On the other side of the mirror was a room unlike any she'd seen before in the Underground. To be fair, Sarah didn't recall much about the architecture, beyond hedge mazes, doors that talked, and glitter, but still. At no point in her journey through the Labyrinth or the Goblin City or the Castle had she seen a room like this.
It actually looked comfortable. The wall and floors were stone, but thick rugs covered the floors — all woven of a material she couldn't readily identify, all dizzying patterns of interlocking hues — and bright, eye-catching, but strangely abstract tapestries lined the bare walls. One wall seemed taken up by windows paned with heavy glass. Thick blue curtains drifted in a faint breeze. Not far from whatever mirror she was using as a door was a huge bed, covered in thick, sumptuous-looking dark fabrics and brightly colored pillows.
Against the far wall, where the natural light would concentrate, sat a desk of some well-polished wood she couldn't identify. And in the chair that matched that desk sat Jareth, with his chin in one hand, looking quizzically at her.
Part of her wanted to apologize. The rest of her was still hurt and angry and trying to process her father's resentful look, Irene's shock, what Toby's shaking had meant.
One of her feet scuffed against the floor as she fought her way free of the mirror.
His gaze seemed to hone in on her foot before he looked back up at her.
"You wished yourself a way into and out of my domain. Clever of you, but you've still a lot to learn." He grinned. "You should have been more specific, precious thing."
"You decided that my mirror would connect here, didn't you?"
He only smirked.
She was already angry. That smirk, that silence, should have made her angrier. But he didn't actually need to say anything in order to tell her exactly what he'd told her.
Jareth tilted his head. And kept tilting it, as he watched her. After a moment in which neither of them said anything, he asked, "Sarah, what brings you here? Your wish, careful though you were, brought you perilous close to being under my power again."
She couldn't quite keep the exhaustion out of her tone when she asked, "We're friends, aren't we?"
"I…yes. I believe we are."
"Then I'll never be under your power."
He raised a hand in a half salute, as if acknowledging defeat. "Well played, Sarah."
Sarah crossed a little more fully into the room, her footsteps soft on the carpets. She looked at one of the far walls again and blinked.
That abstract tapestry had been in shades of blue just a minute ago, she was sure of it. Now it was deep blue and purple?
Jareth followed her gaze, then looked back to her. His lips curved. "You thought I'd decorate in only one color?"
He stood, stretching languidly in a sequence of lithe movements her hormones thanked him for. Between a fitted shirt — his waistcoat, he'd draped over the back of his chair — and the fit of his leggings, she was pretty sure she'd seen every muscle.
"Come," he said, reaching back for his waistcoat and slipping into it as he headed for the door. "Walk with me. And tell me what could send you wishing for a door to the Underground."
Well, she'd wished for a way to get here. And she certainly wasn't ready to turn around and go back through that mirror.
Sarah followed.
With difficulty, Irene lifted her gaze from the suddenly mended glass and looked at Robert. He, too, was looking at the proof that Sarah had…had evidently inherited her mother's gift.
Only he wasn't looking at it in excitement, like Toby, or in the gray, staticky certainty that what was happening could not be real — as she had felt. No, the look on Robert's face was a complicated mix of resentment and mistrust.
Irene could only watch as Sarah turned to her father, seeking some sort of reaction. Maybe hoping for approval, or a rueful, bittersweet acceptance.
And Irene could only watch as her step-daughter fled what she found in her father's face.
They heard footsteps on the stairs, heavy and heedless, and then a door slammed open.
Then nothing.
Irene turned to the table and picked up the glass, tapping it with her fingernail. It sounded like glass. She inspected it closely, finding no cracks, no sign that it had ever been broken.
"Don't worry, Irene. It's real enough," Robert said. His tone was bitter.
"You saw Linda do this kind of thing?"
"Not as often, once Sarah was born. For my sake, she…didn't perform magic in front of Sarah. So Sarah wouldn't ask questions, you see." Robert shook his head, then turned to stare at Irene. "No, I saw it most often from my cousins."
She set the glass back down on the table and searched her husbands face. There were lines at the corners of his eyes and on his forehead. Not quite wrinkles, but he'd start getting them soon. He'd missed a spot shaving that morning.
But, most importantly, his mouth was set in a grim line.
"Were all your family...?" She drew a little closer to him.
"What, witches and wizards? Most of them. But the most venerable house of Williams does throw its share of squibs."
"Its share of what?"
"Squibs. People like me. Their family expects them to have magic, and they don't."
Irene wasn't sure what to say in response. She reached out to place a hand on his shoulder. He didn't shrug her away, but he was tense.
Her stomach clenched. He hadn't been this tense in years. Not at home. Not with her.
There was still no sound from upstairs. Irene sighed and left the dining room. Her footsteps seemed to echo as she made her way past the living room, the Christmas tree — it was shedding needles again; she made a mental note to sweep up — and up the stairs.
She wasn't sure what she'd expected to find in Sarah's room. An actual door? A glowing mirror? Some sort of rippling, multi-colored rift in space and time, like a sci-fi movie?
But nothing had been disturbed. Sarah's duffel bag still sat at the foot of her bed. Not a pillow was out of place, not a piece of furniture shifted. Irene cautiously moved closer to the mirror and reached out.
Her hand shook as she pressed it up against the mirror — or tried to. But what should have been solid glass didn't feel solid at all. Instead, her hand passed through it. Not easily, but it wasn't too hard, like pressing her hand down into the surface of water.
"Mom? Are you going to bring her back?"
Irene jumped. She jerked away from the mirror and turned around to face the voice of her son. Toby was standing in the doorway. His gaze flicked quickly between her and the mirror. He tilted his head to one side, as if curious.
She looked back at the mirror. The thought of touching it again made her stomach churn.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," she told Toby. "But no, I don't think I'm going to go through that mirror tonight."
"Then I will," he replied, and started forward.
Irene stepped toward him, caught him by the shoulders, and gently turned him around. "No, Toby. I don't want you going through, either. We don't know what's on the other side."
"Then Sarah could be in trouble or something!"
