DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Unheard screams in the dark…
Ribbons of crimson flesh…
Silence.
The biting cold woke her.
Violent tremors wracked her slight frame, shooting up her spine and back into her naked toes. Where were her stockings? Her shoes? Where was she? Laying on cold stone, the unforgiving surface siphoned the last echo of warmth from her core. It was dark—too dark to see more than the pale hand trembling near her frozen lips. Her ragged breaths, puffed against her fingers, were not enough to heat her trembling hands—even her lungs seemed coated in frost. How long had she been here? Why was she in such pain?
The Estate.
For a moment she had forgotten where she was, despite her horrific discomfort—until the continued blackness drew her clarity. She had done this to herself. A slip of the tongue during a moment of weakness damned her to this godforsaken place. Forgetting his hurt, Richard Lefroy had done all he could to save her from this place and the horrors within. Adamant that the testimony against her was an erroneous ruse, though by whom he could not fathom, he had tried to pacify the guards waiting in the chapel. The Tillens also had petitioned her release, but it had not been enough. Too many questions were raised, the answers growing more and more ludicrous as the hole beneath her feet deepened.
Supposed licentiousness had brought the carriage; yet in the end, the lock had turned, and the bars slammed shut because phantasmal visitors, dreamed or not, were far greater cause for concern. Piceous messengers were undoubtedly servants of Lucifer, and though she had not signed her name, her soul was in great peril. Father Elswick had been beside himself; obdurate and filled with religious panic, the man had proclaimed her bewitched—possessed. Seduced by the false promises of the Devil, she was a marked woman awaiting her punishment.
The guards had taken her then, each wrapping a thick, heavy hand around her biceps as an iron clamp. Her heart thundered in her ears—every nerve ending fired in panic as they ushered her through the open doorway. Instinct took over as her body flailed against her jailers, her objections rising to a plangent shriek as they moved closer to the chapel doors. The men at her side jerked her forward, and she fell to her knees at the sudden jostling, her arms twisting painfully as they maintained their hold. Her foot scored along the stone tiles dislodging her shoe, tearing the stocking and flesh beneath.
The more she fought, the angrier the guards became, each grunting under stark obscenities in turn. When her heal raised to slam against the bridge of a foot, forcing a hiss from her captor, his grip loosened. An instant later the back of his hand slapped violently against cheek, splitting her lip. She sagged, allowing them to pull her from the church, offering no protest as her world spun.
Finally, Sarah regained enough sense to bring her struggle anew. Her screams grew hysterical, until with a deep growl, a fist slammed with blinding force against her head. Stars flashed behind her eyes, vomit rose in her throat, and her muscles suddenly went lax as darkness claimed her.
A sound beyond her own tumultuous gulps of air drew her from her bleak reverie, a faint stirring of sorts that surrounded her prison. Small sounds emitted from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Dry and empty, the metallic tang of copper filled her mouth, and the slightest movement of her jaw and the turn of her neck split her head in two. A silent cry barreled through her as the pain burst around her skull, leaking into the sockets of her eyes, from which her tears dripped into the void.
The sharp, needling pain returned; her extremities were numb—almost—save for the piercing bite that seemed to cut through the haze. It was a strange sensation: the stinging cold, a balm of warmth, and the foreign tickle along her flesh. Wincing, she attempted to pull her knees closer to her chest, but her body could not curl any tighter. The movement shifted her feet, and the stinging, burning stab began anew; this time she was unable to contain her mewling cry. Gasping at the rustling under her skirts, Sarah tried to ignore the foreign brushes against her calves and the sharp pinch at her toes. The strange smell finally reached her, assaulting her senses with a bitter pungency. It made her nausea swell and her stomach clench, but she did not retch. When a faint tickle brushed against her nose, a weight burrowed through her hair. She screamed, jarring her head backwards, the throb crescendoing until she felt faint.
Rats.
She could hear them scurry around her, brushing against her skirt, her hands, her feet until she could stand it no longer. Dragging herself to sit upright, nausea crippled her from the movement as her fingers dove viciously into her nested hair, grateful to find it unoccupied. Trembling, her arms wrapped around her knees as she choked on her tears, trying to ignore the throbbing sting left by the blunted teeth. Against her will, she burst into sobs.
What had she done?
What had she done?
