"I have seen your adulteries and your lustful neighings, the lewdness of your harlotry, your abominations on the hills in the fields. Woe to you, O Jerusalem! Will you still not be made clean?"

Sarah squirmed uncomfortably in her seat as Rev. Clarkston's voice thundered down from the rafters of the little stone church. Normally, she was able to detach herself from the sermons and focus on the lighter, less hell-fire-and-brimstone aspects of Sunday services. The music was always lovely; the small choir and old organ filled up the space with melodic poetry.

The church building itself was beautiful. Centuries old and made of stone with a large bell tower complete with battlements, it looked like a small-scale castle. All of the windows were stained glass, even the large window to the rear of the choir loft. On bright mornings, the sun sparkled through the colored glass, spilling a rainbow across the polished floors. Most Sundays Sarah was content to sit and lose herself in the beauty of the church. But on this Sunday, Rev. Clarkston was on a bit of a tear and there was no escaping his sermon of doom.

"The Lord God Almighty sees into the hearts of men and women. They can hide their depravity from neighbors, their friends, their church, but they will never hide it from God! The Almighty knows what darkness lurks there, what evil, what abomination, what lust and He will judge from on high!"

Sarah closed her eyes and tried to think of happier things. She made certain to nod in agreement every now and again so the others in the congregation would think she was praying and not asleep.

She thought of her family: Robert, her father, back at home still plugging away as a personal accountant. Karen, her stepmother who was on her third career change, or was it her fourth? It was hard for Sarah to keep track. Karen had stopped working as an interior decorator and was now selling beauty products for some company out of Utah. Before the stint as an interior decorator she had tried her hand at secretarial work, but left after only three months.

Sarah thought of Toby, her somewhat sulky, fifteen-year-old half-brother. He was as tall as she was, but still looked at her as if she were a giant. Sarah enjoyed his adoration, especially since it rankled Karen so much.

"I wish he would open up to me the way he opens up to you!" Karen had whined the last time Sarah visited.

She didn't have anything against Karen, really. Not anymore. Not since… But it still felt good to have a one-up on her since she had shown up when Sarah was a teen and made her life more complicated. Not that it was her fault, but… Sarah didn't want to open up that particular can of worms this Sunday.

She tried to focus on Toby. How he'd cut off his blonde curls and dyed his remaining hair black. How he listened to bands with names like "Death Punch" and "Hell Whores". He liked to playfully make fun of Sarah's new-found interest in religion.

"You don't actually believe all that God-Jesus-devil-hell mumbo jumbo, do you?" he asked her once.

She'd answered as honestly as she'd known how. "I don't know," she had said. "Some of it seems a bit far-fetched. But it's still a lovely story, right? A god who gave his son to save mortals from the powers of evil."

Toby had pulled a face. "How 'bout a god who just leaves everyone the fuck alone and lets them be happy?" he'd grunted.

"Language, Tobes." Sarah had warned.

"Geez, you're such a fucking nun," teased her brother. Sarah smiled at the memory, unaware that a pair of eyes was watching her from the opposite side of the church.

"Why were you grinning like such a goon while Clarkston rained down his wrath from on high?" asked Moira.

"What?" Sarah replied, confused.

"During the sermon," continued her friend. "The good reverend was railing on the evils of pornographic books and you got this big, spacy grin on your face."

Sarah looked at her friend as they exited the vestibule and walked out into the cool October air. Moira was a bit older than Sarah, married with two children and a collection of stray animals. She narrowed her hazel eyes at Sarah and frowned. "Are you working too hard?"

Sarah shook her head. "No, I was just thinking of my brother." She laughed. "I was wondering what he would think about that sermon."

Moira paused and waved back to her husband who was several yards behind them walking arm in arm with their seventeen-year-old son, Kevin. Their daughter, twelve-year-old Lilly, lagged behind them with a giggling group of friends.

