A/N. A third part in "Rumplestiltskin's Final Battle," a story in development. (The other parts are "The Runaway Bride" and "We Are All Islands.") A century from now, Rumple, unable to care for himself, his family long gone, is in a fairy-run nursing home. He's ready to pass on, but his curse won't let him. Here, the Home's psychotherapist, the fairy Cerise, asks him to open up about his most painful memory, Belle's death. For a-monthly-rumbelling's October prompt: "You said you'd always be there for me…so how did this happen? Why weren't you there?"

I want to trip inside your head, spend the day there

To hear the things you haven't said and see what you might see. . . .

I want to see your thoughts take shape and walk right out. . . .

I've seen enough, I'm not giving up on a miracle drug

Of science and the human heart there is no limit

There is no failure here, sweetheart, only when you quit. . . .

Love makes nonsense of space, and time will disappear. . . .

God, I need your help tonight. . . .

I hear Your voice, it's whispering in science and in medicine

-"Miracle Drug," U2

One of the androids is waiting in my office when I arrive for work. They've got a small capacity for facial expression—the designers learned early on that humans just can't bear to share their lives with beings that appear to live and breathe but can't feel. This one, called Andy, is smiling pleasantly. It means nothing. He's been programmed to smile pleasantly upon first contact for the day with any human. He—it—sits when I invite, "Take a load off" and wave at the chair across from my desk. They don't have to sit, ever, or lie down or sleep or eat or bathe or scratch or use the toilet or any of the thousands of things a biological body in all its vulnerability and complexity must do to get through a lifetime. But they've been programmed to imitate—mimic, it seems to me—a few of the basic biological habits of humans, just to make us more comfortable around them. So Andy sits, straight-backed, on the edge of the chair, artificially warm hands resting on his knees.

"What is it?"

"Ms. Cerise, Mr. Gold had a difficult night last night." Still smiling pleasantly. I want to slap him, ridiculous as that is: he—it—wouldn't feel it if I did. But irrationality is a human trait, and I've lived among humans all my life. I value the heart for more than its blood pumping. Guess that's why I don't respect androids much.

I begin taking notes in my mini-tablet. "His vitals?"

"Normal."

"How many hours did he sleep?"

"Four before waking abruptly at 2 a.m. He didn't go back to sleep. He simply sat in his bed, pretending to read when I inquired after his welfare."

"Breakfast?"

"Coffee only. He refused to join the others in the dining room and when I brought him a tray, he rejected it."

"Where is he now?"

"Still in his room. He did allow me to bathe and dress him. In his navy blue pinstripe."

"Thank you." It's an automatic response; the androids are incapable of taking offense, but they're programmed to recognize such signs of dismissal. Andy leaves my office and quietly moves on to the nurse's to make his morning report to her. I follow him out, then march purposefully off to Mr. Gold's room.

Along the way I pass a stranger at the receptionist's desk. I nod a good morning to her but she gives me a cool once-over, her sharp hazel eyes lingering on my name badge. Normally, I'd take a moment to welcome her; it's expected of us professional staff. But I know the result of her appraisal: I've been judged as insignificant, and besides, a patient needs me. As I brush past her, she gives her name to the receptionist: Daeva Greene Keres.

Her image sticks in my mind as I scurry down the corridor to Gold's private room. I don't know the first thing about fashion, but I know expensive when I see it, and she's it, from head to toe. Even her fingernails look like they cost a week's pay. She's tall, lithe, fakely tanned, her age surgically disguised, and her hair richly red. She's never been here before; I'd remember if she had. Wondering if she's some kind of inspector or attorney, I pop up her bio in my mini-tablet: interior decorator. What the hell's she doing here? Nothing for her to decorate here. We're done in Standard Issue Nursing Home. Maybe she's a distant relative of one of the residents. I'll have to look into this more deeply. I mark the bio as I knock on Mr. Gold's door.

"Enter, Ms. Cerise."

He's waiting for me in the little parlor that prefaces his bedroom. His voice is a bit rough from lack of sleep, but other than that, he appears as immaculate as always. A paperback book rests between his fingers. He wishes me good morning as I enter, and I echo the wish. He invites me to sit on the upholstered couch, and I do. Between us is a coffee table, upon which is a serving tray. "Care for a cup of Ethiopian Yirge Cheffe?"

"No, thank you, Mr. Gold."

"Ah, yes, I forget: you're not a coffee drinker. Shall I order some tea?"

I smile at him, I can't help it: I enjoy this little game we've played so often, pretending that he's the lord of the manor and I've come to visit. I really don't want any tea, but I learned early on in my work with the elderly that refreshments can be a wonderful conversation aid, so I accept. "I'm in the mood for oolong today."

"You take milk in it, as I recall. No sugar."

"Yes, sir."

He presses a button on his chair, activating the house's electronics. After placing his order, he tosses the book onto the table to give me his full attention. I dare to glance at the title. "Waverly, Sir Walter Scott."

He lifts a casual shoulder. "You were expecting maybe Danielle Steel?"

"How are you feeling, Mr. Gold?"

"Oh." His flippancy folds up and blows away. "Yes, of course. Andy squealed on me. I'm fine, really. Perhaps my bed was a bit lumpy. I suppose it's time to turn my mattress."

I fix him with a no-nonsense stare. "Are you having nightmares?"

"Are you bored, Ms. Cerise? Need bit of Jungian analysis to put your degree to use?"

I'm disappointed: he's stomping on our verbal contract that exchanges his honesty for my respect for his privacy. Grumpiness is like him, snarkiness is like him, but meanness is not. Not to us staff, anyway. "Mr. Gold," I let him hear my disappointment.

He swings his wheelchair a bit away from me, breaking off our eye contact. "Apologies, Ms. Cerise. You don't deserve my ill-temper. I suppose I did have a difficult night. There was a nightmare." He stops there.

"Our agreement stands, Mr. Gold. I won't invade your privacy, but if you'd like to talk, I'll do my best to help you."

Slowly his wheelchair rotates back around in my direction. "I know you will. Your concern is—I appreciate its sincerity. And I don't question your abilities. You've helped me—"

A knock interrupts him and he scowls. "Enter."

It's Andy again, bearing a tea tray, which he sets down on the coffee table. He removes the coffee tray. "I included some snickerdoodles, fresh from the oven, in case you're hungry. Would you like a refill on the coffee, sir?"

"No, thank—"

"Oh there you are!" A horribly fake chirp interrupts us again. It's her, the fashion-following redhead, barging in behind Andy, who snaps to attention, still smiling pleasantly and awaiting an order from Gold or me to either bring more coffee or throw the intruder out. Or both. She almost bumps into Andy as she swishes into the parlor. I don't like Andy, but she—she isn't even aware of his existence.

A cloud of cologne trails behind her as she flops onto the other end of the couch. She's stick-thin, but somehow she takes up more than half the couch; I scoot over to grant her more space, then I notice that in claiming this territory, within arm's reach of him, she's already marked Gold as her property. Wow, what an operator. She's done this before.

