DISCLAIMER: Alas, I do not own anything related to Labyrinth, David Bowie or Jim Henson and Co.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
At the heart lay the castle,
Not so very far,
Further than it ought.
The sun had long gone down, and fog hung over the city like a reluctant and indifferent lover. It hovered over the skyline, not fully committing to either its descent or its departure, a languid libertine measuring the extent of its desire to slip into the waiting passage of the winding streets below. What little light remained, cast from the towering lampposts, could not permeate the discolored heaps of snow begging to glitter beneath the flickering flames.
Despite the biting cold pushed about by the steady, brumal wind, a window stood ajar welcoming the serene scent of promised snow. Before the large fire, Le Femme sipped the final droplets of her tea, discreetly hiding her own disappointment behind the delicate edge of her cup. It was a rare feat indeed to feel the weight of reluctance press against her limbs; rarer still was the desire for company rather than solitude.
Rising from the plush chair, far too comfortable for her liking, the woman moved to the large dressing mirror to inspect her curmudgeonous twin. Deftly, her fingers combed through the sable curtain draping along her spine, the frizzed strands smoothing to perfect coils beneath the sway of her magic. As one by one the tendrils pinned themselves into an elaborately woven chignon, honeycomb eyes locked with those of the wick.
"It seems I've a church mouse loose in my Layflower." Le Femme noted sagely, her dark, ardent gaze ruminated on the target of her words. It was the subtle lift of a shoulder and the innumerable blinks fanning waves across the half-empty drink that piqued her interest. The action might have been nearly imperceptible had she not been so keenly aware of her charge.
"My staff is quite distracted…" she cooed as another lock of hair coiled around her finger. "The walls are tittering with talk of the little creature scurrying about, lending an ear to my chattering Pearls." Squinting at the pristinely polished glass, her cocoa brows wrinkled curiously. "They can speak of little else, save for the nameless girl hidden within my dormitories." Removing a small tin of costly maquillage from her reticule, Le Femme smirked, applying the wine-red cream along her lips with an unhurried and delicate precision.
Stilling, her finger poised above her lips, her brow softly fluting. "No— no, not nameless…" she purred, replacing the oval lid as the word caressed and harried through her clandestine smile. "You have a name— or so my Pearls tell me."
The peaceful hum of their soporific interlude burst at the sudden cry of porcelain as the teacup rang against its saucer, and an audible gasp rent an earthquake across her senses. The girl began to tremble, her still-peeling lips shuttering like the wings of a butterfly as her pallor turned ashen. Sharp and quick, her chair scrapped along the floor, her white-knuckled grip locking around the edge of the table as she braced to flee. Waves of nausea rolled from her person, clouding the room with an invisible plume of dread.
"Come now, don't look so afraid." Le Femme said, lifting her hands to touch and trace the neatly placed pearls pinned along her crown. With a long, heavy sigh, she watched the frightened creature tremble through the glass. "Your secrets are your own. I have given nothing away."
De rigueur heels clicked thrice as she moved behind the vacant chair, her fingers curling along the back. "Did you truly believe you could remain anonymous? Here, among my Pearls?" The woman asked with disbelieving mirth. "Were they to call you The Girl into eternity— or perhaps you prefer Wick...or Wicky." For a fleeting moment, her nose wrinkled with repulsion from her own jape, the word spitting from her lips like a rotted kernel.
Handfuls of silence ticked away before a handsomely manicured brow arched. "I thought not."
A forceful rose blossomed across the macilent cheeks making the girl appear almost healthy as her eyes fell taciturnly to her lap. One by one her slender fingers uncoiled, and her hands lifted to pull the borrowed shawl tighter against her shoulders.
Turning from the chair, Le Femme plucked at an imaginary thread as she strode to the door. "Alas, I have left my patrons much too long." She drawled, laying her hand delicately on the handle, "I must bid you goodnight… unless of course, you choose to leave the dormitories?"
Unsurprisingly, the girl did not take the bait. A pregnant pause filled the space between them, and for a moment the woman wondered if she had blundered and pushed the girl beyond her limits. It was not that she wanted the girl running aimlessly about the corridors, but rather that she recover from the abhorrent trauma of her previous life.
