DISCLAIMER: Alas, I won't ever own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Falling.
Dancing.
Stopping.

The Estate was a magnificent looming structure nestled within the trees at the furthermost edge of town. What was once a grand castle, until seized from a known Jacobite sympathizer, was now a tomb for the criminally unwell and mentally deranged. From its grand exterior and finely groomed lawns, it bespoke of beauty and power— of luxury and excess— not the dismal prison of damaged souls.

Perhaps the best-kept secret and ugliest rumor was that not all locked behind the stone façade were unfit for society. Some were merely the product of bad luck and shallow pockets, hidden away by others who would benefit from their misfortune and suffering. Within the fine-papered halls, beneath the ornate chandeliers, and velvet curtains, lay the hollow, wretched shells of God's children.

In the beginning, it was meant to be a haven for the poor and downtrodden, and so it was for less than a handful of years. But as Bedlam could attest, such dreams of charity are often crushed by the terrible cost to sustain them— and wealthy benefactors, or the Crown itself, become the only chance of success. As luck would have it, the Estate garnered just that, along with a generous sum supplied by others rich enough to hide their shame and secrets indefinitely.

These were the rumors that drew the woman through the fortress doors to where she now sat in a well-worn cushioned chair, awaiting the men she hoped could solve her problems. If all went according to plan (and her near-bottomless purse ensured as much), it would not be shame hiding deep within these walls, but more accurately an obstacle removed from the road of her ambitions. If there was anything to be learned in life, it was that money could open otherwise locked doors, and with the right name attached, the impossible could become a numeric figure.

That was the power she craved— the power she was determined to possess.

The soft click of the door alerted her to their presence as they rounded to stand behind the massive mahogany desk at the center of the room. Both men were draped in black: one in robes, the other an elegant frock, their faces and expressions identical. "Before you speak," the robed man said, moving to take a seat opposite her, "I must warn you, my child, that God does not look upon this place with favor. These halls are damned, as are they that conduct wrongful business within them. Penance must be served, either in this life or the next." He watched her with unblinking silver eyes, a slight frown on his aged and weathered lips. "Choose carefully the path you would follow, for once you begin you cannot turn back."

Brushing the soft wrinkles from her stripped linen skirts, her chin rose in a delicate and resolute manner as she smiled. "I will be saving a life, Father Elswick. My soul matters little compared to the senseless suffering of one I so greatly care for."

The other man, the brother, moved behind the priest, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You see brother," he said, giving the broad muscles a squeeze, a small grin creeping into his much darker eyes, "her intentions are pure, and justified." Moving to sit behind the imposing furniture, his fingers interlocked and rested against the polished wood as he studied the woman across from him. "What you indicated in your letter is by no means a difficult task. We have done as much before and will gladly do so again, provided you have the funds to support such an endeavor." He raised a finger as her mouth opened to interject. "I am not questioning the depths of your purse. I seek only to inform you of the facts, such as they are."

"Of course, Doctor." Leaning forward, brow lifting in intrigue, her voice a dripping whisper of wicked intent, "So long as you can keep your promise, I shall keep mine, and your hospital will continue receiving its rather large anonymous donation." Straightening again, she added, "I believe in your work. Your results are unmatched, proving the effectiveness of your methods, which is why I sit before you now." Her sincerity bled through, and they puffed their chests with pride. "Now, please," she gestured to both men with a gloved hand, "how should we proceed?" A genuine, knowing smile spread across the face of all three as they silently acknowledged their accord.

There was something to be said about a steaming hot bath in front of a warm fire. Troubles could be forgotten, the dirt and grime of the day could be replaced with the gentle fragrance of perfumed soap and comforting oils. It was a luxury gifted whenever she stayed with the Tillens, who could afford the soaps and the help required for filling the large copper basin with heated water— and Constance always seemed to know the exact moment Sarah needed one.

