Recap: Alone in his tower, Jareth looks over relics from a past he no longer remembers and is troubled. Hoggle confronts the housekeeper in the garden, but Ana can tell him nothing of Sir Didymus' whereabouts and he is determined not to rely upon the aid of dubious allies. As ordered, Sarah goes to the Goblin King's tower where they have a tense exchange of words. Jareth does not remember who Sarah truly is or what she means to him, but despite his uncertainty about having her near, he asks Sarah to stay.
In a dark cell beneath the castle, Sir Didymus awakes and begins to mastermind his escape.
Chapter Ten: A Secret in the Blood
Sorting books in the Goblin King's library was not as easy as Sarah thought it would be. They were heavy, some so large it took both hands just to lift one. Sitting cross-legged on the floor with her skirts tucked up around her, Sarah shifted them from one pile to another, matching up loose pages and alphabetizing the titles. She riffled through sheets of poetry and hand-drawn maps, illustrations of plants and wildflowers where someone had painstakingly added faint blushes of color to each leaf and petal.
Jareth was nothing if not an eclectic reader. The library contained a leather-bound copy of Le Morte d'Arthur so old the binding crackled. There were volumes of Rossetti, Edgar Allan Poe, and books in languages Sarah didn't even recognize. Their pages were yellowed and musty, the ink faded to a sable-brown. More than once she shut a book only to send clouds of dust billowing up that made her nose itch and her eyes water. The stacks grew so high Sarah could barely see over them.
Not once did Jareth offer to help.
The Goblin King sat reading through the many scrolls piled upon his desk, occasionally writing a dispatch or two himself. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he held a stick of scarlet wax over the candle flame, letting it drip on the parchment before imprinting it with a little seal he kept in the drawer. Jareth appeared to be entirely absorbed in his work, except that every once in a while he interrupted with an infuriating remark that revealed he'd been watching all along.
"You've shelved that one upside down," he said once, his tone suspiciously mild.
And another time: "Far be it for me to dispute the literacy of a scullery maid, but I believe that The Care and Cultivation of Bog-Lilies comes before Cats, Rats and the Goblin Diet."
Sarah had spent every summer of high school working in the local library, and it was only self-restraint that kept her from throwing a book at his head. She suspected that far from being irritated, Jareth was almost enjoying it. Their conversation turned into a cautious dance, brief exchanges punctuating the silence.
"Your library," she said in pointed response to his criticism, "Looks as if it's been hit by an invading horde of goblins."
"Nonsense. If it had been goblins, you'd see far more teethmarks on the spines."
Sarah silently conceded his point. She had yet to see a single goblin since her return to the Labyrinth, but she remembered well how destructive they could be. Standing to stretch her cramped legs, she ran her hand along the bookshelf. A significant number of the titles were about the little creatures in one way or another, and it was funny to think of Jareth consulting them. He seemed an unlikely caretaker at best, and Sarah could not imagine how he'd even landed himself in such a position. She recalled how the goblins had flooded the city streets, unruly and disobedient as children.
There were so many back then, she thought idly, I wonder where they've all gone.
Sarah continued reading titles, negotiating a careful distance around the bowl of mouse skulls. Like so many other places in the library, missing books left a gap on the shelf. A massive volume of military history had toppled to one side, its thick spine jutting out like a signboard. Sarah peered closer.
In the opening behind the books was the soft gleam of gold.
Whatever it was had been thrust so far back on the shelf that she had to stand on tiptoe just to reach it, her sleeve smearing a track in the dust. The object was hard and thin; Sarah only just managed to hook it with her fingertips and pull it closer. When she saw what it was, she nearly dropped it.
It was a gold band in the shape of a serpent, lithe body coiled like a spring. Paper-delicate wings lay folded against its sides with talons like a raptor's curled beneath it. Its deeply hooded eyes were cut garnets, glittering like two drops of blood against scales no larger than the head of a pin. The metal was heavy and curiously supple, warming quickly beneath Sarah's hand. Its weight was hypnotic. She wanted to put it on.
What are you? she wondered silently. I think I've seen something like you before...
Sarah moved as if she had no will of her own, rolling up her sleeve and slipping the band on. It was a perfect fit, the creature's head nestling into the hollow on the underside of her wrist. She could feel the beat of her pulse against it, so strong that it sounded like thundering of horses' hooves upon hard-packed earth.
The bookshelf before her blurred and wavered, replaced by a vision of roaring flames and lean figures silhouetted against them, barbed spears pierce the hazy sky like a sea of thorns. Heat and ash seared her lungs, and the thundering grew louder until the very earth trembled--
Goblin Queen...
Sarah gasped. For just a moment, the creature's tail lashed angrily and its eyes sparked; the band tightened unbearably around her wrist, embedded so deep it seemed part of her arm. The sensation was pain and pleasure sweetly mingled with a power that quickened in Sarah's veins like wildfire. It raced to lance her heart like a thousand golden needles, glowing white-hot in the flames.
Then she blinked and the illusion was gone.
