DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Three…
Two…
One…
The morning passed with torturous sloth and breathtaking speed, each action drawing into eternity and disappearing with a blink. The sun crept over the horizon toward the center of the sky in a symphony of color, facilely painting its canvas as though something was to be celebrated rather than endured. Her limbs felt heavy, as though they did not belong to her, weighed down by the alluring promise of serenity gifted through two careful drops of laudanum. Constance had been adamant that she take it, lest her tongue run away, staining her in tar-black opprobrium.
Why had she wished him back?
Had she dismissed her dreams as nothing more than nocturnal fantasy, the shredded, gaping seams of her world would not be bleeding into an abyss of guilt. Her temerity, her curiosity, her fervor were each a crudely laid step in the spiraling staircase plunging into the fires of her lies. Why had she wished him back? Had the lure of his contrasting eyes been the apple in her borrowed garden of paradise, his touch the sweet nectar of that forbidden bite? Had those strange, stolen moments been worth the pound of flesh claimed along the pebbled shore?
Why had she wished him back?
A walk to the gallows would have been far less daunting than the few paces it took to bring her before the waiting priest. Concentrating on the delicate rustle of her heavy skirts, Sarah made her way to the dark-frocked judge who was watching her with silver eyes. Frost traced its snowy fingers along each ridge of her vertebrae and her shoulders tensed on baited breath as she moved forward. She could hear her heart pulsing wildly against her ears, the incessant drumming echoing her rabid heart. With aching force, she swallowed the stone wedged against her palate before her confession attempted to tumble free.
Murderer.
No! NO! She would not succumb to her own weakness; her Shriving would continue even if her lies turned every word into sawdust, condemning her to an eternal pit of suffering. Her soul was far beyond redemption, but her life—her life could, at the very least, remain bearable. The effervescent happiness that had been absent in her home, but longed for with desperate fervor, would never be hers for the taking—her mother's abrupt departure had made certain of that. Nevertheless, she would take what minuscule lassitude her future offered with greedy, obdurate fingers and step over the threshold of her gilded cage.
Murderer.
The insidious voice crawled into her ear, hollowing out a permanent residence within her subconscious. Murderer. Choking back the sob that begged release, Sarah ducked her head sharply before her tears could swell, hiding whatever expression pinched at her brow in feigned contrition. Dropping to her knees in supplication, the lilac silk-brocade swelled with a rustled sigh as her hands clasped in her lap, waiting.
Startling as a heavy hand settled atop her carefully tamed, fuscous curls, Sarah ground her teeth as Father Elswick recited his prayer. Say nothing you are not asked. Say nothing. Breathe… breathe. Bowing further under the foreign and rather unpleasant pressure, her eyes closed as she fought to contain the bile of guilt rising at the back of her throat, the dark, black taste searing her tongue. Breathe. Breathe. Herculean effort kept her upright as her head swam, but her repose held fast and her too-pale lips lingered as the only sign of her distress.
Without a mirror, she knew the vibrancy of her eyes had long since vanished—washed away with her countless tears. Her features were stolid, vacant. Numb. Answer simply, say nothing you were not asked. Breathe. Closing her eyes, she waited, listening with rapt attention for the man to begin the ritual of recitations. The unchanging questions and answers were rehearsed during the dusty hours of the morning, where Constance could be assured of her compliance. Premeditated, her ripostes flashed across her memory, twisted and knotted like the branches of a decaying willow. Simple answers. Simple answers.
Simple answers.
"Shall we begin, my dear?" Peeking through her lashes at the dark-frocked man watching her with crinkled, grey eyes, she breathed deep, centering herself. His sagacious figure loomed over her as she fought the urge to shrink away from his benevolent touch, her desperation rooting her to the pillow beneath her knees.
Breathe.
Swallowing hard, Sarah nodded, then fixated on the black hem hanging only inches from her entwined fingers. Say nothing. "I—I—" her words faltered, her voice caught. Flushing, she offered an abashed grin before drawing a long, steady breath. "I come before you, Father, and the Almighty God, willing and humble for my Shriving. Never have I knelt thusly for judgment," she swallowed painfully forcing the panic from her tongue. Breathe… breathe. "N—never shall I kneel thence."
"Then be judged, my child, that ye might absolve your sins and bind yourself within the covenant of matrimony," Father Elswick said with calm solemnity as he made the sign of the cross in the space above her head. "You will recite and avow under the watchful eye of the Most High God, lest your soul be forever damned by your prevarication. Confess and free yourself of your burdens."
Though scripted, his words pressed her like a stone beneath the shore, driving the air from her lungs with searing force. You know the answers… breathe. Breathe! Elswick waited a moment, whether to emphasize his words or as part of the ritual, she could not be certain. With the gentle clearing of his throat, his pale hand lifted from her dark hair, and taking a slight step back, his lips curled in an unreadable grin. "Know you the venial sins?"
Sneaking a glance at the towering man, she nodded quickly before tipping her chin downward she answered. "Y-yes," with a slow, tumultuous breath she began, "pride, envy, wrath, greed, l-l-lust—" she stumbled again, an image of the Goblin King flashing before her eyes. The memory of his touch ghosted along her skin— NO! Focus on you answers. Simple answers. Simple answers! "Lust, sloth and gluttony."
"Have you kept them, my child?"
"I have tired and failed to remain spotless before the Lord. For this purpose I kneel before you seeking absolution for my mortal failings." Sarah lifted her eyes to meet that of Father Elswick, who nodded in turn before signing the cross above her head, as she did the same across her chest.
Once more, Sarah bowed her head, her eyes studying the intricately laid ruffles cascading along the silk of her robe à la Française. The silver and pearlescent threads wove together in stunning filigree pattern along the wide-seam border, crawling and spreading over the lace-fringed bodice. Though the gown was undeniably vogue and beautiful, Sarah would have chosen something altogether different were it not for the overwhelming and rather oppressive opinion of Mrs. Rossen. The woman had been relentless and Sarah, to avoid contention, allowed her complete control over the wedding, and inarguably the dress. Something she easily came to regret.
"Know you the commandments of the Most High God?"
"I do, Father. Thou shalt have no other gods before me, thou shalt not make graven images, thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain, Remember the sabbath, to keep it holy." Taking another deep breath, she furthered her verbose answer. "Honor th-thy father and mother," she could hardly keep her eyes from rolling like dice within her head nor the bitterness from her voice. Honor her father— her mother! Honor indeed! Yes, honor the woman that ruined every facet of her childhood and the man that gambled and whored his life away! Honor those that left her a wounded shell of her former self and the subject of heinous gossip, with not but a sixpence to her name! Honor indeed.
