Disclaimer: Don't own any of it.

A/N Thank you to everyone who reviewed, favourite and followed. Now, I'm away in Italy for the next eight days, so I'm updating today and I will give you a double update on Saturday the 26th of October. Reviews make me smile, so just click that little button on the bottom of the page. I'd love to hear from you!

Chapter Three

Christine has disappeared. That is the talk of the Opera House. Because late last night, Madame Giry was confronted by a suitor, a childhood sweetheart of Christine's, who demanded to know where she was.

Madame had come to wake the two of us up, hoping that we might know where she had gone. We were led, shivering in our nightgowns and robes, to her office where the handsome young man who introduced himself as the Vicomte de Chagny, our patron, waited.

"All she would talk about was her Angel," Meg had said, a frown crinkling up her pretty face. "But he's an Angel, and celestial beings can't kidnap mortal girls."

Madame takes in a deep breath. "If she has not returned by morning, we will notify the police."

And that was the end of that.

Now, in the early morning sunshine, rumours are streaming through the opera house like fish through water, the information passed from one person to another, distorting with each hearing. If you asked one of the stage hands, he'd say that the Opera Ghost had taken her, if you asked one of the ballet girls, they'd say she'd run off with her mysterious lover.

But Meg and I knew we were right, that her Angel had her. This was confirmed when I overheard Raoul de Chagny arguing with the managers, claiming that they sent him a note telling him what Meg and I believed to be true.

It is mid-afternoon when she returned to her dressing room, white and shaking, like a ghost, appearing out of thin air. She ushers us inside, and locks the door, glancing furtively about.

"Where were you?" the words burst out of my mouth.

She looks so close to tears that I immediately regret my tone, muttering a soft apology as she sits heavily on the chair.

"My Angel," she says quietly, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief that Meg proffered. "My tutor…he's…he's the Phantom."

We stare at her dumbfounded. "The Phantom? He's the one who's been teaching you?"

"Yes," Christine says. "Yes, it is him, oh God, he was so angry at me for allowing Raoul into my room and…" she breaks off, stands, begins to pace. "He's a composer, and his voice, I mean, it fits an angel but for a mortal man to have such a voice…"

I stare at her. She's unwittingly given me the best gift of my life. A composer. This ghost, who isn't a ghost, who's a man…is a composer…and a composer who lives beneath the Opera House might just be willing to take on my masterpiece.

...

I sneak away from rehearsals the next day. In defiance to the Phantom's notes, those idiotic managers have cast Carlotta as the Countess in our next opera, Il Muto, and Christine as the silent role.

Really, when a vengeful ghost-man is threatening a disaster beyond imagination, they should go along with his wishes. But no, they have to have their Italian Prima Donna, and disregard true talent for fame.

They're making a huge mistake if you ask me.

Silently, cautiously, I open the door to Box Five, the Phantom's Box, clutching my manuscript tightly to my chest. "Monsieur," I call. "Monsieur, are you there? My name's Marianne, I'm Christine's friend…" I feel like an absolute idiot talking to the empty air. What if Sylvie were to come along and find me, or worse Madame Giry.

"Monsieur, please. If you're there…"

"What are you doing in my box?" the voice seems to come from all around me, threateningly beautiful, and for a second, I think he really is a ghost, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up.

"I wanted to ask you something," I gather up my courage. It's too late to turn back now. "I have the lyrics to an opera. I have no musical talent and no composer would take it on."

"So you want me to do it? Ghosts do not have much free time on their hands, Mademoiselle Lemieux."

I jump, my heart skipping a beat. "How do you know my name?"

"I know all and see all," his voice is now coming from behind me, sending shivers of fear up my spine. "Shut the door."

With a slight breeze, the door shuts and locks itself. "You may as well get comfortable," he continues, as I stare, bewildered at the door. How did he do that? "Sit down," he commands.

Hurriedly, I sit on one of the lush velvet chairs, clutching the book to my chest and feeling like a child under the scrutiny of her tutor.

He sounds bored when he speaks again. "This opera, I presume the lyrics are finished?"

"Almost all," I say quietly. "If there are any songs that need adding…"

"Then I shall notify you. Leave the manuscript on the ledge under the balcony."

"But, Monsieur," I start, forcing myself to say the words. "I would like to hear the music that you compose. I have the basic tunes for a few songs, and would not like them changed."