Emere Havron sat in a chair in the royal bedchamber with his feet propped on the stone edge of the large stained glass window, cursing the creature who invented port. His indulgence had reached a fever pitch with the certainty that the broken man would live. Glass after glass, he tossed back the potent substance, every swallow dulling the horrific panic, until he was to inebriated to remember his own name.
Alas, the sun rose as it must, dragging his drunkenness into the morning to shatter into pain and regret. His head throbbed and his eyes stung as he watched the burnt embers of the rising sun. Even his fingers that were rubbing slow, methodical circles against his temples throbbed from drunkenness. The very soles of his feet seemed to ache, but he was not entirely certain—he had lost feeling below the knee hours ago.
The glass in his hand was empty, as it had been for the last two hours. For the first time in over a week he did not hear the song of liquor begging him to subdue his fears at the bottom of a bottle. His anxiousness had not fled him entirely, waiting at the edges of his nerves to pool at the base of his spine. After days of uncertainty, fading in and out of consciousness and fevered murmuring, the king was at long last awake.
Two days had passed since he had called out from his sickbed, demanding to know where the girl was and how she fared. His mismatched eyes were wild, crazed, as he rasped, "Is she safe?" The hoarse voice cracked as his piercing gaze rooted Emere to his place beside the bed. When he did not answer, the question became desperate, pressed through gritted teeth. "Is—she—safe?"
Emere could offer nothing, save for a look of incredulous confusion, as a visible well of panic and unbridled fear threatened to drown the trembling man where he lay resting against the wrinkled sheets. "Sarah—" he murmured, attempting to rise from the bed, only to be met with agonizing pain ripping down his spine. A grumbled cry rolled behind his lips as he fell back onto the thick down pillows with a hiss. Chest heaving, his panted breaths echoed throughout the ornate room, the ghost-white pallor still heavy on his sweat-dampened flesh. "Emere, we wer— weren't alone." Closing his eyes against the pain, he spat, "I heard footsteps in the woods."
The man made to move again but was halted by a heavy arm bearing on his shoulder. "Sire, please, you mustn't move."
"Someone was there, Emere!"
"We can discuss this—"
"No! I will find her!"
"You nearly died!" Emere bellowed, eyes wild and red, none of which could be blamed on his drinking. A thick rawness swelled in his throat; the emotions he had drowned at the bottom of a crystal decanter coursed through his veins, sobering him further.
There was a strain in his baritone that had little to do with the injuries confining him to the bed, understanding dawning on his clouded mind. "I need to find her," he whispered, his eyes closed as he quelled his fears, her visage flashing unbidden, taunting him: the gentle scent of lemon and rose, ink and parchment, the touch of her lips, the melodic song of her laugh. The crunching of twigs. The threat of another. His memories faded to nightmare, and her pallid, fear-pinched face reechoed, as she muttered her wish.
I wish you would go. The sibilated command was uttered under breath, an afterthought—a turn of phrase as wicked as a master swordsman on the field of battle, brandished and shining in the fading sun. I wish you would go.
I wish you would go.
His eyes lifted, meeting the deep obsidian pools still warily studying him. Suddenly finding the need to explain himself, he offered uselessly. "She begged me to leave, Emere. She begged!" Scrunching his nose, he shook his head, ignoring the nausea rising from his core. "Someone was there—moving through the trees—I went to defend her, but she fought me! Her fears lay upon discovery, not the identity of the intruder." A growl escaped him, the anger from her senseless propriety twitched his nostrils. "I ignored her pleas for my departure, I could not leave—"
"A mortal did this to you?! Who was he? How?"
"No—I never saw them, she wished before—"
"The girl wished—" His mouth dropped open, his brows shooting to his hairline as he blinked in rapid succession. "A wish did this to you?" His eyes scanned the prone figure, staring dumbfounded. "Why? Why would she wish injury upon you?" Emere had not thought her capable of such insidious cruelty; though he had only glimpsed images of her through the crystal memories, he was certain of her character. How could he have been so wrong? The girl seemed incapable of hurting even the lowliest of creatures, much less the King of the Goblin Throne.
"Another impossibility from the impossible girl." Dragging a hand roughly across his scruff, he sniffed, frowning. "I had not thought her capable—what was her wish? Had she intended to kill you?"