"Sarah is a grown woman," Irene said, marching Toby out the door. She pushed in the button at the center of the doorknob to lock it and closed it behind them. It'd be easy enough to pick if they really needed to get back in — only taking a butter knife or a nail file — but it'd keep Toby out, at least. "And a witch, too. She can handle herself. You are freshly turned seven."
"But Mom —"
"No, Toby. Now let's go finish dinner and get ready for bed. Santa is watching us very closely these last few days before Christmas."
Jareth led her to a long gallery. Oil paintings lined the walls, but they weren't portraits — or at least, not the formal paintings of individuals she would have expected to find in a royal family gallery.
Sarah stared. Along one wall, she saw mostly wintry landscapes. He had three or four different paintings of snowy nights, several paintings of snow-capped mountains, and even more paintings of snowy forests.
He had lined the other wall with portraits of shadowy figures with crowns of antlers, of hunters in dark forests. She stopped at one painting — an early use of chiaroscuro, shadows cast by a fire so realistic she could have sworn the darkness crawled — and stared. In it, a weeping man cradled a young boy in his arms. The boy seemed limp, pallid even in the dim room, and other family had gathered around to weep.
"Is the boy dead?"
"Yes," Jareth said. "That's a portrait of my father. They all are, on that side."
"Did your brother die?"
Jareth looked blankly at her for a moment, then said, "Ah. You are taking things for granted again. My father does not personally appear in that portrait."
"But it's still of him?"
"Of what happens when he passes through a mortal household, yes."
"Your father is... Death?"
But Jareth only curled an enigmatic smile and said, "You haven't told me just what sent you running into my arms, Sarah."
Sarah looked back to the paintings. She took in a deep breath and sighed. "My father knew my mother was a witch, and never told me. And now he's angry that I've brought magic back into his life."
Jareth raised an eyebrow at her. "Foolish of him. Even had you walked past that ghastly little pub, your power would have shown itself eventually."
"He couldn't have known that," Sarah said, sighing. "I just hate that he never told me the truth."
The Goblin King made a noncommittal noise and offered her his arm. Sarah looked up at him, then smiled and took it.
Leaning against him was like leaning against an oak tree. She knew Jareth wasn't particularly tall — especially for a man — but for all his lack of height and knife-edge slim bones, he was sturdy.
"I find it interesting that you run to me when your parents disappoint," Jareth said. His tone was breezy.
But Sarah sensed a trap. Or perhaps not a trap, but a hook. He wasn't willing to ask, but there was an important implication there, an important commonality.
"I also run to you when I'm lonely or when I miss you," she said, keeping her tone equally light. She stopped in front of a portrait of an antlered man in a dark forest, holding onto a small blond child. She almost pointed and asked if the child was Jareth, but there were other things to be said, other questions to be asked. "And I miss you all the time. Even when I'm happy."
That he had shown her his family — or tried to, or started to — was important. She suspected it was as close as he was yet willing to come to telling her what he really was.
Sarah turned to face him. She took in a deep breath, composed her next words carefully in her head. "Jareth. I... I've missed you, when you were leaving me alone. I would walk down to breakfast and look for you. I like talking to you, I like being around you, I think about you all the time. I think..."
The enigmatic smile reappeared on his face. It was sharp, toothy, edged. Too wild and unrestrained and alien an expression to be human. It was, she was beginning to suspect, pure, mainline Jareth.
Robert was nowhere to be seen by the time Irene got Toby back downstairs. She sat him back at the table, told him to finish his dinner, and went searching for her missing husband.
She found him in his study. He had pulled his briefcase out and was looking at all the information available on the convention in Kansas he would be attending in a few days. His spine was stiff, but his hands shook just a little as he handled the paper. He'd bent his head over his work, and Irene wondered what his expression would be. Probably tight, pinched, as if trying to restrain some sort of enormous emotional reaction.
"Robert," she said, softly.
His response was to grunt, and then say, "I'm working."
"You've already read all that twice. You know exactly what you have to go in there and do. You're hiding from me, Robert, and I really need you right now."
He set the documents down. "What can I possibly do, Irene? She's gone and brought it back into my life."
"Into my life, too, Robert, only I never even knew about any of this. Please talk to me."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Robert, I just watched my step-daughter put a shattered glass back together by, by waving a pointy stick at it," Irene snapped. She was faintly aware that her pitch had risen, that her volume had risen and was rising, but she was more conscious of how fast her heart was beating, "and then turn the surface of a solid glass mirror into something a lot like water by wishing for it. You don't get to shut me out on this."
Robert stood. He pushed away from the chair, then turned to face her. "What do you want me to say? That the world is much stranger than you ever knew, and you'd probably be happier not knowing about it? That yes, magic is real — and so are dragons, unicorns, pixies, and danger? That in addition to being a miserable hag, my mother really does fly here on a broomstick?"
Irene could only stare in bleak shock. Her temples had begun to sweat. Even though she knew it was cold outside and a little drafty in her mostly comfortable Victorian home, she was starting to feel overheated. She was dimly aware that she had begun to shake. The gray, staticky feeling of unreality returned.
None of this could possibly be happening.
"Yes," she whispered, mouth dry. "That's exactly what I want you to say."
He stepped a little closer to her, but he folded his arms over his chest and looked away. "Then yes, Irene. The world is a lot stranger and a lot more dangerous than you ever knew. There are things that happen in this world that only people like Sarah can see. And not all of them are pleasant. By the way, every time you've accused my mother of being a horrible old witch, you've been right."
Irene choked on a laugh, but Robert's face stayed serious.
Robert never came to bed that night. Irene waited an hour or so, then eventually turned off her bedside light and rolled over. If he wanted to distance himself from her and Toby and Sarah, that was his prerogative. Trying to stop him or force him to reconnect would do no good.
It could have been any number of reasons, but Irene slept poorly. Her mind kept circling back to the way Robert had tensed when she'd touched him, the hurt on Sarah's face before she'd gone running to the mirror, Toby's worry that she was in trouble.
It felt like her family had fallen apart, and it had only taken one evening.