The sound of the clock ticking seemed harshly amplified in the quiet of the library. Her heart still pounding, Sarah breathed in the cool, musty air. The bracelet was just an ordinary bauble, cold and shining on her arm. None of it had been real.
When she looked up, the Goblin King was gazing at her with a keenly speculative expression. Sarah tore the bracelet from her wrist as if it burned her and thrust it back into place.
"It's gone all dusty," she blurted out unconvincingly, "I'll have to clean it later."
To her relief, Jareth raised his eyebrow, but did not remark upon her flimsy explanation.
"Be careful. It is very old."
What the hell do you think you're doing? thought Sarah, angry at herself for ruining the uneasy truce. Handling everything as if it belongs to you. You're not exactly queen of the castle.
No, she thought. But I could be.
It was a rebellious thought Sarah barely recognized, one that sent an icy stab of misery to the pit of her stomach. She forced herself to turn back to the bookshelf, sorting in silence until she could stop shaking. It was stupid and arrogant of her to even think it. Who was she in this world? Nothing but a kitchen rat.
Even if she weren't, it would be impossible. Jareth already had a queen...
Everything Sarah thought she knew turned upside down and a terrible clarity crept up upon her like rising floodwater. The Labyrinth so altered and empty, its inhabitants in hiding, Jareth caught in the mist of a dark dream-- and in the center of it all, a queen so beautiful and so cold, like a deep, moss-choked well that never saw the light.
Oh, Didymus, Sarah realized. You tried to tell me.
She stacked books mechanically, barely paying enough attention to tell one title from another. When the small silver-faced clock above the door chimed a quarter past five, the Goblin King set down his quill pen.
"I believe that will be enough work for the day," he said quietly.
The sheet of paper in front of him was blank; he, too, had been pretending to work. Now he looked at Sarah as if she were a wild animal whose presence filled him with both curiosity and misgiving-- a threat to be assessed and acted upon accordingly.
The sun had begun to slant through the ivy that surrounded the window, heating up the small chamber. Jareth picked up the discarded gloves that lay on his desk, held them for a moment, then put them down again. He gave Sarah a crooked little smile.
"I cannot think over the rumblings of your stomach, Mouse. Does Ana not feed her kitchen staff?"
Sarah reddened, recalling her original purpose in coming to the king's tower. The basket of food still sat on the table near the window. She wiped her dusty hands on her apron and unwrapped the bread, the warm scent of it reminding her of how hungry she was.
"I imagine she's done her best to pack enough food for an army."
The Goblin King's approach had been noiseless and now he was unpacking the basket himself, taking the cloth-wrapped bundles from Sarah's startled grasp. She'd forgotten what it was like to have him so close. The deep red silk of his tunic lent a rose flush to his skin, and he smelled faintly of ink and paper. At such close range, she could see the lighter strands of silver in his hair.
When their shoulders touched, he glanced up as if disconcerted to find her there. Sarah had a fleeting impression of anger and buried confusion before he looked away, his left eye glittering like a polished bit of obsidian.
Belatedly, Sarah remembered what she was supposed to be.
"I could do that," she offered.
The girl Sarah used to be could've never envisioned helping the Goblin King. But then, the girl Sarah was wouldn't have noticed the weary set of his shoulders and gaunt hollows in his face-- she would've seen whatever Jareth had wanted her to see.
The Goblin King's reply was slightly mocking. "I'm not yet so feeble that I cannot do a few simple tasks for myself. Sit."
The words were charming, but there was a brittle edge to the command that did not allow for argument. Disappointed, Sarah sat down and pretended to study the pattern of oak leaves on the rug.
The Goblin King worked quickly, laying out the cold meat and cheese. The two wine bottles gave him pause as he ran his fingers lightly over the faded labels. He hesitated, then set them aside. Wordlessly, he tore off a piece of bread for Sarah, spreading a small feast on a clean napkin in front of her as easily as if he'd done so every day of their lives. They did not speak.
When he had eaten a little, the Goblin King seemed to relax. He accepted the flask of water when Sarah passed it to him and drank deeply.
"Please continue. You look as though you have not eaten in days."
Sarah almost refused, but the smell of the spice cakes were too tempting. Split in two with fresh butter and apple jelly slathered over each half, they were delicious. She ate one, and when Jareth declined his portion, she devoured that, too. The Goblin King did not comment upon the speed with which the remainder of their meal disappeared, but looked bemused.
Fresh air and exercise, thought Sarah in embarrassment. Back in her world, she'd been used to sitting at a desk all day. All the unaccustomed work had doubled her appetite, but it was more than that. Food tastes better here than it ever did at home.
Three apples lay in the bottom of the bag. The Goblin King selected one and pared off the skin, scarlet peel falling away in one unbroken spiral beneath his knife. Spearing a piece on the end of the blade, he held it out to Sarah. The apple was crisp and tart, and as she bit down into each slice, it gave way with an audible snap.
"You favor your right hand," Jareth remarked, nodding at the bandage, "A recent injury?"
Sarah instinctively moved as if to hide it. It had escaped his attention that morning, but here in the tower the Goblin King was sharper, more focused. The coolly impersonal tone in his speech had gone, much to her relief. But even though his concern sounded genuine, Sarah was still reluctant to trust it.
