"When we dance, angels will run and hide their wings"

-"When We Dance," Sting

"Welcome back to the dinner table, Mr. Gold." Ms. Lucas is the first to notice the shadow cast across the threshold between the hallway and the dining room. She's standing over Ms. Shulman with a pie server in one hand and in the other, a pie tin, from which a thin visible and mouth-watering-scented stream of steam rises. She uses the the pie server to gesture to the contents of the tin. "Just out of the oven. Homemade peach pie, from scratch."

"I sliced the peaches," Mr. Herman chirps.

With the server Ms. Lucas bops him on his balding head. "Shame on you. Stealing credit. No pie for you."

"Well, I did," Mr. Herman whines as he rubs his injury.

"Yeah, but that's all you did. Who did everything else, from crust to filling?" Ms. Shulman shakes her finger.

"Never mind." Ms. Lucas waves the server toward the new arrival. "Sean's always been a scene-stealer, always will be. Come in, Mr. Gold, and have a slice."

"Thank you, no. My appetite's a bit off today." But to our delight, Mr. Gold rolls into the room and navigates his wheelchair into the empty space beside Mr. Herman's chair. "Good evening, Mr. Herman, Ms. Lucas, Ms. Shulman." There is a brief smile for me. "Cerise. I trust everyone is well this evening?"

"Well, my arthritis flared up-"

Ruby bops Herman on the head again. "You don't have arthritis, you big baby." She then smiles innocently at Mr. Gold. "We are all well, thank you. And you, sir?"

He evades the question. "That was enjoyable pot roast the cooks prepared for supper tonight."

Everyone concurs, though none of us missed the fact that Mr. Gold ate his pot roast in his room tonight (as he has all of his meals since Ms. Hua passed away). We don't want to scare him off, though, so we pretend that everything is fine, just fine, and Ms. Shulman directs the conversation to tonight's episode of Boston Ballet, which, she believes, will feature a performance from last year of Cinderella. Mr. Herman snorts: "Yeah, I saw the commercial for it. I won't be watching it. That chick they've got playing Cinderella has a chest flat as a week-old pancake. Nothing like the real Ella—oooowww!"

"Mr. Herman, are you in need a bandage for that wound?" I giggle.

"You behave yourself," Ruby growls, "or I just might remember that there's a full moon out tonight."

Even Mr. Gold chuckles (or tries to) at that quip. He sits with us as we sample the pie, but as soon as the conversation wanes, he excuses himself (giving no explanation) and rolls away. When I catch up to him a short time later, he's already in bed and his lights are out. I lean in the doorway and sigh before returning to the dining room.

Malloy Briggs is crying on Mr. Gold's shoulder.

He's the eight-year-old that Mr. Gold has been mentoring in magic. His parents, two witches, have had no objections to him studying with the Dark One, partially because it's been fifty years since the Dark One exhibited any of his dark magic (or any other kind of magic, for that matter). And partially because Mr. Gold, who owns three-quarters of the homes in this town, has vowed to teach these children only light magic, and Mr. Gold's word is good as, well, gold. So it's a shock to me when I learn the reason for the tears.

Malloy's partner in his studies, Stan Steinberg, is also crying. The two boys hug and Stan is blubbering something about seeing him again, because they're "brothers in magic," but Malloy just shakes his head. There's a gentleness in his hands as Mr. Gold rubs Malloy's back, a familiarity, I think, that would surprise most people: he's soothed crying children before; though it's been many years, the how of it is coming back to him.

"What's going on?" I sit down on the garden bench beside Mr. Gold.

"Master Malloy is leaving us. His parents are divorcing and his father is taking him to Boston."

"He'll have to get through the Emigration Committee first," I spit. "I'll make sure that petition never sees the light of day."

"Sparrow," Gold cautions. "Malloy has enough to cope with."

I wrench the anger from my soul and try to concentrate on the child's needs. I kneel at the boys' sides. "You're going to be all right, Malloy. You're fine young man, a good student and a good friend to Stan. Just because you can't live in the same town any more doesn't mean you can't still be friends. You can call each other every day. And Stan, we'll keep your lessons going, won't we? We can start again, find a new partner for you to practice with."