"No! No, it was a mistake. A terrible mistake." With a slow breath, the king whispered, "Here, see for yourself, my friend." Wanting to give the memory for inspection, he lifted his free hand, bringing his fingers together as a light teetered on the top of the uneven ridge. The glow fluttered and faded, sputtering along his shaking hand. Twice he tried, but the light simply snuffed like an ember underfoot. No crystal teetered, rolled, or danced along his fingers; only the stagnant too-close air of his infirmary touched his bare, chalky skin.
Enervated, he sighed, feeling his damaged magic taunting him just beyond his reach. He could do nothing to drag it nearer, to grasp it within his soul or press it firm against his breast. Try as he might he could not conjure the ball nor place a memory within. Discouraged, he frowned. "It appears that I cannot yet show you, but I swear upon my throne that she never intended me harm. It was a thoughtless phrase murmured in the throes of alarm."
Whilst his adviser pondered the newfound revelations, the Goblin King agonized over the fate of his precious Riddle. Who was there that night? What had they done to the hysterical girl sobbing on the shore? Vaguely, he recalled a whimpered, sibilated wish in the blackest, coldest hours before dawn; whether memory or fabrication, the sound of her voice broken weak haunted the deepest vestiges of sleep. Never had she sounded so heartbroken. Never had he wanted to respond as he had in those moments, trapped within his own dreams, useless to the beautiful, miserable girl. Such reckless abandon flooded his senses, pumping adrenaline into his limbs like kindling to a flame. It had been hours since that sound tormented him last, the horrendous ululated whisper shredding the last of his good sense.
Shooting from the pillows like a man possessed, he sat up in bed, unaware of the sutures splitting across his chest, blossoming crimson from his efforts. "I have to find her." Tossing the sheets aside, he jolted at the sight of his naked body, still mapped by the black threads across his torso, his lifeblood leaking seeping from the too-fresh seams. Blinking back his shock, the king grimaced, sliding his legs to the edge of the mattress as white-hot flames shot up his spine.
"You mustn't move, sire. You are no good to her if you cannot stand." Emere stepped forward, bending to grasp a bared ankle and return it to the bed before doing the same with the other. Replacing the layers of blankets atop the grotesque, healing body, his hands moving to press heavily against trembling shoulders. He was met with little resistance, and too easily the king was laying prone once more. "Sire, you must rest," his frown morphing into a reassuring grin, filled with a sad understanding. "You are too weak. Your magic is too weak. I swear to you, we will find her—but we can do nothing until you are well again."
Folding his arms across his chest, the adviser stared down with pinched brow and pursed lips. His thoughts raced, each vying to be a prominent feature in his troubled mind, until at last the most pressing question took hold. "While you cannot conjure the memory for my viewing, perhaps your could recount the tale first?" The king nodded silently from the bed, his eyes fixed absently on the far wall as he awaited the inevitable inquiry. "What do you remember, your Grace?"
He felt his mouth go dry, and he stretched a hand for the goblet waiting just beyond his limited reach. At the sudden movement, Emere moved forward perching on the edge of the bed, bringing the ornate glass to the parched, waiting lips. The king was stalling, drinking a slow, languid swallow. Replacing the goblet on the side table, the adviser sat straight, studying the king as if he were about to confess a shocking sin.
"The night began as usual. Sarah made her wish and we met at the lakeside beneath the growing cover of stars. No—that is not right. I was angry. Livid. Her wish was late, and I was worried." He winced at the memory of his cruelty that sent her careening into the trees, horrified. The Goblin King continued recounting the evening to the best of his ability, limiting the details to maintain some semblance of privacy. "I answered what little I could, despite her reluctance to ask. I heard crunching underfoot, much too far for her ears, drawing nearer. I asked if she was expecting someone, and though she was to be escorted home, it was to be with two companions. The fiend in the trees was alone."
He watched the expressions flit across Emere's tanned face, a deep crease wrinkling between his dark, salted brows. "I warned her to stay behind me. She would not listen." Rubbing his hand over the growing stubble at his chin, he rolled his jaw in his hand. "Her concern was not with the approaching stranger, nor her own safety. Her fear lay with the loss of her reputation! My presence at the lake threatened her virtue—though I can assure you I had done nothing to jeopardize it, and she was desperate for my absence." His hand tangled in his thick, leucous mane, his eyes scrunching closed. "Her reputation was of more import than her life. Her life! I was not going to leave her to their mercy!" He shot his companion a scathing, rancorous look. "Sarah begged for me to take my leave, but despite her insistence, I refused." Rolling his head away, he pressed on, his voice thick and morose. "I could not stand idly by. Not again."
