DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

A leap…
A fall…
A cry…

Sliding with deliberate purpose to the irreverent melody of unrestrained tremolos of galled pleasure, willowy hands roved over warm, oiled flesh with much the same mastery of a seasoned luthier. Knotted and coiled as the ropes at sea, the muscles protested every fervent touch and their master growled in turn. Were he another man, the girl would have fretted over the severity of her ministrations, but his continued years of patronage had amassed a certain latitude.

Her fingers pressed harder.

"Dammit, woman!" The man barked, lifting his torso from the cushioned table, his lips pinched beneath a dowdy mustache. "Are you attempting to forge a blade? No? Then have a care! I am not a tool to be smithed!" Murmured curses punctuated his ire as he slowly lowered onto crossed arms.

Pocketing the glib exasperation dancing on her tongue, Callaia bit back her smirk. "Steel would be far more malleable…" Her laugh lines deepened and her eyes sparkled mischievously before she quipped, "and far less petulant."

With predatory slowness he turned his head, the beads of sweat slipping down his lifted brow. "Petulant?"

Stilling her hands, the girl tipped her head, "Yes, petulant! For nearly an hour all you've done is bemoan—"

Scoffing, his hand flitted between them, "It hardly matters what I have spoken of." He reached forward snatching her wrist to drag her closer, lifting her pulse to his lips. "What does matter..." he purred against her wrist, closing his eyes to the soft scent of lavender and oakmoss. "Is that I leave satisfied…" He hummed, pressing his lips in a slow, languid kiss against her flesh.

A subtle, tranquil grin lifted her lips as she slid her free hand through his dampened locks, her fingers gliding along his scalp. "Emere," she whispered, her voice cutting through the warm haze and soothing fragrance. "Please, no more about the King and his wild goose chase."

"Much easier said than done." The dark man grumbled, lulling his head back to study her face with a frown. "Tell me, Callaia," he said, returning to his position on the table. "How would you find a broken, wayfaring creature in the midst of a vast forest?"

Eyes wide, the girl looked taken aback, a confounded pout pinching her brow. "I cannot say, though I am certain you'll enlighten me."

"The answer… you follow the blood."

"Ah! But Emere, you say, what happens when the trail dries and the hoof prints cease?" Suddenly he was on his feet marching to the overstuffed velvet chair waiting beside an ornate, hand painted screen. Violently, he dressed, cursing as he tied the dark silk of his charcoal cravat. "A smart man would forsake such a foolish endeavor and cut his losses. A smart man knows when he's beat!" Spinning on his heel he faced her, his dark eyes crazed as the crows feet creased.

"What happens if the man is a fool, you ask? He runs until the soles of his boots wear through, leaving his feet bare to the harsh forest floor… until it is his own blood he is chasing into the eternities."

There was a long moment between them. Callaia said nothing, her instincts knew better. Instead she watched as he splashed water over his face scrubbing the sweat from his brows before combing his stout fingers through his hair with an aggravated sigh. It was not until their eyes met that she dared to break the silence.

With a coy smile she asked, "Done already?"

"Careful Callaia, I might think you're serious… and I am no fool to refuse such an offer." Emere grinned, scanning her figure as he shrugged into his heavy wool coat. Sighing, his voice grew serious and his smile twisted sourly. "I cannot stay. If I do not at the very least make a token effort, the only entertainment I could offer would be the sight of my corpse as it swings from the gibbet."

Callaia scowled, "Now, now, Emere, don't be macabre." She said with the click of her tongue as she made to rinse her hands in the large, ivory basin. Running flannel along the back of her neck, the fresh droplets slid along her spine dampening the inner walls of her stays. "Perhaps," she said, untying the apron from her delicate frame. "Your next visit will prove more eventful."

Gripping the door handle, albeit unwilling, Emere grunted. "Perhaps… perhaps."

The girl was a Wick— and that made her fascinating.

Though not altogether apparent upon first inspection, the battered creature curled in the darkened alcove was entirely human, bearing not a single trace of magic within her soul. One in a sea of hundreds collected over the epochally of forgotten centuries, her uniqueness was not her presence in the Fae Realm, but rather her age.

Wicks were children. She was not a child.

