DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The stars vanish from the sky.
The dreams have stopped.
The dreams have stopped.
The china clinked softly, the delicate bell ringing lightly into the pale blue sitting room, bathed in a warm, early-winter sun. Despite the incoming winter and the brisk bite in the air outside, the room was as warm and inviting as the late spring.
The bright smell of tea and coffee cakes permeated the air, mingling with the rich odor of hothouse roses and warm fires. The walls were lined with a cheery, floral wallpaper topped with heavy-framed landscapes and still-life paintings. The bright room was offset by the dark mahogany furniture and the pastel blue velvet cushions adorning them. It was a pleasant space to pass the time; the large windows faced full-south, offering the optimum sunlight for the dark, dank English winters.
The wrinkled maid, whom had shouldered her way into the room, her arms laden with a polished silver tray, smiled at the pair seated on opposite chairs near the hearth. Well practiced in the placing and removing of the tea service, the servant effortlessly went about her business before acknowledging her mistress. With a quick curtsy, the navy-clad maid ushered herself from the beautiful room and the women within.
Sipping the hot tea whilst neglecting the small cakes and fruit tarts arranged neatly on the sliver tray, the pair remained pleasantly quiet. It was a jovial silence that neither seemed keen to disturb. Savoring the warm tea and crackling fire, each sat happily perusing the empty pages of their futures with great anticipation.
It had been days since their secretive victory, and neither could quite comprehend how they had managed such an impressive feat. True, they had concocted a devious plot, but neither had fully believed in its fruition. How could they?
Though neither was wholly responsible for the tragic events of the prior week, both had been instrumental in the incarceration of Sarah Williams.
Ironically enough, so had Sarah, herself.
Mariah Bishop had not considered herself fortuitous when she caught sight of her rival wandering conspicuously along the cemetery wall. In fact, the sight of the girl had enraged her— so much so that she nearly bit through her lip trying to keep her scream of frustration at bay.
Initially, Mariah turned back to the rectory, feeling a sudden need for prayer, wanting nothing to do with the disgraceful chit. She took two steps before intuition whispered the oddly seductive and illicit instinct to follow.
Too well-mannered to succumb to such a ridiculous impulse, she inwardly scoffed, silently berating her own foolishness. That was, however, until she noticed the large basket and flickering lantern as the girl lifted each over the crumbling wall. A devious sense of curiosity overwhelmed her, and before Sarah could gain too much headway, she was trailing quietly behind.
Her skirts were tapped, tugged, and torn by the copious wooden fingers reaching towards her as she made her way behind the curious brunette. Her ire blinded her to the crawling, writhing creatures hidden about the trees and flora, her determination keeping her wits.
Certainly, she had not expected a lake to be tucked deep in the woods behind the weathered chapel, a single turret jutting from the glassy surface giving no indication as to its origin. The creature of her mind, green and raving as it was, could not conjure such a serendipitous sight as that of Sarah Williams standing intimately close to a stranger, his gloved fingers gently holding her chin, their mouths inches apart.
Wide as saucers, her eyes drank the licentious scene with gleeful fervor. I have you now, she thought before clapping a hand over her mouth, lest her elation give her away. She watched a moment longer, a pink blush rising to her cheeks. The pair was conversing, but the words were lost to her, standing so far away. Wanting nothing more than to draw closer, Mariah waited.
Starting at the sound of raised voices, she paused, hoping to catch the barest utterance but, disappointingly the words were caught on the breeze. Her sudden gasp was mercifully stifled beneath her hand as a loud crack rent the air as Sarah's hand connected with the stranger's face. A giggle of laughter bubbled in Mariah's chest, and she pressed her hand harder against her lips, biting her cheek until the copper tang of blood filled her mouth.
The man whom she could only assume was a gypsy snatched Sarah by the shoulders seemingly unbothered by her previous violence. Another moment and the girl was flung away, and for the barest moment Mariah felt the brush of worry against her heart. His long, slender legs paced away from the queer girl, his hand tearing through his hair in visible frustration.
Fascinated, Mariah took a tentative step forward, still hidden within the trees, her gaze lingering on the curious blonde. His very countenance demanded her attention, the inhumanly graceful movements sent a wave of warm shivers down her spine. The space between them did little to diminish his appeal; though she could not with crystalline clarity define his features, she could sense his allure— his power.
Mariah could not deny she was tempted.
