Blue. That was her first coherent thought; just that single word.

It seemed to say it all.

Once, when her mother had vacationed in Capri, she’d sent Sarah a suntan oil-stained postcard of the famous Blue Grotto. By the looks of it, the mind behind her present surroundings had most definitely subscribed to the Grotto School of Architecture. There was a flickering blueness to the very atmosphere of the cavernous circular room in which she stood, the aqua tint of light refracted through water. Much of the effect could obviously be attributed to the enormous chandelier clinging to the arched ceiling like a monstrous stalactite encrusted with ice-blue crystals. Her gaze traveled downward, over the royal blue walls frosted with starry silver fleur-de-lis; a rich profusion of indigo velvet couches and mother-of-pearl inlaid tables clustered like exotic parasitic growths over a floor of blue-veined marble. There was something indefinably primal about all this cultured grandeur, something surreal that touched the spine and stomach and sex while urging her to ditch the higher cerebral functions like a spinster chaperone. Decadence. She could sense it hovering in the air, in the sickly-sweet perfume of decay.

The splendor paled against the figures at its heart, submerged in a jewel-toned ocean of silk and satin, velvet and taffeta and lace. They manifested every hue born of blue, from the palest aquamarine to the deepest cobalt, accented by shades of emerald and sea-green, plum and amethyst. Their very complexions assumed an oddly bluish, waxen cast in the charmed light, the strangled shade of those who die by drowning. The flutter of a fan here, the bending of a waist there, all blended into one continuous rippling rhythm; the low murmur of voices droned into the eternal swell and fall of the surf. Eyes glinted like starlight on water, with an equally chill elegance. It was for such as these, Sarah knew, the term “glitterati” had been coined.

A flicker of movement caught the corner of her eye, and she whirled around defensively, catching sight of a frightened woman in blue velvet in the broad sweep of ornate blue and silver mirrors lining the closest wall. Fearing a shout might shatter the vision, Sarah dared venture only a hesitant whisper. “Mom . . . ?”

Upon closer inspection, she realized that the woman was herself.

“Turn to the blue crystal mirror . . . well, as always, it is truthful
Oh, well you see it in the reflection of the real blue lamp . . .
And you try to tie together some connections . . .
You get some ribbons and some bows . . .
So you found a queen without a king
Oh, yes, and everyone here loved her . . . no one was wrong . . .
You’re just a little bit like her . . . a little bit like Juliet.”
-- “Juliet,” Stevie Nicks --

Although Sarah had told Monty that the dress was Renaissance, the label was not entirely appropriate. After Linda had loudly proclaimed that “There’s no way in hell I’m marching around onstage in a ruff and farthingale! It’s impossible to look sexy in a getup like that,” the costume designer had thrown historical scruples to the wind and let his sophisticated sense of aesthetics run free. The result was a gorgeous mishmosh of times and places, belonging to none yet inspired by them all. The low, tight bodice plunged to a point in front and back over voluminous folds of skirt; elegantly puffed sleeves widened into flowing sleeve trailers which grandly swept the floor with the slightest motion; a stiffly raised collar framed the white expanse of throat and decolletage, while intricate crystal, pearl and silver beadwork overlaid the entire affair. Like her mother before her, Sarah’s tresses had been twisted into a loose Grecian knot, delicate tendrils framing her neck and face, but this time her hair combs and earlobes were ornamented with genuine sapphires, the gems winking in the half-light like the eyes of a flirtatious lover.

Wherefore art thou Romeo. . . . .

“Late, as usual. I had hoped you’d outgrown such careless habits by now, Sarah. You’ve missed half the play already.” The undisguised eroticism of his voice washed over her with the impact of an unexpected undertow, threatening to seduce her out beyond her depth. The sudden spring of perspiration stung her blistered palms with a disturbingly undreamlike vividness. She pressed her fingertips and forehead against the coolly limpid surface of the mirror, longing vainly, like Alice, to take refuge within. Instead, she turned and faced the inevitable.