Sniffing away the angry tears burning at the edges of her emerald eyes, Sarah cleared her throat, resuming her recitation. "Thou shalt not k—" Caught unawares by her place in the Shriving, the words died on the air; her heartbeat leapt to breakneck speed, thundering as hooves encroaching the battlefield. Again and again she tried to form that single word, her lips shaping the letters, desperate to finish, but still she produced no sound.
Continue your confession! Continue!
Murderer.
Her jaw trembled, her eyes wide, wild. Murderer. The silence stretched wide as she dug her nails into her palms— every ounce of her body pulsed as an owl shrieked somewhere within her mind. Gritting her teeth, Sarah tried to snuff the memories before they consumed her. Say nothing! Say nothing! A pathetic whimper slid past her ghost-white lips, the confession begging to be released. Blinking furiously to stem the heavy tears balanced precariously along her lower lashes, she dragged a rough breath into her collapsed lungs. Murderer. MURDERER! MURDERER!
"NO!" the sound ricocheted against the stained glass and oak pews, threatening to shatter them both. Silence followed, the terrifying accompaniment dramatizing the rasping, airy sounds of her staggered breaths. Trembling atop the petite cushion, her eyes screwed shut, forcing her damnable tears away. She felt the floor giving out under her feet waiting to swallow her into the gaping maw to the burning chasm below. She wanted to cry, to beg, to plead for mercy, but she could not begin to form the words. Frozen solid, even her lips were numb.
Tentative as a hangman moving to the noose, Sarah tilted her chin to the frowning man standing with his grey brow arched. His expression gave nothing away as he stood statuesque, his silver eyes becoming like slate, or the pregnant clouds of a rolling deluge. Stark and foreboding, he began to glower, impatient. Much too afraid to speak, Sarah waited for the dam of his augur to burst, drowning her in condemnation.
Only it did not.
Gritting with annoyance, Father Elswick spoke again, "know you the commandments, my child?" The pestiferous tenor dropped over her hunched form, sounding almost (if she were bold enough to assume) bored. Helpless, Sarah could do little more than stare hollowly, her own brows drew together, sodden with disbelief. At her overdrawn pause, Elswick cleared his throat, his patience had reached its limit. "Know. You. The. Commandments?"
Jaw agape, Sarah fumbled a moment as she tried to form her answer from the inarticulate garble pulsing over her tongue. "Y-yes, for-forgive me, Father." Frowning, her eyes darted wildly about the floor, searching for the right words waiting beyond the valley of her worry. "Th—thou shalt not k-k—" pain stabbed beneath her breast, furious as a hummingbird's wing as her heart throbbed. Finish! You must finish! "Thou shalt not kill!" The words slammed past her lips, barreling into the room, the fervid sound seeming larger under the arched ceiling. Swallowing past her panic, Sarah pressed on, "thou shalt not commit adultery, thou shalt not steal, thou shalt not bear false witness. Thou shalt not covet."
Simon Elswick stood with curious eye, his focus locked firm on the woman kneeling before him— the woman he was certain had secrets— and sins. Three decades he had been presiding over the small village: blessing, enshrining, and marrying countless souls under his divine care. With each wedding a bride knelt, tremulous and frightened. All had secrets, but none quite so curious as Sarah Williams. Most stumbled over the routine answers, forgetting their words, jumbling the commandments or losing their voice altogether. Peculiarity was not uncommon during a Shriving, for no man could swear before God they had nothing to hide. An avid observer, he suspected Sarah had more to hide than most.
Softening the annoyance evident on his tongue, Simon continued, startling the poor girl once again. "Have you kept the Holy Commandments of the Almighty God?"
"I have tried," her voice cracked, sibilated and raw. Closing her eyes, slow tears crawled down her cheeks, burning a wet path into her pale skin. Her heart clenched as her stomach churned. "I have failed to remain spotless before the Lord, my God. I kneel seeking absolution for my mortal failings, so that I might be whole and pure be—before," pain and thole sept through the fractured seams of her heart as she finished weakly. "That I might be pure before entering into the covenant of marriage."
A gentle hum of approval preceded his final words, "Sarah Williams, God is with you, he hears the pleadings of your heart and knows the truth of your soul. Go with grace and sin no more." Signing the cross above her for the last time, Elswick stepped back, nodding to her with a gentle gaze. "Rise, my child." As she did so the priest motioned to a door on the far back wall, ushering her forward. "Mrs. Tillens will assist you further. Until the ceremony," tipping his head to her in the barest acknowledgment, he smiled and moved away as Sarah moved hastily to the door.
Constance was pacing, her hand rubbing soothingly against her swollen belly, humming nonsensical nothings as she moved about the little room. A shout drew her attention to the door, her heart lurched, stopping abruptly, as she listened. Nothing. Nothing followed that obscure, lonely sound, but still Constance could not bring herself to look away from the heavy wood barrier. The festering wound of doubt bubbled under her skin leaving her anxious and unsure. Had Sarah said too much? Had she done the unthinkable and confessed?
The door pushed inward, ushering a ghost-white Sarah into the much too sunny room, her eyes distant and haunted. Fresh tear tracks glistened against her cheeks as she fell against the door before she collapsed in a heap of gossamer and silk. The storm of her heart stamped wildly against her breast, threatening to shatter her sternum into thousands of tiny pieces, leaving naught but a gaping hole in its wake.
"How…how did—?" The question died on the air between them, much too weak to live beyond the matron's lips. Hand still tethered to her unborn child, Constance offered a gentle, wan smile, too uncertain to do anything more for the pusillanimous woman before her. A tug at the furthest recess of her mind, tickling her curiosity and apprehension in one small fluttering action, confirmed to her, though she could not say just how, that something was amiss.
The brunette frowned a moment, before answering with a gentle nod. Lifting her eyes from the floor, the mossy green as vibrant as an emerald, bled frangibility. "As planned, I said nothing condemning."
"Thank God," she breathed, her head dropping forward as her eyes closed with palpable relief. "The worst is behind us. All will be well." Constance pressed forward, enveloping her within the ameliorating circle of her arms, whispering gently, "I am proud of you, Sarah." With a final squeeze she pulled back, and slid her hands downward to clasp Sarah's between hers. Standing that way for several moments, the two basked in the quiet, somnolence relief.
"I know this can be a rather daunting day, even without…" her voice trailed, her meaning hanging precariously, awaiting the vocalization that would never come. Clearing her throat, she added, "I promise it will pass in a blur— you will be celebrating the new year in Paris before you know it."
Sarah made to speak but was drowned by the plangent rumbling of her too-empty stomach. It had been two days since her last meal, but what she had eaten had been bland scraps. Tidbits here and there meant to quell the embarrassing songs of hunger. Despite the obnoxious groan and pinprick throb taping against her barren core, she still had no appetite.
