DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Mismatched eyes search the sea of dancers.
The girl slips away.
The mirror shatters.
The debate was weeks old, having already occurred six times prior with no noticeable changes or deviations. In fact, it was becoming a ritual of sorts, a bi-weekly meeting of grief and disappointment, where small pleasantries were first exchanged then forgotten under the crushing waves of vociferous pleading. Phrases were modified and revised: never quite the same, but unchanging nonetheless. Their meaning was a sedulous request that was neither unreasonable or impossible, but nor was it so simple as the turn of a key.
Sitting behind her polished and well-worn desk, fingers intertwined tightly in her lap, Agatha Wesson studiously kept her own counsel, her lips pressed in a firm line. It was a heady task, made harder still by the need to maintain stoicism, as her features twitched in agitation. For once again, seated with pained, ashen faces, were Blythe and Constance Tillens, whose very presence radiated distress. The woman, almost too pregnant to be free of confinement, was worriedly caressing her rounded belly as her teeth chewed her lip—whilst her husband, whose countenance had seen better days, pressed onward in his beseeching for Miss. Sarah Williams' release. Most surprisingly, however, standing back from the rambling, expectant father, was Richard Lefroy, a man she had not expected with each passing conference. His dark eyes burned with a murderous fire—the same expression he wore week after week after week as he remained statuesque. He seemed contented to observe the room in severe silence, presumably allowing the couple to speak on his behalf.
And speak they did.
With each visit, their pleadings turned more and more into the vapid begging of vagabonds and dregs. Over and over the questions were asked, demands made, and money proffered, only to be rejected time and time again.
It had been a refreshing surprise to both Agatha and the three guests in her office to learn the girl would not be released with a heavy purse and a blind eye. Most knew full well the power of wealth in places such as this, and Mr. Lefroy was certainly no pauper. Yet Sarah Williams remained. It was a small victory, but Agatha was no less pleased, having witnessed the discharging of patients in dire need because gratuitous donations were of far greater import. Madness and corruption were a disease, a plague wherein those most troubled were the lawmakers. Over the years, wealth, influence, and a modicum of discretion had become the basis for release.
The reverse was also true.
Frowning away such auspicious thoughts, the abbess looked to the crestfallen crowd pent in the small confides of her office. Having grown tired of the repetitive conversation, and rather weary of watching the already dejected faces fall further still at her somber answer, Agatha sighed heavily, pursing her lips against a groan.
She hated these visits.
"Please, let us see her." Constance pled, her eyes sodden as her lips trembled further. Her hand came to cover her mouth as unbidden sobs wracked her frame. Dark circles rimmed her eyes and the usual rosy tint to her cheeks had vanished as night after night her dreams were tormented with insidious images and violent screams. Burdened by the unknown, her mind painted the detestable, hellacious ongoings of the Estate, attempting to visualize the gruesome suffering Sarah was being made to endure. How much had she suffered? What would she suffer still? Worsening with each refusal, the continued nightmares only increased, bringing her worry to unbearable heights and her health to dangerous lows. "Please. I only w—want— I— I need to see that she is well. Please, show some compassion!"
"I am afraid you know my answer." Shaking her head morosely, the nun stood, moving around to stand before the weeping mother. Her own eyes reflected a deep well of pity as her lips dropped into a stern frown, a practiced expression she had adapted over the years. "I am sorry, Mrs. Tillens." Lifting her eyes, her gaze locked with Mr. Lefroy, her teeth clenching, "As I have said before, visitors are strictly prohibited until treatment has progressed. The precise day is solely dependent upon Miss. Williams. If she is willing to be healed and opens her heart to the love of our Savior, Jesus Christ, it will be swift and painless. The decision is hers alone." Clearing her throat of the acerbic tone, she offered a pinched, wan smile, spreading her hands before her. "My hands are tied."
