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

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Snickers echo in the dark.
What's said is said.
The crib falls silent.

The letter had come by way of a midnight messenger—a young man no older than fifteen, sporting muddied boots, a wide-brimmed hat a size too big, and gloves a size too small. Both the boy and the beast that had carried him were panting and breathless as they stood in the evening mist, awaiting the master of the house.

Richard Lefroy had been enjoying a soothing nightcap before the fire when the thunderous, urgent hammering began echoing through the main hall. Admittedly, his first inclination had been to ignore the missive altogether—until the pound became incessant, frantic, wild.

A disheveled servant carried a haphazardly folded letter on a small silver tray. It was clear the sender had intended the parchment to resemble a common rectangle or square, but the resulting figure had far too many corners and edges to be classified thusly.

A dark red seal, curiously bearing the Church's signet, and far too many errant splotches of wax, held the ugly thing together—only just. Perhaps the aging priest had died, but even the death of the clergy would not send a rider blazing into the night to beat upon his door. He was an influential man to be sure, but even he was not connected well enough to merit such reports.

Dumbfounded by the mysterious letter in his hands, Richard broke the fragile seal. He made several attempts to decipher the harsh scrawling splattered across the page. The penmanship left something to be desired, and the ink had smudged in some places and smeared beyond legibility in others, as though the sender had forgone blotting and sanding in their haste. Once Richard understood the contents, he read it again—and again.

Mr. Lefroy

I am writing to inform you of the disturbing events that took place yesterday evening concerning Miss. Sarah Williams.

First, allow me to assure you that she is well taken care of and has sustained no great injuries to her person; however, that does not mean she escaped unharmed. Miss. Williams is currently under the strict and loving care of Mr. And Mrs. Tillens, who offered her their home until you and her father return.

Last night around sunset, three men stormed their way into the Williams' home in an attempt to collect an outstanding debt. It soon became clear there was no money and nothing of value in the home, and the trio demanded payment and attempted to take Miss. Williams by force, claiming that she could be considered sufficient recompense. Mr. Tillens happened upon the unfortunate scene when he came to collect her and sent them on their way before any deplorable acts were committed.

To be blunt, the men had every intention of abusing your bride. They threatened her, wounded her, and were it not for their overwhelming greed and the fact you would never pay what was owed should they permanently harm her, they would have carried out their heinous crimes. As I understand it, they took her gown as a token of repayment and a promise to "return for the rest."

Rest assured, Miss. Williams remains pure. Please take comfort in the knowledge that she was neither spoiled nor ruined. Mr. Tillens and I have taken great pains to ensure that this matter was kept quiet. Discretion is the paramount of my profession, after all. I can give you my personal guarantee that none, save those involved, are aware of the horrific and rather scandalous incident.

Forgive me for sending such upsetting news; however, I felt it could not wait another minute. I felt the news would be best handled by yourself as opposed to Mr. Williams— on this issue I think we can both agree.

I ask that you return posthaste, wherein we can discuss the matter further.

Safe travels,
Simon Elswick

He had left before sunrise.

Bloodied and breathless, the Goblin King collapsed into the plush carpet of his study; his body screamed in agony as he lay twitching in a slow creeping pool of warm crimson. Every blink, every breath was raw anguish—burning, tearing, throbbing. His eyes watered from the pain, and he swallowed back more than a few groans as he put pressure on his ribs, hoping to hold them in place as he attempted to breathe. What had she done to him?

In his transformations, even in the beginning when his bones first shifted and cracked, and his muscles shredded and waned, there was only ever discomfort and extreme pressure. The hounds of Hell could not cause such suffering—dragging a soul thrashing and screaming by the throat into the fiery pit of the ashen abyss—as he felt now, lying broken in his own blood.