Deep chestnut eyes narrowed a fraction as the matron studied her, "Come sit, take what respite you can find." The command was said with finality, and Sarah complied. Moving to the old, weathered vanity that was as old as the rectory itself, she studiously avoided the wide, black-speckled mirror. Constance took her place behind the distraught woman and brought her fingers to rest against Sarah's temple, rubbing slow, careful circles against her skull. The soporific ministrations pulled a low groan of contentment from her lips as the girl succumbed to the sensation.
Pursing her lips, Constance warred over whether to bring her dangerous questions to life. In the weakest hours of the morning, after the storm of Sarah's unusual confession ebbed to a haunting lull, they had each promised to never speak on the man, nor the dreams again. For all their sakes. Blythe had been emphatic they keep their silence, he wanted no part of the tales, nor the consequences that would most certainly follow were she discovered.
Constance had wanted more.
Her curiosity burned, tingling along the ridges of her spine, dancing its ghostlike fingers against her mind. This was her chance, never could she guarantee such solitude between them again. She had to try. Swallowing, Constance weighed the risk, knowing what was at stake should they be overheard. Nonetheless, she had to try; she needed answers and time was fast waning. Venting the dervish that swirled wildly in her thoughts, she dared to shatter the chains of their promise, begging one of her boundless questions. "W-was he truly the man from your dreams?"
The thick, verbose silence that followed clung sickly to the air, awkward and heavy, pulsating between them. Sarah pulled away from the hands at her temple, spinning sharply on the stool, eyes round and incredulous. Taken aback at the sheer audacity of her companion, Sarah failed to keep the dolor from her pitch. "W-we agreed… no. No!"
"I know— I know what we promised…" dropping to her knees she reached for the girl's hands, "But how? How? How could you be certain it was the same man? How is it even possible— flesh and blood summoned with a—a wish?" The terrified look reflecting within those emerald eyes haunted her, and quickly her hand raised in oath, "I shan't breathe a word of this to Blythe; he needn't know." Her eyes fell, searching their entwined fingers for the answers that would not come. Rolling her shoulders, Constance sighed, resolute. "I cannot explain the reasons for my curiosity, for truly I have none. Your story is horrifically— maddeningly impossible. Pyres have been built on less, and yet despite this, I believe you. I believe you, Sarah." Their eyes locked, cocoa to sage, as the silver thread of understanding strung taut between them. "You are many things, but a fabricator, a liar— a madwoman— you most certainly are not." The barest smile pulled at the edges of her mouth, sincerity glowing from within. "Your secrets are safe with me."
Sarah gasped at the sudden realization. I believe you. I believe you. The restlessness inside her began to soften, the knife-edge of panic dulling to a bearable ache deep within her breast. Constance believed her, with no threat of madness nor witchcraft. The room blurred as her eyes burned, rimmed with hot, thick tears, her dread slowly abating with each heartbeat. Rushing forward, her arms flew to surround the other woman in a searing embrace— her voice sibilated, agog. "T-thank you. Thank you." When the sting of tears and the sniffling of her nose ebbed, she pulled back, swiping at the moisture dampening her cheeks. "Thank you, Constance. You cannot know the weight of your words… thank you."
Perhaps Constance was prying much too deeply into matters that were best left locked behind the vast vestiges of Sarah's troubled conscious, never to be remembered. Perhaps ignorance would maintain a brighter outcome. Curiosity came at much too high a cost to be casually conversing about phantoms and magic within the sacred halls of the church, but the nagging questions that might never find their voice beckoned. Here, waiting behind the drab, hallowed walls was the barest window of opportunity; would there be another? Dare she ask once the girl returned from her honeymoon, settled into the roll of quiet, doting wife, her mind preoccupied with endless expectations?
It would be now or never.
"Why did you wish him back?" Of the myriad of questions swarming noisily like bees to the hive, it was the simplest to vocalize.
"I—I um…" Sarah bit her lower lip to stop herself from stammering, uncertain of how to answer. Hesitating, she pondered the best course of action then settled with the truth. "Quite by accident," she laughed lightly, a single barely audible huff of amusement that remained trapped behind her insipid smile. The image of the formidable man standing against the fading light pulled to the forefront of her mind; her heart raced as it had the strange and fateful night. "I had not intended to… not the first time. I merely whispered a thought aloud, begging an audience with the— the owl." The last word was whispered, with downcast eyes. Embarrassed, a delicate rose bloomed on her cheeks as she recalled the evening that would forever be branded on her soul— the raise of his brow as he calculated her every breath. His anger. His arrogance.
His lips crashing against her own.
Shaking the dangerous thoughts away, Sarah tamped the blush from her cheeks, and spun fully on her stool to face Constance, who met her with a confused, but patient stare. "My dreams were not only haunted by the strange eyes, and the man who owned them but a-also…" she paused, weary to continue, chewing her lip with nervous fervor. Habitually, her chilled fingers lifted to the locket tucked between her breasts, her teeth tugging lightly at her lip. "Also an owl— a beautiful, tawny barn owl. It-it was always there, watching me— studying me. I was never afraid, though at times I hated its plangent indifference, and the knowing glint in those dark, beady eyes." Her gaze fell to her twisting fingers, a faraway smile ghosting her lips.
"An owl?" the matron's eyes narrowed, then suddenly then widened, her mouth dropping. "The owl? Perched in the storm? B-but that's—" she fumbled with deliberate caution, a disbelieving, dumbfounded grin pulling the corners of her mouth. The piquant honesty blazing from those luminous green eyes was confirmation enough. "H-his bird was there th-that day at the lake?" Constance fell quiet as gooseflesh pebbled across her skin, sending a tremor down her spine as she thought back to that tumultuous, grey afternoon and the words spoken therein.
"He was striking and wild. The moment our eyes met I knew that the center of this man's attention was a very dangerous place to be." The shadow of fear caressed the pallid girl's cheek as the violent storm thrashed against the sky. A blinding burst of lightening made her jump as the earth quaked. Constance begged they take their leave, but the wind stole the words, carting them to some unknown place. Only Sarah had not moved. Her body frozen in the whirlwind, eyes locked on the sky, widened, becoming too large for their sockets.
Constance followed her gaze, curiosity burning a hole in the pit of her stomach. What could possibly cause such unadulterated fear? Confused at the vast nothingness in the clearing, save for the trembling trees and bubbling water, her brow furrowed as the first drops pattered against her face. Her words of retreat landed on deaf ears, forcing her to lean closer, angling her chin to see better what transfixed that mossy gaze. Amid the evergreens and spindled branches dancing in the tempest, was a lone owl, perched precariously on the swaying branch…
Blinking away her memories, she frowned. "That hardly explains why you made your wish— or how you knew to do so."
