Author's Note: I was planning to put more plot in this chapter, but it was over 7000 words and showing no signs of stopping, so I've had to split it. But you're getting two fairly hefty chapters, so it's not a total loss.

Thanks to mikabronxgirl, jtbwriter, terbear, KyrieofAccender, Timeflies, mildetryth, Ohpoorerik, Tiggy of the Wind, An Jing, phantom-jedi1, Melodic Rose, TalithaJ, Lothiel, Passed Over, Spectralprincess and Lady Winifred for their latest reviews.

And an extra special thank you to anyone who's reading this and has ever sent me a review. Altogether you've given me 700 rays of sunshine/ego boosts/criticisms/advice/rays of sunshine. I know I'm repeating myself, but I can't believe you've given me 700 reviews. I can't believ I've answered 700 reviews! I cannot thank you enough for such tremendous response and support for this story. I only hope I can keep you all interested now when it matters the most! 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 74

I am no child's fantasy, in spite of our earlier lessons. I did what was necessary to shape your voice. You of all people should know that I am no angel.

As she stood inside the gates of the cemetery, Christine could not think of a time when she had felt more alone. Not only was her father . . . gone, but it would seem that she no longer even had the hope of his promise to cling to.

Though he hadn't been able to fully understand why she had agreed – and in all honesty, neither could she – Dr Poligny had assured her that the house would be ready again by the end of the next day. Thankfully that gave her enough time to convince Mother Giry that she wasn't completely out of her wits – although there were times during that 'discussion' when she had to wonder who exactly she was convincing. Her second mother's disapproval could not have been clearer. Nor could her worry, which Christine was grateful for beyond words; but it did nothing to alleviate her own, given that her guardian had known her Angel longer, and no doubt could understand the depths of his mercurial temper better.

She had moved in the following morning, and was somewhat grateful to have so much space to herself again. Much as she adored Meg and Mother Giry and all they had done, the last few days had taken their toll on her, and she had found herself craving solitude more and more. Classes were unbearable. Whenever she wasn't being looked or pointed at, she could hear the gossips and whispers, which nobody tried to hide. It appeared the jokers had had their fill of the slightly more daring torments – probably owing to the fact word had gotten around that Dr Poligny would be supervising the production, and Carlotta was no longer campaigning for the lead. Not that that stopped her from behaving like a Prima Donna – in the worst sense of the phrase, as usual. At every given opportunity, she would belittle Christine's performance, commenting on the poor calibre of her voice, or the mistakes she was making. Of course it usually stopped for a time when someone mentioned the possibility of the composer being in attendance. Actually, that was when everything stopped except for work, and everyone suddenly started treading on egg shells. They were barely a few days into the production, and already the stress levels were rivalling those of an opening night. And the majority of it seemed to land on Christine's shoulders.

At first, going back to the house had seemed like something of a blessing. It was out of the way enough that no one bothered her – not that they would have dared after all that had happened – and she was able to rest in relative peace. There was always the possibility that he was there somewhere, watching, but she had yet to feel his presence. That in itself had also been a relief in the beginning, after what had happened last time; but soon it gave way to the old depression and – at times – an almost claustrophobic feeling: the house was silent. Even though he must have been working away furiously at the opera, none of it had filtered through, and none of the old music remained: the house was silent.

It was like a tomb.

So this was his punishment for rejecting him, in spite of her efforts to show him otherwise; he had subjected her to the mockery and scorn of her peers, and bid her live in a world of silence and isolation: he had consigned her to his world.

Only it was his world, devoid of him.

She had had enough. His world was not a silent one; hers was not meant to be either, and she could not take it anymore. The purple hyacinths had been sat in the house all day, their fragrance filling the place. If he was watching, he would know; and perhaps he might remember another promise he had made to her.

The week had been gruelling, to say the least. If they were to perform his opera as the next production – in January – then they had a very short space of time to perfect a work that was nigh on impossible in places; not to mention somewhere amidst all of that, they needed to come up with a Christmas concert as well. And no matter what she did or where she went, it always felt like there were eyes watching – though never his, and never in the house.

Raoul had been waiting for her after classes every day. He had been very sweet throughout, and was taking into account what she'd said about there needing to be limits, but he still didn't seem to have quite gotten the message. His presence would have been difficult to miss, and few did, which only added another layer to the gossip. Thankfully he had said that he wouldn't be there today, something about a fencing competition that he couldn't miss. Much as she loved having her old friend back, he had been rather . . . suffocating recently, and it didn't show signs of improving. So, making the most of the opportunity his absence had finally afforded, she donned the white gown, her black coat and took up the flowers. The taxi was sat waiting outside for her – the weather had been too cold lately for her to seriously consider walking. The driver wasn't particularly talkative, which she was grateful for, and merely nodded his head when she asked him to wait.