A terrible sound echoed against the books and paintings lining the walls of his sanctuary—even the roaring fire seemed to tremble in quaking agitation. Pounding hammered in his skull as the sound continued to pummel and beat against every surface like thundering applause. The dancing flames became too bright; blackness crept along the edges of his vision as the noise boomed and faded all at once.

Wood splintered as the door burst from its hinges, throwing a panicked adviser into the room with a cry. Emere's heart stopped at the sight of the king writhing weakly, his clothes a tattered mess of soaking rags on the blood-blackened floor. His lungs were labored from the wretched screaming that frayed his vocal chords, thundering against the stones. It was a good sign, if there were any to be had, that the poor man could still breathe amid the crucifying pain of his agonies.

Emere's hands were soaked as he ascertained the full extent of the king's injuries. Skin was stretched and shredded, angry raw muscles and bone protruded beneath the blood, and sweat coated his fevered flesh—the likes of which he had never seen in all his years on the battlefield. Swords and arrows did not cause such abhorrent mutilation as what lay before him, and for the first time in a long while, the war-hardened adviser was frightened.

The girl was to blame—he was certain of it—but how and why was the greater mystery. She was mortal. She possessed no powers, nor stature to do such damage to a normal man, least of all the most powerful king in the Underground.

How could one girl cause so much trouble?

Sarah was hiding something.

Even in the dark, her stance was far too rigid—her body too still. The timbre of his name on her lips had been wrong. As the distance closed between them, the soft light of his lantern brushed gently over her face, illuminating her tear-burned, beryl eyes. The shadows played against her trembling lips, and he wondered how much of her shivering was due to the ever growing cold.

His pet was frightened.

One could hardly blame her—a woman alone under the cover of night at a secluded lake was inviting trouble. A secret? A lover, perhaps? He growled at the thought, then dismissed it just as quickly. Sarah Williams was nothing, if not loyal. The woman was simple, soft-spoken, vulnerable—it was as much her nature to stray from the rules of society as it was for her father's to keep them.

"Hello, pet." Her eyes flashed to his—a fire he had never seen blazed within them. A moment later, the look was gone, replaced with the horrified expression of before. Frowning, Richard's brow curled as he studied her from the corner of his eye. Curious, he took a step forward, extending his hand to her as though she were a wounded animal he meant to tame.

Sarah retreated a single step, and it raise his curiosity to new heights. Unable to resist, Richard repeated the movement, and again she moved away. "Sarah," he began, coaxing her like a caged bird. No longer touched by the glow of the lantern, her features were shrouded in a blanket of darkness as her head hung low, out of the reach of the moon.

"I came as swiftly as I was able," Richard sternly assured her. "Father Elswick was kind enough to send word of your—" His feet and his words stopped short. She was close enough he could see the water pooled against the emerald of her eyes, as they burned red and wild. He had never seen her so distraught—so on edge.

Keen, dark eyes skipped over her troubled face, over her figure, searching for any sign that would give way to the secret her lips refused to release. Confusion tainted his thoughts, the letter told the tale of a traumatized and distraught woman, and yet here she stood on the shores of a secluded lake utterly alone. Curious indeed.

Lefroy studied her face— it was clear her mind was trapped thousands of miles away while her body remained anchored to the pebbled shore. Sarah might have been disturbed by the assault, but intuition told him this was something entirely different. She was not quite as scared as he had been lead to believe, at least not concerning her attack. And yet there was true, unmistakable terror in her eyes. It was an odd sort of mystery demanding to be solved, and Richard was more than willing to oblige.

Closing the gap, he clasped her upper arms in a stern, commanding grip. "Sarah!" he shouted, giving her a single shake that made her teeth click. "Damn it, woman! Look at me!"

Her delicate brow wrinkled as she blinked, taken aback at the glaring frown of her fiancé. Sarah gasped, but said nothing. Her throat was tight with guilt, and her stomach sick with worry as her tears began anew.