"Wh— what is the name?"
With a wink and an ambiguous shrug, Le Femme took her leave.
Sarah Williams stared at the painted door far longer than she ought, her mortification still branding her flesh. What right did such a flippant emotion as mortification have existing in the mind of a murderer? What did her heart matter when it was black as tar and riddled with sin?
Through her frown, her eyes drew slowly to the single drop of tea lingering on the tray. With more effort than she felt the action warranted, her gaze dragged across the room desperate to focus on anything, save for the dark, insidious spot. Unbidden, her fingers tapped a senseless rhythm against the arms of her chair, as she pointedly studied the monochromatic pattern of the drapes, before scrutinizing the duvet and then its pillows. The hearthrug followed. Then the tea tray… then the droplet.
Standing suddenly she felt a thousand knives dig into her back until her spine straightened, breathing out she took a tentative step and her knee buckled. Forcing the pain down she staggered toward the mirror, actively avoiding her own likeness. The reflection betrayed her, and the abandoned tray with its damned drop took center stage. Her eyes slammed shut and she felt first one dolorous foot then another pulling her back to the tea. Snatching the napkin she dabbed at the spot and felt instant relief followed swiftly by degradation at her own weakness. Sarah folded the napkin into thirds and replaced it upon the table.
Defeated, she allowed her insistent, burning feet to drag her beyond the door to linger at the threshold. Surreptitiously, her eyes scanned the narrow hall peering through the thin shadows, edgily expecting her inevitable discovery.
She was alone.
His dreams were infected.
The image of his Riddle, her body dangling from the heavy manacles, her flayed back laid bare, painted with her own pungent, viscid blood, was seared into his memory with such force he could taste the tinge of copper in the air. With every blink he could see her trembling against the wall, her head hanging painfully from her shoulders as the braided, biting whip added another layer of paint to her back. She made no sound, her glassy eyes locked unseeing into the misty void of her unconsciousness as the final blow landed.
She should have died. Perhaps that would have been better…
Gasping for air, the King rose from the nightmare like a drowning man at sea. For one sweet moment, he allowed himself to relish in the lie that her suffering was merely a terrible fantasy, but truth was a powerful force. Reality slammed violently against his mind, refusing to allow him the luxury of denial. The nightmare may not have been corporal, but his memories were. His guilt, a tangible entity perched heavily upon his chest, was equally real.
The girl had been flayed, her body broken and in his haste to save her, he failed to exact vengeance on the perpetrators. It was the very least he could have done… and he failed her. The knowledge that those foul beasts yet drew breath gutted him.
Had I delayed even a moment…
Shaking his head as if to remove the thoughts from their perch, he breathed deeply, savoring the calming scent of lavender drifting from his pillow. Perhaps it would lull him into sweeter dreams.
Sarah was lost.
Her memories— or lack thereof— of the Layflower were scattered at best. Blurred, fractured, images of shadowed halls and creaking stairs, crosscut with garish lights and murmured demands. Five days surrounded by the same four walls had taken its toll, leaving her more effectively trapped than if she had been blindfolded for the entirety of her trek.
In time, she resorted to following her ears, allowing the unidentifiable sounds to lead her troublesome steps onward. At first she avoided every jovial voice, slamming door, and brisk footstep; her heart stilling in her breast and she froze, petrified of discovery. Pain compelled her to reconsider, the silent screaming of her wounds far more demanding than the current strength of her fear. Eventually, she relented, following the sounds like Theseus and his golden thread.
All at once she burst into a cavernous space, the ceiling stretching away with gorgeous landscapes adorning every corner. A grand staircase beckoned on the far wall, lined with midnight blue carpet, and white marble, the final stairs stretched in a wide welcome. Whilst the room was bustling, it was not so overly crowded that the footmen could not easily traverse the open spaces.
Men of every age littered the hall, each in their finest as they mingled and brayed, seated at both tables of leisure and card. Grumbled curses and lively laughter carried over their heads, rippling the first rate drinks inside their crystal tombs. Bespeckling the crowd as the stars pervade the night sky, dressed in the finest, lactescent muslin were the Pearls; shining accents of radiance roving betwixt the clangor.
