Sundown on the last Wednesday in April. I'm playing a game of checkers with Mr. Smee in my last hour on duty when an emergency call comes through on the House's communications system. "Confidential and urgent, confidential and urgent," the House informs me, and I excuse myself from the game table to rush to my office to take the call in private (from the corner of my eye noticing as I hurry out that Smee is rearranging two of my checkers). As soon as I close my office door, Sheriff Kwan-Wolfe's bearded face appears on my wall. "Ms. Fée? There's a disturbance. Given the circumstances, I thought you could help. I'm sending an Auto-Cab for you."

"Me? Does it involve the Arbors somehow?" My mind leaps into gear: why hasn't the Sheriff called Blue? Is it something do with a resident?

"No. I would rather not say more until you arrive." With a flick of his finger, the sheriff tilts his camera enough that I can see a crowd of people behind him. They're all looking in the same direction, away from the sheriff, and making a lot of racket. I run out to the street, tossing a hasty "Gotta go out for a minute," to Jonquil, and climb into the cab that's already pulled up the curb. It whisks me off to the coordinates given to it by Kwan-Wolfe, darts through the streets somehow dodging the rush-hour traffic and the traffic lights, and suddenly drops to a crawl when it turns onto Pine Street, when a crowd of some thirty or forty people clog the street. I'm not familiar with this part of town; probably no one is. It's in the eastern edge of Storybrooke, in a cluster of abandoned buildings that used to house the cannery. I pop out of the cab, forgetting to pay the bill—that's not really problem; the cab took my photo and charged my credit card as soon as I slid inside. Unable to see above the heads I'm lost in, I swim through the crowd until a flash of sunlight reflecting off silver bounces into my eyes, momentarily blinding me.

"Ms. Fée." Kwan-Wolfe is using the surname we fairies use in LWM; this is official business, then. "I wanted to give you a chance to step in before I start making arrests." He leans in to speak into my ear. "See if you can get him out of here. I don't want to have to arrest him." He points in a direction I can't see over all these people, most taller than I am. "He's never been any trouble before. If I do have to arrest him, I'll only let him go. But I thought I'd save us all some paperwork."

Him? The first name that pops into my head is Mr. Gold. Whatever he's doing, however he got here, miles from the Home, in his wheelchair. . . my mind flashes back to the newspaper article I read in the library, the report of his magic tantrum following Belle's death. "Excuse me, pardon me, excuse me," I shove my way through the crowd in the direction of Wolfe's pointing finger, and when I finally free myself from elbows and torsos, I'm standing in a no-man's land between the onlookers and the troublemakers. The latter are standing with their backs to me, so I can't see their faces, but I can be sure none of them is Mr. Gold. There's eleven of them, surrounding a tool shed. I stand there, frozen, gaping, trying to figure out what's going on, or even if the trouble has already passed and the crowd just hasn't dispersed yet. I scan back after back, all of them broad, muscular, and clothed in plain black t-shirts, and every figure in this line of eleven broad backs is holding something I can't make out, until I edge my way to the side.

In every fist is a baseball bat. And from the defiant stance each pair of denim-clad legs has taken, I deduce these men aren't here to play.

I try to look back to the sheriff, hoping to catch his eye for some clue as to whom he wants me to pull out of the lineup, but the onlookers have closed ranks behind me. With a hard swallow, I inch round to the side of the nearest troublemaker. My eyes fall upon a familiar pair of boots. . . .

"Cherie?"

I yank my head up. "Jo?"

With a hasty glance at the man standing next to him—I know this guy; he plays shortstop for the Storybrooke Sluggers—Jo lowers the baseball bat that he's been cradling and he twists around to speak to me over the noise. "Cherie, what are you doing here?"

"Wolfe sent for me. What are you doing here? You guys haven't moved ball practice out here, have you?" My voice squeaks with the false hope.

"Oh, hi, Cerise," the shortstop grins at me. "Hey, don't tell my wife you saw me here, okay?"

Jo rests his bat across his left shoulder and takes my elbow to steer me away from the crowd. "We're here. . . call it a citizens' response team. In support of an understaffed sheriff's department."

"I doubt if Wolfe sees it that way. What are you citizens responding to?"

"Him." Jo points his bat in the direction of the shed. Now that I've cleared away from the crowd, I can see a face peering through the cracked-open shed door. Just a nose and wide dark eyes are visible. "And that." Jo's bat swings toward a warehouse a few yards to the south of the shed.

"I don't. . . ." Then I notice something weird about the warehouse: its windows are curtained. Pale blue lace curtains with big yellow flowers, pretty odd for an abandoned warehouse. One of the curtains moves. I catch a glimpse of a hand. Then I notice that the door to what once was an office has opened a crack. "What's—" I interrupt my own query to gasp.

A message has been spray-painted on that door: "Im gon kill you bich."

"That's the Battered Women's Shelter. Gary's wife is the cook there. She called Gary when he"—Jo points to the shed—"showed up, yelling and waving a knife. And Gary called the team."