"Let me see it."
Without asking her leave, Jareth took her hand and turned it over, his fingers cool on her wrist. The bandages were gray with dust but otherwise clean, smelling faintly of the mint in the salve. Under the Goblin King's scrutiny, Sarah found herself explaining far more than she intended about the accident with the roasting spit. She did not mention their earlier encounter at breakfast; that seemed like another lifetime ago.
Jareth frowned. "It is slow to heal. You must be careful."
Suddenly afraid he'd dismiss her, Sarah fumbled for an excuse.
"No," said Jareth, "Not yet."
He caught her hand before she could draw it back, squeezing it so hard that Sarah let out a cry of protest. The sound seemed to strike the Goblin King. He blanched white and relaxed his grasp, but did not let go.
"Wait."
Nothing happened for a few long moments. The breeze prickled Sarah's cheek, smelling of clean earth and wet leaves. She became very conscious of everything in the room, all the subtle shadows lingering in the corners, the light angling in through the open window with golden motes of dust dancing upon it. It lit each strand of the Goblin King's fair hair with a pale fire, but all the color had fled from his face as he concentrated on the hand enclosed in his own.
Sarah inhaled sharply as a ribbon of warmth flowed from his touch, spreading to encircle her entire hand and moving up the length of her arm like the first thaw of spring. It seemed like an ripple of pure energy, so bright Sarah felt it crackle to the very roots of her hair... and then it was gone and the room was as it had been before. The late afternoon light was muted, and at the window the morning glories had furled into tight blue buds hidden among the leaves.
Sarah opened and closed her fingers and found the pain was lessened-- not completely healed, but close. Heat had left the wound and the skin no longer raw beneath the protective coating of liniment. What would have taken days happened in a few minutes. She looked up at Jareth in wonder, but his face was waxen and his eyes were dull.
"I... Thank you."
He did not acknowledge her words. The Goblin King's hand dropped away from her own and he flexed it with a faint grimace.
"I need a drink."
Jareth poured out a generous measure of wine; his first swallow was enough to drain half the glass. The bottle rested on the corner of his desk and he brushed the curling edge of the label with his fingertips as gently as a mother might touch a sleeping child. There was a new fragility to him; every movement was too measured, as if calculated to expend as little energy as possible.
It occurred to Sarah that she'd seen little magic or illusions from the Goblin King since her return. Where before it had been effortless, now it was just the opposite, and the only evidence that his power still remained was the silver coin in her pocket. She pressed her bandaged hand against her thigh. The outline of the flat disc was hard against her palm, and she could feel the cool weight of it through the thin fabric of her skirt.
You shouldn't have done it, thought Sarah in remorse. She was beginning to understand, and yet she wished she didn't.
The clock chimed half past six and Jareth stirred at last as if awakening from a dream.
"You should leave now, Mouse. Return to me tomorrow. But for now, just... go."
It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse, but the Goblin King had already turned away, leaning heavily against his desk. He held his gloves balled up in one fist, hands white-knuckled as if only sheer force of will kept him upright.
Some things had not changed. A handful of seconds ticked by, each one slower than the last.
Whatever she's done to you, I'll find a way to set you free. I promise.
Sarah gathered up her things and left.
Heat shimmered above the long gravel paths of the garden, but not a single breath of air touched the Goblin Queen's cheek. She made her way to the edge of the pond, the grass beneath her feet so dry that the keen points pricked through her silk slippers. Fish swam among the lilies, occasionally breaking the water's surface with their white and orange-speckled backs. Reganne threw them a crust of bread and watched as the pond roiled with activity. Straightening, she shaded her eyes with one hand. Beyond the castle, clouds gathered on the far horizon-- always too far away.
There were days she felt utterly alien to this land, so unlike the fog-wrapped, rocky peaks of her home. Reganne wondered how it could be so different when it was only just on the other side of the mountains.
White damask roses climbed up the stone wall beside her, gnarled old branches with thorns like claws. Reganne plucked one between thumb and finger, breathing in its musky scent. It, too, seemed almost alien, delicate petals densely ruffled around a yellow heart. She'd never seen one before Jareth brought her here; flowers like this grew only in the sun.
A sound behind her reminded the Goblin Queen she was not alone. Her attendants sat in the shade of an old willow, their lean forms only just visible behind its leafy curtain. Reganne could never remember their names, for one looked much like another, long-limbed women with tawny eyes and hair smoothed back from their sharp faces.
They were trained to hear and obey, but Reganne knew that they watched her even as they served. They'd been her father's creatures first.
Taking care not to betray any unease, she took her place at the center of the group. A cushioned bench protected her skirts from the grass, and nearby a folding table of pearl and mahogany had been set with sweetmeats and savory delicacies. Though she was not hungry, Reganne selected a piece of sugared orange peel. She regretted it almost immediately as its cloying sweetness dissolved on her tongue.
