DISCLAIMER: Alas, I DO NOT own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The right words spoken.
The maze comes alive.
A prize waits at its core.

Days and hours passed; or perhaps only minutes. There was no way of knowing with any certainty how long she stared into the darkness, unbalanced. Her hands were shaking, as much from the cold as the sudden disappearance of the— stranger? conniver?— who vanished into the night with naught but a whisper left tumbling about on the edge of a breeze under the chilled, blackening sky.

She was alone now— that much she was certain. Her pebbled flesh no longer sang from the very presence of his being; the pull that ached at his nearness seemed to merely simmer in his absence. Her fingers, fixed on her lips, white as alabaster, felt warm even as her face flushed. How dare he! she chided, though much too frightened to voice the words aloud, How dare he— this time with far less gusto.

The liberties he'd taken—

Had she truly allowed him such? The question was absurd; of course not! How could she have allowed such things when in the depths of sleep or even be held accountable for her actions within a dream? This is entirely his fault! He entered my dreams! He beguiled me!

He— was still a mystery to her. Everything about this man remained shrouded in shadows, cloaked under the cloud of his deceit and obscurity. He had refused his name— as well as the answers to her other questions— deliberately. As she thought, a distressing reality took hold, her nerves twitching beneath her skin— he had been sincerely, and gallingly obtuse.

It was much later when she finally made it into the quiet confides of her empty house, hiding behind the false sanctuary of her locked door, that she allowed her thoughts to wander far past the pale pretender and the peace of her fatherless home.

Two weeks of freedom welcomed her with open arms and a warm embrace— two weeks without threats of pain and abandonment, without angry curses and false accusations of one kind or another. Her mask of contented serenity and love-honed gratitude could lie safely with the rest of her feeble secrets and treasures, waiting for its permanent return. Two weeks— to Hell with her dreams and the demons laying in wake, and the man who lingered within! This was to be her reprieve, her calm before the storm of marriage and fortune crashed upon the tattered and rocky shores of her life.

Two weeks before her life would change forever.

Damn her! The crystal danced dangerously in his hands as he once again pulled the memory across its perfect surface. The surprised and frightened green eyes stared back in disbelieving horror, their innocence pulling him like a siren into the depths of a dark cavern he was sure he would never escape. "Damn her— and her eyes!" The glass sphere crushed to powder in the force of his grip.

"I thought I might find you here." A low rumbled bass spoke from the far side of the room. His countless years of service had taught him caution, but he was far too familiar with his King to be frightened. Casually, he stepped forward, taking the seat across from his enraged monarch, and leaned heavily onto the right armrest, fingers curled under his stubbled chin.

The mismatched eyes rolled up from the sparkling remains littered over his back-crimson gloves, teeth bared. He did not try to hide his actions, favoring a melodramatic show; he put his outrage on full display. Drawing another three globes from the air, he juggled them, his speed and delicacy still impressive decades later— brows arched in arrogant fire, eyes dull— bored.

Suddenly, he snarled, barreling each, one by one, past the salted-raven head on the other side of his expansive desk.

The man flinched once, a soft twitch to be out of the line of fire, watching, somewhat impressed, at the childish display before him. Intrigued, he relaxed into his chair once more; the hint of a curious smile twinkled behind his charcoaled, worn eyes. The bags beneath pulled at the scrunched corners. Though he did not look haggard, Emere Havron wore the face of a man twice his age, but his agile, if not large frame, proclaimed a different truth.

"You are my adviser— advise."

"Alright. Stop brooding away in your private chambers— there are at least ten women who need nothing more than an invitation and they would strip bare in front of their own fathers if it meant a night with you. You have a castle full of guests for the Harvest Hunt, and you remain here. It makes one wonder why?" He rubbed his chin, "Unless you are impotent— I always thought you were compensating with all the glass balls and such."

"I could bog you for that." The king said with a light smile, "I should have done it years ago."

"Aye, you should have— only an idiot would allow such insolence." He grinned, a wide, crooked smile, his butter-yellowed teeth unveiled under a thick, groomed mustache. "And you've never been known for your brains, now have you?"

"No, I suppose I haven't." He said, his demeanor suddenly crestfallen and distant. His words echoing, unwanted in the forefront of his mind: You have no idea who I am, do you? How could she have forgotten— after all that transpired? He had known she would— she must— forget the labyrinth and its secrets— and his declaration in the ruins of her triumphant challenge. It had not tempered the hope that she might remember him— and all he had promised that brave and naive girl. Somewhere, hidden under the rage and callousness, wrapped firmly in the countless lies of denial and relief, hidden away in the deepest recess of his mind, he had wished.

