"Every day another miracle
Only death will tear us apart
To sacrifice a life for yours
I'd be the blood of the Lazarus heart"

-"Lazarus Heart," Sting

Between my job and my love life and my committee work and my magic lessons, I'm kept well occupied and distracted. Our Saturday morning dates become work sessions of a kind, as Jo and I work alongside Chamber of Commerce sponsors, the New Immigrants Acclimation Committee, and the convent to organize a Thanksgiving feast for the shelter.

Jo and I complement each other's efforts and offer constructive criticism—the latter is not just evidence of the depth of our commitment to the special day, but also a test of our teamwork. We learn, sometimes by accident, sometimes by open confession, where each other's red buttons lie (he's sensitive about his cooking; I'm sensitive about my ability to plan) and we don't push them. We value each other's feelings more than we value perfection in our work. But in less sensitive areas, we give gentle criticism and take guidance, because we believe we're usually better together than we are apart.

Astrid notices our give-and-take as we work alongside her preparing the Thanksgiving meal, and she comments on it in earshot of Blue, with a cutting glance at her Mother Superior, as if daring her to challenge the comment. "Who would've thought it, looking at the two of you?" Taupe muses. "So unalike, superficially, but beneath the surface, where it counts, made for each other." Blue says nothing but her face speaks of her irritation.

We feed fifty-three people—about a tenth the town's population—who would've guessed that domestic abuse would be so widespread, in this day and age? And the worst of it is that most of them are children. As we dish out the last scoop of mashed potatoes and fork out the last drumstick, we can't speak, and that's only partially because of all the chatter amongst our diners; it's largely because of the lumps in our throats.

"We do this because God calls upon us to serve those in need," Blue said when we first walked into the Maxine Nottingham Shelter for Women and Children. "'But when you give a feast, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind, and you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you. For you will be repaid at the resurrection of the just.'"

"'For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me,'" Astrid added.

Taupe flipped on the kitchen lights, then turned to Jo and me. "We do this as much for ourselves as for them. You'll see."

And so, we do see. As we squeeze our way down the aisles, careful not to trip on toys or bump into toddlers, and refill plates and cups, we hear laughter in a room that seldom holds it and it makes us feel we've achieved something. And as the last family files out to return to their bedroom and we gather up the empty plates and the stained napkins (work that androids could be doing, but we have come to serve, we need to serve with our own hands), we feel lucky and a little guilty that for dinner tomorrow, we'll be seated in the formal dining room of the convent and savoring a day-after-Thanksgiving feast of our own.

As we wash the dishes by hand (something we do only during this time of year), Jo is the first to speak. "The remodelers did a good job. I think, after we finish here, I'll take some pictures to show Mr. Gold. He'll be pleased to see what was done with his funds."

"'You will always have the poor among you,'" Astrid says thoughtfully. "It seems that goes for battered women and children too."

"Not in Storybrooke," Jo snaps. "It doesn't have to be that way in Storybrooke." And I think back to that evening in April when Jo's "citizens response team" came to Maxine Nottingham's defense. We've talked about that night, several times since then, and debated the rightness or wrongness of the men's actions. Jo is not proud of the show of power they put on, the violence they would have undertaken if Nottingham had harmed any of the shelter's residents or staff, but he admits he'd do it again if necessary. Gold's money, now paying for the high-tech security system, and the bond issue that passed in May, now paying the salaries of three new deputies, have left the ethical question unresolved for the Storybrooke Sluggers; these days, their moral dilemmas are limited to the rightness of insulting umpires.

Passing behind him with a trayful of plates, Blue pauses. "You're right. It doesn't have to be that way in Storybrooke."

Jo and I exchange a glance, and as she moves away from us, he leans into me to whisper, "I think she's starting to like me."

"I think you're right." A week before Christmas, Jo and I each receive an invitation to a day-after-Christmas dinner party at the convent. Blue has signed the invitation. Jo looks smug as he waves his in triumph. "I would say congratulations, but I'm too busy picking my jaw up off the floor. Blue has never thrown a holiday party. She thinks parties are frivolous."

"Personally," Jo muses, turning the card over and over in his hands, "I'd wager this wasn't her idea." He and I make our guess in unison: "Astrid."

"Normally I'd take a bottle of wine as a gift for the host. What do you think I should bring to the convent?"

I don't have to mull it over. "Tea. Bring some of your tea combinations. And I'll bring a red velvet cake."

My jaw is still scraping the floor when I drop in to Mr. Gold's rooms that evening and find a confused ex-Dark One sitting on his couch, a book on one knee and a party invitation in the other.

I can only blink. "She's trying. She's really trying."

Stan's face is scrunched up in concentration and his tongue is poking out through his teeth. From his index finger a pale blue streak of magic stutters. I can hear Mr. Gold's steady baritone giving reassurance in addition to instruction. His voice is as strong and confident as ever, though his shoulders are hunched and he can't lift his own fingers. From a distance safe enough to offer no interruption, I listen in, then chuckle to myself: it's a pop quiz! Mr. Gold is keeping Stan hopping from one simple spell to the next, allowing no time for the boy to mope or mourn over the loss of his study buddy.

When I turn to leave the rec room and check on the other mentor-pupil activities, I run into Blue, who's leaning in the open doorway, eavesdropping. It's a pop quiz of her own, I suppose; and with the sort of basic and innocent lessons Mr. Gold is giving, I don't see how he couldn't get a passing grade. I squint my eyes at her as I brush past Blue, an "I told you so" glare. She ignores me.