Richard Lefroy stood took a predatory step forward, his brow heavily furrowed. "My wi—fiancé," he corrected, his lips pursed, "is not mad. She does not belong in this godforsaken place! I demand you release her!"
"Your fiancé is unwell, otherwise she would not be here!" she shouted back, galled. "From what I garnered, she is here by her own admission. I understand how upsetting this is, Mr. Lefroy, and you have my deepest sympathies—truly you do—but I will not stand here and be browbeaten!" Her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowed and cutting as her voice lost all traces of compassion. "Should Miss. Williams progress and become once again fit for company, you will be the first to know. Until then however, my answer remains." She stared pointedly at Lefroy. "If you are unsatisfied, I suggest you speak with Doctor Elswick—"
"He has been neither helpful nor forthcoming." Richard spat.
Raising her brows, her jaw clenched as she silently prayed for patience. It would seem she had tired of their much-too-frequent visits. The welcome had worn thin. "Ask again, as you seem so fond of doing." She all but groaned, clearing her throat to hide her growing distemper. "It is unfortunate, Mr. Lefroy, but I am certain the doctor has his reasons. I have not the power, nor desire to release an ailing patient. The doctor will make his decision, not I."
"Reasons?" Blythe scoffed, incredulously, a heated vapor coating his tone, his hand lifting to knife the air as glowered. "Please enlighten me on the reasons Miss. Williams is forbidden visitations? Why her release cannot be negotiated— "
"Mr. Tillens, please understand, her treatment is essential to her—"
"Even the Bastille allows vis—"
"Treatment is essential to her progression. I—"
"This is ridiculous! I will take this matter to the House of Lords!"
"MR. TILLENS, ENOUGH!" The unbridled rancor fisted her hands at her sides as her brow creased painfully. "Week after week my answer is unchanged, and yet here you are, again, demanding a release that I cannot grant. The situation is onerous and regrettably unchangeable, and for that I once again extend my sympathies. However, I cannot condone another of our summits if this is to be the outcome." Sighing angrily as though it took the greatest effort to push the air through her lips, Agatha frowned. "So it is with this in mind that I tell you this is to be our last meeting until further notice." Raising her hand to silence the onslaught of displeasure, she added firmly, "You will receive word as Miss. Williams' treatment progresses; until then you will refrain from returning here. Our business is finished."
"No—please," Constance began, but the other woman spoke over her defeated pleadings.
"Now," Agatha said, clasping her hands before her. "I must take my leave. Someone will show you out shortly." With a curt nod, she looked over her shoulder. "Good day, and God be with you." She swept from the disparaging room without another word, the heavy door slamming behind her.
Releasing the breath that had been trapped in her lungs since first arriving, Constance did not bother stifling her sobs. Her small shoulders shook from the force of her sorrow. "W-what do we do now?" she stammered, looking to her husband for guidance as she had countless times before. He was steady and sure, even in the worst of storms as they threatened to turn the foundation to damp rubble. However troubling, sad, or dismal the future appeared to be, he was the voice of reason, able to see through the mist to the clarifying rays of dawn. He was her rock. Her anchor.
Yet, as she looked into those familiar dark depths for an answer, frost crept over her skin, sinking deep into her bones. She shivered. Where the usual confidence should have been was something far worse than uncertainty: hopelessness. Her heart fell painfully into her stomach, the cavernous space behind her sternum aching from the sudden loss. Nausea threatened as a wave of despair paralyzed her senses, the utter numbness drying the last of her salty tears.
"This is your fault," Richard said dejectedly. His gaze was fixated on the floor as his brow wrinkled further. He lifted his eyes to lock contemptuously with Blythe "You damned her to this place."
"ME?!"