The two deputies have now arrived, and while one of them controls the crowd, the other accompanies Wolfe to the shed, where negotiations begin.

"For you to, what?"

"That's Kyle Nottingham."

My stomach turns inside out. I don't want to hear any more. I want to run away. Because if that's Kyle Nottingham in the shed, then that's Maxine Nottingham cowering in the warehouse-turned-shelter. And who knows how many other clients of the Battered Women's Shelter. And if Kyle Nottingham is threatening to kill Maxine, then it means the system that was supposed to protect her has failed, and the Emigration Committee, which denied her application to flee across the town line, is in part in fault.

I can hear Mr. Gold in my mind's ear: "You could help her. A glamour spell. Her husband will never recognize her."

This didn't have to happen. I could've protected her with a literal wave of my hand. I look up into Jo's face, expecting to see accusation there. He knows my involvement in this case; I'd told him about it when the committee made its decision. He knows that I've only now begun to accept Mr. Gold's magic lessons. It's not accusation I see, but barely reined-in outrage. Is it directed at me? I sputter, a jumble of excuses and apologies for my part in this incident, but Jo swings back toward the shed and thumps his bat against his palm. "We were at Spencer Field, practicing. Gary said that the deputies were off-duty and Wolfe was on the other side of town, breaking up a fight. It was going to take a few minutes for law enforcement to get here, so—" he thumps his bat angrily. He glances at me again, his face dark. "We're here to send a message."

"Even if it means you go to jail."

"To be honest, I don't think that's likely. Eleven of us in two jail cells?" Jo juts his chin in the direction of a little group of lookiloos who are taking pictures. "Realistically, I think this is the worst that's going to happen: our pictures all over the evening news."

I scan the faces of the Sluggers, who have backed away a few steps to give Wolfe and his deputy room to deal with Nottingham. "One banker, one high-school principal, the president of the Chamber of Commerce, a surgeon, a city councilman, a chef" —my eyes widen—"and a priest. Yeah. All over the evening news. Wolfe asked me to get you to leave."

"We all will, just as soon as Nottingham's locked up."

"Jo." He's the most gentle man I've ever met. He even scoops up cockroaches and releases them outside rather than smash them. "Would you have—" I gesture to the bat.

"The message was enough."

Applause breaks out as Wolfe and his deputy haul a handcuffed Nottingham from the shed and toss him into the back of the squad car.

"Let's go home now," I tug at Jo's belt.

He gives a nod to his teammates, who have begun to disperse, to handshakes and back-slaps from the onlookers. "Yeah. Practice is over for today." He opens his arm to make room for me beneath it; I accept the gesture to show him my support. We walk the five miles back to his house, mostly in silence.

The evening after Nottingham's arrest, K. T. McIntosh calls an emergency meeting of the Emigration Committee. Our agenda: the creation of a policy to respond to refugee requests. Maxine Nottingham, Kwan-Wolfe, the director of the Battered Women's Shelter and the director of the Battered Men's Shelter testify. By midnight we have the first draft of a policy, which the City Attorney will review. By 1 a.m. we have a sponsor in the LWM lined up for Maxine. Some of us are still worried about Maxine's lack of financial resources, until K. T. steps out of the room to take a personal call; when she returns, she pauses beside my chair before resuming her seat at the head of the table. She shows me an image on her phone. "Are you responsible for this?" she whispers, but she's amused so I know I'm not going to be chewed out.

I admit, "I might have sent a message during the break. He wanted to be kept informed."

K. T. walks around the table, announcing as she passes by us, "Regarding the requirement for an emigrant to have a minimum of five thousand credits with which to start his or her new life outside Storybrooke: in Ms. Nottingham's case the requirement has been met by an anonymous donor." She pointedly throws a smile at me as she sits down, and the committee members turn in my direction. I just shrug.

"I wish to add that I will be tasking the Sheriff's Department with preparing a budget proposal that will allow for two new full-time positions. As soon as it's ready, I'll be presenting it to the City Council, where I expect it will pass unanimously. And, as an interesting side note, a substantial donation has been made to increase security at both shelters." K. T. picks up her gavel. "Now, considering it's past one o'clock and we all have jobs to go to in the morning, I call this meeting adjourned."

"You've been unusually quiet this morning."

After the upheaval of the past week, Jo and I are enjoying a peaceful Saturday at the lake. Or trying to. We've both been lost in thought and apparently, so are the trout today; we haven't had a nibble in four hours.

"I guess so," I admit. I force myself to emerge from the cavern of my imagination, where the ghost of Maxine Nottingham resides. The Emigration Committee, the women's shelter staff, the Sheriff's Department and the Storybrooke Sluggers escorted Maxine to the town line yesterday. Her sponsor, a former Storybrooker who's currently attending med school in Philadelphia, was there to pick her up. The sponsor will return to Storybrooke when his studies are finished and hang his shingle as the new obstetrician; Maxine, from here on out living under an assumed name, will never return. As for her ex-husband, he's taken a plea bargain that will exile him to Wonderland.

