Chapter 1: Something Wicked This Way Comes

Snow White clutched the wailing thing to her breast, that heaved and grew heavy at the thought of her child on its teat. She could but taste the cream of milk. The tangy smell of sweat and childbirth hung over their heads, her tears dripping in her mouth as she gripped the tiny thing tighter.

Charming choked out a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh, taking his fingers away from his hilt long enough to stroke mother and babe, before glancing around frantically as the roof continued to rain sawdust and mortar.

"Snow."

She closed her eyes at the kiss, croaking in anguish, "The wardrobe. It only takes one."

The castle trembled in its bones. An odour both pungent and intoxicating, like steam and decaying bodies began to filter through the stones. A desperate scream pierced their ears, the ring of metal, the crash and bang of wood and rock and bodies.

"Then we have failed," he said, despair sweeping over handsome features, tears running their haggard track down his cheeks. "At least we're together."

Snow made a sound that might pass for a whimper, lights pounding behind her eyes, limbs weighed down with a thousand broken hearts. Something large crashed against their door. She muffled her scream into Emma's blanket. The purple, prunish, perfect little miracle cried and cried, its eyes squeezed shut, still smelling of blood and other liquids. The good queen passed trembling lips over her child, "Goodbye Emma."

A scream of hinges and their blockade fell. Charming bolted to his feet, sword at his command. The dust cleared and porcelain skin behind red painted lips emerged in a gleeful smile. The reeking smoke engulfed her figure, whipping the hems of her eternal mourning into a frenzy. Her faceless soldiers in obsidian steel rattled shoulder to shoulder, pointing their poles at him, shaking in his flimsy nightshirt. His toes began to curl.

The Evil Queen raised two triumphant arms, her curse seeming to rise with her, blanketing the room in a whirlwind of darkness and debris.

"No. More. Happy. Endings."

Charming backed against the bed, his arms out, teeth bared and growling. Metal clanged with metal, the slicing of air accompanying the Evil Queen's manic cackles. Snow sobbed and clawed at the covers, too weak to help, a yelling in her ears, a horrified gargle as the dark soldiers descended upon her husband and cut him down. The castle groaned one last groan before their very world seemed to rip. A sickening shrill note, like nails scraping against a board. A ripple went through the room and left her hair on end. The unnatural tornado, the violent winds that threw the very walls against each other began to slow eat away at the ceiling, its pieces carried away like torn parchment on the wind.

Emma shrieked above it all.

The castle buckled and collapsed, its final stand come undone. Snow's last memory was of the Queen's lick of her lips, advancing upon the bed. With the smoke about to suffocate them, the dust searing her eyes, she threw back her head and roared, as the sword plunged into Emma's chest. Snow fell back onto the pillows and waited for the warm blood to flow.

None came.

As the clouds billowed about them, grasping at the edges of reality, the Evil Queen and Snow White shared a look of mutual incomprehension as Emma continued to bawl through her tiny lungs, the metal sticking out of her chest at an impossible angle, indigo poison filling her mouth and nose and ears, little eyes still stubbornly shut.

Her caterwauling cries echoed into the dark oblivion, a clear call for help. A desperate ring of hopelessness, a curse to the heavens, sounding louder and louder as all the lands were eaten and every soul consumed – rising into eternity.

XXX

Mr Gold polished the brass with slow, calculated movements. He barely noticed the chemical musk anymore than he did the darkness, or the thirst. Light splattered across his desk in tired grey patches, waiting to succumb to the night. A tinkle of bells halted his hand for a fraction of a second, but he finished the stroke regardless and knew that if a poor soul was calling at this hour, they must desperately desire his counsel, and if his counsel was desired that much, then the least they could do was wait.

Weight heavy on his cane, he walked slowly around the desk. The heavy curtains parted at his fingertips and he found himself facing a mop of tousled brown hair and cheeks buffed red and raw from the wind.

Said cheeks sucked in a whistling breath, "Mr Gold."

"Where're you hurrying off to, Henry?"

"Nowhere."

"Only running from your own shadow, then."

Henry's eyes flicked backwards towards the door and he cast a furtive glance at the suited man. Mr Gold squinted in amusement, watching the flickering shadows of mischief and guilt dance across the innocent's face. He found himself filled with an empty pang of jealousy at the simple ailment of disobeying a tyrannous mother. Hardly the sort of ghost to keep him up at night.

