DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Thirteen…
Twelve…
Eleven…Ten
Curious.
It was the only word appropriate to the girl hunched over the parchment, not thirty feet from his own workspace. Blythe couldn't help but watch her. She was neither listless, nor woolly, and yet her silence screamed around the room as she continued, head bowed, stalwart and sedulous. Even from his vantage point, seeing only her profile, the heavy bruises of exhaustion and weariness were evident beneath her mossy eyes.
Had she still not been sleeping?
Though both her father and fiancé had returned from their illustrious retreat full of godforsaken indulgences, Sarah had yet to remove herself from the borrowed bedroom at the end of his hall— and he was glad for it. Neither he nor his wife held any grievances at her continued presence; in fact, they rather preferred her in their home than the misery of her own.
An operose sigh escaped the girl in question as she swiped her hand across her brow, pushing the curling wisps away. That unremarkable motion drew his eyes to her small— clean— hands. Where were the stains so often left behind from her work? Where were the speckles and spots that always made their way into her lap? Not that wanted her a mess of feathers and ink— but the lack of such was curious. Were he someone— anyone— else, he would have given little thought to her sudden pertinacity, and simply been grateful for her expounded efforts. But he was worried— or at the very least, bothered by that curious behavior.
Unsure of himself and the best course of action to ease his concern, Blythe rubbed his hands free of the slick oil left from the press, his focus still locked on Sarah. He took notice of the untouched tray waiting atop the pending stack marking the corner of her desk— he couldn't recall the last time he had seen her eat. In five days, she had dined with them only once, electing instead to take meals alone, complaining of headaches or fatigue, or attending to prior obligations. The majority of her free hours were divided between Mr. Lefroy and the demands of his vicious, vindictive aunt. The Tillens couldn't have seen her less had they arranged it themselves.
Frowning, Blythe silently cursed his own neglect and stupidity. Sarah was wasting away under his very roof and he had only now taken notice!
How could he have been so blind?
True, he had observed her standoffish behavior as well as her diffidence, but even now he would be hard pressed not to attribute it to premarital nervousness. She was, if one were to be ruthlessly trenchant, selling her beauty— her virtue— to pay her father's considerable debts, though Blythe would never be so crass to admit such a thing. She should be terrified, and what could he say to assuage her fears— there is more to life than love and happiness? He scoffed at the thought.
Glancing away from the forlorn woman still studiously bowed over her desk, Blythe scrubbed a hand down his face as his lips pursed. Her despondency had come in quick succession to Lefroy's return and his banning of her only sanctuary. That command had destroyed all hope of an amorous match between them. Though Sarah had never claimed an attachment to her fiancé, Blythe had seen a certain warmth growing with determined slowness between them, and try as he might, he couldn't help the hope bubbling in his chest at the idea of her happiness.
But Sarah was not happy.
She was miserable. She was a shell of the woman, the sister he loved dearly, and deep within his gut, whispering at the back of his mind was a warning he did not understand. He was looking through a dense fog to catch the moon above the horizon, reading through smudged and broken spectacles. The picture, the words, unclear no matter how hard he stared.
He was certain only of his trepidation.
Nothing lasts forever— Sarah will make her own happiness, Blythe promised himself as he plodded across the room. This odd feeling, this foreboding was simply the product of his brotherly concern, nothing more. Soon enough, after the Shriving and consequently the wedding, his world would lose the overwhelming sense of unease and dread.
Delicious heat rained through her like falling stars as his lips mapped the path from the hallow of her throat to the tender flesh behind her ear. He nibbled and tasted— teased until she gasped, trembling both hot and cold. Her palms pressed firm against his chest her fingers curling and loosing with each breath. The pressure against his frame ebbed and swelled as her mind debated pushing him away or dragging him nearer still.
"Sarah…" he murmured against her heated flesh. Shuddering under his relentless ministrations, all coherent thought fled the instant his lips claimed hers once more, and she dared not move lest she break the spell. Instead, she succumbed to the excruciatingly sweet taste of his passion as their kiss deepened. His tongue, soft and velvet, was warm as his hands cupped her face restricting her movements to suit his desire. Tension built within her like a powerful storm over the ocean, the electric tingle racing throughout her limbs, curling her toes as she whimpered against him.
