Sarah watched the glass fall without any particular alarm. She had felt it slip through each of her wet, dishwater-wrinkled fingers as she'd lifted it towards the bus bin, so slowly that it hadn't occurred to her to make any attempt to catch it. Mesmerized, she watched it strike the glass table protector at an angle and bounced sideways, shattering as it launched a glittering arc of pink lemonade, ice cubes, and glass shards into the air across the table. to flow over the edge and onto the floor.

Sighing, she began to gather up the broken shards with her hands.

"Hey!"

Sarah jumped and turned. Allie, another server, was watching her angrily from a few tables away.

"Sorry," mumbled Sarah, her reply coming a beat too late. "Little tired today."

Allie mumbled something under her breath; Sarah thought she heard the word hungover. Then Allie looked down at Sarah's hands in alarm. "Jesus!"

Sarah looked down, and realized she was gripping a shard of glass tightly in her hand. Blood welled from several small cuts on her fingers and a gash on her palm that looked fairly deep. She could see a small red puddle on the table where droplets of blood had fallen and merged together.

How long had she been standing there?

"How the hell did you do that?" Allie demanded angrily.

"I don't know," Sarah replied uneasily.

Allie pushed her towards the kitchen.

"Give me that," she hissed, reaching in front of Sarah to grab the bus bin. "I'll clean this up—you get off the floor and go—" she gestured in disgust to Sarah's hands. "Go clean that up and go home!"

Sarah slunk off the floor, holding her hands out in front of her as she pushed through the doors to the kitchen. Ignoring the stares from the other servers and kitchen staff, she washed the cuts in the handwashing sink—luckily the one on her hand was not as deep as she thought at first— and bandaged them tightly before grabbing her coat and slinking out the back door.

All that day she'd felt like a shattered thing, smashed and carelessly put back together. No matter how hard she tried to hold onto them, her thoughts slipped away from her like the water running through her fingers. She had tried going through the motions of her day, but halfway through showering or dressing or looking for her keys she would drift off and come back to herself five, ten, even fifteen minutes later. She'd been in the middle of filling her first drink order when she realized that she couldn't remember how she'd gotten to work at all. She remembered standing in the living room and putting on her jacket, but she couldn't remember anything after that.

It got harder as the day wore on. Her tables complained all afternoon about slow service, mixed up orders, and cold food—and now Allie had sent her home. She should have been worried. The way everyone had been at her all day, she should have been embarrassed. She knew that. It was obvious that she was only holding onto her job by a thread. But everything seemed so far away.

Because she'd made worse mistakes—much worse by far.

She had lept out of bed that morning, so quickly her legs had gotten tangled in the sheet and she'd almost fallen. Her hands still shaking, tore open the drawer where she kept the notebook with the details of their bargain. She had read the page over and over again, hoping against hope that she would see something that she already knew wasn't there.

She had never asked him not to use his magic against her.

She'd sat for a long time, staring at the pages, until she thought to check, with numb fingers, for the silver necklace around her throat. It was gone. Of course it was. He'd told her that magic, even any physical harm she suffered would only affect her while she was in the Underground, under his spell. She'd seen herself that any injuries she suffered underground would disappear upon waking. But the aftereffects of those injuries stayed with her, ghostly aches and pains where bruises should have been, or the sore, exhausted muscles that had lingered for days after she had accidentally broken the bargain. He couldn't hit her anymore; not with his hands. What kind of aftereffects would there be, she wondered, if he decided to lash out at her with his magic? If he killed her while she was Underground, would there be enough of her left to wake up Above?

The image of the blasted tree had flashed into her mind then, the charred pieces of it that had littered the ground all around, some as many as twenty feet away, and she had sprinted for the bathroom and emptied her already empty stomach into the toilet.

She had thought she had him on a leash, but it was clear to her then that any constraints she had managed to put on him were ultimately meaningless. Remembering the twisted rage in his face when he turned away from her and towards the tree, as if tearing himself away with great effort, she had wondered how close he had come to unleashing that terrible lightning on her.

Then she'd thrown up again.