How the woman stumbled upon her crumpled body was a testament to chance— or kismet. The girl should not have been found. Lying in the dark in naught but her shift, blood blossoming like poppies through the snow as her lips faded to a dull saxe, death should have claimed her as the sun claimed the sky. Curiouser still, the myriad of injuries littering her fragile, broken body, appeared to have been treated— if only just. With every passing day more and more questions congregated around her, circling like vultures over a livering beast, the dark wings glistening in the midday sun. Of all the queries, neither her name, nor that of her condemner set tongues wagging with such prurient keenness as did the story of her trauma.

The story she had yet to tell.

Her presence within the gilded halls of the infamously lavish Layflower was causing quite the stir, though the pecunious patrons were none the wiser. Noble haughtiness and uncouth wealth were far too consumed with the countless distractions and the capricious Lady Luck to notice the whisperings of Pearls.

Behind the carved kitchen doors, swirling with the ambrosial smell of spiced meats and frosted pastries, Callaia Highgate hummed with anxious worry as yet another tray returned untouched from the dormitories. Frowning, she snatched at the unwanted fruit, claiming a handful of berries and a few bits of bread and cheese before replacing the mirror-polished lid. The very next moment, another hand appeared, manicured fingers wrapping around the slender handle as the cover was removed once again, and so too the contents beneath.

"Do you think she believes it poisoned?" An arctic-eyed woman offered between bites, the warm candlelight setting her orange locks aflame. Her nearly translucent brows rising as she leaned closer, a comical expectancy stretched her features.

Callaia drummed her fingers along the counter, the rhythmic sound lost amid the usual fray of the steaming pots and clattering pans. Pursing into the corner of her mouth, her lips scrunched, the frantic action nearly marring her meticulously applied rouge. "Perhaps— or she simply has no appetite."

"After four days?"

An indelicate shrug lifted her shoulders as her head shook in slow disbelief, before falling on a deflated sigh. "My appetite fled at the sight of her back- Le Femme had to finish dressing her wounds for I couldn't. It was too..." the thought trailed away as the unforgivable image flayed flesh burned behind her eyes. "I cannot fathom her pain." A cold chill washed over her as suddenly as the east wind, sending a wild shiver along her spine.

"Pain?" The other woman parroted thoughtfully, "but surely Le Femme would not have left her to suffer!"

Pulled from the horrific revelry, her eyes flashed to those of her companion, "No! No, of course not, but Orzella, soothing draughts will turn an empty stomach… if she does not eat, they cannot help." A deep and piteous look wrinkled the corners of her eyes as her shoulders fell.

Twisting a strand of fire around her finger, her thumb smoothed the silky strands in an absentminded caress. "To wake here, in our realm, with no knowledge of where you are or how you came to be…" Orzella loosed an anxious breath, her shoulders sagged. "This all must be so overwhelming."

"Do you think so?" Callaia interrupted, her head tilting curiously to the side, as her eyes narrowed. "The reality of the fantastical would be a shock, yes, but I also should expect her to be—" she glanced unseeing about the room searching for the right word. "Relieved."

Slowly she added, "Whatever horrors she faced… all that suffering…that pain is gone." A thoughtful moment passed between the two women, their eyes darkened with pity as they thought of the flightless bird and the Hell she narrowly escaped. "The wish freed her."

The bright tenor of a young, stout cook, whose white apron bore the stains of perpetual abuse, interjected with a cynical frown and dramatic scoff. "Oi, I'm sure she is overjoyed." Cradling a large bowl in one arm, and rapidly whisking the contents with the other, his frantic cadence mingled with the feverish bustling of the packed galley as he drew nearer. "Relieved?" He murmured, his tone haughty and glib, "the girl was found wandering half-dressed, delirious and barefoot in the snow after a wish…" He glanced between the pair, his green eyes ringed with thick black lashes and the dark circles so often found on bakers, simmered drearily. "The only freedom, as you call it, that girl will know will vanish the moment her memories return."

Allowing his words to drift into nothingness, Pedar frowned deeply into the rapidly swirling mixture as though it understood the gravity of the Wick's woe. "For return they shall… and when they do…" his furious movements stopped as his voice dampened with unmistakable thorns. "Superstition is a plague and those infected are purged." More to himself than to the women still grazing on borrowed morsels and tidbits, he muttered with a graveled tone. "She is not a child prone to whimsy… she will always remember the life she was denied and the beliefs by which she was raised. The Underground cannot change that. Let us pray she adapts."