Overwhelmed by the garish extravagance and bustling maelstrom, and the sudden awareness of her own inferior raiment, Sarah slipped quickly through the abutting door.
Chaos, pure and utter chaos.
Fire and shouting, clamoring and bustling as far too many people whirled about the large, yet confined, space. The excessive warmth engulfed her, dampening along her temple as she stared, unable to make sense of her surroundings.
A kitchen, she surmised suddenly, her mouth agape.
The room was thundering, controlled as if each member under its roof were merely puppets on a string, the bundle captained by the expert hands of the Head Chef. A surprisingly jovial looking man that, with a single utterance or narrowed glance, sent his crew roundabout with the precise choreography of a Russian ballet.
"What are ye doin' in here?" Sarah started, her shoulders tensing painfully from the motion. "I ain't seen ye before and yer certainly no Pearl… ye a maid?"
Blinking furiously her head shook slowly even as the man began speaking once more. Panic engulfed her, the taste poisoning her mouth, as her tongue went limp and all manner of rational thought fled. Her hands balled destructively in her skirts as tears prickled senselessly along her lashes.
"Oi! Ye listening? Step aside! That door will gob-smack ye if yer standing there! Move!"
Try as she might, her limbs could not be compelled to comply, and she stood unwillingly rooted to the spot. A burning pain seared her chest, fear clawing insidiously at her throat as the slash of a cane splicing the air ricocheted in her mind. A flood of memories, grand enough to sink the biblical ark, barreled against her slight frame, threatening to send her to her knees in the chaotic room. The walls around her warped and twisted, seeming to melt like wax as the light dimmed, and her vision flickered.
The tang of butter pulled her from the Estate and the horrors hidden within the hallowed halls. With no memory of how she arrived, Sarah stared blankly at the crystal dish filled to the brim with small, honey colored shards waiting beneath her nose. A man knelt before her, his eyes matching hers in both color and alarm.
"Here," he offered softly, lifting the small bowl nearer for inspection, "these are my favorites. I have tinkered with the recipe for years, and I think it is… nearly perfect. What say ye?"
Sarah watched him warily, her brows knitting together. Tentatively, she reached for a piece of toffee, her hand trembling painfully as she placed the golden fragment on her tongue. Sweetness invaded her senses, the taste far beyond any she had ever known. Sarah, indifferent to such confections, could not keep the smile from her lips, wondering if all other toffees were impostors, playing a game without the rules.
Unable to find her voice, Sarah merely nodded with an approving smile, not quite meeting his gaze. The sounds of havoc returned to her ears as another violent crash reverberated behind her. Her teeth grated together in an effort to subdue her sudden cry as the urge to flee threatened to marmalize her lungs.
"My apologies." The man murmured, his lips pursing as his head bowed in defeat. "I had hoped to present this batch to Le Femme… though I see now that would hardly be wise." Disturbing the dark hair along the nape of his neck with a sheepish grin, he shrugged almost indifferently. "'Tis a shame I will have to throw them out!" He hummed in a sotto voice.
Sarah began shaking her head slowly, uncertain whether her actions were a response to his words or the persistent maelstrom of the kitchen staff. As the toffee-bearer began to rise, his face wrinkling with dejection, her arm lifted, the pads of her fingers swept askant against his sleeve.
The girl recoiled.
The man turned, joviality painting his smile. "Ah, so you do like them!" Delightedly, he tossed a golden fragment onto his tongue. "I suppose they will do…" he muttered with a flippant shrug, "the Pearls will eat them regardless." He watched her with curious eyes, his lips twitching involuntarily as he braced for the inevitable riposte. Only the girl remained silent. Darting every which way, her eyes refused to linger on any one object, and he wondered if she heard his quip in the midst of her distress.
Unrepentant, the confectioner bore witness to her slow, viscerous unraveling, much like a ball of discarded twine. Staring as her fingers curled painfully into fists he could almost hear creaking, a cloud of pity rolled across his senses demanding he allay her suffering. "Forgive me—" he started, bending to place his hand atop her own.
With a cry, Sarah was on her feet, the stool toppling as her eyes grew wild.
