In the Eyes of the Queen [ Labyrinth ] ✔

Chapter Twenty-one

When we return to the flat, I make room in my wardrobe and use the extra hangers for Jareth's new things. With a sigh, I turn to him sitting on the sofa.

"So—" I begin, but Jareth interrupts.

"I have something for you."

He summons a crystal to his upturned fingertips and then it vanishes. At first, I notice nothing in its place, but then I see something dangling from his hand. I step closer. It is a necklace, a gold chain necklace to be exact. I stare. Jareth motions with his other hand and in my stupor I obediently turn around. He secures it around my neck. I look down. It has to be worth as much as the wardrobe I just purchased for him, which is quite a lot by my standards.

"As return payment for the clothing," Jareth says by way of explanation.

Well, this is not awkward at all. I glance at the clock. We have only been awake for a few hours, but we will have to go to sleep at some point tonight for a semi-decent amount of time in order to adjust to the time zone. What to do in the meantime? Oh!

I sit down. "So, we have to talk."

Jareth looks at me expectantly, that underlying amused expression annoying me once again. I noticed a few odd looks when we were at the mall, the is-that-your-daughter-or-your-girlfriend type of looks. Which begs the question, "How old are we going to say you are?"

Jareth seems surprised for a moment. "How old do I look?"

I study his face intently. I am not good at estimating ages. Humans have such a wide variety of looks for any given age, depending on their genetics and experiences and even their mood. It seems to be the same with him. When he still had that tired look about him he appeared... forty would be my guess. Now he looks significantly younger. He definitely cannot convincingly say he is in his twenties, though.

"Your thirties," I say, deciding, "most convincingly mid-thirties." Or late-thirties. "We can say thirty-five. I don't think that would be pushing it."

"And how old are you?"

Jareth knows how old I am, I am sure, but the point of the question is to point out our apparent age difference—not that it would matter to him; not that it matters to me; our true age difference is infinitely greater than that.

"That would make a sixteen-year difference," I answer his implied questions, "and yes, humans tend to scrutinize greater difference in ages, especially when the youngest is still quite young—which I am."

There are other matters we need to work out as well: we need to make up the rest of his story, and how we met. "Here is my plan: we will meet my parents tomorrow, and perhaps my friends on Sunday or some evening next week. On Monday I will give notice at work—that means I will tell them I plan on quitting but am giving them advance notice of two weeks during which I will work while they look for a replacement. Oh! I have to find out about moving out of this," I gesture dismissively to the small flat. "We have to figure out how to break the news to everyone, and we have to make up back stories for you and for us. And it is best to use as much truth as possible, that way we—I do not have as great a risk of being caught in a lie or forgetting anything."

We decide to tell the truth about when we met but say it was in the park I used to practice my acting (play pretend) in, and stretch the truth about our correspondence in the last three and a half years to seem like we exchanged letters and gifts of friendship that slowly evolved into love letters. We will admit that we met again during my "vacation" and spent a lot of time together between his obligations and my fun. As for his back-story, we will admit that he is a foreigner, but British (I think that is the most believable), and independently wealthy instead of a king.

%%%

I wake up in an odd mixture of relaxed and uncomfortable. My bed is not nearly as comfortable as Jareth's, but he has managed to secure me in an embrace again while I slept, so the calm he produces in my body almost rectifies the discomfort of my mattress. I assess the level of light behind my eyelids. It is fully light outside, but the sun rises early this time of year. I open my eyes and orient myself, searching for the glowing face of my digital clock. It is eight o'clock in the morning. I slept a full night. Wow. How is that even possible, considering I was only awake five or six hours before going to sleep?

Jareth nuzzles the back of my neck in sleep, reminding me of the possible—and likely—reason for my sleepiness. Why does he have to be so attached to me in sleep!? I do not want to move!

With a sigh, I mentally berate myself for playing with fire and getting myself into this mess in the first place. Of course, I am not really remorseful. Stupid little girl, what are you afraid of?

"Good morning."

Oh, bog, that feels good. I revel in the warmth of his greeting for a moment before wriggling from his hold and scampering to the kitchenette for orange juice.

"We can leave any time now. My parents will have breakfast for us," I explain as I rinse out my cup.

Jareth is sitting on the couch in acceptably human-looking clothes. His hair is pulled back and is staying put without gel or hat—but, I suspect, with a bit of magic. The bed is folded away, presumably neatly made and the pillows stuffed into the cabinet. I wi—would like to be able to do all that in an instant...

A fifteen-minute drive later, I am standing in front of my parents' door. I glance at the hall clock through the lace-curtained window. Eight-thirty. Everyone should be awake, especially since Robby's car is in the driveway. I should have known Karen would call him home for an emergency when I said I was bringing a friend, and that friend a "him." I would usually just walk in, but since I have an uninitiated guest, I feel I have to ring the doorbell.

Ding-dong.