A brush of air danced across her face as he pulled back. Her body moved to follow, only to be stopped by the reverent touch of his forehead to hers. A gentle puff of breathy laughter escaped her kiss-swollen lips as she failed to bite back a shy smile. Peaking up through her lashes, her eyes swam with want, locked with the mismatched pools that weakened her knees and stole her breath.
The fingers caressing the delicate tendrils of hair at the nape of her neck grew bold, strong. Rough. The straight edge of his nails dug into the sensitive flesh with stinging, bruising force. She whimpered and tried to pull away, but he was too close, too strong. Tighter and tighter he dug into her skin, threatening to draw blood.
"Stop!" She cried, her tears burning a hot path down her cheeks as she struggled to be free of his cruel grip. "Please! Please!" she sobbed, her eyes shooting back to his face, pleading for reprieve—only to be met with flashes of red. Blood.
He was covered in the warm, metallic substance that seemed to percolate from everywhere and nowhere, dripping into the pool at his feet. The king released her suddenly, and she stumbled back as he fell to his knees clutching her skirts within his bloodied grasp. Snarling, he pulled the heavy cloth to his face, smearing his lifeblood into the seams.
Helpless, her hand flew to her mouth in a vain attempt to stifle her cries as the king ululated his agony. "WHY?!" he bellowed. Never had a more plangent question been asked, nor with such dolor. "SARAH, WHY?!"
A loud crack ripped against the air. The material between his hands tore—his body convulsed as he shrieked against the pain, his back bowed, the veins strained at his neck, every sinew pulled taut like marble. He twitched then writhed on the earth, every move painted more of his blood beneath him. His muscles twisted and popped, his bones cracking, and in a flurry of feathers and shimmering light, his operose howling crescendoed. A twisted, ugly hand lifted, the bent fingers stretching tortuously as he slithered nearer. The mangled body trapped between transformations roared like a demon escaped from the depths of Hell.
The tumultuous pounding in her heart ricocheted painfully in her ears as she stumbled away from the creature with uncertain steps. Her head feebly shook in a silent, tearful protest. "No…NO!" Tears thick enough to drown her collected around her hand as she crushed it against her lips. The salty-hot moisture dripped through her fingers, sliding to her wrist where it trilled steadily to the earth. "I'm sorry," she wept, dragging rough, unsteady breaths into her lungs. "I'm sorry!"
"WHY?!"
"NO!" Sarah screamed into the darkness of her room as she tumbled to the floor in a tangled heap of sheets and limbs. Laying her palms against the chilled polished wood, she sobbed her anguished dream into the wrinkled linen, leaving a damp spot beneath her reddened eyes. "I'm sorry," she plead into the emptiness of her room, begging the memory desist. "I'm sorry."
The nightmare had not changed since that fateful wish not six nights before. The memory of his cries was the eternal phantasm she would never forget. Her fist clenched, knuckles white as she loosed her long-overdue bellow into the bundle of fabric surrounding her. She was to blame. Her words—her wish—destroyed him.
What have I done? A whimper slid between her once rosy lips, colorless now, echoing into the void. She willed herself to move, to scream, to do anything other than remain immobile, weeping in the remnants of her bed. Sweat glistened at her temples, the hairs raising at the nape of her neck as her chest heaved with each ragged and painful breath. The unrelenting hand of panic overwhelmed her, its icy fingers digging into the tender flesh of her neck making her veins protrude beneath her skin.
Dear God, what have I done? WHAT HAVE I DONE?!
Unable to contain the hurricane of emotion flooding within her, Sarah pushed away from the tangle of sheets, rising on all fours as she tried to break from her chains. With a yelp she fell back on to the floor, kicking frantically, until regaining enough purchase to surge to her feet. Thrashing, Sarah nearly collided with the ornate bedpost as she awkwardly detached herself from her luxurious prison.
Sweat beaded along her temple as the room began to roast her within its pulsing, thundering walls. Trapped within the ever-shrinking tomb, the walls threatened to suffocate her between the floral-printed paper and dark paneling. Her salty tears streamed along her cheeks as she stumbled back, crashing into the door with a cry. Gasping, she turned, her hands slamming against the wood as she struggled to find the knob; her nails scored the snow white paint searching until her fingers brushed the glass handle.