The fascination of her desolate gaze drew his curiosity in much the same manner as man was drawn to the stars. Darkness surrounded her, the tenebrose claws of her waking nightmare sunk deep within her flesh, filling her mossy eyes with a hopelessness he would not soon forget.
Bracing his hands in mock surrender, he drew nearer. All at once, the peculiarity of her countenance became apparent— the sagging neckline hanging beneath a jutting, prominent clavicle, the shadowed concaves of her emaciated frame, her fear— realization smoothed his features with dolorous regard. "Leise…" he whispered, dropping his hands to his side. "Y—you're her, aren't you?"
He knows.
The thought was illogical— irrational! How could a kitchen boy know her greatest sin? It was impossible, and yet… You're her, aren't you? Her stomach coiled and knotted. Nausea crawled along her throat as guilt threatened to smother her beneath its unbearable weight.
Her legs buckled, and she fell, collapsing in a heap of fabric and bone. Her ears caught the cry of a wounded beast as her sobs leapt in the back of her throat. For a moment, she allowed herself to bask in the cooling waters of penance, delighting in the promise of salvation, of freedom. Were she very lucky, her punishment would be quick, though she had little faith for such fortunes.
Luck never favored the damned.
Falling beside her, the man offered a rag, dusted with flour and sugar, to serve as a second-rate handkerchief in the absence of a fine linen square. Sarah did not move as her tears slid silently along her cheek, leaving watermarks on her skirt and hands, her shoulders trembling from the exertion.
"Forgive me! I never meant to upset you. I— I am terribly sorry." His frown deepened and his voice strained, "W—what can I— how do I make amends?" Inclining closer, his palms pressed flat against the oak floor as he looked around, searching for anything that might quell her suffering, all the while knowing no such thing existed. "Perhaps—er—" groaning, he threw his arms high, dumbfounded. "Toffee?" Deflating at the sound of his own absurdity, he found his eyes drawn to the rag resting crumpled on his knee.
The girl hiccuped, exhaling in a way that might have approximated a laugh, had her tears not stifled the sound. Wrinkling her brow incredulously, she stared wide eyed at the man offering to ease her dysthymia with a bit of burnt sugar.
He laughed.
The entire situation suddenly struck him as incredibly absurd and his chuckling became a boisterous howl. Bursting uncontrollably from his chest, the plangent sound brought tears to his eyes and stitches in his side.
Sliding into the gentle, half-curl of a forgotten smile, Sarah succumbed to the ameliorating effect of his unexpected mirth. Eventually, the ruckus faded into an agreeable quiet amid the persistent bustling around them. Though the clamorous kitchen could hardly be considered lown, there was a moment— a fray in the tapestry of time when all eyes locked on the two kneeling near the far wall. Unbeknownst to them, the mechanical precision of the waitstaff and the culinarians was teetering on the edge of disaster as the sedulous crew bowed beneath the enticing weight of curiosity. The moment passed, and the world once again began to turn.
Her secret would keep a little while longer.
"Now," he said with a lighthearted sigh, "while I concede the foolishness of toffee… perhaps a simple supper would suffice?" The girl once more avoided his gaze, biting nervously at her lips until at least he probed. "Leise?"
"Leise?"
"She speaks!" He clapped loudly, immediately regretting his momentary euphoria. Schooling his features he began dragging himself from the floor. "The Pearls named you... unless of course you object?"
Inch by inch, the color drained from her face an instant before moisture returned to her eyes. Not wishing to upset her further, he smiled. "Then you must trust our name suits."
The first gulp of port burned its way down his throat, the taste inconsequential as the liquid splashed against the walls of his stomach. The second taste was kindling for his ire. The third made him wince. Staring hard at the empty glass held aloft in his hand, he contemplated having another… or five. Port had never helped before; certainly it would not help now.
Groaning into his hands, Emere swore fluently as the room stilled around him. His ears rang with the gargantuan effort it took for his lungs to fill with air as he made his way to the sideboard, refilling his glass with a grimace. Breathing in and out had never been so difficult, and yet it was all his mind could manage between desultory thoughts of the obdurate King and his vanishing Riddle.
