Her eighteenth birthday party had been a relatively tame affair.
Karen had prepared a buffet, her father had baked a cake, and Toby had written a poem. A few of Sarah's friends had spent the evening at her house, along with her grandparents and an aunt or two. There'd been nothing special about it, really; it had been just another birthday party. And that was exactly how she had wanted it.
No fuss, no surprises, no magic, and absolutely no birthday wishes.
Whilst enough time had passed that her memories of the Labyrinth had blurred edges and black holes, Sarah was ever conscious of the existence of another world.
She slept with an open pair of iron scissors beneath her mattress, covered her mirrors before she climbed into bed each night, and always made sure that her window was locked.
It wasn't the Underground that she was afraid of: on the contrary, she had written two dozen different stories centred on her experiences – no, it was the retribution of the Goblin King that she feared the most.
She lay back in her bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling.
She'd felt a little unwell the whole day, a dull headache at her temples and a chill in her limbs that had made her shiver. Her symptoms hadn't been worrying or serious, just unpleasant. She'd taken aspirin for the headache and wrapped herself in an extra sweater, and all had been fine.
Until about an hour ago, anyway.
She'd taken a shower before bed, changed into her pyjamas and brushed her teeth, wishing herself a belated 'happy birthday' when the clock in the bathroom had displayed 11:24 – the time she had been born.
And then, upon entering her bedroom, a wave of dizziness had rolled over her and she had clutched the doorframe for support. She had staggered over to her bed and fought the urge to call for her father.
Her headache had blossomed into a migraine, nausea churned in her stomach, her arms and legs ached and her heart raced.
Sarah shivered and burrowed deeper beneath the covers, frowning at the feel of sweat on her temples.
Of course she would develop a fever on her birthday – that was just her life.
The end of her left pointer finger throbbed angrily, determined not to be left off of the list of symptoms. The sharp nips of pain had been increasing in duration and intensity for the past few hours and now Sarah cradled her hand to her chest. Her teeth chattered and she glanced at the window – it was closed.
Lacking neither the motivation nor the energy to retrieve another blanket, Sarah closed her eyes and hoped that sleep would not be long in arriving.
...
Opening her eyes, Sarah was first aware of flashing lights moving over her head.
Snatches of irrelevant conversations reached her ears, but the words swam meaninglessly in her mind.
Septicaemia.
Hyperthermia.
Tachycardia.
Hypotension.
Hyperventilation.
Her head lolled to the side and her father's face appeared in her vision.
He was crying. His face was blotchy and flushed. He was talking to her – she couldn't understand. She was just so tired. She felt a cool hand on her forehead and tried to recoil from the touch.
Her finger throbbed insistently and Sarah winced at the pain.
Her eyes closed again.
With her last conscious thought, Sarah pictured him in his Goblin armour.