"You saw a side of me that I seldom show people," Jo confesses. "I'm not a violent man; I want you to know that, Cerise. But I can't abide what that man did, especially because—Did she tell the committee that marriage was arranged?"

"Yes." I scowl, remembering; on the day she graduated high school, Maxine had been sold out by her family. The Nottinghams had money; the Whitfords had status, the patriarch of the family having been a prince in the Enchanted Forest before jumping realms to escape debtors. Only half a generation removed from the old country, the Whitfords still thought very highly of the old customs—and of themselves. They thought nothing of offering up their firstborn daughter and her title—in Storybrooke, good only on paper. Besides, they couldn't afford to send her to college, nor was she scholarship material, so they thought they were doing her a favor, saving her from working some pink-collar job for the rest of her life. The Nottinghams, whose wealth had come from suspect means, assumed that with the addition of a young, innocent bride of blue blood, their name would rise to the ranks of Mills and Charming within a generation or two.

Some days it's a relief to me to be just one of the ordinary folk. Well, the Storybrooke version of ordinary.

"K. T.'s been consulting with the City Attorney to see if there's something that can be done to outlaw forced arranged marriages," I inform Jo.

"Well." He's staring at the ground. "I had something to do with the Nottingham marriage."

My head snaps up. "You?"

"The Whitfords were in deep debt to a lot of people in town. I was in the process of foreclosing on their house. They begged me to give them more time, but I'd already extended their mortgage as far as I could. Whitford asked me for a personal loan, but I wouldn't give it to him. Then he asked me to persuade Mr. Gold to make the loan, and I said no. He left my office; I thought that would be the end of it, until the foreclosure went through, but he was back the next week, with a big grin and big fat check to pay down his mortgage. I saw the engagement announcement the next day. I knew what Kyle Nottingham was; I'd gone to high school with him. But I didn't say anything. I just took the check and tore up the foreclosure papers."

"Maybe we all could have done something. Maybe we're all to blame." I brush my sleeve against my burning eyes. "We won't let it happen again."

"No, never again."

"I want to learn magic."

Gold is in the garden, awaiting the arrival of his pupils. His back is to me so I can't see his expression, but I hear a smile in his voice. "Let's begin then."

Mother's Day. My professional life, I'm learning, bounces from one holiday to another. While I'm busy searching for Mother's Day-related program ideas, our receptionist Jonquil suggests I make it easy on myself and simply copy everything that my predecessor did last year. I reject that suggestion, but Ruby has one I like and will adopt: "Most of the women here are grandmothers too, so why not call it 'Grandmothers and Mothers Day'?" That, along with the work I've been doing for my gift for Mr. Gold, gives me the idea I'm looking for: we'll have a holodeck show in which we bring back, via holo-actors, our residents' grandmothers. Our H0l0deck Service techie creates some software that runs all throughout the day and all throughout the House, with holo-grannies popping in and out randomly for 10-minute visits. The element of surprise produces an air of anticipation: no one knows just when his or her granny will show up, so everyone is on high alert, and they've all memorized all the grannies' names.

The game starts in the middle of breakfast, when Ruby's Holo-Granny drops in, dressed in an apron and pretending to serve pancakes. Being just an image, of course she can't actually touch anything—not even her own granddaughter, who rushes to her with arms open wide, then giggles when her embrace takes in only air. A few minutes later, before Granny Lucas has quite finished telling a tale of her adventures in Camelot, Guinevere appears behind her, tapping her shoulder to get her to step aside so she can call for her grandson Landry (formerly the Black Knight).

It's like that all day, and the holo-actors have been programmed to deliver messages of good cheer, even to those grandchildren who never met them in real life, or who despised them for crimes against the family. None of our residents refuse their "visits," although some certainly have reason to. As I watch Mr. Branson welcome his granny with heartfelt affection, even though, in real life, she had abandoned her family to run off with a horse trader from Avonlea and never came back, it occurs to me that this bond of blood must be a powerful thing, perhaps second only to the power of True Love.

Envy gnaws at me and is not ameliorated when Blue congratulates me on a clever holiday program. "She raised me, but I will never feel for her what our residents feel for their flesh-and-blood families," I confess that evening when Jo drops in for a weekly visit in Mr. Gold's room.

Mr. Gold is especially quiet tonight, almost withdrawn. Like the other residents, he had a brief meeting with his grandmother, his father's mother, but the ten minutes had consisted of two minutes of Odilia's offers to share amusing stories from Malcolm's childhood and two seconds of Mr. Gold's politely cold refusal. The remaining eight minutes they passed by watching other granny/grandchild reunions. "I guess it didn't work out for you, either," I prompt. If he's angry with me for arranging Odilia's appearance, I'd rather he tell me up front so I can apologize—and have some clue as to whether to proceed with the research necessary to complete my gift for him.