Mr. Gold's eyes have narrowed: he's got her number too. Good. Whatever she's come for, he won't let her take unless doing so will benefit him. Possibly, not even then; he might fight her just out of spite. I smile at him, proud of him.

His eyebrow cocks. "And you are?"

"Oh, sorry, I'm so well known in this little burg, I tend to forget not everyone recognizes me." She offers her hand, rather limply; I can't tell if she expects it to be shaken or kissed. "Daeva Greene Keres."

His eyes narrow even further. "Means nothing to me. Why have you burst into my personal quarters, madam? And more importantly, how did—"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Gold!" the receptionist practically skids on the wood floor. Her hand presses to her heaving chest; running is not her forte. "So sorry! She—the phone rang and she got past me when I answered it. Do you want us"—she indicates Andy—"to remove her?"

"One moment." Gold is actually enjoying this. Dramatic scenes are so few and far between at the Arbor; Blue makes certain our atmosphere is always calming. After a lifetime of magic-fights, I suppose he needs a little conflict now and then. Besides, he's at the center of this storm; he's feeling a bit royal under all this attention. "Why are you here, Ms.—what did you say your name was?" I chuckle a bit. He remembers it, full well; he's manipulating Greenie. He never forgets a name.

"Daeva Greene Keres. I own Storybrooke Decorating. I'm sure you've seen some of our work: the mayor's residence, Mr. Midas' mansion—"

"I have not." He doesn't explain why. It should be obvious to anyone with eyes that he doesn't get out much. "Why are you here?"

"Why, you've won, Mr. Gold. Didn't you receive our letter? You won our Makeover of the Month contest."

He waves a dismissive hand. "Never entered it. Never heard of it. Not interested."

"Entries aren't required. We draw names at random from the city directory." Now my eyes narrow: I wasn't aware that there was a city directory. She strokes her manicured fingers down his arm before leaving them to rest on his hand. "You won! A free decorating job. The works! Rugs, drapes, furniture, lighting, everything! All totally free of charge, by our award-winning company." She leans into him. "We've won Decorator of the Year ten years running!"

I snort, but though her smile wavers, she doesn't deign to look at me. Award-winning, my Aunt Fanny. Greene Decorating is the only interior decorators in Storybrooke.

I catch the flick of an upturn at the corner of Gold's mouth. He's got it. "Indeed. Well, Ms. Kipper-"

"Keres."

"Still not interested. You seem to have wasted your time as well as mine. But I'll excuse you if you leave right now, before our tea grows cold."

"Oh, no, you see—" she sputters. She clearly she wasn't counting on rejection. "It's free. We provide everything. And it will be done to your tastes, by the best home decorator in town." Her tongue darts out to dampen her puffed up lips. "I personally will see to every aspect of the job."

"Perhaps you should have your hearing checked, Ms. Cutter. There is no job. I don't want this 'prize.' I don't want you returning to my rooms for any reason." His head turns toward the receptionist. "Ms. Jonquil, Andrew, please remove—"

Mortified, Greenie leaps to her feet. Her hands flail as she searches for a way to get her way, or at least, get out of this gracefully. "I—I—but Mr. Gold—" She lifts her chin and smooths down her skirt. "Excuse me. I see I've come at a bad time. I'll come back another day, when you're feeling better." She sails out with a sneer at Andy. The android follows to make certain that she actually leaves the building. Jonquil apologizes again, asks if there's anything Mr. Gold needs; his soft "no" informs her that she's forgiven for her slip up. She scurries back out, leaving us at peace at last.

"Well. That was interesting." Gold surmises.

I fold my arms in speculation. "I don't like her."

"Neither do I. I shall speak to the robots"—he prefers that term to android, although robot is considered demeaning (or maybe he prefers it because it is demeaning)—"about prohibiting her entrance into the building."

"I think I'll check into this 'contest.' Something about it doesn't seem right." I drum my fingers on the couch's armrest. "Something about her—"

"Doesn't seem right," he finishes. "Ms. Cerise, if you don't mind, after that strange intrusion, I'd prefer some plain, ordinary, garden-variety conversation." He nods to the coffee table. "Pour yourself a cup of tea, if you like." He'd do it for me, if he could, but his movement is too limited. "So." He sighs. "Have you read any good books lately?"

We'll come back to his nightmare, eventually. I won't let it go. He needs to talk. I need to help him. But today, after this weirdness, I'll let the heavy talk slide.

The fall has arrived, not with a bang but with a whimper from our patients.

One day we were basking in the joint-soothing sunshine of our garden; the next, we were rooting in our dressers for sweaters and flannel pants. One day the bees were buzzing lazily around our pink Endless Summer hydrangeas and we were nodding our sleeping heads in rhythm with the flowers' lush and heavy tops; the next, we're reading Hopkins' "Spring and Fall" aloud beside the fireplace. Endless Summer, indeed.

What bothers us is not so much the chill in the air or the crumbling falling leaves or even the lengthening nights. It's the certain knowledge that in the next blink of an eye, snow will bury our garden and ice will coat our walkways. The custodians—androids all, immune to cold and heat—will rush to work with their shovels and bags of salt, of course, and the house will regulate our indoor temperature to a cozy 80 degrees, so it's not so much the physical discomfort of the season, but rather the emotional one, because in the autumn comes Thanksgiving, then the winter brings Christmas, and for some of us, the two holidays, falling one on top of the other like that, bring loneliness and isolation, the sense of being forgotten as the rest of the world dashes by, shiny ribboned packages clutched protectively against coats. Oh, they love the season, the lucky ones who have family and friends out in the world, for the world swoops in and collects them up in their wheelchairs and walkers and lifts them gently into the automated public transit vehicles to whisk them downtown for shopping and hot chocolate at Walgreen's. If we were less self-centered, the rest of us would embrace them when they're brought back and congratulate them on a successful shopping expedition (but beneath the surface, our congratulations would be for their good fortune of having family). We'd help them off with their mufflers and mittens, we'd press finger-warming cups of tea into their chilled hands, we'd hold the tape for them as they wrap the Christmas presents they'll set under the communal tree in wait of their next outing with family, on Christmas Eve.

But, I'll admit it, we're not that generous. We fake it, of course, out of politeness. And on Christmas Eve, those of us who remain behind (who are left over) will light a fire and gather around our own tree and hook ornaments onto its branches. The house will pipe in Bing Crosby and not-quite-believable scents of pine and clean snow, and the androids will dress as elves and serve sugar-free Santa cookies before fading back into the shadows, silently awaiting our commands. Those of us who can, may sing along with Bing or even dance with each other in an off-tempo box step.