So really, she was doomed regardless. How much did it really matter if she humiliated herself at work, in front of people she might soon never see again? Chances were good that, one way or another, she wouldn't be around when the next month's rent was due. Ibic had been right about her after all—she was just a toy, a little Sarah-doll for the Goblin King to dress up and play with. Even if she did manage to tiptoe along the razor-thin line between polite rejection and provoking him to violence, he wasn't going to indulge her forever. If she didn't play nice, eventually he was going to reach into her mind and make her do whatever it was that he wanted.

In the middle of her long, cold walk home she got a call from Karen, winced, and immediately hit ignore. It was the beginning of December, around the time when her stepmother began making her elaborate holiday plans. When the notification that she had a voicemail came through a few minutes later, she dismissed it immediately. She couldn't deal with that now.

When she got home, she threw herself into bed. She was so, so tired. She couldn't remember ever feeling so exhausted—but she couldn't quite fall asleep. Instead, she lay fully dressed on the narrow twin mattress, staring at the ceiling and drifting back and forth between listless paralysis and brief periods of unconsciousness.

The buzz of her phone against her thigh broke the spell for a moment, and she winced and dug it out of her pocket, expecting to see a painfully polite message from Karen asking her to call.

Instead, she saw a text from Shana: u still coming tonight?

Sarah stared at it stupidly, trying to remember. Thursday—it was Thursday. Then it came back to her, the plans she'd made with Shana and Erin earlier that week. Dancing at the club, the house party—one long, carefree night when everyone else would be drinking along with her, everyone would be having fun, and any unusual awkwardness on her part could be blamed on the alcohol, if it were even noticed at all. One night when she could finally relax.

The prospect of it gave her new energy. YES, she texted back.

Sarah swung her legs over the side of her bed and staggered towards the shower, mulling the evening over. Shana, John, and Erin would be there—Brennan too, probably. She hadn't discussed inviting him with Shana, but John had been dragging him along to all their get-togethers lately. And all of them were all on the dinner shift; none of them had been there that afternoon to witness her latest humiliation. In fact, now that she thought of it, she hadn't worked with any of them since Saturday, when Jen had taken her off evenings competetely. When she'd first seen the schedule she'd been annoyed—though she hadn't dared complain. Now, looking back on everything she'd screwed up that week, especially that afternoon, she felt relieved. One night–she would have one night to relax, one night where she wouldn't have to pretend she didn't see all the looks of irritation—or worse, concern—that people sent her way. Even the awkwardness with Breannan seemed unimportant in comparison to everything that had happened to her in the last twenty-four hours.

Sarah threw her head back felt the hot water soak into her cold, clammy skin. One normal night. She could worry about everything else tomorrow morning.

Shana picked her up at 10 and they drove to John's house to park. He lived closest to his friend Zach, whose house party Shana had grudgingly agreed to attend later that night. Freshly showered and wearing her favorite slinkiest, shimmeriest top and dark, tight jeans under her wool coat, Sarah felt more like herself than she had in weeks. She chatted with Shana on the long walk to Club IB to meet the others, wrapping herself in their familiar small talk like a warm, comforting blanket. As they bitched about work and Sarah patiently sympathized with Shana's latest complaints about John's friends, she watched her friend carefully for any signs of anxiety or concern. To her intense relief she couldn't sense anything that might indicate that Shana had heard anything about her disastrous morning.

Thursdays at Club IB was Lady's night, which meant 2-for-1 shots. When they arrived, they found John and Erin at the bar. Brennan, John explained, had to fill in for a closer who hadn't shown up for her shift and couldn't come for another few hours. Giddy with relief, Sarah stole John's whiskey and downed it, then immediately ordered another. She was halfway through some cocktail Erin wanted her to try when one of her favorite songs came on, and she dragged her friends onto the dance floor. She threw herself into the dance, and once she started, she didn't want to stop. Shana, Erin, and John joined her enthusiastically at first, mimicking her. The people around them laughed and cheered them on.

Her friends seemed to tire so quickly. They tried to pull her off the dance floor but she shrugged them off. She wanted to keep going. One more song because a second, a third, a seventh, until she dimly realized that she had lost track of how many songs she had danced to. The realization did not concern her—as long as her body was moving, everything else was blissfully unimportant, even the strange way that time seemed to bend and twist around her as she danced. Her attention would drift away at the end of one song, only to come back to herself and find that she was back at the beginning again, or in the middle of a song she was sure she'd already danced to only minutes ago—or was it hours? One moment ran into the next and the next and circled back on itself again, and she flung her head back and surrendered to it, letting her past, present, and future twist themselves into gorgeous, intricate knots.