Below him, hundreds of patrons carried on in their revelry, gambling away equal parts pocket money and vast inheritances, exchanging political views and the grievances only the wealthy understood, as his world trembled around him. Strutting to reclaim his vacant seat, Emere dropped unceremoniously into the luxurious wingback chair, his drink sloshing within its glass.
Exhaling, he slapped his glove, clutched tight between his fingers, once, twice against his thigh before replacing it on his hand. Squeezing his digits into the smooth, russet leather, he relished the way the seams creaked as he flexed, the stitches rubbing, not uncomfortably, against his skin. The adviser held his breath as a stabbing pain suddenly wracked his chest and shoulders. The fit would pass, it always had. Occurring with little warning and becoming more and more frequent of late, the sharp pains were the subsistent reminder of his newfound failure.
The girl would be the death of him.
A soft noise at his back signaled the death of his solitude. Without sparing the interloper a single glance, Emere lifted his glass high, his voice bored. "This tastes like poison." He took another gulp, wincing. "Have you got anything more substantial than this swill?"
"That swill was bottled by the greatest brewer of the entire Sacobin race moments before his death. The recipe has never been equaled. Nor will it, considering the Sacobin race no longer exists." Resisting the urge to grind her molars to stumps, Le Femme slid the delicate black lace from her shoulders, draping it along the back of the adviser's seat. "King Meldryk once offered me an entire city for that bottle."
"That man wouldn't know the difference between a fine wine and the stinking moat surrounding his castle." Emere tossed back the drink in his hand in one swift motion. "Meldryk would have paid a thousand crowns for that swallow... to you, Gadise, I offer my odious smile."
Snorting, the woman leaned close, the scent of jasmine filling his nostrils. "Meldryk may lack taste..." her voice dripped with delicious intent, "but I can assure you, his talents lie elsewhere. I am certain he would be more than willing to offer guidance, should you ask."
"Madam, you wound me!"
"As a mosquito to a crocodile, I am sure." Rolling her eyes, she straightened, sauntering to the sideboard and filling her own glass with the tawdry liquor. She had to applaud the man's tolerance if not his good sense, she had never intended to open that bottle.
Grinning against her glass, Le Femme wondered how long before Emere disentangled her lie: Sacobin theology did not allow for the consumption of spirits. The bottle truly was swill. "Tell me," she asked after another unpleasant sip, "why have you darkened my door?"
Her companion groaned, muttering curses under his breath, but he did not manage an answer. Smirking to herself, Gadise moved to the towering windows draped in perse, matelassé silk, her fingers reaching to caress the butter-soft fabric. At her touch, the curtains rippled to transparency, allowing her to privately overlook the expanse of her demesne whilst still maintaining her privacy.
Years ago, the curtains would be drawn wide at her leisure, allowing her to view her patrons; and they her. Thus, the enchantment was created. An ungodly cost for a priceless boon.
Her attention was pulled to one of the many gambling tables, where sat two gentlemen with deft fingers, each pocketing an extra crown they had lost. Shaking her head in bemused dismay, she couldn't contain the soft chuckle at their folly. When will they learn, she hummed, knowing the consequences of their imbecilic actions.
Another costly enchantment.
The adviser tipped his glass, only just noticing its emptiness with a heavy scowl. Pushing up from his seat, he drudged to the sideboard and pulled a bottle at random. Taking a considerable swig, his lip curled as the fruity undertones of too-fresh wine stained his tongue. "Gods, this day!" Grimacing, he took another swallow, "I should be drowning myself in fine wine and women at the Gala, but instead I'm searching for a snowflake in an avalanche."
Clicking her tongue epiphanically, she nodded. "Ah, so you have not found her, then?"
"Of course not!" He barked, his brow folding to a frown as his fingers scrubbed across his lips. A morose sigh escaped, his dark eyes closing dejectedly as he tried to quell his temper. After several minutes passed, Emere spoke, his hand curling to a fist against his mouth. "He is a man possessed."
"That is rather dramatic—"
"Gadise," her name a strangled whisper. Glancing over the curve of his shoulder, his eyes burned, not from alcohol, but a fevered gravitas. "His appetite is pitiful— non-existent— he barely sleeps, and when he manages it is only a scant few hours before he is on his feet, staring into another damned crystal, searching for her!"