I could be an exception to the rule, but I don't want to be. I've had my fill of the lifeless dinners served by my sister fairies at the convent. I've had a lifetime of their formal greetings, which follow unspoken rules of protocol. One always stands and greets Blue first—always, "Good morning, Blue, and a merry Christmas to you"—then waits for her response, which repeats the greeting almost word for word; after which, each sister is greeted in order of her age; after which, at Blue's signal, we seat ourselves on the edge of the oak chairs, our hands resting in our laps as the androids serve the meal. Somehow the meat is always dry, the mashed potatoes always lumpy, the green beans always limp, the rolls always stale, the gravy always watery. After the meal, as the androids clear the dishes, we adjourn in the commons, exchange our little gifts (under Blue's advisement, we give only useful things like gloves and soaps), sing some hymns, kneel for prayers, then bid each other, in protocol order, a good afternoon, before Blue with a slow and solemn dip of her head grants us release. Sort of: we are not free to leave the convent, not free to "disturb other sisters' rest" with music or movies, not free to welcome visitors. We can nap, or read, or knit, or pray, or walk in the sleeping vegetable garden. The four of us—me, the psychotherapist; the sheriff's deputy Tinker Bell; Khaki, the accountant; and Violet, the manager of the convent's secondhand shop that raises money for charity—who are not nuns are not exempted from "proper procedures" and "rules of conduct."

I had a good excuse for skipping the past three convent Christmases: I was busy with my studies at Duke. I have a good excuse this year: my patients need me. Their health is at risk as their spirits decline in the winter; the nurses and I must stay vigilant. I am especially worried about Mr. Gold.

Blue accepts this excuse. After all, it was she who plucked me out of the crowd, when I was in the fourth grade, after we'd taken a battery of aptitude tests to determine appropriate career paths; she informed me then that I'd be selected to someday replace the Arbors' current psychotherapist, who would be retiring in precisely fourteen years. It was she who chose my classes, planned my extracurricular activities, monitored my grades and my study habits, and it was she who personally drove me to Durham and settled me into a dorm. It was she that I dutifully checked in with, by video phone, every Friday night—just before I'd creep out of the dorm with my roommates to go clubbing. It was she I thanked when I received my degree (though she wasn't available to attend Commencement; she had the annual report to the Bishops that day. Just as well—she wouldn't have stood up and hollered for me like the Golds did for Gid.)

On the day before Christmas Eve, Astrid drops off a box of gifts for me, and I give her a box of gifts for the sisters. I'll hear from Blue, the day after Christmas: a phone call filled with a cold heat (how she can make her cold words sound so hot, I'll never know). My gifts to the sisters are "frivolous" and "wasteful," she'll say, "a sad use of money" for gifts that will just end up on sale in the secondhand shop. It's true. I've bought things like perfume and music boxes and ceramic figurines, just to give the girls a laugh. Just to show Blue she doesn't own me any more.

And I don't feel the least bit of guilt for any of it, because it's true that my patients need me over the holidays, especially Mr. Gold, and I need them, especially Mr. Gold. His snarkiness is the medicine I need to get me past my envy of all those who have doting spouses and adoring children to rush home to. (No, I know what it's really like: there are no Norman Rockwell family scenes out there; I've learned that from the grumblings of my co-workers. But I also see the ease in their shoulders, the contented smiles when they come back to work feeling tired but well loved.)

"Mr. Gold, can I tell you a secret? Something personal?" I'm leaning against the closed door after bidding Astrid goodbye. I've set my box of appropriate gifts to the side; tonight I'll open them, set them back into the box and carry the box to the homeless shelter, to give out to those who can make best use of them. For the poor always ye have with you. And then I'll come home to Arbor, peek in on my sleeping patients before snuggling into my chenille robe and fuzzy slippers, then lying back into my lounge chair with a Jane Austen.

Mr. Gold is the only resident remaining in the lobby, the others having wheeled off to lunch. He tends to roll into the dining room ten minutes after everyone else: they'll all look up at him from their vegetable soup and grilled cheese. He still likes to make an entrance. I get such a kick out of the imperial way he stares down his nose at them, just before a server ties a bib around his neck and spoons up some broth for him to sample, as if tasting wine before approving it to be served to the table. Sometimes, when no one else is looking, he'll wink at me to clue me in on the joke.

"Of course." Gold sounds a tad miffed at the suggestion that he might spill my secret. After all, he has no friends here, barely speaks more than twenty words a day to anyone.

"This is my secret: I want what they have." I nod toward the door behind me.

"They? The nuns?" Clearly, he can't think of a single reason why I would envy the nuns.

"No, them; the families that picked up their loved ones today to take them shopping."

His face clears as understanding settles upon him. "Oh, I see. Is it the 'family' part that you envy?"

I shake my head. "The 'loved one' part."

"Ah."

"You've been a loved one. Could we talk about it? What it's like?" As the words escape me, I'm kicking myself. I'm the therapist, the professional in this relationship; I have no business blurting my problems out to a patient. I suppose, though, I could argue that by getting him to talk about his past relationships, I'm leading him into an opportunity to talk about his lack of present-day ones.

He ponders for a moment, then lifts a shoulder slightly, seeming to have decided what the hell. He's already let me see some of the more emotional parts of his life, via the holodeck. His finger presses a call button on the arm of his wheelchair and he speaks, enunciating each word, as if speaking to someone who's only just learned a little English. I find this mildly amusing, a generational quirk that his cohorts in the Arbors share: when android servants first came on the market, they did indeed need to be spoken to in simple, direct sentences, and accents, such as the one Mr. Gold sometimes slips into when he's tired or ill, threw them off. Today's models can adapt to any accent in any language and can handle Joycean sentences better than a lit scholar can.

"Andrew, two hot teas in the holodeck room, please. One Earl Grey with a squeeze of lemon, no sugar, one—" Gold cocks an eyebrow at me expectantly. When I answer him, he finishes the command. "Peppermint, with a spoonful of sugar." He then rolls into the hallway, fully confident that I will follow.

As we go in, Smee is coming out of the holodeck. The old seadog is singing to himself, off-key, something about a "lofty ship to windward." His clothes smell of damp salt.

"Were the winds with you today, Cap'n?" I greet him.

"Aye, and the waves like your granny's rockin' chair." There's a distance in Smee's eyes, as though he still has one foot on deck. He draws in a deep breath. "Works up a man's appetite, does a day at sea. Puts me in the mood for a spicy beef stew. You should try it sometime, Gold. You'll eat hearty and sleep well after."

Gold ignores him, rolling on into the holodeck. I bid Smee a good lunch and stroll in behind Gold. An android attendant stands silently in the corner, awaiting a command or problem to repair; it's a new model, one with a more complex and faster connection to the house system. It's been given a woman's face and voice, but the standard androgynous body. Blue's commissioned our models that way; humanoid, to make our house more homey and our residents more at ease, but not too humanoid, so that our residents don't get confused.

"Will you be using the holodeck, sir?" she inquires in her bland but polite voice. Her eyes flash a red light for just a second as she reads the wheelchair's panels. If a patient can't answer her vocally, she can be commanded through the buttons on a panel, or, if the patient has a deep-brain neural link, the android can be operated through thoughts.