Her skin heated— her stomach clenched delightfully the longer she stared. When he offered a perfect view of his face, the fading twilight and the distance between them obscured the intoxicating stranger from her blatant gandering. She resented the sun for setting.
His pacing was akin to a caged beast, like she had seen in the traveling fairs, striding back and forth, taming a raging tempest. A voice, deep in the recess of her mind hissed, slithering foreboding beneath her heavy layers, frosting her flesh. Her welcome had worn thin.
A roar rent the greying dusk, both women shrieked, the boisterous sounds blending flawlessly into a single cry of terror. Paralyzed, Mariah held her breath, her feet locked in the dirt as if in chains. Congregating along her lower lash line, her tears waited, too frightened to trail along the curve of her cheek. The blur of sounds were followed instantly with a shattering of glass, and the scrambling of feet atop the pebbles.
Mariah had not lingered to witness more.
A throat cleared in the distance of her reverie, drawing her back to the sitting room, where Alberta Rossen was smirking over her teacup. She appeared years younger, her features suddenly softer; the harsh lines cut beside her eyes and around her mouth faded, almost by magic. It seemed malicious trouncing agreed with her.
"Bravo, my dear. Bravo," the woman said, placing her cup atop the saucer. "Admittedly, I had my reservations. I dared not hope for fear of failure, but it seems my worries were all for naught. Congratulations!" Pinching her lips in a satisfied smirk, her voice was barely able to contain its excitement. "You were brilliant, my dear!"
Blushing, the younger woman ducked her head, trying to mask the swelling pride rising within her breast. "Thank you, Mrs. Rossen, but you grossly exaggerate my role. In truth, I could not have done this without your help," she said earnestly, lifting her cup for another sip. "Without your direction, my eye witness would have been little more than gossip!" A girlish giggle burst from her lips. "I never imagined—" clearing her throat she reclaimed her composure, her hand coming to her breast as she blinked away her giddiness. "Forgive my excitement."
Lifting her greying brows, the woman grinned. "Think nothing of it, my dear. You should be pleased with yourself. A little pride never hurt anyone. Besides, I am glad you took me into your confidence, Miss. Bishop. Rumors and gossip can be fickle things, but confessions…" her voice trailed off as she touched the napkin to her lips allowing her meaning to hang between them. Smoothing her hand along her plum colored gown, the satin glowing in the sunlit room, Alberta straightened, her smile turning curious. "Well, we both know the power they hold."
Mariah nodded, her brows raising high in amusement. Indeed I do. Succumbing to the ambrosial smell of blueberry tart, her fingers carefully reached for the pastry. Closing her eyes at the delicious sweet, she could not help but smile at her fortune: Richard Lefroy is mine for the taking. His ludicrous engagement was blessedly over, and so long as her patience held firm, there was nothing to stand in her way. Taking another bite in an effort to stifle the capricious fluttering of her heart, Mariah grinned at her prospects.
"It would be pertinent to discuss how to proceed," Alberta said with a matter-of-fact tone, "wouldn't you agree?" At Mariah's gentle nod, the woman pressed on. "We must place you in the direct path of my nephew— remind him that better, more suitable matches are still available. With Miss. Williams permanently removed, I shouldn't think it an issue. Given a little time, I am certain he will make the right choice."
Pursing her lips, Mariah pondered the statement for several long moments, her mind unable to concoct a single idea. "What would you suggest to draw his attention?" Her voice was sad and distant as her arctic eyes lifted to her companion. "My previous efforts have all been in vain. He only seems to want her." Disdain weighed her words, as self-pity pulled her frown. It was an unattractive pout.
Jealousy did not suit her.
Nodding her understanding, Alberta grimaced before plastering an overtly bright, but entirely insincere smile. "Sarah Williams is no longer an option, and if my nephew had any sense— of which I am certain he does— he will see that the sooner he weds the better. A man can only remain a bachelor for so long." Chuckling to herself, she continued gently; swallowing her tea once more, she sighed lightly. A giddiness welled within her lungs, filling them with a bubbling joy that was irrepressible and she reveled in its glory.
Reputations had been lost and won over the many generations, her own daughters having painted the family tree black with their numerous indiscretions. For years she scoured the canvas of rumors, patching the frayed seams. Her fingers had bled from the countless pricking and blind mending, her shoulder had burned from the vigorous scrubbing as she tried to remove all trace of the thick black smear from the once-pristine ivory walls.