"I'm not dissatisfied with it. Odilia died before I was born, so I've always been curious as to what she looked like. I just wasn't eager to hear about my father's delightful childhood." He sips his tea, his hand a little unsteady: Jo stands by just in case Gold needs assistance. After several minutes of awkward and, for us, unusual silence, apart from the clinking of our cups against our saucers, Mr. Gold collects himself and offers a small (shy?) smile. "Josiah, as Cerise here was gamboling about, making preparations for this holiday, I was inspired to do a little digging around in my memory chest, and I found something I'd like for you to have. Not so much a gift as a return of something that belongs to your family. Sparrow, if you would? It's on my nightstand."

I retrieve an envelope that I carry over to Jo. It hasn't been sealed, so Jo is able to remove its contents without tearing the envelope. He skims over the single sheet of pristine white bond paper, then his mouth falls open and he reads the document again, more closely. Finally he turns it around to show me. The City Seal is stamped into the top margin of the paper and in red and blue lettering, the heading declares this document to grant "Permission to Immigrate into the City of Storybrooke, ME."

"This was our first official acceptance." Mr. Gold's voice is soft with memory. "On July 1, 2020, the newly formed Immigration/Emigration Committee, presided over by Mayor Snow White and chaired by Dr. Archie Hopper, voted 10 to 1 to admit Amelia Anderson-Dove, formerly of Minnesota, into Storybrooke as a permanent resident."

"This is beautiful, Mr. G." Jo runs a calloused finger over the embossed seal. "Thank you."

"Who was the one dissenting vote?" I have to know.

"Leroy Miner. But to his credit, he later came round to our way of thinking and apologized to Amelia for his contrariness. Good thing, too, because she later helped him to connect with a long-lost brother. It seems there had been, in fact, nine dwarfs brought over from the Enchanted Forest, but one of them had run away to become a jockey at Aqueduct right after the First Curse broke."

Even Mr. Gold chuckles at this anecdote. This gives me an idea: "Hey, Jo, I know you called your mom this morning, but it's only six o'clock in Minnesota. . . ."

Jo runs with the idea. "Mr. Gold? How would you like to chat a bit with Storybrooke's first legal immigrant?"

"I would indeed," our friend beams. It's a rare thing for him to permit enthusiasm to show, but I imagine his chessboard mind is making the leap: Amelia Dove knew Belle Gold, back in the day. In fact, worked alongside her, and thus may have some memories to share.

"Now, there's something I should mention: since retiring, my folks have changed a bit. You probably remember them as quiet, reserved people." At Gold's nod, Jo continues, "Well, they've come out of their shell over the years they've been gone. While they were living in Storybrooke, they kept to themselves. Part of it was out of loyalty to you."

Gold explains to me, "I had a lot of enemies in those days." The dryness of his tone and the wink that follows this admission clue me in that he recognizes it's an understatement—a big understatement. I giggle and so does he.

"If they got too friendly with other people, they worried that people would take advantage of their connection with Mr. Gold. And, let's face it: life in a town where ten percent of the population has magic, it can be dangerous. You say 'good morning' without enough deference, you could get turned into a fire hydrant. The safest thing is to keep your head down, and my family did that very well. Being tall helped. People took us seriously. Anyway, when they retired, they moved back to Bemidji, where Mom still has a brother and two sisters and nieces and nephews and cousins. They knew a lot about antiques and fishing, so they fit right in to the community. And, thanks to a comfortable pension from Mr. Gold, they had no financial worries." Jo shrugs. "They opened up. Now, it can be hard to get a word in edgewise."

I clap my hands (I'm relieved: it won't be difficult to converse with them, then. And they may just choose to like me, out of loyalty to their son). "I can't wait to meet them."

Gold adds, "I look forward to catching up with them. Though your mother sends me news-filled Christmas letters, I do miss their daily presence."

"Let's do it, then." Jo addresses the House: "Call this number." He rattles off twenty digits, then stares into the ether as he waits for the connection to be made. In a moment, a female voice queries, "Hello? Jo Jo?"

"Mom, I'm here with two friends who'd like to talk with you, if that's okay. Can you give us a visual?"

There's a scrabbling sound, then a face flickers into view on Mr. Gold's wall. "Sorry," she's patting her mouth with a napkin. "Your father and I were having a little cake. Trying out a new recipe, don'tcha know?" She waves. "Hello, everyone. Is that Cerise?"

"Hi, Ms. Dove!" I wave back. This is our first meeting, but Jo's told her about me and has sent her a photo from the Mills Foundation fundraiser. I do believe the word girlfriend came up in that conversation.

Jo's arm slides around my shoulder. "Yes. Mom, I'd like you to meet Cerise. Cerise, my mom, Amelia."

"Call me Amelia, sweetie. It's good to meet you."

"And I think you'll recognize who else is here." Jo rests his free hand on the back of the wheelchair.

Amelia leans into her screen and squints. "Rumplestiltskin Gold? Is that you, Mr. Gold?"

"It is." I'm delighted to see Mr. Gold straighten his spine and puff out his chest a bit in an attempt to impress. "How are you, Ms. Dove? And your husband?"