Mr. Gold moves his wheelchair closer. "We will indeed. And Master Malloy, you can call me any time you like and I can give you a lesson over the phone. I won't quit on you boys, if you won't quit on me."

But we all know how that will go. Still, I conjure a cake and punch, and I call the other students to come to the garden for a goodbye party.

Mr. Gold doesn't join us for dinner that night. He retires early to a fitful sleep.

"I'm not sure I should be leaving just now," I admit. I'm tossing the salad as Jo is taking a lasagne out of the oven. So warm, so rich with spicy aromas, so comfortable is my little kitchen whenever Jo's in it. As I'm falling asleep at night, often in my beloved's arms, I dream that this life is ours forever. It's a humble ambition, my college friends have told me: I don't dream of wealth and luxury or professional acclaim, just me and this man, puttering around in our kitchen or fishing at our lake or swimming in the beach off Malibu. A small dream to a human, but then I'm not a human, am I?

"I understand, but he is doing a little better than he was a month ago. We'll only be gone for two days." Hands protected by oven mitts, Jo presents the piping-hot tray for my inspection. He grins as I wave my hand back and forth to sweep the aroma toward my nose. "Smells good, doesn't it? If I do say so myself."

Despite the heat assaulting my fingertips, I pinch a tiny corner of the noodle-cheese-and-tomato blend and pop it into my mouth. "Ow. Mmmm."

"Let it cool before you dig in, darlin'." He sets the pan onto our kitchen table, then reaches for a knife to slice the garlic bread.

"I don't know if I can wait that long." I reach around his back to pinch a crust off the bread. "Ow." The garlic bread just came out of the oven too. "Mmmmm." I gulp ice water to cool my assaulted tongue. "I did buy a dress."

"We've been looking forward to this ball a long time. It's kind of important to the C of C that I go. If I have to get dressed up in a monkey suit and prance around like a seven-foot-tall ballerina, I'd rather have my girl beside me."

"Amy will be on call while I'm gone. And Darwin's been staying in his room throughout the night."

Jo spins around to seize me in his arms. "You can be back in Storybrooke in less than an hour, if there's an emergency. I love him as much as you do, Cherie, but if we take one night of alone time it's no crime."

"Ballet dancer."

"Huh?"

"Ballet dancer. 'Prance around like a seven-foot-tall ballet dancer' is what you should've said." I pop another bite of crust into my mouth. "Anyway, it's not prancing. You're quite graceful."

"Show me the dress while we wait for the lasagne to cool."

As many people as I—in my role on the Immigration Committee—have granted permission to enter and exit through the Enchanted Forest Portal, I've never actually passed through myself, nor have I witnessed others coming through. I've often wondered what it feels like to move from one world to another. Does the passenger feel the magic that temporarily dissolves barriers? Does it burn? Does it itch? When I've passed through the portal between Storybrooke and the Land Without Magic, I've felt no difference whatsoever, not even a difference in barometric pressure or temperature, but then, Storybrooke and the LWM exist in the same world. The LWM Portal is more of a cloaking device than a passageway.

But as the six of us, semi-official ambassadors for our little but mighty town, stand at the portal gate, our luggage in hand, it's kind of a let-down. Yes, it's pretty enough: the magic shimmers in pale rainbow colors and can only be seen when looked at directly; from the sides, the entire gate is invisible. The doorframe binding the magic together is ornate, made of gold and diamonds. And there are two armed guards on constant duty, standing at attention as the Gatekeeper casts a spell over our visas to test their authenticity. The effect is impressive, but the fact that the Portal is in the unfinished, damp and smelly basement of the public library sort of spoils the effect.

As the Gatekeeper scans Jo's credentials, my beloved reads my mind and whispers, "The castle will more than compensate." We are waved through—the Gatekeeper, who recognizes me from her monthly reports to the committee, pats me on the shoulder and invites me to have a safe trip—and as, hand in hand, Jo and I follow our fellow travelers through the portal, I hear someone humming "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" and we all giggle. We walk through, momentarily blinded and made dizzy, then we pause on the other side to acclimate. "That's it?" I mutter. "That's all?"