On the next Wednesday, after Stan's lesson, Blue summons him, via Darwin. As the little boy stands in front of her mahogany desk, his knees knocking—on trial, it appears—I eavesdrop on them. Her diction is typically formal, but her tone is unusually gentle. She's asking him to name the lessons Mr. Gold has been teaching him. More than that; she's asking for specifics in the procedures. Sniffing, I surmise, for whiffs of darkness. Instead, what she learns from Stan is that he's being taught restraint and care in his use of magic. His judgment is being honed alongside his skills, or as Stan puts it, "He's always askin' why. He says the why's are as important as the how's."

I smirk and walk on past Blue's office. I'll be making sure there's an extra slice of blueberry pie on Gold's dinner tray tonight.

As we always do, a few of us are on duty at the Home for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, for the sake of the residents who remain on site. Jo, Blue and the nuns go back to the women's shelter to serve another holiday meal, but that night, though sweaty and tired, Jo gives my residents a special surprise, showing up at our light evening repast dressed as Santa and bearing hand-drawn Christmas cards from the shelter children. Each child has "adopted" one of the left-behind residents and has designed a card especially for him/her. After delivering the cards and leading us in a bellowing round of "Jingle Bells," Jo takes the time to chat with everyone at the supper table, but I catch him counting heads as he makes his rounds. There's one card left in his big red bag; we both know who it's for and Jo looks worried that the recipient isn't at the supper table with the rest of us. We sing some more carols, enjoy cocoa and cookies (Ms. Hua's recipe) and as the residents fall into their various cliques for more personal chit-chat, Jo pulls off his beard and jangly cap. Without a word—we're thinking the same thing; it's obvious on our faces—he takes my hand and we make our way down the quiet corridor, leaving behind the warmth and good cheer of the makeshift party to go in search of a lost sheep.

We find him, not in his rooms, not in the holodeck (I would've bet a week's salary he'd be spending his Christmas with holo-Belle), but in the garden, wrapped in a coat, muffler, gloves and a blanket. Darwin stands silently behind him. As I walk past the 'droid, I raise my eyebrows in a question; Darwin murmurs, "Vitals are normal." I slip one of my hands into my coat and the other into Jo's coat, and the two of us sit down on a frost-covered bench near Mr. Gold's wheelchair.

"Mr. Gold?" Jo is looking around, puzzled; there's no snow; all the flowers are dead; the trees have lost their leaves; the sun has set and the moon is waning. Jo can find nothing of interest out here. With a shrug he asks the obvious: "What are you doing out here?"

Our dear friend sounds tired. He hasn't been getting much sleep; the 'droids have been catching him, long after lights-out, still staring, by the moonlight coming through his windows, at the Malibu painting. "Breath of fresh air" is all he says.

I shake my head at Jo. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to help Mr. Gold. Jo gives Mr. Gold the card, drawn by a seven-year-old boy who's lived in the shelter for six weeks, hiding, with his mother and two sisters, from their father. The front of the card bears a cartoon of a Santa in an autocab which is pulled by three dogs. "Dear Mr. Gold: Woof, woof, have a nice Christmas," the inside message reads.

Mr. Gold smiles and tucks the card into his coat. It will go onto his dresser beside all those Gold family photos and remain there throughout the upcoming year.

Jo slides his arm around my waist as we watch clouds blur out the moon. A song issues from deep in Jo's chest and when I recognize it, I begin to sing too: "Silent night, holy night. . . ."

Though it's not a Wednesday, Stan drops in. I find him hovering in the lobby near the receptionist's desk—Jonquil is out to lunch. My heart drops to my stomach: is he here to drop out of the mentoring program? Will Mr. Gold have to deal with another loss, and so close to Christmas?

But no, Stan shows me a wrapped box. "I wanted to give Mr. G. something for Christmas. Unless, is he—?"

"Gone? No, he's here. I think you'll find him in his rooms."

"No, I mean, it could be a Hanukkah gift. I wasn't sure if he was Jewish like me or if he's Catholic like Ms. Hua is—was."

I pause to consider. "I don't know either, Stan. But I'm sure he'll be delighted to celebrate any holiday with you. Here, I'll take you to his rooms." I rest my hand on his shoulder as we walk down the hallway. But to our surprise, we find that Mr. Gold already has company—not that Stan isn't welcome at any time. In fact, I suspect any excuse to get rid of the present company will be welcome. I raise my hand to rap on the door, but I catch some of the conversation that I'm interrupting, and I have second thoughts about whether Mr. Gold wants to get rid of his company. They're chatting amiably, leisurely about the Storybrooke education system, past and present, and Mr. Gold's actually getting kind of personal, relating stories of his children's favorite teachers. The voice that answers him is cautiously warm, almost friendly. It's Blue, chatting about her early experiences as a substitute teacher.

It's Blue. In Mr. Gold's room. Seated, ankle crossed over ankle, on Mr. Gold's couch. Sipping tea. Chatting.

She's not even fundraising. He's not even sniping at her. In fact, is that, on his lap—is that a Christmas gift? From her?

There's so much wrong with that picture, I can't begin to list it all.

Jonquil buzzes me: "Mr. Gold has a visitor."

It couldn't be—? Surely she wouldn't have the nerve to show her face here again? I jog to the lobby, fearful I'm going to be confronted by a tall, pushy redhead out to revive her con game on Mr. Gold. I breathe my relief when instead I find a short, white-haired woman in a tailored pantsuit, a bag slung over her shoulder. "Hi, I'm Cerise, the activities director here." I thrust my hand out and the lady blinks before shaking it.