"What's your pleasure?" he said in his customary teasing way.

"It's only that..." Henry looked down and scuffed his grass stains across the wooden floor, clutching something large and heavy tighter to his little chest. "Well, I never really knew who you were."

Gold raised a curious eyebrow and stood as straight as he could. The angle fell into the path of a table lamp and threw a twisted shadow against the wall.

"Whatever do you mean boy," he chided, "I'm Mr Gold. Been a pawnbroker and dealer since before even your mother was born."

Large brown orbs stared up at him and Henry slowly uncurled the fingers digging into his vellum. The large object was presented to Gold as one would a precious cushion upon which some ring or crown of particular value would sit. The book smelt of wood and fire and age.

"You're not in it," he said, as if the very idea scandalised him.

"I don't exist in some fairy stories," Gold repeated.

"Yes."

"That...worries you?"

"You sound like Archie Hopper."

Gold hummed and put a hand upon the boy's shoulder. Henry recoiled instinctively from the touch. Confusion swept across the older man's features and he quickly licked his lips, feeling parched. "I'd like to help you boy, I really would, but nothing I could sell you would make me appear in that book of yours. And since selling things is the only thing I know how to do..."

"I think you wrote it!" Henry blurted out. He immediately regretted it and hugged the volume back to his chest, eyes peeking over the top of it as if waiting for Gold to pounce. The man simply held down the smile tugging at his lips and shook his head.

"Run along to your mother, Henry. I pen contracts and no more, and legal matters rarely have happy endings," he shooed the child out with a flick of his cane.

Henry stumbled backwards with a frown, "That's just the thing sir, these stories don't have happy endings."

Gold struggled to contain a roll of his eyes and noticed a stagnant cup of tea at the counter. He downed the substance in a gulp and clicked his tongue at the sudden liquid cool. "Out you go, kiddo."

"But sir! I just want to know where to find the Saviour," Henry cried, panic and desperation beating out his fear of the grumpy old man. "I have to find her."

"My dear boy, what would you need a saviour for?"

"To break the Evil Queen's curse. They all do. Please Mr Gold, you own Storybrooke, you're one of the most powerful people in this town. You should have a story, like my mum, but I don't recognise you in any of the pictures. You should be a king, or a sorcerer, or...or...if you don't exist, then you must have written the book! It's the only logical explanation, don't you see? You own this town, you must own the story!"

"Aye Henry, you're raving mad," Gold chuckled and held open his door with another ring of the bells. The icy wind blew inside the toasty warm store, smelling of forest and sea; Henry's hair began to dance on it, his nose already going red.

"But you must know where she is! You own every character, you must own her too!"

"Run along boy, I've got work to do."

"But – "

"Henry!"

"Ah, Madam Mayor."

"What are you doing with my son, Gold?"

"Mum it's ok."

"Be quiet Henry. Go sit in the car."

"Mum, I was only – "

"Now."

Gold let the door swing shut behind Henry and painted a pained smile across his face. The Mayor pursed her rouged lips, let out a huff of air and patted down her usually pristine hair. Hands racing to straighten windswept pieces of clothing, she looked the crippled man up and down and sneered.

"Stay away from my son, Mr Gold, don't go filling his head with your nonsense."

"Now that's rather unfair, ma'am," he let the soft words drip of his tongue, "Your boy has a spritely imagination, are you going to blame me for leaving him with nothing but boredom and books while you reign over this town like your own little kingdom?"

She peered closely, then with a scoff, swept away and left him standing in a kind of silence only the eternally lonely could take comfort from.

XXX

Henry sat down on the Toll Bridge with a little flutter of guilt in the pit of his stomach. He hung his legs over the sides and cradled the book in his lap, frowning slightly. Could he have been wrong about Mr Gold? Did he really not know about the curse? Was he really just as cursed as everyone else? It seemed so peculiar that powerful, frightful Mr Gold could be just as stuck in an unhappy ending as everyone else in the town.

"Hey kiddo, what's that you got there?"

Henry looked up and saw a man with dark eyes and a long trench coat. His first instinct was to run very far away and not accept any candy.

"Don't be scared," the stranger said quickly, holding out a hand, "my name's Jefferson."

"Henry."

"You're the Mayor's son."

He shrugged, "I guess."

