"David told me they were planning something special," Neal said, leaning over so that he was whispering in Gold's ear. "You should be more excited, Dad."
Gold, sitting straight-backed in the velvet theater chair between his son and his manager, grunted. "I'm very excited, can't you tell?"
David leaned over to whisper in his other ear. "You will not believe what they're showing tonight, Gold. You've never seen anything like it."
"Get your face off of my face."
"Don't be such a sourpuss. Get excited!" David leaned away anyway, though, and settled onto the other arm of his chair, which he shared with his fiancée, Mary Margaret.
Gold pulled on the corners of his mouth, forming a waxy smile. "There. Are you both happy?"
"Very." Neal patted him on the leg. "Now shut up, it's about to start."
From their place of honor in the center balcony, Gold had a perfect view of the blank screen in front of him, as well as every hat, fascinator, and feathered headband in the audience. He did not envy any of the people seated behind the well-dressed women, although the corner of his own view was partially obstructed by a ceramic orchid arrangement on the balcony ledge.
"Is it going to start any time soon?" he asked, drumming his fingers on the golden head of his cane.
"They might need to work out a few kinks," David said. "But trust me, it's worth the wait."
Gold did not trust this fact at all, but he kept his mouth shut. It was better not to get David too worked up, because then he talked more, and he was even less thrilled about listening to him talk than he was about waiting here in this theater.
"Just pretend that it's a premier of one of your pictures," Neal whispered. "Until it starts, and you realize it isn't."
"I don't like going to those, either."
"Well, you're just a cranky old bastard, then." Neal shifted back to his own seat, and Gold fought off a tiny grin. If David saw that he was amused for any reason, he would assume it was his own fault.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Everyone swiveled to face the stage, and Mr. Midas at the microphone. He was wearing his customary golden bowtie and rings, arms spread as though he were inviting the audience up on stage with him.
"As you've likely heard, we have a special treat for you this evening, and as much as I want to say more, I won't give anything away, so without further delay, let us begin!"
He took the microphone with him, leaving it on the side of the stage so that it wouldn't block the screen, and then disappeared. As the lights dimmed, David and Neal were both vibrating with excitement, and Gold could feel it in each of his legs. Next time, he was going to insist on an end seat.
Midas appeared in their balcony shortly after, taking his seat behind Gold as the screen crackled to life. After a few seconds of static, a bald man with big ears appeared, smiling at them all.
"What the hell is this?" Gold whispered, leaning closer to Neal so that David wouldn't hit him.
"Just watch."
"Good evening, everyone," the man on screen said, and the audience all gasped. "This is a demonstration of a talking picture." He paused, giving the audience enough time to stare. "Yes, you heard correctly. I have just spoken to you. I am on the screen, and I am speaking to you."
Someone screamed. Everyone else was sitting in stunned silence. Next to slack-jawed Gold, Neal and David were grinning at the screen like they were on a thrill ride.
"That's a good trick!" a man yelled.
"Yeah, come out from behind that screen, Mr. Midas!"
Midas stood up as the man on screen continued. "I'm right here, everyone."
There were more gasps, and a few more screams. Gold still couldn't remove his eyes from the screen.
"Watch my lips move, and hear perfectly synchronized words come out. I am making a talking picture. My voice has been recorded on a record, and it is playing in time with my picture."
The audience fell into silence as the man continued to speak, lips moving in slow, deliberate motions that were in perfect synch with each sound. When the screen went black and the lights went on, no one moved for a second.
"What did I just watch?" Gold murmured, still staring at the blank screen.
"A talking picture." Neal hadn't stopped grinning since the film came on. "It's the next big thing."
Gold shook his head. "That'll never catch on. It's too new, too expensive."
"But Dad, you could act in talkies!"
Gold's upper lip curled. "In what?"
"Talkies! Talking pictures. But since you don't have to rely on movement as much, it wouldn't be a problem for your ankle, so you could go back to acting."
"I'm happy working with you on the music." He glared up at the screen. "Besides, it'll never catch on."
The press was waiting outside the theater, and Neal stopped to straighten Gold's tie while Mary Margaret straightened David's.
"It's fine." Gold batted his hand away. "Yours is the crooked one."
"Yeah, but no one's taking pictures of me."
"They should." Gold rested on his cane, waiting for the moment he would have to step out the theater doors. "You're the handsome one, too."
"Well, you're the famous one, so suck it up."