"I didn't." Sarah began, rising from her seat, nervously smoothing the imaginary wrinkles from her gown. The brumal sun kissed along her neck, and the curve of her cheek as she stood at the window, looking but not seeing beyond the dirty pane. "I am not lying when I say it was completely by accident." Turning slightly, a hand rose to her necklace, while the other wrapped around her core, bracing her elbow. "In the days following our visit to the lake, I couldn't help but think of the owl and my recurring dreams and him. I attempted to quiet my mind, so—"
"You dusted the empty rooms, or better still, washed the windows?" Constance finished for her with a smirk, daring her to protest. As Sarah opened her mouth to do just that, her hand lifted to the air in mock apology. "Wait, no, I've got it! You scrubbed the floors until your back ached and your fingers pruned!" The woman declared with far too much mirth.
Sarah rolled her eyes, trying to conceal her incriminating smile, defending her actions, "I distracted myself." Sighing heavily, she leant her head against the dark-molded window frame, her fingers still tracing the ridges of the rose on her locket. "Or rather I tried with little success." Chewing her lip, she dispassionately laughed. "I was thinking aloud— a terrible habit, I know— musing over what I had seen, all that I felt within the bonds of slumber. I wanted to see the bird— needed to see it again— if only to confirm that I had not imagined him. I wished he was there to confirm my suspicions… when I stepped out for fresh air the owl was there. I cannot tell you how I knew it was the same animal, but I knew! Constance I knew it was him, suddenly it took flight, and I made chase."
Blinking furiously, an incredulous expression holding her mouth agape as she tried to explain her actions, Sarah shrugged. "I do not know if I followed or lead him to the lake, but before I could think better of it I was in the clearing searching the trees. He was not there." Her voice turned soft, crestfallen, "I waited for what felt like ages, but he never returned. I lingered a few moments more, comforted by the stillness, embraced by the encroaching dusk." Her eyes closed, her fingers stilled as she whispered her confession. "Make your wish, I thought, uncertain as to the birthplace of such a notion— but command nagged at my psyche, calling me, begging me to obey— and I did. Stumbling over the strange request, I made my wish."
Tension bubbled between them, threatening to burst should either breathe too loud or move too quick. From across the small, dingy room Constance could feel the palpitations: not just her heart, but Sarah's as well. Had the faintest sliver of doubt resided in her breast, it was shattered now. Truth held a power all its own: one that lies could not hope to match— striking deep in the heart, leaving an imprint, a brand upon the flesh. Unconsciously, her hand rubbed against her swollen womb, her chocolate eyes bright with wonder. "Tell me of him."
Sarah's complexion slowly faded to translucent ivory, with the merest hint of color blooming along the ridge of her cheekbones. "His hair is as wild as he is tall, his arching brow formidable— enticing— those mismatched eyes calculated every twitch, every breath. He is lithe and beautiful, imposing and powerful, gentle and cruel— the paramount of contradiction." The worried frown that had risen with her previous words had vanished, replaced with a smile that warmed the room several degrees. "He was so angry that first night. I was terrified. You don't know who I am, do you? He asked, his voice deep and thrilling. I thought I'd gone mad— perhaps I have." She added with a noiseless chuckle, "He insisted that I knew him— demanded the admission. I could hardly give what I did not have. In my silence he changed tact, offering me a gift rather than his ire—"
"A gift?
"A crystal orb."
Wrapping her arms around herself, rubbing warmth into her arms. "He pulled it from the air, dancing it impossibly across his fingers, letting it balance precariously along the edges of his hands. I've never seen anything like it— I was transfixed, intoxicated. When he placed it within my hand, it grew warm, inviting, soothing. The sudden thought to forget him, to walk away and never look back itched in my mind, begging I succumb. Only, I did not want to forget him." Slowly her fingers rubbed together, an unconscious act as she remembered the weight of the glass on her palm.
Lowering to nearly a whisper, she continued, "He began to walk away and I— I dropped it— the crystal— and instantly shed those foreign whispers. The moment I was no longer in contact with the bewitched ball, the notions fled, like shadows in the sun. I do not know what came over me, for you know as well as I it is better to let sleeping dogs lie. But the thought of him leaving without having sated my curiosity… I could not bear it. I ran to him. I ran and rounded on him, demanding answers of my own." Her eyes closed, remember his pestiferous look, and the anger rousing within her. "We stood stalemated; he told me to go home, to forget, that I would catch my death if I lingered too long." You're stalling, she'd accused, staring up at the impossible man. Where such bravado had stemmed she would never know, but it had latched to her that night, warming her chilled flesh with its fervor.
Until his lips claimed hers…
"Did he answer?"
Starting, Sarah turned, torn from the distracting memories by the anxious woman who sat watching with keen interest at the edge of her seat. Dumbfoundedness pinched Sarah's features, her mouth forming the question, until the words found purchase within her understanding. Shaking her head, she sniffed, "No, not then."
Engrossed in the forbidden tale, Constance shifted, tilting her head in disbelief. "I-is that why you wished him back? To demand the answers he would not give?" Pride lit her eyes as she smiled, unfettered, "Did you demand it of him?! Was he angered by your inquiries? Did he—"
"Oh, Constance," touched at the undeserved praise, Sarah offered a wan smile, "I think you have greatly overestimated my fortitude." Scrunching her nose in nervous energy, she confessed. "I never demanded answers, merely persisted to ask. Even still, I did not sate the greatest vestiges of my curiosity u-until—" the words caught, a heavy weight lodged at the back of her throat, her eyes burning. Trembling she fought back her despair, deciding instead to continue with her limited version of the illicit meetings. Coughing back the sob balanced on the brim of her nerves, Sarah cleared her throat several times to dislodge the guilt clawing at her throat.
Seeing her discomfort, Constance made to move, but suddenly thought better of it, "Sarah?" Tentatively, she called to the morose girl who stood biting back tears. "Sarah, dearest," deciding it best not to broach the subject of that final, fateful night, she continued, "then…when did you wish him back?"
Wiping away the moisture, Sarah frowned offering a humorless laugh and returned to her seat at the vanity. "I never intended to see him again. I had not planned to make a wish." Rolling her lips over her teeth, her hand scrubbed across her mouth, as she spoke into her palm. "His very existence was madness, and I feared him a secret much too dire to keep." Dropping her hand, her vulnerable eyes looked to Constance, "Do not misunderstand, I wanted to see him again. I wanted…" more than answers, she mused.