The stranger grinned, eyes crinkling around the edges, and sat himself down beside the boy, swinging his legs off the bridge too, "You're guessing whose son you are?"

"I'm adopted," he said blankly.

Jefferson leaned in close, "Who's your real mum then?"

Henry looked up with suddenly bright eyes, "Do you know?"

It was the man's turn to shrug, "She must be 'round somewhere, everyone in Storybrooke was born in Storybrooke. No one ever comes, no one ever goes."

"What did you say?" he yelped, suddenly very interested in this new man, who only shifted his shoulders again and shook his head absentmindedly. "Do you...do you believe in the...curse?" Henry gasped and clasped the book closer to him. He peered at what he could see of this person, "Who are you?"

Jefferson looked askance at the gawking kid, whose cheeks were pink with excitement. "Let's just say, I'm a little madder than the rest of them."

"I thought you looked familiar!" Henry hurriedly spread open the book and began to flip pages, hardly bothering not to rip them in his enthusiasm, "You're the Mad Hatter! You're from Wonderland!"

The man didn't reply, only stared at the water seeing nothing. He moved his hands compulsively, as if kneading an imaginary ball of dough, or grasping at something that wasn't there. Henry frowned some more, "But why do you remember, did it not work in Wonderland?"

"They say the curse of the madman is to see but never be believed," he said cryptically.

Henry rubbed the back of his head and observed the new man some more. After a long pause, he asked, "Is your daughter Paige? She's my friend."

Jefferson visibly twitched; his hands stopped mid-motion, but after a second, continued on their way. Several more seconds later, he consented in a murmur, "Yes."

"But she doesn't remember you."

"Yes."

"How horrible."

Jefferson paused again, and looked sideways at the boy with his head in his hands, "Yes. Yes it is. Are you going to do something about it, Henry Mills?"

"Can I? Tell me how I can help!" all eager and bushy tailed.

"Find a saviour."

Henry sighed a dramatic sigh, "I can't. I don't know who the Saviour is."

"I didn't say, the Saviour, I mean a saviour. The Saviour can as much as save all of us and she could herself – that is to say, not at all."

"What do you mean?"

"Her parents didn't put her in the wardrobe like they were meant to," Jefferson spat out through pressed lips. "Now she's trapped here with the rest of us."

Henry gasped, "Who is it?"

"Odette Swan. Emma Swan, actually, but here she goes by Odette."

"Etta?" Henry said confused.

A grunt of agreement but Jefferson turned to face Henry once more, earnest this time, hands still, "You must find a saviour. That's the only way to get my Grace back."

"Grace?" it took him a moment to register, "Oh Paige. I mean, Grace. But sir, if the Saviour can't save you – then doesn't that mean no one can?"

Jefferson took him by the shoulders and drilled his deep eyes into Henry's large, round, unblinking ones, "The thing about curses is – they can always be broken. Always. We must find a way, a way that wasn't planned of course, but a way none the less. Can you do it?"

"When did it become 'we'?" Henry backed away suspiciously.

Jefferson grinned wolfishly, "Smart boy. Be cautious if you will, but I swear it's the least of my intentions to harm you. Though seeing as you are the only damned soul in this town who sees and I'm the only person who can give you a starting place – we may be forced to work in tangent yet, little Mills."

Henry stared at him, "What do you mean a starting place?"

"Where did you come from boy?"

"My real mum."

"Yes, but where did she come from?"

"Not Storybrooke. Someplace far away."

"Ah. Ah."

Henry jumped up and approached him again, his curiosity getting the better of him. "What 'ah'?"

"Ah," Jefferson repeated just to tease him. Henry broke into a reluctant smile. "There, so you see, I'm not going to eat you."

"Yet."

"Yet," he echoed. "Find your mother, Henry Mills. Find this place far away."

"Why?"

"A hunch, kiddo, just a hunch," Jefferson got to his feet with a groan and a stretch, "Well, I must be on my way," he extended a hand and Henry hauled himself up, releasing the fingers quickly, "Still don't trust me? That's fine," he began to twist his hands again, "that's fine...that's fine..."

"Goodbye Mr Jefferson."

"Jefferson, just...Jefferson," he wandered away with a shadow of a wink, stopping his own fidgeting hands by sticking them deep into his pockets. Henry cocked his head to the side and only realised when his stranger-friend-hatter-man had gone that he hadn't thought to ask how to find a missing mother. Oh well, he would have to be resourceful. A glimmer of a smile coated his features and he ran back home, the book a comforting weight in his backpack.

