Author's Note: This story was written for a friend for the Ryan and Esposito Ficathon's 2011 Secret Santa Exchange on LiveJournal. As you can see, it's a little bit late...

The versions of this story posted to AO3 and LiveJournal have been enhanced with images, and so I highly recommend reading it there.

Prologue: Once Upon A Time...

(...which introduces characters we don't know, characters we only think we know, and characters we do know whom we may not recognize.)

Fabletown—Manhattan, New York
1936

"I do wish they'd hurry things up a bit," Sgt. Harold Thumbwise groused, arms crossed over the dark fabric of his midnight blue uniform. "Always the problem with Gullivers, assuming us smaller folk have nothing better to do than wait around for them to notice us."

Used to his partner's naturally prickly demeanor, Lt. Acorn didn't bother to turn away from the window.

The two of them had come to Fabletown to perform the unfortunate yet necessary task of receiving a prisoner. Well, more precisely, they had hitched a ride in the truck which had come down from the Farm that afternoon, tucked carefully away in the glove compartment. That mode of transportation had the advantage of discretion, keeping them far from the prying eyes of curious Mundanes, but it had lacked in terms of an interesting view. And while the janitor Flycatcher's kind assistance in reaching the appropriate floor had saved them what would have otherwise been a very long trip indeed, the swift delivery had precluded any sightseeing.

Now they were sitting on a low windowsill in the Woodlands Building, just across the hall from the office of Fabletown's sheriff—the better to avoid the dangers of careless feet as they waited. It was only there, looking down through the window at the rushing lights of traffic on Bullfinch Street below them, that Acorn had his first real glimpse of New York City. The sight made his tiny heart ache with longing, and he was determined not to let his bittersweet enjoyment of it be ruined by the perpetually grumpy Lilliputian.

After all, the odds were stacked firmly against his ever seeing it again.

While certain hard-dying Smalltown traditions guaranteed continuing cooperation between its police force and Fabletown's sheriff, extradition was not a task they were customarily required to perform. Under normal circumstances it was the messenger birds that flew the routes between Fabletown and the Farm that were responsible for ferrying their wayward youth home, as they were far less likely to attract the attention of the Mundane world. Unfortunately there had been a bit of ugliness surrounding the last incident, and until ruffled feathers were smoothed—figuratively speaking—it fell to Smalltown's Mounted Police to perform that duty.

The quest for a barleycorn bride was a grand right of passage for Smalltown's young men, dating back to the community's founding when the jar of enchanted barleycorns from which the small women grew had been removed to Fabletown for safe-keeping. Over the two centuries in which Smalltown had prospered in its isolated corner of the Farm, its population had naturally grown, and the frequency of such happenings had just as naturally grown with it. Though he would hardly prefer the usual punishment for the attempted theft of community enchantments—execution, after all, was rather a drastic response to boys being boys—Acorn often felt that Fabletown's sheriff could ease their troubles with a harsher sentence. Clearly, the slap on the wrist earned for a first offense was doing little to discourage the foolishness.

He knew better than to voice these thoughts, however. The single time Acorn had shared the opinion with Thumbwise, his partner had fallen suspiciously mum on the subject...

Thumbwise's grumblings trailed off once it was clear Acorn wasn't going to respond to his ill humor, their silence quickly devoured by the soft knick-knick-ing of knitting needles. Frau Totenkinder, Witch of the Black Forest, was settled in her rocking chair near the door. No doubt she too waited patiently on the dubious pleasure of the sheriff's company. Of even less doubt was the knowledge that her business would be seen to long before theirs—a right Acorn knew even his partner would be reluctant to contest. The Lilliputian officer might carry a disproportionately large chip on his shoulder, after all, but Thumbwise was a long way off from suicidal.

Still, when Thumbwise settled down on the windowsill with a frustrated sigh, Acorn decided to take pity. Dragging his whiskered nose away from the glass, he turned and sat down beside his partner, curling his tail about his feet.

"I'm simply eager to be home is all," Thumbwise said after a brief glance. "The sooner we're back on that Mundy contraption and headed back to the Farm, the better."

Adjusting the strap of his saddle to lie more comfortably, it was Acorn's turn to let out a sigh.

"I understand," Acorn said quietly, resting his head on his forepaws, "but I hope you can understand why I'm in no hurry."

Thumbwise turned a concerned eye toward his partner, though his expression was also wary, as though fearing some particular argument. Acorn thought he knew why. It was becoming fashionable up at the Farm for animal Fables to rail against their circumstances. While he shared their unhappiness, he had never been one to raise his voice with theirs publicly. But, while their exile miles from civilization was far from ideal, there was more to his dilemma than simple dissatisfaction.

"I don't belong in a place like the Farm," Acorn lamented humbly. "I feel...stifled out there."

Thumbwise made a faint noise in his throat.

"It might be diminutive by a Gulliver's standards," Thumbwise argued, "but Smalltown's no meager village anymore, Acorn. And it's still growing."