A flood of emotions rolled across her senses, each mixing and mingling like the rising waters of a storm. Frowning at her own curiosity, but unable to restrain her thoughts, Le Femme pried. "I do not understand— h-how could she be lost? If the King was so enamored…" her hands waved in confusion. "Who is this girl?"
"A thorn in my side!" His fist crashed against the table, "I told him to be cautious, but did he listen? No!" His hands flew wide, the freshly poured liquid sloshed onto his fingers. "And why should he listen to his adviser? He never has before...why should I expect things to change?" A dark, morose laugh punctuated his raving denouement, as a pregnant minute passed. Dropping his head against the cool wood, Emere loosed a pitiable groan. "Even on the cusp of death he begged me to save her. Her! A r—" Swallowing back the confession, he felt the words lock in his throat as he tried to protect the shattered pieces of his inflated hubris.
"Emere?" She whispered, taking a tentative step forward, her long fingers pressing into the heavy sleeve of his frock. "I have always held your confidence...and you mine. Please," she begged, squeezing the flesh and fibers beneath her hand. "Tell me how I might ease your burden."
"Were it so simple…"
"It may well be!" pressing into his side, her hand cupped his jaw, lifting his stubbled chin from the sideboard. Determination darked her eyes, the honey simmering like freshly made caramel. "I can do nothing for the king, but there must be something you need from me! Now give me a task, for I cannot abide your suffering any longer."
Shaking his head against her palm, his eyes closed, his brow creased. "I cannot betray his trust further, Gadise. I should never have told—"
"Yes, but you have and now you must face the consequences." Her dark, painted lips quirked, "Now, what do you need of me?"
Sighing heavily, the worry-worn adviser conceded, "A chambermaid." Straightening away from the ameliorating touch, he rubbed circles against his temple as he elaborated. "Sylvie has reached her confinement, and two other girls are recovering from Miasma Pox." Speaking with monotoned deflation, Emere added, "Tis only for a fortnight— or less should his sulking continue."
"A maid? You are certain that is all I can do?"
"You have eased my mind—if not my burdens— kept my secrets, and you are providing a trustworthy employee for the palace, believe me, Gadise, you have done quite enough." The ropes of tangled muscles loosed a single knot at the crest of his shoulder as the lines of age sliced the corners of his eyes. When had the years staked their claim, conquering the smooth valley of his youth; replacing wildflowers with nettles and burrs?
Of course time had not marked her with the same ferocity, her face, though certainly changed, had become regal, exotic, as maturity refined her once-rounded angles. As the years ripen a fine vintage, so too had they perfected her resplendence as beauty made an example of her. How he longed for those days of idle carelessness, wrapped in her heated embrace, not as her friend but her lover!
Capturing her hand between his own, Emere bent, placing a slow, weighted kiss against her flesh, his eyes unable to catch her blush. "Thank you, Gadise. Truly, what would I do without you?"
"Drown yourself at the bottom of a bottle—" she smiled brightly as his eyes locked with hers. "Careful now, you are beginning to sound sentimental in your old age."
"Old?!" He laughed, "You are scarce younger than I!" he said, releasing her hand to refill his forgotten glass. "I remember when I would have drunk twice as much, bedded three women to complete satisfaction, and still managed all tasks set forth by the king before starting all over again."
Placing her hands on her hips, her head fell back on a laugh. "You were always one for foolishness, my friend. Happily, I admit, I much prefer you now." Crossing her arms, her gaze drifted to the window and her world below as a peculiar movement drew her eye.
Sliding along the multitude of patrons and Pearls was a sallow creature limping along the edge of the gambling hall, a broom clutched firmly in hand and a rag in the other.
A deviating wall of pride flooded her senses, crashing against the taut muscles of her heart, drawing a lone tear to her naturally stoic countenance. The girl had ventured out.
The girl trusted her.
Gadise stared speechless as she struggled in her usefulness, attempting to sweep the smooth marble whilst leaning heavily on her broom for support. A moment later she stumbled, crashing to the floor. Give it time, Little One, give it time.