XXX

Henry was very much a good boy. He tied his shoes before he went out, ate his fruit and vegies to the core and brushed his teeth the full two minutes every time. He was a clever boy too. He knew all his times tables and how to play chess and could recite all the presidents of the 20th century (though he'd sometimes forget Hoover).

Henry had dark brown hair that didn't need very much work to keep straight and presentable. He was tall for his age and was quite good at sports. So it was rather remarkable that Henry Mills was an unhappy boy. He'd never wanted for anything, never gone hungry or cold. Trouble didn't come knocking at his door very often, so if he wanted a jolt, he'd have to go chase down the excitement bus himself.

And though Henry knew he was quite a good runner, it would be very difficult for him to chase down any bus at all – especially one his mother never gave him the number of. His mother really was the root of all this brooding.

Mayor Regina Mills adored her little thing with more heart than any person could have imagined her having. She was stern but fair, firm but gentle, and gave him leave to run around with the other children so long as he didn't wander as far as Toll Bridge.

It was all very proper.

That irked Henry.

Proper would have been all and well if Storybrooke was a town where things were generally done properly. Proper meant waiting for the red lights to cross the road, and not wearing his new trousers until he'd grown into them a little. But the thing was, Henry noticed that no matter how suddenly someone ran onto the busy street, never would that car touch as much as a hair on that person's head. The hospital always had the same number of people. In fact, only Henry himself had ever gotten sick and needed tablets or something. There were never any new patients, for nary a cut or a scratch. Perhaps that little strangeness could be overlooked, but what he just could not comprehend was why he grew into clothes and needed new pairs of shoes, when none of his friends did.

Why did he get older and taller and bigger with every birthday, yet no one else seemed to change.

No one except Odette Swan.

Etta Swan was eighteen when Henry was born. She was a little lanky and a little round-faced. She liked to draw down by the river and didn't have very many friends. Etta Swan was twenty-eight now. She was no longer lanky or round-faced, but quite pretty, if Henry really thought about it (and he had a feeling Sheriff Graham thought about it quite a lot), and wore make-up, and leather jackets, and taught painting at the gallery beside the shut down library when she wasn't working at Mr Gold's shop.

That was another thing, Storybrooke library had never been open once in Henry's whole living memory – which for a him, was a very long time. A deserted library he may have come to terms with, if not a little disappointed in for he did love books, but what he really did not understand was why the big clock tower was always on 8:15. Had no one thought to fix it? He dreamed that maybe he would finish school and become a fixer of sorts, maybe work at Marco's garage. Then one day he could climb up that tower and take a look inside, maybe get the hands to turn again.

On other days, Henry wanted to be a pirate.

This and many other thoughts went through Mr Mills' head as he rode the bus into Far Away, Boston. When the bright lights and fast cars and huge buildings finally monopolised his attention, he had quite forgotten wanting to be a pirate, and thought instead that it might be a reasonable occupation to be a bus driver. For who else saw every part of the world but the people who drove the buses?

Henry alighted from his vehicle and his daydreams when he reached the address written in smudged ink on the inside of his hand. He looked up at the humble abode, walked slowly past a little house on wheels with the words 'The Gypsy Cart' and a roughly sketched picture of an exotic woman reading a thick red book and wearing bells around her neck.

He walked up the steps and had the good sense to straighten his shirt and pat down his hair a little before ringing the doorbell once very quickly.

"Can I help you?"

"Hi."

"Hi?"

"My name's Henry."

"Hi Henry. Are you lost?"

"No. Are you Annabel Everleigh?"

"...Yes?"

"Hi."

"Hi."

XXX

Belle was crying.

Not a messy sort of sobbing, filled with the agonising sound of self-pity and regret. Not the sniffling kind, as if the crier seemed too self-conscious or too embarrassed, to make a sound. No, Belle was weeping. Real and raw with tears that blinded her and marked her skin with sticky dew. Her nose ran, her throat cracked, a guttural kind of gargle would escape from between firmly pressed lips that were slowly turning blue from the cold.

