AN: Thank you for the reviews! This one is...again, a reworked part of a now-abandoned Labyrinth story. Shorts are easier to write. This one - not so short, and perhaps lacks a point.

Disclaimer: Disclaimed.

Question

Do you love her?

She asked this in the shadows of the evening, faintly spreading over the exterior side of the windows; they sat in a corner of a sparsely populated restaurant. Ate, drank, talked and talked. And then she asked this, something which had been on her mind all of the long and tiring day, something which had been nudged to the surface by the sunset and wine.

They had walked the streets of London all over – from the majestic St Paul's just near London Bridge, along the river, popping into the Tate Modern, continuing past the Eye (not worth it, Jeremy said, the queue is too long and the sight is underwhelming) and weaving through the book market, where Sarah had paused to look at fantasy, such a brief pause.

Onwards, passing the tourists and locals outside the little restaurants (chains, Jeremy clarified). They stopped at the theatres – he showed her the upcoming schedule, hovering his finger over Linda Williams – the leading actress here, and in this one, that one too… And as he scanned the lists for her glorious name, Sarah could not see his name among the titles.

Over to Westminster, and what a view from the bridge! They strolled through St James's Park only stopping every now and then for Sarah to click away at the swans with her camera, to reach Buckingham Palace (a necessary detour – you haven't been to London before). For Sarah the park was much more interesting than this building, so long and straight, orderly, nothing close to crooked spires of her imagination (you should go to France, look at the gothic cathedrals, he suggested).

Across the park they strolled, towards Trafalgar Square. Surrounded by the galleries, advertisements and swarms of tourists, she found herself at what seemed to be the centre of the world. Sarah watched the black lions flanking the column on four sides, ridden with fearless multinational children of various ages, their parents shouting warnings and holding their arms outstretched, prepared. She glanced at Jeremy and quickly clambered up to sit on a relatively unpopular lion, becoming Susan, Queen of Narnia. But after Jeremy had taken a picture, she slowly slithered off the animal's back, mindful of the children, aware of nothing to hold onto. Carefully, Sarah turned to stand on the ledge by the lion's iron belly and looked down. The ground did not seem to be so distant. She was about to jump when his voice stopped her,

"It's higher than you think."

She sat on the narrow edge and he lifted her down, though unsteady on his feet. He put his hands into his pockets,

"Linda just called."

"What did she say?"

"She asked if you were here. She said she found the dates of your trip in her diary. She was very sorry to miss you."

"Miss me?" asked Sarah, "Where is she? Can I call her back?"

"She was busy," he said tightly, "She'll call this evening. She was very apologetic towards you."

"And you? Is she coming back?"

"I don't know."

In silence, they walked over to the annoying buzz of Leicester Square. Her feet throbbed in treacherous shoes. Little by little daylight dwindled until the streetlights had come to life, illuminating the lilac sky in localised orange halos.

"Don't you sometimes wish that you were anywhere but here," he asked Sarah. Late, Soho, Sushi. He had been to Japan and missed it very much. But that wasn't exactly what he meant. He had some difficulty in expressing himself, "When on stage, I can almost pretend to be someone else, but the show is over before it even starts."

She understood, she too had pretended, she had been pirates, princesses, witches, knights, she had sculpted lands in the clouds, painted in rainbows. She had once been away somewhere, but it was a dangerous illusion which she fought, escaped, relinquished.

"Sometimes," she said, "I still find myself on the verge of wishing for something."

And?

She didn't elaborate.

He didn't laugh.

They ate.

It was almost then that he could feel another presence in his skin – for the shadows grew and Sarah looked at him over the wine glasses, as though she could decipher his otherness. Or perhaps she thought of her mother's phone call. It was then that she asked, quite earnestly. Do you love her? He did not answer, he pretended to not have anticipated her words.

Well do you?

Half a bottle of wine, gone. They are not used to drinking in the US. Wasn't she only nineteen? When he met Linda she was twenty two, in a long skirt and an Egyptian wig. She would laugh when he got his lines wrong. Then she married, moved away, but never quite left him. And he thought that she was his life. Only a few years ago was he plunged into a cruel sense of doubt, becoming aware of an intangible secret life, where there was no Linda, no London, only a safe and peaceful existence. His friends said it was a mid-life crisis, plain and simple. But where had those blasted goblins come from?

Sarah dropped her fork. Wasn't there something, someone in those shadows? A spark of gold reflecting the flickering candles? Were they not pulling at his hair, his collar, with little twisted fingers? And did he not, for a splinter of time, seem otherworldly to her?

She had asked too much and seen too much.

"We should go home," he said, when all quietened down, "You've had too much to drink."

Her cheeks were aflame with embarrassment and indignation, she crossed her arms and glared at Jeremy. He left a cheque with the bill, picked her up by the elbow and led her out into the street. Was there someone following? The sound of feet, boots, hooves and paws echoed their footsteps on the wet pavement. She could feel, if not quite see, the stares of glowing little eyes. All through the journey home in a black cab she sensed that they were not alone, and that Jeremy had taken on the guise of someone else. Unable to look at him for the awkwardness which clamped down on her tongue and bound her arms she watched the streets and buildings race by her. He sat opposite her with his back to the driver, watching her in silence. He could not answer her question.