Disclaimer: see chapter 1.
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Chapter 2.
Trouble threshold.
The keeper of the city keys
Put shutters on the dreams.
I wait outside the pilgrim's door
With insufficient schemes.
The black queen chants
the funeral march,
The cracked brass bells will ring;
To summon back the fire witch
To the court of the crimson king.
"The Court of the Crimson King"
King Crimson
Strange how the shift in one's state of mind could change their perception of the environment, and of its thermal qualities in particular. A perfect icicle a minute ago, Sarah could now swear her body suddenly flared up like a piece of paper, thrown into the fireplace.
"Could you, please, summarize your claim?"
The absurdly commonplace question brought her back to where she was standing wide-eyed, with a receiver almost glued to her cheek. Sarah blinked several times to dispel the hallucination, then shook her head violently. Nothing changed. She was still in the hall, the phone was still there, and there was still the sound of someone's light breathing, seeping through the receiver right into her burning ear.
Well, that was slightly less theatrical than she had expected, but, after all, she HAD hoped for some reaction. And here it was.
So...he wanted to stage a do-like-mortals-do play this time. All right, she could buy that.
"I hoped to … settle a certain matter with the King," resolved she at last.
"Yes, we registered your summon," confirmed the voice heartily, "Would you specify the type of this matter? Is it childcare?"
"Most certainly not!"
The clerk – if it was one – on the other side of the line seemed not to notice the resentment which her assumption provoked.
"Lovelife?" offered she on the same obliging note, "Hob infestation? A leprechontract breach?"
"A lepre-," Sarah felt her gyri slowly unwind and weave themselves into braids, "No. It's...personal."
For a couple of moments the receiver was silent, save for some barely audible rustling of pages turned over and over.
"I'm afraid it's not His Majesty's public day," crooned it apologetically.
Sarah's temperature climbed to that of a bubbling lava. Indeed, at some point the game was beginning to amuse her, yet someone just couldn't help but overdo it, could he?
"It is urgent," seethed she through her teeth.
"Oh," the receiver sounded honestly upset, "Let me check...Yes, I think we can find a gap in his schedule. Kindly expect a callback, it won't take more than a minute."
"Thank you," murmured Sarah by pure inertia.
"Thank you," the voice immediately regained its optimistic qualities, "Your request is very important to us. Wait for-"
The phone broke out with short beeping.
Slowly, like she was moving underwater, Sarah put down the receiver.
And what was that all about? What kind of a grotesque comedy did he think he was pulling?
The five minutes were passed in nail-biting and angry pacing around the phone table, and, when the call never came, she couldn't even say she was surprised. After all those hours, really, why not make her wait a little more?
After another twenty minutes she was ready to confess to herself that this time the politics, chosen by the Goblin King, proved fruitful, if, of course, it was aiming at scorching her nerves black.
Two more hours, and the flapping of the front door heralded the arrival of her Dad and Karen, dragging along drowsy Toby, at which Sarah was forced to drop her vigil. Though it didn't make much difference. She already knew that no one would call her today. Tomorrow, probably, too. The next gap in His Majesty's schedule would fall on her granddaughter's silver jubilee. May be, he'd even be as kind as to leave a peach on her own moss-smothered grave.
A cup of traditional family cocoa and three night goodbyes later Sarah retired to her room and unmade the bed optimistically. Like fun. After several unsuccessful attempts to sleep she crawled from under the heavy blanket, changed back into her jeans and shabby T-shirt and positioned herself by the window in a warm company of her work-box. A raid through the flea market earlier that day left her with little pocket money and an almost new pendant – lovely, if somewhat tarnished. The scattering of blue rhinestones on a round copper plate was obviously supposed to stand for the pattern of some constellation, but Sarah was never good at astronomy. All she saw was a piece of bijouterie, which deserved a second life, and, perhaps, a second owner, if they managed to sell it.
Putting the thing on, she studied herself in an small pocket mirror. Not her kind of thing, yet it wasn't so bad, either.
She should have brought some lemon with her. Nothing was as good for dim copper as lemon. Pity it was already too late to leave the room. She didn't want to have the whole house up in no time – a feat she, with her marvelous capability of finding her bearings in Karen's kitchen, would accomplish in no time.
Perhaps, she'd better read instead, thought Sarah with a yawn, picking up a random love story from the collection of books on her table. Not like she was feeling too weary...
...The twelfth chime of the clock found her curled up in the chair, eyes closed and breathing low and even. The sound made her wince through the slumber, but the night visions had already pulled her in too deeply. She didn't wake up.
Somewhere downstairs the phone rang, and then again, but, strange as it was, no one hurried to pick up the receiver. And soon the ringing stopped, plunging the house in complete silence.
"Miss Williams!"
She was waking up with difficulty, unable to completely shake off the heavy, disturbing shreds of a dream which clung to her consciousness. It must have been raining while she slept, as her room was permeated with strangely oppressive smell of dank soil and stones, sweating with that cold sweat, which takes hours to dry after an autumn shower.
"Excuse me? Miss Williams?"
