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

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

A question asked in desperation.
Promises made...
A refusal borne from pride.

The enchanted canopy, sparkling delicately with stars glittering against the swirling mist of an imagined ether, should have lulled her into a deep and restful slumber, where her troubles might be forgotten and her body healed. For six nights, the somnolent magic quelled the tempestuous waters raging just beneath her flesh, ferrying her to the soothing embankments where her nightmares— her memories— could not travel. To the place where oblivion reigned.

In a few hours, she would be on her way to the castle. To serve a man without mismatched eyes. A man she did not know. A man for whom she had not wished.

Turning to her side, she tested a different position in an effort to regain comfort, but the type of comfort she needed wasn't going to come from simply tossing and turning in bed. The gallows-march was waiting, her time in the asylum was merely a cell— a purgatory to await her sentence— a cold, dismal place where her mind was forced to remember. Where, as she paid cent by cent for her heinous crimes with her body, her blood, she was drowned in the tears of her guilt before the final judgment passed.

This was more than an audience with the King. It was life or death.

She welcomed the latter.

Her stomach rumbled as if to agree. Truly, she should have eaten more at breakfast, but her wretched nerves had gotten the better of her. Unable to do more than chew the tired, cracked flesh from her lips, she had all but ignored her plate. Now, she regretted her folly.

Perhaps it was for the best; the carriage would be jostling enough without the added burden of her injuries. Her injuries! How could she possibly manage the duties of a chambermaid when she tired at the most menial tasks? What was Le Femme thinking?!

Why did I accept?

Groaning into the goose-down pillow, she forced her breaths to slow, over and over until her heartbeat resumed its usual rhythm. The soporific melody coaxed her forward, filling her muscles with molasses, as slumber added weights against her eyelids.

Her guilt was a vile, cruel mistress demanding recompense through her dreams. Cloaking her in sackcloth and ashes. The sound of bone twisting beneath sinew, the scent of blood, the cacophony of a single tear striking the pebbled shore assaulted her senses, dragging her to a violent wakefulness.

Sleep would never be her boon companion, but rather a tregetour dancing merrily just beyond her reach, mocking her failure. Nipping and clawing at her hands when exhaustion overtook her senses, infecting her dreams with her own memories until the sound of her cries shattered the illusion.

Lying in the burgeoning vespers, unable to settle atop the warm, plush mattress, her melancholia found its voice.

He knows.

The crown of dreams and nightmares had seen her sin and she would undeniably receive her just rewards. Wracking her senses, the thought flooded her with a new wave of nausea so potent, her core began to convulse.

How fitting that she should die in his world as he had in hers.

Sarah woke at some far distant time that was altogether too near, with a pounding in her heart and throbbing in her feet. The herbs she had been given before had long since lost their usefulness, leaving her to the mercy of her pain. The persistent gnawing of incompleteness constricted around her heart, darkening the fire-lit room with the bite of loss. Briefly, her eyes closed, taking a mental inventory of her healing injuries, never lingering on any one affliction too long, lest the memory of their origin consume her.

A rhythmic knock nearly startled her out of her skin, pulling her panicked gaze to the door. Sitting ramrod atop of her mattress, her breath caught in her throat as her pulse thundered.

"Leise?" A pleasant voice called from the other side of the door. "Leise, it's Zelli… I've brought you something." Sarah sighed as a wave of relief washed over; not so much as to draw an answer, but enough to quell her nerves.

After a moment, Orzella waltzed in, her bright smile turning sheepish at the sight of Sarah still tucked beneath the wrinkled sheets. "Oh, dear…" she frowned, closing the door softly, her arms bearing the weight of a dark fabric. "Did I wake you? I did— didn't I?"

Sarah shook her head.

Skeptically, orange brows knit, lips pursing a moment before her features smoothed altogether. "I don't believe you. Sleep still clings to your eyes, and you've made a nest of your hair." She said jovially, shaking the bundle to reveal a handsome, black gown. Holding the garment to her breast, she smoothed the wrinkles with her free hand.