Jolting as a tremulous hum rolled along the tightrope of her magic, Le Femme tensed as her attention was painfully wrenched to a rotund man seated not far from the wick. Gambling tokens slid distractedly through his fingers as he leered, his body angling minutely closer as the girl struggled to rise.
Despite his repugnant desires, she did not fear for the girl— though her magic could not be so easily convinced— Le Femme was certain of her safety.
The Layflower was many things, but a brothel it most assuredly was not.
Planting his hands atop the table, the gambler stood as the wick stumbled once more. A red tongue poked through his teeth, wetting his lips as a beast amidst a famine. Sauntering forward, he offered a genteel bow and his hand for her use.
Predictably, the girl recoiled at his nearness.
Taken aback at her sudden reticence, the large man stiffened, his head tipping curiously as his mouth moved, seemingly trying to coax her from the floor.
He bent nearer.
Shaking her head, the girl trembled, spurning his aid. None too pleased with her defiance, the man straightened, his brow creasing with offense. Stomping as an indignant child, the man balked at her timorous dismissal, unaffected by the obvious trauma peeking above the falling sleeves of her ill-fitting gown.
The obese creature bared his teeth.
Pudgy, manicured fingers claimed the space between them, far faster than it ought. Nearly unbidden the girl's mouth opened and slammed shut, her eyes rounding painfully in their sockets.
A fragmented pause was the only indication the beast witnessed her hostility as his palm inched inexorably closer. Snatching at the muslin ruff, the fabric puckering in his vise, he wrenched the girl unceremoniously to her feet.
Her mouth opened again, shaping the words of her discontent, before she fell suddenly to her knees. Her assailer stumbled back, furious and dumbstruck, his elephantine frame colliding harshly with the doughy form of a young pâtissier.
The scene played on with little fanfare. Guards were summoned, and the man whom luck had kissed before her fickle nature begged her to seek another, was dragged away, his winnings still piled neatly at the table.
Gadise could not contain her smile as she turned to the still-drinking adviser slumped beside her. "Do you still wish to borrow a maid?" She asked, her tone dancing along the edge of vexation.
Emere blinked owlishly, grumbling as he straightened, an empty bottle clattered against the floor, making him jump. "Maid? Wh- yes? Yes!"
Rolling her eyes, glanced back to the place the wick had been, assurance soothed the tousled edges of her nerves as she replayed the girl's budding armament. Nodding slowly in self-agreement, Gadise made her decision. "I have just the girl."
"As always, Gadise, you are a Godsend." Emere stood, desperately trying to ignore the sloppy tilt of the floor. Steadying himself, his eyes widened blearily as he flailed to pull himself from his drunken haze. "Madam, I am indebted." His hand swung dramatically to his heart as he staggered to a bow.
"All I ask is that you ensure her safety." Le Femme shot him a pointed glare, "I'll have your precious manhood for my coin purse should any harm befall her."
Shocked at her vehemence, Emere frowned, his eyes growing serious. "You have my word."
"Excellent," smoothing the front of her gown, the woman marched purposefully towards the door. "Have your carriage ready at dawn."
Emere scoffed, "Dawn?!" A disgusted scowl pulled at his lips, "A carriage certainly, Gadise, but dawn?" Scrubbing the stubble on his cheek he groaned, "Sunset." He stated firmly, his tone demanding her concession. "And not a minute sooner."
Le Femme's honeyed eyes rolled painfully to the ceiling, as her jaw set in a forced smile. Seeking her own calm she breathed, "Very well. Sunset… not a minute later." Pausing at the door, her fingers hovered on the handle as she debated whether to speak or maintain her own counsel. Allowing intuition to make the choice, Gadise bade him goodnight. "Until tomorrow, my friend."
Standing on heavy feet, drunk enough for his vision to blur, but far too sober to forget, Emere Havron refilled his glass.
Tomorrow was fast approaching.
With the dawn came the renewed search for the impossible girl who would not be found.
A/N: I am sorry for the delay. I would love to blame it on the state of things in the world… but in truth…this chapter was being a B. I have no other excuse. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
Anyways… please, please review! I love hearing what you have to say, even if it is simply "good job!" I am a glutton for praise— I accept this. I love you all. Stay safe. Wear your mask. XOXO