Already, the air grew cooler as the sun sank behind behind the treetops. Nightfall drew near, and soon Jareth would return to her. Would he taste it on her lips over the bitter salt and blood? She dropped the remainder of the orange peel on the grass, wiping the sticky residue from her fingers.
She needed a drink, something to wash the taste from her mouth and the memory from her mind. An attendant stepped forward with a cup, but in her haste, wine slopped over the rim onto the Reganne's gown. The Goblin Queen stared numbly at the ruined silk and the tension that had been slowly building inside her all afternoon broke.
The rose still in her hand, Reganne struck her attendant across the face, dashing the cup from her grasp. The woman yelped and cowered on the grass, blood running down her cheek where a thorn had sliced it open. Licking nervously at the edge of her mouth, a low whine rose from the back of her throat.
Reganne spat in revulsion, dropping the broken flower on the ground.
"Speak, curse you. Remember who you are."
"I... beg pardon, Your Majesty," stuttered the woman at last, "Forgive my clumsiness, it shall not happen again."
Fear made her voice gruff with little breaks between each word, as if speech was a great effort. The other attendants waited, their demeanor changed from indifference to expectant alertness. A dozen pairs of eyes followed the scarlet trickle of blood as it made its way down the woman's cheek and jaw.
Only Reganne turned away to gather up the scattered rose petals. Her hand ached from the blow, but she forced her fingers to curl protectively around them. There was nothing to regret, Reganne told herself. These creatures had scant comprehension of kindness and even less of love. They only understood the language of cruelty. Still she felt heavy and sick, the sweetness of the candied fruit turned sour in her mouth.
At last one of her attendants crept forward, touching the hem of the Reganne's gown as if in supplication.
"It is nearly the full moon, my queen. Will we hunt?"
Reganne did not answer immediately. The odor of damp earth conjured up other images and smells: dew trapped in cobwebs that knit together the treetops, moonlight silvering the branches like frost, rotting leaves soft beneath their feet. The last full moon was more than a fortnight past and seemed only a dim and bloody memory.
The hunt. It was all they ever thought about, all they ever spoke of.
So long as she could give it to them, any cruelty of hers would be forgotten. Reganne opened her hand and let the bruised petals fall. She made her voice cool and remote.
"We will hunt. You," she said to the attendant still crouching at her feet, "See to it that our fox is kept fed and watered-- sparingly, but enough to sustain him. I would not have him provide us with poor sport."
A murmur of undisguised excitement ran through the group then, unintelligible except for the sudden gleam in their eyes. Reganne could almost read the thoughts exchanged in those sly looks, but the women only bowed their heads and murmured thanks. Word would spread by nightfall, preparations would be made in the days to come.
The Goblin Queen bestowed a cold look upon her waiting attendant. "I gave you an order. Why are you still here?"
The woman dared raise her eyes briefly then, a flicker of polished topaz behind dark lashes.
"I am hungry."
Again a slight nasal whine crept into the words, but Reganne chose to ignore it. A platter of fowl sat on the table, songbirds doused in brandy and roasted whole. She picked up the dish and tipped them out onto the ground.
Quick as a cat, the woman snatched one in mid-air, crunching the beak and bones between her pointed white teeth before seizing another. She ate as if she'd had no food in days, unmindful of the dirt and grass. The Goblin Queen looked down upon her impassively, all the expression smoothed carefully from her face.
You and your kind sicken me. But I will never let you see my weakness.
The clock in the great hall chimed six, and Reganne's gaze sought the highest castle tower with its dark window. She folded her hands over her belly. Inside she felt hollow and empty, as if everything had been carved away. Soon a time would come when she would no longer be able to hide how weak she truly was. Reganne fought to control her breathing, keeping it slow and steady so that her attendants would not know she was afraid.
Her father had made certain she knew the price of failure. Reganne was his last hope, but he would not spare her if she did not succeed. She shuddered as she thought of her sister, of the many-layered veils Danae wore and the silk gloves that covered her from elbow to fingertip. There were worse things than death.
She could not let her father do the same to her; Reganne could not face such a fate. There was one thing that might yet save her, one way left open.
"Jareth."
She spoke his name so softly that her attendants did not hear. It was little more than an exhalation of air, the word leaving her lips like a promise. Once more, her eyes were fixed upon the high tower, face white and still.
Give me a child tonight, she pleaded silently. Something of yours that will be mine forever, a child who can protect its mother.
Long after the girl left, he sat by the window and watched the dying of the light. In his hand was the bracelet she'd held, its sinuous shape curving beneath his fingers and jeweled eyes seeming almost alive. It should have been hidden away in his treasury under lock and key. The Goblin King had not meant to leave it out for anyone to find.
Barbaric in design, the band was ancient, even older than himself. No such gold was mined in the hills now and the secrets to such delicate metalwork had been lost. Didymus, who made a study of such things, had only vague ideas of its origin. Goblin-made it was, back in the times when all goblin races were one, a fierce and clever breed. They'd fashioned it for their queen, just as the pendant with its intertwining sigil was for their king. Unlike the pendant--now in Didymus' safekeeping-- no one in living memory had ever worn it.