"Well… consider this my apology." Smiling down appreciatively at the dress, she added. "While the palace has uniforms and livery of its own, Le Femme and Master Havron had these made specifically for us Pearls."

Sarah drew her eyes to the garment in question, curious how the measurements of the borrowed dress would compare to her own.

"The palace truly is marvelous," the fiery Pearl sang, draping the dress along the foot of the bed as though it were a ball gown spun from the finest silks. "I have no other for comparison… not for lack of desire, but rather opportunity. Why, what business have I among the other kingdoms? Can you imagine?!" Laughing heartily at her own quip, Orzella tossed her head back as tears pooled in her eyes. "Forgive me," she hummed, pressing her hand to her breast as she tried to calm her merriment. "You must think me a loon!"

Rolling her eyes at her own foolishness, Orzella sighed, "A carriage is on its way and you, sweet Leise, are still abed!" Stepping forward, she folded back the heavy duvet, her smile bright as she offered her hand. At Sarah's tentative touch, she stifled her rising glee, schooling her features into a sincere smile as she helped the girl from the bed. "Come now, you have no need for nerves. The palace takes great care of us Pearls."

"But I— I am not a Pearl."

It was Orzella's turn to be startled, having never heard the wick's voice before, and certainly not expecting it now. Blinking away her shock, she found herself stuttering, "W-well, no." Her hands went to her hips, suddenly defensive, "No, not in an official capacity." Frowning, her head tilted quizzically to one side as her red lips pouted. "You may only be gone a short while but you will be missed. Have no doubt of it."

Once again Sarah was at a loss for words. Would she be missed? A week she had spent in her sanctuary, cowardice sewing an invisible thread over her lips, baring all but the occasional sentence or question. A spectator in a new world where she did not quite belong. Why should I be missed?

"Perhaps you will like working in such a household… Ingrid certainly does." Orzella mused as the brush fought against the mass of curls. "Oh! You should have seen her— the girl could hardly be kept away! She aspires to manage a great house one day. In fact, word has it, she recently accepted a position as a lady's maid for a viscountess in Ethedyne."

Pulling a dish full of pins closer, she confessed, "I was glad when she left us… that is hardly polite, but it is true. Quite the meddler, that one. Always putting her nose where is did not belong, acting as though she were Le Femme herself!" Raking her fingers through the tresses, Orzella began to assemble the locks into an attractive chignon. "Though I am loathe to admit such things," she hummed around the pins held between her lips, groaning as another flyaway slipped free. "The viscountess is fortunate indeed, to have her."

Dissatisfied with her slipshod handiwork, the redhead dropped her hands, flexing her fingers in an effort to alleviate her ire. "I, myself, rarely assist outside of the Layflower." Her nostrils flared as yet another pin clattered to the floor. "It has never been said, but I suspect the staff at the palace think me a nuisance. I don't mind, of course. I rather prefer it, if I am to be hon—" The entirety of her efforts unraveled in one fell swoop. Huffing indecorously, her nearly translucent ivory skin flamed. Rolling her shoulders, determined not to be undone by wild, blunt-cut curls, she tried again. Relishing the pull of her growing hubris, Orzella snatched another cluster of pins, pinching several between her lips.

Ten minutes, two rather intricate braids, and nearly a dozen hairpins finally tamed the coiling beast. A smirk stole across her features as she admired her efforts. Though far from the aristocratic coiffures wrapped in extravagant ribbons, feathers and flora, the style was flattering, if not Lucullian.

"You look lovely," she stated, moving back from the stool as the girl glimpsed her reflection, the faintest smile quirking her lips. Satisfaction swelled within Orzella's breast, "And now, you must change. Le Femme— and mayhap the carriage— are waiting." Smoothing the front of her own gossamer gown as the girl stood, she offered gently. "Turn, and I will tie your stays." Her fingers touched the cornflour shawl still draped protectively over the girl's shoulders.