"Whatever I wanted was trumped by my sense of reason and my nauseating fear." Clearing her throat, she sniffed as her hands rubbed fiercely together. "I dared not wish him back." She said sadly, "That is, until three men barged their way into my home demanding payment in coin or flesh." Her voice was hard, her brows wrinkled in consternation. "I was p-pinned to the table, my skirts bunched about my waist when I caught a flash of white at he window. It was an owl. The owl. I screamed at him, begged for its master. Pleaded with every fiber of my being until my voice was hoarse and my assailants furious." Her tears could not be subdued with the recollection of the grime-coated fingers tracing up her thighs, the weight pinching between her shoulders as she thrashed against the rough tabletop.
The petals of peacefulness had blown away in the whirlwind of her admission, leaving Constance tumbling about on the waves of confusion. Blythe had recounted that night, several times in fact, with such clarity and vehemence that she could picture every detail as though she too had been there. It had been days later, when her abasement ebbed to the pulsing sting of shame, that Sarah orated each moment of her abhorrent tale.
Constance, of course, had not been there that night, but her imagination climbed to such heights that she could practically smell the pungent cologne permeating the dark kitchen. She could feel the hot, sour breath upon her neck, the hands pushed violently against her back as her face landed against the large table. Her conjured memories of that horrific night had kept her awake long after the sun had set; despite her absence from the Williams home, she too had been terrified.
Shaking away such heinous thoughts, Constance frowned, "I don't understand, Blythe said that you were alone with those men…" her voice trailed off as her lips pursed. "No one else was there."
"No one was there."
Mouth hanging agape, her lip trembled as her anger surged. "H-he did not come? He left you to them?!" Her tumultuous rage burned against her cheeks as her knuckles fisted into her skirts with whitening force. "How dare he!"
Shaking her head, muttering protestations, Sarah interjected patiently. "I never wished." Her hand coming to cover the other woman's with an assuring squeeze. Sliding her head until their eyes locked, her own bright and open, gifting her friend with a gentle smile. "I never wished, Constance. I begged, pleaded, screamed and cried… never wished. He was as helpless to stop them as I." Chewing her lip, she glanced at their hands, absently whispering, "even kings are bound by rules."
Unbidden, the sudden hand of fear wrapped its fingers along the column of her throat, begging her silence. The phantom force pushed against her larynx, without pain, but no less threatening, as the warning persisted as a dark, foreboding shadow blackened the edges of her vision. It seemed her conscious wanted to keep its secrets locked deep within the furthest recess of her mind, where only she could access the strange and impossible memories. The Goblin King had no more given her permission to speak of his existence than he had given her permission to make her initial wish.
Dancing upon eggshells and glass, the thundering groan of each spiderweb crack echoed beneath her as she inched toward the unseen shore. Setting her chin in grim determination, Sarah pressed on, silently vowing to maintain restraint where the King was concerned.
Swallowing the bile of guilt that drowned the boon of his memory in its murky waters, she continued her explanation. "My begging, my tears, were not enough to summon him to my aid. He is bound to a wish much the same as a boat to the sea… he is tangled in the restraints of the rules." Lifting her hand to stop the onslaught of questions she was sure the woman would ask, Sarah gave a pleading look. "I cannot explain them." She frowned at her own incompetence, knowing full well she was hardly to blame, "But I have been witness to the repercussions of his disobedience." Shuddering at the memory of his mismatched eyes watering in pain, Sarah clenched her jaw, "The barest deviation is torture— a preventative measure, that is all too effective."
Filled with an overabundance of unnameable energy, Sarah pushed to her feet, pacing the room while her fingers toyed habitually with her locket. "The night you spotted my flight to the lake… I was sick with rage, and hurt, suffocating under their immense weight, and I wanted answers. I needed answers." She stopped for a moment to glance back at Constance, who sat staring with rapt attention. "I wished him back that night, determined to loose the bonds of my anger." A faraway look glazed her emerald eyes, softening the v on her brow as her lips ghosted a reverent smile. "Only… the moment I saw him, the words vanished in the wind. He held me as I cried, and then I h-hit him. Over and over again, I rained blow upon blow against his chest until my hands ached, and my sobs quieted."
Closing her eyes to the memory of his warmth surrounding her, Sarah sighed contentedly. "He explained the rules— or what he could of them. He was forthcoming and honest in his answers, never belittling me, instead lifting my heart— making me smile, laugh. For a blissful moment, I forgot my troubles, and I never wanted it to end." Her eyes were closed as she spoke, the grin never leaving her lips. "I left that night, lying to myself, promising to never wish him back. That lasted three days, until I was back at my home, too afraid to go inside. I cannot say whether I wished him back because of that fear or my own desire to see him once more, though I suspect both are equally to blame."
Walking to the window, once again, Sarah stared more at the dirty glass than at the scene beyond. "He was there when Blythe came to fetch me, refusing to leave without my promise to wish him back that very night. I succumbed much too easily to his demand; though it was not unkindly offered, it seemed he had missed me as much as I had him." Sucking in a sharp breath, she swallowed hard, "Only, I did not meet him then. After our talk, and your request for privacy, I promptly fell asleep, forgetting my promise." A disbelieving look accompanied her huff of noncommittal humor, Sarah pressed a hand to her mouth, "The moment I saw him, that next night, I knew something was wrong. I could see it in his eyes. He was furious, having spent the previous evening waiting… worrying… he feared the worst— that my attackers had returned." Opening her eyes, she peered sheepishly to Constance, "We talked after I explained, rather forcefully, that I had been too tired to keep my word." Looking down to her palm, now open for her perusal, her middle finger traced the nonexistent line at the center. She did not feel inclined to share that detail with her companion; it was far too personal, too intimate, too precious.
"You already know what happened that night." The mirth that had filled her seeped from her pores, evaporating instantly; the lifelessness returned tenfold. "I never meant to make my last wish— it was a turn of phrase. A stupid utterance of words th—that—" Coughing back the torrent of words rising against the back of her throat, she sniffed loudly forcing everything into the recess of her mind.
She had always known that their secret rendezvous were numbered. Nothing lasts forever, she chided herself, leaning her head against the autumn-chilled glass. The hurricane of emotions were simply the last vestiges of her guilt and shame. Soon enough, after the ceremony concluded and the carriage jostled its way to France, her world would lose its sense of illusoriness, and her life would return to normal— a normality where she would spend day after dreary day in her gilded cage.