"Mademoiselle, the tunes are the composer's concern," there is an icy edge to his voice.

"It has been mine and my father's project for years, ever since I was a child," I bite out, something about him riling me up. "Forgive me for feeling that it is special."

"And if you do not let go of it, you will find that you have no composer at all. My patience is wearing thin, Mademoiselle."

I bite my lip so hard that it almost bleeds. "I've marked which ones have a tune already. And an opera is a joint effort."

There is silence, and for that silent second, I am in fear for my very life. "Very well," he is resigned – I could have cried from relief. "You will meet me here this time next week, and I will find somewhere to work on it together."

"Thank you, Monsieur. Thank you," I say. "Oh thank you."

"Cease that nonsense," he snaps. "Leave it where I told you. Off with you, Giry will be wondering where you are. And you might work harder at your dance."

...

I hear nothing from him for that week. It is spent relentlessly practising the ballet from Act Three, the one with so many complicated batterie and soubresaut, and beautiful hooped flower garlands that I'm sure to get tangled up in.

Nerves and preoccupation give me two left feet, and even Madame Giry is ready to give up on me by the end.

"Marianne, your mind is elsewhere," she stamps her cane right in front of me, stopping my speculation as to how Monsieur is getting on with my opera and causing me to wobble in my attitude. "Concentrate."

"Yes, Madame," I say, fixing my gaze on my feet.

"Head up," she snaps. "Juliette Chanon, point your feet."

It's not only Madame who has been in an odd mood. Christine has taken to disappearing again, locking herself in her dressing-room and refusing to let anyone enter. Meg is hurt by this behaviour, and so spends more time with me, chattering away like a little blonde sparrow with a distant look in her blue eyes.

I barely escape her the day I am to meet the Phantom. I run on silent feet up the carpeted staircase to Box Five, trying the door. It swings open easily, and I dart a furtive glance around before slipping into the box.

A note waits for me, the red wax skull leering out of one of the seats. I shudder, before picking it up and opening it, seeing the swirling black handwriting on creamy black-edged parchment.

Music practice room, number five. O.G.

I sigh. So now he has me running all over the Populaire. I scrunch up the note in my fist, and leave the box, taking as many back routes to the deserted practice rooms as I can. Everyone seems to be at dinner, or have gone home.

"Monsieur?" I call as I push open the door. It locks itself behind me, and I repress another shiver. I will never understand how he does such things. I advance into the room, towards the beautiful brown-wood piano against the back wall.

"You were looking for me," there is a creak, a swish, and I whip around, heart beating frantically and sweat pooling in my palms.

A man stands by the locked door, dressed entirely in black, dark eyes boring into mine from behind a white half-mask. A man, just as Christine said. It is the oddest sensation, but I find myself gravitating towards him before a sharp mental slap reins me in short.

"You frightened me," I wish I didn't sound so scared, breathless.

"Forgive me," he is mocking me as he strides past, seats himself at the piano. My manuscript is open on the stand. Straight down to business, it seems. "Some of the lyrics are good," he says.

"Er, thank you," I say, hovering awkwardly at his shoulder, unnerved by the backhanded compliment.

"I am willing to take it on," he doesn't look at me. "Do you have any thoughts before we begin?"

"I want it to be unique," I bite my lip, wondering if I'm being too bossy. "It starts with the chain gang, so something that's raw and harsh and shocking. It should send shivers up peoples' spines, as the lights go down and the overture begins to play."

He is silent for a second, then begins to play, fingers racing over the keys. It sounds incredible to my untrained ear, but after a second, he swears under his breath, stops, and begins to play again. It is like I am no longer there, it is just him and the music.

Finally, after many such stops and starts, the music merges into a tune with a steady beat, something loud and intricate, yet so simple at the same time.

"That's perfect," I say.

"Just the base – need to add orchestrations." he mutters, pulling something towards him and scribbling on it. "You may as well sit down."

I pull a chair over and sit beside him, remembering to keep a proper distance between us.

"The ones you have marked as having tunes," he flips through the book, showing a blatant disregard to how delicate it is. I bite my tongue. "I Dreamed a Dream, Castle on a Cloud and Who Am I? Sing."

I clear my throat, begin to sing, his hand writing down the notes by ear as they pour into the empty air. Before long, we have the three songs melody lines written on his stave-paper. Day has already turned to night.

He stands up. "I will see you next week."

I blink, and he is gone.