As soon as they stepped out, cameras started flashing. Gold forced a smile, raising his hand in a wave to the cameras. There were several questions shouted, but the reporter with the microphone set up on the red carpet was the only one to whom he intended to speak. He kept his smile and his wave, Neal following a step behind him and doing the same—though no one cared much about him, to Gold's annoyance—and took his place at the stand. The crowd screamed.
"Ladies and gentleman, Robert Gold!"
With his right hand, he waved, and with his left, he brought Neal up to the mic with him. "And my son, Neal Cassady."
His fans screamed like they always did, but he hated that he knew it was because he had been the one to announce it. If the reporter woman had, it would have been greeted with silence until they realized what he was waiting for. Still, Neal was unbothered, and he smiled and waved like only a careless young man could.
The reporter stepped back to the mic, inching both men out of the way with her silk-covered bulk. "So, Robert, can you tell us anything about what you saw in there?"
"Unfortunately, I cannot." There was a collective boo from the crowd, and Gold gave them an indulgent half-smile.
"Oh, but we're just dying to know!" the reporter said, looking out at the crowd with a hand on her cheek.
"What I can say is that my son is very excited about it, as is David Nolan." He pointed to David, standing over by the limo, and David waved.
"Ooh, it sounds exciting!" The crowd cheered again until the reporter quieted them down. "So, Robert, I've heard some rumors that I think everyone is interested in you shedding some light on."
"Well, I'll try my best."
"I've heard that you might be coming out of retirement and making another picture with Cora Hart!"
Gold almost blanched, but managed to keep his smile on for the cameras. He forced out a chuckle. "Well, I don't see that happening any time soon." He gestured to his leg, and the cane on which he was leaning. "Unfortunately, I'm not as young as I was, and Cora is still in her prime. I wouldn't want to hold her back."
The crowd made a sympathetic noise, and he tried to react appropriately, tilting his head and casting his eyes down.
"Well, we can always hope!" The reporter clasped her hands together. "So, tell us, Robert. What's it like working with Cora?"
He bit his teeth together, making sure his lips didn't turn down. "It's a bit like handling a box full of live snakes." The crowd looked at him in confusion, and he forced his smile to grow. "Thrilling, and exciting."
There were more screams and claps and cheers, and even the reporter squealed a little. "Just as we all knew! Now, for the question we've all been wondering—how's your relationship holding up now that you're not acting together?"
A disbelieving grimace almost fought its way onto Gold's face, but he fought it back. "Oh, well, Cora is a lovely woman, but we're just friends."
There was another boo from the crowd, and David signaled to Neal from the limo. Neal grabbed Gold's shoulders and pushed him aside, to more booing and protests.
"Sorry, folks, Robert's got a party to go to. He'll see you next time!"
Gold waved as Neal guided him into his car—limos were difficult to get in and out of—but the second that his face wasn't in front of any cameras, he let his scowl come out.
"As if I would do another film with Cora." He folded his arms, sulking like a child in the passenger seat while his son navigated the crowded streets.
"You never know." Neal glanced over. "If Monumental decides to make a talkie, it could be you and Cora."
"This 'talkie' thing is just a fad." Gold sank deeper into the chair. "It's fun in small doses, but it'll be a pain to make a whole picture with it."
"Warner Brothers is making a full-length talkie. Something about jazz, I think."
Gold's scoff was covered up by the car making a puttering sound, like someone was hitting the hood with a golf club. Both men turned to look at the wheel.
"Aw, man." Neal whacked the dashboard. "This thing hasn't given me any trouble in at least six hours."
"Well, you'd best hope it stops giving you trouble soon."
"It will." He hit the dash again, flattening the gas pedal as the car slowed, and then it sputtered to a stop.
"Wonderful." Gold picked his cane up, opening the door. "Guess we have to go fix it now."
"Don't worry, it'll be up and running in a jiff."
Gold stepped out, leaning against it in case Neal needed help with anything. Cars sped by, maneuvering around them, and people walked up and down the sidewalks. Gold wasn't paying much attention, more focused on his son and the broken car, so he didn't notice the group of young women until one of them screeched his name at the top of her lungs, and by then, it was too late.
"Dad, run!" Neal shouted over the sound of a dozen girls rushing them.
Gold tried to listen, but he only had one good leg, and there were at least twenty-four legs in top condition lurching after him, grabbing for his clothes and his cane and his hair. Someone took a fistful of his suit jacket while he raced for Neal, and his pocket square disappeared in the tussle, but then Neal's arm was around him and he was limping away as fast as he could, using his cane as a shield.
