on his word? It had been devastating enough when she'd thought Papa had lied to her about her promised angel. To have her Angel lie to her . . . she couldn't think about that without tears forming, no matter how hard she tried. Once again, her world was crumbling; once again, she was broken; once again, her heart lay with another who was beyond her reach . . .

Christine had spent countless hours on these thoughts with no resolution, only confusion. That's why she was so grateful Mother Giry had suggested this trip. When they finally drew near, the car barely had time to stop before Christine was out and running into the waiting embrace.

"I missed you, Gus-Gus."

For the first act of Coppélia, Antoinette had spent the drive absent-mindedly choreographing the ballet, with a few exercises and set-pieces thrown in for her classes. It had been a habit of hers ever since she had reached any position of prominence in dancing – although when she had first formed the habit, the dances had been for herself and her colleagues, as opposed to any mere pupils. Eventually, she had realised that the routines were ones she either taught anyway or had used before and she was simply using it as a healthier distraction than her thoughts would have otherwise provided. Not that she should have been distracted as the driver anyway, but it was inevitable – another habit of hers, born from tuning out Meg's prattle to a lower volume if she needed to concentrate on something; not that she ever neglected her daughter's conversation, given the insights it gave her to both Meg and the Ravelle.

It was with something of a heavy heart that she had suggested Christine stay with Gustave for the summer, who had jumped at the chance of a whole six weeks with his 'favourite goddaughter'. Both she and Meg did enjoy having her with them, but the holiday would be a welcome breath of fresh air. The mood at the Ravelle had been unbearably tense and sombre, and given that Christine was the only obvious tangible, living person at the heart of it, she had received no end of attention. Whilst most of it had been confined to looks and whispers, it had not been at all easy for her, given that she felt every single one on top of whatever was going on in her mind anyway. The change would be good for Christine, and perhaps give the student body a chance to forget, or alternatively, to remember that what had happened was the result of the actions of others.

Her main worry, however, lay with one of those 'others'. She dreaded what would happen when he found out – which was inevitable – that she had removed Christine from his reach. No matter how many ways he might have neglected or even abandoned her, he would not give her up: she knew his anger and nature too well for that. And as she watched Christine be swallowed up in Gustave's embrace, she could not help but dread the autumn. For if Christine returned to the Ravelle, she didn't doubt the fury that the Phantom of the Opera would display.

Antoinette stood in the now dusty dressing room, fervently wishing she had given in to Gustave's persuasions and stayed there. But, she had a duty to the classes she gave outside of the Ravelle. And she had a duty to those in her care. For the first time in a very a long while, she truly felt fear about seeing him, though it didn't once show on her stoic demeanour.

"To what do I owe this intrusion, Madame?" Whirling around in surprise, she was met with the icy glare of the shadow she had been seeking.

So intently had she been watching for the mirror to move that she hadn't heard him enter through the door.

"Since you refused to communicate with me otherwise, you left me no choice but to come."

"And what, pray tell, is so important that you refuse to acknowledge even the most blatant suggestions and leave me to my solitude?" His voice rumbled like velvet thunder, and she knew she was on thin ice even before she had begun.

"What are your intentions?"

A raised eyebrow was the only reply.

"For goodness' sake, you killed a man!" She hissed.

"Madame, he was even less worthy of that title than I." He said slowly, in a tone that brooked no argument.

"Be that as it may, you could not have done it without expecting repercussions – and for more than yourself. What are you planning to do?"

"I fail to see how that is any of your concern." He returned, sweeping past her as he made to leave. Ignoring his total disregard for everything she had done for him in the past, she pressed on with her mission.

"Have you forgotten that Christine is my daughter?" Stopping inches from the mirror, he turned, his eyes blazing.

"What of her?" The whisper might as well have been a shout for all the stillness it evoked.

"Surely you saw what it has done to her." He gave a low, mirthless chuckle.

"Oh yes, Madame, I saw exactly what it did to her. She has finally come to her senses and like the rest of the world, now sees me as nothing more than a monster." His answered with a horrifying amount of bitterness and derision.

"You really think so little of her?" His head snapped up.

"What I think of her is of no consequence, Madame." Though neither one of them could believe that.

"You still haven't answered me."

"And I see no reason to. Time will satisfy your curiosity, Madame. Not I." He turned to leave once more.

"I warned you." Stillness.

"Warned me?" His voice had thickened.

"I warned you, long ago: if you did anything to hurt her, that I would make you regret it." Turning slowly, he viewed her out of one eye, his face giving away nothing as she was met only with the mask.

"What are you saying?"

"You hurt her. Not only did you make her doubt the faith she had put in you, you abandoned her. You are the one who healed her, which makes it all the worse because you are the one who has broken her again!"

"Where is she?" The whisper sounded half strangled, desperate. Antoinette hesitated, suddenly uncertain of how to phrase it.