"I-I-" She fell against his chest with a sob, her shoulders shaking from the force as her tears soaked into his elegant frock. Try as she might, she couldn't focus on the man embracing her; too consumed with the memory of the screaming owl she had unwittingly wished away. What have I done?!

Unseen by the weeping woman in his arms, Richard's jaw clenched, teeth bared, as he fought against the urge to rage at her. He had no use for her senseless weeping, and her mumbled ramblings breathed into the hand-embroidered silk at his chest. He wanted answers, not this. Disappointment did not sit well with him, but he would wait— bide his time while she unleashed the torrent of emotions over the dam of her control.

He was good at waiting.

As he predicted, her sobs ebbed into sad hiccups of breath as she fought to regain her composure. He half-heartedly petted her hair in an effort to soothe her back into her usual spirits, then moved so that his mouth hovered just above the shell of her ear. "I cannot help you, pet, if you do not tell me what happened."

There was an unmistakable warning in his tone— he wanted answers, but what could she say that would not damn her? Sarah believed in honesty— she had seen firsthand what deceit could do to a man, but what would the truth get her?

Reluctant as she was to follow down the twisted path of her father, Sarah drew in a breath. Not for the first time since the blonde stranger appeared before her, and certainly not the last, she lied. "You frightened me." It was pathetic, but all she could think to say. "I expected Blythe and Constance— not a lone figure—" she stopped, not wanting to giver herself away, as her voice grew breathless. The Goblin King called her a poor liar— she prayed he was wrong.

Lifting her head, she revealed the blotched, tear-swollen mess of herself for his scrutiny, terrified he would see through her façade. "Forgive my foolishness. I find I am rather skittish as of late—" her voice faded off with a weak, airy laugh, her eyes never quite meeting his.

That was a lie.

Richard tilted her chin with a gentle fingertip, "I can keep you safe— if you would only trust me."

He leaned forward, his expression expectant as moved his mouth closer to hers, only to have his lips press firm against her cheek as she turned.

A muscle near his nose twitched, before his cold, bare hands cupped her jaw, stroking idly along her cheeks. His lips flattened against hers with bruising force, his anger and worry pouring from his flesh into hers as he continued his desperate assault.

Sarah did not respond.

Ten days ago, the touch of his lips against hers would have stoked the tiniest flame within her— not quite enough to excite her senses and send her heartbeat skyward, like a horse sprinting into the breeze, but at the very least it would warm her from within. His lips would coax a crimson blush up her neck, that flared across her cheeks as she reacted to his the feel of his lips on hers. Ten days ago, his nearness would have been welcomed.

Tonight it was not.

Sensing her aloofness, Richard sneered against her mouth, biting down onto the tender flesh with an angry growl. She winced, and he straightened, his almost-black eyes surveying the forlorn scene around him with a disapproving glare.

"This is where you wander off to." It was not a question. "Tell me, just how long have you been sequestering yourself away to—" Richard frowned, looking for the right words to describe the hardly-picturesque hideout, "—to this place?" He finished as though the words pained him.

Stepping back from his oppressing proximity, she whispered mechanically. "We discovered it as children." Her green eyes caressed the evening scene with loving eyes, her sentimentality tugged at her heart-strings. "I've hardly spent a day away since."

Scoffing, his lips pursed as he turned about, as though another viewing might change his opinion. It did not. The darkness that had settled over the night, obscured whatever beauty may have lingered within her treasured secret. "Not anymore."Richard said with an air of finality as his chest puffed in arrogant objection. "No wife of mine will be caught cavorting in such a cloistered hallow as this."

His eyes found hers, and he lifted the light once more so she might see the seriousness in his features. "You will not come here again—I forbid it. I cannot believe Blythe has been so asinine as to allow you to come here alone after what happened! God knows what manner of fiends could be lurking in the dark."

"You can't be serious?"

"I am quite sincere." Her fiancé glowered down at her, the austere expression wrinkling his brow. "Why in God's name would I allow my wife to return here of all places? What if you were found?"