"Hey!" Neal yelled to a car with an empty passenger seat. "Hey, stop for a sec!"
The woman in the car looked over, slowing down, and Neal left Gold to limp over on his own while he yanked the door open. The car hadn't even stopped when Gold was being thrown in, and then the door was shut.
"Drive!" Neal glanced over his shoulder, but before Gold could see how close they were being followed, she was driving away from Neal, sending him flying back into the seat.
"Thank you," he said, panting. His blazer was ruined—ripped at each seam. "I'm on the run, as it were."
He looked over at the woman, then, and she looked over at him—all blue eyes and red lips—and then she screamed like he'd pulled a gun on her.
"What? What's wrong?" He gripped his cane tight and looked all around, prepared to fend off anything he needed to.
"You—you! I recognize you, you're a criminal, get out of my car—" She cut herself off with another scream, looking around like a spooked horse.
"Well, I've played criminals before, but I'm not—"
She was screaming too much for him to make any difference, and when she slammed on the breaks and knocked the wind out of him, he gave up. At least she wasn't stealing his clothes.
"Officer!" she screamed, and he realized why she'd stopped the car. "Officer!"
The policeman at the light pole meandered over, face scrunched in a tiny frown, and Gold wanted to sink into the upholstery. Where was Neal?
"Officer, this man just jumped into my car and told me to drive—"
"Why, it's Robert Gold!" The policeman broke into a grin, thrusting his hand into Gold's face. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir!"
Gold shook his hand. "The pleasure is all mine, Officer."
"Robert Gold?" the woman echoed.
With a small, smug grin, Gold turned his head toward her. "Aye. Robert Gold."
"You're one lucky lady, ma'am." The policeman tipped his hat, stepping back. "Was there a problem?"
"No, officer," the woman said, voice like a shadow. "Just a tiny mistake."
"Well, all right. You two have a great night, okay?"
"Yes, sir." Gold saluted, and the man saluted back before heading off to his light pole. When Gold turned to face forward, the woman was staring ahead, vacant-eyed and chewing her lip. She started to drive, and Gold sat with a grin like he was hiding all the secrets in the world.
After a half-minute of silence, she glanced at him. "I'm so sorry," she said, her voice much more lovely now that it wasn't shrieking like a banshee. She was pretty not-screaming, too, in her navy cloche and wool coat.
"It's quite all right. Honest mistake." At least she had calmed.
"I did recognize your face," she offered, biting her lip.
"That is very true."
"I'm so sorry, again. Can I make it up to you by dropping you off somewhere?"
"Ah, I wouldn't mind changing out of this suit." He plucked at a torn sleeve, and the woman made a sympathetic noise. "Is Sunset and Camden too out of your way?"
"Oh, not at all! I'm going right by there. What happened to your suit?"
"It was met by a group of fans." Still a showman at heart despite his retirement, he shuddered for affect, relishing the pretty woman's offended sigh.
"Your fans did that to you?" She pressed a hand to her chest. "That's terrible!"
"Oh, yes. Terrible." He stretched out, letting his arm fall behind her. "So, tell me—do I get to know the name of my fair heroine?"
"Oh, goodness, I'm so sorry. Where are my manners?" She laughed, shaking her head at herself. "Belle French."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss French. Robert Gold."
Even in the darkness, he could see her cheeks flush. "I really am sorry. I knew I recognized your face from somewhere, and I don't go to the pictures very often, so I just assumed."
"Don't go to the theater very often?" He settled back into the chair. "Aren't you a young woman in her prime? Aren't you the target audience?"
She glanced at him, lips pursed like he'd made a distasteful joke. "I suppose I am, yes, but I prefer real theater to pantomime, and I can't really afford tickets to that. Normally, I just stick to my books."
Gold sat up straighter, brows drawn. "Pantomime? Is that what you just called it?"
"Oh, come now, you know. Pictures are all a bunch of dumb show. It's all gasping and hand gestures and unnatural kisses." Belle, it seemed, liked to talk with her hands, and with one hand on the wheel, she acted out all of her so-called pantomimes, ending in puckered lips facing his way.
His sour look had her turning back to face the road.
"Dumb show. I see."
"Oh, god, I'm so sorry, I don't mean to offend you—I mean, I know it's very physically exerting." She flapped a hand toward his leg. "I do admire your ability to do your own stunts. But it's certainly not acting."
"So I'm just a dumb stunt man, is that what you're saying?"