Though the beautifully scented water was refreshing and indeed welcome, the scalding hot soak that had made her wince on contact had failed to burn away all traces of the day. Repeatedly, Sarah let the water close over her head as she sank down, rinsing the suds off her face and scalp. What were you thinking? Tonight? Are you mad? Her lungs screamed, and reluctantly she broke the surface with a gasp, wiping the water from her eyes. She could still hear the strange, sweet sound of his voice begging for more, demanding she wish again— tonight.

"Sarah?" A gentle rap followed before the door was pushed open just a fraction, "May I come in?"

Sighing, Sarah drew her knees up; the waves her movements created danced at the edge of the basin, threatening to spill over. Her arms wrapped loosely around herself at the same moment Constance moved gracefully into the room, closing the door almost silently behind her. A stack of folded linen balanced on one arm, and the other bore an expensive, floral-painted dressing gown that glowed in the golden firelight. Suspicion quelled, and she wondered if something was hidden within the carefully folded cover.

Without a word, Constance laid each item on the generous feather-bed with great care, pointedly avoiding Sarah's disapproving frown. Just as she suspected, lying within the ornate fabric was a delicate, lace-trimmed shift. "Before you say anything," the brunette said, turning from the bed with her hands balled at her hips, "these were to be a wedding present, not charity. I don't want any protestations from you, you prideful dolt."

Sarah huffed, eyes wide, mouth agape. "I'm sorry?" She shook her head with a slight smile, "Thank you— truly. It is beautiful, though you really did not have to bother, nor do I deserve it—"

"Are you quite finished?" Grabbing one of the precisely folded sheets, she moved to the side of the tub, shaking it loose and holding at eye level. Resigning herself, Sarah stood, wringing the water from her heavy-soaked curls, and stepped from the tub into the waiting cloth. "I thought you might like to use them now," her friend said, moving to the bed to grab the first of said items. "I doubted that Mrs. Rossen would have purchased such intimate items whilst on your little outing. Unless—" Pausing, a moment before she tossed the undergarment to Sarah, grinning, "—unless, that was her plan all along: leave you with little more than rags to wear under such fine fabrics. It is ridiculous and petty and just the sort of thing that toad would do!" she exclaimed, finally releasing the cloth.

Sarah straightened the fabric across her body before shrugging into the butter soft covering; her fingers smoothed down the front, caressing the delicate and intricately embroidered threads laying against the cornflower silk. It truly was magnificent. "Only the toad didn't—"

"You mean— no!"

"Oh, she purchased several, and made quite the show of it, as though I was some starving gamin she plucked from the streets!" Tying the sash, Sarah groaned. "Richard assured me that I would see far less of her after the wedding— but somehow I doubt that." Pulling her fingers through her dripping hair, she tried to turn her mind from the looming future and all that it would bring. Were it entirely her decision, Sarah would never have encouraged Richard Lefroy's attentions and thus be free of her impending marriage to a man who valued nothing but the power he held over her. He was not a villain, nor even a bad man— simply a wealthy man that had the means to attain exactly what he wanted, and knew what it took to acquire them.

Before, the world had laid prettily at her feet, ripe for the taking. She was in no rush to see to her future; she could dance with whomever she chose, flirt behind silk printed fans, and fantasize about a husband who would be her slave in his devotion. She wanted to be deliriously happy, as she had once believed her parents were.— until her mother's remarkable skills made themselves known and her world shattered.

In five years she had gone from a fairly extravagant lifestyle of severe wealth to sifting through the broken remnants of feathers because she couldn't afford to replace a simple quill without stealing one from her employer (though Blythe would have gifted her several, had her pride not kept her from asking). All this because fiduciary responsibility was left to a broken man who would bet against rain, even as the first drops fell.

Rubbing her arms, Sarah broke from her dour reverie and sat at the delicate vanity tucked neatly beside the bed. Refusing to meet her reflection's eye, she pulled a large section of hair over her shoulder and began the soporific task of untangling the heavy curls. Wincing as the comb caught on a stubborn knot, she sighed, looking to her friend's approaching figure in the glass. "I'm sorry— I must be terrible company."

Constance leaned forward, taking the comb from her, and began picking gently through the ends, moving higher as each tangle unraveled easily at her deft touch. "You are hardly poor company. Besides, Richard will be home in less than a week, and all will be right as rain. You will be a married woman within the fortnight—"

She stopped abruptly as she noticed the reddening green eyes overwhelm a plaster-white face.