As she stood inside the gates of the cemetery, the sky beginning to darken as the sun hid below the horizon, she remembered the last time she had come here; and she could not remember a time when she had felt more alone than now. Last time, her Angel had been with her. She had not felt the cold, for he had never been more than a step from her side. Last time he had held her as she grieved, refusing to ever let her be alone in her sorrow again. Last time she had felt loved. Now she felt lost.

Slowly, she moved down the too-familiar path, looking at the stone monuments, cold and unfeeling. The sky was darkening and the trees were already bare: there was no life here, only the cold bleak hand of death leaving its mark on all within its grasp. So long her life had been filled by one man; she had needed no other friend or companion so long as she had her Papa. This place was so wrong for him; he had never been this empty or desolate, even when he had had to be parted from his Katie.

Finally stood before the small monument, Christine went through the familiar motions of tidying the stone, refusing to let them be neglected. Gently, she arranged the hyacinths and the fern, hoping they would understand her offering of love, but also her plea for forgiveness. Even as the snow fell around her, she ignored the delicate flakes, unable to feel the magic of winter's first kiss, so lost was she in the darkness. Still kneeling, knowing she would not last long if she stood, she finally broke the silence that had been held too long with him.

"Hello, Papa."

Raoul drove to the house, annoyed that the tournament had gone on so long. OK, he'd said that it might, but he still didn't like the idea of Christine going from one of those relentless, gruelling days back to that house. He'd been furious when he'd found out, but Christine, Poligny and anyone else he could think of had been completely immovable on the matter. But still, in spite of her assurances, the very thought of his Little Lotte in that house sickened him, which is why he had been walking her back there every night, phoning at different hours – there wasn't always an answer, so he'd had to vary the time – and just making sure that she was alright. She must be so scared though; she even refused to let him in the house to see that everything was OK. Well, there was all that business about 'it wouldn't be right', but anyone could see that that was just a cover.

When he reached the house, he was once again struck by how gloomy the place felt. Christine had assured him that it had been much worse when she'd first moved in, and even spoke as though she liked it. To him, in spite of her assurances, it still looked run down, neglected and . . . there was still something disturbing about it. It was probably all this 'Ghost' business, and the idea of that man having his Lotte on what appeared to be a very tight leash. The whole affair was sickening; not only did that madman seem to want to watch her every move, but he wanted her to be tempted and seduced for all the world to see in that opera of his. It was so lurid, he hated to think of her in that dark seducer's clutches for a moment, and yet she had returned to him, and on a virtually 24/7 basis. Did she not see the full reality of the situation? Couldn't she understand all that her decision meant?

He knocked on the door, as frustrated as ever by these strange events. What had they done to his Little Lotte? She had been so spontaneous and full of life when they were children, but he never would have called her foolish. She had changed so much. No. That thing had changed her so much.

He knocked again. Well, he would be there for her and guard her as much as he could; they would use the opera somehow and put an end to this Ghost business once and for all, and then his Little Lotte would be free, then perhaps . . .

He frowned. Still no answer. There was nowhere else she would be. It was much too late for her to still be at the Institute, classes had finished an hour ago and no one was around. She wouldn't be sleeping at this hour, surely? There was nowhere else that she went, unless she was at the Girys, but she would have said something if she'd planned on going there. Unless she hadn't planned it? Reaching into his pocket, he took out his phone and keyed in the number for the Giry house, hoping that he would find her there. He was about to hit the dial button when he heard . . . was that groaning? He put the phone away and cautiously looked around. A bit of movement to the right caught his eye and he made his way over. From amongst the trees and overgrown bushes, a figure raised itself onto its feet, and he saw the outline of a man; though he was too short and rotund to be the figure he remembered from the masquerade, he still approached warily.

"Who's there?" More groaning. The man put his hand to his head, turning around, trying to find who was calling to him.

"'Oo are you?" He slurred.

"Raoul de Chagny, I'm a friend of the person who lives here. Who are you and what are you doing here?"

"Oh, you know who lives here, do yah? Well I'm the blinkin' driver they phoned for." As he mumbled something about 'flippin' teenagers', he took his hand from his head and looked at it, grateful not to see anything; though the action did reveal a rather nasty bruise at the front of his balding scalp.

"What driver?"