"No!" She squeezed her wheel, knuckles turning pink, and maybe he should cut her a break, but he was in a torn suit and he didn't much feel like letting this woman lecture him on the merits of his job. "I just mean that movies are a lot of pantomiming. You know, dramatic gestures so the audience knows what's going on without being able to hear! And that's just not my cup of tea. I prefer real theater."
"Real theater, I see. Tell me, what is it that you do that makes you such a connoisseur?"
"Oh, I wouldn't call myself a connoisseur—just appreciative."
"Appreciative, critical, and evasive. What do you do?"
She glanced at him, and her cheeks couldn't have been more red if he'd leaned over and whispered something filthy in her ear—which he was considering doing, just to be obtuse. "I'm a writer."
"And are you a real writer, or just a writer with lots of gasping and unnatural kisses?"
"I'm a struggling writer who's been rejected so many times that I'm thinking of taking on a man's name so that no one knows I'm a woman."
"Perhaps it's because your book is just a lot of dumb show."
"You don't know anything about my work."
"And you seem to know everything about mine. More than anyone, else, it seems."
"Yours is in a public forum—everyone can see and judge your work all the time."
She slammed on the breaks as he was about to retort, sending him reeling forward again. He hadn't been paying much attention, but they were at the corner of his road—and he had the feeling that she wouldn't be taking him any closer to his house than here.
"Here we are, Sunset and Camden." She pointed as if he wouldn't understand otherwise, jaw set in a hard line.
"Thank you, dear, you've been so kind." He opened the door and clambered out as gracefully as he could with a bum leg and a ripped suit. "I do hope that someday, you'll get rejected for your work instead of your gender, as you seem to want." He tipped an imaginary hat to her, savagely pleased by her offended snuffling squeak.
"Goodnight, Mr. Gold," she said, clamping both hands down on the wheel. "I hope you enjoy being a mime."
It was a good thing that she sped away after that, because Gold could not find a retort within him. Instead, he just stared after her trying to look as though she had robbed him of his final zinger, until she drove round the corner and he could start to limp home.
The party at Midas' house was in full swing by the time Gold arrived an hour later in his taxi, dressed in a clean and rip-free suit with a stormy blue pocket square. He found Neal at the bar, chatting with Mary Margaret and David.
"Jesus, Dad," he said, making room for him. "What took you so long?"
"Get me a scotch," he said, gesturing to the bar. "Lagavulin. Neat."
"Dad, you can't have a scotch, you know they don't have alcohol—"
"Of course they do, this is Hollywood." He turned to the bartender, snapping to get his attention. "Lagavulin, neat."
He downed the first one, and was feeling better by the time a second was pressed into his waiting hand. Neal rubbed his back between his shoulder blades, and the weight of his hand was comforting.
"Everyone's talking about the interview," David said. Gold would have glared at him, but he was much too busy contemplating the alcohol in his hand.
"That's nice." He took a sip. "Is someone going to take my picture here? I'd like to leave as soon as possible."
"You can't leave." David took a sip of his soda. "Cora's here."
"Oh, then I'm definitely leaving." He started to walk away, but Neal caught him on the coat tails.
"Come on, Dad, let's just take a walk, okay?"
After a few seconds, Gold nodded, allowing his son to guide him away from his manager. Several people said hello, but no one stopped them. Gold finished his scotch before they'd even made one round, and wished that it would refill itself automatically, but had to content himself with squeezing the empty glass every time the words dumb show and pantomime flashed through his head.
"All right, what's wrong with you?" Neal asked, clapping a hand on his shoulder.
"Nothing."
"Don't give me that. I've known you my whole life. Something happened. Was it David?"
"Yes." He wasn't ready to tell his son that he'd been insulted. He liked to keep up the mystery that he was an invincible acting hero.
"No, it wasn't. You don't sound mad enough about his name. What was it? Come on. You know you can tell me anything."
Gold pursed his lips, racing through excuses in his mind that would buy him enough time to make up a better one. He was interrupted by a throaty purr of his name.
"Robbie!"
He winced, glancing at Neal like a frightened rabbit. "Robbie, indeed," he muttered, but he had to turn around. Cora Hart, his leading lady, was sauntering over to him in a beaded purple dress, her amethyst-embellished headband catching the light and making her look like a glittering purple lizard.
"Cora, dear." He offered his hand and she took it, leaning in to kiss the air by his cheeks with her blood red lips.
"Robbie, darling, I've been looking all over for you."
"Unfortunately, you found me."