Softer than the scurrying of a church mouse at mass, Sarah let the tears trace along her sorrow-burned cheeks. "Each liaison was more dangerous than the last, but from the moment his mismatched eyes haunted my dreams I could do nothing but succumb to their unworldly pull." Peering over her satin clad shoulder, her eyes shone with a newfound reverence. "I knew it wouldn't last— it couldn't. I always knew… but for the first time in my life I felt—more. That I was more." breathless, her eyes searched those of her friend for any sign of understanding.
"I knew better than to sneak away, seeking the company of a stranger. I knew, and yet…" she loosed an airy sigh, "and yet I was drawn to him, like the waves to the sand. And just as they cannot remain ashore, neither could we continue…" Her cheeks shimmered under the brush of the brumal sun, glistening; her trembling hands smoothing the fabric along her stomach as her lips set in a grim line. With one last shuddered breath, her shoulders pulled back and her fingers demurely interlaced as her features settled into a stare of utter indifference. The only proof of her turmoil was the faint quaking of her lips, and the slight burn around her eyes. "I am to be married, and as I promised, I will think on him no more."
"Sarah…" Constance began, but was cut short by the sudden whine of the door swinging on its hinges, revealing a rabid-eyed Blythe ushering himself inside before slamming it shut behind him. Stunned, both women turned, sharing a look of confused surprise, "What ever is the matter, Blythe? You are pale as death," his wife asked with a bemused grin that slowly faded when met with an eerie silence. "Blythe?"
"Lefroy had better fix—" he muttered, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He moved past his wife, paying her befuddled look no heed. "Sarah." His voice was laced with a knife-edge of anger, and the girl in question took a startled step back. "Did you confess it?!" The bite of his word had her stumbling to form an answer. "Did you confess it, Sarah?"
"N-no. No! I said nothing, I swear."
"Shite!" He spat, drawing a gasp from Constance, who called his name in chastisement, forcing his tone to ease. Changing tactic, Blythe leaned forward, capturing the girls hands with his own. His eyes studied them as his thumbs brushed against the backs of her fingers. Taking a long, slow breath his grip tightened and she winced, trying to free herself from his grasp— but he held firm. "Sarah…" he started, his naturally peaceful eyes burned dark, heavy, filled with turmoil and fear. "What did you confess?"
Shaking her head in frantic recollection, she stammered, "I recited everything, exactly as you said. I confessed only what was required of me, nothing more. I am certain." Squeezing his hands in earnest, she offered a weak smile. "You have my word."
Releasing her, he stepped back. The look of panic returned full force. His fists clenched at his sides as he paced the small room, twelve steps in an awkward circle brought him roundabout, where he halted before his frowning wife.
"Blythe, what is this about? What is wrong?" she asked gently, as though he were a new fawn bracing to flee. Settling her hand upon his forearm, she allowed the small comfort to soothe him, if only for a moment.
The man looked over his shoulder, the color drained from his previously ired face, "You are certain you've told no one? There is no other you told in confidence?" Shooting a stern look he finished, "Think hard, Sarah, it is of the utmost importance."
"I do not need to. I have told only you," she said with an air of unease. "I am certain, Blythe. Please, what is this about? What's happened?"
His baritone carried into her ears from somewhere faraway; she could feel them settle against her understanding with prickling barbs, each securing itself in her mind before she could dare to doubt. The air in her mouth turned to ash, her voice dying within her throat, as terror clawed at her back, ripping into her flesh to become a permanent fixture wrapped around her muscle and sinew. Her body began to shake as though she had been left naked in the midst of a sudden blizzard, her limbs growing numb as the gale of his words slapped the air from her lungs with painful force. Her stomach fell into her pear-buttoned boots…
An Estate carriage was on its way.
The Goblin King was no stranger to injury— his immense power all but welcomed bloodshed, on and off the battlefield; many desperate to usurp all that he had and held dear. Going against tradition, he led his men into the horrifying abyss of war, fighting alongside them despite the threat to his own life, and consequently the throne. His advisers were passionate in their protestations, pleading for him to remain beyond the palace walls; nevertheless, their agita remained unheeded.
If he was not willing to die for them, how could ask the same?
Charging head-long into battle painted scars of varying shapes and sizes over his impressive form, some far more noticeable than the rest. With operose vividity he could recount every last one, even the most minuscule white dashes littering his palms, and the vicious criss-crossing welts puckered along his spine. Each held their own lesson in fruition, some gifted from his bravery in combat, others the lasting witness of his father's brutish education and perverse punishments.
Despite his growing consciousness, the greyish pallor of sickness remained, as did the incessant shivering and sweat-soaked brow. Numerous lesions, stitched together with stark black thread, transversed his body in angry crossing lines like those of a haphazardly sewn rag doll. He presented a rather ugly, if not altogether shocking, visage, lying atop the red-muddied sheets, ruined from both is blood, sweat, and tears. He had never looked worse.
Yet none of his injuries, be it enemy or kin, held a candle to the excruciating inferno ripping through the last shreds of his lingering consciousness. He drifted in and out. Slow and thick, his blood ran like honey in his veins, while sleep claimed him and the potions worked their magic. In those eternal minutes where wakefulness brought with it the vicious reminder of his predicament, he could do little more than saltate between his suffering and the girl who thrust him from her presence.
Swirling, slipping, falling one into the next, never lingering long enough to disturb his healing heart, images danced gracefully behind his unique irises. The first was of the weeping brunette, her green eyes swimming in the salty pool of her fear, those last words, gut-wrenching and sibilated. I asked nothing! No! NO! Her beautiful hands covered her gaping mouth as she watched on in horror. The memory became mist, melting into the sight of her radiant unbridled laughter, the moonlight caressing the feminine curve of her brow as she let her delight permeate the lakeside, before it too rippled into another treasured vision.
The sight of her dirt-smudged face was lit with something akin to desire and longing as she made her way nearer. Cheeks rosed from the chilled autumn breeze, her lips curving into the smile reserved wholly for him, she beamed. The wish had come from a place or want, of longing, not fear or anger like before. He savored that simple truth.
Minutes turned to hours, lost in the hazed-blur of faithfully administered sleeping draughts and healing tonics, and the dreams dissolved, forgotten one into the next. He managed to cling, waking and sleeping, to the warm lemon and rosewater scent that had broken into his stupor— though it too was a fading memory. He held to it like an anchor; as long as he held it, he knew he was alive and could not possibly have hallucinated his horrendous transformation.
No part of him truly believed that his seemingly eternal agony was a fabrication of his mind; even if he had, the worried voices of both Emere and the sea of healers had dissuaded him of such foolish thoughts. The cockcrow was hours behind him, and the sun now at its highest point, shone through thin organza clouds streaking across the crisp azure sky. The beams spread their golden fingers across thee floor reaching to relieve the gloom. What should have been a soothing, calming scene was the picturesque backdrop of his ever racing thoughts— thoughts of her.