"I wasn't expecting such a warm welcome," she says cautiously. "I'm Marcy Maines, attorney at law." I withdraw my hand to find she's slipped a business card into it. I glance at the card, catching the phrase "wills and probate." At first my heart sinks—Mr. Gold is making a will?—then the dismay is replaced by puzzlement—the immortal Dark One is making a will?

"It's just that he receives so few visitors," I mumble, while Jonquil adds, "None, besides Dove the banker." I shoot the receptionist a cautionary look, then wave a hand toward the hallway leading to the men's quarters. "Welcome, and I'll take you to him."

As we walk, I dare to be nosy: "So, is Mr. Gold a client of yours?"

"This will be our first meeting."

"I see. So. . . you specialize in wills?"

"Yes."

"Is that what you'll be working on today, his will?"

She shoots me the same look I shot at Jonquil. "I can't discuss that."

"Oh, of course. Well, here's his room." I knock and the House computer announces us—the dang thing has already read Ms. Maines' biofeed and in less than a tenth of a second, it's produced her identity. We hear Mr. Gold call "Come in" so we do, the House opening the door for us. We find him parked next to the couch, a book on his lap and a tea tray already waiting on the coffee table. I feel a small stab of jealousy: that should be my tea set; I should be having tea with Mr. Gold. I make the introductions and Gold smiles, inviting Maines to be seated. As she slips a computer from her bag and seats herself, Gold dismisses me, in his polite and formal way. I can take a hint. But I'm on my way back to my office to ring Jo, to find out what he knows about this meeting. As his banker, surely Gold has consulted him.

"Well, he did ask for a comprehensive statement of all his holdings," Jo is as perplexed as I am. "But that's not out of the ordinary. He does that every quarter."

"Making a will. But the Dark One can't die."

"No, the Dark One can't die." Jo runs his hand over his mouth.

"Any ideas?"

"Nope."

We chew on our lips in silence. Finally Jo shrugs, "Well, I'm sure he'll tell us when he's ready."

"Man's got a right to consult an attorney."

"Yup."

"For all I know, it could be a social call. Though she sure didn't act like it."

"Maybe a fundraising thing."

"Sure. Maybe she's seeking donors for some worthy cause."

"Right. Well, if he tells you, call me."

"If he tells you—"

"Right. See you tonight, Cherie."

Weeks later, we're still puzzling. Despite our prying, Mr. Gold's lips remain tightly sealed. Maines never comes back.

Although he had every intention to—even baked a peach cobbler for it—Mr. Gold isn't able to attend Blue/Astrid's party. Instead, he's in the hospital, connected to monitors and IVs. This time, the blackout lasts 34 hours.

"We have to get him out of here," Jo says. Upon being released from the hospital, Mr. Gold has sat in his bed for two days. He picks at his food when the 'droids bring it. He dozes, doesn't sleep. He reads from the holy books I bring him. He speaks when spoken to, but there's no humor, no anger, no fire in his voice. "Just for one night. He needs to be away from this place. It reminds him of what's wrong with him."

"Tomorrow night. We'll bring him to our New Year's party." A few young people Jo and I have met through our community activities. Music, dancing, laughter, hors d'ourves, a little booze, at Jo's house. I don't bother to check with Dr. Marine; I reserve an autocab and sign Mr. Gold out through Jonquil's station. I no sooner add my initials to the reservation than Blue storms out of her office, arms flailing. "What is this? What is this? You're planning on taking Mr. Gold outside, out into the cold, tomorrow night, to take him to a party?"

"He needs—"

"No."

"Three hours. We'll take Andy—"

"No."

"Jo and I will stay at his side the whole—"

"No. Absolutely not, Cerise."

"It's just at Jo's house—"

"You will not take a sick patient out into the night to attend a New Year's Eve party with a bunch of rowdy drunks. I don't care whose house it is, I don't care if you take an army of 'droids with you, I don't care if all you're serving are milk and animal crackers, I don't care if you have Amaranth's, Marine's and the Pope's blessing, you're not taking a sick patient anywhere."

"But he hasn't been out of the building since—"

"No, Cerise. You know better than to suggest something so foolish. End of discussion." She whisks away before I can add to my stack of protests.

I flop onto Jo's couch, sending a stack of papers flying to the floor. I sigh deeply when I see what's written on those papers: recipes for all the delicious treats Jo will be cooking for the party. "So that's that. What we could do is to have him join the party by computer link."

"Sitting alone in his room. A plate of salt-free hors d'ourves on his coffee table and glass of grape juice in his hand. Whoopie."

"Yeah." I sink my chin into my hands.

Jo perks up. "What exactly did Blue say?"

"No. She said no. Many times."

"No to what, though?"

"'No, you won't take a sick patient out into the cold to attend a New Year's Eve party with a bunch of rowdy drunks.' It was pretty clear and very definite."

"Let's consider the possible sources of her objections." Jo begins to pace. "Number one: the cold. Yes, after dark the temperature drops below freezing, but it warms up again mid-day. Two: rowdy drunks. So we provide an environment in which noise and alcohol consumption will be under control. Three: New Year's Eve. Okay, I grant you, New Year's Eve does come with a reputation. So, how's this: Mac and Kate McIntosh are having a Sugar Bowl party on New Year's Day. Beer and nachos at the home of the Mayor and a municipal judge. Everybody knows the old saying 'sober as a judge.' It's just two blocks from here. Mac's already said I could bring a guest or two. What's to object to?"

"Jo, I think our relationship is corrupting you. You're beginning to think like me."