Unable to stop herself, Sarah stepped back from him, barking a dark laugh of aporetic gall. "No. No—you cannot take this place from me!" The anger fueling her words faded into a doleful, breathless whisper. "Please, you can't."

Had the light not been lifted so near his face, the sudden darkening of his muddied eyes would have gone unnoticed—but Sarah saw, and her breath caught.

"I can, and I will." Richard's voice remained cool and sharp as a blade as he leaned imperceptibly closer. "Now, the Tillens are expecting your swift return, and we have tarried here quite long enough. Shall we?" He extended his free arm, waiting poised for her acceptance as though he expected nothing less.

Wrinkling her delicate nose, Sarah side-stepped him, burying her arms within the folds of her cloak as though they might shield her from his touch. "Please, you don't understand what it means to me—to Blythe and Constance!" Her eyes darted everywhere at once, desperate to find anything that might dissuade him, but her frantic mind could settle on nothing to help her cause. "Please! I beg you—"

Richard turned roughly on his heel, grabbing her arm with crushing force. A sharp wail pierced the frigid night air as she stumbled forward, her free palm flattening against his chest. "I've no intention of hurting you, Sarah. Do not give me reason to."

Forcing a discontented breath from his lungs, Lefroy straightened, rolling his neck, the vertebrae crackling noisily under his skin. He watched as the petrified woman clutching at his lapels rapidly blinked the water from her eyes, struggling to grasp his words and swallow the protestations trapped on her tongue.

"You are mine." Those three words damned her. Growling viciously near her ear, his breath bit against her icy flesh, as his fingers dug deeper into her wool-encased flesh. "A wife is expected to honor and obey." He pulled back the faintest breath, his eyes daring her to argue. She didn't. "Have I made myself clear?"

Sarah visibly trembled as the world spun with sickening speed—her vision blurred from the pain and terror rising against her throat. Her heart burned painfully behind her ribs, the wild tattoo making her nauseous. Swallowing hard, she nodded silently, her salty tears rolling into the crest of her lips.

The faint murmur of warning she had ignored, drowned out by the voice of reason and self-preservation, began howling—screaming—in the recess of her mind, demanding her attention. What have I agreed to? What choice do I have—the poorhouse? Debtors prison? The streets?

Had she traded one Hell for another?

Uncertainty was a plague—a sickness—formed when a single idea became infected by doubt, festering until every thought was contaminated with overwhelming paranoia and dread. It was a disease of the mind that, once contracted, was nearly impossible to ignore and harder still to cure.

Constance knew this, and yet she still tried to rid her mind of the parasite worming its way through her crumbling walls of certainty. She couldn't stifle the pestiferous unease nagging at her nerves. It was silly to be worked up over something she could neither place nor explain.

She was far too sensible—too rational for illogical worry.

The rather serendipitous appearance of the priest whilst crossing beside the rectory was under no circumstances strange or unusual. The swift and rather surprising return of Richard Lefroy was not altogether remarkable after the unfortunate events surrounding the woman that connected them. There was nothing untoward about either situation, yet Constance could not shake the fog laden with augur from clouding her better judgment.

But as the night wore on, the sensation only worsened. Even her sleep had not been left wholly undisturbed as she tossed and turned until the sun's rays stretched their golden fingers to paint the world in soothing light. Try as she might, Constance could not surrender to sleep, save for a few stolen minutes when the weight of her eyes was too strong; then, she dreamt fragmented dreams filled with worry and dread until she awoke with a start. She listened as hour after hour ticked away, their melodic chimes mocking her as slumber flitted just out of reach.

Irascible, Constance forwent any notion of sleep, choosing instead to sit by the humble fire with the curtains drawn, basking in that perfect morning glow. As she sat before the stout hearth, attempting to quell her pestiferous mood, the back of her neck continued to prickle with awareness—of what, she still could not say. Her patience had worn thin as she lowered the intricate needlepoint to her lap and allowed her eyes to close. Her weariness was equal parts sleeplessness and the fatigue of genuine distress.