"Whew, was a fiery one, wasn't it?" Moira asked. She leaned in close to Sarah as they walked down the hill from the stone church. "I think it was a response to a call Clarkston made to Mrs. Hull last week." Seeing Sarah's quizzical expression, she continued. "He happened upon her in her garden. She was reading The Book."

Sarah didn't have to ask what book Moira was referring to. Everyone in Great Missenden knew about The Book. It was quite the scandal. The Book, entitled Her Majesty's Jewels, was the new sensation amongst readers of erotic literature. It had created a rather large stir in the States before crossing the pond and causing an uproar in London. It was backordered for weeks in all the London bookshops. Dog-eared copies were passed around among friends and co-workers.

"Where did Mrs. Hull even get a copy of that book?" Sarah asked.

Moira grinned, eager to share her gossip. "I hear that she has a cousin in London who is friends with a hairstylist who is friends with a woman who owns a bookshop who happened to get a used copy."

"Convenient," laughed Sarah.

Moira waved her off. "Anyway, old Clarkston caught her reading it and nearly had a stroke! He threatened to make her give up her spot on the Ladies' League unless she turned the book over to him. She did and I heard he lit a match to it right in front of her."

Sarah shook her head. "All this uproar over a little bit of erotica? People really need to lighten up."

Moira raised an eyebrow. "From what I hear, it's not just a 'little bit of erotica', Sarah Williams. It's a big nasty smutfest with graphic descriptions of male organs and oral sex…"

Sarah laid a hand over her heart and affected her best genteel Southern accent. "Oh my, my!" she taunted. "Whatever shall we do?!"

Moira smacked at her friend with her Bible. "You're trouble, Williams," she said. "It's probably a good thing you just write children's books."

"Definitely," replied Sarah.

"Although," added Moira, "It might be nice to have the paychecks that G.K. Ibis is getting for Her Majesty's Jewels!"

"Again, definitely," Sarah answered.

Her friend stopped and looked up at the sky. "Kevin's therapy bills are outrageous," she said. "And I'm not sure the sessions have helped at all. He's still so withdrawn and doesn't speak a word." Her face grew solemn. "He was such a bright, bubbly boy before his brother died."

Sarah didn't know much about Moira's other son, Kieran, other than that he was Kevin's twin who had died under mysterious circumstances when the boys were seven. Kevin was traumatized by the tragedy, going into a near catatonic state. He never fully recovered and remained mute and mentally and emotionally challenged.

"You know my offer to help still stands," Sarah told Moira.

Moira shook her head. "That's very generous of you, Sar, but no. Brant and I can handle it. We've managed so far."

"Okay, well let me know if you need anything." said Sarah as she hugged her friend and turned to walk up the path to her small rowhouse.

She turned and waved from her front door to Moira. She pulled out her keys and unlocked her door and stepped inside her small house. Her cat, Sir Lancelot, a fat orange tabby who had adopted her, meowed hungrily. Sarah dropped a few morsels into his dish before turning to her bookshelf. She eyed the large green book in its place on the shelf for a moment before taking it out and scurrying to her hall closet. She tossed her copy of Her Majesty's Jewels up onto the top shelf of the closet and covered it with several layers of tissue paper.

"No need to give Clarkston an aneurysm," she thought as she closed the closet door.

That evening, Sarah decided to grab an early supper at her favorite pub, The Cross Keys. She took her normal seat by the large front window so she could people-watch as she ate. There wasn't a lot in the way of foot traffic in Great Missenden due to its size, but occasionally the odd tourist found it, much the way she had, and doddled about with a backpack and camera and well-worn guide book.

Sarah thought back to how she found her way to Great Missenden a few years earlier. Her series of children's books had done relatively well. They weren't best sellers, but Sarah had never expected them to be. She simply had stories to tell and so she'd done it the best way she knew how, through written words. Having abandoned her earlier ambitions to become an actress, she had found that she was much more skilled at being the writer of the lines than the performer of said lines.