She felt groggy and slow in the morning. She checked on Toby, but he was still asleep. Downstairs, she saw that Robert had slept on the couch. He had voluntarily couched himself, rather than —
She didn't let herself think it. Instead, she walked into the kitchen and started breakfast.
Later, they ate in near-silence. Toby flung question after question at her, at his father, but she didn't know the answers and Robert only made disapproving grunts. Eventually, Robert said, "Enough, Toby. We'll talk about magic later."
"Dad since Sarah has it, do you think I'm a witch too?"
"The word is wizard," Robert said, "and I certainly hope not."
"You know, Toby," Irene said, keeping her tone gentler than her husband's. "I don't have to work today, so we can go look at the ice in the park. I seem to remember you promising to draw me three ice crystals this week, and I only have two for the fridge."
His expression brightened.
So they left his father with the dishes and crunched out into the white morning. Irene kicked up clouds of powdery snow every so often. Even after nine years, it was strange to see so much of it on the ground. She knew Virginia was far enough north — and Woodrum was far enough inland — to receive it, but in her childhood in Seattle, winters were simply rainy. When the weather had turned snowy, it had quickly become rain again, which washed it all away. She hadn't had a white Christmas until she'd left her home city.
They reached the park in good time. Irene smiled as Toby whooped and shouted, dashing all over the place. Of course all this winter weather excited him; it must be a nice change from the wet springs, the humid summers, the unmemorable autumns.
Eventually, Toby took his sketchbook and crayons out of his backpack and began to draw. He stuck his tongue out in concentration. Irene dusted off a stone park bench and withdrew a paperback from her purse. Every so often, she peeked out over the pages to make sure Toby was alright.
When Toby had finished, she helped him pack away sketchbook and crayons — after admiring his shiny blue ice crystal drawing, of course — and put away her book.
"Ready to go back home? I know I could use some cocoa, and your father might be in a better mood."
"Maybe Sarah came back!"
Irene smiled sadly. "Yes, maybe she did. I really hope so, don't you?"
"Do you think she and Dad will ever make up?" Toby reached for her, so she clasped his mittened hand in her gloved one.
"Even if they're angry with each other right now, I know they love each other very much. I'm sure everything will be fine in the end."
Irene had just kicked at another clump of loose, soft snow when she realized she had a headache. She tried to open her mouth to say something, but the world had gone hazy. She could see faint ribbons of light surrounding the shrubs and lampposts in front of her, and she couldn't move her head. She couldn't even warn Toby.
She was dimly aware of falling to her knees — air rushed by, and something cold struck her legs, but after that, the world was gone.
Jareth brought his right hand up without looking away from her eyes. Slowly, mist formed a shining crystal in his palm, which he dropped. When the world wasn't a bundle of light and color, they were standing in a garden.
"A better place for this discussion, I think," he said.
Sarah stared at the abundance of flowers. Peach blossoms, lilies, small cherry trees… Irises, crocuses, gardenias. She took a few steps away to inspect a bed of fiery orange snapdragons.
"Did your mother plant these?"
"What? No. I didn't inherit this castle, Sarah, I built it. And careful with those, they bite."
Indeed they did. Sarah jerked back, away from the suddenly hissing flowers — where had those teeth come from? — and moved closer to Jareth.
"Hard to imagine you being that interested in flowers," she teased, once she'd calmed her heart a bit.
Jareth heaved a sigh, then reached out for her shoulders. "Sarah. You seemed to have been thinking something very fascinating earlier."
"Yes," she admitted. She turned her gaze on a patch of white lilies before looking back to him. "I think we've crossed the 'friend' line, Jareth."
He tensed. She watched his expression tighten, become impassive. "Oh?"
"And…" Deep breath, Sarah. Just say it. "It's 'later.' I think it's time to renegotiate."
At that, his smile returned. It wasn't so much predatory as smug, this time. "Do you mean to say, precious Sarah, that you wish to be… more? Lovers, perhaps?"
She wrinkled her nose at the word. "That sounds like a word some flamboyant man from the seventies would use."
"Sarah, I am the most flamboyant creature you will ever meet." His grin turned wicked.
"The glitter definitely leaves an impression," she agreed. "And the pants. Did you know you've corrupted two fifteen year old Slytherin girls?"
Jareth merely raised an eyebrow. In return, she laughed, and told him what she'd seen the morning of their Hogsmeade outing. It drew a laugh from him, too.
But then he reached for her, used his thumb to tilt her face up toward him. He leaned in, whispering against her cheek You will always be my favorite corrupted innocent, Sarah and pressed his mouth to hers before she could argue that he'd hardly corrupted her.
If his skin had been warmer than hers, his mouth was searing hot. She half wondered if she would burn up. He tasted strange, and his teeth seemed sharp, and yet she didn't want to pull away. She opened her mouth wider, reached up to tangle her hands in his hair while she pressed closer to him.
Toby's voice echoed around them, booming and reverberating off the stone: I wish Sarah was here!
She watched Jareth's eyes open. His mad, lop-sided gaze was intent on her, and then he gripped her wrists. And before she could protest, before she could ask what he was about to do, they were standing on the bridge in her favorite park back in Woodrum, Virginia.
She looked around before she caught sight of Toby. He was kneeling by a figure on the ground.
Sarah ran toward them, knowing with a cold, dread certainty just what she would find.
Irene's eyes had rolled back in her head. She was convulsing. Blood dripped from a cut on her forehead.
The snow was powdery, and Irene was in thick, warm clothing, and even wearing a hat. She'd collapsed away from any obvious dangers — maybe something was hiding underneath the snow, but she didn't think so. This area was usually just grass.
If the seizure didn't last too long, then the only one in danger was Toby.
Sarah reached out for Toby, grabbed him and pulled him away, out of possible striking range. She watched Irene while she murmured against his soft, slowly-darkening hair that it was going to be okay, that Irene was going to be okay.
"But what's happening?"
"It's a seizure," Sarah said, "just like we've told you about. Don't get too close. All we can really do is make sure she doesn't hit anything else. How long has she been like this?"
