At first Sarah was elated at the prospect of another week to try to get her life back in order. But as the week went on, her excitement quickly faded. Somehow, despite her reprieve, she didn't seem to be able to get back on top of things no matter how hard she tried.
She wanted to take advantage of her undisturbed nights to catch up on the rest she had sorely missed several weeks, so she refused all invitations from her friends to hang out or go dancing. She'd been seriously sleep deprived for weeks now, but she'd been trying so hard to hold it together that she'd gotten really good at ignoring it. Now that she'd relaxed a bit,, her body took back control and made her feel the exhaustion of the last several weeks in every cell of her body. She collapsed into bed as soon as she got home from work every day, even though Jen had taken away most of her dinner shifts and given her less demanding daytime shifts instead. She slept hard, sometimes sleeping through her alarms the next day, even when she took to setting two or three of them to go off simultaneously. She was late to work twice, and the second time Randy had been in a foul mood and had written her up. It wouldn't have mattered if she'd actually managed to stop feeling tired, but she didn't, no matter how much she slept.
When she was awake, she was more distracted and forgetful than ever. She kept screwing up, forgetting to put her orders in, bringing orders to the wrong table, bumping into people. She couldn't snap out of it. Images kept resurfacing in her mind. A newborn baby lying naked in the mud, screaming for a mother who ignored its cries and kept walking away. The blank expression on his face as he told the story His rueful smile when her horrified reaction had embarrassed and amused him.
She'd gone to the Underground that night with the idea that she would create a character to play along with his games, and all the while her real, true self would remain untouched. Her character would indulge his twisted need to pretend they had some kind of relationship in which she was a willing participant while her real self coldly calculated how best to manipulate him. But, as the night replayed itself over and over again in her mind, she couldn't fool herself. If anybody had been manipulated that night, it was her. Worse–she couldn't say that, by the end of the night, she'd been playing a character. Somewhere between the first and third glasses of wine things had gotten confused, and she had genuinely started to enjoy his company–even sympathize with him, to such a degree that she had allowed herself to fall asleep leaning up against him, with his arm around her shoulder.
Which, she repeated to herself over and over, was insane, and twisted, and very, very wrong. For so many reasons. He had kidnapped her, he had entrapped her, he had hurt her–hell, he was still hurting her. She couldn't even stand to look in the mirror anymore–even with all the extra sleep she'd been getting, the circles under her eyes were so dark she looked ill. He was a very powerful, very dangerous monster and if she wasn't more careful he was going to find a way to rip her out of her own life and keep her with him forever. That was reality. It didn't matter that he'd had a rough childhood. It didn't matter that they both had shitty, useless moms. It especially did not matter that he had turned to her, his eyes shimmering with the reflected heat of the fire, and declared, with more force and sincerity than anyone else ever had before, that he would never allow anyone to harm her.
Unable to beat this into her thick, exhausted skull in any lasting way, she wrote everything down in the same cheap old composition book where she'd recorded the details of the bargain, hoping that getting the night down on paper would help her stop dwelling on it. She didn't notice much of a difference.
She still wore the protective talismans. As she tucked each one beneath the collar of her uniform, adjusting her shirt so the pendants were hidden in the space between her breasts, she would try to imagine herself surrounded by mystical armor, safe within an invisible circle of protection. She had no idea if they actually did anything. They certainly did not get rid of the brittle, hollow feeling of exhaustion behind her eyes that stayed with her no matter how much sleep she got, but it did make her feel better to be doing something proactive.
Normally, she would have easily been able to find comfort and distraction with her friends, but now that, too, was getting more complicated. She was so preoccupied with thoughts and memories about the Underground that she had completely forgotten her drunken makeout session with Brennan until she walked through the door of the restaurant and seen him looking at her from the bar, smiling eagerly, and the bottom had dropped out of her stomach. His smile quickly faded when she looked away and rushed off to the back. She'd studiously ignored him from that point on, relying on other servers to pick up her drink orders for her whenever they worked together. She made up her mind that if anyone asked she would just tell them she was sick of him crushing on her; and honestly, with the disappointed, kicked-puppy looks he kept sending her when he thought she wasn't looking, that's probably what people would assume anyway.