With no destination in mind, Sarah flung open the door with abandon, bolting into the corridor. Flying down the staircase, she wound through the halls until she came face-to-face with the servants' entrance at the back of the kitchen. She halted, her tumultuous breaths the only sound echoing around her. The air was still too close. Too stagnant. Blackness crept into the edge of her limited vision, desperate to consume her.
Trembling, her fingers fumbled with the door—the locks impeded her progress. After what seemed like an eternity contained within a single minute, the door opened, and she was greeted by the brumal breeze seeping through the light muslin of her nightdress. She was ill-attired, and as the cold sunk deep into her core, the thought to turn back and bury herself beneath the still-warm covers and forget such foolishness clawed at the recess of her mind.
She should turn back.
She didn't.
Drifting into the night, her steps were silent against the frosted flagstone. For a moment she felt nothing. Not the burn of the ice under foot, nor the gelid air against her cheek. Too consumed with the nightmare of her guilt to notice her own discomfort, Sarah's eyes darted to the blackened sky as though it could soothe her woes.
"Please forgive me." Sibilated desperation bled through her words. "Please—please," Sarah wept, her voice uncertain and weak. Overcome, her arms wrapped her stomach, her slight frame curling smaller as she fell to her knees with a stinging crack. "Please! I n-never meant to h-hu—hurt him!" she choked, her tongue stumbling as her voice caught. "Dear God, let him live. Let him live! If I had known—Please." It was a gentle demand. A plea. A wish.
Crimson feathers flashed in her mind; the wet crunch of bone reverberated against her skull as her nightmare started anew. Had she done the unthinkable, had she killed him?
She would not make a wish. Her desperation was creature all its own, demanding her undivided attention as it whispered in her ear. He will be lost to you forever, unless you wish. I cannot, not after last time! You nearly killed him—or perhaps you DID.
No! NO! Her hands flew to her ears, her nails cutting crescents along her icy flesh.
You killed him. You killed the Goblin King!
"NO! I never meant to hurt him!" Sarah wept her defense to the stars, "It was an accident! An accident." The ache that had settled itself deep within her breast began to pulse and burn. If only she could explain, atone, but the very idea was impossible, selfish—cruel—to wish him back now. Yet even still, the desire to call him back, to assuage her guilt and beg the forgiveness she did not deserve, thrummed under her skin. The muscles of her lips twitched, her tongue sitting like a stone in her mouth, the words trapped within.
You will never see him again. That was your final farewell. The idea nearly crushed her beneath its weight. She had always known their time was limited to the few remaining weeks of her finite freedom—the music of their strange and precarious dance would come to an end, and they would part as suddenly as they had met. The King would return to his throne, and she would march down the aisle to her gilded cage.
One wish. One wish to know what had become of the impossible man her words ripped apart. One wish to answer the questions she dared not ask, and close the book on the queerest—greatest—weeks of her life. One wish to say a proper goodbye.
One wish—
Soundlessly her mouth opened and closed. She wanted—needed the answers that could calm her troubled heart and soothe the fractures in her soul. Looking to the stars for guidance once more, her bottom lip trembled as her teeth chattered with breaking force. Rocking slowly in place, she imagined the Goblin King lying in a tomb beneath the weeping faces of monumental angels, surrounded by the bones of those who came before and the empty spaces of those that would come after.
Before Sarah could stop them, the words flew from her lips on a whispering wind. "I wish you were here, now." Her hand shot out, as if to snatch them from the very breeze that carried them away. What had she done?
The cold was painful. Her feet burned where they lay pressing into the stone; her throat stung with every drag of breath, throbbing from the chill and her tears. Uncontrollable tremors wracked her muscles, and they clenched desperately seeking warmth. Gritting her teeth through every twitch and jolt of her spine, she scanned the darkness for his imposing form to find nothing but the empty air.
Misery consumed her, and her silence rolled to ululating sobs once more until the brumal night stole her breath, allowing the somnolence to engulf her senses. Drifting closed her eyes grew heavy, her head bowed low as she succumbed to the deadened, black well that begged to swallow her whole. I killed him! I killed him! "God forgive me!"
"What the Hell are you doing out here?"