Mr. Gold does not have a deep-brain neural link. Though Blue and our medical team have advised it, given his condition, and have proven to him its effectiveness and safety time and again, he refuses. The implant results in much more accurate and vivid communications between the wearer and the computer system, Blue has assured him; the headset, which reads brain waves, tends to lose the finer details. But Gold fears that if he had the implant, as some of the older folks do, some evil soul will hack into our house system and will be able to control him through it. I can't blame him. I know the story of his dagger. I know about Zelena.

As the doors whoosh open to admit Andy, bearing a tea tray (some of us do so love a fully tricked out tea tray, with a china cups and sugar bowls and silver spoons!), Gold answers the new android. "Yes. I require the headset."

She knows that, of course; the house has already identified him, sent a message to her that conveys his full biometrics, his physical limitations, even his personal preferences for holodeck settings, concerning everything from room temperature to volume of sound and strength of scents. As she gently sets him up in the headset, she makes all these other adjustments for him, even beginning with a little background music, something classical that I don't recognize, not being much of a fan of high-brow stuff.

Andy serves the tea, adjusting its temperature a bit to suit our differing tastes: Gold likes his tongue-scalding; me, several degrees cooler. Andy's communication with the wheelchair informs him that Gold will need some help today, so he stands by with the cup of Earl Grey, offering sips when Gold gives a small nod.

From the side, I watch intently, assessing Mr. Gold's emotional state as well his physical one. I see the slight wince every time he has to signal Andy for another sip. I see the red of embarrassment rising in his sunken, pale cheeks. I see how his trousers, a perfect fit just last month, now hang too loose on his hips. Smee's right: Gold's not eating enough, and I can see why: even after fifty years, it still humiliates him to have to ask for and receive help for such simple tasks as drinking and eating, even when the helper is an android who's programmed to take gratification from providing assistance.

There's another reason too, for Gold's weight loss and sleeplessness. I know what it is—I checked the calendar this morning—but I also know Gold's pride and over-dependence on privacy will not brook a direct question about the anniversary marked on my calendar. In my sneaky, scheming little mind, it's why I came up with this "tell me what it's like to be loved" request.

All right, there's truth in the request too. Gold would see right through me if there weren't. I really do want to know what it feels like to be part of a family united by choice, not just by heritage, as my sister fairies and I are. Blue would scoff at this weakness in me, if I confessed to her; I've spent too many years living among the humans. I'm starting to think I'm one of them.

"You asked what it's like to be loved and loving," Gold summarizes, then his tone sharpens. "How much reality do you want?"

The question catches me off-guard and I stammer.

"I can show you just the nice parts that will reinforce your fantasy. Or I can show you the full range of the experience: fascination, bewilderment and confusion, yearning and craving, lust and ecstasy, pride and protectiveness, insult and damage, rejection, abandonment, loss." As he identifies each emotion, the 'deck comes alive with flickers of faces, moving so fast I can barely register them: a bearded man, an almond-eyed woman, a dimple-chinned debutante, a shaggy-haired child, a gray-eyed woman, Henry and Gid and Joy, and Belle, Belle and more Belle.

I dare to press him, but I ask gently. "Show me this day, in 2057. Please."

His face goes white.

I backpedal a little, allowing him an out. "If you can. I think it would help both of us." Her face is frozen in mid-air: her thick auburn hair, ponytailed; her cupid's bow mouth in a playful pout, her china blue eyes, always frank but at the same time, bemused. Yes, that's how I'd describe Belle as I've come to know her through his memories: endlessly fascinated and entertained by the world.

He moves his head toward the stage, breaking eye contact with me. After a long moment, he finds words. "We'll have to start, then, with Storybrooke, 2023. June."

The holo-actors jump to life: Belle and Rumple, holding hands (and her holding her belly) as they lean forward in straight-backed chairs on the visitor side of an expansive desk. Facing them is a guy in a white jacket, his plastic name tag (unnecessary in a town as small as Storybrooke, but yet, part of the official outfit) identifying him as Dr. Whale. The doctor's got one haunch resting on the edge of desk; it gives him an air of casual confidence, and the iPad he consults lends an air of certainty. "You were right, Belle. As mothers-to-be usually are."

Belle cheers, squeezing her husband's hand too tightly, rendering his cheer into a yelp. She releases him, rubbing his bruised hand in apology, before swinging back to Whale. "So I am pregnant."

"You sure are. About six weeks. The baby will debut in late February. Now, you might remember the routine, but in case you're a little rusty, here's the run-down: balance work and rest, exercise and play, plenty of water, vegetables; we'll put you on a diet and a vitamin supplement. We'll schedule you for monthly checkups; don't let the monster of the week prevent you from keeping them." Then Whale sets his tablet aside so he can focus entirely on her. "It's especially important that you follow the regimen, Belle, because. . . I'm seeing some numbers that I don't like. We need to track them. I'll teach you how; it's not difficult, not any more painful than a sewing needle prick. But we need for you to check your glucose levels once a day."

"Glucose," Belle echoes. "You mean blood sugar?"

"What are you seeing, Whale?" Rumple seems torn between whisking his wife up in his protective arm or tearing the doctor's office apart.

"Now don't panic, Mr. Gold." Whale makes a stop sign of his hand. "This is common with pregnancies, and in most cases, after the baby's born, the condition goes away and everybody's fine. Mother and infant. We just need for you to stick to the plan. But I do need to inform you that about 10 percent of the time, gestational diabetes progresses into type 2 diabetes."

"Diabetes?!" Rumple yelps, gripping the arms of his chair. He's ready to shoot out of it, as if pummeling the doctor will make Belle healthy.

"Mr. Gold, I'll remind you again, this is a common occurrence during pregnancy and there are steps we can take to reduce the risk—"

"Reduce? You mean 'prevent,' don't you, Whale? Prevent it from become full-blown diabetes?"

"Mr. Gold, you're not helping your wife any by losing your temper."

He's right: even Rumple can see that, and backs down. Belle is gnawing furiously at her lower lip, her eyes wide. "My father has type 2 diabetes."

Whale nods slightly. Her father's medical history—as much as they know of it, anyway; they can only guess about Moe's health in the Enchanted Forest days—is in her medical records, back from when she was carrying Gid. "That increases your risk a little, but we're going to do everything we can to prevent that from happening to you or the baby. We'll take good care of you, Belle, I promise. And your psychological health is important too. Avoid stress—"

"We can live in the cabin. Close the shop. Your assistant can run the library. We can home school Gid, or hire a tutor. Peace and quiet there, just us and the birds and an occasional rabbit," Rumple interjects. "Warm and snug. And it's less than ten miles from the hospital. Just seconds away, if I—" He wiggles his fingers to suggest magic.

"We'll discuss it," Belle relents. "This is all too fast to make any big decisions."

"No need to make any snap decisions," Whale agrees. "I assure you, in the vast majority of cases, gestational diabetes disappears soon after the baby is born. And Belle, it would help ease your mind if we introduced you to some mothers and babies who've had gestational diabetes and came out of it just fine. Right off the top of my head, I can think of three; you already know them all. I'm sure they'd be glad to talk to you."