"Scandal must be avoided, at all costs. The girl's arrest, as it were, was a rather public affair, whispers are circulating as we speak and must be silenced," Alberta said, her finger lifting to punctuate her point, "Richard knows this and I am certain he will act accordingly. He must." Noting the uncertainty radiating from the girl in icy waves, Alberta sighed gently. "Fret not, Miss. Bishop, you will wed my nephew before the first blooms of spring— you have my word."
Staring into the dark liquid, Mariah worried her lip. After everything she had done, how could he not see her as his wife? The mother of his children? Unlike the Williams, her family name was neither tarnished nor drowning in the marshes of poverty. Her father was known and respected, her mother, the paragon of propriety, was educated and accomplished— fluent in nine languages and four instruments! Her entire life had been dedicated to the task of womanhood, and the running of a household and eventually, ensuring her daughter did the same. Mariah knew what was expected of her, and what her lineage could capture. Her years of extensive tutelage would not be wasted on a lesser man with lesser fortune.
If he still doesn't want you, what will you do then? Her heart crashed into the pit of her stomach, splashing bile into her throat, the rancorous thoughts burning like acid in her mind. Try as she might, she could never quite dispel the deprecating notion that she would never become the object of Richard Lefroy's desire and remain illogically beneath the disgraced pauper.
NO! Jutting her chin, her nose rose in blatant hauteur. He will want me! He will. Oh, yes! Richard Lefroy will beg for my hand in marriage. Sarah Williams is nothing now. Nothing. Lifting her eyes, now tinged with maliced determination, Mariah asked with an even tone. "How long before she is released?"
Bringing the tea to her self-assured smile, Alberta paused, looking across the edge of the cup, a mischievous twinkle sparkling in her grey eyes. Softly speaking the words more for herself than her co-conspirator, she grinned odiously. "Sarah Williams will never step foot outside those walls as long as she lives."
The muted chime of a bell pulled her from her fitful unconsciousness— she had not been sleeping, rather trapped within the realm between exhaustion, wakefulness and rest. She never lingered long before crashing violently into the next, her mind too tired to remain awake and to burdened to sleep. During this time no one had spoken, save the errant word or two, but their movements had made as much noise as any voice, muffled as they were. Each sound had been heard under a heavy cloud, and thick fog, as though she had been listening underwater. The shuffling of feet, the creaking of doors, and the raving lunatics screeching in the greater distance, bounced against her ears in a smothered drumming, driving a nail through her skull.
With fearful determination, she forced her eyes to open, wincing at the stark light flooding her senses. The pain returned slithering across every inch of her person, as did the nausea, threatening to spill the last remaining bile of her empty stomach. Groaning loudly against the awful sensation, she begged— willed— her body to comply and her vision to clear. It did not, and she wretched on air, attempting to curl onto her side and cocoon in the comfort of her arms. But she could not turn, nor could her arms move from their raised position above her head. She was trapped— tethered to a table in the bowels of Hell, awaiting her fate.
Whimpered panic wrapped icy claws around her neck, constricting her airway to a mere pinprick. The blood drained from her body; she could feel her skin turning ghostly-white as a tingling crawled in her limbs. Unable to focus, she tugged on her restraints once, twice, then again with as much force as she could manage, to no avail.
A scream erupted from her throat, the maddened sound matching that of the other patients, as she strained against the shackles. Her shoulders burned from the awkward angle, the skin along her wrists bruised against the leather that had yet to move an inch— still she tried again. Then again, and again, and again. When her shoulders refused to lift from the table, and a faint trail of blood slipped from beneath the thick bands, she finally ceased her struggle. Weak and gasping, her vision blurred and stomach churned. Sarah lay waiting, her fingers tingling as numbness took hold.
The chime repeated itself, and after several moments, a door opened, and she felt, rather than saw, the entrance of another. Her lip trembled as she fought to maintain her composure and quell the overwhelming fear tainting the air with its pungent fetor. Too tired to sob, her tears dripped silently around her cheeks, the hot liquid streaking her face. Someone was speaking, but she could no more make out the words than she could remove herself from the table, and walk freely into the crisp sunlight.