"Come, walk with me." She latched onto his arm like a boa constrictor, tugging at him and not giving him much room to limp after her. He threw a helpless look at Neal, but even his son wasn't going to come between the two of them.
"Yes, dear."
He allowed her to lead him in silence for a minute or so, waving at people when she did. She kept her vice grip on his arm, and he wouldn't have been surprised if she'd unhinged her jaws and swallowed him whole.
"So what is it that you want, Cora?"
"To spend time with you, of course. Do you have a light?" She held out her cigarette, and Gold sighed, reaching into his jacket pocket.
"I'd really rather we didn't spend time together."
"But if we don't spend time together, people will think our engagement is going downhill." She stuck the cigarette in her mouth, leaning into his lighter.
Gold let out a bark of laughter. "Our engagement? Have you been reading the fan magazines?"
"Of course. How else am I supposed to keep up-to-date on my own life?" She puffed on the cigarette, blowing smoke into his face. He remained stoic.
"Perhaps by living it. I hope you know we're not getting married."
"Of course we are, Robbie, don't be ridiculous."
He could only manage a surprised puff of un-amused laughter, mouth hanging open even when no sound continued to come out. "Right, well, tell me how our wedding is."
"Oh, come, dear, don't be so difficult. Let's go talk to Mr. Midas."
"Actually, I have somewhere else to be." He managed to disentangle himself, leaning on his cane. "I'm sure you have a crowd of admirers you can attend to."
Before she could draw him back onto her arm, he slipped into a crowd of men behind him, and bumped straight into Neal.
"Don't tell me," he said, righting himself. "You've been lurking here the whole time and couldn't be bothered to save your poor, defenseless father from the viper?"
"Sorry, Pop." He slung an arm around his shoulder, starting to steer him. "Come on. Everyone wants the entertainment, but no one will start it without you."
"I need a refill first." He swilled his empty glass, and wriggled out from Neal's arm to get to the bar.
Soon, though, they and everyone else were standing in front of the darkened, makeshift stage. Gold was front and center, standing with Midas, David, and Neal. Cora was somewhere near the side, sitting on a table and being admired.
"Do you know what this is?" he asked, resting on his cane and sipping his scotch.
"I think it's a singer," Neal said.
"I found her at the Coconut Grove. She's a gem, an absolute treasure," Midas said, watching the stage with his arms crossed.
"You do like treasure," Gold murmured, but if Midas was so enamored, he supposed he could try not to hate it. He was, after all, a musician now, and meant to be appreciative of other musicians.
The lights dimmed, and the noise along with it, silencing completely when the curtain was drawn to reveal a woman sitting on a stool in front of a microphone. Her hair was in a knot of curls at the side of her head, with a red and black feathered headband the size of a dinner plate, making her look both exotic and expensive. When she stood up and walked to the mic, he could see her drop-waisted red dress, embellished with beads on top and fringe on the bottom.
"She's not a bad sight, at least," Neal whispered, and Gold would have agreed if she hadn't been a lounge singer.
A spotlight shone on her, illuminating her face, and Gold choked on his drink. There, standing before him, with darkened blue eyes and lips as red as her dress, was his rescuer.
"Belle?" he wheezed, but someone somewhere that should have been his son but wasn't had started to play the piano, and no one could hear his fit except Neal, who had his hand on his back and was rubbing in circles.
Even through his choking, he kept his gaze on Belle, and she cast fearful looks down at him. He tried to straighten up, not wanting to show weakness in front of this woman, but all he could manage was a staggering grip on his cane.
Then, she started singing, and he fell silent. Her voice made him think of roses, beautiful and rich and dangerous, or maybe that was just her dress. He'd heard her song before, but not like this—not slowed down by the piano and her silken voice.
"All I do the whole night through is dream of you."
No wonder she'd been so critical of him—all he did was move around on a set and press his face into Cora's. Meanwhile, she had real talent, and he felt things from her performance that no one had made him feel in a long time. Had he ever made anyone feel anything?
"You're every thought, you're everything, you're every song I ever sing."
"Dad," Neal whispered in his ear, and Gold jumped. "Are you okay?"
He glanced over, but his eyes slid right back to Belle. "Yes, fine."
"Who is that?"
"When skies are grey, when skies are blue, morning, noon, and night time, too. All I do the whole day through is dream of you."
"The entertainment." Gold swallowed something unpleasant rising in his throat. He wanted to leave, but he was rooted to the spot.