Belle sits back in her chair, forced back the impact of the news. "Gestational diabetes. What did I do wrong, Vic?"

Whale seizes her hand. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing." He casts a glance at Rumple. "Neither of you did anything that brought this on. It's not a punishment; it's a situation we need to monitor. Fix that in your mind, Belle. The sooner you stop thinking in terms of curses, the lower your stress levels. You need to think positive, for the baby, for yourself, and for Gid too. Let him enjoy the experience of pregnancy along with you."

"I didn't get that, when I was pregnant with him." Belle glares at Whale's hand covering her own. "All the things I—we—missed out on, Rumple. Morning sickness, the baby bump, guessing the baby's gender, choosing names, decorating the nursery, knitting booties."

"I'd like to weave a blanket for this one." Rumple's eyes glitter. "As I did for Bae."

"We're going to take good care of you, Belle. I'm going to make a few phone calls, first to our staff dietitian, then to those three mommies. I don't want you to worry. Okay, Belle?"

As she nods slowly, the scene breaks into pixels and dissolves. The pixels reassemble and we're once again in Whale's office; only the clothing has changed. The worry lines on Belle's face are still present as she twists a chart in her hands. "One eighty this morning before breakfast. Two ten last night after dinner. It's been like that for six months now and it's not getting any better."

There's a crease in Whale's forehead. "Your A1C is not where I'd like it to be."

"I've been sticking to the diet and exercising every day."

"We take walks in the park, all four of us, every evening," Rumple adds.

"Rumple's lost nine pounds," Belle comments. "I've lost all my baby weight, but still my glucose levels are high."

Whale makes a note on a prescription pad. "I want to start you on metformin; it's safe while you're still breastfeeding. Let's start with 500 miligrams twice a day. Don't worry, Belle. We'll take good care of you."

In a blink the scene changes: three of the Golds are sitting at a kitchen table. The toddler Joy, secured in a high chair, is feeding herself (and her bib) mushy peas, while her parents poke listlessly at a (low-sodium) roasted chicken. There's a fourth place setting on the table, but the plate's been scraped clean. Through the open door leading into the garden, raucous children's voices can be heard.

Rumple interprets the noise. "Gid just scored another basket."

"This week, he's decided he wants to be a point guard for the Pistons, in his spare time from designing cars," Belle informs her husband.

"Last week it was the Chicago Bulls."

Belle slams her fork down on the table. "Insulin! Rumple, it's only been two years! I shouldn't have to go on insulin so soon!"

Rumple's hand closes over hers. "It's not fair. You've finally got the life you deserve, the life you earned."

She leans her head against his chest and he slides an arm around her shoulders. "Rumple, what if the insulin doesn't work? That's the end of the line. What do we do then?"

"Sweetheart, we need to take this one step at a time. This is only your first day; you don't know how your body will adapt to it. Focus on today, sweetheart; taking care of yourself today." He brushes her hair back. "You're not alone in this fight, Belle. You've got a whole town looking out for you." He kisses her forehead. "And there's research going on all the time. There will be a cure someday, and on the day that happens, the Gold family will dance in the streets."

The toddler interrupts her parents' worries with a "Mommy, look! Snowman!" She proudly displays a ball of bread perched atop a mound of mashed potatoes; the bread sports two pea-eyes.

"We will dance," Belle murmurs. "Our babies and you and me."

The image fades and reforms. Belle is older now and it's clear that a life of battles, along with juggling a busy family and a full-time career, have taken more from her than it's put back. She and Rumple are cozy on a couch, reading and occasionally commenting to each other about their books. In the background a small fire crackles in a fireplace. It's a blessed scene; I'm glad Gold is sharing it with me, even gladder that such small moments reside still, safe in his memory. Belle turns a page, yawning, scans the page, eyelids sliding shut, and in a wink she's fast asleep, still sitting upright, still clutching her book. Rumple presses a finger to a sentence in his book and reads it aloud, remarking upon it, but when Belle neither answers or moves, he looks up. He watches her, his forehead creasing. After a few minutes he sets his book aside, eases his lap out from under her feet, rises, and fetches a quilt from a rocking chair. He tucks the blanket around her, then steps back and watches her a bit longer, his worry lines deepening.

"That started happening a lot. Not dozing off—abruptly falling into a deep sleep. And she'd wake up two or three times during the night and have to use the bathroom, and she'd have trouble going back to sleep. Her appetite, which used to be quite hearty, declined; sometimes she'd say things tasted sour or even rusty. The price of aging, she used to say. But we found out later: no."

The image fades and reforms. We're back in an office, listening to another man in a white coat, but this one's name tag identifies him as Dr. Ericson. Changes in the furniture and the lights and the desk phone clue me in that we've moved ahead quite a few years, but still, by our terms, we're in the past. Belle and Rumple are holding hands in their chairs again. He looks a little grayer, a little softer in the middle; she's gone completely gray and is wearing eyeglasses. She's lost weight, apparently a sudden loss, because her skin hangs off her bones.

"The disease has progressed since January," the doctor is saying. "Your GFR has dropped to 40 percent."

Belle doesn't look surprised, but her tone is clipped, angry. "How long?"

"Excuse me?"

"I know what happens next. I've read the books. How long can I maintain stage three? Months? Years? How long before stage four? Five? How long before I have to go on dialysis?" She spits the questions out.

"We can't be sure. There are so many factors involved. Age—some loss of kidney function is a normal part of aging. We need to get your diabetes and blood pressure under control—"

"It's not fair!" She's on her feet now, practically shouting. "I've done everything I was told to. I took the medications faithfully, I stuck to the diets, I exercised—it's not fair!"

Rumple comes to his feet and reaches out to embrace her, but she wrenches away. I understand her anger: she needs it to avoid breaking down. She's at stage three in her disease and stage two in her grief.

"Belle," he tries to croon to her, but she shoves him back and slams her hands down on the doctor's desk. "How long?" she demands. "You know my medical history. You must have some idea."

"Mrs. Gold, there are many things we can do, with diet and exercise, to slow the progression—"

"I know that! I read the books!" she is shouting now. "I know what happens next. I know what dialysis looks like; I've seen the videos. I know it's the end of the line. So give me a number! How much time do I have before dialysis? Please! There are things I want to do! How long do I have to walk around like a normal person before I have to be hooked up three days a week to a machine?"

"It's possible that you might not ever have to. Some people live for years at stage three."

"People at my age? People with diabetes?"

"Kidney disease patients are more likely to die of related complications like cardiovascular-" the doctor clamps his mouth shut as he realizes he's not helping her any.

She spins around to glare at her husband. "And you! I don't want to hear 'we're going to win this fight, Belle.' Not this one; you know that. I'm tired of fighting. I've been fighting for thirty years!" The last declaration breaks her and she falls into his arms, accepting his comfort at last.