"Here, drink some water before you try to walk. It'll help stabilize you." Someone presses a goblet into my hand and I drink. The water, unlike ours, unprocessed, tastes of minerals, but it's cold and I gulp it. The wooziness fades and my eyesight clears, but my hands tingle and my fingertips are alight with magic. I can feel it crawling over my skin, wafting up my nostrils, nipping at my toes. My spine straightens and my shoulders pull back and I do believe I've grown two inches. Overhead a bird—a species I can't recognize, but about the size of a vulture—skims the sky, and my fingers twitch. I long to flick a bolt of magic at that bird. I have no doubt I can shoot it out of the clouds.

A polite "ahem" brings my attention back to ground. I can see now the smiling face of a young woman dressed in a velvet and lace pantsuit. Her long black hair is done up in a french braid and I spy on her lapel two pins, one reading "MGA" and the other, "I Heart Storybrooke." I bite my lip to keep from giggling. To either side of her are two other formally dressed young people, and surrounding us, stone walls upon which armed (with bows and arrows, that is) guards keep vigil. Overhead, pristine clouds float sleepily in a pale blue sky. The grass beneath our feet is lush. A stone path, its edges decorated with wildflowers, beckons us to follow.

"How do you feel?" My greeter takes the goblet back from me. Her accent, which I'll learn later has been cobbled together from her own touristy visits to Storybrooke, where she watched a great deal of television, bounces between blue-collar Boston and Valley Girl LA.

"Fine." I shuffle my feet, testing my balance.

"Well, then." She takes a step back to address the six of us and curtsies. "On behalf of His Grace Arnulf, the Duke of Avon, and the Merchants Guild of Avonlea, I welcome you. My name is Helewys. I am the Marketing Director of the Guild. Allow me to introduce your guides for the weekend, Anfroy"—a teenage boy bows to us—and "Roana"—a teenage girl bows. "They are the president and vice-president of the Junior Merchants Guild. They'll be looking after you while you're here."

"Thank you for the warm welcome." Jo shakes hands with each of them as he introduces himself, the four representatives of our Chamber of Commerce, and me.

"If you all are ready to proceed, we'll go inside now." As our greeters direct us down the stone path towards the huge castle, Helewys gives a canned speech on the history of Avonlea Castle. My scalp itches as I try to recall why "Avonlea" sounds so familiar, but Helewys beats me to the memory when, in rattling off the names of the dukedom's former rulers, she includes "His Grace Maurice, his wife Colette and their daughter Belle."

I tug at Jo's hand to get his attention and I mouth at him, "Our Belle?"

"Surprise," he winks at me. "We're going to be sleeping in her chambers."

Footmen and -women open the great iron-and-wood doors for us, bowing, and servants rush forward to take our suitcases. "We'll be dining with His Grace this evening," Helewys informs us. "He's a big supporter of commerce and tourism."

Jo's met him before, so I've already had a bit of an introduction to His Grace, who, for state dinners like ours (and to impress visitors touring his properties) likes to dress, like his staff, in velvet and lace, but when he's in "business mode" will wear Dolce & Gabana. The Storybrooke Immigration Committee has granted him an unlimited visa so he can come and shop in our stores anytime he likes. On his first-ever visit to Storybrooke, so the story goes, as the mayor and the Chamber president were walking him around, Arnulf was quite taken with our Walmart and had already purchased an armload of Levi's before McIntosh steer him out of there and into the D & G. It was only when she oh-so-casually introduced him to a construction crew dressed in Levi's that Arnulf realized his faux pas.

We are introduced to Arnulf's staff—my head swims with their names and job titles—and after we take light refreshment in "the blue parlor" Helewyn gives a castle tour. A two-hour castle tour, and that excludes the servants' quarters, the kitchens and sculleries, the laundry rooms and who-knows-what-else. My calves ache from traversing all those steps; my feet are spared, however, thanks to Jo's advance warning that I wear flat shoes. "And now," Helewyn checks her pendant watch, "we'll show you to your rooms. You'll have two hours before dinner."