He was draped across an armchair with an elaborately casual feline grace, toying with a blue rose in place of a riding crop. Hunter-green velvet breeches clung smoothly as moss or lichen to his perpetually boot-clad legs, while a vest of the same material, embroidered with silver and set with emerald buttons, graced a ruffled blouse of peacock-blue satin. His blouse rivaled her bodice in terms of the unabashed lowness of its collar, displaying both his pendant and the carved-ivory musculature of his chest to great advantage. Sarah scoffed a bit at that. Hunter green and peacock blue; the colors of the predator and his abundant vanity. How marvelously emblematic.

Strange, though, that the mirror hadn’t warned her of his presence. She examined its surface in open-mouthed astonishment. He had to be there, didn’t he . . . .? Or maybe not. Strike two for the Laws of Physics. Jareth never played fair, even with the universe itself.

A teasing smile crept across his lips, into his eyes, and ended in the arch of one exquisite eyebrow. He pointed the rose at her accusingly. “No need for all this preening, Sarah. You’re breathtakingly lovely, as always.” He rose to his feet deliberately, without a single hurried or unconsidered movement to mar his studied nonchalance, appearing to flow more than walk as he advanced upon her. Jareth was more than just poetry in motion; he was an entire epic unto himself, every subtle, insinuating gesture speaking volumes. Borderline pornographic volumes, at that.

Smoothly slipping his arms about her waist, he pressed his chest against her trembling back, his chin resting in the warm, pulsing hollow of her throat, fitting like a jigsaw formed of blood and bone. Like a calligrapher’s brush, the petaled tip of the rose caressed the line of her jaw, the crest of her collarbone and the swell of her breasts, using her as a living parchment for his discourse of fear and desire. The scent of the bloom, warmed by her flesh, set her adrift in a musky excess of sweetness. Sarah stared at her lone mirror image in mounting dread, feeling unbelievably exposed by a dress which had squandered most of its yards of fabric on skirt and sleeves; it had spared precious little for the bodice, carefully cut to present the breasts like ripe fruit on a platter.

He regarded her reflection with an equal intensity, savoring both her shivering reactions and her futile attempts to suppress them. Finally, he turned her away from the mirror with the cool pressure of one black-gloved hand upon her cheek. “I can see myself reflected only in your eyes, Sarah,” he whispered. “My image fills your sight, your heart. Your soul. . . . ” His words trailed off as he sought more effective uses for his lips.

Oh, no, you don’t. One kiss had been more than enough; she wasn’t trusting her sense of self-preservation to withstand two. She evaded him awkwardly, sliding away against the wall of mirrors and scanning frantically for a door, but the chamber seemed as good as hermetically sealed. No hope for a smash-and-dash this time, either; the walls were discouragingly solid, and as for the mirrors -- even if any exit lay behind them, how could she get through the surface? She couldn’t even move one of those architecturally massive sofas, let alone wield one like a weapon, and one look at the flourishing blisters on her hands dissuaded her from attempting to kick or punch the mirrors; all she needed was to add lacerated arteries and tendons to her catalogue of injuries. Apparently he’d learned a bit more about defensive room design since their first meeting. Really, did she expect any less? And even if he’d been so kind as to provide her with a nice, civilized red neon exit sign, could she really walk out of a dream that easily?

Only one way to find out.

She straightened her back and thrust out her chin. At the very least, she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing how effectively he, the consummate musician, played his devilish tune on her emotions. She’d had a lot more grit when she was just a whiny little girl in the throes of prepubescent angst; but then again, she’d been too naive -- or stupid -- to comprehend the full extent of the stakes he liked to play for, or just how dangerous he could be. “That’s enough. Stop this dream. I’ve had it. I’m ready to wake up, right now.” She anxiously awaited the familiar, wrenching sensation of surfacing from unknown depths into blinking, bleary-eyed consciousness. Dreams were as adverse to recognition as Rumplestiltskin; you stole their power the instant you called them by name.

She kept waiting. Her proud posture sagged a bit as the seconds ticked by. There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home . . .

Jareth widened his eyes and clasped his right hand, still holding the rose, over his heart, while his other hand pressed against his brow in feigned distress. “You cut me to the quick, Sarah. Don’t you like the rose? And here I took such care to pick one that would match your dress.”