With a deep sigh, and a sidelong glance, the King stared, poignant and thoughtful, assessing his friend. "What would you say to a King plagued by an impossible problem?"

"Well, that depends," his head titled in contemplation, but his cool confidence never faltered. "How impossible? The Underground is entirely impossible, and yet here we sit." He gestured his hands around him to the candlelit room, his expression matter-of-fact. "You transform into an owl— the likes of which are so elusive to our kind it is a near miracle. Impossible," he said, making an absent toss of his hand, as though shooing an animal, "is a matter of perspective." Emere leaned forward now, adding import to his words, his eyes full of delighted challenge. "If something is impossible— look through the eyes of another."

Lifting his booted feet to rest on the edge of the dark, polished desk, gloved hands steepled against pouting lips, the king spoke. "Your eyes work, I'd wager?"

"Aye, Your Majesty."

"Then solve my riddle." His pale hair fell against the back of his chair as eyes closed— he looked troubled. Were Havron in a more insulting mood, he might have remarked on his worn and tortured appearance, but was wise enough to chose prudent silence over its harrowing alternative.

"A runner defeats my labyrinth and claims the prize. Years later the champion is dreaming of the thirteen hours— with no real memory of what happened, or who I am. So, how— how is one mortal defeating ancient magic?" He let the silence encompass them, hoping it would manifest as danger, not the quiet whisper daring him to act the coward.

Emere abruptly stood, moving to the sideboard that waited across the room, grabbing two glasses and the ornate decanter nestled behind it. The crystal clattered against the dark wood as he messily poured, leaving rich amber droplets littered across the glossy surface. Without so much as a nod, he tossed the drink back; never having acquired a taste for Goblin Whiskey, he grimaced as the burn died away, then poured himself another.

A gloved hand hovered over the waiting glass; he had not expected such a response. Truth be told he had expected a certain reluctance, and had even prepared a defense to prove his accusations and trepidation held some merit. It had been hard enough convincing himself that it was happening and was not, in fact, his imagination playing tricks. Any explanation he could fathom was as ridiculous and inconceivable as the blatant and impossible truth staring him in the face.

He had tried to pry a confession from her, ready to take action with whatever excuse she gave— but she had none. The girl hadn't even recognized his face other than to name it among those of her dreams. Those beautiful eyes, that had once haunted him to near madness, had been so unsure, it filled him with an overwhelming sense of guilt the moment he pried his lips from hers. It had taken more than he knew he possessed to pull himself away from her— even knowing she had no idea who and what he was, nor the history they shared.

Perhaps he had pressed her too hard. His hand wrapped firmly around her throat could hardly be misconstrued as a gentle caress or loving touch. She had been frightened, not of punishment or guilt, but of him. It stung— though it shouldn't have: he had only himself to blame. He had threatened with everything but his words— though he suspected his tone had done just that. In the five days since he left her breathless amid the trees and stars, he had come no closer to the answers he so desperately sought, and had only burdened himself with further questions— and reawakened desires.

"What would you have me do, my King?"

With a swig, the blonde finished his drink on a wince, "Observe." A light burst at his fingers, the crystal glowing warm with the visage of the girl in the glass. His eyes focused longingly at the brunette staring aimlessly into the night, apprehension aging her bright eyes. Idly, he tossed the orb into the weathered hands across from him, the image disappearing into shimmering smoke. "Observe my champion, see what I have seen— then we will talk further."

"I look forward to disappointing you." Emere bowed, and strode to the door, a lightness in his steps; though he did not understand what plagued the king, he could taste the warning in the air. It was pungent, and thick; lingering in the shadows. He had no doubts the Goblin King was troubled— nor did he deny the theory of impossibility— but he refused to submit to it. There had to be an explanation for the madness and worry— there always was. If he had to dig with his bare hands into the dry, crusted earth until each nail was jagged and torn, leaving blackened buds in their wake, he would find the answer.

"Disappoint me?"

Emere grinned, a sly brow arched in delight as he left without a backward glance. Oh, he had every intention of proving this nothing more than rabid imaginings. He was too skeptical to give way to such a foolish notion, though he wouldn't mock his friend's concern— nor did he dare. The Goblin King had seen his fair share of unfathomable circumstances— but those were different times and Havron a different man. He could count on one hand the number of times he had seen such concern over a mere idea: none had ever amounted anything of substance. But his king was no fool— an neither was he; if something impossible were happening, he was determined to stop it.

Five days.