Thanks to Jo's tricky thinking and a call from Mac McIntosh, Blue grants permission for Mr. Gold, accompanied by me, Jo and Andy, to spend the afternoon in the company of some local VIPS (who will happen to be shouting at the tv and consuming significant quantities of beer and pork rinds—and a wee dram of the goldie). Mr. Gold laughs outright when we share the news with him and he agrees to go without a second thought. "Just one question though. I've seen a lot of dishware in my time. What's so entertaining about this particular sugar bowl that people want to spend an afternoon looking at it?"

The months go by, time passing with the markers of holidays, birthdays, births and deaths. Our mentoring program's first "graduating class" commemorates its successes with a party to which parents, grandparents and wealthy donors are invited. A new student becomes Stan Steinberg's "brother in magic." Penny and her dogs come and go, new pups being introduced to the program, older veterans being rotated out into retirement. Blue gets a raise. My contract is extended for a second year. Jo and I take a two-week vacation in the summer, first to Florida for the Dove family reunion (I've never been hugged and cheek-pinched so much in my life) and then to Malibu. The Immigrant Committee adds an auxiliary committee for high schoolers. Sean Herman marries one of the new residents, then divorces her ten months later. Anna Gish leaves us to go live with her great-granddaughter in New Mexico. NASA, pleased with the jump in national opinion polls that Mr. Gold's "Mayor of Mars" special brought, has added an extra minute to the messages Gold and Joey exchange each month (and Gold was right: he's now referred to in the news as "Grandpa Mars" since the public can't remember the name "Rumplestiltskin Gold.") Daeva Keres-Beard ends up in jail for forgery.

And Mr. Gold. . .

There have always been good days and bad days for Mr. Gold. It's something I've known before I even met him. But this year, the bad days seem so much badder, so much longer. They can come on abruptly: one minute he'll be playing chess with Andy, the next he's slumped over in his wheelchair. One minute he's watching Boston Ballet with Ms. Schulman and critiquing a dancer's sloppy posture ("he dances like a sack of rotting potatoes," is his favorite quip), the next he's being carried to his bed for Dr. Marine to examine (always fruitlessly).

On the good days, he joins us for dinner, regales us with stories of the mages he's known. He allows me to sit in on his holodeck "meetings" with Belle. On the very good days, we take him out: to the park, to Jo's, to Mills Lake for some fishing. But even on those very good days, even as he chuckles at our jokes and argues with us over our interpretation of books, something's missing. His fire, I call it; Jo says he's lost his mischief.

I wonder if we're losing our friend.

In July, shortly after my twenty-fifth birthday, Mr. Gold is hospitalized again. "We need to keep him hydrated," Marine informs us tiredly. "Looks like this blackout's going to be a long one." Jo and I visit every evening—for ten days, until Gold finally regains consciousness. We bring gardenias, jasmine and sweet pea, and of course roses, flowers with strong fragrances, in hope that the scent will seep into his subconscious. We play music he likes, the heavy drama stuff: Bartok, Schubert, Mozart. We read to him from the Mirror, the Chamber newsletter, his holy books. One evening Jo even brings a loaf of fresh-baked bread. The next night we find slices have been carved from it and our hopes soar until one of the orderlies confesses she was hungry. We sit on the corner of his bed and watch the World Cup—neither of us knows anything about soccer, but we figure the roar of the televised crowds will stimulate Gold's brain cells. We wait, and on the seventh night, when there's still no movement beyond the rise and fall of his chest and an occasional spasm in his leg or arm, we find a prayer in one of the holy books and we pray it.

When he finally opens his eyes—this pains me to say it, but he's alone. It's mid-morning on the tenth day and Jo and I are at work, and the hospital staff are busy with an emergency case. He's alone, confused, thirsty, and he admits to us later that the water leaking from his eyes is more than over-secretion. But then his monitors trigger an alarm at the nurses' station and in a heartbeat he's surrounded by medical staff, and in the time it takes for my phone to ring, I'm there (pint-sized, carried there on my wings, which earns me a glare of annoyance, but at least, I'm there, holding his hand.)

"I had a dream about Bae."

My head snaps up from the chessboard. I don't say anything; I don't want to interrupt the flow of his thought. Dream, he said, not vision, but I get the strongest feeling it was vision that Mr. Gold meant.

"He was walking in a field of wheat. The stalks were taller than he was, and more golden than any gold I could ever spin. I was waiting for him at the edge of the field. He approached with a huge grin on his face, and behind him came Henry, except in this dream, Henry was about ten years old. And behind Henry came Morraine. You remember me telling you about Morraine, don't you?"

"I remember." Bae's first love.

"And behind her, Gid and Joy and their spouses, and behind them, their children, and behind—well, you get the idea. And I felt a squeeze on my hand, and I looked behind me, and there was Belle, in her blue dress." He falls quiet.

"What did she say to you?"

"Nothing. She didn't have to. I just knew." He juts his chin at the chessboard. "Your move, Sparrow."

It's two more weeks before he's back in his wheelchair, rolling through the halls. He's skin and bones, which elicits a cry from Ruby, who rushes into the kitchen with Ms. Schulman to whip up a fattening meal. "Miss me?" he smiles thinly. We all affirm that we missed him.

Joey manages to arrange, through Ms. Fontaine, a get-well basket for his great-grandpa, with balloons and exotic fruit. Gold has told him a little about his health problems, though, on an intergalactic phone line he can't very well explain that it's a Dark Curse that's gnawing away at Gold's soul but not to worry because the Dark One is immortal. "It's a virus I picked up from the backwoods country I grew up in. More bark than bite."