"Oh, Sarah! Please don't cry." Constance leaned forward, gripping her shoulders, in a fierce embrace. "It's really not so bad, I promise. You will be mistress of your own home— free of your father and his recklessness." Pausing to let her words settle, she kissed the tear-dampened cheek, leaning her head press against Sarah's temple. "You will be safe." The whispered words were a calming draught, "Content and perhaps one day, very happy."

Lowering her eyes, Sarah tapped the hand on her shoulder, nodding even as her lips trembled. "I am just a little overwhelmed, is all." She sniffled twice before clearing her throat and plastering what she hoped was a reassuring smile across her face. "Thank you."

"I love you— we love you, and you will always have us, no matter what the future holds." Resuming the soothing strokes through the dark strands of hair, Constance continued softly. "I know it is terrifying and exciting and too much all at once. But Richard is an amiable man, and although it is not a love match, it is a good match." With a pinched smile, she added, "You are very lucky— I know it hardly seems like it at the moment, but it could always be worse."

Nodding her acknowledgment, Sarah looked back with burdened eyes. "You're right, and I do understand how fortunate I am." Her fingers pulled the locket back and forth across the simple chain, her thoughts threatening to run away from her once more. Her ingratitude for the miraculous and undeserved marriage offer had been a common theme within her home— and now her sanctuary. It was a topic she knew all too well and quite frankly, she was tired of it. "Enough of me, please. This cannot possibly be the only subject worth discussing."

"Good heavens, I hope not!" Straightening, Constance laughed, taking up her task once more. "Perhaps a game of riddles? I came upon a rather pesky one that has me quite— vexed." Her lips curled into a coltish grin, "What say you?"

"Consult an owl," Sarah blurted before she could stop herself. Clearing her throat in a weak effort to disguise what would certainly have been boisterous laughter, she tried again, "Of course, go on."

A brow rose. "An owl?"

"I have read that they are considered to be very wise."

A soft chuckle shook her shoulders. "That very well may be, but as I myself cannot interpret hoots and screeches, I doubt one would be of any use." A cheeky brow arched, as Sarah began to giggle. "Unless you happen to know one that speaks?"

Sarah's cheeks flamed. "I'm afraid not." The lie slid through her lips as his visage flooded her mind, assaulting her with the memory of his breath tangling with the wisps curling around her ear, the hum of his voice setting her skin ablaze. Tonight.

"Pity." Constance whispered, just noticing the girl's breathless stare. Curiosity begged her to ask the myriad of questions swirling at the sight of that look. Settling for the least condemning, she asked, "Something on your mind?"

"Hmm? No— I am just a little tired, I suppose. Forgive me— what is your riddle?"

The brush hovered above the glossy curls, a quizzical pinch pulled the pink line of her lips. "Riddle? Oh, well," she cleared her throat, squaring her shoulders as she let the bristles smooth over the dark mass. "Why," she said liltingly, "after being attacked in her own home by three men, would a girl wander to the lake alone, in the middle of the night without telling a soul?"

Sarah's eyes flashed, then shot to the floor. "I d-don't know what—" A sharp tug on her hair forced her head back. It was not painful, but the point was made: Constance knew. A cannonball plunged to the pit of her stomach; a sinking feeling crushed her ribs. How could she begin to explain? Panicked, the words rushed forth, "It isn't— wasn't— what you thought—think! I only—"

"Sarah."

"I c-can explain— I only meant to—"

"Shhh." A small hand squeezed her silk-clad shoulder, and silence settled comfortably around them. "I know why you went, and I understand." Eyes shot to meet hers, wide with something akin to wonder or horror. "You wanted solitude— somewhere to think. You went to the one place you have always felt safest. I know what the lake means for you— for Blythe." Constance swallowed, searching her friend for the trust that existed between them, willing Sarah to understand her plight. "I understand— you must believe that I do. But what would Richard think, or anyone else for that matter?"