“Stop that! Don’t you even play dumb with me. You know exactly what I mean. I know this is just a dream. I want to get the hell out of this dress and the hell out of this room and the hell out of this nightmare! I want you to stop stalking me in my sleep, if you’re even real! I want my life back to normal, and I want you out of it! I want--”

He stemmed the flow of her tirade by pressing the rose to her lips, smiling with a carefully considered edge of malice. For a fraction of a second, she savagely toyed with the idea of biting the petals off and spitting them out in his face. Hadn’t she read somewhere that the best way to deal with a madman was to convince him that you were even more dangerously deranged than he was?

“Oh, really, Sarah, stop and listen to yourself for a moment,” he sneered. “It’s all about what you want, isn’t it? Me, me, me. Never a thought for anyone else. You’re never going to get a relationship to work that way, now, are you? Just take a look at your mother’s spectacular failures.”

Even amidst all that blue, Sarah’s vision went blood-red. “STOP IT!” She swung wildly, fist balled into an amateurish right hook, wanting nothing more than to wipe that smug grin off his face, even if it killed her. Instead, he caught her wrist easily, forcing it away from his face and against the mirror with a bruising grip. Covering her mouth with a bruising kiss.

Squirming and thrashing, her abortive attempts at rebellion seemed little more than the death-spasms of a mouse constricted in the claws of an owl. Gradually, her eyes closing, she ceased to struggle in his grasp. The tension eased within her pinioned arm, although it would be a grave mistake to say that she relaxed. Quite the opposite; his kiss appeared to feed upon her rage, transforming it by means of some unnatural alchemy into a stomach-shattering thrill of quicksilver coursing through her veins, melding with her muscles and her mind. She shuddered as its liquid rush propelled her other hand to touch the slippery softness of the satin on his shoulder, test the firmness of the flesh beneath. Mercury rising . . . .

He broke the kiss, but not the contact, the tingling pressure of his lips still barely brushing hers, their warm breath intermingling. When he finally spoke, each whispered word was like the shadow of a kiss, swathed in the unfamiliar tenor of an emotion that was almost sympathy. Tinges of condescending detachment narrowly disqualified his sentiments from any such uniquely human sensibility. Probably “pity” would be the more accurate term. It was one of his signature expressions, at any rate.

“Sweet Sarah. It seems you always either underestimate or overestimate me; rarely do you hit the mark. Just now, you’re giving me excessive credit. I’m not the sole director of this little drama of yours. Yet.” The potential implications of the pause hung heavy as a crystal in the glittering air, rich with portent, sinister with suggestion. “These are essentially your visions, your creations; the heart and soul of them belong to you. They are you, in a sense. If you truly want them to stop, you’re quite capable of stopping them yourself. Although I would imagine that a double dose of Valium might complicate that proposition. I do believe I’m flattered. You really didn’t want anything to interrupt our little rendezvous, did you?”

She searched his eyes, and found them as unreadable as ever. She’d read in melodramatic novels about drowning in a lover’s gaze, but with Jareth, she really was floundering, dog-paddling, going under for the third time in those fathomless pools that offered nothing but the promise to drag you down and down . . . .

She willed her voice not to shake. Like everything else in her life, it ignored her. “You’re telling me that you’re my dream creation? That I control you?”

“Perish the thought. I’m quite the independent entity. I’m merely -- how can I put this? -- catching a ride through your dreams. As part of a very generous attempt to offer you a way out of your nightmares, I might add.”

“Then get out.” Almost no trembling in her tone that time. Score one for the home team.

He released her arm, then held her fast with nothing save his stare. Coercion in its purest form, courtesy of its undisputed master. The enticing, almost ethereal touch of his fingertips ran from her wrists to her shoulders and back again, gloves grazing the plush velvet of her sleeves more delicately than an art collector might fondle a Faberge egg. A summer breeze could hardly have disturbed the fabric less; a hurricane could hardly have disturbed its wearer more.