It was a new record— though neither he, nor his wife had been keeping score— they were simply waiting for an explanation that hadn't come. Blythe had never seen her so distraught, so very out of place in a room she could, on any other day, navigate blindfolded. Yet for the fifth consecutive day, Sarah was aimlessly disheveled. The fact that Blythe saw was miraculous enough, but that he took note of each day she drifted about in a listless haze of fear and aloofness only added to their concern. Whatever pride he might have claimed for his observations died, smothered under the realization that a perfect stranger, slurring and drunk to the point of delirium, would have easily noticed the girl's silent distress.

Their relationship had changed over the years, Constance filling the void he could only hope, in his best efforts to mask for the briefest of moments, before it once again called out to her loneliness. He was more suited as her guardian, though he looked unassuming at first glance. His body was muscled and lean, housing a secret power seen by the rare, and unlucky few who crossed him— or her for that matter. While his wife was both confidant and comforter, mother and sister, providing Sarah with so much more that he ever could, he too wanted to help— to fix whatever he must to return them to some form of normalcy.

Carefully, he set the massive crate filled with parchment and thin wood, atop the others in the small, airy cellar. Blythe watched as his wife place her much smaller box on the crude wooden shelves near the door.

She rubbed her small hands into her apron, and stared about the darkened, cramped space with a soft smile, a hum trapped in her throat. "Yes, this will do quite nicely, I think. It is dark and rather secluded, there would be few interruptions— if any at all, and the noise from the shop would mask the sound." She stepped forward, her voice warming, hands on her hips as she surveyed the dust-caked windows, "If the glass remains uncleaned, one would be afforded all the privacy in the world— and the crates are certainly strong enough to bear extra weight." She brought her hand to her throat, "Oh, yes. It will be perfect."

Blythe groaned as he stepped forward, surprised at his wife's coyness— but delighted nonetheless. His heartbeat quickened from sheer want, "What were you thinking, my love?" He pressed against her back, arms wrapped around her, fingers tangled in the fabric of her skirt, another hand caressing the column of her neck.

"That this would be ideal." She turned to face him, her lips trailing along his jaw, before their mouths met in a slow, sensuous kiss. Desire coursed through his body and he couldn't help the rumble in his throat, as their mouths continued their dance, until suddenly, Constance pulled back, a coquettish grin stretching her reddened lips.

"What? What is it?" He couldn't help but return her smile.

"I had meant this place would be perfect for your mistress."

"Mistress?" he asked, taken aback by the accusation. "I don't have a mistress!"

"But of course you do— and this would be the perfect place for the two of you to be alone. That is—" A bright, toothy smile stole across her face, lighting the darkened room. "That is, if you can carry the metal beast down the stairs."

"Metal beast? The press? The press is my mistress now? That cold metal thing, why ever would you think that?" Ensuring he sounded offended, he glared at her. "No, we are on the path to become mortal enemies— I would be more willing to bring a kilted Scot to my bed!" Constance covered her face to hide her boisterous laughter, as Blythe fondly kissed her hair. "You are a tease, my wife. If we didn't have a shop to run, I would prove my point on these very crates, as you suggested."

Constance lifted her face to his, her eyes bright. "Yes, well, Sarah is waiting upstairs…"

The mention of her name turned his thoughts once again to the tormented girl under his roof. "Have you spoken with her?" he asked, his manner abrupt. "Has she told you what's wrong?"

"I haven't had the chance." She shook her head on a dismayed shrug, confused at the sudden turn. "I was hoping she could come to me but, it has been five days of this— odd behavior. I'm not certain what I should do. Do I confront her? Or continue to wait?" Turning to the door as though it might have an answer, her shoulders fell as she sighed, her voice burdened with concern. The lightness they shared only minutes before vanished in a cloud of worry and concern. "Do you think it was her father or— or—" her eyes suddenly wide, mimicking the o of her mouth, reddening with the threat of tears. "The dinner party," so soft he almost hadn't heard, the memory crashed between them. "He didn't. He wouldn't have— "

"Perhaps, you should speak with her first," he cradled her head in his hands, bringing her focus back to him. His voice calm and reassuring, as his own worries began to surface. "I think I can manage the shop alone for a few hours, whether it be today or not. Whenever you feel it is best—" he said, with an encouraging nod, that was returned with equal measure. As she turned to go, Blythe caught her hand, pulling her once more to face him. "When you go— take as long as you need."

Her work lay forgotten on her small desk, the quill and ink-well remained untouched in the upper corner. Her attention was focused on the letter, which arrived only moments ago, by way of a small, but well-fed errand boy. The scented, ivory paper, sealed with sapphire blue wax, and the contents within written with such flourish it was almost difficult to read, sent Sarah's nerves tumbling freely over the edge of her control. Admittedly, the events at the lake had taken their toll, leaving her nothing more than a hollow shell of her former self.