"NO!" Sarah's eyes rounded to saucers, her entire being turned to marble. Through her shift, the frantic rise and fall of her fevered breaths was strikingly obvious. "I— er— I don't..." She whispered as her teeth chewed her lip once more. "I— I do not require assistance."

Orzella swallowed hard against the tightness in her throat, refusing to allow pity to crush her beneath its tsunamic wave. "Splendid," she nodded to the large screen standing in the corner, "then I shall pass you your things."

The injuries hidden beneath fine cloth and well-wrapped bandages were known to the Pearls. Each had witnessed, be it with their own eyes or through the wagging tongues of others, the bloodied wick as she was carried through the halls. However, apart from the physician himself, only Le Femme had glimpsed the full extent of the gaping wounds and frozen flesh.

Orzella would not press the girl for her secrets.

The Goblin King was exactly where he was expected, but not at all where he wished.

Having only arrived two nights before, and already vexed by his own attendance, his quotidian charm had begun to splinter and tear. The carefully crafted façade of blasé rakishness had melted into an insipid shroud of anxious discontent as yet another day passed without her.

Six days she had been missing. Six days of hell the King had never anticipated seeing in his lifetime. The last instance he could remember feeling so frightened, so very powerless, he'd been a lad on the eve of his first true battle and only about half as tall as he was now.

He much preferred war.

The livid flame consumed him, trained into him by his father from an early age with a cane or switch. How he hated that heat. Hated how it started in his chest, climbing into his throat, narrowing his vision and muffling both thought and sound. Hated how he grappled daily with his ability to control it. Far worse was what he knew it foretold.

Sneering at the jovial promenade, gallivanting in carefully choreographed footsteps, the rustle of their lavish attire echoing softly above the ululating quartet only fanned at his internal flame. His attendance had come only at the ardent insistence of both Garmont, the annual host of the Silver Gala, and Emere— who had reminded him of the consequences, and inevitable rumors that would take wing at his absence.

He should never have come.

Glaring as yet another woman, Frayza, decorated in glittering diamonds and embroidered silks, lifted her eyes— and décolletage— in unwanted invitation. Her violet eyes looked at him dreamily, begging for his company, as her head cocked demurely to the side. How long had it been since their last rendezvous of crimson sheets and wanton sighs? Four— perhaps five months?

Snarling under his breath, he stalked along the edge of the ballroom, in search of an exit as his forgotten paramour pouted disdainfully at his retreating form. His hand clutched the cool bronze of the terrace door handle, blissfully inhaling the chilled night air washing over him. The raucous din of the gala echoed behind him as he stepped over the threshold, pulling the glass shut firmly as he went, muting the obstreperous noise with no small amount of satisfaction. The calm darkness, where he so often dwelt in favor of the bold, garish display of the social whirl, welcomed him with icy, snow-feathered arms.

He had played his part, and he would have no more of it. Walking out into the sprawling gardens, the king stood for a moment, lifting his face to the sky. His body, his magic, waiting for the siren song that was as lost to him now as the very temptress who claimed it.

The wind had teeth.

The frigid maw howled as it snapped at her cloak, nearly tugging it from her trembling shoulders. Gathering the heavy cloth tighter to her emaciated form, her jaw began to chatter audibly, as her fingers itched within their wool encasement.

Staring down the snow-blanketed street, Sarah could not help but glower at its emptiness. She glanced at her companion bouncing softly on the balls of his feet, his hands rubbing together harshly as he breathed against the exposed flesh.

"Perhaps we should wait inside...I think I might lose a toe if I linger in this ungodly cold!" Pedar brayed, his words colored with laughter. "I cannot spend the rest of my days as a cripple! Women do not want me as it is!" Hysterical laughter ricocheted off the surrounding stone, the bright noise too loud in the snow white quiet.

Sarah merely smiled, her remaining appendages curling in her boots.