The silence stretched between them. Emere dared not speak as he awaited the last of the strange, horrible tale. Chiming into the vast room, the clock signaled the next hour, pulling both men from the stew of their thoughts. One by one the chimes sang out, until the twelfth and final deep note faded into silence, the solid, steady ticking the only sound.
"I wish you would go…" sorrow settled deep within the mismatched eyes. "I wish you would go, she muttered the words under her breath absentmindedly—unaware of the power of her words until it was too late." Swallowing hard, he slid his hand along his face, his hand lingering at his mouth. "I do not know what happened after. My world was reduced to pain. An unbearable, encompassing pain far greater than any I had known swallowed me within its gaping maw. My flesh was on fire; my bones shattered into a thousand razor sharp pieces, each stabbing violently within me." His gaze softened, a faraway look relaxing the creases at his eyes. "The rest is fragmented memories of voices, pain and sleep."
Standing slowly, Emere paced to the window, his lips pressed in a hard line. "She unwittingly—" he began, half turning to face the bed before pivoting away once more. His voice was slow, calculated, the tone austere. "The girl, Sarah, unconsciously wished you away, nearly killing you with a forced, heinous transformation. A simple phrase uttered under her breath, a thought she no doubt never intended to vocalize—" he allowed his voice to fade away, his words dying on the air. A dangerous expression, filled with both foreboding and fear, darkened his face and hardened his eyes.
"What would have happened had her words been intentional?"
It could have been hours, days, or weeks for all she knew. It could have been no more than ten minutes. If she could have seen something—anything—perhaps she could have borne it better. For as much as the pain unhinged her, it was the plain fact that teeth were gnawing, ripping into her flesh, coming unseen and indomitable in their onslaught, driving her past the brink of hysteria and into some nightmarish place she could not seem to escape.
Whimpering, Sarah swallowed her panic, praying that this was another vivid dream aggravating the wounds of her fear. Yes! Yes, this must be a dream! But even as she tried, even she could not be convinced of the lie. The aching burn of her empty stomach could not serve as an accurate clock, and with the lack of light she was utterly discombobulated. In three days she had eaten little more than scraps, the pain a constant fixture that she had long since ignored. Now it was much stronger and far more distracting. Sarah was no stranger to hunger—her father had seen to that with every coin he lost to a whore or a card.
Eventually the door she had huddled against swung wide, depositing her into the corridor before she could begin to react. There was no sound but for the constant ringing in her ears. Sightlessly she stared into the muted brightness that refused to resolve itself into any discernible surrounding. A rich earthy scent lingered in the hall, like the smell of a graveyard in the mist— vastly different from the pungent stench of her confinement.
When hands touched her shoulders, she screamed, a ragged breathy sound that was little more than a whisper, sliding back along the stone floor. Inch by inch she made her way blindly backwards, her hand grated, the skin shredding, droplets of blood marking her path. The pain in her head had not ceased to throb; pulsing against her skull like an ax into wood, it limited her vision, pulling nausea up her too-dry throat. The man had followed her, watching her struggle along the dirty corridor until her muscles grew too frail to continue.
Shielding her face, her forearms crossed as her eyes slammed shut. The solid thump of his boot falls on the floor drew nearer and nearer, until falling silent as the breath from her fear-twisted brow. His hands touched at her wrists, ensnaring both within a single palm; she shrieked, feebly fighting against the stronghold, her arms twisting backward, until with a wail, her left dislodged from the socket.
Her thrashing ceased, an arm hanging limp at her side, the pain sparking into her neck and chest as the guard resumed his task, prompted by her sudden stillness. Releasing her wrists he bent forward, understanding the fight had died within her. The man was clearly unperturbed by her anguish, grunting as he scooped her from the ground, pressing her against the unyielding wall of his chest. He ignored her continued whimpers and pules.