Sarah jumped up on the spot, painfully hitting her nape against something much harder than she remembered the back of her chair to be. With a hiss of pain she lifted her hand to the throbbing place and froze still, not having touched it.
The room she discovered herself in was anything but her own one. For one thing, it was way larger, measuring to about ten times the perimeter of the hall downstairs her family house, and certainly had no furnishings of the living-room kind. The absence of which, though, was fully made up for by the number of chairs and benches, lining all the four walls of the parlour and sticking here and there in the middle of it, like bushes on a plain. As far as she could judge, no seat remained unoccupied. The place, with its pastel-coloured panelling, dull and speckless floor and abstract paintings on otherwise bare walls, must have once been designed to look like an average waiting-room at an average office, but the visitors gave it the strangest of appearances. Tenth of them, of both genders and all ages from the teens up, some fully dressed, the others shrinking in nightclothes and underwear. A woman in her early twenties three chairs away from Sarah was wrapped in nothing but a bath towel, but that didn't seem to worry her. Although she didn't look calm, either. None of the visitors did. If there was something that made them birds of one feather, no matter what, it was the look they all shared – the expression of taught expectation, as though each had a tight metal spring in them, ready to be released.
More than anything the room reminded her of a bomb-shelter.
Gentle coughing drew her off the contemplation of the surroundings. Raising her eyes, Sarah had to live through another shock, this time of an aesthetic kind.
The woman who stood in front of her with a thin pack of papers, clutched in one hand, and an accurate pen in the other could easily spit on the idols of human female beauty from the height of her six feet and something. An amazingly unflawed figure made up a perfect alliance with the face of a breathtaking fairness, the flowing river of chestnut hair and the azure eyes of an ancient goddess. Sarah swallowed painfully, thanking the highest powers she was not that unfortunate towel-wearer. Her self-esteem would hardly live on with that.
"Accept our apologies," chirruped the ethereal creature in the voice, Sarah remembered well, "You didn't answer our phone calls, so we took the liberty of transporting you here without the preliminary approval. Is it all right?"
"I guess," muttered Sarah, not completely sure whether she really didn't mind it.
"His Majesty will see you in three hours from this very minute," the nymph held out the papers so far they nearly touched Sarah's nose, "Be so kind to sign this."
Up to the moment Sarah never noticed how ugly her signature looked. Perhaps, she should take some calligraphy lessons, when out of here. If she's out of here at all.
"Thank you!" the beauty gifted her with a dazzling smile, "Should you need anything, feel free to come up to me. There, to the front desk."
"I will," nodded Sarah, "Thanks."
Three hours to go... Left on her own, Sarah soon found it hard to think of a time-killing occupation, which would last her till his Royal Goblin Majesty chose to grant her with his presence. First she attempted to focus on her neighbours, but it appeared a fine waste of time. There were no windows to lend an idle eye to. The pictures proved as uninteresting upon closer view as they looked from the distance. The repeating motive of crossed lines, brown on white, plain and unimaginative.
With a heavy sigh she settled back on the bench and let her eye-lids meet for a second or two. The more she dwelt on it, the less Jareth-like it seemed. Yes, at fifteen her insight and better judgment left much to be desired, but...Encouraging bureaucracy? Running an office with a dove-voiced secretary? Following a schedule?
Oh, come on.
She couldn't believe she knew him so little.
There was something seriously wrong in here.
The unflinching lady Sarah, the conqueror of the Labyrinth, took a breath and pushed herself up from the bench with a grim resolution.
The rest of the visitors watched her dully, as she walked up to the miniature front desk, stuck between two more helpings of chairs. The receptionist ignored her approach, leafing through a huge account book and now and then pausing to write a random name in a random row or column. The tabletop in front of her moaned under the mess of papers and folders, which very nearly blocked her the view of the waiting-room. A bunch of lilies in a tall vase did its best to turn the general clutter into an epitome of an ultimate scrapheap.
Having counted to 100 without so much as a glance in response, Sarah let out a suggestive cough. The receptionist rose her head and switched on a smile that looked somewhat habitual.
"Yes, may I do anything for you?"
"Do you need any help with that?"
The brows of the nymph flew high and for a split of a second Sarah believed they would never return in their usual position, but their owner took herself in hand quickly.
"I'm not supposed to...Though...I mean, I never...," she looked around hesitantly, as if half-expecting a party of Cleaners storm in and bring the front desk to the ground, documents, and flowers, and all, "Yes...I think, that would be very nice of you. Sort this, will you? The ones with a red stamp go here," a long goldish-tinted nail pointed at a small plastic stand, already choke full of papers, "And the black stamps...you'll just put them together and give them to me, all right?"
Contenting herself to a short nod, Sarah set to the task offered with diligence. This way of doing in the time was no worse than any other. Besides, it gave her some hopes of getting the new acquaintance talk. She had to know what she'd better be ready for.
The receptionist dove into the account book again, occasionally muttering something to herself. The slender fingers of her left hand were toying with the fringe of a dark indigo shawl, offhandedly wrapped around the lithe figure. The sight was somehow entrancing. For a split of a second forgetting her initial plans, Sarah let herself wonder what such a ravishing lady could be. An elf? Some kind of a tailless seamaid?