"We're doing pretty good, Mr. Gold." Over forty years these two have known each other, and yet, because their original relationship was one of employer-employee, they still address each other formally. "Spring's finally blown in so we're able to get out to the lakes at last. Cabin fever made us both cranky, don'tcha know? How're you doin', sir?"

Gold tries to be philosophical in his honesty. "Been better, been worse. Four hundred years take their toll."

"Is Dad around? Can we get him on the phone too?"

"Just a minute." Amelia turns away from the camera and says something we can't hear before turning back. "He's in the bedroom, restin' up. Gonna get on the line there. We were out at Kitchi at the crack of dawn this mornin', chasin' walleye, so it kinda wore him out. So two calls in one day!" She's addressing her son but her eyes are on me. "Something special happen in between?"

Jo and I exchange an embarrassed glance. We're both thinking that she's thinking—well, I don't want to disappoint her, but we can't have her jumping to conclusions, so we both blurt out hasty answers: "Mother's Day" is mine; "Your immigration certificate" is Jo's. Beside us, Gold snorts.

Jo catches his breath. "Mom, Arbor on the Bae was celebrating Mother's Day today, and so Mr. Gold was reminiscing, and he showed us this." Jo holds up the certificate for Amelia to squint at. "Do you remember? Your immigration papers. Allowing you to move into Storybrooke."

"Hello, Jo Jo," a husky voice interrupts and a ruddy male face appears on the other wall. "Who you got with you there? Is that—is that you, Mr. Gold?"

Introductions are made all over again, with Mr. Dove insisting I call him Josiah while Mr. Gold refers to him as "Mr. Dove." More "how are you's" and weather and fishing reports follow before Jo returns to the subject at hand. "Dad, Mr. Gold was showing us Mom's immigration papers, and that got us to talking. I have a vague memory of you telling me about those days, and I thought it would be fun for you two and Mr. Gold to share the story of how Mom became the first outsider allowed to settle in Storybrooke."

"Oh, of course," Amelia responds. "You know, you wouldn't be here, if not for that piece of paper."

Her husband amends, "You'd've been born in Minnesota. And Mr. Gold would've had to find another assistant, because I wasn't going to come back to Storybrooke without my Neely."

"Or Belle and I would've had to move to Bemidji," Mr. Gold suggests. "Because it just wouldn't have been acceptable, not having a Dove working for me."

"Aw, thanks, Mr. G."

Jo nudges the story along. "So was it quite a battle, getting permission to immigrate?"

"Well—"

"We should start at the beginning, dear," Amelia butts in. "How we met."

"Sure. Well, Mr. G. had several antiquers he traded with, up and down the coast, and some of the things were pretty delicate."

"Likely to get damaged in delivery, so Mr. Dove would make the trips for me. This was after the Second Curse was broken, of course. And then I learned of an opportunity I couldn't pass up, with a shop in Bemidji. Do you remember what it was, Mr. Dove?"

"Sure. It was a spinning wheel once owned by Martha Washington."

"Beautifully restored, as the photos attested, and I had to have it, regardless of the price. So I sent Mr. Dove out there to pick it up."

"And gave me two weeks to poke around the other shops in Minnesota. I came to Bemidji first to buy the Washington wheel, and you'll never guess who sold it to me."

"Me!" Amelia peeps. "It was my mother's shop. I was a librarian—never had much interest in running a business— just happened to be there that day and made the sale."

"Well, I decided right then and there, I needed a guide to show me around Minnesota. And before the end of those two weeks, I came back to Maine with a truckload of antiques and a pretty young bride. I would've high-tailed it right around if Mr. and Ms. Gold hadn't stepped in. I wasn't going to cross that town line without my bride."

"We called Mr. G. from a motel in Portland. We weren't sure what would happen if we tried to drive over the town line without the magic being lifted first, and I didn't want to find out."

"You might've got turned into a tree or something." Mr. Dove shudders. "But I knew Mr. G. would take care of us."

"I informed the Nolans and Snow called an emergency meeting of the newly appointed Immigration Committee. We met that same night. It was a battle, yes, especially because we were asking for an immediate decision. But it was always hard for people to say no to Belle, and she was such a believer in True Love that she would have argued all night long if she'd had to. Besides, she argued, if you can't trust True Love, surely you can trust a fellow librarian. I suppose, though, if I were completely truthful about it, I'd have to admit that there may have been a little bit of string pulling on my part to convince the holdouts."

"It's even harder to say no to Mr. Gold," Amelia snickers. "Everybody in town owed him something—if not a favor, then rent."

"Neely and me were pacing a hole in the carpet of that motel room. When that phone finally rang, all Mr. Gold said was, 'I'll meet you at the town line in one hour.' And he did, along with half the town. When I drove the truck over that orange line, everyone had their cell phones up, filming it."

"Mayor Snow brought a case of champagne and we stood there on that dark highway, drinking a toast to history," Amelia sighs.