Children of the Goblin Kingdom grew on stories of the unwanted babes of mortals, and the few who ran to reclaim them— all in the Realm having known their fair share in adulthood. It was not the presence of Wicks, but rather those wished away beyond the age of innocent springtide that were the crux of myth and rumor.

A Rugose Wick was a rare and intriguing occurrence even in the world of the Fae.

"Is it true then… that she was…" Orzella looked between the pair, her overlarge front teeth gnawed gently on her lip, turning the natural pink a full shade darker. Her soft, airy voice dropped to a serious whisper as she leaned a fraction closer. "That she was tortured?"

Callaia frowned as the edges of her eyes reddened, "I saw the wounds— I cannot fathom how she could come by them otherwise."

"Who would mourn such a life?!" The sibilated ululation clapped like the distant clouds of a passing storm. Slamming her eyes against the nauseating wave of sympathy crashing like cannon fire into the pit of her stomach, Orzella turned away, distracting herself with the mundane, yet chaotic rituals of the crowded kitchen. Maids moved between cooks hunched over simmering pots and searing fires, as dishes clashed in the overfilled sinks sloshing water onto the marbled floors. One figure, bent over the low counter with furrowed brow and pursed lips, stole her attention, and she watched transfixed as the pâtissier trickled caramel in glistening strands on a towering croquembouche of mouthwatering proportions.

A softness rolled over her features as she turned back to her companions. "How do you suppose Le Femme told her about our world?"

"Very, very slowly, I'd wager." Pedar barked, the lines cresting around his mouth as the girls collectively scoffed. "What? How are you going to explain the impossible? Better yet," he said, jabbing the dripping utensil towards them, "how do you explain a wish— or the Labyrinth?!" Whisking the batter once more, his voice grew serious. "As I said, pray she acclimates… I would not wish the Sleeping Isles on anyone."

Lifting a bit of cheese to her mouth, Orzella chewed slowly before suddenly shaking her head with a blush. The crystalline color returned to her eyes and she smiled jocosely, her flaxen brows rising from the effort. "That is quite enough melancholy for one evening! Come Callaia, let us leave Pedar to his work."

"I will save you some custard, eh, Zelli?" He replied with a smirk, before returning to his work with a jovial shake of his head.

Pushing from the counter, Orzella smoothed the front of her gossamer gown, the butter-silk slipping along her fingers as she glanced at the large clock mounted on the far wall. "Master Leclare is due to arrive soon… and I am his good luck charm." Her shoulders danced playfully as a mischievous smirk curved her lips. "He has insisted I remain at his side at the tables."

"However did you manage that?"

"I am a beacon of good fortune."

"Hardly."

Gasping in mock offense, her milky hand splayed along her clavicle as her brows shot into her hair. "You wound me!" With an exaggerated smile, the redhead stepped forward to link arms with her companion. "I merely stood beside him, offering encouragement with every successful wager." Frowning at the other woman's impetuous grin, she pouted. "Well not all of us can use our hands to turn men into boneless piles of flesh." Raffish glee danced through her eyes, "Sometimes we must use our—"

"Feminine Wiles!" They sang in unison before bursting into a fit of wild laughter.

Callaia attempted to smother her childish tittering as a single mirth-filled tear rolled over her cheek. "Perhaps you should use one of your many talents to embroider that onto a cushion! I am sure Le Femme would love to see her words committed to thread!" The two continued their merriment as they moved through the hidden passage, separating only to march single file up the narrow stair.

The women mused over the encroaching evening and their waiting patrons as they pushed through the cashed door concealed behind dark, floral wallpaper. Gliding with practiced form they stopped to peer over the Mezzanine banister to the room below. The incessant hum of debauched revelry assaulted their senses as the gathered crowd continued their torpid worship of Plutus and Mammon.

"Do you see him?" Leaning against the wood, Orzella stretched onto her toes, the hem of her gown lifting to expose the detailed silver band at her ankle.

Callaia spread her hands wide over the railing, her gaze roving over the lavish throng, all too aware of the innumerable eyes savoring the spectacle of copper and bronze looming before them. "It would appear your benefactor is late… though admittedly, that seems to be his fashion." Leaning closer she added in a devious whisper, "Do you think his punctuality would improve with a better tailor?"