Sarah screamed, turning sharply to fall from her knees awkwardly onto her bottom, her hands slapping against the stones as she caught herself. Her brow furrowed and recognition dawned—it was not the mismatched stranger from her dreams. It was not him. To her bewildered dismay, Blythe Tillens stood wrapped warmly in his coffee dressing coat, his hand locked firmly around the handle of the spider-cracked lantern.
Taken aback by the sniveling, wilting girl, Blythe gently asked again lowering to his knee. "Sarah, what are you doing? It's freezing. You—" Leaning forward, the lamplight caught the bluish tinge of her lips, and the heavy tear tracks slashing her cheeks. "Sarah?"
He grasped her shoulders sternly giving her a solid shake. "Sarah!" he called again, inches from her face. She barely flinched as he shook her once more with clattering force. Her skin was like ice as he checked for fever, unsure if he should feel relieved or worried as he found no sign of illness.
Desperate to remove her from the danger of the cold, damp air, Blythe made to help her stand, only to have her stumble against him. It was sheer luck that he caught her before she crashed to the stone. With little effort, he scooped her into his arms and carried her into the warm, waiting house.
She wouldn't move, so he made her, placing her still quaking form onto the parlor floor near the hearth where he made quick work of the fire. She hadn't made a sound, so he filled the silence for her, talking of nonsensical things that had never mattered less as he poured her a generous glass of brandy. Placing the drink before her, he spoke calmly. "Drink—it will help chase away the chill. I am going to fetch you a blanket, and then you will explain yourself." It was a gentle command, kind even, but brooked no argument nonetheless. Placing a kiss on the disarrayed mass of curls, he offered Sarah a wan smile before leaving her to warm by the flames.
What had transpired in these last few days? The girl's willow green eyes pierced him like the deadliest of swords, rimmed with tears and anguish, trapped in an abyss of which she had yet to be saved. Sarah was hiding something—something for which Richard Lefroy could not be blamed.
Making his way up the staircase, Blythe portrayed the picture of equanimity, his face betraying none of the fear and heart-pounding anxiousness pulsing behind his eyes. He was worried, justifiably so, but he would not succumb to the emotions begging his attention. He needed his wife and Sarah needed her too.
Blythe returned not five minutes later, his arms laden with the heavy woven blanket from Sarah's bed. Constance was at his heals, her hands still tying the sash at the waist of her emerald dressing gown. Schooling her features, she entered the parlor, moving instantly to sit on the floor beside the brunette. Though her glass was empty, it appeared Sarah had not moved even an inch, her eyes staring listlessly into the hearth. The natural rose-hue had returned to her lips, but a slight tremor still shook her small frame.
Cautiously, as not to startle her upon his approach, Blythe opened the folds of the cover he'd stolen from her bed (or rather her floor) to drape it around her shoulders. Still she said nothing, but her small hands lifted to pull the edges tighter about herself as she loosed a weak sigh. No one spoke, each too afraid to break the tenebrose silence swinging like a pendulum between them. Unsure, Blythe refilled the empty glass and poured a generous sum before taking a vacant seat beside the hearth.
Rubbing soothing circles against her back, Constance pursed her lips, chewing her tongue until she could no longer bear the oppressive weight of her anxiousness. Her eyes darted to Blythe, brows raising in a questioned pleading for action, for words. For something. But the man simply shrugged, gulping down the brandy before his tongue could fathom the taste. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he sighed heavily, his jaw clenching against the plangent silence.
"Sarah," he called gently, leaning forward to clasp his hands together. Blythe paused. "Sarah—please," he implored, his eyes moving from her to the orange flames. "If you continue with this silence, I will be left to assume that you have lost your marbles and went into the night to fetch them." His lips twitched, grinning at his (perhaps ill-timed) humor. "Sarah—"
Without a word, Sarah lifted the glass to her lips gulping a generous swig, gasping as she replaced in on the ground. Softly, disbelieving, her head shook as she tried to formulate a response. Gaping, she sat trying to find the right words as her mouth opened and shut four different times, searching for the answer that would neither condemn nor disgrace her. With the softest laugh, more breath than chuckle, Sarah finally spoke. "You will think me mad."