Still, whenever she met Shanna and Erin behind the kitchen, she could barely focus on the conversation. Had Brennan said anything to John? Had Shanna noticed anything different about the way Brennan was looking at her? Shana was constantly pestering her to hang out, but Sarah put her off as long as possible. What if she invited Brennan? Every time they were together was another potential opportunity for discovery. But before she knew it, the week was almost over and it was the night she had to return to the Underground. She should have been preparing, making plans, but she was just so tired and sick of it all, sick of thinking about it and sick of trying not to think about it. When John cornered her that night at work and insisted that they all go out drinking again, she quickly said agreed.
Unfortunately, as soon as she said yes John immediately marched over to the bar and invited Brennan. As she was getting ready to go out, she agonized over how she was going to ignore him without making it seem like she was ignoring him. However, he made things easy for her by mostly ignoring her and sticking close to John for most of the evening. After the first few drinks, she was drunk enough that her anxiety evaporated entirely and she began to relax and enjoy herself.
They moved on to another bar, then a club. After dancing with Shanna and Erin for a few songs, she slipped off to the bar for another drink. As she took a long, sloppy sip, she scanned the crowd for her friends–and saw Brennan looking back at her. When he saw her looking back at him his cheeks flushed, but he didn't look away–and for the first time that week, she didn't either.
She took another sip of the drink, feeling the pleasant burn all down her throat while she considered the unhappy, questioning expression on his face, and suddenly she felt how very, very sick she was of everything being so complicated and how badly she wanted something simple. She downed her drink in a single swallow, turned, and with a single, meaningful look back at Brennan, she slipped through the crowd toward the side door to the alley. Without looking to see if he was following her, she wove her way around the bouncers and small, shivering crowd of dedicated smokers and turned away from the street down the alleyways behind the bar and nearby restaurants. She could hear him moving behind her as she turned down the dark corners stumbling in his hurry to catch up, but she didn't slow down or say anything.
When she was certain they were far enough away that no one going casually looking for them would find them, she'd turned and grabbed him, pulling him against a grimy brick wall, and then they'd kissed for what felt like hours without even speaking. Time seemed to stop, or at least slow down so much that it was no longer a concern, and her mind went finally, blissfully, silent.
Reality came back in full force the next morning. Her whole body curled up, hot with shame, as she remembered the way he'd looked down at her between long, sloppy kisses with happy little smiles that she hadn't returned, the hungry way she'd pressed her body against his, and the way she'd suddenly run off without a word, ducking through the maze of allies so quickly he couldn't follow, his voice confused and hurt as he called after her.
When she opened her phone, she saw a barrage of worried texts from Shana asking where she'd gone and if she'd gotten home alright, and the excuses she texted back sounded lame even to her. She spent all that day at work dodging Shana's confused, irritated attempts at conversation during their breaks, pleading a splitting headache, and avoiding Brennan's hurt sidelong glances. She was so preoccupied and hungover that Jen finally pulled her from serving, split up her tables between everyone else, and put her on hostess duty.
When she finally stumbled into her bedroom at 11:30, she had no more energy to spare nervously anticipating about what awaited her Underground that night. She only paused for a moment to stare dully at her bed before collapsing into it. She fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.
…
She awoke with a start and the uneasy knowledge that she was in a part of the castle she had never been before. A close, damp smell hung in the air insead of the usual smells of woodsmoke and clean linen. She was not sitting in a soft, warm bed, but on a narrow pallet that lay on the cold floor. The sheet beneath her was fine, clean linen, but the pallet itself was hard and lumpy. The tapestries that covered the wall looked older, faded, and less ornate; one corner hung haphazardly, as though it had become unfastened. A small fire, hardly big enough for her to feel the heat of it across the room, burned across from her pallet in a modest stone hearth. The only furniture in the room besides the pallet was a small table, a wardrobe, and a vanity with a large, ornate mirror.