The answer was a feminine scoff and a sharp kick to her shin. "Don't be unkind! Leclare is a very sweet man… despite his lack of vogue."

"He is also ridiculous."

"Yes, well… he can't be perfect." She quipped, settling back onto the heels of her satin slippers with a maudlin sigh. "And who, pray tell, is on your docket for this evening?"

"Only Master Havron, Le Femme wants me free to attend to our little Wick, she hopes I can persuade her to eat."

"If anyone can…" the words faded as her attention was once more pulled to the sea below. Suddenly her lips split into a wide, toothy smile, "Ah! He's just arrived!" With girlish excitement she spun to her companion, "Wish me luck!" She beamed, before skating her hands along the pleated bodice of her chemise a la reine, before gliding swiftly to the Grand Stair.

Drumming in soft succession, her fingers tapped an unconscious rhythm as she thought of the broken creature waiting in the dormitories. Skepticism wove garish tendrils through her nerves silently sowing doubt in uneven patterns across every inch of her skin. Absentmindedly, her fingers wrapped one by one around the rail, her wrists rolled forward, dragging the heel of her palms against the obdurate surface. Over and over the motion repeated, her muscles mimicking the slow narcotic dance mastered through years of operose practice. Laggard warmth blossomed at the crest of her shoulder, the familiar heat coiled around her bicep, sinking into the slight crook of her arm, before fanning back to her wrists.

As though a mirror had been placed before her, Callaia saw her own movements, stilling suddenly as the weight of her answer took hold. A soothing massage could coax even the most irascible patron into blissful silence. The soporific effect loosed tongues with the same effervescent power of premier cognac drunk with the carelessness of watered-beer.

Filled with an unquenchable wave of purpose that nearly capsized her, Callaia mapped the borrowed room, extinguishing the sconces, leaving only the hearth to bathe the room in soothing golds and copper. In her formative years, lavender would have been the incense of choice, being a readily accepted and rather potent palliative, the single aroma settling in the air much like the morning dew cleaves to grass. It had not taken long for her to tire of the single-note melody, the essence threatening to roll her stomach after nearly two years of daily exposure. Wiser now, she preferred her own blend of Bergamot, geranium, citrus and a single drop of lavender to ease the burdens of those lying beneath her hands.

The oil bottles would clatter as she set each in a meticulous line, all identical save for the small, painted labels in emerald ink offering a name for the substance within. It would do her no good to assume which would benefit the poor creature best, guessing always led to disaster. Her senses would tell her soon enough and she would be free to paint her canvas with the restorative colors of repose and kip.

The Wick would be a masterpiece.

From the corner of her eye, Callaia watched as the girl sagged under the ameliorating effects of the wondrous perfume swirling above her. The movement was subtle, one she would not have noticed had she not been so keenly aware of her companion, despite her continued shuffling about the room. It was a small victory, but one she reveled in nonetheless.

Wrapped in a blanket of cornflower blue cashmere, knees tucked firmly beneath her, the Wick watched as the flames moved within the hearth, her expression trapped somewhere between detachment and distress. Her mass of dark curls were tangled and matted from her pillow, sticking every which way from above the frilled edge of the coverlet. Callaia stared far longer than she ought before offering a brisk nod to the air, and spinning to retrieve the carved hairbrush from the vanity, pausing to pocket the watery pomade before returning to stand behind her charge.

"Le Femme has asked that I attend you…" Slowly, the familiar warmth slid up from her fingertips, wrapping around her limbs in a consolatory embrace, the phantom directions rippling over her senses as her magic guided her actions. "If you will permit me, I was hoping to comb your hair?" Patiently she waited, her arms held behind her back, thumbing the tails of the perfectly tied bow, feeling no need to fill the precarious silence with incessant nothings.

At long last the girl turned her head the barest fraction, offering the simplest of nods as her teeth chewed the corner of her raw, peeling lips. Beneath the blanket her hands shook, as her spine went rigid awaiting the impending touch.

Feeling triumphant, Callaia stepped closer, unconsciously she placed the ivory handle between her teeth as her hands gathered the bristling, unruly mess. The girl's hair was uneven, the texture akin to crimped straw, with jagged, frayed edges filled with intricate snarls. The longest strands hung in clusters draping below her shoulders, others curled against her clavicle, while the very shortest tickled her earlobe. Callaia ground her teeth against the brush, as her fingers explored further, tangling in the ugly remnants of a slipshod shearing.