Frustrated, she glanced between them, pleading each with her tear-filled eyes. Pressing her lips flat, her green orbs settled upon Blythe, filled to the brim with her anguish. She swallowed hard, still unblinking as her breath wavered. "I—I've done something terrible—unforgivable—" Her voice caught as her weeping overwhelmed her.
Constance's eyes grew wide, unsure, and Blythe leaned more heavily onto his forearms as the lines in his forehead creased. A dark brow rose, curious, collected, calm. "I doubt that. You are too good—too sweet."
Resuming her soothing touch against the tormented girl's back, Constance smiled gently. "Why would we think you mad? I admit you have been foolish, lingering in the night in naught but your bedclothes, but certainly not mad." Leaning forward, she rested her head against the blanket clad shoulder, watching the colors dance and twirl over the blackened logs. "I agree with him. You are incapable of committing terrible, unforgivable acts. Whatever you may believe, whatever you have done, it looks far worse in your eyes that it truly is, I promise."
"What drove you outside?" Blythe whispered.
"M—my dreams are haunted. I've hardly slept." Sarah's head fell, her face buried in her hands as she dragged quick, sharp breaths into her weary lungs. "I can't stop seeing it." Her fingers pushed over her brow, lacing into the dark curls. "It was all my fault." Sniffing, her arms wrapped snug around her beneath the blanket.
Eyes raw and bruised from exhaustion locked with his, solecism glaring up from their depths. The sight disturbed him, but it was not the sorrow nor the guilt that threatened to swallow her into its gaping maw that drew his attention, but rather the blackened mark of shame. The longer Blythe held her troubled stare, the more his memory stirred and a troubled thought took hold.
Had he not been perturbed by her aloof and inflamed submissiveness just that morning? Had the self-degradation been present then? Or perhaps longer? Yes, he had taken note of the dolor cloud shrouding her, but he had dismissed it as nuptial restlessness.
Now, he was consumed with doubt.
"Sarah—" he began cautiously, rolling his tongue across his lips, his eyes gentle with concern. "Sarah, they are only dreams." He wanted to do more to soothe and comfort, but he could find no better words, nor phrasing to aid her plight. Fortunately for Sarah, his wife's talents far exceeded his own.
With a tender touch, Constance raised her fingers to the frightened girl's chin, commanding her full attention with great care. "You were dreaming. Whatever you think you have done, whatever is tormenting you, Sarah, it is not real. You are safe here." Wrapping her arms around her in a searing embrace, Constance held her with surprising force, then added, "No harm can come from a dream—they are fabrications, nothing more. They aren't real."
More than anything, Sarah wanted to confess—to confide in them 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 clandestine existence. Without warning, thousands of creatures spawned under Sarah's flesh, each itching and needling against her guilt, demanding her confession. Madcap, she snatched the glass from the floor finishing the brandy in one swallow. Her nerves accepted it greedily, relaxing into its promised lullaby of tranquility as her control slipped away with every breath. The iron-clad hold on her tongue unscrewed, the noose tangling loop by loop, until suddenly it snapped under the strain.
"No." The depth of emotion in her voice was jarring, though she hardly made a sound as she detached from her companion's grasp. "No. You're wrong." Her chin lifted, her shoulders imperceptibly squared as she pulled from the recess of her courage, her decision made. "He is real. I've seen him. I—"
"Who? Who have you seen?" Blythe asked.
Her eyes moved flickered between them before she swallowed hard, her nose wrinkling as her answer pushed through her lips. "Him—" she replied worriedly, then turned to Constance, "the man w-with mismatched eyes."
The couple watched, studying the odd way her head shifted and her shoulders tensed. It was obvious she was sincere, and yet neither could discount the feeling that Sarah was hiding something. Her words were nonsense, and had he not found her weeping in the frigid night air, he would not harbor the same doubts.
Watching, Constance frowned, her mouth forming a silent "oh" before her brow shot upwards. "Y-you—you've seen the man from—where? Here?" She watched dumbfounded as the girl simply nodded. "You are certain?"
Sarah nodded once.
Fresh tears rolled along the curve of her cheek before her head shook in disagreement. She explained, "No, not in town." Dashing away the tears with a disbelieving huff and watery smile, she chuckled, inexplicit and unexpected. "I saw him first at the lake." Casting a wary look at the woman beside her, Sarah added nervously, "So did you."