"Where is she?!" It was now a demand as he moved to stand fully before her.

"She is gone." An icy dagger stabbed into the heart he had thought could feel no more.

"Where?" Knowing he would not ask again, she acquiesced.

"She is spending the summer with Gustave. I don't know if she will decide to return, or if we will allow it." She heard the creaking leather of the gloves and saw his fists clenching at his sides as he struggled to maintain what little control he had left over his temper.

"She will return."

"You cannot-" A hand around her throat silenced her.

"She will return. See to it, Madame, or I swear to you: you know not the depths of my vengeance." Releasing her, he returned to the mirror and opening it, threw over his shoulder:

"If you truly wish to know my 'intentions' to the Ravelle and to your charge, you will find your answer when she returns. In the meantime, do not seek me out again, or the consequences will rest on your head alone."

In a flurry of shadows, he was gone, leaving Antoinette facing her reflection as she caught her breath back. Silently, she prayed for guidance, dreading bringing Christine back to this, unwilling to even contemplate what would happen if she didn't. Her fleeting thoughts on repaying him for what he had done to her second daughter could not have been further from her mind as revenge was replaced with the most dreadful worry.

How was it so much had come to rest on the fragile shoulders of one poor girl?

"Are you alright, Uncle Gustave?"

Christine's hand rested on his shoulder, concerned over his stark white pallor. He didn't answer, didn't raise his eyes. Instead he took the hand resting on his shoulder and used it to draw her into a firm embrace. She wasn't surprised, having just told him everything that had happened since he'd seen her last. After all, there was no one who had offered as much guidance on the matter as him since it had begun.

He held her for a long time, otherwise unable to take in all that she had told him. As he replayed her words in his mind, trying to fathom everything, his hold on her tightened, as though to assure himself that she was still here, still in one piece. Eventually, he relaxed the embrace and allowed her to breathe as he asked with a shaky voice:

"What do you plan to do?"

"Do?"

"You can't stay there, my child. Nothing you have said could persuade me that it is safe for you anymore."

"I can't leave." He stared at her, unbelieving.

"Of course you can. We could call them right now and withdraw you from the school; I could have a firm collect your things from that house and you could-"

"Gus-Gus, I can't leave. Not while he's still there." Looking into her eyes, and seeing the conviction there, he caught a glimpse of what she was really saying. Determined to understand and in a continuing attempt to persuade her, he tried again.

"Christine, he's a murderer. I understand that you might have some loyalty towards him because of this ruse of his with being the Angel, but that just proves how much he's manipulated you. He lied to you, played on your emotions and dependency on him at every turn. How many times did he frighten you? How many times did he demand your presence instead of allowing you to live a normal life? Christine, if he is willing to kill to get what he wants, how can you be sure he won't hurt you more than he already has? How can you even think you'll be safe?"

Christine, at some point during all of this, had lowered her head. Such thoughts had filled her mind ever since . . . that night. Hearing them said aloud by one from whom she was hoping for guidance; each was like a knife in her heart, yet though they stabbed, they also cut away everything until one thought remained, immovable.

"He loves me." Raising her eyes, she met the troubled gaze of her second father. "The dress, what he said that first night. He loves me. I know he does. When he holds me, it's as though he daren't, as though he's afraid I'll break; but at the same time like I'm the most precious thing. That's why he . . . why he killed Buquet. It was his way of protecting me, caring for me."

"My dear, any of us would have felt the same about what the man tried to do, but it does not justify the act of murder."

"What if he doesn't know any better? How long must he have lived down there? Oh, Uncle Gustave, if you could see his home . . . it must have taken so long to accomplish all that. And the way he behaves: hiding away is a reflex for him. He probably doesn't know anything beyond the shadows he's lived in." Christine's face went from shining to being on the verge of weeping as these thoughts came to her.

"And you would return to such a man?"

"He didn't lie to me about being an angel. He's my Angel." She repeated with the same conviction she had used to the subject of their conversation, so long ago.

"An 'angel' who discarded you." At her broken look, Gustave almost regretted his words, but she needed to see the full reality of the situation – and he needed to know.

"We've both made mistakes. I know who and what he is, Uncle Gustave."

"Do you?" She took a breath, measuring each thought in her mind, knowing somehow that her words would decide whether or not she would return, either by her guardians' decision or her own.

"I've thought of little else over the past few weeks. I know he's killed. I know he deceived me at first, and I know how . . . demanding he is. But he's the one who made me feel alive again. What is a normal life for me? How many times have you all called me a child of Music? That's what he gave me; Gus-Gus, he gave me my music! No one else could have done that. He gave me my world again, and I have to go back to him. He needs me. We need each other. Otherwise our music will die, and I can't go through that again."

Gustave stared at the woman before him. His Lotte truly had grown up. Though she continued to refer to music, he knew what was really meant behind it, and he had a feeling at least one part of her did too.

Which meant he had no choice but to let her return.