Regina stormed into the Dark Castle, upset that the universe had once again forgotten to respect her place as its rightful center. People who were the center of the universe, Rumplestiltsin reflected, must live lives of never-ending disappointment.

She raged into the great hall, already complaining about whatever it was this time—Snow White wasn't dead yet, the peasants didn't weep for joy at the sight of her, the sun neglected to come up at whatever hour she found convenient, or something equally momentous—when she stopped dead.

"What is that?" she demanded, staring at the small mound of white in his lap.

"This?" Rumplestiltskin said. He was sitting in a throne-like chair by the long table, stroking a long-haired feline. "It's a cat, dearie. Haven't you ever seen one before?"

"Why do you have a cat?"

Rumplestiltskin gave one of his mad giggles. "Don't you think it gives me a certain diabolical air? The villain, surveying you like a mouse while petting his demonic cat."

The demonic cat gave a small sneeze.

Regina rolled her eyes. "Oh, yes, quite evil. If you're done with your little jokes, I have something important you need to deal with. I can't believe they would do this to me. . . ." And she was off, as she always was, about the injustices of the universe.

He settled back for what promised to be a long tirade. At least, Regina wasn't prone to swearing, he thought. He could just imagine telling her she mustn't use bad words in front of Belle. . . .

X

Turning the little girl into a cat may not have been his best idea, Rumplestiltskin acknowledged. He'd given into many of her whims—or what he thought were her whims. It was hard to tell when she was so quiet and still so afraid of being punished, of being locked away in the dark.

He'd knitted her thick stockings out of woolly gold he spun just for her, working spells into them that were slowly, carefully strengthening and straightening her legs, working around the dregs of the spell that still clung to her. He made toys for her and read her books, gathering her up whenever she looked sad or frightened or just in need of being held.

It still didn't make any sense when he thought about it. How did a little girl, who barely ever whispered a word, talk anyone into anything?

Memories of another child he had once held and comforted, that was the only reason he could give for why he'd let himself be talked into it. Because of long ago memories and because of the way she clung to an old monster when anyone with sense would have turned away in fear

Besides, he'd given her the idea. He had to admit that. It had started with him doing a bit of sleight of hand now and then—not even true magic—to amuse her. One night, as he had been rocking her in his arms after a nightmare, he had taken the handkerchief he'd used to dry her tears and done a few, small tricks with it—making the handkerchief stand up straight and bow to her and so one.

Then, on a whim he had tossed it up into the air and turned it into a dove that circled round the room before coming back and landing in her outstretched hands, where it put its head under its wing for sleep and settled down as a neatly folded handkerchief again.

After that, she had come to him with a picture book and shown him a picture of a cat.

"Me?" she'd said. Her voice was barely a whisper. If he didn't listen closely and watch as her lips tried to form the sound, he'd never have known what she was asking. She'd looked up at him, blue eyes brimming with hope.

He hadn't meant to give in. He'd put her off for days, sure it couldn't be good for her. But, she showing him every picture of a cat or kitten she came across and looking hopeful. . . .

He'd been very careful—and very clear—when he cast the spell. She could turn back as soon as she wanted. It was all under her control. If she didn't want to be a cat, she didn't have to stay a cat.

Yes, he'd been careful. Just not careful enough.

She'd been cautious at first, trying out her new legs and sniffing the air, wrinkling her face at all the things he supposed her nose must be telling her. But, soon, she was racing madly around the great hall, chasing dust motes and sunbeams—till she went crashing over the tea set.

There wasn't a mad kitten anymore but a little girl, curled up with terror, trying to shield herself from the blows she was sure would follow.

"I'm sorry," she cried. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry—"

The words came in a terrified, endless stream. She flinched as Rumplestiltskin reached out to her. "It's all right," he told her. "Shh, shh, no harm done. Look, see?" He showed her the pot, sturdily intact. "It's fine. Everything's fine." He began straightening the tea things. "Nothing's broken. Good as new. Here, let me fix you a cup." Herbal tea, he thought. Nothing to make her poor heart beat faster than it already was.

Her eyes, though, were wide with fear, riveted on the last cup with a small chip at the rim. He cursed himself silently. If he'd seen it first, he'd have made the damage vanish before she noticed it. Too late for that now.

Instead, he smiled. "This?" he said. "That's nothing. Look, you can barely see it." He gathered her close as she began to shake. "It's just a cup," he assured her.

She began to sob but she held on tight to him, curling up against him. Rumplestiltskin held her close, trying to soothe her.

But, she still wanted to turn into a cat.

In the end, he gave her a small charm that let her be a cat or a girl at will. As a cat, she raced happily about the castle, poking her nose into all sorts of corners (Rumplestiltskin had spent a day or so racing after, making sure the more dangerous corners were all safely under lock and key).

She felt safe as a cat, he thought. Safe in ways she didn't feel as a little girl.

It also let him keep her with him when he made his deals. Peasants and kings alike kept stealing frightened glances at her, whether she was sitting in his lap or getting tangled in his yarn as she beat it into submission, as if he might turn them into mice for her to play with. The lords of Belle's city deserved to live in fear of him doing that. And he could, easily—to them. Not to Belle.

He was a monster, but there were some lines even he wouldn't cross. To use a child's innocence—and, despite everything she'd been through, she was still innocent—to make a game out of committing murder? No. Perhaps Blue, in her sanctimoniousness, could do that and still curl up peacefully on her little cloud at the end of the day. He couldn't.

Getting a good laugh at Regina was just a bonus.