"This can't keep happening." Throughout the summer and fall, it's something each of us says, from Jo to Marine to even Blue. Strange how they all seem to be looking at me when they say it, as if my growing medicine case of herbs holds a cure. I can mend a scraped knee instantly, I can bring down a fever in an hour, I can close a knife wound in a day. Herbal magic can do much, but not pull the Darkness from a once-human soul.

On my twenty-fifth birthday, with balloons and red velvet cake and Jo and Gold to sing me the birthday song, I don't feel much like celebrating. "What did you wish for?" Gold asks when I blow out my candles.

"If she tells you, it won't come true," Jo protests.

Gold snorts. "That's an old fairy tale." Then he winks at me. "Correction: A tale for old fairies. Not young, modern-thinking ones like our Sparrow."

I confess, "I wish I could cure you." My friends fall silent.

On his birthday, September 1, when he blows out the candles on his spice cake, Gold confesses, "I made the same wish."

After the 'droids have gone off to tend other patients and only Jo and I remain, Mr. Gold waves me to his side. "Thank you, children, for the wonderful birthday. But if you don't mind too much, I have one more gift I'd like to ask from you. It will be challenging."

Jo dimples. "A wee dram of the goldie? We could stroll over to Cherie's apartment."

"Tempting, but no, not today. There's something I need to find out. It. . . may make me sleep more comfortably, when I know."

I perch on the arm of his couch. "Sure, Mr. G., if I can."

"I want you to extract my heart."

"What?" Jo snaps at the same time I gasp, "You want me to do what?"

"Use your magic to temporarily take the heart from my chest. Don't worry; it will only be for a moment and it won't cause permanent damage. It will only be uncomfortable for me, not painful, I assure you, the way I'm going to teach you to do it." He gives me a moment to digest this horrifying thought. Yeah, I've read about this procedure, but no fairy has ever performed it: it's considered dark magic. He can see in my eyes where my thoughts are wandering. "Remember what I taught you about dark and light magic, dear one. The magic becomes dark or light only after it's used, depending on what the practitioner does with it. Consider this an ancient form of diagnostic medicine. An old-time x-ray, if you will. And it's my heart, so believe me, I won't ask you to do anything harmful to it."

I lick my lips. My magic has already leaped to my fingertips; the memory of how this spell is performed leaps from the pages of my readings to the forefront of my mind. I can do this, my magic assures me. But should I?

His eyes lock on mine. "What I need to know, and can only find out by examining my heart, is how far the Darkness has permeated. Knowing that will help me understand the frequency and severity of these blackouts."

"Will you then know how to stop them?" I'm grasping for straws. I want to help him, but to perform a spell that the Evil Queen, the Queen of Hearts, and countless Dark Ones have used to kill people, how can that be anything but dark magic?

"No," Gold admits. "But perhaps lessen them. Please, Sparrow."

I glance at Jo. The decision has to be mine; if I'm doing wrong, I can't drag him into my crime. But I still want to know what he thinks of this request, he who has spent his life in service to others, chief among them, Mr. Gold. Whose entire family has served Mr. Gold. Jo is staring at the floor. He will tell me later that he didn't want to interfere in my decision, but if I had forced him to answer, he would have said he thought this spell equivalent to a medical examination.

I cop out. "I don't think I can."

"You can. I'm going to teach you. There's no risk to either of us." He presses a hand to his chest, where the organ in question resides. "If our situations were reversed, wouldn't you want to know?"

I swallow hard and nod.

"Take a deep breath. Hold it, then let it out slowly. Here, give me your free hand." His hand covers mine, warm and steady. "Now push your other hand into my chest. Not too slowly." I bump his chest, bruising my knuckles and probably his skin. "Again. Faster, but steady. Confident. You know what you're doing. It's safe. Push through my chest."

There's a squishy feeling under my knuckles as my hand passes through his skin, his muscle, his bones. He gasps and I want to jerk my hand out, but he's grasping my free hand, reminding me to remain calm. His gasp is short-lived and followed by a small smile. "Yes. You're doing it right. Feel that? That slick, warm, beating thing? Wrap your fingers around it. Visualize it. Visualize your hand withdrawing from my chest, not too slowly. Steady. Visualize that beating thing, held loosely in the palm of your hand. It's safe in your hand. You're protecting it. Take it out."

My eyes fly open as my hand is freed from his body. It's as big as my hand, slick but not wet, pulsing, glowing. I wonder if that glow is from my magic or his heart. A cry escapes me and I show Jo, then Mr. Gold, the heart in my hand—the black heart in my hand.

Mr. Gold's face has drained of blood. "Turn it over, please."

With my magic I cause the heart to twist in my palm. Mr. Gold's shoulders drop and he sighs. "There. That's something."

Amid the black I find specks of red, each the size of a fingernail. They're not big, but they're bright and deep. Gold smiles a little.

"What are they?" Jo peers into my palm.

"They're what's keeping the darkness at bay. What's keeping me me."

I give it a name: "Love."

"Belle, Bae, Joy, Gid, Joey, Henry, and the two of you." Gold eases back in his wheelchair. "Now put the heart back."

"Gladly." I'm more confident this time. When the heart is secured in its rightful place, I withdraw my hand and pat his chest soothingly. "Feel okay?"

"Yes, thank you."

"What does it mean, Mr. Gold?"

"That I'm not a hopeless case, yet."

That night, I bury my face in my pillow to escape the image that chases after me and won't let me sleep, the memory of that pulsing, glowing heart throbbing in my hand. My restlessness wakes Jo, who was only dozing anyway, for the same reason. We get up and discuss that shocking act of magic that Mr. Gold had me perform. I keep coming back to a worrisome question: was that dark magic? Could it be anything else, when mage after mage has used that spell to control and kill? Is there anything good that that spell can do? Am I now tainted?