With little fanfare and a notable lack of apology, the carriage arrived. This was not the carriage that was promised. The paint was peeling, rust clung thick along the axles, and the roof sagged, laden with the burden of too wet snow. Emere Havron wouldn't dare to be seen standing near such a coach, nevermind as a passenger!

"Apologies lass, but 'tis only a quarter past late. If you ask me,'tis practically on time!" The man hollered from above, the reins still clutched tight in his hands, his gaze lascivious as he scrutinized the pair. "I only 'ave payment for the Lass... 'tis four crowns to ride up 'ere with me. Six if yous wanting to keep the chit company!"

With a disgusted scowl, Pedar stepped forward, "Six crown? You mad?! This coach isn't worth half, even with the horses! What cretin paid six crown for this?"

"Oi!" The man shrieked, standing to jab his finger at the pair, "I'll not 'ave you insulting my 'ackney! I run a respectable business… not my fault paint enchantments cost more than them!" His head jutted to the horses, whose flanks steamed in the frigid night air as they stomped their discontent. "I'll 'ave you know I was sent by the palace!" He crowed, accentuating the word with an air of obnoxious hubris. "'Sides, I knows a maid when I sees one… she don't need a barouche! My cart'll do just fine for the likes of 'er!"

"Absolutely not!" Pedar swore, turning to face the shivering girl at his side. "Le Femme said a palace coach, not a ramshackle gypsy gig." Tossing a crude glance over his shoulder, the baker growled. "Unacceptable. Come, we will fetch Madam at once, she will put this right." Spinning on his heel, the icy pavement nearly dragging him to the ground, before he righted himself with a yelp. Striding purposefully into the Layflower, determination blinding his naturally astute observation, he marched out of view leaving the trembling wick behind.

Cowardice demanded she flee, nevermind her promise to Madam— her atonement with the reigning monarch! Had she not already paid with her life, dragged here bleeding as she was, her body crippled from penance? Her life was gone now, though her heart still beat in her breast, her future died the minute of her wish. Was it not enough?

Never… Justice would hunt her the rest of her days, spurred ever onward by the whip of her conscience.

"Lass! I 'aven't got all night!" Ruffled at the churlish interruption, Sarah frowned at the scurrilous man. "In...or...out?!" He spat, picking at his sallow teeth with trade blackened nails.

Her limbs were far braver than her heart, and her hand gripped the latch like a vice. Lifting her portmanteau, teeming with the borrowed possessions doggedly proffered by smiling Pearls, Sarah placed the weighty bag on the floor, pushing it out of her way.

Lifting her skirts she placed her foot atop the splintered step, the knife blade cold sliced through her wool stockings, making her gasp. There was no handle— no bar to make her ascent into the tattered box less tortuous.

A thick cloud of pusillanimous vapor ballooned overhead as she braced for the inevitable. Having grown accustomed to the tarnished vessel of her once competent form, the ever present agony of her verbosely healing flesh had become commonplace. Would she miss the pain when— if— it vanished?

Occasionally, the burn of a step would blossom into excruciating wildfire, threatening to consume what little was left of her. Thus it was with no great surprise, as she hoisted herself inside, that her boon companion had returned with violent savagery. Her shoulders vociferated and her arms shook as the air pushed from her lungs, stealing the scream poised on her lips.

Not a moment later, she crashed to the seat, voicing her discontent with a muffled wail as the carriage lurched forward, ferrying them into the encroaching night.

Determined to hide her discontent within her clenched fists and onerously grinding teeth, Sarah rode in self proclaimed silence, the faint sheen of sweat her only tell. Tears formed along her lash line as the snow packed roads sought to further toss her to the floor. Please, let this be over soon! Having been assured thrice over that her journey would not take a full hour, Sarah tried—and failed— to count the stagnating minutes creeping along one by one.

Predictably, she lost count.

Treading the depths of moribund thoughts as cretinous fingers danced around her ankles, gasping aloud, she struggled to capture her next breath. What was she thinking sending herself to the slaughter, leaving behind her only sanctuary at the behest of chattering Pearls?