"I don't know," Toby said, in a voice thick like a sob, "maybe a minute?"
"Okay. Then she's going to be fine. You know about her epilepsy, right? These sometimes happen to her. As long as it doesn't go on too long, she'll be okay."
"It feels like forever."
Sarah squeezed him. "I know, Tobes. I'm so sorry you're having to see this, and I'm even sorrier you saw even a minute alone. But I promise you, she'll be okay. I just need you not to try and touch her or stop her right now, okay?"
Jareth's gaze sharpened on her. For a moment, he looked as though he was going to point out that she had no power over whether Irene would be alright or not. But they both knew that Toby needed to hear it. Jareth didn't object.
"Jareth, do you mind putting something under her head? Your hand, a cloak, just something softer than the ground."
He looked down at Irene before simply conjuring a pillow. He knelt and placed it beneath Irene's head, then backed away again. He tilted his head at an angle that looked painful while he watched.
So Sarah held Toby away from his seizing mother and counted down the seconds, while Jareth stood guard over the three of them. A silent, wild-haired, mad-eyed sentinel.
After another minute and a half, Irene stopped moving. She lay in the snow, eyelids fluttering. Sarah let go of Toby and knelt close to her, gently pressing her fingertips to the back of her neck, feeling for swelling, before she gently lifted Irene's torso and rolled her onto her side.
Irene's eyes opened. "Toby?"
"I'm here," Toby said, softly. He reached out for his mother. She reached back; they clasped hands. Sarah fought down a bitter note of jealousy.
Sarah kept her voice soft as she asked, "Irene, do you know what year it is?"
"It's 1991. December 21st, 1991." Irene's voice was firm, though tired.
"And who's the president?"
"George Bush," Irene said. Tartly, she added, "I didn't vote for that man."
Sarah laughed. "Toby, didn't I promise she'd be alright?"
Eventually, Sarah was able to help Irene stand. She supported her stepmother as they limped their way back through the snow to the house she'd grown up in. Several times Irene stumbled, nearly taking Sarah down with her, but Sarah either caught herself or Jareth would reel them back upright with hands clenched on their shoulders.
Her father had pulled on his scarf and coat, and was evidently looking for his keys, when they walked in the door.
"Irene," he said, his tone bleak. "I was just about to..."
Irene sounded just as bleak, her voice thin from exhaustion and drawn tight as if she were angry, when she said, "I'd really just like to rest."
"Alright," Sarah replied. "Come on. Let's get you to the couch and then I'll talk to Dad, okay?"
Irene nodded, then winced. Slowly, Sarah helped her step-mother take off her coat, then supported her as she made her way into the sitting room. Irene flopped almost bonelessly onto the couch, then rolled herself onto her side. Sarah grabbed a blanket and spread it over Irene.
"I'll be back with a first aid kit in a minute," she said. She kept her voice quiet; sometimes Irene's senses were rubbed raw after a seizure.
"What, there isn't some magic spell to close this cut?"
Sarah laughed, then covered her mouth for a second, but Irene gave no sign of pain. "Sorry. I'm sure there's a spell for that, but I don't know it. I'm only learning magic right now."
Sarah left the living room. Her father and Jareth were nowhere to be seen, but Toby was hunkering down with his back against the closed front door.
Sarah knelt in front of him. "Hey, Tobes. You okay?"
He shook his head, then nodded.
"Were you scared?"
Another nod.
"Well, you did really well. I want to make sure you know that. You were very brave, and I'm very proud of you. Now come on, let's go get the first aid kit." Sarah stood, then reached out and pulled Toby to his feet.
Just a few moments later, she was sitting by the couch, pressing a swab of rubbing alcohol onto the cut on Irene's forehead. Toby sat next to her, looking drawn and anxious.
Irene let out a low, hissed breath, but made no other complaint.
"So what happened? Did the Robertsons put up their flashing lights on the outside of their house again?"
"It's perfectly legal to do that if they choose," Irene reminded, calmly. "No, I think it was just... time for another one."
Sarah pointed accusingly with the box of Band-Aids. "You mean your seizure threshold was lowered."
"Or I could have just been due. It wasn't triggered." Irene said it firmly, and Sarah sighed. If there was one thing she and Irene had in common, it was stubbornness. Irene wouldn't hear further arguments on the matter.
So Sarah stood and made an exaggerated stretch that left her bones popping. It drew a chuckle from Toby. "Oh, Tobes, I'm getting old." She bent to drop a kiss to the top of his head — he squirmed away, making faces — and said, "Sit with your Mom a spell, huh? I'm going to go see if I have to tear Dad and Jareth apart."
"You're going to have explain to me why he looks so different from the Jareth Rex that I met at your graduation."
Ugh. Dad, Irene, I'm dating the Goblin King. That would go over well.
She found her father in his study. Sarah stepped inside and closed the heavy wooden door behind her.
On the wall above his desk, her father had hung a map of the Roanoke River. It was a nautical map, shaded mostly by water depth and with little attention paid to the shore.
She remembered watching her father and his friend Dave affixing the bookshelves to the walls of his office. They'd cursed a lot, and pounded hammers, and constantly groaned when the little bubble in the level kept sliding around.
"You could have told me," she said, softly.
"I thought that it was all over with. God, I hoped it was. Do you know what was happening over there just ten years ago?" At her startled look, he said, "Yes, I know all about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. We Williamses here in America still get mail from the Williamses in Wizarding Britain."
"Dad... your whole family?"
"All but me, and about two others in my generation." He sighed. "Williamses breed a lot of squibs. Nobody's sure why."
Those words made it easier, somehow, to understand the resentment she'd seen on his face the night before.
Sarah moved toward him, rested a hand on his shoulder. "For what it's worth... I'm sorry. I didn't ask for magic, you know."
"I know," he sighed. "I could have handled that better, huh?"
"Well, I didn't have to storm out like a fifteen year old," she said, giving him half a grin.
"I'll take the next weird revelation much more calmly, I promise. Who was that mop-headed fellow you brought back from the... Underground?"
His words shocked a laugh out of her. "Dad! He is not mop-headed!"