He presses his mouth to her ear. "Malibu. Remember how beautiful, how restful? UCLA's med center has an excellent nephrology department." From reading her letters to my supervisor's grandfather, I know she knows this; the Golds drove past it when last they visited Gid in California. They've been preparing for this eventuality.

"Yes," she murmurs, his voice in her ear soothing her, his offer of a realistic hope easing her mind somewhat. "Malibu. With Gid in Palo Alto and Joy in San Francisco."

"The hyperloop can reunite us in less than less an hour." Rumple forces a chuckle. "We can have dinner with them every night."

"They'll never be rid of us." She manages a lame smile.

Rumple holds her at arm's length to peer into her face. "What say we blow this pop stand?"

The image fades and reforms. The entire Gold family is seated in yet another white-coat's office, but this one has pastel walls and large windows that look out upon a beach, and more importantly, most importantly, a smiling white coat who's drawn up a chair and is sitting with the Golds in a little parlor off her office. She has her hand on Joy's shoulder and Joy is winking back tears behind her triumphant and relieved smile, and everyone is grinning. Belle's hands are clasped prayerfully to her chest. Dr. Garza is in mid-sentence: "So, from the preliminary tests, Mr. Gold has the wrong blood type, but it appears likely that either one of your children would be a suitable match, Ms. Gold."

"Twenty years," Belle's voice trembles with excitement and she casts wide eyes upon her husband. "I can live another twenty years!"

Though it's unprofessional of her, Joy can't help but butt in to the doctor's diagnosis. "With a preemptive transplantation you can avoid dialysis altogether, Mom!"

Gid stands and is pretending to yank off his shirt. "OK, Doc, show me to the operating room. I take a size 3 in men's dressing gowns."

Sputtering with giggles, Joy slaps his hands away from his shirt. "Not so fast, Quick Draw. I'm the better candidate for the donation. I'm younger and fitter than you."

Dr. Garza breaks in. "Now, now, let's not get the cart before the horse. I have some concerns. . . I'm detecting a possible heart murmur that we need to have checked out. Cardiovascular disease is a contraindication to transplantation. I'm going to send you to a cardiologist for some tests."

Gid thumps back down on his chair, weighed down by the word, "Contraindication."

Rumple is rubbing his thumb over the back of Belle's hand and murmurs reassurances I can't hear, but the shock on her face doesn't ease. Gid slides an arm around his mother's shoulders. "We can't have come this far for nothing, Mom. Have faith. The Fates wouldn't dangle hope in front of our noses just to snatch it away."

"They—Joy and Gid—were the gods' greatest gift to us," Mr. Gold teaches me. "Just knowing what they would have given, without hesitation. . . . That is one facet of love, Ms. Cerise. The brightest and rarest facet."

The image fades and reforms. Rumple is sitting in a lobby, pretending to flip through a magazine, but his eyes keep jumping from the clock on the wall to the door marked "Staff Only." At one point he stands, a scowl affixed to his features, the same scowl he displays when he's warning others he will brook no interference. He marches over to the staff door. His hand grips the knob as though he expects the door to resist him, and I jump a little when it does. But in fact it's Belle opening the door from the other side. She's adjusting the hem on her blouse. As they nearly bump into each other, they both jerk and take a step back, then mutually sigh and reach for each other's hand. "Dr. Kohli will call us tomorrow with the results," is all she says. She doesn't make eye contact with him as she leads him out of the clinic.

I look to Mr. Gold for an explanation. It's a long time in coming; when it does, I realize why: his voice is thick with emotion. "Dr. Kohli is—was the cardiologist. There's often a link, you see, especially with older people, between kidney disease and heart disease."

I don't want to ask, but if I don't, he'll probably feel it's necessary to show me, and I need to spare him—spare me—as much as possible. So I pry my tongue loose. "What were the results?"

He swings his chair away from me and despite my effort, summons a scene.

They're on the beach now, reclining on a blanket as they admire a sunset. They're holding hands like high-schoolers overcome with puppy love. Belle's bone-thin now and when she moves her left arm, I spot a long lump that runs from elbow to shoulder. I grab the edge of my blouse and use it as a makeshift hanky. I know what that lump means. Compounding my heartbreak is the knowledge that some years into the future, but too late for Belle, Dr. Joy Gold-Langston and her team at the Institute for Human Genetics will win the Lasker Award for their research leading to the development of cure for diabetes and with it, an end to diabetic nephropathy.

At this moment, I would trade my two front teeth for a chance to talk to Joy, to unburden her of any guilt she might feel about her achievement coming too late. But I'm too late too.

Mr. Gold reminisces, "There was a prayer. . . Gid had it engraved on a snow globe he gave us that Christmas. He was a believer, you see; became one when he was in elementary school. Not of the gods his mother and I were raised on, but one God. In her later years, Belle's thinking shifted that way too. And me—I was an opportunist, you know; I'd pray to the whole lot of 'em."

"What was the prayer?"

"'God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference.' Belle thought we should take that advice. We tried then to focus on the minutes, not the days. It wasn't easy for me; I've always played the long game, but I did the best I could to give that to her. That's not to say we didn't fight for every minute."

The holo-actor Belle is speaking. "Not bored without a shop to go to everyday, my love?" There's a touch of guilt in her voice; perhaps she thinks her illness has taken something important away from him. Briefly, I wonder too how he's adjusting, not just to retirement, and not just to loss of status—for he's gone from the Big Guy in Town to another board-shorts wearing beach lounger. I'm wondering how he's managing without his magic.

But there are no frown lines in his face, no stiffness in his posture; he's lying back on the blanket with one arm pillowing his head and the other cuddling Belle. No, the lines that have deepened are those around his mouth, suggesting a lot more smiling has been going on since the move.

"Did you miss it much?" I puzzle. "Your magic?"

"Sometimes," Gold admits. "But surprisingly, not that often. The peace and quiet distracted me."

I return my attention to the holo-play, where Belle is knitting her fingers in and out of Rumple's. "Do you remember when you promised to show me the world? If we're going to do it, we should do it now."

He studies her closely. Questions leap into his eyes, but he doesn't raise them. "We'll buy the tickets tomorrow."

Mr. Gold's lower lip quivers once before he clamps his mouth tight.

"You kept your promise." I'm assuring him as well as myself. "You showed her the world."

"I think it was she who showed me."

Snapshots of landscapes, buildings, animals and people flash by on the walls of our home for the frail and disabled. They saw it all, Albania to Zimbabwe. They rode jets, hyperloops, buses, bicycles, elephants. They picnicked, they danced, they chatted with shopkeepers and shoppers, they posed, they gasped and sighed and laughed and kissed. When they moved on, they left behind new friends.

"It was her, all her." Gold's voice is soft with admiration. "I was never so surprised to be at ease among strangers. I was never so happy."

I clear my throat and signal Andy to reheat the tea.

"This is love, Ms. Cerise. And this."