She clambered awkwardly off the pallet and went to the wardrobe first, thinking that there might be something in it for her to wear. It was almost entirely empty. The inside smelled of dust and, faintly, cedar. Tucked in one corner was a pile of grayish cloth; when she peered closer in the dim light, she thought she could make out the lines of several different dresses, but they were old; she could see lace and buttons that reminded her of the daguerrotype portrait of her great, great grandmother that her father had hanging in his study. Surely this could not be what he wanted her to wear tonight? Carefully, she tried to take some of the cloth in her hands to examine it more closely, but as she touched it it crumbled away like ash, falling through her fingers. She closed the wardrobe quickly, sneezing several times.
Turning to the vanity, she froze when she saw the crystal, glowing ominously on a small square of black velvet. She eyed it apprehensively, seeing her own hollow-cheeked, wide-eyed face reflected back at her distorted and alien.
There was no note, nothing whatsoever that indicated what she was to do with it, but she supposed she didn't need one. She hesitated for a moment, then gritted her teeth. Of course he wanted to dress her, she thought irritably. She reached out, and touched the crystal with one finger.
Immediately, she felt the same tingling coolness that she'd felt the other night washing over her, stronger this time, like cold pins-and-needles all over her whole body. She closed her eyes, trying to ignore the deeply unsettling sensation of her own clothes disappearing and being replaced by material that felt smoother, richer–and a lot heavier.
When she opened her eyes, she was wearing what, to her surprise, looked like a modern ball gown. It was made of wine-colored silk, the hemline, bodice, and upper parts of the sleeves heavily embroidered with silver thread and black beads in a twisting floral design. The stitches were large and flat, creating a satiny effect that shimmered as she turned and almost made it look like the dress had been gilded instead of embroidered. Every flower, every leaf, was carefully outlined in a delicate silver braid shot through with a black silk cord.
She made a wry face at the neckline. It was so low, exposing her shoulders and upper arms, that the sleeves were really more decoration than functional parts of the gown. The only thing that kept them attached to the bodice was a bit of tape and a few stitches at the underarm, and it was clear they would be of no use in the way of keeping her from exposing herself to the Goblin king and all his guests. Sarah pursed her lips and twisted and bent experimentally in front of the mirror–but, to her surprise, the gown stayed put. As she moved, she could feel some sort of snug, structured undergarment, covering her from her hips to part way up her bust, that held everything in place and supported the gown.
Sarah felt a draft dance across the back of her neck, and she shivered. She wasn't a prude by any means; in the summer time she showed far more skin than she was showing now walking down the street in a tank top and shorts, but… She tugged fretfully at the front of the gown, trying to raise the neckline, and sighed when it didn't budge. Catching sight of her collarbones, she examined them uneasily, shifting her shoulders back and forth; she'd been avoiding mirrors lately, and she'd hadn't seen them in a while. They were more prominent than she remembered.
As she bent and twisted in front of the mirror, she noticed with annoyance that the structured underwear beneath the gown limited the way she could move. It forced her to stand up straight, and if she needed to bend over–well, that would be interesting. Even the sleeves, low on her upper arms as they were, kept her from raising her arms much higher than shoulder level; any higher and she would risk damaging the gown. But even as she scowled at her reflection, she could see that the restrictions gave her movements a certain elegance they hadn't had before.
This crystal hadn't merely changed her outfit; her hair and face were done for her too. Her hair was swept up in a sleek updo shot through with silver threads, coiled at the base of her neck. Her skin looked smoother, more even in tone, her cheeks were rouged, and her eyes were smokey, with a touch of shimmer on her lids and just under her brows. The makeup was much heavier than anything she typically wore. She carefully traced one finger under her brow bone, trying to blend the dark eyeshadow out a bit more, soften it, but it didn't budge. She rubbed harder, but could see no difference. Apparently magic makeup required magic makeup remover.