Her father only raised an eyebrow at her.
"That's Jareth, the Goblin King." Sarah paused a moment, before adding — with just a touch of hesitation — "And I'm pretty sure he's my boyfriend."
"Goblin King," her father said, bleakly. "Doesn't he steal children?"
"Dad, you just promised," she warned. "And no. He accepts children wished away to him. He doesn't just snatch babies out of their cradles.
"I see," her father said, sounding dazed. "How did you two even meet?"
"Didn't we go over this when we met before? A few years ago, in spring," Jareth said, from the doorway. "She said some words, we met, she bested me in a contest."
"You're... you're that man we met in Oxford," her father, said pointing. "I didn't... you were... was that Polyjuice?"
"A mere glamor," Jareth replied. He looked between Sarah and her father before he inspected the fit of his gloves. In a bored tone, he asked "Matters all cleared up between you?"
"Yes," Sarah said. "We're... we worked it out."
Jareth looked up at that. His mouth curled up.
They ordered out for dinner. Her father called the order in to the local Italian place — the local real Italian place — and she took her old car out to get it. They'd evidently sold the car Irene drove but kept hers.
Sarah almost wondered why. But then Jareth piled into the passenger seat next to her.
"Did you know, I've never actually ridden in an automobile?"
Sarah gave him a speculative look. "But you recognized plastic?"
Jareth just gave her an enigmatic smile. He watched her fasten her seatbelt and imitated the motion, grinning at the click of the clasp locking in place. Then he played with the belt's slack, pulling it out and watching it be reeled back in. He did it a few times, eyebrows raised and the curve of his mouth hinting at an almost childish delight.
Sarah let it go until she'd got them backed out and started down the driveway. Before they reached the road, she said, "Not to command a king or anything, but with this weather, it's safest if you don't play with that."
Jareth looked over at her, raising an eyebrow. "What, will the weather attack us?"
She laughed. "No, but that belt needs to lie flat across your chest. If we go too fast and stop suddenly, it's supposed to keep you from going through the windshield or hitting your head on the dash."
And with that, she turned out onto the road and drove into the white, white evening. Jareth asked questions about very nearly everything, from why she was 'pulling those internal levers' to 'and what happens if this... tire should strike ice?'
"If it's just one tire, we'll skid a minute until it gets traction back. More than that, and we'll skid a lot, and what happens next depends on how fast we're going, whether I'm braking or speeding up, and what direction the wheels are facing."
"Much as with a coach, then."
"Yes, only faster and probably more dangerous," she agreed.
"You've obviously never seen a coach and four strike a patch of ice. Horses screaming, hooves everywhere, carriage sideways, traces tangled." He made an expression of distaste. "Very unfortunate."
She could have described a thirty-car pile-up, or asked when he'd seen a carriage wreck on ice. But his mood was already turning, and she didn't want to drag it down further. So she said, "I'm glad I haven't. At least cars have seatbelts, I guess."
"Quite," he replied.
Definitely time to improve the mood. Not that she was sure how. Sarah braked a bit once they left Old Woodrum; the town streets would definitely be kept clear of ice, but county roads and winter weather weren't a great mix.
Jareth watched the telephone poles and power lines zip by while she drove and tried to think of something to say, something happier.
A few minutes — and not as much snowy countryside as she would have liked — passed before she asked, "So what do you think Harry is doing right now?"
"Most likely," Jareth said, tone dry, "readying for bed as a free student. Or amusing himself while he tries to pretend he isn't tired."
"Lucky kid. I still have exams to grade."
Jareth chuckled at her. But the heavy silence seemed to lighten between them. That was what counted.
As they entered Woodrum, Sarah said, a little slyly, "So, I told my dad that you're my boyfriend."
Jareth looked away from the window and wrinkled his nose at the word.
"And before you tell me you're no mere boy and we're nothing as simple as friends," she said, flicking on her turn signal as she changed lanes to avoid a spill of snow on the road, "that's just what we call it when you're in a romantic relationship these days."
Jareth's mouth curved into a wicked, smug smile. "And does that mean, precious thing, that though you are nothing so simple as a girl, and we are not merely friends...?"
"Yes," she said. The sky opened up, or maybe turned itself upside down like a salt shaker, and snow drifted down around the car as if to shut out the rest of the world.
They ate dinner in the living room with Irene. Her step-mother cornered Jareth about being the man they'd met in England. Sarah hoped that the revelation about the Underground and the various non-humans inhabiting the wizarding world didn't prove too much of a shock; Irene seemed a little shaky and quiet after that moment.
She recovered enough to ask, "And are you the reason Sarah hasn't come home in four years?"
Jareth threw back his head and laughed. The sound rang off the high ceilings and wood floors, seeming to echo forever, and Sarah watched Irene shiver a bit. "No. Sarah's reasons for staying away are her own, and I had no part of them."
Eventually, her father helped Irene up the stairs to their bed, and Sarah herded Toby into getting ready for sleep, himself.
Jareth watched them go. When she headed back downstairs, she found him pacing in front of the Christmas tree. He cast long, flickering shadows as he moved. Almost as if he were pacing in front of a fire — but they hadn't lit a fire in the grate today.
"What's wrong?"
He turned to her. "I do not like having matters seem so... unsettled, between us. The bounds of friendship are known to me, Sarah, but this... casual romantic attachment you speak of..." He trailed off.
Admitting that he had no real reference point was probably difficult for him. She opted for mercy. "Think of it as like a very sped up courtship, with fewer extravagances and no chaperones. One purpose of dating is to 'settle' matters."
His mouth quirked into that smug expression again. "And other purposes?"
"I think you can guess, Goblin King," she said, tone teasing.
They were both quiet a moment. She took a step toward him.
"Are you staying here tonight?"
Jareth peered at her for a very long moment. She wasn't sure what his expression meant — eyes hooded, mouth drawn, but eyebrows faintly lifted — and then he tilted his head at an extreme angle.
"Do you wish me to?"
"I'm not going to bind you with a wish. But I'd like you to."