"It certainly wasn't her!" His head jerked violently towards Constance. "You bloody fool! You ruined everything!" He thrust a hand through his dark hair, uncaring how mussed the action left it. "You catechized her within the presence of not only a priest, but the Estate physician as well! What choice did they have but to drag her away?" He stalked forward, towering over the still-sitting man, who gaped, but otherwise remained silent. "I was there that night at the lake, and Sarah was most assuredly alone. Whomever condemned her with such vulgar, licentious falsehoods had not accounted for my presence and my ability to corroborate her tale. But you—" he spat, pointing a finger before curling his hand into a fist and pressing it against his sneer.
"You dare to condemn me?" Blythe shot to his feet, the chair toppling behind him, his own finger lifting to jab painfully against the other man's chest, punctuating his lividity. "What of you, Lefroy? After all I have done… this is how you repay me, that's what you said. You turned your back on her the moment you sensed her guilt! She matters naught to you! At least have the decency to admit it!" Snatching a great breath before charging onward in his tirade, Blythe glared daggers at the other man. "I can admit my failure—can you?"
"Why do you think am I here, for the pleasure of your company?" Richard scoffed to himself, "Hardly." Pulling at the cuff of his coat, his shoulders straightened, his neck rolling to relieve the tension in his muscles. "I cannot play innocent, nor can I be denied my share of blame however small it might be. Miss. Williams and I have an arrangement that she was neither forced nor beaten to accept. You would do well to remember her choice." A self-satisfied smirk pulled his lips, his nostril twitched as he stared, his temper simmering. "Arguing will do nothing—"
"What can we do that we have not done?"
"We find the persons resp—" Richard began.
"We have tried. We will never find them, Lefroy." Blythe cut over him, his voice a gravel. "Whomever is to blame for this horrendous quagmire is of little consequence—Sarah is trapped within this miserable pit and our efforts are failing!"
"I am aware of—"
"What are you aware of? Her suffering? Her humiliation?"
Stepping forward, Lefroy growled. "I know of her suffering!"
"THEN DO SOMETHING!" He turned, slamming his fist into the wall, his knuckles tearing upon impact leaving a red stamp behind. "You have done nothing to help her! Use your wealth—your influence—and SAVE HER!"
Richard charged, his fingers digging into heavy wool of Blythe's frock, nearly lifting the man from his feet. He surged, ramming the man against the wall against his own imprint of blood, as he snarled, the guttural sound inhuman with its foreignness. "How? How am I to save her?" He leaned closer to the trapped man, his voice falling lower. "You condemned her. You are the reason she rots behind these walls." His hands suddenly fell away and he stepped back, picking at an arrant strand of lint on his sleeve, "I will save her, Tillens, and when she is free, you can grovel at her feet." A glowering smirk pulled his lips before he turned, putting the barest distance between them in the small room.
"Stop!"
Between her tears and sniffling, Constance hissed at the bickering pair. "For God's sake, please, stop! You stand there bickering like children while Sarah is locked away suffering God knows what!" She was standing now, her arms crossed firmly against her chest, her body trembled like the last leave in a storm, clinging desperately to the branch.
She stared wildly at them, plum circles much too prevalent sat beneath her bloodshot eyes, and not for the first time, Blythe felt a needling of worry. Upon her shoulders sat the beast of worry, for both Sarah and the unborn child stretching her once-flat stomach. Night after night she lay awake, haunted by dreams of death and blood. Her impressive imagination could conjure the most amazing spectacle filled with light and joy, but just as easily came pain and suffering. Her empathy knew no bounds, which was both a blessing and a curse. For every moment of pure, incandescent love came the screaming shadows of woe and grief as her mind tried to sympathize and envision the trauma of another kindred spirit.
As long as Sarah suffered, so did his wife.
"We cannot leave her here!" She dragged in a loud, jagged breath to quell her weeping. "What do we do?" Pressing a hand into the juncture beneath her belly and hip, she rubbed at the nagging ache that so often came with stress, wincing as the muscles tried to relax.