Jo tries to reassure me I'm still the same innocent caster of light magic that I was before, then he suggests that the real question we should be asking is what next? If the darkness is consuming Mr. Gold's soul, what happens when it takes him over? Is there anything we can do to drive the darkness back or make the healthy spots grow? In the morning, as soon as visiting hours allow, we appear in Mr. Gold's rooms. We order tea, then when Darwin delivers it we send him away. This is a matter we prefer to keep between ourselves.

A weak smile tugs at his mouth as he replies quickly. "That's the question I've struggled with for four hundred years. Early on, I came to the conclusion that it was my love for Bae, and later Belle, that kept my heart alive. With each new person I allowed myself to love, the darkness receded a little. And death doesn't change that, as you saw. But for so many years, I thought I could love the power too. If I could have recognized that love of power for what it really was—fear and greed, not the means to protect my family—before the darkness got a stranglehold on me. . . " He shrugs. "But I didn't. And now it's too late."

"What will happen when it takes over?" Jo dares to ask.

"Rumplestiltskin, or Mr. Gold, if you prefer, will be snuffed out. Only the Dark One will remain, in this body. And when this happens, no magic cuff or wheelchair will hold him back." He doesn't allow the fear time to grab us. "But children, you saw: those pockets of love are strong and healthy, beyond the reach of death and darkness. And it seems, the vulnerability that has come with this wheelchair has also brought me an unexpected side effect: friends." He is not one to express his feelings openly, so he lets his eyes do his talking for him. Jo and I know that two of those strong and healthy pockets belong to us.

But unless my studies deceive me, I believe that the light is stronger than the dark, that love can and will conquer fear and greed. Is that just the writers of those books on magic, offering false hope? Is that just me, being a kid, that I want to believe good will win? But Jo believes it too, as does his entire family, as did Belle and Joy and Bae and Gid. Even, if my history books are honest, Regina Mills and Captain Hook came round to believe. None of them were fools.

"There is something," I blurt, a hazy memory waking up, something I read in Gold's files, something he allowed me to glimpse in a holo-play. "There was a spell and a wand. A student of Merlin."

Gold nods. "Aye, there was. The Apprentice. I was told that he extracted the darkness from my soul, trapped it in a magic hat. And with his wand he could open portals to other worlds."

My eyes light up. Wands! Now we're in the fairy wheelhouse. I know a bit about wands; every nun in the convent knows a bit more and owns several wands; Blue is the local queen of wands! If that Apprentice's Wand still exists, between us, we can find—

"I have no idea where that hat may be, if it still exists, at all. Nor the wand or the spell. I was unconscious at the time the spell was cast, and those who were with me were too amazed by the outcome to pay attention to the details of the process." Mr. Gold licks his lips nervously. "I did search for the hat and the incantation, for years thereafter, but I must confess, it was with the intention of destroying them, because once the Darkness was taken from me, I had no magic. I have no hope that the incantation was ever written down, and for all I know, the Darkness could have destroyed the hat."

I suppose he sees the denial in my expression, because he shakes his head. But I don't accept his rejection; the convent has a large library of books on light magic, and a storeroom of wands. If it was done once, it can be done again. Yeah, my magic is just a flea compared to the elephant of Merlin's, but what strength a flea lacks, she makes up for in persistence.

"What else happened," Jo presses, "when the Darkness was taken from you?"

"Well, it couldn't be contained. Not even Merlin's magic could imprison it. It escaped, it sought a host; it must always have a host to concentrate its energies, a physical body to channel its magic. It went from host to host until it returned to me. By my own invitation, I must admit."

Jo is trying to work something out. "You said that without love, the Darkness would snuff you out. You would die?"

"Yes. More than die."

"More than?"

"The body would die, the soul would—" he sighs. "There is a place, I've had a glimpse of it, for souls like mine that have brought so much suffering into the world." He waves his hand over the stack of holy books on his coffee table. "Ms. Hua's tradition calls it Hell. That's as apt a name for it as any. Everlasting separation from the light in all its forms. For me, never to see Belle and my children again, that would be a just and unbearable punishment."

"That will not happen," I pronounce. What an arrogant thing for me to say, I realize later.

"I continue to struggle against the darkness, with the help of my memories and my family, those who have gone on before me," he glances toward the rows of photos on his bureau, "and those who stand with me today. Now, pour me some tea, would you, Cerise? I find myself suddenly thirsty."

Jo and I stand with our hands on our hips, peering down into the pit we've reopened in the garden. My magic has unsealed the protective spell I'd laid across it; our shovels have removed the dirt. "It's bigger than I remembered," I admit, reaching down to jiggle one of the handles of the steamer trunk.

"Yeah. As I recall, when we brought it here, I couldn't lift it. You had to." He wiggles his fingers to suggest magic.

"I recall that too. While I'm at it. . . ." I flick my fingers and clumps of cold earth fly off the trunk. "I don't want a trail of dirt in my living room." A more forceful spell and the trunk vanishes; it will be waiting, opened, in the living room when we return home after we pick up some take-out from Granny's. We have a long night of reading ahead of us, but I don't dread it. We've done this before, Jo and I, researching Gold's story, and this time, we have even bigger goals in mind, and I have the best possible partner for this work, one who is patient, diligent, detail-oriented and methodical, to counter my intuitiveness and imagination. Our strengths balance each other, making us good researchers. . . what good parents we could make too. . . .