She paused, her voice hoarse, "If you go to the lake, for the love of all things good— you must tell us! What would have happened if someone— anyone else had seen? A woman alone at a secluded lake in the middle of the night is either looking for trouble or it finds her." In a heartbeat, her voice turned dark, ominous. "I cannot forbid you, and I won't, so long as you promise— no more midnight trysts."

The pair were silent, and Sarah knew if she looked up, she would find those earthy eyes narrowed and glowing. She didn't look. She couldn't, or Constance would see the deception on her face. Her heart hammered, and she worried Constance would hear that too, above the slow breaths drawn to calm herself. "I promise," she breathed, her stomach twisting on the lie.

"Thank you."

Two oaths at a cross-purpose. Sarah knew she would have to give up this strange fascination with the Goblin King and the dreams and nightmares consuming her mind. He had been right: she should have said goodbye, walked away and never wished again. The map of her life— that already had changed so drastically— had been remade over a year ago, each line carefully drawn to ensure her survival— her future. Sacrifices had been made; dreams, hopes, ambitions had all been laid by the wayside in an effort to save herself. Yet, despite knowing what exactly what she should do, Sarah couldn't help but entertain the want. The desire to act selfishly and make a decision that was entirely her own, regardless of the consequences. It was a dangerous game she played, the stakes far too high to allow for a winner.

"I do hope you feel sufficiently chastised," Constance said pointedly, a wry grin curling her lips. "My intention was not to mother you, though it appears I have failed in that regard— I came to ask a favor of you." Her countenance was sweet once more, her ire and concerns now locked away behind a genuine grin.

"Of course, anything."

"Do you suppose you might leave the shop early tomorrow, and linger awhile at the lake?"

Sarah turned abruptly on the plush-padded stool, "Constance, you only just lectured me on not going to the lake!"

"No!" She defended, a huff in her tone, her hands going to her hips. "I lectured you about not telling anyone where you were going!" Her soft chin jutted in haughty protestation, the brush poking from her fist. "I am asking you to go to the lake; therefore, I will know exactly when and where you are! Besides, you won't be going at a such a devilish hour, that threatens your reputation!"

"Unbelievable," Sarah laughed under her breath. "You are trying to be rid of me! I have overstayed my welcome." She shook her head, ersatz offense making her pout. "You want me gone for whatever duration you can manage— you heartless fiend."

"Heartless fiend?" the woman laughed, "I can assure you, you have not overstayed your welcome. I doubt that you ever could. We love you more than many—most— of our blood relations, and I hardly have to prove that fact!"

Sarah's hands lifted in easy surrender. "I'll go. You and Blythe can have the house for whatever unmentionable activities you had planned. I promise I will not return without being summoned."

Constance grew still, her eyes searching aimlessly about the room. "I think we've done quite enough of that already it would seem," she commented quietly with a beaming smile. "That is in fact what brought about the need for your absence—"

Her head snapped up and Sarah seized her hands. "You don't mean—"

Constance pressed her friend's hands, nodding excitedly with tear filled eyes. "I do! The midwife confirmed it— several times in fact." A childlike giggle bubbled forth, and she threw her arms around Sarah's neck, half laughing, half sobbing into her shoulder. "I have never carried this long, and I wanted to be sure. I couldn't let his hopes soar only to be dashed again— but the midwife assured me that all is well!" Dashing the moister from her cheeks, she said, "I am telling Blythe tomorrow and—"

"You need your privacy. Of course I will go! I am so happy for you— for you both!" Her arms wrapped mercilessly around the mother-to-be, her lips trembling as she tried to command the tears running steadfast down her cheeks. "When should I leave, and how long should I be out?"

The Goblin King was bored. Bored, irritated, and horrendously sober. Stealing a goblet from the polished silver tray brandished by invisible hands, he raised the golden liquid to his lips in a single, fluid movement. The honey mead danced across his tongue, sliding down his throat in a warm haze— but even his favorite drink wasn't enough to quell the tetchiness writhing under his skin.

She was late.

