Meanwhile, back in Santa Fe, Linda Williams was lost and clueless. Situation normal.

The phenomenon of a disappearing shop was, however, enough to throw even Linda off her Teflon stride. Unlike Monty, she was entirely unacquainted with Terry Pratchett’s infamous theory of enchanted “tabernae vagantes” (wandering shops). Aside from scripts, Linda never read much.

Similarly, Goblin Kings were an equally alien concept. After all, such knowledge could only be gleaned via intimate discussions with Sarah. Based on that criteria, Linda was less in danger of discerning Jareth’s existence than anyone else in the tri-state area.

“This is ridiculous. I swear that shop was right here!” She put her hands on her hips and thrust out her chin, her lips forming themselves into something dangerously close to a pout of frustration.

“Look, Linda, accept it. There’s nothing there but a goddam wall! Shops don’t just disappear. You remembered the cross-streets wrong, that’s all. Come on, let’s go back. It’s getting dark.”

“No, really, it has to be right around here, I just know it. Wait, that way looks familiar.” She set off with a determined air. Until she noticed that Mark was no longer following her.

“Mark! Are you going back to the hotel? It’s all right, poor baby, I probably shopped you out, didn’t I? I’ll just meet you back there, then.”

Fixing her with a look which would have withered a creature of more delicate sensibilities down to ashes, but which failed to faze her in the slightest, Mark felt the residual threads of his patience snap almost audibly. “Yeah. Works out for the best all around, doesn’t it? I’d just be in the way while you throw yourself at that jerk again. I should’ve remembered how you hate excess baggage when you travel.” He was actually trembling now, the rhythmically twitching nerve beneath his right eye keeping time with his rage. “Search all night if you damn well please. I’ve had it. I’m leaving.”

Exeunt Mark, stage right.

As she watched him disappear into the dusk, even Linda the Dense understood that he was referring to something far more final than retiring to the hotel for the night.

Sarah perched on the edge of her bed, staring at the dreamcatcher hanging from her bedpost in rapt fascination. Under the light of the study lamp, it glimmered far more brilliantly than in the semi-darkness of the shop; it almost seemed to attract light like a magnet. She read the card again, close to crying. It was even more beautiful than the music box had been. Her mother knew her better than anyone else did, to have chosen a gift like this. Her mother cared.

Seized by the sudden fierce desire to hear her mother’s voice, pour out her doubts, she snatched up the phone and dialed her number. Surely she’d understand exactly what she was feeling; she’d probably gone through the same thing herself with carping critics. They’d laugh about it together. Call Dr. Ashby unrepeatable names.

“Hello, you’ve reached Linda Williams. I can’t take your call at the moment, but if you leave a message . . .” She abruptly hung up the phone on the too-perky voice, and let her white-knuckled hand linger on the receiver for rather longer than it should. When was the last time, she reflected quietly, that her mother had actually been at home when she called? She hastily squelched the disloyal thought. Come on, Sarah, get a grip. So she has a life. You should try to get one yourself, you might like it.

She felt bone-weary. Like she hadn’t slept in forever. That’s not long at all . . . Oh, shut up, brain. She was too tired to think, and besides, she’d never understood Jareth’s paradoxes anyway.

Sarah crawled beneath the covers, her movements heavy and sluggish, not even bothering to change out of her clothes. So what if her stepmother would disapprove. Let her. There was a tiny, shameful satisfaction in that. Just prior to switching off the lamp, she directed one last wistful glance at the dreamcatcher.

Outside, an autumn storm was brewing. Wind chimes whipped themselves into a frenzy, and erratic flashes of lightning illuminated the room in fits and starts. The dreamcatcher glowed with an icy brilliance, ghost-pale as a snowflake heralding the coming of winter. The wind became a furtive whisper inside her drowsing mind.

“It will show you your dreams . . . .”

Feather image edited from Graphics by Tammy; Moon image edited from Yahright Graphics Archive; Background from Joerg Doehring's Backgrounds.