"Me?" Constance exchanged a quick glance with her husband before her focus returned to the distressed girl at her side. Disbelieving, her head shook as she tried to recall the supposed memory. It didn't exist—she had not seen him.
"You wouldn't have known—I hadn't known then either," Sarah offered cryptically, her fingers moving to rub and twine together.
"Known what?" Constance pressed only to be met with an awkward, heavy silence.
Blythe leaned forward suddenly, his head turned just so, his voice cautious. "First? You said first—how many times have you seen this man?" The nagging hum of panic climbed up the walls of his throat, his gut turning in the pulsing quiet. The skin along his arms pebbled as each uncomfortable second ticked away. His heart clenched, his stomach crashing into his feet as he choked back the nightmares he feared she might be hiding. "Sarah," he called, much louder than he ever intended. She jumped but still did not answer. "Sarah, how often have you seen him?"
Pale and wide-eyed, her head shook as her mouth tried to form a suitable answer. She had none. "A handful or so. I—I am not sure."
"Has he been following you? Has he harmed you? Touched you?"
"No— NO!" Sarah's head shook emphatically, her eyes painful saucers. At Blythe's pointed stare, her stomach sank and her voice dropped. "No—he would never hurt me." The faintest smile graced her lips as the memory of his hand ghosting along her hair tickled her senses.
The warmth of his hand against her neck pebbled her skin as he toyed with curls springing from her braid. Softly, so very softly, she whispered the question she was nearly too afraid to ask, her curiosity too great to ignore. "If I had wished for you, would you have stopped them?"
"Yes." It was instantaneous. Powerful. That word was not merely a sound, but a promise. A covenant. She had not seen his face—she had not needed to—the warmth of his body seeping through her heavy layers. The faintest touch of his lips at her temple, had her eyes closing, trying to savor the kiss. His long, elegant fingers drew over the curve of her cheek, the smooth leather of a single digit ghosting across her lips. A pained groan swept between them, and he pulled back breaking their fragile connection.
A thrumming pulse beat behind her eyes; she had no tears left, but she still felt like weeping despite the ever-growing headache threatening her stomach. Blythe was speaking, but she hadn't heard a sound above the fading voices of her memory. Whatever he had said, it was hardly important. They had not listened, or at the very least they had not understood.
Constance took hold of the small shoulders poking from the edge of the falling quilt, and with a solid jolt, she pulled Sarah from her musings. Her voice was stern, laced with impatience. "How do you know?" Her lips were pursed, the look in her eyes hard, panic creeping into her tone. "What makes you certain he would not harm you?"
"I—I know it."
"How? How do you know?"
"Because—um—"
"HOW?!"
"Because he wanted to hurt them! He would have killed them that night!" The words burst through her lips, but she could no more stop them than the impending sunrise. "If I had wished, he would have, but I hadn't known. I begged and screamed but never wished. That was my mistake! I do not even know what made me wish the first time—b-but I did. I did! I made a wish for him to be there—at the lake." She glanced between them, taking a long gulp of air into her lungs, a smile pulling her lips before her voice turned distant, wistful. "One minute I was alone, and then I turned and—and there he was, tall, fair and—and so very angry. 'You have no idea who I am?' he said. He asked so many questions—I tried to ask my own but—" Her fingers touched her lips with reverence, "but h-he only promised me answers. 'Wish me back—'"
Her eyes looked to Blythe, "He told me to wish him back, b-but I was afraid. I was afraid—of him, I suppose. I did not wish him back—not then. Not until—until they— those men came for my father." Looking back at the flames, she pressed forward, not caring how the story sounded, only that it needed to be told. "Th-then I saw the owl at the window. His owl. Him—I screamed! I screamed until it hurt. I begged—I begged again and again—and—and nothing happened. Then you were there and brought me here—and I-I couldn't sleep. I was angry—I wanted an explanation. I had done what he asked—or so I thought." Her hands swiped across her face lodging in her hair. "I wanted answers, so I-I went to lake. I made my wish. He was there—he came and I lashed at him! I hit him! Again and again I struck him until my hands were sore."