Jareth had intended it for his wife, waiting for a time when it seemed right that Reganne should have it. It could never be hers now. The relic felt changed, altered by its contact. He tried to reason with himself.
All the girl did was hold it in her hand, it is the same as it ever was.
The Goblin King shook his head. She'd done more than hold it-- he'd seen the glimmer of gold upon her slender wrist. It should have looked an absurd mockery, with her grubby tunic and the strands of cobwebs tangled in her hair. It had not.
Expression creased in a troubled frown, Jareth wrapped up the gold band in a scrap of wool and put it away in his desk drawer along with the other things he did not care to explain to anyone, much less himself.
The wind blew through the ivy like a sigh and the Goblin King shivered. He pulled on his gloves, fingers stiff and clumsy. It was foolish, wasting what little energy he had left on a servant girl.
There is nothing special about this one, he argued with himself. There's no reason I should see her tomorrow, or the day after that.
The girl's presence did not feel like an intrusion, yet the Goblin King had been all too aware of it. Every emotion was written plainly on her face, and he'd watched her all afternoon without seeming to. The injury on her hand troubled her. Jareth could see it each time the girl forgot and reached too high or picked up a book that was too heavy for her to lift. He'd tried to ignore it, but it troubled him, too.
The desk drawer stood open and the owl's feather lay at the bottom, wound about with the silver-white ribbon. The Goblin King touched it hesitantly, remembering.
Long ago, it seemed that he'd watched and waited outside a window while a young girl cried out in her sleep, pain burrowing deep into his breast because he could not bear--
This is nonsense.
Jareth shook the idle thought from his mind in frustration, abruptly shutting the drawer and locking it with a click. He stood holding the key, thinking to bury it beneath the papers on his desk. Instead, he turned to the window ledge. Hidden by overgrown ivy, a crumbling bit of mortar between two stones left a small gap, one so narrow it was barely the finger's breadth wide. There Jareth secreted the key, carefully arranging the leaves to conceal it once more.
The hand that had held the girl's gave a nagging throb, and the Goblin King clenched it into a fist.
"She means nothing to me."
The words were dissipated by the wind. Jareth was too tired to face the thought of descending from the tower, even though he knew he must. Outside his window, the shadows lengthened and the sky was streaked gold and crimson, growing darker.
Night was coming.
Casting one last look over his shoulder, Hoggle ducked through a gap in the privet hedge and made his way along a well-worn path through the strawberry patch until he reached the line of honeysuckle bushes beyond. The chimney of his cottage was just visible above them, and Hoggle breathed a sigh of relief. Sunset was a good hour behind him and the stars were coming out one by one, but he didn't stop to admire them as he might have done once.
Cian had loaned him a lantern, a cunning creation little bigger than his hand. Copper wire curved gracefully around a globe of frosted glass, and within it fluttered several creatures with lace-like wings. Too big to be fireflies, they drifted lazily from side to side, giving off a pale green light.
Hoggle shook the lantern. "Look alive in there," he snapped, "Or I'll fall on my face and drop you, and then where would you be?"
Out after dark two nights running, thought the dwarf. I must be tired of living.
But nothing followed him through the woods, though every rustle spooked him and he flinched every time he stepped on a twig. The birch grove stood empty, but he tiptoed through it just the same only to be brought up short when the trees gave way to the little clearing of his front garden.
The door of his cottage was open just a crack. Hoggle stopped, one hand on the gate. He lowered the lantern.
I closed and latched it this morning. I know I did.
Through the open window he could see a shadowy figure hunched before the fireplace, too large to be Sir Didymus or a goblin neighbor come to call. Stepping softly, he seized a stout stick of oak off the wood pile even though he could scarce feel to hold it.
"Back again, are you?" he muttered angrily, "Not content to wait until moon rise tonight, you bastards."
Instinct told Hoggle he ought to run back to the relative safety of the castle and forget about doing any deeds of bravery that would only get him killed. His guts tied themselves up in knots until he felt like he had a belly full of swamp snakes.
Hoggle steeled himself. Didymus wouldn't run. That boastful furbag would stand and fight even if it meant facing the whole outlander army. I can do no less, or I'll be of no help to him at all. And damn me, this is my home.
With as fierce a roar as he could muster, Hoggle burst through the door, lantern held high and cudgel at the ready. The figure inside gave a startled shriek, rising up from the hearth. Its garments billowed, it reached out a slender, wraith-like hand. Hoggle's courage nearly gave out in that instant, and he prepared to hurl everything he carried at the creature's head and take to his heels when it stepped forward into the circle of light.
"Hoggle?"
The dwarf dropped the cudgel and sagged back against the doorway. He clutched at his chest and was surprised to find his heart still pounding like a blacksmith's hammer against an anvil.
"Sarah! Thank the gods... But how? You shouldn't be here, not at a time like this."
Sarah shed the worn woolen cloak around her shoulders and threw herself on the dwarf in a fierce hug.
"I was afraid someone would see if I lit a fire," she explained hurriedly, "I didn't mean to scare you."
"Me, scared?" Hoggle snorted. "Not for a minute. I was just surprised to see you, that's all. Didn't expect you'd turn up again, not after all this time."