Nuance; hints; shades of innuendo. Whispers screaming louder than a shriek. That paradox was the essence of Jareth’s deadly charm. Shunning cruder tactics with the refined taste of the true aristocrat, he never simply sought to push you over the edge (save for those occasions when, in a fit of pique, he cast a goblin into the Bog). He much preferred to lure you to it with the lingering echoes of a siren song, nudging by degrees until, scrabbling for a handhold, you realized that the solid ground had disappeared; ultimately, there was no longer anything left to grasp but what he chose to offer.

He made you take the plunge of your own volition.

Without warning, he renewed his grip upon her right wrist, turning her hand palm up as if to read her fortune. She winced instinctively when he raised his other hand to stroke the tender petals of the rose upon the sensitive center of her palm, following her lifeline with the speculative smile of a master archer drawing a bead on a bull’s-eye; Cupid himself could not have bested his aim or his intent. Deeply rooted, formerly dormant nerves in Sarah snapped to amorous attention, singing tremulous snatches from Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus” while her racing heart provided an enthusiastic backbeat. Every joint within her limbs, from elbow to ankle, defected en masse, leaving her to lean upon the mirror as her sole support. Thus preoccupied with the ardent intensity of more immediate sensations, she was only dimly aware that her blistered stigmata were vanishing as if they had never existed.

“But that would be boring. Such bad manners, Sarah. First you invite me, now you throw me out so unceremoniously--”

“I never invited you!” Her tone was dwindling in conviction now; if her own body could betray her in this fashion, why not her mind, her will? Perhaps it did go around placing the unspoken equivalent of paranormal personal ads behind her back: “Highly susceptible girl with tenuous grip on reality seeks supernatural predator for friendship, more. Flashy dressers a plus.”

“Ah, but you did. No need to look so indignant. It doesn’t suit you, you know. You’re not nearly as beautiful when you’re angry.” Before she could gather her wits sufficiently to formulate a suitably vitriolic reply, a chime rang out in thirteen strokes. Emanating from everywhere, and nowhere, the dying echoes of the chime gradually gave way to a slow creaking. Sarah immediately recalled the sepulchral sound produced by the gates of the Labyrinth, an infinitely foreboding, effectively uninviting creak transcending the merely minor vagaries of unoiled hinges. It was a masterpiece of sound: perfectly modulated, expertly timed, and painstakingly designed for maximum intimidation. Hoggle’s gravelly voice rasped within her memories. “You gets in there . . . .”

Opening at the far end of the room, accompanied by the aforementioned eerie racket, was a massive set of arched crystalline doors which had almost certainly not been there before. One door was carved with the mask of comedy; the other, with the mask of tragedy. Smaller carvings of muses, graces, artists, satyrs, and miscellaneous demigods capered in poses of frozen merriment around the borders. “That would be the end of intermission. Shall we?”

Sarah accepted his proffered arm slowly, stalling for time. She spared one last look around her, hoping for some elusive inspiration to strike. No other doors had appeared save the doors to the theater, and she didn’t fancy being trapped in this oppressive smurf explosion of a lobby all alone. It was a Hobson’s choice, really. Moreover, although she was loath to admit it, even to herself, some morbidly curious, cobwebbed corner of her mind wanted to know what was behind door number one, positively craved some insight into the outcome of this twisted little existential game show he was hosting in her head. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen to you in a theater, the province of harmless illusions?

With the obvious exceptions of Lincoln’s assassination and Anne Rice’s Theatre des Vampires, of course.

Before she could reconsider her options, they merged with the crowd. The gentry surged around them in a crushing wave of vibrant finery and luxuriant perfumes, depriving her of any semblance of a choice. Curious eyes like knives dissected her and found her wanting; a palpably unsettling twist lurked within their knowing smiles. She recalled the feeling when, as a little girl, she’d been the only one in her circle of friends who hadn’t understood a certain dirty joke, and had become the ensuing object of derisive giggles. She shrank a little nearer to Jareth. That was the real joke, wasn’t it? It was like snuggling with a shark for protection against piranhas.

Jareth grinned, and pulled her close. All he lacked was a dorsal fin and an ominous cello theme to complete the image.

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