She finished her song, and her eyes met his for the first time. He couldn't bring his face to look mocking, but he stood with his feet apart and both hands resting on the head of his cane, head tilted to suggest that he might have been confused, or concerned for her well-being. He clamped his teeth together, hoping this made him look angry.
Belle swallowed, and jerked her head away from him. The piano started up again, and he didn't recognize the song she was singing this time, but it was another slow, gentle ballad—until she got through a verse and the music sped up as dancers in tiny pink dresses emerged from all sides to join her.
It ruined the whole show, but Gold watched anyway, not having to fight to keep his tiny smirk on now that Belle's soulful voice was being subjected to interpretive dance numbers and jazz hands. They did three more songs, and then the dancers dispersed into the crowd, flinging pink flower petals out of satchels at their waist. Belle herself was handed a basket of petals, and fled with it.
Gold took off after her as the crowd spread out, getting back to the party, with Neal hot on his heels.
"Dad? Where are you going?"
"I'll catch up with you in a bit," he said, waving him off. If the petals had been different colors, he could have followed Belle's trail, but she was flinging the same ones as all the other dancers, and they were scattered everywhere over the floor.
He found her in a corner, hiding behind a tiered dessert display and half-heartedly throwing flower petals out into the room.
"You didn't tell me you were a singer," he said, pitching his voice low. She jumped, knocking over a tiny pitcher of creamer.
"Please go away," she said, searching around for napkins. He handed her one.
"Oh, but I never got the chance to compliment your performance. I had no idea you were hiding all of that under your coat." He gestured to her red get-up, and she glared at him as she mopped up the spilled cream from between cooling mugs of coffee and cocoa.
"Leave me alone."
Finished cleaning, she darted away from the table, but he blocked her path with his cane, and then sidled over in front of her.
"What a beautiful dumb show," he said, twirling his free hand in the air, as if he were performing in a comedia dell'arte. "I particularly enjoyed when you sang about the sun shining, and everyone waved their arms like sun rays."
"That wasn't my choice," she said, glaring at him like she was trying to melt him.
"I thought you were a writer? Was that all just another pantomime?"
"I am a writer, but I need to make a living, too." She looked about ready to cry, and he felt a small tug on his chest, but he found he couldn't stop.
"So you sold out?"
"No. I would never sell out for my passion." She tried to push past him again, but seemed unwilling to do anything that might hurt his leg, so stopped herself after a second. "This is just a job."
"Oh, I see, you've just deigned to sing to us mimes."
"Excuse me."
Gold turned around as Belle looked up in horror, and promptly wished that the both of them could disappear. Cora stood behind them, cigarette poised by her ear, looking like she was ready to rip a throat out with her teeth.
"Yes, dear?" he asked, shifting a bit to block Belle from view as much as possible.
"Who is this, Robbie?" She looked Belle up and down as if she was just an ugly spot on the wall.
"This is the entertainment, and she is far more entertaining than we so-called actors, with our pantomiming."
"I beg your pardon?" Cora's hip jutted to one side, and she sauntered closer, resting a hand on Gold's shoulder. "Who are you? Some nobody?"
"Yes, now if you'll excuse me—"
"Oh, she's not a nobody," Gold said, throwing a hand out to stop her. "She's a necessary fixture in the entertainment industry, a singer and a writer who boasts a depth of emotion that we dumb showmen could never achieve with our stunts."
Belle straightened up, looking like a tiny kitten about to pounce. "Mr. Gold, get out of my way."
"Yes, of course, I will, just after—"
He saw her reach for the lukewarm mug and reacted before he really registered what she was about to do. He flung himself to the side just as she flung the contents at his face.
A screech from behind him told him that the hot chocolate had not landed harmlessly on the floor over his shoulder. Belle's face went white, and she shrank away.
"I am so, so sorry," she whispered, just before Cora let out another ear-splitting shriek.
"I'll kill her!" Cora yelled, and Gold had just enough time to throw himself in front of her before she attacked Belle, fingernails first.
"Cora, calm down, she didn't mean to hit you," Gold said, trying to hold her off. He was stronger than her on a normal day, but her rage coupled with his leg made holding her back a Herculean endeavor. He sagged in relief when Neal's stronger hands appeared to help.
"Dad, what happened?" he asked, frowning as he struggled against Cora's blind rage.
"She threw a drink in my face and missed."
Neal looked at Cora. "You managed to throw a drink in your own face?"
"No, not Cora, Belle."
"Who?"
Gold frowned, turning to show him just who Belle was, but she was gone, leaving no trace that she had ever been there at all other than a few flower petals and a damp tablecloth.