Applying a liberal amount of the pomade to her palms, Callaia worked her hands through and around, praying the oil might provide some relief. It did not. The mane fought her with every stroke, the strands pulling and straining as she arduously worked the brush from end to root. Aggravated, the awny tangles did not smooth quickly into chaotic submission, taking the better part of an hour to yield, and another twenty to give way. Even still, her obdurance proved a fruitless effort, and before the brunette could show signs of protest, Callaia had begun to cut.

Knotted burrs of coiled locks littered the floor, collecting at the back of the armchair, along the front of Callaia's gown, and along the top of her dark slippers. Once again, she worked the pomade through, satisfaction cresting within her breast as her fingers met with no resistance. Surprising even to herself, Callaia had managed to salvage a fair amount of the length. The bulk settled just above her shoulders, whilst the curls his the most uneven strands in their depths. Though not fashionable— being much too short to achieve the usual tower of intricate curls— the cut was far superior to its predecessor and, if she were honest, rather pretty.

Closing her eyes, Callaia listened for the gentle melody plucked against her heartstrings by the delicate fingers of her limited magic. Her hands hung above the tools of her trade as she bent her focus to the aria of her mind. The song demanded epochal patience, whispering caution with every chord. She felt a pull in an aberrant direction, her fingers curled around a white board nestled on the shelf nearest the window.

Quirking her brow in disbelieving bemusement, Callaia moved around to the front of the chair, bending to place the wood on the floor between them before settling atop her knees. Pressing her finger against a slight indentation along the outer edge, the white surface glowed a muted, subtle green, and when she touched the board again, a dark tree trunk appeared on the spot.

Her eyes shot to that of her companion, eager to see how the girl reacted to the enchantment. Callaia was surprised to see not wonderment or awe but a mild curiosity at what surely had to be the girl's first experience with overt magic. All the same, she lifted her hand with a smile and motioned for Wick to take her turn.

The girl stared back with all the enthusiasm of an inert sloth.

Unbothered, Callaia waited, her own eyes wandering lazily about the room as she tapped a soft rhythm against her knee. Minutes danced away, carried by the fragranced warmth and languid stillness before a bruised hand slid from between the fringed edge of the blanket to touch the board. The game started then, each taking their turn growing their trees higher and higher, as the towering glacier of disinterest slowly began to thaw. In the end, Callaia's tree wrapped snugly around the girl's, blossoming with an array of delicate white buds, while the other withered as if all the powers of winter converged upon it, shriveling into a mess of dark leaves and branches.

"Gods, I've missed that!" Callaia stretched, crossing her ankles as she reclined back, an easy smile pulling her lips. "The other Pearls refuse to play Scion. Bryony and Orzella claim me a cheat." A defensive tone forced lines above her brows and her nostrils flared. "Sore losers, the lot of them! I am not a cheat!" Her tone bore a gruff haughtiness she had not intended, the consonants snapping against the torrid air.

A firework of crimson burst along her cheeks as her eyes rounded like saucers, embarrassment burning below the ruffled collar of her gown. "Forgive me… I seem to have forgotten myself." Blinking against her own faux pas, her hands pressed against her face as she glanced to the Wick. "Forgive my raving. I must sound utterly mad." She said with a weak smile.

Dropping her hands, Callaia watched the sudden tension at the girl's jaw, carried through the vein at her neck to bleed into her shoulders and radiate along the ridges of her spine. Straightening involuntarily, the girl winced against the sudden shift of her muscles, forcing the cashmere cocoon to split, revealing a plume of white fabric and pink flesh.

Overcome with an inexplicable and intense tenderness at the unmindful exposure, Callaia bit back the unexpected lump rising in her throat. What had the poor creature endured? Why had she been made to suffer? Clearly unaware of her actions, the little Wick shifted again, her grimace growing louder as she was forced to uncoil from her perch.

Had Callaia a skerrick less discipline, she might have caviled at the mutilated appendage hovering a few scant inches above the floor. Smattering like the careless brush strokes of an amateur craftsman, varying abrasions coated the bruised surface of her foot in an erratic design of silvery white stripes and jagged crossing lines. Beneath the perplexing motif were oval indentations, no larger than the pad of a thumb, where muscle and sinew no longer grew, but the tissue remained. Most lurid however, was the void where her toes should have been, the spaces punctuated by shadow.