He stepped away from the tree, away from the shadows. For an instant she was reminded of the horned man in the painting, caught emerging from drifting darkness with a child in his arms. But then Jareth caught her chin between thumb and index finger, tilting it back so she could look up at his face.
"Then kiss me, Sarah," he said, softly, "and I'll stay."
She did. This time, she stretched up to meet him, tangling her hands in his hair, while he gripped her waist in one hand and the back of her neck in the other. This time, he didn't close his eyes, and his mis-matched gaze seemed to hold her own captive. The almost bruising force of their lips meeting sent shocks down her spine, all the way to her toes. His mouth wasn't as hot as before, but the soft touch of his tongue against hers — rather than feeling foreign — made her nearly forget to breathe through her nose.
She gasped for breath when they finally separated.
"I think I like 'dating,'" Jareth said, voice too casual, too breezy, to be unaffected.
The days until Christmas slipped away. Irene recovered from her postictal depression. Toby ran around excitedly and never once referred to the Labyrinth. Her father baked like it was his new job — but he did that every Christmas. Sarah wandered around the house, sometimes grading exams in odd places, sometimes simply breezing in to chat with whomever was around.
Jareth stayed with them. He seemed to spend most of his time near Sarah, though Toby was particularly good at commandeering him. And there were moments she thought he was speaking to someone she couldn't see.
"So who were you talking to?" She asked when she caught him at it the day before Christmas Eve.
"The Fox Knight," Jareth said, pulling a face. "He's no seneschal, but he carries instructions well enough."
"Managing your kingdom from the other side of the mirror?" She folded her hands and rested her chin on them, looking up at him, unable to quite help the smile.
"I'm not merely 'managing,' precious thing. Ruling in absentia, more like."
"Of course," she said, teasing.
He raised an eyebrow. "And why should I explain myself to you again, precious thing, if you don't believe the explanation given?"
Christmas Eve dawned dry but cold. The sun cast feeble, bleak light on the landscape; Sarah was half tempted to spend the entire day half-asleep, watching the light wax and wane through her window. She considered Toby's usual means of ensuring the grown-ups around him were awake, then discarded her plan and heaved herself out of bed. She changed into a deep green sweater and jeans before she headed downstairs.
Her father seemed bound and determined to spend half the day in the kitchen and the other half of the day in the living room, watching the ridiculous collection of Christmas movies he and Irene had amassed over the years.
Irene settled onto the couch with Toby and some crochet, and the Christmas movie marathon began. Sarah curled up on the loveseat and hid a small shiver when Jareth joined her. Every so often, her father would drift in from the kitchen and settle onto the couch as if exhausted.
By three in the afternoon, they'd long finished It's A Wonderful Life and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and Irene and Toby were trying to choose between Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol and Year Without A Santa Claus.
So long as Jareth kept absently stroking the backs of her hands, or shifting to press slightly closer to her, Sarah didn't much care what they watched next.
Her father emerged from the kitchen with a tray in his hands.
"Irene? Toby? Let's settle that later. Christmas service starts in a couple of hours," he said from the kitchen doorway. "And my Aunt Irma and cousin Duncan will join us here for dinner after."
Sarah took a look at Jareth — he had made a passing nod to normal dress by wearing carpenter pants that could have been painted on, but had done nothing to tame his hair. She thought back to some of the more interesting stories Great Aunt Irma had told at the dinner table and almost groaned. Irma Williams was either going to try to set Jareth on fire — or she was going to try to take him home with her.
Toby sighed. "Is it just Aunt Irma? Aren't Uncle Mark and Aunt Louisa coming?"
"Not this year," her father replied. "Greg and Brad are sick this Christmas, so they're all staying home. Sorry, kiddo."
"Dad," Sarah said, "if you'd like, I can stay here and make sure everything's ready to eat when you guys get back."
"You haven't been back in four years," her father said, looking uncertain, "Are you sure you want to miss the service?"
She shrugged. "I came back to see you guys, not go to church." With a grin, she added, "I'd rather miss the annual 'compassion and charity to your fellow man should happen outside Advent' sermon than have a hungry, cranky Christmas Eve."
Her father smiled.
Once the door had closed behind her parents and brother, Jareth raised an eyebrow. "And now we have run of the house? Clever tactic."
Sarah laughed and shook her head. "No, not really. It'll be nearly seven o'clock by the time they get back, and they'll all be hungry."
"And their moods suffering in proportion, I assume?"
She only grinned at him and headed to the kitchen.
Christmas Dinner was not a disaster.
It was much, much worse.
It wasn't that the food was bad. The food was delicious. Her father had been preparing this dinner, bit by bit, for days. The glazed ham was just the right balance of sweet and meaty, the turkey had browned to perfection, the casserole was crispy and perfect. He'd baked asparagus in the oven, and she could have sworn it had soaked up turkey juices.
The problem was their guests.
Great Aunt Irma loved Jareth from first sight. Of course she did; he was weird, she was weirder, it was a match made in a Dali painting. But her son, Duncan, had taken one look at Jareth and decided he was looking at some kind of godless anarcho-whatever freak.
The idea of Jareth as an anarchist — Jareth! A reigning monarch who thought federal republics were just nicely dressed mob rule — was almost enough to send Sarah from her chair laughing. She managed to contain herself. Laughing at Duncan could only send him into one of his Things Aren't Like They Used To Be tirades.
And amusing as it would be to watch Jareth bust Duncan's bubble about 'the way things used to be' with a few sharp words and a lifted eyebrow, her parents didn't need that kind of drama.
So Sarah hid her smile behind a glass of wine, and Jareth's brows rose higher and higher before he finally turned away from Duncan. He dismissed the conversation as easily as she might have shut off a light.
Instead, he focused on Great Aunt Irma, who had evidently resurrected the argument with Irene about the cranberry liqueur in the cranberry sauce.
"I'm telling you, girl, it cooks out. Not near strong enough to catch fire," Irma said, pointing her fork at Irene.
Irene raised an eyebrow and replied, dryly, "That's what you said about the apple jack."
"That was a fluke."
"And the whiskey three years ago?"