"Something's wrong?"
"No, it's fine," Sarah shook herself up, and, not to look a complete fool, uttered the first thing that came into her head, "I love your shawl."
"Do you?" the beauty smiled again, making Sarah wonder whether that porcelain face was tired of folding into one and the same expression on so different occasions, "Thank you so much. It's a birthday gift – from my fiance."
Someone's lucky.
"It looks all new."
Here it goes. She seemingly managed to get the dialogue going. It was not as informative as she had hoped yet, but, like they said, well began is half done. And clothes were something she could expatiate upon forever and a little more, considering her present occupation.
"Of course, it does! The birthday was last week. Oh, no, I'll take the blue stamp. Sorry, I have no idea how it got in the pack, they were all supposed to be handed in yesterday."
Sarah bit her lip. The conversation threatened to wilt in the bud. She needed to find some new thread of a subject and do it quickly.
Fortunately, the receptionist didn't plan to let it go, either.
"Your pendant is nice, too," said she, moving aside another stack of folders, "I know some who would kill for it."
"Why?"
"You never get anything of a mortal crafting here," explained the beauty in a tone of deep regret, "And for sure, not the jewelry. You make lovely things nowadays, all those murano beads and...nickel."
The word came out with the stress on the the last syllable.
"So like...Are we in fashion?" the idea was so ridiculous, that Sarah couldn't help laughing.
"Not funny," in the voice of the lady there sounded a slight reproach, but the smile came back to her lips, too, "Two months ago the Countess Dowager herself ordered a pewter bracelet with the name of King Charmer engraved on it. The seller swore on his tail it came from the Aboveground."
"Did she?" something told Sarah the rest of the story would be a discredit for the Countess Dowager, whoever she might be, "And?"
"And you should have seen her face at the Royal Ball, when His Majesty's jeweler said: "Oh, what a nice thing you have here. Dwarf-made, isn't it?" The old bat went all beetroot," the beauty uttered a low vindictive chuckle.
"Don't like her much, do you?" it was hard to suppress a grin, and Sarah just quit trying.
"Who does?"
Both girls laughed again, causing the occupants of the waiting-room stare at them gloomily.
Still smiling, Sarah undid the chain which held the pendant over her neck.
"Happy birthday," said she, putting the trinket on the desk.
For a moment the receptionist studied the offering in unbelief, then looked up at her mortal companion like her world had turned itself inside out.
"For me? I mustn't take it, you know."
"Is it the King?" asked Sarah downright.
The beauty frowned, her eyes coming back to the gift. The silence dragged on...
"In fact, I see no reason why I shouldn't," confessed she at last, "Nobody forbade me anything of the kind."
"Then take it."
"Thank you," nodded the lady unsmilingly.
Feeling a little awkward, Sarah helped her with the clasp and fixed the pendant over the rich silk of the shawl.
"It's so good to have you here, you know," uttered the receptionist all of a sudden. Her hand went up to stroke the thin chain absentmindedly, "I'm all fed up with it, bored to death. There's no one to talk to. A satyr comes three times a day, but all he can is to crack those dirty jokes of his. And there are, you know, the cleaning staff, yet they are all … those lower races, no one's even literate. Nobody else is allowed here. And I miss my home."
"For how long has it been like this?" asked Sarah quietly, afraid to scare off an unexpected moment of frankness.
"I'm not good at mortal timing, sorry," the lady shrugged her shoulders with a disinterested air.
She kept pulling at the pendant, thoughts obviously wandering far off the dull room where she was forced to pass her days.
"Are you done?" murmured she, as her glance stumbled over the last piece of paperwork in Sarah's hands, "Some coffee?"
"Yes, miss Williams will have coffee. With me. It's something she came here for, I believe."
The silky voice lashed Sarah out of musings on what the whole conversation would lead her to. Promptly she whipped around to find herself face to face with a newcomer, standing two steps away from their small company.
A tall, lean, fair-haired newcomer, clothed in an costly three-piece suit, which for some reason didn't clash with the neat fairy markings on his face. Smirking an unpleasant smirk. Oozing arrogance. And totally unfamiliar.
"Miss Williams, be so kind to come in," the blond moved aside and gestured for her to enter the vast study behind the doorway he'd been blocking with his stunning person.
When she was eight, a teenage bully from the house next street pushed her off the swing, sending her forehead first to the ground. It felt like that again, with the only exception that the blow she received now was non-physical. Which didn't mean the lesser damage to her head.
Sarah obeyed the beckoning hand and stepped inside, feeling rather than seeing the predatory smile on the lips of her unearthly host.
The door closed soundlessly.
"So, what can I do for the esteemed last Champion?" drawled the Fae with a courteous half-a-bow.
She knew she had to react, but no suitable words came to her mind, so in the absence of a verbal enlightenment her brain chose something already tried in a similar situation so many years ago.
"You are him, aren't you? You are the Gobling King?"