She was stumbling from exhaustion and soaked in sweat when John finally broke the spell. Laughing and clapping her on the back, he took her by the arm and shoulder and half-dragged her off the dance floor and back to a shivering sense of reality. He guided her back to a bar table where Shana and Erin stood with Brennan, who clutched his half-drunk beer tightly and kept his eyes so firmly focused on the floor he looked like he was trying to melt into it. As they rejoined their friends, John scolded her for drinking too quickly and getting so drunk. His tone was playful, but Sarah saw Shana and Erin exchanging worried looks. She felt a flash of embarrassment that was quickly swallowed up by a surge of anger so strong it soured her stomach, and she closed her eyes. When she opened them again Shana was staring at her sharply, but Sarah looked away, ignoring her.

Their plan had been to meet up with some of John's friends at Zach's house party after the club, but Zach's house was almost a mile away and they would have to walk. Sarah could hardly stand. Unable to completely resist the urge to move while the music was playing and too tired to question it, she swayed gently with her eyes closed as John and Shana argued about her as if she wasn't there. It reminded her, absurdly, of the way her mother and father had bickered during the few outings they took as a family, and for a moment she had to bite her lips to keep from laughing.

John kept suggesting that Brennan drive her home. Brennan's car was parked at the restaurant only a few blocks away, and he'd only had one drink. Shana objected over and over, but nothing she suggested made as much sense. Round and round they went. Finally, Sarah opened her eyes just in time to see Shana dart a glance at her, lips pursed in concern and frustration, and Sarah felt resentment flare up in her again. The urge to spit out something sharp and cutting that would wipe that look off Shana's face was so strong her mouth was half open before she caught herself.

She stumbled forward, taking Brennan's arm. He looked her in the face for the first time that night, startled, his cheeks faintly pink.

"Let's go," she said.

The dull exhaustion in her voice gave her words an uncomfortable note of finality, and, with brief, awkward goodbyes, they all split up for the night.

Both Sarah and Brennan were silent the whole way to Brennan's car. It was late. The only sound that interrupted the regular scuff of their shoes against the concrete as he walked and Sarah shuffled along was the occasional rush of a passing car. Breannan held her arm patiently, letting her set a pace slow enough for her aching calves and feet and pausing for her when she stumbled. He didn't speak. She knew that, as always, he was waiting for her to say something first. She could sense his expectation–it was almost as if she could see it, heavy and shimmering in the warm yellow glow of the streetlights, hanging all around her in the still, cold air, but not touching her.

When they got to his car, something shifted. In the enclosed space, the air they shared seemed to grow gradually denser. Without the distraction of trying to stay on her feet, Sarah felt increasingly conscious of her body while, at the same time, feeling strangely distant from it. Every sensation she felt was muted, like she was feeling it through someone else's skin. When she took a particularly deep breath or shifted her legs to draw them closer together, it seemed to happen automatically, without any thought or direction on her part. Yet all of these movements seemed to have taken on a larger significance. They changed the quality of the air, shifting the current of all of the unexpressed thoughts and feelings swirling in the cramped cab around her. Each sound—Brennan breathing, the dull throb of the engine, the rushing of the air whipping past the window—was crisp and clear in her ears.

They arrived at her apartment. Her eyes caught the wind-blown evergreen trees that grew along the property line, a dense and overgrown clump of elderly pine and yew that seperated the backyard of her apartment building and the houses along the next street over. Nothing had ever struck her as strange or remarkable about them before aside from how absurdly large they were, rising so tall and alone out of the closely mown lawns that surrounded them. But tonight the wind was high and their shaggy branches flailed and waved with a fervor that called to something deep inside her. For a moment, she thought she could see some kind of pattern in the branches as they undulated under the star-strewn sky. There was meaning in it, she knew, something deep and true that would wring her heart—if only she could discern it. She leaned forward, putting both hands on the dash and peering through the windshield to get a better look.

"Sarah?"