"It's never been a question of scale, you know that," Acorn soothed, meeting his partner's eye. "I'm no country mouse, Harry. A quiet life goes against my basic nature."

Thumbwise opened his mouth to respond, but Acorn halted him by speaking.

"Ninety years, Harry," he said painfully. "Ninety years on Smalltown's police force, and what have I seen? The usual pattern of rowdy drunks and neighborly disputes, and the occasional Mundy fox straying too close to the border—"

Thumbwise made an unpleasant sound at that last.

"That was ugly business..."

"Don't get me wrong, I love my job," Acorn said, "but I'd give anything to stay here. In Fabletown. In a real city. Anything. I mean..."

Stuck for words to appropriately express his feelings, Acorn looked back to the window.

"It's Manhattan," he finished, wistfully. "You don't get more city than that."

And at that moment, Acorn felt regret for the fleeting glimpse he had been given of something he would never truly be able to have.

He had, after all, signed the Compact upon which Fabletown was founded, as had been required of all who sought shelter under its protection upon fleeing the Homelands. In doing so, he had agreed to its laws, in particular those protecting the secrecy of its existence. And Fabletown law solidly restricted the movements of those Fables which couldn't pass for the Mundane humans native to their new home. Too much at risk of revealing their magical nature to the Mundies, Acorn and so many others like him were thus confined to the Farm on its isolated property upstate.

Thumbwise said nothing, likely having nothing that could appropriately answer his partner's melancholy. They fell into silence once again, save for the repetitive sounds of needle and rocking chair, leaving Acorn feeling very poor, and very foolish in his brooding.

Fortunately they didn't have to wait for long. The door swung open. From it stepped a lovely, dark-haired woman. Though her attire had changed in the years since her last administrative visit to the Farm, her dignified bearing definitely hadn't, and Acorn easily recognized Deputy Mayor Snow White.

"Don't insult my intelligence by pretending you aren't planning a leave of absence," she said over her shoulder as she left the sheriff's office. "I'm just saying, you had better appoint a stand-in before you do if you expect to have a job when you return."

The other party in her conversation was preceded by a plume of smoke and a grumble that, while quite put-upon, was still almost a growl.

Bigby Wolf, Fabletown's sheriff, had been forbidden under the Compact to set foot on the Farm, owing to his fierce reputation in the Homelands and an unpleasant history with several of the Fables living there. Acorn had never laid eyes on him before, but even stripped of his fangs—for the time being—he thought the infamous Wolf cut a daunting figure. In man-form Bigby was stocky and solidly muscled beneath his rumpled shirt and tie, and with his square, stubbled jaw and long hair falling into his face, perhaps a little furrier than Acorn thought a proper human probably ought to be.

"C'mon, Snow," Bigby argued, artfully managing not to lose the cigarette perched on his lips as he did spoke. "Be reasonable."

Ms. White turned, raising a serious eyebrow.

"I think I'm being more than reasonable," she said. Shifting her stance, she lifted her chin. "Jack Horner is back in Fabletown, and who knows how long he plans to stay. He causes enough trouble when you're here to keep an eye on him. I hate to think what he might accomplish if you leave."

The Wolf took a deep drag off his cigarette, exhaling smoke through is clenched teeth. This time, the noise that left the sheriff's throat definitely was a growl.

"No Fable in their right mind would want my job," he muttered, at least half as argument, and maybe more than half as complaint. "Even if they did, its not like there's anyone experienced enough to trust with the job."

"Perhaps Grimble—"

Bigby let out a snort.

"The troll's decent muscle, and his nose is almost as sharp as mine," Bigby allowed, "but he's not exactly what you'd call observant. Jack could walk out of here with half of Fabletown in his pocket and Grimble wouldn't notice—and that's if he was awake to see it in the first place."

Ms. White ignored his dismissive tone with an exasperated wave of her hand.

"Then name someone better," Snow demanded finally. "Anyone has to be better than no one at all."

Acorn and his partner watched the argument unfold in curious silence, each of them caught between the desire—now shared between them in the wake of this odd, awkward moment—to speak up, be done with their business and on their way, and a reluctance to intervene that was grounded solidly in self preservation.

Although the momentum of their exchange was such that it could have circled uselessly for quite some time, in the end, their interruption wasn't needed.

A lull in the conversation hit on a dead moment of utter silence that brought it to an abrupt halt, and it took Acorn a moment to realize why. Frau Totenkinder had finally ceased her rocking and sat watching, her knitting resting still in her lap, and the sudden quiet commanded all of their attention.

"I may know of a suitable candidate, Gaffer Wolf," she said, idly preparing another stitch as if it were nothing of real consequence. The corner of her mouth lifted almost imperceptibly, her too-sharp eyes roaming to the windowsill as she spoke. "You did, after all, say anything, did you not, my good mouse?"

Looking up as the Wolf's attention fell speculatively upon him, it was all Acorn could do to stifle a squeak.