Sarah screwed her bloodshot eyes shut once more—the ringing in her ears grew to a fever pitch as the heinous sounds echoed around her. The screeching sobs and chaotic wailing tied the unpleasant ribbons of unintelligible obsecratings that ricocheted in the stone tombs, grating against the mortar. Thick and stagnant, the air was a queer mix of hot and cold, pregnant from the sour breaths of the lunatics and freaks hidden away beneath the earth, waiting to be forgotten. She was one of them now. A number in the ranks of the madhouse, left in the darkness to be cured or forgotten, whichever came first.
She was certain she knew the answer.
The walk could have taken minutes or been a handful steps from where she had been locked away—it mattered little to her pain-addled brain. Her shoulder ached, her head throbbed making her vision swim as her feet and legs burned. Her limbs felt heavy, hanging laxly over muscled arms, the tips of her fingers stiff and weak. Each blink longer than the last, the oblivion of sleep a siren song, caressing the edges of her pain, promising a brief respite from her troubles.
She succumbed willingly to the darkness.
Edith Milburn shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her fingers caressing the cool, smooth metal of her crucifix, her gaze fixed on the iron door. Why was she so anxious? It was not as though this was her first Cleansing, nor even her second or third; it was in fact her tenth (though she, herself had ceased to count after five) and there was no logical reason for her nerves to stand on edge. While others were being gently, but firmly, ordered about, she was left to wait exactly as she was.
Another, more ill-tempered woman, whose status was much higher than Sister Edith, stood with all the presence of a king in the midst of the proceedings. Her keen grey eyes took in everything, and her tongue was as perpetually in motion as the women moving hastily about the room. With a final turn about, the woman raised her hands and clapped twice, the sound far too loud in the stone hall, but the message was clear.
It was time.
Scuttling out of the room, the precession of Holy women left, returning to their daily tasks with naught but ten words between them. A solemnity hung as smoke, tainting the air with its bitter taste and gritty breaths, the cloud settling one by one until each was soaked through. The woman turned to Edith, sweeping over her with a shrewd, meticulous stare before nodding sharply and moving to the door. Smoothing her hands along the front of her Habit, Agatha Wesson rose to her impressive height and waited, the numerous wrinkles deepening severely as she pursed her lips.
A booming knock hammered against the metal door; neither woman startled at the abrupt sound. "Enter," Wesson called, the rasp of her voice adding an air of masculinity. The door swung open almost soundlessly, the faint grinding of the hinges breaking the silence as the guard, known to his friends as Louis, stalked into the large room, his arms burdened with the slight weight of a sleeping woman. The ameliorating feel of her warm, lithe form pressing against his chest stirred the dark pool of his desire; her beauty far greater than the rouged whores he could hardly afford to satisfy. Drawing her closer, he savored the tickle of her nest of hair brushing the underside of his jaw and the feel of her thighs pressed against his arm.
Lifting his gaze from the swell of her breasts, straining against the elaborate brocade of her now ruined gown, Louis moved to the far end of the room where a much younger nun anxiously awaited her charge. The numerous dark layers hid the luscious curves from his roving eyes, yet her delicate face was enough to further stoke the fire of his loins. Too long had he remained abstinent—the need to slake his lust simmered against his skin, flaring to life at the sound of her breathy pained whimper.
God, how he wanted her!
Crisp azure eyes locked on the tall figure of the guard, devouring his movements as he drew nearer still. A forbidden fruit laying just beyond the flaming sword of sin, the man was temptation, though Edith was certain she would feel differently had she lived another life, one where galas and balls were as commonplace as maggots to rot. Had her mother been something other than a starving trollop leaving her on the steps of a convent, and her beauty nurtured not dejected, she might have discouraged his advances.
She tumbled like a house of cards.
Louis was brazen, bold, taking every opportunity to seek out her touch. First, it had been his fingers whispering against her own in the narrow corridor. Edith started as though she had been burned, crashing against the damp stone wall with a dull thud. The roue met her horrified gaze with a wink, smirking as he continued onward, unvexed. Not a week later his fingers found hers again, purposefully skating over the sensitive skin of her palm before once again taking his leave. On and on the strange, but not wholly unwanted contact persisted, months rolling away into a year, until his hands had found other areas of her carefully covered figure. The secretive glances, airy brushes and twice stolen kisses were the forbidden episodical encounters highlighting her mundane existence.