Her head was held high, and she stumbled through the undergrowth as best as she could. Though her teal blue dress caught on the brambles and ripped from its seams, though the dirt and mud smeared across her flesh, though the chill of nightfall slithered under her chemise breathing frozen breath upon her – still she walked, head high. It was a hopeless dignity that she wrapped around her like a fur coat. It was an unconscious aura of respect that caused even the wildest of creatures to keep their distance.

If Belle had been less stricken, she would have heard the snapping of twigs, the whip of tiny wings, the glint of golden eyes that followed her on her path of wayward destruction. A little, self-serving, part of her invited those fearsome beasts to come feast upon her, invited the claws of the scavenger and the rancid jaw of the wolf. She was making enough noise to draw them near, for sure, but the claws and the teeth kept their distance, in an orbit around her, as moths to the lamplight, as wild dogs to the flame of a bonfire.

They drew near her distress, absorbed her pain, huddled as close as they dared to the damsel that wept as the forest grabbed mercilessly at her sleeves and skirt and reduced the dignified little thing to a flop of trembling flesh and rags.

Belle was breaking.

Birds alighted from tree to tree, staring down like cherubs, though their chirps and songs went silent. A cat of some sort padded behind, two deer leapt over logs beside her, their coasts murky brown and impossible to distinguish in the growing dusk. Somewhere ahead, a single red eye bounding up and down like a firefly's beam.

When Belle crawled into a mossy hole, her face streaked with dust and dried blood, the red dot prowled closer. It peered at her for a minute, before turning away and scampering into the darkness.

"Who is she?" the Huntsman demanded, hand at his wolf-friend's nape.

The Queen rose from her settee and waved a careless hand at a little mirror. Its reflected depths began to writhe and when the fog had cleared, it showed a pitiful picture of what could pass as a peasant girl, curled into a ball and not shaking simply because forgiving sleep had taken her away.

"Did she really not notice you?"

The Huntsman stared at the thing and grimaced. "What do you want with her?"

The woman tore her hungry eyes away and advanced on him, demanding explanation.

"I've just...never seen the wild creatures act like that. Not once, when there was a possibility of a fresh and easy kill, have I seen the forest cats and the wolflings step away," the Huntsman said slowly, "And that little girl was the freshest and easiest kill I've seen in a long time."

She twirled away from him and placed a sharp, painted nail upon the image, clawing it down the glass, as if stroking her face. "Let's just say, I'm saving her for a rainy day."

"You mean to harm her?"

The Evil Queen suddenly pushed her face up to his, snarling, "You will do as I say."

He moved backwards from her overpowering scent, "They recognise she's special."

Queen Regina blinked innocently, "Oh she is, is she?"

"They love her."

"But you do not!" she hissed, throwing him bodily against the far wall and returning the mirror to its normal state with a single sweep of her arm, "I have your heart Huntsman. Do as I say and I may just keep it beating."

The man inhaled slowly, gripping his wolf with a solid hand and holding the snapping, frothing thing back. The Queen chuckled, an empty, hollow sound despite its mellow, honeyed tones and perfect teeth.

"Good. Make the bitch heel," she swept over to her dresser and put fingers to temple, turning from side and admiring her own visage, "You will follow the child. Report back, periodically, of course, I can hardly be wasting my time on a speck like her."

"If she's so unimportant, let her be," the Huntsman defended again, bile of disgust forcefully swallowed.

The Queen laughed that chilling laugh again, edges embroidered in pity this time. "Go Huntsman. Don't try to protect others when you can hardly protect yourself."

It was almost midday when Belle finally crawled out of her hovel. The night, the dawn and now the baking sun had frosted, thawed and scorched any remnants of acceptable society off her being. She emerged now, as one with the earth, covered in the seeds of the forest, her scent masked. There was something less alien about her, and the creatures that had stood vigil through the night, began to draw near.

Calm, the turmoil inside her relegated to a mere simmer, Belle began to notice her surroundings and with it, her hunger. Lips cracked and head spinning, she toppled forward and nearly stepped on something brown and furry. It leapt out of reach, but after several steps, twisted its body back around and looked at her with amber eyes. Turfs of hair sprouted from the tips of its ears and the line of its jaw. Very fine whispers framed its black nose.

Belle stepped closer, strangely unafraid. The giant cat was striped along its black and spotted down its inner forelegs. Its face masked with dark contour lines, like war paint on children. A petit head sat on large, muscled shoulders, and mahogany fur extended from chin to stomach to tail.