The festival of Bacchus had been well underway for several hours now, being every bit the pomp and circumstance he'd expected. The palace floor and steps shone with the gold gilt that had been liberally added to every surface for the occasion. Dim lights danced and twinkled behind nearly transparent, impossibly soft, silk gauze, moving as gently and steadily as the ocean waves on a calm summer eve. Pearls and diamonds were woven through lengths of ivy, dripping from the ceiling and chandeliers to kiss the shoulders and heads of dancers and merry-makers as they passed beneath them.

Plush, crimson pillows embroidered with shimmering threads were piled high in strategic, darkened corners and secret alcoves, giving rather effective beds for those who inevitably wished to celebrate the festival in accordance with ancient tradition. There would always be those who favored the old ways before the Faceless and the Labyrinth ever existed, the season before time.

After the guests had arrived, each having presented themselves to their host, they bled into the room, seeking the merriment promised by the decadent ambiance of the ballroom. All were dressed to outshine the other attendants— the headpieces lavish and ridiculous, the gowns cumbersome with fabric— the entire spectacle was almost laughable.

Now, however, most heads were free of their towering adornments and gaudy jewels. Shed as carelessly as old wrapping paper, hundreds of hats, tiaras, and brilliant garlands littered the floor beneath the draped windows. Feathers had fallen loose of their pins and peppered the tiles like snowflakes, becoming whirling dervishes as elaborate skirts skated past. Half the guests were wrapped up in another's company, lounging on pillows or against walls, while others continued the graceful dances at the center of it all. All the while soft sounds echoed from the alcoves as bodies writhed together.

The air was thick, suffocating— sweat tinged from both the clothed and unclothed bodies moving about the hall. A dozen or so women, in various states of dress attempted to break him from his disenchanted air. A month ago, he would gladly have taken whatever distractions he could find, but now— tonight— their attention only served to annoy him further. Woman after woman, and one man far too inebriated to remember his actions, had thrown themselves into his arms to secure a dance or two.

All that could hold his attention were the crystal orbs trapezing over his fingertips and the visions of the dark haired mortal smiling within them. Sarah. The woman doing the impossible— who dared to break her promise! The girl who had the audacity to make him wait! Again!

He was no blue-stockinged fool as to expect a hasty wish made just hours after his departure; he understood her need for secrecy, and the aid only nightfall could provide. Patience was ever his enemy, and it waned thin; his biting ire, a vice that he so rarely tempered, was a festering pox on his nerves. The swirling mass of dancers and jovial roisterers grated against his scalp, like nails dragging down stone, each serving to prove his initial instinct— to forego such festivities— was right.

A groan rolled in his throat at the approach of the last man in the Underground he wanted to see. "Good Gods, what do you want?" he sneered, gulping back a large swallow of mead, that had yet to dull his senses.

"Pleasure to see you too, your Majesty," Emere grinned, ear to ear. "You are looking rather unwell this evening— did someone piss in your mead?"

"Go to Hell."

"I would like nothing more, but where would you be without me?" The adviser stood in his handsomely tailored coat; unlike many, there was nothing elaborate on his person: his dark, white-salted hair, was tied back simply, and his face free of paints and powders. Were it not for the expensive weave of the wine dyed fabric, he could have been mistaken for a footman.

"Meldryk certainly knows how to celebrate, though it seems he is trying to outshine your Harvest Hunt. But what do I know?" He shifted on his feet, turning to survey the gilded room. "It is grand, but I will tell you earnestly, Sire, your cellars are far better stocked than his. What self-respecting King serves only honey mead at the festival of wine? And where is the port— the whiskey?"

A slight quirk twitched his lips, his eyes rolled. "You know as well as I that Meldryk abhors Goblin Whiskey, as well as Vale Wine. If he won't drink it, neither will his guests."

"That is a terrible philosophy! He's hosting the ball that celebrates drunkenness— the least that can do is provide ample choices!" Emere was frowning, "It's about providing simple pleasures."

"He has." The cantankerous blonde lifted his glass, motioning to the shadows and alcoves and the bodies that occupied them. "There are your pleasures my friend. Take them as you will, or leave." The bite in his voice was not from drunkenness, as Emere had first presumed, but something else altogether.