Sarah was no martyr— no innocent sent to the grave upon false convictions. She was guilty, irredeemably so. Had she lost her mind? Carelessly tossing away the greyish pieces to scatter like ashes against the wind and become beasts' fodder? Was this to be the end?

Had she entrusted her future, however short, to the wrong keeper?

Alabastrine wings shuddered in fatigue as the frosted air danced against the pristine downy feathers. A taut burn twined through sinew, searing his muscles at even the barest twitch. No longer able to deny the weakness of his flesh, he scanned the horizon, seeking a moment's refuge.

Swooping low, cutting through the barren branches, their spindle fingers reaching in a frozen caress. A twinkling ribbon whispering along the ice-crusted embankment drew him nearer. Within a breath he was at the river's edge, trading one predatory form for another.

He had flown too far, too long, and yet still he sat on the edge of restlessness, the needles pricking painfully into his nerves. Stretching his fingers for the first time in a day and a half he drew water to his lips. The cold singed his throat.

The gala had been a mistake. His Riddle was still missing, lost to the snow and fog, yet here he stood. Here he waited. Damn her! Damn her fear… her bloody footprints… her stupid escape! Damn Emere for losing her trail!

Damn me.

"Move it!" The shouted sibilation interrupted the King's self-recrimination. He snarled. The man continued, "It ain't much further… come on!"

The carelessly barreling of lumbering footfalls told him just how close they were. Maladroit curiosity pulled him further behind the towering boulders flanking the water's edge. A pathetic bleat more fitting to a wounded goat assaulted his senses.

"Scumberin' trolls! Bitch bit me!"

"I'll bite you if you don't stop your hollering. Two miles I've listened to your sniveling… enough! You hear? Enough." One of the pair drank greedily from the river, the sound akin to a lapping mutt in heat. "It's your own fault, you know." Came a nasally reply, weighed down by a thick, warm drawl. "You cuff like a girl."

"I do not!"

"Then how was she able to scratch you, I wonder?"

"She surprised me, tha's all!"

"Aye! And now she's dead. Wash your face, you look like Hell."

Several moments of welcomed silence followed, punctuated with the distinctive sound of splashing and drinking. Drawn into exhaustion as a pebble to the bottom of a well, the King closed his eyes savoring the rhythmic quiet.

"Shame we couldn't keep 'er… she woz a pretty little 'fing. I would've liked wakin' with 'er in my bed." This voice was younger, wistful.

"You know as well as I that would never happen. Think you're scuffed now… that girl would have turned your back to ribbons first chance she got."

"It ain' fair! If she 'ad yellow 'air she'd be running with us now!" A petulant air soured his words, "I never get noffin' I want!"

"I let you have her first! Or have you forgotten my generosity?" There was no answer, merely an exasperated huff, accompanied by slow, measured steps. "Yes, yes, fine. Fine! Next time you find one you like, I'll think about it… how's that?"

"I'll 'old you to tha' promise!" Another minute passed. "Why didn' you want 'er? Eh?"

"I prefer my conquests silent. If you hit them hard enough the first time, you don't have to hear them begging or wishing—"

I wished…

Night after night…

I never stopped...

The memory of her voice exploded behind his eyes as a flood of adrenaline seared the King's veins like molten lava. The volcanic hum of his heart pulsed in his ears demanding he take action even as his mind clouded with blackened choler. Groaning within the vice of his rapacious grip, the hilt of his main gauche inscribed his flesh. Odd, he did not recall reaching for the blade, and yet there it was, the mild weight warming his gloveless palm.

His first step was taken with what his adviser would have charitably lauded: a modicum of control. His second was not.

His third impregnated the damascus blade.

Slipping behind the opaque curtain of unbridled rage, where the dervish of time both advanced and retreated within the same heartbeat, the Goblin King stood gasping. His mismatched eyes glowed wild from the fray, his breathing akin to overwhelmed bellows.

As the pain in his fingers finally registered he dropped his viscous steel. Yet it was the pungent scent of acrid blood that turned his stomach, demanding his sanity return.