"Have you been here all the time?" she murmured, stretching out a tentative hand. The creature stared at her wiggling fingers, and padded closer. Not close enough to touch, but enough make Belle smile. "You'll follow me?"

As if in reply, the cat stretched out its two lean front limbs and made a luxurious sound. Unlike the creamy sated purr of the housecat, this thing seemed to rumble with contentment. Then, looking at her with half-opened lids, it started to walk away.

In silent understanding, Belle followed it, for several minutes unthinking and at ease. She heard the stream before they reached it. It sounded like happiness, gurgling and rushing over smoothed pebbles in delightful mouthfuls of spring. The sunlight danced upon the surface, penetrating to the riverbed at certain angles and showing schools of little silver fish that played in the weak rapids. The cat approached the sloping embankment and took a long draught.

"Thank you," she said, hardly expecting the thing to reply. But the cat lifted its tongue from the drink and seemed to blink once in acknowledgement. Belle broke into a genuine smile, suppressed a giggle and didn't falter when she brushed past the beast and stepped bodily into the middle of the brook, watching at the dirt slid off her skin, feeling the fish tickle her calves.

"What's your name?" she called at the thing now stretched out on its side in the sun. It opened its red jaws in a long yawn. Belle looked around at their little oasis, wondering how the forest had seemed so foreboding and ruthless last night. This was a circle of safety, a slice of paradise, a simple meadow, with precious water. Peeking out of the grass, Belle felt her heart leap at the sight of dandelions, and wild leeks and, in a patch of shade, the dark green of ripe gooseberries.

"Thank you," she gasped, new tears of a different kind now jumping to her eyes. She looked at that grisly face, with its harsh, dark lines and stained teeth, a wetted tongue and ridiculous clumps of fur standing proud upon its fuzzy ears. The murky brown, oddly pattern fur, like a creature that couldn't decide if it was more tiger or more leopard, and the cognac eyes with pinprick pupils, reminded her of a certain other monster who hadn't been very good a being a monster to her at all.

"Thank you."

Cupping handfuls of water and sprinkling it over her face, washing away all past crimes, she heard the voice of her father speaking in their native tongue, as they trudged through the forests, chewing on wood sorrel to quell their thirst and looking for the telltale pebbles of a killdeer nest and its rich, speckled eggs. Find sé léah. Sé léah á bíféraþ.

"Find the meadow. The meadow always feeds," she whispered, eyes still closed, "I will call you Meadow. Léah, with you, I will always find léah. My Everléah."

As if in approval, the cat on the bank opened on lazy eye and began to rumble.

XXX

Mr Gold closed shop on just another late weeknight, and was just about to hobble over to his car when he spied two figures across the road, leaning against a catastrophe that dared call itself a motor vehicle. Garishly coloured an electric blue, the caravan was painted with childishly curling letters:

The Gypsy Cart

How very cute.

And how very odd. A stranger in Storybrooke. How very odd indeed. He walked carefully over to the pair and quickly realised that the little one, shifting from foot to foot was none other than the missing Henry. The taller woman was unfamiliar. Crossing the empty street, reading her features by a clear, white full moon, he saw a young woman, nearing her thirties perhaps, but that may have been a side-effect of a severe bun that pulled every hair back three times tighter than necessary.

She had her arms stubbornly crossed and a cynical smile across thin lips. A strong jaw line led to a long neck that disappeared into a black cloak, shrugged over slender shoulders. The dress underneath was the same shade of blue as her cart and donned the same sigil.

"Good even' master Henry," he said softly.

Henry looked down at his feet, "Hi Mr Gold."

"Feeling guilty now, are we?"

Henry grunted and shrugged one shoulder.

"You're not going to introduce me?"

The boy continued to evade his looks and Gold hid a small smile by fumbling with his cane, moving it to his left hand and extending the right to the woman who quietly quipped, "I expect he's run out of lies. Annabel. Pleasure's mine. You're...Gold?"

"Pawnbroker, dealer of antiquities."

"And author," Henry added under his breath.

The woman raised an eyebrow, "You dabble?"

Gold gave a single silent laugh, "Henry's a very imaginative boy."

"I'm not lying," he whined. "It's all true."

She shook her head slowly, "Henry, have you ever considered that if all stories were true, we'd be frolicking with dragons and aliens and supercomputers that control our minds?"

"Maybe they're not all real," he said uncertainly, "But these are!"