Callaia barely schooled her features from betraying the panic that rushed through her head at the galling sight. Swallowing hard against the riotous cloud of pity circling overhead, she allowed herself the presumption of a birth defect or some such juvenile trauma. It was not unreasonable to hope— even the Fae sired imperfection.

This however, was not the product of nature. The edges wrinkled, in a crude interlocking fold, poorly stitched and scarcely swilled.

Nature was rarely so careless

An ersatz yawn stifled behind a trembling hand, concealed the sob poised on her lips. The prickling of unshed tears burned at the corners of her hazel eyes, as she fought to maintain composure. Thrashing about on the silent waves of her swirling emotions, her eyes closed, commanding the deluge and inky black clouds to dissipate.

Eventually, she came back to herself. Guiding the vessel of her psyche, she locked away the dour thoughts and tearful sympathies conjured on behalf of the wayfaring Wick. Le Femme had entrusted her to coax the girl to life, not lead her further into the darkness of her memories.

Her magic sensed her turmoil, the voiceless words returned, chastising patience and serenity. Settling into the ataractic embrace, as the warmth eased her worried muscles, Callaia felt steady and sure.

The rumbling of her stomach pulled her so suddenly from her thoughts, the phantom pains of whiplash prickled along her neck.

Blushing anew, Callaia laughed, "I'm famished!" She found she could not contain the dovish grin pulling at her lips. "Though…" she said, her voice trailing away as an idea took root, "I would not be opposed to another round of Scion. What say you?"

To say surprise twisted her features at the girl's immediate nod was to say the Black Death was merely an inconvenience.

Without another thought, Callaia readied the board once more, offering the first turn to the Wick. The game pressed on, and for a moment Callaia questioned her victory, as the girl proved to be quite the adversary. It was the next round that saw her brow furrow and her lips purse as she fought to maintain her status as champion. Neither claimed the title as the game ended in a draw, and naturally another ensued.

Lifting her gaze from the glowing board, Callaia observed as the girl rubbed the space between her eyes, lightly pinching the bridge of her nose. Slowly her eyes closed as her movements became more motivated and deliberate, the steady pressure and careful touches were obvious to the seasoned masseuse.

The girl was fighting a migraine.

Rising to her feet, Callaia smoothed the front of her gown as she rushed to her forgotten bag and the apron waiting within. Securing the ties, she touched the delicate brass knob protruding from the wall, twisting to dim the ornate sconces until naught but the fire remained.

The girl screamed.

The obstreperous cry was at once stifled with wondrous control, until nothing remained but the hiccuping breaths of a guttural sob. Blurred shadows defined themselves as the sturdy, four-poster bed, vanity, and floral stuffed armchairs artfully arranged in the modest-sized room. Huddled at the base of the large window, pressing her curled form deep into the heavy drapes, drawn shut to keep the golden street lamps and bustling eyes out, was the frightened, trembling Wick.

Before she could heed the warnings of her subconscious, Callaia was at her side, kneeling on the plush, rosy carpet, her hand skimming the frail shoulder of the whimpering creature. With chimeric speed the girl surged back, her mossy eyes, stretched achingly wide, were piceous pools of despair simmering with the too-fresh memories of unimaginable horrors.

The Wick's face twisted in the throes of phantasmal lashes, tears streaming along her cheeks as her mouth opened on a silent scream. Throwing her arms around the tenebrose creature, Callaia squeezed, offering what little reprieve she could from the raging tempest. Rocking softly, as a mother would her babe, she allowed her magic to soothe the blistering edges of her broken heart, humming a lullaby whose words had been forgotten in the waves of time.

Patiently she waited as tears dripped from the core of a body that had forgotten what it was to be held, pulling the girl to lean against her shoulder as she curled into the position of her birth.

"H-h-his breath w— was so loud…" The Wick gasped her first words in days, the words a dark croak.

The girl with the magic touch rocked the girl with the broken heart long, long into the night.

A/N: I know finally an update! It was NOT my surgery that delayed this chapter, nor was it my son's surgery, not even quarantine can be blamed. It was THIS CHAPTER ALL BY ITSELF that ruined me! So please review…seriously. I love you all!

PS! Check out my Betas: Nikka's Quill and Astrophysicschic! They are crazy talented! XOXO!