What have I to be worried about?

Distractedly, she brushed her hand across the curve of her ever-rounding stomach, her mind wandering. Constance knew, the way all mothers inexplicably know, that the small life growing inside her was safe—though she could not explain that either. If it wasn't the babe—Sarah.

But why?

Had it been wrong to allow Sarah's fiancé to bring her safely home after everything that had transpired? No, of course not! She was safe with Richard! Constance reassured herself, plucking up her work and resuming her arduous task. The act of plunging the needle through the fabric over and over as the image grew more distinct lulled her away from her troubles. Consumed with the meticulous motions and worn from a lack of sleep, she did not hear the approaching footsteps, nor the door as it creaked open on the hinges.

"You told him."

With a shriek, Constance jumped, the needle pricking the tender pad of her thumb. Suckling the wound, she turned to face the girl lurking in the open doorway. Red rimmed, mossy eyes swam above dark purple pools of exhaustion, surrounded by white flesh, marred only by ruddy tear-stained cheeks. The mass of her curls hung haphazardly down her back in a mess from the torrent of her tortured sleep. She had never looked worse.

"Sarah! You startled me." Clearing her throat with a chuckle, Constance motioned to the seat opposite her with a gentle smile. "Please, join me."

The ghost of a woman clung to the door frame, her fingers clutching at the molding with Herculean force. Long, slow blinks accompanied her trembling breaths as she whimpered almost silently, her head dropping softly to rest upon her hand. "You told him." The broken whisper barely reached her ears, uttered with such tenebrose heartbreak, Constance felt ill.

"Who?" Searching her brain, she tried to make sense of what she heard. "Told who, what?" Without warning, her thoughts returned to the terrible dread that had driven her from the comfort of her bed. What had she done to make the poor girl so laconic and dolor? Had Richard done something untoward? Richard! Suddenly, she understood—the Who was Richard!

"You mean Richard? Has he done something?" Bark-brown eyes grew round, her tiredness vanished instantly. "What happened, Sarah?" Constance asked, a deep frown creasing her forehead severely.

Anger, hurt, and betrayal flashed against Sarah's puffed and reddened eyes before—with a blink—it was gone, replaced with a terrible emotionless gaze. "Why did you not come for me?" The hard swallow at her slender throat was the only sign of her distress as she remained a statue at the door. "Why send him?"

"We did come for you. Blythe and I were on our way when we happened upon both men," the woman defended quickly. "They were looking for you."

Not a word escaped Sarah's lips, red and raw from the hours she spend gnawing on them in her worry. Yet her face divulged what her voice would not say; the twitch in her nostril, the fast clench of her jaw, and the slight narrowing of her swollen lids was proof enough she did not believe the woman's short explanation.

"Father Elswick sent word to Mr. Lefroy after what happened—he rushed back as swiftly as his horse would carry him," the gravid woman replied sharply, annoyed that her word was being unduly questioned. "He rushed back for you." Pursing her lips, she looked away, willing the tetchiness to subside before she continued. There was no reason for her to be so on edge, and yet, she was.

"We happened first upon Father Elswick as we passed the cemetery. He inquired after you, explaining that he had written Mr. Lefroy about the attack and urged that he return home." Constance had hoped her tone would be less brusque, but even to her own ears, it was involuntarily severe and caustic. "When Lefroy discovered our home was empty, presumably because we had left to retrieve you, he went straight to the rectory. You can imagine the rest."

After a moment, her strong shoulders fell and her eyes closed. "He was so worried—we only wanted to help. From what I understand of it, Elswick painted a rather descriptive picture of your attack and Richard was led to believe you to be in far worse condition than was true."