"You should get your story straight, mister. Makes it easier to keep it all in check."

"I'm not a liar!"

"No, you're just a very imaginative boy," she echoed Gold and looked up with a half-smile, "Do you know where I can drop him off?"

Gold looked at her closely. It might have been the light but he swore that her eyes were the same shade as her dress, and it made her look strangely, well he didn't quite know the word for it (and a speechless Mr Gold was a rare thing indeed). It made her look surreal.

"Regina Mills lives down my street, I can drive you," he pointed over his shoulder at a car parked around the corner.

"Even with your..." she looked unapologetically at his lame leg. Not in judgement, but as one would state that a deaf man would find it difficult to sing in tune. Mr Gold narrowed his eyes. He found that her forthrightness displeased him and stood up a little straighter.

Annabel appeared to notice the alteration and made to turn away, "No it's fine, I'll drive him."

"Nonsense," Gold scolded, "If the Mayor sees her son drive up in that, we'll all be condemned to witness her raves on protocol to keep out vagabonds."

Annabel and Gold stared silently at each other. One a cripple, one a vagabond. She uncrossed her arms and he relaxed back into the usual hunched stance. The truce was accepted for the present. Henry glanced between a distrustful face to a mildly agitated one, and wondered if they'd forgotten about him as the pause stretched much longer than was pleasant.

"Henry," she said finally, "You're the Mayor's son?"

He ducked his head again, "Maybe."

Gold noticed she looked conflicted for a minute, blinking rapidly and barely heard her mutter, "I guess you could've done worse."

He looked at the enigma before him and only just noticed the golden band upon her left hand. "My offer still stands." She stepped out of her daze and with a firm hand, took Henry's shoulder and pushed him in the direction of Gold's car in reply. He followed them, the usual confident stroll made slightly more hurried as they pulled further ahead.

"So Miss Annabel," Gold glanced at his passenger, "What's brought you to Storybrooke?"

"What's brought me? I'd have to say coercion with a big side of guilt." In the backseat, Henry beamed. "Right boy?"

At Gold's confusion, Henry chirped, "She's my mum."

Annabel looked stoically ahead.

"Is that right? You're Henry's birth mother."

"Be that as it may, tonight I'm just a woman who needs to get back to Boston in time for work tomorrow."

"And you...?"

"I run a library," she said quietly, looking out at the muted lights behind drawn windows. "For those who can't conceivably get to one themselves. The disabled, the elderly. Like Meals on Wheels except with books."

He huffed, "The Gypsy Cart. How fitting."

"I thought so," she muttered disinterestedly, "Is this it? Henry, your house is huge!"

But Henry had his head above the glove box, "You'll stay right?"

"And why would I do that?"

"Because I'm your son."

"No," her voice hardened, "You're the Mayor's son."

"But – "

"Henry!" A shrill female voice came running up the front path. Henry's eyes popped out of his head and he hurriedly exited the vehicle. The woman's heels clicked across to the driver's window and she double over, sticking her face inside. "Gold! Did you abduct my son?"

"Hardly," the accused smirked, now this was a woman he was well-equipped to handle, "Your son absconded and I'm simply returning him to you. Your welcome."

"Absconded?"

"It means a sudden escape – "

"Yes, I know what it means," she hissed, "You make him sound like a criminal."

"Criminally bored perhaps, as I've always said."

The Mayor had obviously shed a fair few tears, for she hardly seemed the sort of woman who allowed mascara to run of its own accord, Annabel noticed. In fact, she didn't seem the sort of woman to allow anything to run of its own accord. Her very perfume seemed to match the musk of the frigid evening air, as one would match wine to meat.

Regina only then noticed the passenger, "Who're you?"

Annabel barely concealed her disparaging frown at the uncalled for hostility, "A friend of Mr Gold's."

"Oh?"

"Mhmm," she smiled sweetly, arching her eyes until they were two bridges of blue and mischief. Gold looked over at her, puzzled.

"Well, then," Regina stood straight and coughed, appearing to be cordial, "Good night."

At her withdrawal, Gold couldn't help but comment, "Friend?"

"Well, from the way her eyes seem to want to curse you into oblivion, I figured claiming to be your friend would be the thing that would annoy her the most."

"You disliked her, then," he said as they pulled off the curb.