I have wished...

Turning in a perfunctory wheel, he took in the strewn remains of the abhorrent refuse at his feet. There was no guilt for what he had done, no shame. Whilst he had worn the shoes of both judge and executioner, the men strewn about his feet had confessed. Their tongues brayed to the tune of carnality, their own hubris the falling lancet of the guillotine.

Though the fires of his mania had ebbed, his heart was not so easily persuaded to peace. The carnage before him could not hold a candle to the insidious memories of her tattered and broken body chained to the stones. Curious that their ululations of agony could not hold a candle to a cracked and broken whisper.

I have wished...

Grinding his teeth, he put the memory behind him, knowing it would soon return. Bending swiftly, he plucked the blade from the snowy sheath, his eyes catching on a single crimson tear poised on the tip of his boot. Snarling as a feral beast, he dug the offending shoe in the snow effectively ruining the immaculate black polish.

A sclera, clouded with sable and scarlet, reflected the demon with mismatched eyes vanishing in an ivory flurry.

A military cadence clicked dutifully along the narrow passage, followed by two syncopated yet decidedly unequal footfalls; one borne of languor, the other of pain. Traversing the servants halls was a quiet affair, an acute juxtaposition to the tittering mischievousness of the Layflower.

Both were equally troubling.

Unfamiliar as she was with the procedures of a palace, even Sarah noted the severe lack of occupants seated around the staff table as she was led in from the cold. A murmured lumbering accompanied by the gentle clattering of silver against glass only accentuated the distinctive lack of joviality as the group stewed in their shared exhaustion.

As such, she was exceedingly grateful, for none engaged her in vapid conversation, demanding the latest news regarding the Pearls and the jocund clientele. Their gazes did not linger, nor did their tongues wag at the sound of her clottage gait. She was invisible to them, another temporary creature of no consequence. Her departure would cause the same ripplings as a fly's wings against the ocean.

For that too, Sarah was grateful.

The lack of fanfare upon her arrival carried well into the remaining evening, punctuated by the errant yawns and stifled mewling of the overtaxed staff. Whilst the introductions had been made, Sarah would be hard-pressed to parrot a lone syllable, nevermind giving voice to an entire name. As she walked down the stone corridor, her feet percussing a crude melody, Sarah felt the parasite of apprehension curl beneath her skin. The spidery creature returning swiftly to its home.

"Lastly," the older of her companions barked, her voice even but cutting in its severity. "This room," she raised her fingers, her age-speckled hand rapping against the wood. "Will be aired and made ready for whomever returns with his Majesty." Swinging inaudibly, the hinges not daring to upset the stewardess further with weeping protestations, the door opened wide. With a poise bred by both genetics and decades of service, the woman sauntered forward with a Queen's grace and a missionary's hubris. "Dust high. Cobwebs favor the forgotten corners of lazy maids."

Hawkish black eyes narrowed speculatively as her lips crushed to near invisibility. "There are those who would say otherwise, claiming the room clean enough once the linens have changed… know they are wrong. If this room does not meet standard, you will be made to clean it again." Glancing between the pair, she added fervently, "Sloth in the name of selfishness will be punished. There is plenty of silver to be polished as well as a myriad of unsavory tasks waiting for idle hands."

With a curt nod she sidestepped, bidding the girls entrance. "The King will be returning within a fortnight, it is expected that he will bring guests." Her shoulders squared, chin lifting with unfettered aplomb. "I'll not have the crown embarrassed because the staff couldn't be bothered to do their work." Allowing the warning to settle between them, the older woman stood happily in the unpleasant silence she had created, her brow daring challenge. "Yvette, you know what is expected… see that she does also."

Satisfied, she added, "Well...off with you then… you may retire when you are finished here." With a departing sniff the stewardess once again took up her brisk cadence.