Her lips turned down in a disapproving frown; her eyes opened as her head lifted slightly. "I am not sure it was appropriate for the priest to pen such a letter—but I suppose he was doing what he thought was best. Neither Blythe nor myself thought to do so." Sighing, she set her features again into that easy, apologetic grin. "The man was near begging when we finally told him where and how to find you. He is your husband, I thought—"

"He is not my husband!" Sarah hollered, moving into the room. Fresh tears streaked down her cheeks as her lips trembled furiously. "He is not—" Gasping as her breaths became ragged pants of heated rage, she sniffed, her eyes squeezed painfully as she gritted her teeth. "Not yet." It was nearly inaudible, a defeated breath as the world seemed to crush her beneath it.

She was not Sarah Lefroy—not yet. Eight days remained before her life ended and a new, stranger future began. It had seemed so far away and so very near all at once, like a suffocating void with no floor and walls that touched the clouds of Heaven and the brimstone of Hell. The waning fortnight had been the sweetest torture she could never have imagined, and never wanted to forget—the barest scrap of crusted bread to a dying man.

Nausea choked her as she waded through the inevitability of the future she had secured, laid carefully brick by brick until, at long last, the end of the road rose up to meet her. Now suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to destroy it. I cannot do this! Her hand clutched to her breast, her ululations silent. No! NO! I cannot do this!

Constance had shifted to face her more fully, confusion plastered across her delicate features. Guilt curdled in the pit of her stomach, but she pushed it aside with a heavy heart. There was more to this than an unwanted visitor at the lake, but had her life depended upon the answer, she would have died searching for it. What are you hiding, Sarah?

White-knuckled, Sarah pushed her fist to her mouth as she tried to quell the hurricane coursing through her veins, threatening to burst the pathetic dam of her control. She was dizzy and far too warm as a terrible chill snaked up her spine, making her shiver painfully where she stood. It was all too much! I cannot do this! I can't! Plangent wheezes forced her to her knees, her vision swimming as she vehemently fought to regain command. She was a child caught in a storm as wave after perilous wave dragged her further beneath the raging depths of her future.

"Sarah!" Constance was at her side the moment her limbs touched the floor, her arms wrapped protectively around Sarah's slight, trembling frame. Rocking her to and fro like a screaming infant, she cooed hushed words as a balm to her wounded heart. Over and over she repeated the gentle phrases as she smoothed the wild tendrils away from the weeping girl's face. "I am sorry I told Richard about the lake—"

"He took it," Sarah mumbled flatly, her voice weak and rasped.

Caught unawares, Constance blinked rapidly, her eyes falling to stare at the mound of curls resting beneath her chin. "He took what, dear?" Her hand resumed the soporific strokes as the girl began to calm, leaning more heavily against her.

Obdurate, and almost impersonal, the hoarse voice scratched a short reply. "The lake. Richard took it from me." A tremble began at the back of her words. "He has forbidden me to return." There were no tears, but her eyes burned at the memory. A sharp pinprick ached in her breast at the loss of her beloved sanctuary and the memories made on the pebbled shore.

It's no less than you deserve— not after what you did. The thought came unbidden, shocking and unwelcome into her aching mind. The voice a sinister version of her own, like a snake sinking its poison deep within her veins. This is the punishment for your carelessness. You hurt him so that your engagement would hold true. You alone are to blame!

"He forbade the lake, are you sure? Perhaps you misheard—"

"No." Sarah was firm. I cannot do this, I— violently she shook the thought away as she had hundreds of times before. You can and you will. Swallowing thick, she resisted the urge to touch the tender, black and green flesh his fingers had marked with their warning. "No, Constance, he was quite clear. 'No wife of mine will be caught cavorting here.' I could not change his mind."

Constance tried to reply, her lips forming soundless words thrice over before she found her voice, quiet as it was. "I am sorry—this is all my fault. We should have come for you ourselves." Her head shook as if she couldn't believe it herself. Her decision to include Lefroy in their secret rendezvous point had seemed so harmless only hours before. How could she have known it would all turn sour?