"Her perfume," Annabel said simply. Gold's forehead creased and uncreased. Taking pity on him, she explained, "When a woman bothers to apply fresh eau de toilette while apparently grieving for her missing son, that woman is about as fake as tofu crab."

"Aye?"

"Aye. I hate tofu crab."

"Is there a place to stay around here?" she said again, as they turned back onto the main street. Her blue caravan conspicuous beside the other white and black cars.

Mr Gold cut the engine and turned to face her. "So you decided to stay."

She sighed, "Henry lives in the freaking White House, wear's designer kids clothing, has access to vintage books that cost thousands, God knows where his mother shipped that fairytale book from, and Storybrooke is this idyllic little town where the roses in the gardens bloom in thirty different colours and families probably carve turkey, eat pudding, pull bonbons and roast their fucking chestnuts over the fire on Christmas Eve, before their kids tiptoe upstairs after setting milk and cookies out for Santa, of course. How do I compete with that?"

A wisp of curled hair had escaped her bun and fell into her eye; she sighed again and pressed her forehead against the window.

Gold squirmed uncomfortably, "Do you want to compete with that?"

"I don't like her."

"Regina."

"Right. Regina. She...bothers me, something about her makes me want to rip her fake eyelashes out and throw her head down the toilet," Annabel rubbed her forehead tiredly, "Does that make me a terrible person?"

He chuckled, "It makes you a naive little girl."

She threw her head up and glared at him.

"Ah my dear, no one goes up against the Mayor. If you stay, you'll find that out soon enough," he said sagely, "No one who has anything to lose, that's for sure."

"And you?" she asked, "She seemed genuinely scared of you."

"Scared?" he gave one of his single, silent laughs, "No. Grudgingly aware of not to underestimate me? Perhaps..." he trickled down to an ominous hiss.

She fixed an intense gaze upon him and Gold soon found himself wanting desperately to look away. Annabel proffered a hand, "Thank you Mr Gold."

He shook it, found it firm, warm and familiar. Fingers withdrawing as if shocked by some unknown current, Gold cradled his limb and peered at her. She seemed not to notice, not to have felt the charge. Then, she was gone. Shaking his head, he thought, no, he'd definitely not met her before – that riddle of a woman, who dressed like a nun, spat quick fire from her tongue, swore and drove around a bright blue van helping the lowly and spreading magic and fiction, while remaining so wilfully cynical herself.

And she left the car smelling of some sort of homely musk. He sniffed. Dandelion tea.

"Hey, Gold," said rapping at his window. He rolled it down in pleasant surprise. "You're back."

"Do you think I should stay?"

He ran a tongue over his lips and bit down on it. Mr Gold had a sharp mind, and all sharp minds needed exercise. It wasn't often that he was given a new puzzle to tease out and play with. And the thing about puzzles was, they must be solved.

"Well, I think Mayor Regina Mills would be highly disappointed if you did."

And to solve them, he needed time.

XXX

You walk down Main St and happen to glance up at the clock tower. The hands have unfrozen. Curious, you think.

A far horizon begins to peek its head above the tree line, but you know it will still be several hours before daybreak. You don't mind. You're familiar with the early morning. The air feels fresh without trying to. The birds have not yet started their infuriating singing. The people still lie asleep.

You walk with new purpose today. You mustn't be late. You've asked to meet her. You keep your promises. You always keep your promises.

Suddenly you see her, standing on the shore, looking out to sea. She always did want to travel. Shame she found inner peace. Shame her Mother Superior is such an uptight, self-righteous thing.

You call out her name; she turns around and gives you one of her welcoming smiles. Then she noticed the object in your hand. Her face falls. She backs away, into the sea. The waves catch at her ankles, and she topples over. You take the object in your hand and bring it down upon her head. First the mouth to silence her, then the chest to steal her breath, then you take your time.

Hours until daybreak.

When the fun is over, you step backwards and let the salt wash out her blood and jump in the sea yourself, bathing. You throw your object out into the waves and trudge back to the sand feeling alive, feeling renewed.

The nun's body lies where you left her. You spare her only one glance. You dig into your duffel bag and take out a towel and fresh clothes. Then you swing the fishing rod over your shoulder and take out an empty bucket. A bad morning for a fish. The tide was too low, you think.

When you return home, you crawl back into bed and set an alarm in time for brunch. Oysters perhaps, and some good white wine.

XXX