The last was a mild rebuke delivered with a reproving sniff, and Sarah hid a smile. This was something else that hadn't changed.
"It wasn't entirely by my choice, Hoggle. But that's a long story, and I don't think we have time for it now."
The dwarf darted a look behind him and hurriedly agreed. Fresh water had been drawn from the well before he'd left that morning, so he put on the kettle, making sure to first shutter the windows and bar the door. For good measure, he and Sarah pulled the heavy kitchen table across the doorway, wedging it firmly in place.
As the kettle boiled, they drew their chairs closer to the fire and used a low footstool as their table. The meal was simple, scavenged from what was left in the pantry: bread, butter, a bowl of radishes and thick slices of cured sausage. Hoggle held his mug of tea in both hands, warming his face in the steam.
It was no wonder he'd barely recognized Sarah, he thought. In the dark, swaddled in a cloak two sizes too large, she'd looked like... well, something else entirely, no need to imagine what. Even when he'd seen her face, Hoggle had wrestled with the fleeting impression that he was looking at someone he didn't even know.
But by the light of the roaring fire, he was relieved to see the friend he remembered. Taller, perhaps, but that was of no account-- above a certain height, it was all the same to him. The coltish look of the young girl was gone, though Hoggle saw the same stubborn determination in her.
Sitting with a slice of bread balanced on one knee, she looked as if coming to call upon him was something she did every day. It did occur to Hoggle that her clothing was little better than what the lowliest scullery maid in the kitchens wore, but it didn't seem to matter. Her appearance was no longer her first concern. This Sarah chose her words more carefully, chewing her lower lip as she thought. The dwarf shook his head with admiration and a just a little regret. The girl had grown up.
He ate his own bread and butter and several radishes, thinking over what she'd told him.
"You say he was to meet you tonight?"
Sarah nodded. "Didymus said that as soon as I could manage it, he would take me to you. But I couldn't get away until late, and he never came. No one has seen him at all."
Hoggle could confirm that much, at least. All of his inquiries had amounted to very little, only brief sightings of the little knight no more recent than the morning before.
"I don't like it," he admitted, "It's one thing not to show up here, but if he told you for certain..."
The dwarf didn't have to finish. They both knew that only the direst need would cause Sir Didymus to break his word to a lady. Hoggle bit fiercely into a hunk of sausage, the taste of garlic and smoke filling his mouth.
"What will we do, Hoggle?"
Sarah's cup of tea was sitting on the hearth forgotten as she clutched the mantle around herself with both hands. Hoggle noticed the hastily wrapped bandage, the scrapes on her knuckles and the ragged edges of her fingernails where she'd bitten them. Her anxious expression, those dark eyes... Sarah needed him. The dwarf nodded solemnly.
"Whatever we do, it'll have to wait until until sunrise. You go on and take the bed, I'll bunk down in front of the fire."
Seeing Sarah's unhappy look, he have a helpless shrug. "There's nothing for it, we don't dare venture out now. Didymus would tell you as much if he were here, and he'd have a fit if I let you wander out after dark."
"Cian told me as much, but she wouldn't say why. No one will, just like no one will tell me anything about this Goblin Queen."
Hoggle didn't answer. He took a big gulp of hot tea, not minding how it nearly scalded his tongue. Sarah's chin was thrust out in a obstinate manner that was very familiar to him.
"This place is full of secrets. I didn't expect them from you, too."
The dwarf rose with a sigh and cleared away the half-eaten food before returning to sit by the hearth. The flames cast a warm golden glow over the little room, and for a while he could almost forget about the shadows.
"It's not exactly a secret," he said, "But there's some things you don't want to talk about. Talking about it only makes it more real."
Sarah waited for him to continue. He sighed, and the words came out in an awkward tumble. Didymus was a good friend, but the knight had a poor grasp on the concept of fear and it was a relief to tell someone else.
"I won't speak her name. Not wise to, after the sun goes down, and sensible folk don't say it during the day if it can be helped. It was all right at first, with just her and Jareth in the castle-- though if you'd asked me before, I'd have said that one would never change. Not him, not the way he's done. She's gone and witched him as sure as the sun rises."
Sarah was silent at this. She stared down at her clasped hands, so still she seemed frozen in place.
That's gone and done it, Hoggle thought guiltily. Didymus would chew his ear off about blurting it out like that if he were here, but it couldn't be helped. The truth was the truth, and the girl had to be told.
The dwarf coughed and continued. "Then she brought the court with her and... Let's just say you don't see many goblins about these days and everyone knows not to go out after dark, especially not on a night with a full moon."
Hoggle's cup didn't need refilling, but Sarah did it anyway and he was glad. The hot tea with honey soothed his throat and the solid weight of the tin cup in his hand was reassuring. As he told Sarah of his own suspicions, Hoggle hefted it from time to time, just to remind himself that there were still good, uncomplicated things like hot drinks and full larders and hanging out the wash on Tuesdays.
"People disappear," he finished quietly, "They never find anything... after. I wish it was only a rumor, but I've seen things myself that make my blood run colder than snowmelt. Nothing's ever been the same since she got here-- that she-demon who calls herself queen."