"Did you have any idea what you were getting into, Amelia?" I ask.

She sniffs. "How could I? On the drive back, Josiah tried to tell me where he'd come from, where his people had come from—"

"Not all of it. Not all at once," Mr. Dove admits. "It took me a whole year before I told her everything."

"I had enough trouble believin' you lived in a town full of witches and sorcerers and the like. I don't know what had got into me that I was willing to get into a truck with a man I knew only two weeks that swore, with a straight face, he worked for a sorcerer. I guess I assumed he meant one of those nightclub magicians. But the farther we drove, the more he told me, and the more I thought either he's crazy or I am, but there was no going back. We were married."

"When did you start to believe his story?" Jo asks.

"That next morning, I had a hunch. See, that night, we parked the truck behind the pawnshop, and then Mr. and Ms. Gold gave us a ride home in their Cadillac. The next morning, Josiah and I put on our coveralls and walked back to the pawnshop to unload that truck, and we found it standin' open. Well, we were in a panic, don'tcha know? Thought someone had stolen all those antiques. But Mr. Gold was standing there behind the counter, completely calm, just said, 'Good morning, hope you slept well.'"

Mr. Dove picks up the tale. "And I looked around the shop and saw he'd already dusted everything off and put price tags on it all. Everything we'd brought from Minnesota."

"Except the spinning wheel," Mr. Gold interjects. "I kept that for myself."

"I asked him, 'How did it all get in here? Surely you didn't carry it all in yourself.' Because some of those pieces took two of us to lift, they were so heavy," Amelia explains. "He just wiggled his fingers and said, 'Magic, dearie.' Well, I wasn't about to take that for an answer, even if he was my husband's boss, and I opened my mouth, but before I could call him a prevaricator, he swished his hand across the empty counter and suddenly, there was a silver tray, with steamin' cups of coffee and a plate of danishes on it. 'Care for a little morning snack?' he said." Amelia shakes her head in wonderment.

Mr. Dove chuckles. "And you know what? Those danishes were pretty good."

"Well, throughout the rest of the day, I kept seeing little acts of magic all around me. Everywhere I went, things would suddenly move, or vanish, or appear. I saw a band of dwarfs marching down Main Street, off to work. I saw a guy with a sword strapped to his hip get out of a pickup and walk into a diner. I saw a woman in a green dress waiting at a bus stop, and when it started to rain she flicked her hand in the air and a pair of wings appeared on her back, and she shrank down to the size of a bird and flew off. That night at home, a man with a spotted dog came to visit us and give me his business card. 'This has to be overwhelming to you,' he said. 'I can help you adjust. Give me a call any time.'"

"Archie Hopper," Mr. Gold murmurs.

"The next day, she didn't want to get out of bed," Mr. Dove says. "She just pulled the covers up to her chin and when I asked her what she wanted for breakfast, she said, 'A stiff drink.'"

"But then Belle came over," Amelia recalls, "and made me get dressed, and took me over to the library. The minute I walked in and saw the Storytime Corner and the Circulation Desk, I felt almost normal. She gave me a hug and said she was thrilled to have another librarian to talk to, and she hoped I'd consider coming to work with her, because Gideon was only three at the time and she wasn't able to have the library open as many hours as she wanted to. We walked into her office to talk about the job and I accepted it right off, didn't ask about salary or work hours. I needed that job. She told me about her plans for book clubs and adult literacy classes and a career center. When I told her my specialty was genealogy, she started laughing. She kept on laughing, right up until the ribbon cutting on my new Genealogy Center."

"The fifth grade history class came over for the ribbon cutting," Mr. Gold remembers. "I was there, curious."

"And I was there, proud as a peacock," Mr. Dove adds.

Amelia snickers. "I always suspected my Josiah had a peacock somewhere in his family tree. Anyway, those kids settled in, so polite and quiet, listening to me while I explained what genealogy is, what you can learn from it, and I demonstrated some of the online resources, using my own ancestors for an example. Then I asked for a volunteer and not a one would raise a hand. I wondered if it was a status thing. See, after telling me about Storybrooke's big secrets—"

"And then picking you up off the floor," Josiah butts in.

"I might've teetered a bit, because I knew my man wasn't crazy or a liar, and the only third option I could come up with was that it was all true. So back to my story. After it settled on me what Storybrooke is, I started noticing what it isn't: it isn't a democracy. Yeah, it's a paper doll imitation of one, but no matter how many shiny ribbons and bows we put on it, it's deep down a monarchy, even now. I saw that everywhere I went, the way certain people got deferred to, got preferential treatment, the first place in line at the post office, the nicest cut of meat at the butcher's, the biggest scoop of ice cream at the sweets shop, the closest parking space, the most room on the sidewalk. Even their kids and their pets got excused for behavior that other people's kids and pets got punished for. It was the magic users first that got treated special. That made sense, even if it wasn't right: just self-preservation, you didn't want to tick the Evil Queen or the Dark One off. Sorry, Mr. G., but it's true."