We thank her, barely concealing the relief in our voices, as she curtsies and departs. Our two young caretakers direct us to our rooms, where our suitcases have already been unpacked and steaming, scented baths await. I toss my shoes across the room and peel off my blazer. "Under other circumstances," I moan as I massage my toes, sending a little magical balm to ease their suffering, "I'd play fair and we'd flip a coin to see who gets the first bath, but I'm going to be selfish."

Jo, testing the bounciness of the bed, laughs. "Go right ahead. I felt the same way on my first visit." I leave the door to the bathroom (thank the gods the plumbing is almost modern) open as I strip off and slide into the tub, submerging to the nose, relaxing until a scary thought disturbs me: "Jo, they're not going to send a—a whatchacall'em, a handmaid in here to dress me, are they?"

"Not unless we asked for it on the preferences sheet. And I didn't ask." He's got his shoes and socks off and he's stretched out across the bed.

"Good."

"And don't worry about the food. It's not considered an insult to the host if you politely refuse any of the dishes that are served. Arnulf's dealt with enough of us Storybrookers that he understands our palates."

"But I like to experiment."

"Not with the chimera, you won't."

He fills me in on Avon etiquette as I struggle to stay awake in my bubblebath. But soon enough he's warning me that it's his turn for a quick bath before it's time for us to dress, him in his tux and me in a teal satin evening gown. As he's soaking, I slip into an imitation hotel bathrobe that the servants have left on the bed for us. I poke around in the room, examining the bedding (hand-sewn), the furniture (I'm sure it's all antique so I take some photos to show Mr. Gold) and especially the paintings on the walls, which I suspect are of Arnulf and his family. I'm a little disappointed that none of them are of Belle's family. Maurice's rule is remembered; that's evident from the paintings in the Portrait Gallery, where there's a scene from the Ogre Wars hung alongside a wedding portrait of Maurice and Colette and a small, oval-framed portrait of a rosy-cheeked infant that a brass plate identifies as Lady Belle. But there's nothing in this room, where she slept every night of her life until the day Rumplestiltskin dealt for her, to remember her by.

Or is there? "Bitten by the curiosity elf," as Astrid likes to say, I dare to snoop in the closet and the dressers. My snooping becomes prying when, overcome by determination to find some mark of the young duchess, I pull the drawers completely out of the dressers and turn them upside down to shake them.

My commotion attracts Jo's attention. "What are you doing, Cherie?"

"Nothing," I insist. "Just dropped an earring." But I allow myself a little chirp of triumph when my efforts uncover a false bottom, which, when pried loose, reveals a small book. Upon the front endpaper is written in large loopy letters, though faded, "Belle Her Diary."

Jo misinterprets my yip. "Found it, did you?"

"Sure did." I rock back on my heels and run my hand reverently over the cracked leather cover. The pages have yellowed, but Mr. Gold will know what to do to salvage them. I want so much to open the book and read, but it feels like a violation of Belle's privacy, so I lay the book in my lap to ponder my next step.

Jo is still talking about Avon cuisine.

There's no question in my mind that this book is going home with me. It's going to be taken to its rightful owner. Am I stealing it? I don't see it that way. Anyway, does anyone in the castle even know the diary exists? My only doubt is how to sneak it out. I suppose I could simply insist that the servants not pack my suitcase for me when we leave, but that might come across as an insult. Or worse. My suitcase has a small pocket in the lining, for holding wallets and the like. I wonder how nosy the servants get when they're packing a stranger's bag. . . .