He thought back to the night before, the dozens of yellow eyes peering out from the bushes in his front yard, the heavy tread of paws on the doorstep. The dwarf shuddered.
Wolves, he thought. And worse yet, wolves that run on two legs by day.
"I believe you, Hoggle," said Sarah, patting his shoulder, "I've seen her and there's something not--."
The dwarf's attention snapped back. "Seen her? Damn me, I don't know how that happened, but promise me you won't cross her path again, Sarah. She might not know your name, but she knows who you are and what you mean to him. If she knew you were here..."
Sarah promised her friend she would stay out of sight. She told him everything then, all about her trip back through the looking-glass and meeting Cian. She told him about seeing the Goblin King, and of Ana's spell to keep her hidden. Hoggle listened intently, chin resting on one gnarled fist.
"I don't trust that woman."
"She's protected me when she didn't have to." Sarah countered, "So has Cian. Not everyone at court is evil, Hoggle."
Hoggle was hardly mollified. "The housekeeper's no great friend of the queen's, maybe, but that doesn't mean she's yours. I have a feeling that one has her own plan and I'm not sure I want to find out what it is. Never you mind, I'll keep an eye on her-- and Didymus too, when we find him. Tomorrow."
Extra blankets were excavated from the trunk in the attic loft and Hoggle made up the bed in the far corner by the chimney. It was little more than a cupboard built into the wall, but several fat feather pillows and a thick quilt in warm reds and browns made it cozy. The dwarf tucked a hot brick wrapped in flannel at the foot of the bed, anxiously straightening and re-straightening the covers. When Sarah climbed in, she realized how stiff and sore she was from the day's work and how badly she needed to sleep.
"If," began Sarah, then corrected herself, "When we find Sir Didymus, I'll ask him about Jareth. If he's under some sort of spell, then there must be a way to break it."
Rolled up in a blanket by the fire, Hoggle grunted. "I'd let Jareth worry about himself if I were you, but no doubt Didymus will see things your way. He always did have a soft spot in his head for that tyrant. Now go to sleep, Sarah. If Didymus needs us, we'll be there-- and if I have to, I'll even save that bullying brute of a king."
Sarah curled up beneath the quilt, which was just a little too short to cover her fully. The sheets smelled like the dried lavender sachets in the trunk, soft against her skin as if they'd been washed many times over. Hoggle had banked the fire so that it burned low and steady, and the light flickered across the rough wooden ceiling beams and the whitewashed walls.
Under the cover of semi-darkness, Sarah unwrapped the bandage from her hand and traced her fingertips over the burn. The scar had puckered into a smooth ridge, flesh still tender but nowhere near as painful. She closed it in a fist, remembering the ashen color of Jareth's skin and what it had cost him. Shutting her eyes, Sarah tried to recall the feeling of his hands on her own, his grasp encircling her wrist.
"What if he really does love her? We can't save him if he doesn't want to be free."
Hoggle's voice was slightly muffled. "He thinks he loves her. That's not the same thing at all."
The two friends fell silent then, and the only sound in the cottage was the fire and the creak of the shutters in the wind. A log burned in two and settled with a crack, and the dwarf let out a startled curse that revealed he was not yet asleep.
"I hate her, Hoggle," Sarah said at last, "And I don't even know her. I just... hate her for what she's done to this place."
"That's a powerful word, one that should never be used lightly."
Hoggle thought of the claw marks scarring his door and the bloody entrails he'd buried in the farthest corner of the yard. He could not find it in his heart to tell Sarah of that, not yet.
"I hate her, too."
Beneath the scent of roasted figs and honey, the kitchen reeked of slaughter. Supper was nearly done and the last platters of fruit-filled pastries and sugared trifles were on their way to the great hall. Tired scullery maids and pot boys knuckled their aching backs, then began on the mountain of pans and dishes. Unmoved, Ana let the activity swirl and eddy around her.
The butcher's block was waist high with deep grooves cut into the surface to drain away the blood. This corner of the kitchen smelled like mildewed hay and offal. Slabs of rich, ivory-colored fat were stacked neatly to one side, waiting to be rendered. A calf's head hung from the iron hook, red-streaked tongue lolling and an opaque film clouding its eyes.
Spread before the housekeeper were marbled hunks of meat and disarticulated limbs, bowls of entrails still warm in their juices. Her long knife had been sharpened so many times the blade's edge was paper-thin, but it still sliced through each muscle and joint as if it were made of butter. Smeared with crimson up to the elbows, Ana bent to her task. This was work she allowed no one but herself to do.
Cian sat just inside the doorway, a bowl of walnuts in her lap. She kept her gaze carefully averted from the butcher's block, nimble fingers sorting out the nutmeats from the broken shells.
"They're demons," she said quietly, even though there was little chance the kitchen staff would hear her above the noise. "A whole herd of cattle wouldn't satisfy their hunger."
The housekeeper shrugged with a detachment she did not feel. "Even animals must eat."
"Don't pretend it doesn't disgust you. Not to me."