Gold dips his head. "It is—was. And I took advantage."

"After I got to know you, and after Josiah's dad told me a bit about your history, I didn't blame you. If I'd grown up like you did, I probably would've grabbed at any straw that would give me some clout, too."

"That I did." His voice is low. For a second I wonder what changed him—what made him capable of now feeling disappointed in his behavior in those days? Then my glance falls on his right hand, on the heavy ring he wears on his widower's finger, even decades later, and I stop wondering. Of course it was Belle who changed him, who got him to want to change himself. Belle, and Gideon and Joy and Baelfire. Or more concisely: love.

"We still love ya, Mr. G.," Josiah pipes up. "You never were a complete bastard."

Gold smiles wryly. "Just half of one."

"So, when I was standing there in front of those students, waiting for one of them to take my genealogy challenge," Amelia continues, "I thought their silence was because they didn't want to be reminded where their folks stood in the pecking order. I thought for a minute, then I decided the best way to get started was to let their teacher lead the way, so I handed her the chalk and waved my hand at the family tree on my chalkboard. 'Maybe you'd like to demonstrate, Ms. Candleman.' I wasn't going to give her a chance to back out. She stood there with that chalk in her fingers, gnawing on her lip and staring at the board, twitching from one foot to the other, for a good solid five minutes before she kind of sighed and started to write. She put her own name in the empty box at the root of the tree, like I'd showed them, her birthdate and place—she wrote 'Storybrooke' because she was one of those born in the first generation after Regina's Curse broke. She filled in her parents' names and birthdates and places—Challaland for her father, the Enchanted Forest for her mother. She put in her grandparents, though she had to use question marks for some of the dates. Then her great-grandparents, more question marks; she wasn't sure of her great-grandmother's name. All of them were merchants and peasants. Then she got to the great-great-grandparent level." Amelia stops here, peering meaningfully at Gold.

Gold takes up the story. "I started to recognize some of the names. I tried to sneak out the back door. Amelia blocked my path."

"As I will do now if you don't elucidate," I jump in. "What do you mean, you recognized names?"

"People you made deals with?" Jo guesses.

"Well, yes, some of them. . . ."

"Come on, Mr. G., you have to finish this," Josiah prompts. His son adds, "You're among Doves. We'll keep your secrets. We always have."

"Well, it seems that my father, in his street-gambling days, was quite the rounder. No surprise, really, but some years after my mother left, he may have had an encounter with a barmaid. . . ."

"So Ms. Candleman may have been a distant sister of yours." I ponder whether I'll need to go back and correct my research.

"It may have been so, though I wouldn't care to attempt to calculate the degree of our connection. And Ms. Candleman having died long ago, leaving no heirs, that connection is entirely of the past."

Amelia comes around now to her main point. "Then one of the library volunteers popped up and started drawing her family tree, and it turns out that her grandfather, who everyone thought was a duke, was actually an adoptee that came into nobility through a deal Rumplestiltskin made."

"And then we found out the custodian's great-grandmother had once been a chicken, until Rumplestiltskin did his magic thing." Josiah waggles his fingers.

"The kids got very interested in genealogy then. They ran home and consulted their parents, and over the next week, I had family after family coming in to research their lineage, and the short of it is, we concluded that eighty-seven percent of all the town residents could place Rumplestiltskin in their family tree, in some form: an adoption, a transformation, a marriage that he'd helped arrange. By that point Belle and I decided it had got too creepy and for the sanity of the town, we closed the Genealogy Center. Made it a DYI collection."

The Doves and I burst out laughing, though I worry that Mr. Gold will take offense. He blushes but doesn't sound angry when he suggests, "Now, enough ancient history. Tell me, how's the fishing in Minnesota this time of year?"

As I walk him out to the lawn, I thank Jo for introducing the idea of a chat with his parents. "I haven't seen Mr. Gold so animated since the Greenie incident."

Jo chuckles. His hand engulfs mine, and I decide I rather like having this man in my life. "Anything I can do to lift Mr. G.'s spirits for a minute or two, I'll gladly do it. He's done a lot for my family. In fact, I have to say, none of us would exist if he hadn't used his magic on my grandparents. In fact, I think it's safe to say, most of this town's population wouldn't exist if he hadn't tinkered in our lives."

"Not too bad for a guy who isolated himself in a mountain castle most of his years." We pause on the sidewalk, soaking up the spring sunshine. "I got an electronic packet from Joey Rosales this morning."

Jo is pleased. "We can finish the project."

"I'm having second thoughts, though. I mean, what if instead of cheering him up, it just reminds him of all the people he's loved and lost?"

"That's possible." We fall silent, allowing the sunshine to distract us.

"I'm going to talk to Amy about it."

"You know, that story my mom told today, it wasn't just to get him to laugh. It was to remind him how important he's been to this community."

"That's what I was hoping to accomplish with my project."

"He smiled at Mom's story. Blushed, but smiled. I think he took it the way she meant it."