The sound of her name drew her attention to the dark-blurred figure standing to the right of the slab. His voice was familiar, and yet completely foreign. He was muttering now, or perhaps that is how her ears perceived the quiet whispers. They were orders, she thought, for the others in the room. Pain split across her cheek, her lip cracking under the pressure before a hand snatched at her jaw pulling her attention the nun holding her hostage. "There you are," she said with a kind, misplaced smile.
"Let us begin," a man said, his voice was clear and certain. Foreboding clung to those three words like feathers to tar, the black, hot liquid hanging precariously above her. "The Devil has taken keen interest in you, Sarah Williams. Your weakness has put your soul in peril— your eternal salvation is in jeopardy. Having been seduced by the Devil and his silver tongue; you must be Cleansed and brought back into the arms of the Almighty God, lest you burn in the pits of Hell for your folly."
A splash of water against her face made her jump, gasping at the sudden invasion. She recognized him then: Father Elswick continued much louder than before. "In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I command you— be clean!" Another sprinkling of water. "You have been stripped of your vanity and your worldly possessions that you might humble yourself before the Lord Thy God. You have been made to fast, to remember the temptation of Christ, who did not succumb to the enticements of Lucifer…"
The priest continued, as confusion ripped through her addled brain. A sharp pain drummed rhythmically behind her tears-soaked eyes, bleeding down her neck, into her spine. Tension waxed, scurrilous foreboding heating the damp air, matting wisps of curls against her sweating brow. Her breaths became frantic, the dark specks returning to her vision as she wrestled atop the table. Yelping, her limbs fought against the restraints, the shrill sound of her panic reverberated painfully against her ears.
The priest never faltered his speech.
Panic filled her, seizing her heart, begging her to run with breakneck speed anywhere her feet could carry her. Unencumbered by the bramble, loose stones, and thorns littering the path to freedom, she would spirit herself away.
Sarah could almost taste the fresh air on her tongue, smell the dampness of the lakeside as birds whistled their merriment. He would be there— waiting— the wind tugging at his leucous hair. His cloak would be absent, his broad shoulders clad in the strange, umber-leather coat as he watched her with arched brow. A wondrous smirk would curve his thin, tempting lips as a crystal danced over his hands. He would open his arms to her as he had before, and she would take comfort in his embrace…
The fantasy shattered as another splash of water crashed against her face. Twitching wildly, the rampant stomping of her heart cracked sickeningly against her ribs. Crazed, her eyes flew wide, wild, her pupils pinpricks against the mossy irises. Instantly, her mind regretted leaving the daydream; the stark reminder of her reality splintered behind her eyes. The water came again as Father Elswick stood at her bedside, his arm lifted into the air as he continued his boisterous recitations, flicking the Holy Water one last time as punctuation. His narrowed eyes locked with hers as he finished the last of his sacred incantation. Reaching forward to wipe the sign of the cross against her brow, he whispered the accompanying Latin then straightened.
In the brief silence, he glanced over his shoulder to the elderly woman waiting near the fire, her face a stoic frown. He nodded once to the woman who turned abruptly to the fire to stoke the flames. She turned back to him them, clasping her hands before her in supplication, muttering a soft prayer, presumably for the girl stretched before her.
Taking a step forward, the priest frowned, and if it were possible, he grew more stern as he towered over her trembling frame. His fingers tightened around the a worn bible, and the leather tome groaned in protest as he pressed onward with the authority of a king. "You have fallen, Sarah Williams, corrupted by the seductive whispers of the Devil and his malevolence. You have allowed him residence in your heart, beguiled by the minions of shadow and malice. He has marked you, claimed you as his own, and the Lord thy God frowns upon you. If you seek forgiveness, and serve the Lord until thy flesh turns to dust you will join the host of Heaven and revel in the Glory of God." His eyes closed as he spoke, a reverence overtaking his tone and for a moment the silence held promise and dare she think, hope.
When his eyes opened again, they were once more consumed with an unmistakable darkness she had never witnessed before. It frightened her. "If you do not seek the path of righteousness, and turn forever away from the Grace of God, your will burn like a witch on a pyre."
Sarah felt her lips twitch in protestation, trembling as she wept all the more, but no sound— no whimper slipped from her throat. Tossing wildly back and forth, her headache forgotten as she fought, growled, and tugged against her straps. Now was the time to run.
"Rejoice, my child, for the Lord is merciful. He sees you, Sarah— knows your weaknesses, your shortcomings, your woes and sins. Redemption can be yours if you but open your heart and accept His Grace, spending your days in the service of your God, building up the Kingdom of Heaven." A pious smile touched his lips as he moved to stand beside the woman. Sarah craned her neck painfully to keep him in her sights, her chin tucked against her clavicle.