He shows me now a hospital room, spacious, sunny and clean, more a floral shop than a medical space, really. In a computerized bed that's reading her vital signs, Belle is sitting up, chatting with Snow and David Nolan; they're all smiling, so I assume everything's fine with Belle, but when I glance at the bed's monitors I come to a second opinion. Standing in the hallway, Ericson is reading something from a tablet to an intently listening Rumple. The doctor finishes, touches Rumple's shoulder and walks away. Rumple digs into his suit jacket—he's fully Armani-ed now—for a phone, dials and speaks a single command: "Regina? Rumplestiltskin. I need you at the hospital, room 815. Bring The Encylopedia of Healing Magicks. Now." He closes the phone without waiting for an answer.

Inside the room, he pastes on a smile for guests. "Nolan, Mrs. Nolan, it was good of you to drop by, but I must ask you to leave so Belle can get some rest."

"Yes, of course," Snow catches on right away, steering her husband toward the door. "We'll come back tomorrow during visiting hours. Just give us a call if we can bring you anything."

"Hope you're feeling better, Belle." David presses the patient's hand in farewell. "Glad to see you back in Storybrooke."

When the door has closed and the Golds are, for the moment, alone, the courtesy smiles vanish and they clasp hands. He bends to press his forehead to hers, then kisses her and straightens. "I called Regina."

She nods. "Am I a hypocrite, Rumple?"

"A what?"

"All those years of criticizing magic. Criticizing this town's dependence on it. Criticizing you for leaning on it."

"It was my crutch for so many years."

"And now I'm asking for it. Does that make me a hypocrite?"

His lips twitch. "No more than I am. I recall once forcing Whale to say that magic is more powerful than science, and yet, I've come to depend on medicine and technology to an astonishing and humbling degree."

"And our children chose science over magic," Belle adds.

"They've wielded their power to far greater effect than their father ever did."

"No, Rumple. You did some generous and amazing things with your magic."

"We're going to do everything we can, call upon every power at our disposal, to get you through this, sweetheart." His hands glow with a gold light as he hovers them above her. "I'm rather rusty, but. . . is there pain? I can try to lessen it."

"Pressure." She touches her chest. "It's kind of hard to breathe."

He presses his palm to her collarbone and the gold light shivers down her body.

"Well!" A hearty voice interrupts and a puff of purple smoke appears at the foot of the bed. When it's cleared, Regina is standing there, as brusque and as fashionably attired as ever. Someday, I'd like Gold to show me a memory of her in disarray, maybe stubbing her toe and cussing, or falling face first into a mud puddle. But then, he may not want to remember her in any way other than as confident and coiffed as she appears now.

"Oh, pardon me for forgetting to knock." She raps her knuckles against the bedframe. "Good evening, Belle, Gold; welcome back to Storybrooke, even if it isn't under the best of circumstances. And thank you for all those postcards from—well, everywhere."

"Regina, thank you for coming." Belle sits up.

"Good evening, Regina," Rumple murmurs. "You have the book, I see."

The once-and-still mayor of Storybrooke flicks her wrist and a book appears in her raised hand. She presents it to him as she comes over to his side to peer down at Belle. "How are you feeling, Belle?"

Belle thinks for a moment before replying, "Hopeful."

"Science has done all it can; now it's time for magic to step in." Regina's voice is so smooth it's reassuring, but she throws a quick, worried glance over her shoulder at Rumple.

"If I were a candidate for transplant, we'd still be in California," Belle replies. "But heart disease makes me ineligible."

"Which is why we're back," Rumple finishes.

"To cure heart disease with magic," Regina surmises. Her smooth smile flickers and again she's glancing at Gold. "It will be. . . a challenge."

He's flipping through the encyclopedia. "I had three hundred years to study all forms and functions of magic, but I confess, I seldom called upon healing magic, unless it was my offering in a trade."

"None of us here, really, are experts in that field." Regina raises an eyebrow at Rumple. "Blue comes closest."

"I intend to drop in on her this evening."

"Be sure to go hat in hand. She's gotten crankier in her old age."

"Tomorrow morning, I wish to call a summit of all the magic users in town. Pool our knowledge and our resources."

"You're welcome to use my parlor, after I put up all my breakables. I'll even provide hors d'ouvres. All the fairies, Tinkerbell, Emma, Dylan Jones." Regina licks her lips. "Uh, Zelena is back in town. . . ."

"No, Rumple," Belle starts to object, but her husband draws in a deep breath. "I'll drop in on her too." He offers Belle a reassuring smile. "We need all the power we can get."

"And she has quite a lot," Regina admits.

Mr. Gold shows me a nighttime scene, a modest mansion with a snow-white blanket covering its lawn. Cars are parked all along the street and in the drive, and light pouring from the windows welcomes visitors as they gather at the front door. I recognize Blue the First in a humble wool coat; the other guests are either too bundled up to be recognizable or unfamiliar to me. Regina, ironically haloed by the lights behind her, stands in the open doorway, greeting some with kisses or hugs, others with handshakes, a few with a curt nod. Gideon Gold is the last to arrive, dropped off by a cab.

"He hadn't practiced magic in twenty years, but he thought he'd better offer what little he could," Mr. Gold says. "Tesla flew him in on the corporate jet. Belle was back at the hospital, too weak to get out into the snow. Joy stayed with her."

I'd read a bit about Gold's history with Blue, and before them, the first Dark One's history with the first Fairy Queen. "It must have been rough for you, asking some of these people for help."

His sharp eyes flash at me. "Not at all. I would have knelt before them if that had been their price for meeting with me. Snow White directed the meeting; Charming kept everyone civil. It was agreed that the sorcerer Mung-Korn, known to us as The Dragon, would lead the magic team. His knowledge of healing magic exceeded anyone else's. We would each create a piece of the spell, based upon our individual talents; The Dragon would weave the spells together and make the final cast. Healing magic, for anything beyond the superficial and temporary, is complicated, dangerous and more often than not, a failure. The human body is such a precise and interlocking machine, one organ can't be altered without affecting other organs. But we had to try. During the actual procedure, while The Dragon concentrated on Belle's heart, the rest of us would send shielding magic to protect her other organs. We would do no more than necessary to bring Belle to a state of readiness for a kidney transplant."

We're in a surgical room now. Masked medics stand by, to jump in if necessary and to watch in amazement—stunned not just by the tremendous magic happening before them, but also by this holy union of Light and Dark magic practitioners. I remember reading about this day in my Storybrooke history class in high school: it was a first (and, I am sorry to say, a last), a coming together of witches and warlocks, sorcerers, fairies, conjurers, and potion masters. They form two circles around the operating table: in the wider circle stand the supporting group, those, like Gid, of lesser powers or training, who would channel their power into the hands of the primary group, which consist of Regina, Emma, Rumple and Blue; this inner group would monitor and protect Belle's other organs. At the head of the table stood The Dragon, who would have responsibility for casting the healing spell.

I watch, as fascinated as the medics, even though I know the outcome. I'm praying there's been a misprint in my files. I'm praying that technology and magic can rewrite history. I know better.