On the wall of my—should I say our? He spends as much time here as I do at his house. The apartment knows all his habits and preferences and responds to them as readily as it does mine. So yes, our apartment. On the living room wall behind the couch in our apartment, the house computer illuminates our lists:

GOALS

1. Find the Apprentice's hat. Learn how it works.

2. Find the spell for extracting the Darkness.

3. Find a permanent prison for the Darkness and a safe means to transport it there.

RESOURCES

1. Mr. Gold's knowledge.

2. Mr. Gold's books. [We still think of them that way, not as my birthday gift.]

3. Cerise's magic.

4. Jo's connection to everyone in town and to many people in the Enchanted Forest.

5. Cerise's (slight) connection to the fairies of Mab's Meadow.

"There's something else," Jo folds his arms as he studies the list. "A resource we will have to make use of." He presses his finger to the wall and writes. When the computer reveals item #6, I snort. "Dream on, Josiah Dove. Dream on."

He's written: "6. The Blue Fairy."

It's Christmastime. I'm kept crazy busy with the residents, though I manage to sneak in an hour every day for tea with Mr. Gold; we talk about books and TV and dogs and magic lessons, but not death. Whenever I steer the conversation that direction, he steers it away again.

The day after Christmas, Jo and I hyperloop off to Miami for a few days for a Dove family reunion—and it's clear from the way the elders smother me with hugs that I'm considered a member of the family. I feel like an impostor of sorts; I don't have a right to this family. But as Jo and I stand on the beach watching the sunset with his parents and grandparents and siblings making an awful lot of noise preparing dinner in the house behind us, I settle it in my mind: I don't have a right to take this family as my own, but it's okay if I borrow them.

"Ms. Cerise, you better come quick."

I run after Andy, who's running down the hall from our offices, through the lobby and into the corridor leading to the men's chambers. Please let it not be Gold. Please let it not be Gold. But Blue is standing, arms folded, in the entrance to Mr. Gold's rooms, and Darwin and Ruby are already there, and so are two people in Air Force dress blues. I push past Blue, earning a scowl from her, and drop to my knees beside Mr. Gold's wheelchair. Blood rushes to my ears and I can't hear anything that's being said, but I don't need to. I can see it on their faces.

"—a memorial service at Arlington," one of the airmen is saying. "On Wednesday. We can arrange for transport for you and any other members of your—anyone else you'd like to have accompany you. On behalf of the United States Air Force, NASA, and the President of the United States, we wish to express our condolences and our deepest gratitude for Major Rosales' service. He died a hero, sir."

His grave at Arlington is empty. Bringing his body home was impossible; a grave was hastily dug at the outskirts of Musk City. In the city the NASA engineers built, there was no plan for a cemetery. Jo and Amaranth and I accompany Mr. Gold to Washington, DC. Joey is given a twenty-one gun salute. Mr. Gold is given the Congressional Space Metal of Honor and a folded American flag.

When we arrive Home, Gold asks to go directly to bed. He's worn out from the travel, he says; he hasn't left Storybrooke in more than fifty years. Jo and I don't believe it's the travel that's weighing him down, but there's no use in arguing with him. Darwin escorts Mr. Gold to his chambers, prepares him for bed and remains in the room throughout the rest of the day and into the night. There are cards and baskets of flowers stacked up in Gold's room, but he asks Darwin to take them away.

A short time after I've made my brief report to Blue, a contingent of residents stuffs themselves into my office. Ruby speaks for them: "We thought we'd hold a memorial service here, if that's okay. Something the town can attend, because he's local hero."

"And because it would do Mr. Gold some good to see how the town feels about the Major," Mr. Page explains.

I sit down to think the suggestion over. "That's kind of you; thank you all for thinking of it. I'm not sure Mr. Gold can handle another memorial right now, but I'll ask him."

"Is there something else we can do?" Mr. Herman asks.

I hesitate. "He's a private man. He'd rather be alone right now."

But Ruby shakes her head firmly. "I've dealt with a lot of deaths in my time. We all have. What we need to do is to spend time with him. One at a time, so we don't overwhelm him. Let him know we're ready to listen whenever he's ready to talk about it. But make sure that he's not allowed to wallow in his grief."

"And make sure he eats," Ms. Schulman adds. "He's skinny as a rail as it is."

"Leave that to me," Ruby grins. "Now, let's divvy this up into shifts. We'll give him today to himself, but starting at breakfast tomorrow, we take turns being his buddy for the day—chess, watching TV, whatever he's up for. Who'll take the first shift?"

I'm not sure this is a good idea, but after consulting Amy, I allow it to happen. As Amy points out, Mr. Gold is a strong man who's used to having his opinions listened to; if he objects to this "buddy for the day" idea, he'll speak up. At least, that's what we assume.

But as resident after resident attempts to buddy up to Gold, they're greeted with silence and a turned back. A noble idea goes nowhere. A few days later, the residents drop the plan and move on to other good deeds for more receptive individuals.

It's nearly midnight but I'm still at work. It's my turn to be the human-on-duty for the night, which is quite all right with me: there's something I've been wanting to do. I secret myself in the holodeck and order it to play one of the recordings of Gold's memories, a simple one of just the two of them, in the kitchen of their pink house. She's chopping vegetables and he's basting game hens and they're laughing as though none of the terrible events that have riddled their life together ever happened. He's barefoot and her hair's in a ponytail, and they look so carefree that they both appear decades younger than they really are. He closes the oven to come around behind her, slipping his arms around her expanded waist. He kisses her neck, then rubs her sagging belly.