Startled, she turned and realized that the car had been parked for some time. Brennan stood, stooped, in the driver's side doorway, looking at her uncertainly across the center console.

"Oh."

In the ten or fifteen minutes she'd been riding in the car, every muscle in her body had set like concrete. She was so stiff and sore she got stuck as she tried to exit the car; at her hiss of pain, Brennan hurried around to the passenger side and took her arm.

Every movement was agony, like it had been the first morning she woke up after suffering the bargain's punishment. But the pain seemed to shake something loose within her. As she hobbled towards the front door, leaning heavily on Brennan's arm, she felt the apathy that had blanketed her for weeks, which she'd hardly been aware of until that moment, receding into the background. It was like she'd been walking around with full-body novocaine and it was only just wearing off. She was conscious, suddenly, of the night wind on her face, startlingly sharp and cold. She breathed deep, delighting in the way it made her lungs burn and then seize, the shock of it setting off a fit of harsh coughing.

As Brennan helped her through the front door, a blast of uncomfortably warm air hit her in the face, bringing with it the smell of dust, old polyester carpets, and hot metal from the radiator. Harsh white light filled the stairwell, and her eyes stung at the sudden contrast from soft, warm yellow of the streetlights. All of it thrilled her.

She still clung to Brennan's arm as they climbed the stairs, but really, she no longer needed his help. She held onto him more for the sensation of his hard forearm under the leather of his jacket than for support. The ache in her muscles felt comfortable now, a pleasurable sort of pain that she relished with every step, clinging to it like an anchor.

They reached her front door, and Sarah let go of Brennan's arm and turned to face him. His face was anxious, but she met his eyes with serene purpose, feeling strangely certain of what she was about to do, as if it had already happened.

His shoulders seemed to droop under the intensity of her gaze. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Uh," he said. "Do you want to have coffee or—"

He faltered as she reached out to him with one arm. Time seemed to stretch and thin as her long, pale fingers moved through the dust motes that drifted in the space between them and took a handful of his jacket. The leather of it was deliciously smooth and cold under her fingers. It crinkled stiffly as she tightened her hand into a fist. He watched her, mesmerized, as she drew him closer, turning her face up to his. The anxious wrinkles around his eyes smoothed as he looked down on her, and he bent his face down to meet hers.

Time unfurled again. The world rushed in on her, sensation upon sensation coming at her all at once, and she reveled in it all: the press of uncertain arms against her, the rough stubble against her cheek, warm, soft lips against her own, the smell of beer and cigarette smoke and cheap laundry detergent. It fixed her firmly in place and kept her from floating away; it held the world still and cleared the static from her mind.

"Wow," he said softly when they broke away. "Sarah—"

She leaned in again and kissed him harder this time, her dreamy sense of purpose hardening into something cruder. She dug her fingers into his jacket and turned them both around so that his back was to her door. She shoved him against it, and he let her. She felt the thud of the impact reverberate through his body into hers.

"Sarah, I don't think—" he kept trying to break away from her lips and speak but she kept pulling him back in. "I mean—are you still—"

His constant interrupting distracted her. "If you don't want to be here," she said irritably, pointing at the stairs, "then go."

Brennan stared at her, his eyes wide with surprise.

"Well?" she demanded. When he made no move to leave, she leaned in again.

"Woah," he said breathlessly when she stopped to fumble for her keys.

"Shut up," she said. She unlocked the door and pulled him into her apartment.

"Woah, Sarah," he said when she slammed the door and began unzipping his jacket and tugging it from his shoulders. "Maybe we should…I don't…slow down or some…oh my God…"

She slid her hand down the front of his pants.

"I said shut up." He was hot and already hard under her hand. She held his eyes firmly while she grasped him.

"Okay," he breathed. his lips were curved into a lopsided, uncertain grin. He cupped her waist with one hand and started sliding the other under her shirt.

"No," she said; she grabbed his wrists, hard, and yanked his hands off her. "Not till I say."

"Alright," he said. His pupils were blown wide, and his dark eyes were glued to hers like he had been hypnotized.

Releasing him, she unbuttoned his pants and pulled them down in quick, hard motions, shoving him backward onto her couch. She pulled off her shirt, but left her bra on. He was no longer grinning; he was staring at her, eyes wide, as though he could not believe what was happening.