He had his suspicions, all centered around the frightened beauty and her dreams: the King's riddle. They had yet to discuss the wisest course of action concerning the girl and her affliction. It all bespoke of dangerous impossibilities and raised more curious questions that he couldn't fathom where to begin. He had seen the brief interludes and stolen glances, the attack, and her enraged accusation— each memory replayed within the perfect spheres.

Emere could still picture the King that fateful night as he flew through the open windows of his study, transforming the moment he breached the threshold— the powerful fae collapsing with an enraged roar. In the hours after, every book was torn violently from their mantles, ink pooled beneath broken wells and splattered over papers from dignitaries and monarchs in a tattered collage of unfettered anguish. He had not bothered with the stairs, his preferred space for delirious destruction; instead, he shattered crystal after crystal against the tapestried walls and opulently carved furniture, until sweat dripped freely from his brow and his shoulders pulsated from exhaustion.

Emere learned days later what had transpired, not by explanation, of course, but by another orb, filled with the glittering smoke of memory: the girl pressed to the table, a filthy man growling viciously in her ear, hands wandering crudely across her body, the jeers, the laughter. Though her cries were muted by the glass barrier of the window, her sobs and screams pierced the core of his battle-aged heart. Emere found himself as furious over the impossible girl's terror and humiliation as the king— made all the worse knowing that had she wished, the assailants would be dead and the nightmare would never have happened.

The Hellfire eventually ebbed, and the King resumed his sardonic demeanor, perhaps a bit more somber than before. A listlessness, the likes of which his servant had never seen, fixed itself deep within those contrasting eyes, until just hours ago, it vanished.

Another crystal told him why.

Taking a rather large sip, he grimaced at the mild flavor before a single digit rose in thought. "Why are you still here? I thought she'd promised she would—" A dark growl from beside him was confirmation enough. "Ah, so it isn't the abysmal choice of drink fouling your mood—its her." Emere's thesis was acknowledged by a pestiferous glare.

Pushing off the wall, the King spoke over his crystal goblet, his brows furrowed, "I am not discussing this here."

"Change her mind, did she? Or did a mortal catch her fancy?" Emere teased, watching the muscles tick and clench along the stubborn jaw. Hatred clung to his form like the devil clutching to the back of a sinner, seducing with doubt and lies until there was nothing but the hollow shell of the men they once were.

Crushing the priceless goblet between dove grey gloves, the king growled. Pushing past his adviser with bruising force. Eyes trained on the swell of dancers, his attention drawn fixed on the lithe beauty in billowed ivory silk just steps away. She was beautiful: raven hair piled high atop her head, laced with pearls, milk-white skin painted strategically with silver dust, daring the light to kiss the exposed skin. The woman did not feign shy innocence, her pink lips were too purposefully pouted, aa her fingers idly traced the intricate diamonds pooling at her décolletage, inviting him to look… to want.

Emere watched the silent exchange sighing with pitied understanding. The fae resembled the mortal. Deciding to intercede, Emere took three quick steps, catching the king's arm before he could meld with the roisterers and the silver woman. "Mayhap, she was detained and is waiting for a more opportune moment?" He half whispered, silently willing him to relent.

Annoyed, the king stepped nearer, his voice low. "Dawn is nearly upon us. What could have delayed her thusly? No— " He shook his head softly, pausing to stare at the glittering mosaic floor, studying it for answers. "She never intended to wish me back, Emere."

"But, Sire— your memory— she seemed so sincere—" he stopped, desperate to keep the man's attention. "Then perhaps— er— perha—" his voice fell, the words forgotten as an insidious thought took hold. His black eyes growing round as he tried to pluck the idea from his mind. It would not budge, instead latching its blackened, festering roots deeper. Pulling at the sleeve clutched under his calloused hands, Emere took the angered stare head-on. "Would they come back for her?"

A/N: I love to hear from you! Hello and thanks to my new followers. Feel free to PM me anytime! See you soon! Thank you for reading! I do hope you all enjoyed it! Please review!