For a moment, neither of the remaining pair moved, each staring blankly at a different point in the room. As if commanded by an unseen maestro, the women expelled a heavy breath, before marching forward to begin their work. A pleasant silence followed, filled with the gentle sounds of rustling fabric and the soft scratching of the broom.

"I-I am a good worker… I shouldn't like you to think otherwise." Yvette assured, her voice a low rasping along the column of her throat. It was soothing, much like the secret whispers of a mother's bedtime story.

Understanding the sentiment, but uncertain of a suitable reply, Sarah simply nodded before continuing with her labors.

Perhaps the girl interpreted her silence as an invitation to elaborate. Perhaps she did not much care for the quiet. Or perhaps maids were expected to converse with one another as a means of passing the time. Either way, Yvette continued. "You needn't fret, is all. Mrs Karim isn't normally so…er..." her hand rolled in the air finishing where her words failed. Chuckling at her own ineptitude, her violet eyes rolled to the ceiling as her smile grew. "She is at her wits end. Half the staff is sick with Miasma, rooms need to be let, the repository needs sorting, the Quill must be replaced, and two of our maids have left us! One for her confinement, the other for marriage." Huffing at her own exhausted sentence, her hands settled on her hips. "Tis a miracle the castle has not fallen to the wolves!"

Smirking, she pulled the heavy linen from over the wardrobe. Had there been sunlight to stream through the towering windows, a thick plumage of dust would have glittered in the light, flurrying as the snow outside. "Do not let her austerity sway your good opinion. She means well... but with Mr Hobbs out, she can be… difficult." Her eyes suddenly grew round, her hand shooting to cover her lips. "You'll not tell her I said that?"

With an expression of perplexed amusement, Sarah shook her head, offering a silent truce.

"You come from the Layflower, yes? I have always liked the company of Pe-"

"I am not a Pearl."

"Oh." Blinking profusely, she stammered, "M-my apologies… I-I must have heard wrong. Serves me right for listening to rumors. I meant no offense." The air pulsed with unbearable tension, the temperature dropping drastically at the maid's sudden faux pas.

Tremulous vexation jostled her empty stomach, her face burned from her own careless humiliation. Sarah had not meant for her words to be so abrupt, so abrasive they chafed her own lips upon utterance. What she said was true, she was not a Pearl— she needn't have said it so bitterly.

Welcoming the oncoming silence, awkward though it was, Sarah returned to her efforts without a word. A familiar and altogether pleasant monotony overwhelmed her as she pulled the soot from the hearth. Ash clung to her fingers and suddenly she was home, stoking the flames of a modest fire, the heat dampening her brow. Her father was grumbling from somewhere deep within the empty house, his words lost to the shadows.

The clock on the mantel struck the quarter hour.

The single chime returned her to the present with an almost painful start. Her mind was playing tricks, again. Breathless, she stared, willing the memory return with such force tears seeped from her eyes. Darkness stared back, heedless of her pleading.

Though her misery made no sound, a silent trill crept along the floorboards, inching along the paneled walls, saturating the ivy patterned duvet with the unseen hue of melancholia.

Crushed by the unbearable weight of raw emotion clinging to every available surface with bloody talons, Yvette succumbed to the guilt bubbling against her soul. "Are you quite well? Truly, I meant no offense—"

Shocked out of her stupor, Sarah shook her head, "Oh...no, I-I…" It was a pitiful reply, but she could not summon the words to explain herself without the dam of her secrets crumbling to oblivion. Instead, she did what she had always done before the nightmare of her life crescendoed into a fever of pain and blood; she cleaned. Scrubbing the wood and stone with unbridled determination, until her arms burned and her back wept against the black wool.

The next two days melted together into stultifying sameness, one much like another. Apartments were let, carpets beaten, silver polished, candles replaced— nothing was forgotten or overlooked. Except perhaps for Sarah— or Leise, as she was called. Thankfully, the monotony of her labors was a welcome distraction from her body and her mind as she flitted from room to room.