"Some lass phoned for a taxi. Wanted to go to the cemetery. I comes along, beeps the horn; next thing I know, door opens some guy pulls me out and smacks me on the head. Now what's going on here?" He asked indignantly, marching up to Raoul, seeing as he was the only available source of answers – and his fee.

"What man? Did you see what he looked like?"

"Nah. Had a mask on. Don't know why he'd want to nick me taxi though. Not like it's up to much. I don't know. It's not like I know how their minds work. Oi! Where're you going?" He called, chasing after Raoul as he raced towards his own car.

"You said she wanted to go to the cemetery?"

"Aye."

"Get in. That's where your car is." Raoul commanded, realising what had happened.

Every day he had tried to find out if something had happened, if there had been any sign of that creature in the house or near her, and every day he was met with a blank. But now, it looked like she had walked straight into lion's mouth, and like the innocent little lamb that she was she probably didn't even realise it. What was she thinking, going to a graveyard at this time of evening? Of course. Whenever she was upset, she always turned to her parents. A few times over their summers together, he had found her standing by the sea, talking or singing to no one. And then she'd lightly thump him and tell him not to interrupt, because she needed to talk to her Mama. It looked like even now, she still clung to her parents, and not solely for the sake of tradition as he had thought at Hannibal.

And as he chased after her, somehow he knew that that fiend would take advantage of her tender heart.

He just hoped he wasn't too late.

"Oh, Papa, I wish you could be here. Now, more than ever." Her words came out in a whisper, though in the stillness they echoed like thunder even though spoken with the softness of rain. Every now and again a lone tear would escape her – only because she did not have the strength for more.

"Remember how excited we were when the letter came, saying I'd got a place at the Ravelle? We were so happy. You said it was the start of my dreams. I still wake up sometimes, and think you'll be at the table waiting for me. Sometimes I hear a violin and I think you'll be there if I just turn around.

"I can't go on dreaming, Papa. I've failed you so much. My Angel came like you promised, and I hurt him. He's turned away from me because I hurt him, and I can't dream anymore. The music's gone. I've spent so long crying, so many years clinging to the past and I can't do it anymore.

"Papa, please forgive me. I've failed you, and I've failed my Angel. The music's gone. I think I know now what it was like for you when Mama died. Please, Papa, teach me how to live as you did in that darkness, or at least give me the strength to try. The old dreams have gone. I've failed you all. Help me say goodbye. Help me say goodbye. . ." her voice trailed off into a silent plea as the few stray tears traced glistening paths down her cheeks. The only sound in that still grey world was that of her slightly ragged breathing.

Until the silence was shattered.

He had thought having her back under his roof, back under his wing would make it easier. Then, he had initially thought he could wait until Don Juan was brought to life on the stage, but seeing her, holding her, touching her, hearing her glorious voice meant for him and him alone . . . it had been too much. Never in his lifetime had he ever wanted anything so much as he wanted, no, needed her. And never in his lifetime had he been so weak.

With her back under his roof, back within his reach, he had thought the weakness would fade, having been satisfied. But instead he found himself watching her every move. He still refused to enter her room – he was not a complete animal, despite what he had been told – but though he never allowed her to feel his presence, he could not deny himself of hers. She couldn't know he was there, for he knew her eyes would either be filled with fear or light up in expectation. The first he dreaded, the latter . . . he knew he would not be able to deny.

And that he could not allow.

The wheels had been set in motion. His opera would be performed. She would not play Aminta; she would embody her, she would be Aminta, he knew it. The part had not been written merely with her in mind, it was her voice that had spoken, that had sung, it was her character that had poured forth into the composition. Her looks, her embraces, her sweet caresses; those treasured memories were what had flooded his mind and poured onto the pages. As had her rejection, her betrayal. Until he had taken it back. That was when the black notes of Don Juan had filled the white sheets, taking back what she had stolen, reclaiming what was his and reclaiming it completely.

The wheels had been set in motion. No matter how tempting she might be . . . how tempting she was, he would adhere to the plan: then he would take back all that was his; then she would return to him, and she would never leave. He could not let her so long as she possessed him so completely, and he knew that would never change.

He had been surprised when the scent of the flowers had first reached him. It had never been a habit of hers. Surely that boy was not plaguing her still? After all the measures he had taken? His persistence could be called admirable – though not by him – but he was glad at least one of them had realised the full weight of his instructions. The fop had not entered the house since Halloween, and she had kept him at a distance - though not as much of one as he would have liked.

The only flowers he had ever known her to accept had been his roses. The many bouquets she had received after her performances, she had left in her dressing room, or given out to the rest of the cast and crew. It had been bothering him all day until he had heard her calling for a taxi.