The sight of his distraught wife shaking in her grief eased the rage pulsing beneath his chest. Moving to grasp her shoulders with delicate care, he guided her to the chair once more, placing a comforting kiss upon her brow. Looking directly into her eyes, he said with great avidity, "I will fix this. I promise you." Looking to the other man, he stood, offering a curt nod to serve as the barest indication their quarrel was settled—if only for a moment. Pinching the bridge of his nose to relieve the horrendous pressure building behind his eyes, he groused. "I do not understand how this happened. Sarah is not mad, but this—" he gestured to the room, indicating the asylum and all locked therein. "This is madness! How could she sentence hers—"
"She met with a phantom?" Richard cut in, the question was quiet and sudden, almost a statement in its utterance. Now he was pacing the small space at the back of the office, the soft scuffling of his shoes on the wood brushed against the air. "He wasn't real, she said. An accident, by her own admission. How? Why would she say such nonsense?"
Constance remained motionless. Her muscles locked in paralyzed disquiet, her spine far too rigid to be comfortable. Reddened, downcast eyes stared unseeing into her lap, the faintest tremor sliding along her spine. It was a curious response, one that had not gone unnoticed by Richard, who watched her with predatory precision.
Blythe had not reacted at all.
A dark curiosity flooded Richard's pupils as his eyes lifted to fully assess her. Striding forward with determined purpose, he fell to his knees, his hands gripping the arms of the chair with creaking force. "What do you know?" he demanded, sedulously. His voice was neither cruel nor curt, but desperately curious.
Startled by his sudden closeness, Constance gasped, pushing herself further into the back of her seat. The desultory exchange threatened to overwhelm her senses as her mouth fell agape—what answer could she give? The wrong words spoken to the right person were damning, their reasons for entering the asylum were proof enough of that.
Honesty had consequences.
Molasses clogged the air, sticky and dark, clinging to the silence with slow determination. Their thoughts turned inward and reflective, each lost to the memories of the girl wrongly locked away with a few misplaced words, suffering within the bowels of the asylum.
Three weeks of the same recycled answers. Three weeks of lies. Three weeks without knowing what was happening to the girl locked somewhere within the dank stone walls. What unimaginable horrors had she endured? Had she been beaten? It was common practice within even the most austere of madhouses. The Estate was no exception. For years, rumors had circulated about the heinous practices and unforgivable experiments orchestrated under the guise of healing and salvation: monstrous tales wrought with all manner of pain and suffering, laced with more truth than any dared to believe. Whippings were certain, any asylum would readily attest to that fact; men are far more compliant with blood painting their back. Even food was used as a weapon, a means to garner greater power over the helpless with the promise of more or the threat of less.
If they could not release her, death would be the only reprieve.
Blythe cast a sidelong glance at his wife, whose tears had stopped, but her face remained twisted in heartbreak. Pulsing behind his eyes, the drumming ache that had taken up residence within his brain morphed once again into nausea. Churning deep in his gut, the bile rose and tickled along his throat as Blythe ground his teeth painfully to suffocate the unwanted sensation. Leaning forward, feeling the heavy weight of defeat press firm against his spine, he sat, dropping his head into his calloused, ink marred hands.
"You know something—don't you?" Richard asked with sharp clarity, his face alight with the thought. Piqued by this newfound revelation, both his curiosity and umbrage roared to life each demanding his undivided attention.
Unable to look into the dark, questioning pools pleading for her prudent silence to break, Constance swallowed the painful lump of unease waiting at the back of her throat. Frowning deeply, her lips trembled, as her head shook in remonstrance. "Nothing. Nothing at all."
Richard leaned forward, his hands leaving the armrests to grasp her own sharply. "Mrs. Tillens— Constance—please." Squeezing her hand beneath the smooth, warm flesh of his own, his head dropped. The hard plane of his forehead rested atop the pile of hands as he loosed a discontented sigh, borne of hubris frustration. "Tell me."