Absentmindedly, she rubbed her knuckles. "He held me as I wept then begged my forgiveness. I had not wished, you see. I cried and screamed but made no wish—his hands were tied. He was furious—he wanted them dead. I saw it in his eyes. I wanted it too." Pulling the blanket back over her trembling shoulders, Sarah held tight, savoring the growing warmth. "We parted and I did not wish him back until that first afternoon I went home. I could not bring myself to go inside, so I tended to the yard, the garden, the chickens—anything that kept me outdoors. I-I can't say why I made my wish that day—but I wished and he answered. We talked nonsense, he made smile—laugh. He would not leave without my promise to meet him again, that night."
Turning to Constance, she offered a weak smile. "I did not wish him back then. I was exhausted and I fell asleep. My absence frightened him, he thought they had come back for me." She said with an airy laugh, "When you sent me to the lake, we met again. I packed a picnic." Her fingers curled to caress the would-be scar in the center of her palm, remembering the peculiar prickling of his magic on her skin. "It was the happiest night of my life—and then—" she choked, her voice caught, "then I-I wished. I never meant to! I didn't know. But someone was there— there in the trees, coming closer. We couldn't be seen—it would ruin me. I asked him go, but he refused. He only wanted me safe, I know that now, but I was so afraid of being caught. I did not think, I merely spoke the words I have said a thousand times over. I wish you would leave, I said. I wished him away—I killed him!"
Her sobs began, her tears spent as she whimpered into her hands. "I-I never would have—" Sarah stuttered over the words, the image of a bloodied owl burned fresh in her mind's eye. "Dear God, I killed him! I KILLED HIM!" Silent sobs wracked her delicate frame; her tears long spent would not flow, though her eyes burned nonetheless. The crackling pop of the blackened logs mingled with her shuddering breaths, the gauche stillness hung like a shroud of thick, indelible fog. "I killed him."
Full dark settled into the sky, as it does in those last hours before dawn, when the frost clings to the windows with great abandon. No servants stirred, no candles blazed a path of light in the darkness of the modest house. A light burned in the parlor rooms, the soft flicker that danced along the walls, warming the three occupants sitting near. It had not taken long for Sarah to fall into a troubled sleep, her dark curls draped over delicate green silk as the expectant mother smoothed the hairs along her temple.
Sarah's tear-less weeping crescendoed into the ululating whimpers of debility, crumbling her as an autumn leaf underfoot. She fell into Constance, whose arms wrapped around the fragile creature with searing warmth, firm yet soft, as though anything stronger might split her in two. The woman hushed and soothed, saying nothing but the whispered promises of safety and love, those subtle reassurances that all would be well. Eventually, she began to calm, her body waterlogged in molasses, the lingering tenebrosity rolling in wave after wave, dragging her beneath into the depth of exhaustion. She succumbed willingly, gratefully to that black chasm. She was fast asleep when Constance shifted her to lay across her lap, running her fingers through the silken curls at her scalp.
In the minutes it had taken the troubled woman to find some form of solace, if only temporary, Blythe had refilled his glass twice. How could he believe her? Teasing the cup along his lips, the final sip sloshed within its cage. He made no move to drink, his mind too lost in thought as he watched the woman resting on the dark wood floor. How could he not believe her? Sarah Williams was sensible—every faucet of her life pleaded her innocence—she was no liar, no fiend, and certainly she was not a murderer. Her mind was troubled, undoubtedly so, trapped into marrying one man to save another, neither deserving of her efforts or affection. Her own father was selling her body—her life—to evade Marshalsea or Fleet, whilst her fiancé pressed his significant advantage to bow her to his will. Locked like a vessel between Scylla and Charybdis, her future was bleak, and despite the glittering jewels and luxurious silks, her days would be spent under the serpent tongue of belittlement.
"What do you make of this? Has she suddenly gone mad?"
Moving the glass to rest against his thigh, Blythe rubbed his chin, his mind far away.
He was equally disturbed by the erratic ramblings of the now-sleeping girl, but even still, he could hardly consider her words at full value. "No," he said rather emphatically, "no, lunacy is not instantaneous, but slow and painful. It is a descent into the depths of a cavernous pit. Sarah is not mad—at least not more so than you or me."