Peering closer into the mirror, Sarah could still see the signs of exhaustion in her face. The deep circles beneath her eyes had not been completely concealed, and even with the rouge she looked a touch paler than was healthy–but she doubted it would be noticeable to anyone who didn't see her up close. She had to hand it to the Goblin King. She looked impressive. Regal, even–though not very much like herself.
When she finally turned away from the mirror, she noticed that there was a small silver tray on the other side of the vanity. She would have sworn that it had not been there before she had touched the crystal. Curious, she bent over–very carefully, as the structured underwear beneath the dress dug painfully into her skin when she tried to bend her spine, forcing her to bend only at the hips–to examine it
The tray itself was heavy with a beautiful ornate pattern along the edges, the silver coiling on itself in complex knots but it was faint–so much so that parts of the design seemed to have been almost worn away in places, like they had been rubbed off. Sarah wondered how long it would take to wear down metal–how many times silver had to be polished before its edges softened and started to wear away, before deeply etched lines faded almost entirely.
In the tray, on a length of black velvet, lay the most intricate piece of jewelry Sarah had ever seen. It was a necklace; its centerpiece, the size of her open palm, was made up of complex knots and braids, the strands of which were themselves braided coils of metal, swirling and spiraling and knotting themselves in gorgeous patterns, all arranged in the shape of the head of an owl. The owl's eyes, which seemed to follow Sarah as she turned the neck this way and that, were large, flashing ice-blue diamonds, and smaller diamond chips were scattered through its silver feathers.
Stretching seamlessly at a slight upward angle out from either side of the complex knot was a wide, flat chain, woven from the same finely braided silver coils, about as thick as one of her fingers. It was not a long necklace; it looked like the chain would fit tightly around her neck, letting the owl's head knot drape down into the hollow between her collarbones.
Unlike the silver tray, the necklaces shone brilliantly in the dim room. Every intricate detail in the silver stood out in sharp definition, as though it had been made that morning especially for her. Sarah reached out with one finger to stroke the smooth silver coils, then quickly yanked it back. Despite the chill in the air, the metal had felt warm beneath her fingers.
Sarah bit her lip and stared uncertainly at the silver owl. It stared back at her with its glittering, icy eyes. Clearly, she was supposed to put it on–but why hadn't it just appeared around her neck like the dress had appeared on her body? Why the hell was it warm?
A bright light in the doorway caught her eye–she turned and nearly shrieked. An orb of bright, faintly bluish light the size of her fist hovered in the doorway, about the height of a man's head, casting the hallway behind it in a sickly glow. As she watched, frozen, the light hovered in the doorway for a moment, retreated back into the hallway, then returned to the doorway, bobbing in a way that almost seemed impatient.
Time to go. Sarah looked back to the necklace, her chest tightening. Would he be angry if she turned up without it?
She really did shriek then when she looked back to the door and saw that the blue orb was halfway into the room, bobbing faster and emitting a low, reproachful humming sound. Her hands shaking, she snatched the necklace, taking care to off the vanity and held it and the necklace against her chest as she took a step towards the door, hoping this would indicate her willingness to leave and keep the fucking thing away from her.
It seemed to work. The orb turned and gilded gracefully–and quickly–out of the room. With one last despairing glance at her reflection, Sarah hurried after it, nearly tripping over the long skirt of the gown.
It led her down one narrow, pitch-black corridor, then another, then another. There were no stairs, but Sarah got the impression they were going up–gradually, the air became less damp, and the cold less biting. She had no idea what part of the castle she was in; she didn't see anything she recognized–but then, there didn't seem to be much of anything there. The walls were bare stone blocks. Iron brackets that looked like they were designed to hold torches hung on the walls, but no torches. The ceiling was low. Occasionally they passed the vague outline of a doorway in the darkness, but no signs that there was anyone else in this part of the castle. The only sound was the whisper of her silken slippers against the hard stone floor; the only light was the pale blue glow emanating from the creature, which, to her relief, kept its distance, bobbing several paces in front of her.