The elusive stranger was troubling enough, but the unwanted missive from Alberta Rossen seemed far worse, in her already unsettled mind. He was not here— had not been in nearly a week, and from what little she understood of his parting words, it was up to her to bring him back. Wish me back, and you'll get your answers. Taking a breath, she shook her head, shoving the strange thoughts away before they could manifest into something more. If she never sought him out, never wished again, the demon of her dreams would become a distant, terrifying memory.

The rustling of the stationary, far more expensive than any she could afford, brought her thoughts back to the present and the disquiet churning her stomach. Steadying herself, she unfolded the delicately embossed stationary with a groan, and sped through the letter, her presage blurring her vision, forcing her read the note once more.

Dear Miss. Williams,

In regards to the dinner party, I wanted to apologize for my appalling behavior. Though I think my intentions were quite justified considering your family's rather scandalous history, you are to be my niece soon and I do not wish to have any ill-will between us. The unfortunate status of your birth cannot be held entirely against you. I can forgive your mother's shameful past and the terrible misfortune your father has made you endure. It is what any good Christian would do. A girl of your (soon-to-be) standing must be treated better, and since Richard seems intent on the match, I must take pains— I trust you understand. One can never been too careful allowing tainted blood into a family, but I suppose we all have a black sheep in our midst.

It is with the family's best interest at heart that I give a peace-offering and request that you accompany me into town to my dressmaker, and allow me to purchase you several new gowns appropriate for the station you are aspiring to, instead of the unfortunate state you find yourself in now. I must both applaud and chastise you for not demanding my nephew spend a shilling on you, however, ink stained dresses and threadbare skirts have never been the height of fashion, no matter how pretty a face. We can't have a Lefroy dressing like a common light-skirt, now can we?

I promised my nephew I would take you under my wing and ensure you feel welcome while he is away. It is with his wishes in mind that I make this offer. My carriage will be at your home at one o'clock sharp. Surely, Mr. Tillens can spare you for one afternoon. Please don't keep the poor coachman waiting. It is very unbecoming to be late.

Until Later,
Alberta Rossen

PS. Do wear something appropriate dear— we will be in public for quite some time.

Sarah read the note again, this time out of disbelief, the knot in her stomach twisting further as her eyes swept to the clock, perched cheerfully on the wall behind her workspace. Half-past eleven— her day had begun on the wrong foot. This was to be her family— her life— and there would be no escaping it. Perhaps it would be easier to bear if she loved her intended; but love was not a luxury she could afford, nor was it a risk she was willing to take. Sarah knew her virginal beauty was the only thing of value she had left, and, as luck would have it, she needn't go to the streets of London or Bath find a buyer. It was the terrible truth she was forced to admit with every cutting, underhanded insult that pushed her to leave. Self-preservation necessitated her engagement, a fact that Richard understood all too well.

With a copper pitcher in hand, Constance walked merrily into the room, her steps light as she moved to the basin in the corner. "I think it is too nice of a morning to remain—" she stopped pouring the water the moment she caught sight of the crisp white letter crumpling between shaking hands. "Sarah? What it is? What's wrong?" Setting the water aside, she rushed to the chair where Sarah fumed.

Forcefully, Sarah thrust the paper into her hands, silently commanding her to examine its contents. Constance read over it quickly, her jaw tense as her breath hitched, "How dare she!" Balling the letter in her fist, she cursed, "She knows he is away— she wouldn't have sent it otherwise. What a horrid woman! Oh, Sarah, I am so sorry." She leaned forward, her brown hair resting solemnly on the white hand gripping her own.

Sarah hung her head, letting it land softly atop Constance's, her tears rolling hot across her nose; it took every effort to keep her shoulders from shaking with the ire and grief welling within her. The hurt constricting her heart forced a gasp of pain and humiliation through her dried, dusty lips. "Oh, Constance," she whispered, her voice thick with regret, "At times, I— I wish—" Her head shot up as her words echoed pitifully in her ears, her face suddenly white.

"Sarah?" The erratic movement catching her off guard, her eyes lifting to the distant and terrified jewels before her. She repeated the name, the response a distant and hollow silence. Grabbing the pale, soft-pointed chin, she forced Sarah's attention back to her with a gasp."Sarah, what is the matter with you?" The word filled with terrified emotion and curiosity, "What's happened?"

"Nothing." She answered far too hastily, the rickety whisper far higher than her usual pitch.