"I think so too. Will it be more emotional, though, when I put him face to face with his family?"

"You don't have to rush your decision. Take your time, talk to Amy." He brings my hand to his lips to kiss my knuckles. "See how the next couple of weeks go. Friday night?"

I nod, my thoughts lingering on the project upon which Jo and I have invested so much. "It's your turn to choose."

His gaze drops to my chin—he's feeling guilty for what he's about to ask—but I set my hand on his arm as a reminder of our agreement to give each other's date preferences a chance. He takes the hint, raising his eyes to mine with a bit more confidence that I won't reject his idea. "There's a holo-lecture at the high school: 'The Stinson Sisters and Early Aviation.' For some reason, I've always been fascinated with the history of human flight."

I'm intrigued by the lecture title. "'Sisters?'"

Encouraged by my curiosity, he nods. "Katherine and Marjorie Stinson. Just nine years after the airplane was invented, Katherine was one of the first women to earn a pilot's license. She flew in exhibitions, doing snap rolls and loops and the kind of stunts that would make a grown man wet his pants. The press called her 'The Flying Schoolgirl.' And Marjorie opened a flight school and the Canadian Flying Corps sent their pilots to her to train. They called her 'the Flying Schoolmarm."'

"What incredible women! I can't wait!" And I mean it.

"I hoped you'd say that." And with a kiss, he's gone. Instead of watching him walk away, as I usually do, I rush in to my office and phone the library's drone delivery system to order books on these aviation pioneers. To be unique in the world—I can relate to that. To my knowledge, I am the youngest fairy in the world. But to be unique and to be proud of it, not embarrassed by the freakishness of it—that is an accomplishment I must know more about.

I've been accepting thanks and congratulations from the residents all day today: they appreciate the Mother's Day I arranged for them. The guys especially express gratitude—they didn't expect to be included in any way in a celebration of mothers. I should be happy (this will go down well in my annual review, and more importantly, I lifted people's spirits a little). And I have a lot to be happy about: my bank account finally has entered the survival zone; Blue acknowledges me with a nod when we pass in the hallways; I hear children's laughter ringing in the House every Wednesday afternoon; my relationship with Jo is going very well—

And that's the problem.

Mr. Gold rolls his wheelchair around from the front doors, where his pupils have just bid him goodbye. "Nice kids. They take their lessons to heart."

I hum in agreement. "But when will you teach them their first spell? So far it's been all laws and history."

"Discipline." He answers quickly. "Even the most mature of students must learn discipline first. Otherwise they'll hurt somebody. Most likely themselves."

"You've been teaching me spells."

"There's a difference. They want to learn. You didn't." I walk with him to his room. In a few minutes Andy will appear to assist him in washing up for dinner, but for the moment, we can speak relatively freely. "This will sound contradictory, but it's easier to teach magic to someone who's reluctant to use it."

"But I'm committed now," I protest.

"Motivated, but not committed. Not yet." He presses a button on his wheelchair to open the door, then rolls his wheelchair aside to allow me to enter first. Ever the gentleman, Mr. Gold is. As the door slides silently shut, he stares pointedly at my hands, bringing my attention to the fact that I'm subconsciously fiddling with the hem of my blouse. With a blush I drop my hands.

"What's troubling you, Sparrow? You seem out of sorts."

I'm lucky to have someone I can talk to about this, someone who understands the problems of dating a human—and had found the strength to beat down his fears. "I've been doing the reading you asked me to do."

"Greggson's Study of Fairies. Yes."

"I'm finally facing the truth of what I am—and what Jo is not."

"So it's come to that, has it."

I don't have to ask what he means by "it." "Maybe not yet, but it's headed in that direction."

"I think it is for him, too."

My eyes travel to the cluster of photos on Gold's dresser, not just Belle's but Gideon's, Joy's, Henry's and a dozen other faces I've come to know through my research. I have trouble getting the words out, as if, by leaving them unspoken, I can deny the truth. "The life span of a fairy is 500 years. The average life span of a human is 107."

His eyes join mine on the journey. We're thinking the same thing: forty years with Belle, four hundred years without her. "You're wondering if you can bear four lifetimes without him. You're wondering if all those years alone was too big of a price for me. If the brief time I had with Belle was worth it to me."

I nod silently, guiltily. I've caused him pain by making him recall his loneliness.

He replies without hesitation or uncertainty. "I'd do it all again in a heartbeat. It was worth it." He opens his palm, an invitation I accept, sliding my hand into his. "Don't let what might happen prevent you from living the life you could have. Look around you, Sparrow. Love is a miracle and yet it's as common as salt. That in itself is incredible, that people are capable of feeling it, treasuring it, preserving it—even beyond death." He gives my hand as much of a squeeze as his strength allows and his voice drops to a whisper, his eyes fixed on the center photo. "Even beyond death."

I realize I have my answer now to another question I've been pondering: when Father's Day comes, I will give him my gift. It will scuff up his heart, but not break it. His heart can't be broken.