After what felt like an eternity, she began to see faint lights up ahead, growing stronger as she approached. As they turned a corner, the corridor widened and ended in a set of stairs leading to an open doorway, through which bright, golden light was streaming. Sarah sighed in relief as the blue orb flickered and disappeared from sight. She gathered her skirts and hurried towards the light, climbing the stairs
As she emerged through the doorway, blinking, she found herself in a large room, much bigger than she had expected, with a high ceiling of thick, dark wooden beams and white plaster. Tiny lights glowed and danced among them, filling the room with a soft, yellow glow.
"Sarah!"
She whirled; the Goblin King was coming towards her, his brows drawn and mouth set in irritation. His hair hung loose around his face, and he was dressed in a black double breasted suit jacket and trousers. It would have looked completely at home in the 21st century, if it weren't for the length of the jacket and the scarf that hung from his neck in lieu of a tie. The outfit looked strange against the stone castle walls, and she looked down at her own modern gown, realizing that she must look equally out of place.
"There you are," he said. He looked her up and down quickly with a satisfied expression that rankled her pride, then grabbed her arm and began to pull her towards a large archway framed with huge blocks of white stone at the other end of the room. Through it, Sarah could hear the low hum of many, many voices speaking in quiet, polite tones.
"Wait a minute!" she said. He didn't respond, so she tried to plant her feet and stop walking.
"Hurry," he snapped, not stopping. Her slippers slid uselessly on the stone floor, and she had to keep walking to keep from stumbling. "The dancing cannot begin until we arrive."
"Dancing?" A thrill of terror ran through her at the word, and she nearly tripped. She grabbed his arm with her other hand. "Slow down! You said dinner."
"You missed dinner," he said, not slowing down in the slightest. "I couldn't modify the enchantment in the quite the way that I hoped."
"You never mentioned dancing" she hissed, her panic rising. "Jareth, stop."
He did stop then, and fix her with an irritated glace, which quickly became a glare when he saw her bare neck and the necklace, partially wrapped in the black velvet, that she was still clutching to her chest with one hand.
"Why haven't you put it on?" he demanded.
"I–I didn't have time," she protested weakly.
He shook his head at her. "Well?" he asked sarcastically, his voice rising.
Sarah flinched at his tone, and was aghast to feel tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She blinked them back as she quickly took the ends of the necklace in each hand, letting the square of velvet drop to the ground and feeling for a clasp as she raised it to her neck.
As soon as the metal touched her skin, she gasped and froze at the sudden surge of warmth. She quickly dropped it–but the necklace didn't fall. Instead, it moved, twisting and flexing like a snake uncoiling itself as it wrapped around her neck, the two ends meeting at the nape of her neck. Panicking, she tried to tear it off, but the metal was stuck fast everywhere it touched her skin–she couldn't get her fingers underneath it. She grabbed for the back of the necklace, trying to unhook it, but to her horror she found she could not feel any clasps—or even any gap or separation between the two ends of the chair. They had fused together into one solid piece.
The Goblin King ignored her gasps and frantic scrabbling; without saying anything, he recaptured the arm he had released a moment earlier and used it to drag her towards the archway. Sarah wanted to hit him; she wanted to scream; but his grip on her arm was as solid as stone, and they were almost to the archway.
"Wait!" she hissed frantically, trying to force him to slow down. Painfully aware that she was about to be closely observed by an entire roomful of people, she tried to pull at him and drag her feet as much as possible without causing a scene, but it was no use. In spite of everything she did to try and stop him, he sailed effortlessly through the stone archway, dragging her along with him.