Over the last several days, trapped between pain and sleep, he felt her dreams calling at the edge of his psyche. That aberrant sensation was a beacon, the light on the turbulent sea of his suffering, calling to him over thunderous storm. He wanted nothing more than to go to her, to ease her heart, but he was as bound to his sickbed as a murderer to his cell, locked away indefinitely. Trapped in the swirling vortex of his mind, he lay tormented by the siren song of her mind.
She had called to him— once, in the final hours before dawn. He heard the sobbing edge in her voice as whispered to him, the panic crackling in those final words, but her pleas fell on deaf ears. Her mistake had left him far too broken, too wounded to leave the blood-stained sheets and ease her own internal suffering. Well enough to auscultate her words, but too fragile rise from his bed, he could no more than listen. The wish carried on the breeze to dance through the open window and settle in his ear, taunting him with her siren song.
The notion to go to her faded as sleep claimed him once more…
Sarah stared back at Blythe in horror. His eyes mirrored hers as a wave of nausea slammed against her stomach, and she was helpless to the rapid gasping breaths that sputtered from her lips. "There must be some mistake— oh God! Please! Please, you cannot let them take me!"
"Lefroy will do what he can, but Sarah, there is no guarantee." His frown deepened as he clasped her shoulders, forcing her to meet his withered gaze. He was afraid. Sarah could see it written bold, unbridled in his eyes, and the realization terrified her. Blythe was the bravest man she knew, if he were scared, there was a very good reason. His fingers squeezed against her biceps, confirming his own sense of unease. "I will speak on your behalf, but you must prepare for the worst."
Helpless, her tears leaked from her evergreen eyes, her lips trembled as she fought the urge to faint. "I d-do not understand… why me?"
A knock on the door startled the occupants, and Constance moved to answer, her own hands shaking with worry. Outside the room waited a stern-faced Richard Lefroy, who stood with hands clasped firmly behind his back, a very unpleasant look tugging his brow. Beside him stood both Elswick brothers: the physician and priest, the latter wearing a concerned and quite putout expression while the other appeared distinctly pleased.
More surprising, and far more troubling, were the two men standing at the farthest corner of the church, just behind the pews, where confused guests were murmuring to one another, no doubt discussing the waiting carriage. There was no mistaking an Estate carriage for a common buggy or luxurious barouche, and the result was the wagging tongues of the many onlookers watching unabashedly from their benches. Each man was dressed in dark breeches and matching frocks, and from her vantage point she could see the candlelight reflected in the high-shine of their too-polished boots. They were formidable, imposing, and Constance could not help the shiver that raced down her spine at the very sight of them.
Glancing between the three men standing only inches from her, the matron waited, deciding it was best to hold her tongue rather than divulge unwanted information. After a moment Father Elswick cleared his throat, offering a weak, but genuine smile, "might we have a moment with Miss. Williams?" When she did not immediately respond, the man's nostril twitched; his grin faltered. "I believe this conversation would best handled out of prying eyes," he motioned conspicuously to the crowd behind him. "Do you not agree Mrs. Tillens?"
Another, strained moment passed, then at long last she stepped back, ushering the three into the small room. Nodding to each as they passed, the men promptly ignored her, their gazes fixated on the frightened girl standing at the window.
Richard moved to stand beside Blythe, who had placed himself before Sarah, the two effectively shielding her from the others. He took in her red-rimmed eyes and the fresh tear tracks shimmering on her cheeks. Frowning at the blatant signs of her distress, he moved a hand to brush against her hers. Sarah grasped his with breaking force, peering up through her lashes, she moved a breath closer, drawing comfort from their joined hands. "Explain your presence here, you are delaying our wedding," he bit, the rancor obvious as he glared daggers at the still-pleased doctor.
"Now, now, there is no need for such hostility," Harold Elswick said as though he were addressing a simpleton, a strange glint lighting his silver eyes. "I am here for Sarah Williams and will take my leave the moment she is within my care."
"Your care?" Blythe parroted incredulously, his voice raising higher than usual. "Your care, as you so inadequately put it, is torture! At least those locked in Bedlam are true lunatics, the Estate filled with innocent victims—"
"Mr. Tillens, have you ever visited my workplace? Have you seen this alleged depravity with your own eyes, or are you so simpleminded as to believe the rumors of vagabonds?" Harold sneered, lifting his chin indignantly.
"Gentlemen, please!" Constance called from her place at the door. "Now, Doctor Elswick, will you please enlighten us as to the charges that bring you and your carriage here? Or did you come for the ceremony? Otherwise, I speak for myself and the others asking you to see yourself out."
Tugging at the hem of his heavily embroidered vest, the greying physician grunted noncommittally. "Yes, well," he grumbled under his breath, his finger twitched, and he tucked one hand loosely between the ivory buttons at his chest, standing taller. "Sarah Williams, you stand accused of perversive fornication, thereby breaking the contract of your engagement to one, Richard Lefroy. You are to be taken to Saint Paul's Sanctuary for the Deranged, Indecorous, and Obscene, where you will be questioned, and brought to heel, before the Almighty God."
"How dare you!" Richard growled, his voice holding a newfound malice that made Sarah tremble, unconsciously squeezing his hand tighter. "You dare to come here insulting my bride! I demand to know who made such vulgar allegations! I will not stand for this, move aside and let us pass." Turning to acknowledge the black-frocked priest who stood silent in the corner, eyes wide and uncertain, Lefroy barked. "The wedding will continue as planned." His grip tightened as he surged forward dragging Sarah, who crashed indelicately against his back, to the door.
Shocked, the doctor stood aghast, nostrils flaring in newfound anger as he stepped between the couple. "I will remind you, sir, that I am an agent of the Holy Church, and the people. I have the a warrant to place her within the walls of the Estate, and by God I will!" he spat, his face growing redder by the second, "Here!" he said, thrusting a rolled parchment sealed with blood red wax and black ribbon against Richard's silver waistcoat with a snarl. "Make no mistake," his voice grew lower, villainous. "I will send for the constable if you cannot comply with the law." A mock smile lifted his bushed brow, his eyes deviant as a snide smile split his face. "My sympathies Lefroy, I can only imagine what you must be feeling; any man would be furious to know his wife, or bride this instance, is a trollop."
Instantly, the man flew backwards, the women yelped, their hands flying to their mouths as they watched him fall haplessly to the ground. Blood seeped from his now-broken nose, catching along his upper lip before his hand could cover the damage. His wild curse could no doubt be heard throughout the congested chapel. Blythe growled, chest heaving, his hand bore the darkening red smudges from where his knuckles made contact, but he paid it no mind. He was fuming, snarling like a caged animal, his eyes murderous.