Sister Agatha had a strong constitution, having worked far too many years under the roof of the Estate to remain otherwise. Admittedly unpleasant, the Cleansing was essential to the salvation of those within her care. So it was with great reluctance, and an even greater sense of duty that the aged woman retrieved a thick cloth from beneath her dark robes and wrapped her fingers around the thin, iron rod protruding from the blackened logs.
Cautious, as not to harm herself or her superior, Agatha maneuvered the rod away from her person and into Elswick's waiting palm. The man in turn lifted the glowing, orange-white end for inspection, the searing light reflecting in his eyes. The object was meant for stoking the fire, lacking the two sharp points needed for shifting the dying logs. Instead, the heat-brightened end was fashioned into a crude, homely cross.
The moment of recognition lit like a beacon behind Sarah's eyes, her face becoming ghostly pale as she fought anew within her bonds. An agonized howl erupted past her lips, the sound crashing against the stone walls. Fear raced across her skin, clutching at her heart, constricting the muscles in her stomach. "I-I am s-s-orry! Please! No! No!" She found her voice then, pleading uncontrollably for mercy through a shattering mess of tears and hiccups. "Please— please!"
Wrinkling his brow in mocked contrition, the priest clicked his tongue as though she were a child. "The wicked must be punished, for without punishment, how can we learn?" He paused to let the import of his words catch within her mind. "The Lord and Savior Jesus Christ suffered upon the cross at Calvary for you. His blood spilled in your name so that you might be forgiven your trespasses. You have forgotten this great and wonderful sacrifice, and the pains He was made to bear for your salvation. Forget no more."
Nodding to Agatha, he took a single step back, cocking his head contemplatively. The woman's hands reached out, clamping hard upon her newly bandaged toes with enough pressure to impede any movement. Sarah howled as fresh blood seeped through the white linen. Grinding her teeth, Sarah threshed against her assailant, but the grip remained firm and the shackles tight, making her movement impossible.
Father Elswick studied the sole of her foot as though it were a Da Vinci masterpiece, his littlest finger tracing along her arch, painting an invisible image against her flesh. At his touch, her desperate wailing became in indecipherable mess of sounds. "I wish you were here! I WISH YOU WERE HERE, NOW!" If the priest understood her, he gave no indication, his gaze fixed hungrily on the spot he had drawn. "I WISH YOU WERE HERE, NOW!" He will come for me! He will co—
The sound of her flesh bubbling assaulted her ears before the agonizing pain seized her frame. Every nerve, every muscle drew bowstring-taut as her teeth clenched with shattering foul tang of sick flooded her mouth, as black scraped the edges of her vision. She gasped sharply as the darkness slowly consumed her, quaking with blinding force as the brand was pulled away from her red-charred foot. The smell of her cooked skin forced her to retch over and over.
Please come! Please! You promised! You pr— The last threads of her consciousness fled, ushering the blessed reprieve of oblivion. Images of the Goblin King pulled her farther beneath the waters of sweet emptiness, memories of his promises tangling into an inaccurate mess of words.
"A beast would not chafe knowing that when you leave him, you are being pawed at and wounded, and he can do nothing to stop it."
"If I had wished for you—" her breath caught, her eyes shut painfully tight, "w-would you have stopped them?"
"Yes." The answer had come with no hesitation, His voice strong and sure. " A beast would not plot your revenge, nor wish death upon your attackers."
"If I wished—"
"Yes."
She welcomed the void with open arms, knowing he would come. She allowed her mind to drift into nothingness, her thoughts dissipating on the winds of sleep. He will come. He promised. She assured herself, the thought taking far more energy than it ought. He will— A new memory took hold suddenly, bringing her back to the slab and pain. The cavern behind her breastbone grew into a gaping maw of guilt. Her right words had fallen on deaf ears.
The Goblin King would not come.
The Goblin King was dead.
A/N: I know this was dark… but in my defense, what did you think happened to lunatics in the 1700s? Is anyone surprised that Alberta and Mariah were the ones responsible for Sarah's incarceration? The next chapter is almost done BTW, so the wait shall not be too terribly long! I love you all! Please, oh please review. I get a ridiculous, goofy smile on my face every time! XOXO!