All magic comes with a price.

Magic can't create or break love.

Magic can't bring back the dead.

Magic can't change the past.

Just this once, I pray. Let us break the rules just this once.

The operating room lights up with magic. Faces draw tight in concentration, then discomfort, then exhaustion, as hours upon hours pass, marked by a wall clock. Beads of sweat slide down cheeks, dampen collars. Shoulders sag, hands tremble. Legs give out and the medics dash forward with chairs to catch mages before they faint. Only The Dragon appears unaffected, his robes rippling under the room's air conditioning, the lines in his face smooth, his eyes closed. Regina's cussing up a storm and sparks of cast-off magic fly from the heels of her Louboutin flats. Emma has gnawed her lower lip in two. Blue's eyes haven't opened once since the procedure began; everything she's got, and everything being shared with her from other fairies, is being channeled into her wand.

Rumple's hair is plastered to his ears. The white dress shirt he's wearing (coat and tie long foregone) is stained with sweat. His lips move silently, whether in prayer or the utterance of a spell, I don't know. His eyes are locked on Belle's pale but placid face. The medical monitors beep steadily.

And the Mr. Gold beside me in his wheelchair is chanting something breathless too.

Just this once. Let us break the rules just this once.

The magic lighting up the room flickers, dims. A deep sigh pushes out the chest of The Dragon as he emerges from his trances. The glow blinding us from seeing his hands fades away. He lowers his hands, eventually tucking them into the sleeves of his robe. A surgical nurse rushes forward to press a bottle of water to his parched lips. "It is done," he says tonelessly.

Dr. Ericson bends over Belle as one of his colleagues leads The Dragon to a chair. When Ericson straightens again, he informs the room, "She needs to rest now. We'll be taking her to Recovery." Orderlies arrive with a gurney to carry Belle away.

"Well?" Emma crosses her arms, hiding her trembling hands under her armpits. "Give us something, Calvin."

Ericson shakes his head. "It's too soon—"

"Yeah, yeah, 'too soon to tell.'" Regina tries to spin on her heels but merely wobbles. She decides to sit down on the edge of the operating table instead. "Look, if there's a malpractice suit in the making, it won't be against you, so as the lady says, 'Give us something.'"

"She's stable and resting comfortably." Ericson scribbles something on his tablet. "That's all I can say for sure right now. We'll run some tests after she's awake." He starts to walk out, following the gurney, but Rumple blocks his path.

"Doctor." There's no threat in the tone, just weariness and a drop of hope leaking through, and Ericson is a full head taller and centuries younger, but still the doctor takes a step backward. "There must be some indication."

Ericson glances around the room, at the departing medical team, the departing mages, the frustrated former sheriff, the pissed off mayor, the ageless and tireless master wizard, and finally the worn and worried husband blocking his path. "I can't be sure until we run tests." He shakes his head. "But. . . I don't see signs of change in her condition." As Ericson brushes past and gets swept up in the crowd vacating the operating room, Emma calls out, hoarsely, "Drinks are on me." She throws an arm around Regina's shoulder. "Comin'?"

The women shuffle out with the crowd, pausing in the corridor to glance back at Rumple. "Don't listen to Calvin. You know how doctors are. Let me buy you a scotch."

"No, thank you, Ms.—Emma. I think I'll stay here and talk with The Dragon a while." Rumple drags a chair over to the master's and slumps in it.

The scene winks out. The holodeck goes dark and quiet. The room's overhead lights come up. Andy scurries forward to remove the headset from Mr. Gold, then steps away, awaiting instructions.

Mr. Gold turns his wheelchair away from the holo-stage. He starts for the exit. "We stayed in Storybrooke. Belle wanted to go back to Malibu but just didn't have the strength for travel. We rented a house from Mr. Dove. Gid and his family visited on weekends. In the last two months, Joy took a leave of absence from the Institute." He pauses, raising his eyebrows at me. "It wasn't just us, though, as Belle's caregivers. That was the remarkable thing. Snow, Archie, Emma, even Blue came by to chat with Belle and give us respite. David brought over cats and dogs from the animal shelter to amuse us. The Dragon made potions that helped Belle sleep. Ruby brought meals from the diner. Regina did our grocery shopping. Some days, especially after a dialysis treatment, Belle felt well enough for walks along the lake. Some days, she sat at a window, a book in her lap."

Behind him, the house provides voice-memories:

"What if they're wrong? What if they got my test results mixed up with someone else's?"

"Burgers tonight, sweetheart! I managed to con Ruby into sharing Granny's recipe. Fire up the grill, Joy. And after dinner, how about To Have and Have Not?"

"Rumple, I'm scared."

"Knock, knock! Ms. Gold? It's me, Alexandria. I brought you some books from the library."

"Yes, I'm angry! This is my life now, for the rest of my life. Three days a week, five hours a day, hooked up to a machine. A machine has to do what my body used to. A machine keeps me alive, keeps me prisoner."

"Mom, I'm just going to run to the hospital to pick up your dialysate. Back in thirty. Loveya, Mom."

"The average lifespan for a dialysis patient is five to seven years, but some live much longer."

"And some live much shorter, isn't that right, Doctor?"

"Grandma, read me a story!"

"Rumple? Rumple, where are you? No, I'm okay, just had a nightmare."

"Should we plant some cabbage this year? And some kale? Will you dig in the garden with me today, sweetheart?"

"What are you writing, Mom?"

"Some letters for the grandkids. For them to read when they're adults."

"What are you writing, Mom?"

"My will."

"Grandpa, can't you do something?"

"Why didn't it work, Rumple? All the magic, all the science in the world at our disposal and none of it worked."

"Do you want to try again, Belle? Regina came across some of Cora's journals; there are passages about heart magic."

"Yes. No. I don't know."

"Dad, Mr. Dove's here for the rent." "And a game of chess, if you like, Mr. G."

"Dad, I. . . I . . . the ambulance. . . ."

"You said you'd always be there for me. . . so how did this happen? Why weren't you there?"

"I'm sorry, Belle. So sorry. I went to the bank; I was only going to be gone an hour."

"You left me, Rumple."

"I didn't meant to. I'm so sorry."

"I'm scared, Rumple."

"Mr. Gold, visiting hours are over. You should go home and get some rest."

"No, set up a cot in here."

"Well, at least go down to the cafeteria and get something to eat."

"Do you forgive me, Belle?"

"Of course, you silly man. I'm sorry I snapped at you. I'm just so scared. . . . Now go get something to eat."

"Get some sleep. Good night, Belle. I love you."

"Good night, Rumple. I love you too."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Gold, she didn't make it."

Mr. Gold looks over his shoulder at me. "Love, Cerise. You wanted to see it as it really is. The whole messy, sticky, firey, soft and accepting and raging and holding tight and letting go of it. That's love." Every human emotion flickers across his face. Then he wheels about and leaves the holo-room.

I reply softly, "Thank you, Mr. Gold." But I'm not sure he hears me.