"Stop this!" called the priest, moving to block his brother from view. A hand raised to pacify the enraged group. "Please! Violence will not be tolerated in the House of God!"
Lefroy appraised the man at his side, gifting a genuine, rakish grin. "My thanks, Tillens." Clapping the man on the shoulder, good-naturedly. "You were much faster than I could hope to be. I am in your debt." At that, Blythe offered a curt nod, his anger still to palpable to speak, but Richard understood. His appreciative smile vanished as he looked to the heap on the floor. The man was awake, groaning and livid, his the white cloth quickly staining red. "You have insulted my bride for the last time. I promise you will not find another opportunity."
"You'll pay for this." Harold winced, raising gracelessly, but not before snatching the discarded parchment from where it landed at his silver-buckled feet. Cracking the crimson seal, he used both hands to unroll it, and began reading. Pretending not to notice the little droplets leaking from his ever-swelling nose; even when two splashed audibly, he read on. "The signed witness, who shall remain anonymous at this time, has sworn before God and the constable that the testimony is, without a doubt, the undeniable truth."
Clearing his throat to calm the murmurs emitting from all but his kin, her read on louder, despite the ache in the center of his face. "One week syne, on the night of October the twenty fourth, in the seventeen hundred and seventy second year of our Lord, one Sarah Williams was seen wrapped in the arms of a man, who was not her intended, on the bank of the Mirada Ruins Lake. However, I must finish the recount by adding that Ms. Williams was not simply seen in the embrace of another man, but something altogether more intimate."
A collective gasp broke the sudden tension as Sarah stepped back, releasing herself from Richard's hold. Before she could speak in her defense, Constance asked, "you cannot say who accuses her of such a crime, but yet you take their words at full value?" Scoffing she stepped forward. "My husband had oft accompanied Sarah to the lake. It had been a refuge of theirs since childhood— are you suggesting that he has been unfaithful to me?"
"The constable seemed to be of the same opinion, Mrs. Tillens, and begged a further description and details pertaining to Miss. Williams and the her companion." A wide, toothy grin spread over Elswick's lips, the bloodied mess churning more than one stomach at the gross display. Triumphant, he continued, reading from the stained scroll, as an eerie sort of joviality lifted his tenor. "Description reads as follows: taller than usual, one full head over the accused, dressed in an odd sort of black leather. Wild, unruly pale hair, more specifically an odd white-yellow, styled in disarray. The man in question could not, unfortunately be identified." Looking up to the crowd, he was pleased to find them all transfixed.
"This is absurd." Richard laughed humorlessly, stepped away from the doctor, reclaiming his hold on Sarah's hand. "Whomever is to blame for this egregious quagmire is trying to destroy not only Miss. Williams reputation, but my own by association. I was at that Godforsaken lake on the night in question. Father Elswick can attest to my attendance; it was he who pointed the way, if I do recall. In fact it was he who sent the letter—" he trailed on, attesting to her innocence and loneliness at that secreted place.
Sarah heard his voice but not the words, her head swimming with the realization she had been caught. She had been seen. The report had been disturbing, but worse still, accurate. The idea made her sick, as her face flushed at the memories of that night and the company she shared. A pang of longing entered, unwelcome into her heart at the thought of the Goblin King, and it was all she could do to brush the hurt into the back of her mind, where her guilt and shame could swallow it whole.
Torn suddenly from her wayward thoughts by a forceful tug at her elbow, Sarah started, gulping down a gasp at the contemptuous look radiating from Blythe. His fingers dug into her arm, as he pulled her a fraction closer, growling low. "The man from your dreams?" The white of her eyes were far too visible as she stared horrified back, silently pleading for his silence. "The man with mismatched eyes? It was real?"
"Blythe, don't." She hissed.
"What you said last night—" his voice fell away, his eyes sweeping the floor, disbelieving. "No! No, you would never be so reckless! What were you thinking?!" His voice had raised, much too loud to be kept between the pair. "How coul—"
"STOP!" she cried, suddenly aware the room had gone silent once more. Petrified, she dared a glance at her fiancé. Her heart thundered in her breast, threatening to burst from her ribs with shattering force. She needn't look at her hands to know they were trembling, nor a mirror to see that the color had drained from her face.
Cautiously, Father Elswick stepped forward, his brow marred with heavy creases. "My child, have you reason to confess? Have you met with a stranger— a man— under the shroud of night?" A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye, but she said nothing, her gaze still fixated on the stern purse of Richard's lips. It was all the confirmation he needed. "Oh, my child, confession will ease your soul."
Her head shook much too fervently. Every line, every feature, every crease digging her further into the ever-darkening pit. Trembling wildly, from both panic and fear, Sarah could do nothing but whimper. The dead, hollow look emanating from her eyes, seared through Blythe's soul, and he knew his mistake.
"Sarah? It can't true—" Richard asked airily, his voice filled with doubt. The single tear became two, then three, and soon the flood poured, her denial unconvincing. He stepped back, turning to face her fully, hurt emanating from every pore before burning away to unfettered anger. An anger she had hoped to never witness. "After all I have done for you— this is how you repay me?"
Reaching for him, her fingers latched on his shoulder, her nails digging into the fine fabric of his coat. "No! Please, I never meant—" her words faltered as she searched for an explanation that would not damn her further. She found none. Panicked, her mouth ran away before her mind could stop the torrential onslaught of truths as they poured from her lips. "It was an accident, I never meant to call to him. He was a figment of my imagination— he wasn't real. But then I wished and suddenly he was there… a-a-and I—" her hand slapped over her mouth with a loud sting. Taking a step back, she swayed on the spot, her grip going slack as the room spun.
Far away, the door opened and words were exchanged, but Sarah heard nothing over the roar of blood in her ears. Crumpling to the floor like the wilting petals of a withered rose, her tenuous hold on rationality crumbled like tower of cards, and her arms wrapped around her middle. What have I done? By her own confession she had sealed her fate, driving away the last vestiges of doubt with her own foolishness.
What have I done?
A/N: I know— I know! I could not have Jareth waltzing in so soon after he was injured, now could I? (Please put down the torches and pitch forks!) Also, forgive any religious discrepancies… the Shriving is my own little invention so that I could write a confession however I pleased, and not step on toes. Obviously, I needed this whole scenario to go a certain way so I made my OWN rules! Huzzah! I promise I am going somewhere with this... I have actually had these next two chapters planned from the BEGINNING! As always, thank you for reading, and please, PLEASE review. It is sad, but I live for your feedback. See you soon! **BONUS this chapter is almost 11K words! I hope it was worth the wait!