Blinking rapidly, her uncertainty palpable, Constance remained silent, gaping back, stalemated in indecision. Bearing the secrets to both her husband and Mr. Lefroy came at a high price with unknown consequences. What could that knowledge do but further lambaste the incarcerated girl. Looking down at her lap and Lefroy's bowed head, her teeth pulled and chewed at her lips once again. Her apprehension crept along the column of her spine as Richard lifted his head to lock his gaze with hers.
His features were wrinkled in discontent, moving her heart to stir and her tongue to succumb. "It began as nightmares—dreams of mismatched eyes and shattered glass." Swallowing hard, she ignored the foreboding clawing at her nerves, pulling the fine hairs at the nape of her neck to attention. A silent warning slithered along her nerves, a gentle, stoic whispering voice that bespoke of silence and secrecy. Silence would not change the minds of the Elswick brothers, nor could it unlock the gates and usher Sarah through to freedom.
"They are dreams, nothing more." Blythe frowned, his head hardly lifting from his hands, his eye incredulous.
Dissatisfied with his words, Constance pouted. "Yes, they were dreams," she said, with no small amount of annoyance. She turned her eyes sharply from her husband to Richard, who stared back at her with blatant confusion. "That is how they started, you see. Phantom imaginings that Sarah knew were false: dreams of crystals, owls, and labyrinthine stairs."
"Forgive me, Mrs. Tillens, but—" he said, straightening from his perch before her, still on his knees. "I do not understand what these dreams have to do with Sarah."
Pressing onward, the strange foreboding still ever present in her mind, Constance added to the seemingly nonsensical explanation. "For months her sleep was haunted by strange ballrooms and masked parties and lingering glances. No dream was ever the same, but neither was truly different from the last. She never believed him to be real—"
"Who?"
Startled, her words failed, as though she had forgotten she was speaking—and to whom. Affronted, Constance answered prosaically, her tone laced with gadfly. "The man with mismatched eyes." She spoke as though he should have known the answer, as if it were as plain as the nose on her face. "He was the man she once she dreamt of, night after night. His strange visage pressed against her psyche—all this she confided in me, and I dared not judge nor presume anything from such fantasy. After all, what harm ever came from a dream?" Her breathless laugh shocked even herself as she pondered those thoughtless words.
Blythe rose then, his tired eyes settled on her form. "Her dreams were nonsense, much the same as yours or mine." Scrubbing a hand across his face, he sighed morosely. "Her imagination got the better of her—that is all."
Daggers that would kill a lesser man shot through her gaze before cooling and settling upon Mr. Lefroy. Proceeding as though she had neither been interrupted nor pushed for silence, she spoke softer. "It was and accident—she never thought…" Her eyes were suddenly serious, the thought lost on her tongue as her frown deepened. Whispering to herself or the man anxiously kneeling inches from her, she stared into the pattern of her skirts, the delicate pattern somehow fascinating. Distractedly, she spoke. "She made a wish and there he was."
"The man with mismatched eyes?"
Her eyes flashed. "I know it sounds impossible—perhaps it is—call me foolish, but I believe her. However it started, I believe that she saw a man at the lakeside—whether by wish or by other means, it matters not. Sarah is no liar, nor is she mad."
Pulling himself away from her with a violence that had her recoiling from the shock of it, Lefroy stood with wrinkled brow. His voice was quiet, the words swollen with anger. "So it is true?" His eyes slid to Blythe who was gaping at his wife in a mixture of horror and rage, his nostrils twitching. "There was a man at the lake." It was a statement, bitter and cold.
Slow as drying dew, the color seeped from her face, as Constance searched for a way to explain when the right words would not come.
"How long?" When her words failed again, his grew louder. "How long?!"
"Lefroy!" Blythe shouted, leaping to his feet.
Turning wildly on the other man, his teeth bared. "Did you know? Did you know Sarah was meeting men at the lake?!"
"Of course not!"
"But she knew!" His hand jabbed at Constance.