"It's hardly my fault you don't keep a fire extinguisher around." And the crazy thing was, Irma actually believed that.
Jareth leaned forward. "Irma, Irene. I must hear about this whiskey incident."
Irene rolled her eyes, Irma laughed, and her father said, after a moment, "Great Aunt Irma decided to douse our marshmallows in whiskey before we toasted them on the fire."
"I have never seen such a mess in my life," Irene added. "All the marshmallows on fire — and not the kind of fire you just blow out — trying to melt right off their skewers and take my living room with them."
Irma waved a hand. "That's nothing next to fourth of July when I was just a girl. My brothers used to light off bottle rockets in their hands."
Jareth raised an eyebrow. "And do they still have their hands?"
"That would be telling." Irma gave him a lopsided grin.
Eventually, Duncan managed to snare Jareth once again. "And what is it you do, boy?"
If Jareth was bristling at the lack of respect, he didn't let it show. Sarah had no doubt that Duncan was going to face consequences — and sooner, not later. As it was, Jareth merely rolled his shoulders and said, "I'm not sure what you call it here, but I remove children from unsuitable homes."
"Huh. A social worker. Sounds like soft work."
"You haven't seen very many unsuitable homes, then." Jareth gave him his very sharpest, very toothiest, least friendly smile. "Or dealt with many unsuitable parents."
"And you're supposed to be the judge of that?" Duncan peered suspiciously at Jareth. "How old are you, anyway?"
"Shall we make a game of it? How old do you think I am?" Jareth smirked. "You'll never guess."
"I asked you a question." Duncan pointed.
"I noticed. I'm declining to answer."
"So," her father said, tone just a little too bright, "who wants dessert?"
They adjourned to the living room for dessert and Christmas Eve presents. Her father had baked several pies and plenty of cookies to choose from. Sarah watched as her family spread out around the living room. Irma and Duncan took the couch, while Irene and her father took the loveseat. Toby bounced between both couch and loveseat, eventually ending up on the floor.
Sarah looked to Jareth, who shrugged. She shrugged back and joined her brother.
The exchange of presents didn't begin until they were all mostly through with whatever they'd chosen for dessert. Sarah found herself relegated to the role of Christmas Present Psychopomp, passing gifts from Irma and Duncan around before finally accepting her own.
"If I'd known you were bringing your young man," Irma said, trailing off with an apologetic look to Jareth.
He waved a hand in dismissal. "You needn't trouble yourself."
"So we'll get him lots of presents next year," Toby said, and Sarah couldn't help but laugh. She ruffled her brother's hair and said, "Definitely."
Jareth's expression flickered, briefly, to surprise, before he smoothed it away into a smug look.
Toby grinned up at her before looking to their parents. "Can we open our presents now?"
Sarah unwrapped her gifts carefully, more interested in watching the others. Her father unwrapped his own gifts slowly, though from his expression, Sarah guessed he already knew what he'd gotten.
"Oh, look," her father said at last in a tone that was only thinly surprised, "drill bits. Thank you, Duncan."
"And he got me oven mitts." Irene brandished a pair of the ugliest oven mitts Sarah had ever seen at them. It was obvious that the oven mitts hadn't been intended to be ugly, but no functional item needed floral print that intense. And no floral print needed to be in eye-searing, almost neon shades of pink and green. "How sweet of you, Duncan. Thank you."
Jareth looked wide-eyed at the hideous mittens, then at the serene smile on Irene's face, and then at Sarah. He sputtered out a laugh, which he had the grace to turn into a cough. His eyes glinted in amusement.
Sarah opened hers — an envelope — and discovered a swanky-looking gift certificate for... somewhere. The calligraphy on the store's name had so many flourishes she wasn't sure she was reading it right. With any luck, it'd be international. She grinned, though she felt her smile flicker when she realized that the gift certificate was for a US dollar amount.
Even if she could find the store back in the UK, she'd have to have the certificate exchanged.
Still, she smiled up at Duncan and thanked him politely.
Jareth watched her, tilting his head, though at a more human angle.
Of all them, Toby lucked out with Duncan's gift: Duncan had bought him a Rubik's cube.
Irma, despite being a good twenty years older than Duncan, had a much sharper gift-giving sense. A book of nautical maps for Sarah's father, new golf gloves for Irene, a Batman action figure for Toby.
And for her, a mix tape.
Sarah grinned. "David Bowie, Billy Idol, the Pixies... And Nirvana!"
"You're welcome," Irma said, laughing. "Your cousin Jesse did the mixing, but I picked the music."
"You," Sarah replied, scanning over the card inside the cassette case, "have excellent taste. Can we play it now?"
Her father chuckled. "You and David Bowie. I think maybe we'd better open the presents with the little Santas on them."
Yet again, Sarah was Christmas Eve Present Psychopomp. She stopped short when she realized there were five presents with the little Santa wrapping paper.
"That last one is for Jareth," Irene said. She smiled at him and added, "I had to guess a little, but I saw no reason to leave you out."
The surprise on his face was plain. Sarah almost laughed, but it was a little sad.
Toby tore into his present, shredding wrapping paper and leaving it on the floor. Jareth was much slower, much more deliberate. He actually managed to unwrap his gift without tearing the paper even a little. He folded the paper into a neat square and set it aside.
And then he opened the rectangular box to reveal the same as they all had: red and white striped flannel pajamas.
"Mom," Toby said, a slight whine in his tone. "How come it's always pajamas on Christmas Eve?"
"Because Santa is watching us very closely in the last days before Christmas," Irene said, tone stern.
"Thanks, you two," Sarah said. "These are going to be perfect back — in Scotland."
Jareth still seemed to be recovering from shock. After a moment, he looked up and said, his mouth curving into a smile, "Yes. My thanks, as well. It is... quite a kind gesture."
Irene smiled back. "I'm glad you like them. I hope they fit alright. I'm not sure most stores size their clothes with your frame in mind."
The next morning, loud noises and a sense of bouncing woke her. Sarah rolled herself more thoroughly in her blankets, then squinched herself down in the cocoon, so she wouldn't have to see anything. When that didn't work, she rolled herself onto her stomach and flopped until her head was underneath her pillow.