The palace was not at all what Sarah was expecting. As a young girl, she had once accompanied her father to an unveiling of another ashlar masterpiece at the famed Lotte Abbey. She had long forgotten the stones her father had touched, chiseled with unbridled care as the unrelenting material bowed to his will, but she often recalled the house.

The details were fragmented on the best days and non-existent the rest. The patterned wallpaper, canopied beds, stuffed cushions, and towering vases had no true colors in her memory, but rather the culmination of the concurrent season. Sarah could not be trusted to provide an accurate sketch, but she could remember the overwhelmingly puissant femininity devouring the rooms.

Most surprisingly were the number of ballrooms, each built as an homage to the other, differing only in color and size. Eight servants had been assigned the largest and most opulent, and when their task was done, they broke into smaller factions to make the work more manageable.

Sarah found relief in her work; the sound of the brush scruffing and the gentle splash of the water calmed her tenebrose thoughts. It was familiar— habitual. If she closed her eyes, she could almost hear her father's voice, smell the drying herbs hanging from the rafters as she sedulously polished the stones beneath. For a moment she succumbed to the illusion, convincing herself that the tortures of her life, earned or inflicted, were naught but a dream.

For a moment she was very nearly content, until her trance was shattered by the thunderclap of the ballroom doors.

Sarah was not alone.

A string of ululated curses swelled, the dark timbre setting her nerves on edge as she struggled to find her breath. Had she been able, her sudden gasp would have erupted to compete with the intruder's bellows.

Had she learned nothing? How had she allowed one moment of self-indulgence to usurp her good sense? She was secluded. Alone. Planted firm on all fours, her fingers dug against the intricate tiling as nausea crawled along her throat. A statue lost in the thrall of Medusa's viperous stare, Sarah held her breath, silently pleading the intruder take his leave.

He refused.

Another cry lacerated the vestiges of her sanctuary with violent fervor as her heart leapt into her throat. She was afraid, terrified of the unknown creature stalking close behind. The skin on her back ignited, a singular match struck by the sound of footsteps at her back.

Her head shook as she fought against instinct. The words that once would have saved her, tasted like acid as she held them back.

"Get. Out."

Sweat broke out on her forehead as Sarah begged her muscles to comply. The herculean effort accomplished little; her fingers uncoiled as he growled in frustration.

Angular fingers snatched her arm with all the hubris of the Devil at play. Sarah screamed. Her arm twisted awkwardly, the skin at her back pulling taut— her stays would conceal the blood pooling along her spine. Sarah was wrenched aloft, whimpering as her feet skimmed along the floor.

Clawing at the vice grip encircling her arm, Sarah's mind flooded with images borne of desperation and misery. A terrifying blackness consumed her, burying her alive. The harsh, deep breathing echoed in her eardrums. A waft of sandalwood swirled in her nostrils. Drowning in a torrent of phantoms, she reached for the only solace her tortured mind could conjure, the words she had sworn to forget. Disembodied, they swirled against the fog of her fear, extending an invisible hand to her drowning form. Water filled her lungs, her body grew tired as the Angel of Death latched to her ankles dragging her deeper under the whirlpool of her horror.

"I wish you were here now!"

Sarah crumpled to the floor. Staring at her teardrops puddling on the stone, her broken sibillation rippled the water beneath her chin. "What have I done… forgive me… forgive me."

A shadow darkened her periphery as the sound of her name floated featherlight to her ears. No more! Please! No more! Silent sobs wracked her emaciated frame as a fresh wave of humiliation frosted her flesh. Between her choked breaths, she heard it again, teasing her senses. Wide-eyed, her brows furrowed in pained disbelief.

His body tore at your feet...

A thousand times she had relived that memory, accepting each scourge and castigation as penance for her abhorrent crime. Desperate for proof, for confirmation of what she already knew, Sarah met his gaze.

Her world shattered.

There stood the mercurial demon with mismatched eyes who died at her behest.

A/N: Sorry for the long wait! As always please review! *Also to the USA, Happy Thanksgiving! Stay safe, stay happy, and as always... READ!