As the World…
Sarah knows that this is a dream. She has been here too many times before not to realise it; so many nights of dreaming this room, this time.
Knowing this does not make her heart beat any less quickly, and she cannot stop herself hastily scanning the room for him, feeling herself panic as the dancers press closer to her, their masks grinning goblin-like. She feels aware of every brush against her skin, every loaded look, and her flesh prickles. The fabric of her bodice presses against her skin like an embrace, and her stomach tightens with sickly anticipation.
And then he is there, only feet away, dancers between them, and as he lowers his mask she feels her heart skip a beat, as if this were the first rather than the hundredth time. That first glimpse of his face across the room always makes her catch her breath in her throat.
He takes one of her hands with his and she swallows, her tongue heavy in her mouth, and then he places his fingers against her side. He is barely touching her, his hand whispering against the fabric of her dress, and the pressure of his fingers is enough to make her knees buckle, enough to make her want to beg him to let her keep dancing, to never see the clock. When they first danced, Sarah had never been kissed; now she has been, but there has never been a boy's mouth or tongue or hands that made her skin ache with frustration. She hates him for this, always, wants him, always, and always, always, the dream ends the same.
The clock chimes and she turns, and awakes. She can feel the moments slipping away remorselessly; they have less than five all told to dance before she awakes, and half of that must be gone. More than half. The other dancers whirl by, laughing mockingly, and tonight she can't help feeling they are laughing because they know as well as she does that there is only another moment left, and then an empty bed.
The clock begins to chime and she turns her head mechanically, waiting for the last stroke so she can leap through the glass and back to her bed, but instead she feels his fingers on her jaw, turning her face back to him.
The ballroom, she realises, is empty, and the music has stopped. The room looks decayed, autumnal; brown leaves scatter the floor, and there are cobwebs from the crystal chandeliers. She tries to open her mouth to speak, but she cannot. Her heart is pounding too hard to allow her to frame words.
He tilts her chin up to him and she swallows, feeling her stomach and womb twist and burn, the palms of her hands tingling, and he leans forwards and touches her lips with his. He does not part her lips, or do anything but brush her mouth with his own.
It is the most passionate kiss she has ever had, and she makes a soft sobbing sound in her throat, her eyes closing, her head falling back. She can feel a tear trail its way down her cheek.
"It's time, I think," he says, and she opens her eyes to find herself in her bed. Her cheek is wet with tears, and her nightdress feels damp between her legs. She rolls onto her side, pulling her knees up in frustration, to see something lying on the pillow next to her. She reaches her hand out, wonderingly, and touches the leaf. It is crisp and brown.
Time, she thinks. But for what?
She thinks she knows, and her lungs and loins quiver at the thought of it.