She had said she would not go there without him! How many times was she to-

Was this her way of asking him to accompany her? Save for the amount of time she spent with that boy, he knew she was no fool. Whether or not she was making the request, he determined to accompany her regardless. She did not usually go out at night, and even with their prior acquaintance would probably not be aware of the dangers the darkness concealed. Besides, there could be no opera without her, after all.

Convincing himself that that was the only reason, he took care of the driver swiftly and easily. He was grateful that she was naturally rather shy, for if she had attempted to speak with him, he doubted he could have disguised his voice enough for concealment – at least, not from her. He was also grateful for that spell of boredom in his earlier years when he had taught himself to drive – though he doubted anyone would have approved of the way he had gone about it.

At least she had the sense to ask the 'driver' to wait.

When she started moving down the path that led to the little stone, he was struck by the previous occasions he had followed her here: how innocent it all was; how perfect she had been, even amidst a sorrow that had all but broken her.

He couldn't take it.

Reaching for his violin, he knew he had to seize this opportunity. Here, where so much had transpired between them; he knew it was the perfect place to reach her once more, to bring her back to him and him alone.

He made his way around the stones, keeping to the shadows as always. There! What was she doing sitting in the snow? She could catch her death of a cold. Had she no regard for her health, her voice? He carried on, moving so he could watch her, whilst remaining hidden. She was speaking so quietly, all he could hear was the grief with which her voice was racked. Inching closer, he tried to catch her words.

No!

She couldn't give up, not now, not when they were so close! How could she abandon Music? Everything she'd ever said or done in response to it had convinced him she could turn her back on Music as easily as he: never. Or was she giving up on him?

I think I know now what it was like for you when Mama died. Please, Papa, teach me how to live as you did in that darkness, or at least give me the strength to try.

So that was it. For all that he had tried to keep her under his wing; in denying her his presence, he had starved her of what she needed most and given her solitude. She now knew something of his life: of what it was to yearn and always be denied; of what it was to be rejected by all. Hearing her pleas for forgiveness, for strength, he knew he truly had broken her. And there was only one way he knew to mend. He could not let her say goodbye; she thrived too much on that which she was consigning to the grave and so, silently, he took out his precious violin and gently drew the bow across the strings.

The notes poured out in sweet perfection, an echo of that glorious music he knew they had both heard in those few moments when they had first stood face to face. The music flowed from his fingers, drawing them both back into that heavenly time when she was truly his, and he was truly her Angel.

Within the first bar, she had frozen; within the first measure, her eyes were raised, searching for him in the wintry depths. Confusion and doubt were clear upon her face, and so he called upon his greatest weapon and his greatest aid: he sang.

"Wandering child, so lost, so helpless; yearning for my guidance,"

At the sound of the violin, she couldn't help but wonder if it was her father, if she was finally going mad. But no madness could have made her mistake that voice. Still, she couldn't help wondering if it was her Angel or the Phantom who was haunting her now. The words slipped past her lips before she realised, and were instantly answered.

"Have you forgotten your Angel . . .?" Had he finally returned to her? She couldn't resist the possibility, and called out.

"Angel!"

"Too long you've wandered in winter, far from my far-reaching gaze." He saw her looking away warily, uncertain, and yet he could see the old fire in her eyes, rekindled once more. "And though your mind beats against me; you resist, yet your soul obeys!" His voice rose in confidence and hope as she stood, looking to him though he still remained beyond her sight.

Just as the last time, though the music had ceased being made, it still filled the air, as though their accompaniment came from heaven itself. Though he no longer sang, his voice was that which she could never resist.

"Come, my rose, do not shun me; let me show you the true beauty of Music."

Finally! He was there, calling for her. Her promised Angel had returned; she hadn't failed. Once more, his voice wove that dark spell around her; once more she gave in to the sweet intoxication his music alone afforded. No. Not just his. It was theirs. It filled the air as Music returned to her. Though she couldn't see him, still she moved nearer, knowing he was there as he again bid her come, and as she felt his presence mere feet away from her, she finally felt whole again.

Until the moment was shattered.

AN: PLEASE DON'T KILL ME!! I know that was probably one of my more evil cliffys, but I was feeling nice and I was not originally planning on ending it there. I WILL be posting the next chapter today or tomorrow, so again I must stress/beg PLEASE DON'T KILL ME!

Oh, for anyone who's interested (and I know you're out there): purple hyacinths mean 'I am sorry; Please forgive me' and fern (which you've already had, but in case you've forgotten) represents a secret bond of love. It's secret because most folk don't know about her parents or how much she still loves them.

Next chapter coming soon. Promise. Thanks again. N.