I sigh for them. I sigh for Jo and me, because we have that kitchen warmth too.

A knock at the door and with a final kiss to Belle's neck, Rumple goes off to answer. Now it's just Belle, carrying the tray of crudites to the kitchen table. She sets it down and steps back, smiling down at the celery and rubbing her belly.

"Belle," I call out to her. "What do I do? How do I help him?"

Holo-Belle doesn't look up at me, but from somewhere in another memory I hear an older Belle speak. "You're a good man, Rumple. Your heart is pure. You will find the answer you need to get rid of the dagger, and you will find your way back to me again. I promise."

I'm in search of Blue. I need her signature on a spending request. She's not in her office, not in the dining room. . . .I'm down to searching the residents' private rooms and growing increasingly frustrated. She can't have left the building; she has a board meeting in five minutes. "Have you seen Blue?" I ask Jonquil. "Have you seen Blue?" I ask Ruby. "Have you—"

I'm about ready to give up. Besides, it's almost dinner time and I need to cajole, tease or con Mr. Gold into eating. I make my way to his rooms, gearing up for the now-daily battle over food.

Blue has beaten me to it. She's seated on the edge of his couch, a supper tray on the coffee table, and she's chatting about the weaknesses of the Storybrooke school system as compared to the one in the Enchanted Forest as she pours two cups of tea. He's dull-eyed, round-shouldered in his wheelchair. I doubt if he's interested in anything she's saying, let alone anything she brought on that tray. But she's trying, really trying, as we all are. When she lifts a teacup to his lips, he takes a small sip. It's a very tiny start.

Still yakking, she sets the cup down. Is that a worry crease across her smooth forehead?

Two months after Major Rosales' passing, I'm coming out of Mr. Herman and Mr. Page's room when I bump into Jo coming out of Mr. Gold's. I'm puzzled—why would Jo have come to the Home without calling me first? But I'm even more worried when I see how pale my normally well-tanned beloved has turned. But he gives his head a hard shake before I can ask what's going on and taking my elbow, he steers me to my office and closes the door behind us.

"He sent for me. Asked me to tell no one."

I'm hurt and a little insulted, but I think I can worm the details out of Jo. "Not even me?" I start planning my scheme for information-digging, but Jo presses his lips together tightly and I know I can't follow through. He's a man of his word, my Jo; if I try to press, I'll take that away from him.

"I can't tell you. I wish I could, but I promised." He rakes his hand through his hair and I know this is frustrating him. I give him a look that expresses my apology for starting to manipulate him. "You'll find out soon enough." He yanks the door open abruptly. "I've got to go."

He calls me later to break our dinner date. When we meet again, on the weekend, we spend a quiet morning at the lake, then come back to his house. He bakes loaves of bread and we pack them off to the women's shelter, after which we're both in a better mood.

Mr. Gold's use of—dependence on—the holodeck has increased. While he occasionally relives moments with his kids and grandkids—most of them quite ordinary, like teaching Bae how to card wool or building sandcastles at the beach with Joy—he's most often submerged in memories of Belle. More and more often, I find it necessary to interrupt him to announce his pupils' arrival or to fetch him for lunch. One morning I drop in at the holodeck to check on the welfare of its assigned user, Mr. Smee, but I find Mr. Smee walking out, flipping through a wad of dollar bills and humming happily; instead, Mr. Gold is rolling into the holodeck. When he comes out two hours later, I'm waiting, my foot tapping angrily: it feels like a personal betrayal to me. "I thought we were friends," I moan, "but you're taking advantage of that."

"I'm sorry," he admits. He rolls away to his chambers before I can demand an explanation. I follow, and when I catch up to him, he pretends as though he's done nothing wrong and sweetly offers me a cup of tea. "I wish you'd tell me what's going on," I press.

His innocent act lasts long enough for him to sip his tea, then he drops his head in shame. "You're right. I've been taking advantage. I do apologize, Sparrow. I truly do."

As much as I wish I could accept that apology as the end of the discussion, I need to find out what's wrong with him. Is he not sleeping well? Is he in pain? Do we need to increase his medication? "Then answer my question. Please."

His eyes wander to the photos on his dresser. A muscle in his jaw bounces and I watch his adam's apple bob. I give him a moment to collect himself before I nudge the conversation. "You miss them, don't you?"

"Intensely. Though it's been half a century, I feel as though it was only yesterday when. . . ." He can't finish but I get the idea.

I get up from my seat to stand beside his wheelchair and admire the photos with him. "How can I help?"

"Let me join them."

My breath catches.

He reaches up to my hand, which is resting on the back of his chair, and he pats me. "I'm sorry. I've burdened you unfairly."

"Do you. . . mean it, Mr. Gold? Do you really want to die?" I force myself to use the hard word. Perhaps hearing it will make him realize the severity of his request.

"You can't begin to understand it. To you, life is what lies ahead of you, on a road so long and winding that you can't imagine its direction, full of mystery. I realize that. It was once like that for me. But I walked that road to its natural end and beyond, lifetimes farther than a man is meant to. I've uncovered all of its mysteries, and I've left behind everyone I've ever loved. I should have found my rest long ago and still, here I breathe. I am tired, Sparrow, and, despite all you've done to make me otherwise—and I thank you for it—I am lonely. I want to go home." He nods toward his framed family. "Where they are."

I sit down on the arm of the couch. I don't know what to say. I'd like to run away, to Blue's office to demand she take care of this, or to the garden to hide. I'd like to throw my arms around him and encourage him to cry, if he can. Instead, he comforts me, petting my hand. "It'll be okay, Sparrow. It'll be okay."