Part II

What peaches with a velvet pap…
Their fruits like honey to the throat
But poison in the blood.

The Goblin Market
Christina Rossetti, 1862


Sarah sulked while she walked, her coat pulled tightly against the early October chill. What an unmitigated friggin' disaster! Her chance to start the year with a brilliant performance and she blew it. To add insult to injury, she had drooled. She grimaced as she glanced up at the impressive stonework of the University. Getting the position at Trinity College had been hard enough, moving her life, even temporarily, to Dublin had been a feat of red tape-traversing to rival any and all.

And how had she proven herself?

Lacking.

A little girl playing at being a woman… or a woman playing at being a little girl. And at 24 she was hardly a girl anymore.

Grow up, Sarah.

Her grey thoughts drifted to her dream as she navigated her way to the Dart station.

The ballroom. That bloody ballroom. She hadn't had… one of those dreams in years. Why now? And why it?

Stress. Stress and over-stimulation. That had to be it. She was on edge trying to make a good impression and she was mired in literature that so closely mirrored her own experience she swore she smelled peaches every time she opened a dusty tome in the library.

But that final text – she hadn't been expecting it. Sarah frowned. Even that seemed like a testament to her incompetence. Naturally it would be part of the syllabus. Any self-respecting academic could see how it so perfectly fit with the themes and symbols. It was the poster child.

She had nearly choked when she'd first read it shortly after her return from the Labyrinth. And then again when she'd studied it in school and delved into all the latent sexual imagery that so perfectly illustrated the classic temptation of the young girl. Sarah had tried so hard to identify with Lizzie – the stalwort heroine who resisted temptation and ultimately beat the Goblins to save her sister. After all, wasn't she the victor of the Labyrinth? Hadn't she resisted His temptation and taken back the child which He had stolen?

No…

At her core she was not the sage and steadfast Lizzie. She had been so much more little Laura, fallen from grace. She had tasted the Goblin juices…

She had liked them.

Nervously, Sarah licked her lips. She couldn't travel down this road, not again. She had been on the verge of budding womanhood then, vulnerable to temptation. Hadn't she learned from her study of Celtic lore that that's when a young girl was most at risk from the Fey world? Now she was a woman grown and that door, if it had ever really existed, was closed.

So why did she feel like she was once again on the cusp of something?

Every time one door closes, another door opens.

Banishing the thought immediately, Sarah rode the Dart back to Dun Laoghaire with her music on and skimmed through the rest of her notes with determination.

She was going to make sure tomorrow's class went just peachy. Shit. Stop that, Sarah!

Exiting the crowded train, she made her way to the bus. It was only a short ride to her rented flat in Dalkey. Although it would have been more convenient to live in Dublin, it was much more economical to live outside of the metropolitan city centre. And besides, Dalkey was picturesque and quaint, affording her more time for reflection and study. The crumbling ancient castle keep in its centre enchanted her in many ways the grandeur of Trinity College didn't. She banked on seeing more of Ireland this way too. Dublin was too conveniently self-contained. Knowing her blood had stemmed from this land of myth and legend had made the prospect of coming here nearly impossible to resist.

Nodding a quick hello to her landlady before escaping upstairs to avoid Mrs. Whelan's incessant chattering, she unlocked the door to her small flat. The space was clean and simple with whitewashed walls and rough hewn floor boards. The furniture in the sitting area was outdated but fit the charm and ambiance of the place to perfection. And the window afforded an unhindered view of the rolling hills beyond the small village. On clear days she could even smell the sea.

Sarah had also added her own touch to the space in the week or so that she had already been there. Pictures of Toby, her father and even her once-dreaded stepmother lined one wall. A few pictures of friends at various parties and graduations lined another. The two oak bookcases in the room were full of texts, mostly on loan from the university, but interspersed with some staples of Sarah's own vast collection. The small dining table was piled with papers and half-finished cups of stale coffee. Somewhere there was a laptop in the mix as well. The small kitchenette was only in slightly better shape.

She turned to throw her leather satchel on the bed and stopped short. The wrought iron bed, which this morning had been left a tangle of blankets and sheets, was now neatly made, the linens crisp and firmly tucked.

"Someone's been in my room again!" she muttered and then froze at the thought.