I feel a vibration in my palms and suddenly, the book vanishes from my hands. Alarmed, I scour the floor, the dresser, even under the bed in search of the missing book. Panic sets in; I'm not only a thief now, I'm a property damager! How did this happen? I leap to my feet, running my sweating palms over my bathrobe. My hands are afire with guilt. I wish I could find that book; I'd put it back in the drawer and never ever think about stealing another thing ever again—

I feel leather under my fingertips. The book has reappeared in my hand. Oh. Yeah. As Jo talks about the business contacts he's hoping to establish this weekend, I consciously call upon my magic. Just a little practicing, moving a pillow here, a vase there, just to see what I've got in my fingertips. It seems to be almost effortless. Tasks that I have to concentrate on when I'm at home are so easy here, I could accomplish them in my sleep. If I'm not careful.

With a smirk I command the book to become a pair of slippers, and the slippers to tuck themselves into my suitcase. For good measure, I place a little purchase receipt inside the slippers: "Avonlea Castle Gift Shop." Heh heh heh heh. Mr. Gold needs a new pair of houseshoes. Especially the kind that will change back into a child's diary when he speaks her name.

I'd like to tell you that our elegant dinner with the Duke and his wife is as magical as those slippers, but that would be a lie. Yes, his staff "puts on the dog," as Astrid likes to say, and the food is tasty and plentiful, and the china and silver sparkle and the candelabra twinkles and the gowns and jewelry are all Fifth-Avenue, but well, Jo was right: Arnulf's a snooze. Instead of tales of Ogre Wars and dragonslayers, which, Jo assures me, is Arnulf's usual conversation when he's entertaining rich tourists, it's all business. Instead of famous Misthaven philosophers and scholars, the Duke quotes from his heroes John Rockefeller, J. P. Morgan, Andrew Carnegie. In fact, the gift that Jo presents to Arnulf on behalf of the C of C is a cigar cutter that once belonged to Cornelius Vanderbilt.

But I sip my wine and smile and nod through the three-hour meal, and my smile is genuine, because of that diary. I suppose I'll have to tell Jo what I've done. Eventually.

On the following morning, while Jo and the C of C representatives meet with the Merchants Guild, I have a duty of my own to perform on behalf of my tribe. Upon learning of my Enchanted Forest visit, Blue charged me with the task of journeying to Mab's Meadow. It's the fairy version of a state visit. I'm to meet, briefly, with the current Queen of Fairies, whose birth name is Aryarie, but whose position title is (I shudder) the Ruel Ghorm, a. k. a. Blue Fairy. I am to bow, give a little canned speech on behalf of the Fairies of Storybrooke, and exchange gifts: practical ones, because all Blue Fairies are nothing but practical. Ruel will give a box of magical herbs that grow only in Mab's Meadow, and I will give her a wand imbued with Storybrooke magic.

When she explained to me what I'd be presenting on behalf of Storybrooke, our Blue seemed a bit embarrassed. "The magic here isn't as powerful as that in the Enchanted Forest, and of course, a fairy's magic is at its strongest in Mab's Meadow. But the Ruel Ghorm will find this wand interesting to study, just the same. Its magic is sort of a hybrid, having been tinted with the magic of the First Curse." Then Blue snorted. "Frankly, I don't see why she'd want to bring tainted magic into the Meadow, but it's what she asked for, so. . . ."

As we go back to our room to change after breakfast, Jo asks me, "Will you need transportation to the Meadow?"

"Just this kind." I wiggle my shoulders to pop my wings and the magic changes my clothes into a deep-red dress made of flower pedals. The look strikes me as rather silly as I glance over my shoulder into a dressing mirror, but Jo is quite taken with it: "Wow. Can I—" he steps toward me, reaching out a finger to gingerly touch my wings.

"Yeah, okay." I let him touch.

"Wow," he says again. "They're like silk, fragile and strong at the same time."

"You aren't going to want me to. . . be like this all the time?" I cock an eyebrow.

"No, no, I want you to be whatever you're comfortable being," he assures me. "But this is also you, part of you, anyway. Part of who you were born to be."

"I wasn't born," I remind him. "And this isn't really me. But it's what they're expecting." I summon my wand and shrink myself down to fairy-size. "The sooner I get this over with, the better." I want to hug him goodbye, but having already shrunk myself, it's too late. "Have a good meeting, Jo."

"You too. Meet me at Robin's Tavern for lunch, okay? Think you can find it?"