"I didn't!" She barked. "Not until it was done, I swear. Even so, Sarah remained faith—" her eyes closed, her hand flying to the lower crest of her belly as she winced. An invisible knife pierced her flesh, driving deep into her womb, the pain of it brought fresh tears to her eyes.
"Another deceit? Am I—" He stopped, his head cocking curiously to the side, watching the woman writhe uncomfortably in the creaking wooden chair.
She gasped again.
"Mrs. Tillens?"
Crying out as another stab jabbed her further, her teeth grit with breaking force, the tears steady now as they rolled down her cheeks. "B-Blythe," she tried, gasping for breath, "the bab—" Leaning forward, nearly toppling out of the chair, her agonized cry bounced off the walls, and both men knelt at her sides.
"Constance?" Blythe asked helplessly, his eyes reflecting the fear dripping from her own. He slid his hand beneath hers, allowing the fierce grip to soothe them both, his other hand stroking along her back. Looking to Richard, he growled, "Get someone!"
Rushing to the door as if the Hounds of Hell were nipping at his heels, nearly tearing it from its hinges, he barged through into the waiting asylum. "Help! We need help!" The mild-tempered patients in the hall jumped at his hollering, scurrying farther away from the noise. Others were rilled by the sound, taking leave to begin their own wailing and shrieks, the sound threatening to shatter the highest windows.
Moving farther from the room where Constance ululated and wept, Richard called again. "Help! Damn you! We need help!" The galling opprobrium stirred his choler as he pressed through the growing crowd. "HELP! HELP!" His voice was no match for the operose cries of the madhouse.
The wailing of the halls rang in the small office, adding wood to the fires of her pain. Having slipped from the chair to the floor, she knelt on all fours, desperate to relieve the searing pain in her womb. Still rubbing comforting stokes along her spine, Blythe knelt helpless beside her, unable to ease her burden nor calm her sobs. "B-Blythe," she whimpered, as the pain ebbed the slightest fraction, "it's to-too early! The babe ca-can't come, not now!"
A black mass pushed through the small but frantic crowd, halting at the sight of Richard Lefroy. "Damn you, woman! She needs help!" he roared, despite her proximity, pointing a finger into the office. "HELP HER!" Snatching her arm, he dragged the young woman into the room, thrusting forward.
The nun gasped, taking the sights and sounds of the room, the panic latching to her legs, preventing her from taking another step. As the kneeling woman hollered a groan, Edith Milburn straightened, the haze of confusion lifting as she moved to take her own place on the floor. "What happened?" she asked, her eyes focused on Constance, but her words were meant for Blythe who answered as quickly as his tongue would allow. Nodding her understanding, Edith instructed the men to look elsewhere as she lifted the mass of skirts for inspection.
Her eyes moved to Blythe, who had broken from her command to cast a heartbroken, fearful glance at his wife, who seemed unaware of the blood soaking her gown between her fervent groans and cries of agony. A moment later, she caught his desperate eyes and their silent plea for help and guidance, and a sheen of tears glimmered in the light before he could blink them away. He urged her to continue with a firm nod as he held his breath. The resounding thump of his heart drummed in his ears, and he sank under a great wave terror. He watched as the nun moved her lips; if she had spoken, he could not hear for his breath pushed forth in a great heaving as his heart crashed into the hollow pit of his stomach.
He saw blood.
Beneath linen and petticoat, spreading raggedly between pale, firm thighs, was a sea of red. Painted over its canvas with careless brush strokes, the blood pooled in a little puddle between her knees, soaking the fabric trapped there. Edith felt the breath of fear sigh at her neck, the fine hairs reaching to touch the raw emotion hanging in the air. Moving to assess, with as delicate a touch as the situation could have allowed, the young sister reached her hand, probing gently at first. Her fingers unsure, she tried again with more confidence, only to snatch it away an instant later, gasping.
"The babe is breech."
A/N: Stick with me! I promise there is a plan here! I love you all and cannot wait to hear what you all think! XOXO!