She pulled off her pants and underwear and slid onto his lap on leg at a time, straddling him. Slouched against the back of the futon as he was, she towered above him.

"Can I touch you yet?" he asked, looking up at her, his voice tight and breathless. His hands hovered in the air over her hips.

"No." She grabbed his wrists and pushed them back against the couch and held them there. "Only I get to touch." She lowered her lips to his and kissed him slowly, deliberately, moving down to his neck and the crook of his shoulder her hips rose and fell, rubbing herself against him. He groaned as she teased him, throwing his head back and closing his eyes. Pleasure jolted through her with each light, gentle brush of him against her and it coiled deep in her belly as sharp and piercing as her pain had been.

Finally, when they were both panting, she kissed him hard and whispered in his ear.

"Ask."

"What?" he asked, his voice distant. She reached between their bodies, taking hold of him and guiding him between her legs, and he gasped, opening his eyes

"Ask me, nicely, or I won't."

He was confused. "I don't…"

"Ask!" She tightened her grip and he uttered a sound somewhere between a moan and a yelp.

"Please!" he moaned. "Please…let me…"

She lowered herself onto him in one smooth motion then, gasping softly as the hard heat of him parted and stretched her with stinging suddenness. He gave a strangled cry and leaned forward, trying to grab her hips again.

"No!" she snapped, slapping him across the face with enough force to rock his head back and knock him back against the futon. She grabbed his hands and held them back. He froze, shocked, and seemed about to say something, but she started moving against him, and he gasped.

"Oh my God," he said. "Oh my God." His eyes were fixed on hers with wide intensity, the red mark where she had slapped him standing out starkly on his skin. Allowing her to hold back his hands, he tried to thrust himself up to meet her, but she pulled away.

"No!" She kissed him hard, biting his lip, and when she felt him tense and began to protest, she lowered herself onto him again, clenching her muscles until he gasped and fell back. Then she rocked herself back and rose up on her knees until she was looking down at him, her breasts level with his eyes. She rose and fell against him, slowly at first, then faster, her sore muscles aching and her breath coming in ragged gasps as she drove him deeper and deeper into her, each thrust more frantic than the last.

They were both panting and desperate when she finally released his hands. As soon as she let go, he gave a strangled cry and grabbed her hips, thrusting wildly against her. She leaned against his chest, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and burying her head into the crook of his neck to muffle her cries against his skin. He grunted once, twice, a third time, and it was over.

They stayed in their awkward positions for several minutes, catching their breath. As the sweat cooled on her skin, the strange spell that had held her in its grasp all day seemed to vanish. The fragmented events of the night suddenly snapped into place, and a cold, unforgiving clarity descended on her. Her body suddenly seemed too heavy; the pain that gripped each exhausted muscle and the slowly fading pleasure that still fluttered under her skin no longer felt so delicious.

She pulled back from where she had laid herself against his shoulder, rising up slightly as she did so that he slipped out of her. She felt wetness against her thighs, and the sensation nauseated her.

She avoided his eyes, fixing her gaze on the back of her futon. "I have to work tomorrow morning," she said, her voice low and hard.

Even though she was not looking directly at him, she could see the confusion in his face, and the hurt that filled his eyes as it passed.

"Oh," he said, with a casual tone that sounded forced. "Yeah. Sure. I'll…I'll head out, then."

"Thanks," she said.

He held her arms, helping to steady her as she clambered awkwardly off of him, her legs once more stiff and very, very sore.

When he stood up, they were standing very close; he was still holding her hand. For a moment, she was worried he was going to bend down and kiss her.

"See you at work," she said quickly.

Hurt filled in his eyes again, and she hurriedly looked away, trying to conceal another flash of anger.

"Yeah," he said. "Sure."

He turned away from her and began to quickly gather his clothes, shrugging them back on with hunched shoulders and an apologetic air. Sarah ducked into her room for her bathrobe.

When she returned, he was pulling on his jacket. He raised his eyes to hers once more, his face a mixture of concern and mortification and hope.

"See you later," he said.

"Yeah," she replied faintly. Unconvincingly. She crossed her arms over her chest. "See you later."

He turned, and left.

And she was alone.