Constance looked up, her eyes incredulous, "Then you—you believe her?" She looked down at the mass of curls her fingers waded through, frowning so deeply, her eyes hurt. Constance breathed, a heavy sigh more than anything, and she thought from the flicker in his eyes and the press of his lips, he did not care for her words.
The longer she thought, the more her mind turned and teased at the little, and rather incoherent knowledge she possessed. It was not that she believed Sarah, but rather that she could not believe the girl had lost her wits so suddenly. "Whatever we believe, the very idea that what she said was true is—it is impossible. Wishes and dreams? Blythe, she claimed that a wish made a man appear—like a phantom. You cannot possibly believe that!"
"I am not certain what I believe." He dragged a hand down his face, scrubbing his lips with a calloused palm. Bending over his knees, Blythe remained largely quiet, still toying with the tumbler in his free hand. It seemed they both were incapable of dismissing her story as a farcical tale; every part seemed impossible, like the crazed prattle of a lunatic begging for alms in the street. Madness was a dangerous insinuation, and the Estate needed little persuasion to take those accused under their wing. The single-minded purpose of keeping Sarah safe held the ever-present fear that threatened to devour him whole at bay. He was not a man prone to illogical or rash decision, but the longer he mulled over her words and the impossibility entangled within, the more his answer became clear.
"Perhaps," he said with a frustrated sigh, a morose frown wrinkling his brow. "Perhaps, she is overtired—overwhelmed—afraid? You have said yourself, that she is trapped. You told me she feels helpless." He paused, considering his words with great care. "You have confessed to me on more than one occasion that you were apprehensive before our wedding. Imagine her fears," he said with a gesture of his head, "a man who wants nothing more than an obsequious beauty. She must be terrified."
"What if—" she said with great pause, swallowing the terrified lump rising in her throat. "What if she is right? If what she says is true—" the implication hung between them, her lips drawing into a thin line, her deep eyes narrowed with caution. Constance watched her husband, gaging his reaction, studying his eyes for a hint of understanding. The moment she caught that spark of awareness glinting back, she begged her question, "Who or—or what is this man, and what hold does he have on her?" Slow tears crawled their way down her cheeks, burning a wet path into her pale skin, her heart clenching as her stomach churned.
Blythe made a low noise of frustration, catching her hand as his head ducked to meet her gaze. "Stop. I will not allow that kind of talk here—one word in the wrong ear, and we will never see her again. Secrets here are few—gossip runs rampant like rats in the sewers all waiting to sink their claws into the latest scandal." He watched her face closely, but the only sign of her thoughts was a small line forming between her dark brows. "At best, she would be treated for hysteria, looked down on by the lowest vagabond. Lefroy would never hold true to their engagement—very few men would. Far worse if she is found mad."
"The Estate," came the whispered thought. Horrified, her eyes brimmed with tears as her stomach churned. The sleeping girl stirred then, her brow worried, her eyes fluttering wildly beneath their lids as a whimper rose from the back of her throat. "Shhh," Constance soothed, rubbing Sarah's temples with the faintest pressure, as though anything stronger might shatter her. "Blythe...?" she whispered, helplessness bled in her tone, her heart flooding with sudden worry. "Blythe, what can be done?"
He fell silent again, and when he did speak, it was with the power of a king, his voice low and rough, his eyes grave. "Nothing." His eyes flashed down to her lap then back again. "Her Shriving-the wedding is in a handful of hours," he said, glancing to the clock, his features grim. "Whatever we believe, whatever may or may not be true, makes no difference." Blythe moved forward then, coming to kneel at her side, reaching to cup her cheek as his thumb caressed her dampened flesh. "We will never speak of this again. Sarah will put this out of her head at once and never think on it—or him—again." Leaning forward, he placed a gentle kiss against her lips, filled with all the worry and promise of the encroaching dawn. "She will say nothing during the Shriving—her confession would not be pardoned, even by God."
A/N: Sorry it took me so long to write this chapter! Life has been hectic, between my kids and the holidays and everything else— well, all I can say is I am sorry. I hope you like it! I know it is basically a thinly-veiled cliffy, but what can I say? Almost 7k words is a long chapter! As always please review, I love hearing what you think. I promise it will not take me this long to write the next chapter! LOVE YOU ALL!