Ana was not accustomed to apologizing, so she did not. The door creaked on its hinges as a fresh gust of cool air blew into the kitchen. Cian tilted her face to catch it, breathing in deeply. Some of the color returned to her pale cheeks.
The older woman watched her and chose her next words with care.
"This isn't your home," she said, scraping the blade over a bit of gristle, "I know what you've sacrificed, and no one could have done more. There is nothing to keep you here now if you wished to be free."
"I made a promise... Long ago."
"Promises can be broken."
The girl sucked her finger where a sharp shell edge had bruised it, and the green of her eyes was that of a new-sprung leaf. "Not by one whose heart is true."
Ana brought the blade down onto the butcher's block with a vicious thwack. "Don't you dare go quoting the knight and his damnable courtly ideals to me," she said tightly, "My gratitude does not extend to being lectured by him... or you."
Like her mistress, Cian did not apologize. She hunched her thin shoulders over the bowl, cracking walnuts with such ferocity that they were ground to unusable bits and pieces. When the task was done, she left her seat to stand in the doorway, hands braced on either side of it.
Prickly thorn-apple grew by the step, their white trumpet-shaped blooms luminous white. It was not quite moon rise. The girl's hair had escaped from its leather thong and hung in wispy curls around her face as she rocked back and forth on her heels, balancing on the threshold. She glanced back at her mistress.
"We could help him. It's not too late."
"You know why I cannot interfere. Other lives depend upon it, not just yours and mine. That is the price to be paid."
Sanctuary. Neither of them spoke the word aloud, but it was never far from their minds. This small plot of land, this haven... it was all they'd had for many a year and it was little enough. One misstep could bring it to an end, and this was what Ana feared above all else.
The housekeeper pressed her lips together hard, but kept her eyes upon the cutting block. "I am too old to fight. There is only one battle left to me."
Out in the courtyard, fireflies hovered beneath the trees, settling upon the tall grass like a scattering of gold dust. Cian held out her hand and a few circled her fingertips in gentle exploration before drifting away. She leaned her head wearily against the door jamb, watching their cool lights flicker against the backdrop of shadows.
Ana wondered if the girl was thinking about everything she'd given up. If she was, Cian did not say. Instead, she spoke so low it was barely audible.
"She cannot be saved."
The housekeeper's blade hesitated, just for a moment. She thought of a laughing child with fine locks of dark hair coming loose from her braid. She thought of the same girl, chasing fireflies through the garden with the gravel crunching beneath her bare feet, her small hands opening and closing on empty air.
"I cannot believe that."
The reply was softer yet, so hushed that Ana might have mistaken it for the wind.
"That is because you don't want to believe."
Crack. The knife went right through a leg-bone, shearing it neatly in two and spilling out the rich marrow. Ana stared numbly at the broken pieces, glistening white and red. By the time she looked up to the doorway, Cian was already gone.
Work forgotten, Ana stepped out into the empty courtyard. There was just enough light from the doorway to see a track of footprints in the silvery dew, disappearing into the trees. The older woman did not follow.
A noisy thrash of wings caught her attention. On top of an old post next to the blackberry patch sat a large raven, feathers ruffled against the wind. It clacked its beak twice, cocking its head to one side to look her over. Ana moved slowly, so as not to frighten it.
"I'm afraid I do not speak your language, swift one." she said gravely.
The raven preened its sleek wing, croaking softly to itself. After a while, it looked up again and then let out a rusty caw that sounded almost like the hoarse, high-pitched bark of a fox.
Ana went very still.
"You are too late," she said, "He is not here."
From the pocket of her stained and bespattered apron, she withdrew a handful of parched corn and scattered it upon the grass. The raven pecked at it briefly but again took wing, soon vanishing among the treetops.
The stone trough next to the door was full, and a cake of strong lye soap sat on the rim of it. Plunging into the cold water, Ana scrubbed until the fumes stung her nose and eyes and the backs of her hands were a scaly pink. Stripping off her apron, she rinsed it again and again until the water ran clear, then wrung it dry and then retied it around her waist. The cloth clung damply to her skirts, but she did not feel it.
"I tried to warn you," she said aloud, "It is you who would not listen."
But even to her own ears, her voice sounded much like the raven's, rough as sandpaper. Ana covered her face with her still-wet hands. It was a mistake. Rainwater upon rock, the earthy, cold scent conjured up memories she would have liked to forget. His last words rang in her ears like the haunting echo of a funeral bell.
You cannot save them all.
His eyes were grey as river-stones, and chill. His laughter mocked her even as she ran.
Ana dropped her hands. You are wrong. My will is great...
Blood clotted upon the cobblestones. She dashed the remainder of her washing water over it but some still remained, dark flecks of viscous matter slippery between the rocks.
Thicker than water, she thought with a wrench of anguish. I am a fool to have forgotten.
Comments/reviews welcome.
Author's Notes: Many thanks go to Whiteraven and Thessaly for taking the time to edit the opening scene for me. When I'm frustrated and don't know how to fix the mess I've made, your helpful advice gets me back on track.