But she had known, hadn't she?

That strange sense of foreboding that even still she could not shake from her entirely had been her warning, and she had pushed it aside, claiming it to mean nothing at all. "I am sorry." She placed a kiss against the tangled curls before pulling her closer into her palliating embrace.

Sarah raised her head, just enough so that her green eyes could look squarely into those compassionate, apologetic ones beside her. "Thank you." She gave a wan smile, the barest lightness lifting her heart, but not quite enough to quell the overwhelming darkness stabbing at her heart.

The heavy expression did not go unnoticed, nor did the pleading hidden deep within those green eyes. The girl was desperate to spill the putrid secrets boiling within her; the mendacious occults threatened to destroy her from the inside out. "There is something else, isn't there?" This was no sibilated thought spoken on the whims of fancy, but honest and pure conviction bleeding into the question. "Please, tell me."

Constance watched the countless emotions swell and contort the disarrayed and crumpled brunette in her embrace. Sarah was hiding something. With newfound scrutiny, Constance looked at her—truly looked—and suddenly she saw: not what the girl was hiding, but the effects of the secret she was resolute to keep. The once bright green, jewel-like eyes were not hovering above purple bruises of fatigue from one single night without sleep. No, this was the building crescendo of repeated nightly disruptions.

The dreams. When had she last heard her speak of the alluring stranger with strange eyes? Were her dreams still haunted by the man that stole her breath with every retelling, or had the dreams changed somehow? Where she was captivated by intrigue and fascination, was she now scurrilous and disturbed?

"Whatever it is, I shan't tell a soul."

More than anything Sarah wanted to confess—to confide in Constance all that had transpired in the brief window of Richard's absence. Temptation, far different than that which surrounded the Goblin King, teased at her illogical, tumultuous imaginings, promising rain to the desolate drought of her newly clandestine existence.

Suppressing the drubbing need to bare all, Sarah closed her eyes and nearly cried out as the image of the screaming, wounded owl flashed in her mind. The howl of his cries terrorized her ears, as though he was there beside her, the insidious snapping of bones the final note in the symphony of her memories.

The sound of Constance's continued reassurances pulled Sarah from the brink of panic and hysteria, locking them away within the walls of her subconscious. Calming, the torrent of her thoughts slowed as logic took hold. The wish had been an accident—how was she to know it would rip him away from her? Sarah never meant to hurt the ameliorating man that had changed her life with his miraculous arrival, he had to believe that. She hoped he would.

"I do trust you," Sarah finally answered, her eyes fixed on the intricate Persian rug laying beneath her. Resolve settled over her, soothing the rampant beating of her heart to its usual tattoo. "There is nothing more to tell." Her life would resume its course; her two weeks of freedom had come to an abrupt and bitter end. "Please forgive my hysterics—I accepted Richard's proposal and the conditions therein. It is as you've said, it could be much worse." Lifting her chin, she spoke resolutely: "I made my bed, and now I must lie in it."

Hours later, alone in her beautiful, borrowed bed, Sarah allowed her thoughts to drift and linger on the Goblin King—the mystery from her dreams whom she had pleaded and cursed in her darkest moments, and thought of in all other—the man who had kissed away her pain and awoken a strength in her she had never known existed.

The impossible man with mismatched eyes was the secret she could not afford to lose.

Sarah would never tell a soul about the striking blonde and the lakeside visits. Those memories would be kept within an imagined hat-box, locked deep within her mind where no one would ever find them—where no one could dare to look.

As the last of her tears slipped silently down her cheeks, dampening the down pillow tucked beneath her head, Sarah offered a silent prayer for the wounded man she had foolishly wished away.

The man she could never wish back.

A/N: Tell me what you all think! I am very excited for where this is going! Again thanks to my beta, Nika's Quill. She is amazing! Please review! See you all soon!