After graduating with a degree in Creative Writing, Sarah had had moderate success with her stories, publishing several in magazines and writing journals. She had decided to branch out and write books for children. Her stories focused on the magical adventures of a young boy named Toby and his dog Merlin as they explored the Underground realm of the Goblin Kingdom. Sarah naturally based them on her own experiences in the wild land of the Labyrinth, and their vivid imagery and humorous situations quickly caught the eye of a publisher. She had secured an agent and then set to work on the next series of stories for publication. And that was where she had run into a snag.

Having spent a mere ten hours in the Underground, Sarah found herself out of ideas. She tried making up new characters, tried coming up with more dangers for Toby and Merlin to find themselves in, but she continued to backspace them out of existence. They felt wrong somehow. False.

With her agent and publishing company on her heels for more material, Sarah had decided a change of location might jumpstart her creativity. She'd taken what money she had made from her books, quit her part-time as a Literature tutor and moved from the United States to a tiny town about thirty miles outside of London.

"You know writer's block wasn't the only reason you moved here," the annoying little voice inside her head chided. Sarah ignored it. She wasn't going to think about that.

Great Missenden proved to be a refreshing change from the hustle and bustle of city life. It was charming, quaint. It had also been the home of one of Sarah's idols, Roald Dahl. As a child, his books had been among her favorites, second only to a certain red leather-bound book she kept by her bed. Upon her arrival, Sarah had immediately gone to the Roald Dahl Museum in town and offered herself as a volunteer. She had hoped to meet the townspeople and gain their trust through the position, but the inhabitants of Great Missenden rarely visited the museum, leaving that to tourists and expats such as herself.

Still considered an outsider and regarded warily by most of the townspeople, Sarah had at last bitten the bullet and gone to the one place that everyone seemed connected to in some way, the local church. She had never considered herself religious, but she knew enough of magic and the mystical unknown to be at least open-minded about spiritual teachings. The church appealed to her sensibilities and she found herself going regularly. Moira was one of the first of the congregation to approach her. She'd introduced herself and her family and quickly made sure that Sarah was included in all the upcoming church functions. The rest of the church followed suit, adopting Sarah as "that pretty American girl" and giving her a place among their ranks.

The townspeople knew she was a writer, and while not considered a particularly respectable profession for a young woman, they overlooked it as simply a result of her American upbringing. She would give it up soon enough, they figured, find a nice local young man to marry and start populating the shrinking town with dark-haired green-eyed offspring like all respectable young women did.

Sarah laughed to herself as she stirred the warm stew the waitress had set in front of her.

"If they only knew…" she thought to herself.

A rumble of thunder brought her out of her reverie and she turned to look out the window. Rain had begun to fall in fat droplets that splashed up from the sidewalk and spilled out of the gutters. Across the street, a man stepped out of the local bookshop and paused under the striped awning. Sarah squinted through the rain-streaked window at the figure whose form and bearing seemed strangely familiar. He looked up at the sky and then stepped back, as if contemplating whether or not to make a run from under the awning.

Sarah chuckled to herself as she watched his indecision.

"Probably a tourist," she thought. "Who comes to England without an umbrella?"

Finally the man seemed to make up his mind. Gathering his parcels and using them to cover his head, he ducked out from under the awning and splashed across the street toward the The Cross Keys.

Sarah sat back as the door to the pub swung open and the man stepped in, dripping and out of breath.

Her heart leapt into her throat as he turned and looked down at her and she found herself staring up into a pointed smile and a pair of mis-matched eyes.

A/N: This story was originally published on AO3. It was inspired by "The Lost and Lonely" by MemoryCrow as well as an offhand comment made by David Bowie regarding the Goblin King. This will be a slow-burn with some angst, a generous dose of humor as well as sexual content. There will also be darker thematic elements involving bigotry, trauma and death.

Great Missenden is an actual place, though I have only visited via research. I have taken some liberties with the town and its inhabitants. I've also taken some creative liberties with London and King's College.

I welcome and appreciate all feedback and will try to respond personally to every comment.

Thank you for reading!

~Fanny~