Discretely she tried to garner his attention with the batting of her lashes and the gentle chewing of her lip, but his gaze was focused elsewhere. He did not notice the frown that wrinkled her brow as he bent to place the fragile girl on the large stone slab.
Transfixed with the brunette creature curled against his chest, he could not resist the delicacy before him. Setting her atop the cold table, Louis allowed his fingers to caress the swell of her calf, curving under her knee to brush against her slender thigh. God! She was perfect! His other hand squeezed the nape of her neck once, twice, before coming to his senses and withdrawing his touch.
He did not want to leave. The very idea of placing any amount of distance between himself and the unique, wilted flower rolled nauseatingly in the pit of his stomach. Never had he felt such gratitude towards the asylum and the loons locked within, but this woman was a gift—a rarity he would never have glimpsed otherwise, and he was loath to lose her. Hesitating, he drank in her visage like a drunk to the bottle, savoring the sight of her laying prone, her dark, disheveled hair spread in a haphazard halo. Louis never wanted anything so desperately. Stalking silently from the room, he tossed a cursory glance over his shoulder, ignoring the wanton eyes watching from the far corner.
Something was wrong.
The air was charged with unease, splintering across her flesh like a frosted breeze. Though the women proceeded in the same manner as with previous Cleansings, she could not deny the woeful foreboding raising the fine hairs on her neck. The girl lay with her eyes closed, whether sleeping or too weak to move, Edith could not be sure, the voluminous folds of her dress bunched in wrinkled disarray about her bloodied ankles. Dark burgundy-brown stained the lilac brocade, mingling with bright crimson smears along her torn stockings ending in a pool of warm, wet blood against her toes.
The rat catcher was slipping.
With a gentle touch, Edith slowly rolled the torn remnants of fabric off the gouged legs, grimacing as they landed with a wet slap on the floor. Reaching for the hidden hooks tucked beneath the ruffles of the bodice, the gown was removed piece by piece, each layer blotched with filth and grime. The purple satin and silk mapped the signs of her imprisonment, the stink of rodent embedded in the delicate embroidery and lace trim. What was once a beautiful gown of luxury and wealth was now a mockery of its former self, lying in a dirty heap on the stones.
Rolling between slumber and restless wakefulness, the girl groaned softly as they continued their ministrations. Frowning, her head tossed from one side then the other, her whole body trembling from cold discomfort and throbbing pain. Exhaustion weighed her limbs, numbing her pain in small infrequent bursts as she shivered. Maintaining her silence, Agatha placed her hand against the trembling forehead, as a mother would her stricken infant, shushing her all the while.
Eventually the girl calmed, allowing the older woman to proceed with her work unencumbered. Tossing aside her gentle repose for practiced stoicism, Agatha dragged her fingers through the birds' nest tresses searching for the myriad of pins and adornments tangled within. Her hands slid downward to unhook the long chain of a locket, and the teardrop pearl earrings, both removed with only an ounce of finesse and care.
Glancing to her companion who was diligently wiping the still-dripping blood from the slender legs, the seasoned nun nodded her approval and continued with her work. Reaching into the tall chest of drawers nestled beside the closed door, she removed a heavy pair of shears and a large, wooden brush before returning to her charge.
Methodically, the brush removed each gnarl and knot from the dark mane dragging root to end, the usual curls limp and dull from the harsh ministrations. Probing the dark locks for the small pins once more, she tore free the small metal hooks with the harsh bristles, until the mass was free of intrusions. Nodding curtly at her handiwork, she ran the brush through once more, before gathering a small portion together in one hand, and replacing one instrument for another.
The myriad of injuries littering the alabaster skin were now hidden beneath stark linen bandages, each having been scrubbed clean and smeared with poultice. The bloodied mess of her toes would require the physician, but they too had been wrapped carefully for the time being. The clatter of metal and leather rang out as a limp arm was raised to lay at the top corner of the table, the wrist cinched beneath a heavy silver buckle. Once each limb was secure in the shackles, the two women stepped back from the table, Edith moving to stoke the fire, before tossing another thick log atop the orange flames as her partner tugged on the frayed rope hanging near the mantel.
It was time.
A/N: I wanted to put more in this chapter, but if just felt right this way. What can I say? I hope you all like it! Please, as always review. I love hearing what you all think, it makes my day like you wouldn't believe! Until next chapter? XOXO!