All to no avail. The noise and bouncing continued. Sarah lifted her head from under her pillow — causing the pillow to rise with it — and tried to shoo away the intruder with a glare. But the intruder was Toby, and not even her blanket burrito was going to get between him and his presents.
As she slowly woke enough to look farther than the bed, she noticed Jareth leaning against the doorframe. He was wearing the flannel pajamas. Naturally, the pajama pants clung almost obscenely, though he allowed the shirt to hang loose.
She knew when to admit defeat. With a heavy sigh, she disentangled herself from her blankets, then stretched. "What time is it?"
"Early," Jareth said. "But time to be out of bed."
"Cryptic answer time, I see," Sarah groused.
Toby laughed. "I'm going downstairs! Dad says we can have pie for breakfast, since it's Christmas."
"We'll be right down." Sarah smiled indulgently as Toby ran from the room. She made her way toward Jareth, pausing to press a kiss against his cheek. "So what time is it really?"
"Time to be out of bed," he said, raising an eyebrow.
She huffed and moved past him, but he snagged her wrist and pulled her back toward him. He leaned down to kiss her. His mouth was gentle above hers, the kiss light, his hand warm around her wrist.
She found herself smiling when it was over. "Merry Christmas, Jareth."
"And to you as well, precious thing."
Sarah headed downstairs, idly sweeping her hair back over her shoulders.
Christmas breakfast was a whirlwind of coffee, apple crumb pie — the only pie left — and presents. Some of the presents even were coffee: her parents had filled her stocking with small bags of coffee beans. She, in turn, had filled their stockings with chocolates from Honeydukes.
Her parents had far outdone her: she unwrapped a french press, a bean grinder, and a very small espresso machine.
"Oh my god," she found herself saying. She was sure her face had lit up; her smile felt so wide it was almost painful. "Dad, Irene, you really, really shouldn't have."
"We can take it back," her father said, teasing despite his dry tone.
Irene smacked his forearm. "Robert! Sarah, we would have been happy to help you with your apartment, but since you're living at a school..."
"Thank you. I mean it; this is just what I needed," she said. "Go on, open yours."
She gave everyone the boring clothes presents first. Toby laughed at the assortment of weird socks, while Irene admired her painted silk scarf. Her father gave his matching painted silk tie a bemused look.
So Sarah sent Toby to fetch the other presents. Her father peeked his head over interestedly when Irene opened A Repository Of Rhyme And Riddle by Rowena Ravenclaw.
"Ravenclaw, huh?" Her father raised an eyebrow. "Didn't she found Hogwarts?"
"She was one of its Founders," Sarah said.
"Ah, that's right. Sorry, I remember more about the Proctor Institute For Young Wizards and the Bell Witches' Academy." Her father said, while opening his own gift. He stared down at the tie clip and cufflinks. "Angels?"
"Angels," she agreed.
He looked up with a wry smile. "How did you know Stockton's been on me to advertise the collection more?"
"I had no idea," she admitted. "I just thought I'd tweak your nose about your crazy boss a little. But at least those won't fall out or get lost."
Her father smiled. "Thank you, sweetheart."
Toby was ecstatic about the new Soundwave Transformer she'd found for him. He immediately pulled it out of the plastic casing and mashed his thumb on one of the buttons.
"Autobots: Inferior," the Soundwave said. "Soundwave: Superior."
Toby carried the last few presents out. Irene unwrapped a pair of dragon hide gardening gloves and laughed. "This is the year of the hand wear for me, is it?"
Her father caught one of Irene's hands and pulled it up to his mouth. He placed a kiss on the back of her hand, right by her knuckles, and Sarah's heart squeezed. She remembered the kind of marriage her parents had, before the divorce. It hadn't been as good as what lay between her father and Irene, and once again, Sarah kicked herself for ever resenting her step-mother.
"I guess we Williamses really like your hands," her father said.
"I guess you do!" Irene laughed and kissed his cheek, then said, "Well, Robert, open yours."
He unwrapped the photo album. He paged through it, taking in photos of abandoned and eerie buildings. She'd spent four years in England; plenty of time to see and shoot the sights.
"You remember how you and Mom and I used to go exploring old houses and derelict factories and stuff?" She grinned. "I thought I'd bring the tradition back when I moved away."
"Sarah," her father said, tone placid but with a subtle note of excitement thrumming through, "did you go to Tintern Abbey?"
She grinned. "Keep looking."
Her father found the two-page spread of pictures of Tintern Abbey.
Her brother dug around under the tree and unearthed the last two presents: his final present and the glass feather she'd bought Jareth.
Jareth accepted the box, looking curiously at Sarah, but Sarah snagged Toby's last present away and held the box up over his head.
"Before he opens this," she told her father and Irene, "I just want you to know that it's not going to hurt him. It's definitely unusual, but there's no need for a trip to the hospital."
And with that, she let Toby tear the wrapping off his Aurora Borealis Ice Mice. The delighted expression on his face as he breathed out glistening rainbow clouds of steam — the smile that curved along Jareth's face as he watched Toby — was sure to stick in her memory. Watching her family be happy, watching Jareth be happy, left her feeling warm and light, as if suspended.
It was the perfect mental snapshot, everything in the room lit from within, and only seemed more perfect when Jareth drew her in from behind. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed, then slowly released her. When she turned to look at him, he was smiling his smug, inscrutable owl smile.
In other news, I have bronchitis, I turn twenty-five this Wednesday, and this chapter was an absolute fucking monster. It is very nearly ten thousand words. On the flipside, I think we have about three chapters left after this. They will also probably be beasts.
New game is over! If all of you keep guessing I'm never going to have time to write the next chapter, heh. Jareth's father is indeed the Erlkoenig, which is both a nod to the Roommates/GND 'verse and a piece of my own personal cosmology. Those who guessed correctly have been alerted via PM; please message me to make your request. Due to planned later stories, I will not write commentfic about any event or character introduced after the final confrontation in Prisoner of Azkaban.