"What are you afraid of? Why can't you tell me?" Hurt poured over each word as she studied the plaster-white face staring back at her. Her fingers tightened— Sarah's mind drew back to the gloved hand that took her throat with cautious force and beguiling sensation. She flew to her feet with such speed her chair skittered back before clattering to the floor as she pushed away.

Sarah stared as if in a trance. Her eyes wide and sharp; she was disheveled, unkempt; hair pulled haphazardly into a ribbon at the base of her neck topping a poorly laced stomacher and a wrinkled skirt. Blinking furiously, she cleared her throat, regaining herself once again, as though nothing untoward had ever happened. "Unless you have need of me, I must ready myself for this afternoon's— activities."

Sarah slammed the door behind her, dropping the small parcel holding a pair of deer-skin gloves and a small assortment of ribbons onto the table with no concern for the expensive items within. Lighting a humble fire in the neglected hearth, she moved so her back was to the flames, leaning against one of the chairs surrounding a small, oval table. The warmth seeped wonderfully into her tired muscles, relieving much of their tension. Prying patched gloves from her hands, she growled into the cold, empty home that greeted her, as she tried to temper her rage, whistling loud as a forgotten tea kettle. "Wicked, vile woman!"

The fault was hers, of course; the letter made Aunt Alberta's intentions and opinions quite clear from the opening sentence. Whatever pleasantries she had expected, or hoped for, were imaginary. The crone couldn't manage a single page without belittling her— what could be expected of a personal encounter? Were it within her power, she would have declined the invitation, but Sarah had no other choice save to spend an entire afternoon, and into the evening, with the callous and demeaning villain.

The day had been an utter disaster. Alberta circled her like a wolf each time the seamstress pulled back the thick curtains to display a new garment or fabric, explaining in great detail her every fault. Each insult biting worse than the last, it hadn't taken long before her tears became a permanent fixture at the brim of her eyes, a lump scratching her throat. Sarah learned quickly to bite her tongue. The old woman's enjoyment of her discomfort was much too obvious, and she was determined not to give her any more pleasure than she absolutely must.

Against her better judgment, she allowed her thoughts to wander, leading her down the dangerous path to the lake, and the man waiting in the shadows— never venturing too far, for fear of what her subconscious might do, or say. If she was, even in the smallest measurement, responsible for his sudden and unwanted appearance, Sarah would not allow his return. The memories and questions swirling wildly in her mind were enough to drown out the hateful and cruel words, hidden beneath the woman's soft tones and false smiles.

With pleasure in her voice, the barbarous creature had expressed a desire for another outing in the near future, and Sarah could only nod in horrified agreement. Alberta's cat-caught-the-canary smile solidified all Sarah's fears, as she stepped frantically out of the large coach into the twilight. It took every ounce of strength Sarah possessed to maintain a shred of dignity and composure as she walked the cobbled path to her door. The woman wanted her to suffer, she was sure of it, and while Richard was gone, the task became much easier.

A loud banging broke her thoughts with a start, pulling her back to the empty kitchen that surrounded her, but she made no move to answer. The hour was late, and she was in too foul a disposition to accept callers. Glancing idly over the table, a frustrated moan curled her lips— she had forgotten her newly acquired, (and very much hated) bergère hat.

She nearly screamed as another knock echoed down the hall. God-in-Heaven! Will I ever be free of that woman?! Her eyes widened as she took in several steadying breaths, jaw clenched so tightly her teeth were sure to crack. The dragon could wait for a change, for Sarah was in no mood to indulge her further. She marched down the hall with aching slowness, every footfall solidifying her hatred for the hideous tam that brought the vicious beast to her door. Pausing to smooth out her dress as best she could, another knock echoed much louder than the first. Sighing in defeat, Sarah quickly threw the large door open, her voice dry and bitter.

"Aunt Alberta, forgive me—"

Silhouetted by the burnt oranges of the setting sun, three men stared, unsurprised by her confusion, The taller of the them leaned heavily into the door frame, his lips revealed a brown, gapped grin— her stomach churned in warning. His voice was as oily as the thin, string hair poking from underneath a tattered, graying bicorne, "It ain't Aunt Alber'a, love."

A/N: Thank you for reading! I am so sorry it took me so long to write this chapter. We went on vacation and then moved two days after we got home. Needless to say packing and unpacking took up a lot of my time, however we are now basically settled and I will NEVER purposefully make you wait that long again! Thank you so much for reading and to those who review. I love hearing what you think, and I love talking about this story so feel free to message me or review about any questions and theories you may have. Until next chapter… adieu!