With a grimace I show him my wand. "Built-in GPS system." I start to fade out. "Love you." I remind myself how lucky I am to have someone to say that to.

"Love you too."

Mab's Meadow is—how do I explain this? It's a place within a place, accessible only to the fairies. It's where we originate, where the Fates create us, design us, give us our powers and send us out to fulfill our roles. It's our research center, where the scientists among us experiment with magic (under the watchful eye of the Reul Ghorm, of course). It's our think tank, where the philosophically and religiously inclined among us study and teach and write books. It's our library, where our historians record the major events in our lives. It's where our warriors train so they can be sent out to protect the tribes in every realm.

It's the hub of our Supreme Court; we're brought here to be judged for serious infractions, and so, it's where the cream of our crop will spend their lives: writing, enforcing and interpreting laws. So I suppose you can see why a visit to this Athens of the Fairies is no treat to me, after what I've done (and continue to do). In planning for this vacation with Jo, I kept hoping I'd find a way to wiggle out of this duty. When it became apparent I couldn't, I wondered if Blue assigned me to make this trip in order to turn me over to the Reul Ghorm for judgment.

My heart is pounding ferociously as I land in the courtyard to the Ruel Ghorm's castle. Overhead, an army of fairies circle me: they allow me to enter because they recognize me as one of the Storybrooke Tribe. They've been told to expect me. That they watch me as I walk through the courtyard is not meant as a threat; it's just their duty. I am greeted at the castle gate by the entire household staff, flanked on either side by armed guards. Like their human counterparts, they're all dressed to the nines and they all bow to me: I will have the best of everything while I'm here, as I'm an honored guest, an ambassador of an important tribe (and because Ruel Ghorm wants to remind Blue just who's who by putting on the fanciest show possible). I sigh, reminding myself this will be a short visit, as the two guards approach me. I know they're guards not only by the bows slung across their backs but also by their height: warrior fairies are allowed to grow a few inches taller than everyone else.

The captain of the guard—she has a seashell pinned to her breast to indicate rank—comes up to me and bows. "Welcome, Storybrooke. We have been expecting you."

I bow too. "Thank you, Guardian of the Meadow. Like all my sisters, I have long looked forward to this return home." A polite lie, but it's the expected greeting. "My name is Cerise." Not that I really need to announce myself. They'd know, simply by the color of my dress.

"I'm Green. This is Amber. Come, the Ruel Ghorm awaits."

A light bulb clicks in my head. As we all turn and pass through the gates, I touch Green's arm for just a second, not enough to appear to be a threat, and I whisper to her, "Are you Tinker Bell?"

She bobs her head slightly, murmuring, "I've been called that."

"Can we talk later? In private?"

Her eyes dart to the army flying overhead. "That can be arranged."

I thank her and allow her to lead me into the castle, through a Great Hall, and finally into a throne room. Everything here, from the mirrors and portraits on the walls to the polished marble floor to the arched windows, is a copy of a throne room that a human king would have, except much tinier. So tiny, in fact, that a human searching for Mab's Meadow could never see it without a microscope, which, of course, the humans of the Enchanted Forest didn't have until recently. I'm led up a red carpet to a stage decorated with red velvet drapes. The centerpiece of the stage is a mighty throne, and the centerpiece of the throne is of course an ermine-robed woman.

Who looks an awful lot like Blue. I gulp. A nudge from Green reminds me what I'm supposed to do. I kneel, staring at her slippered feet and holding out my wand for her inspection. I don't say anything—she's the queen; she has to speak first. She's going to toy with me a little, I suppose; she twitches a finger and my wand rises from my hands and floats to her. She idly inspects it, and as she does I sneak a peek at her: apart from gray hair and wrinkles, she could pass for Blue's twin. Or her mother, if fairies had parents.

She returns my wand, having sampled my magic (the expression on her face indicates she's found it distasteful. No surprise: Blue says my magic literally stinks, reeking with the taint of the Dark One's magic. How that can be, I argue back, is in her imagination, because thanks to the Pan's cuff, Gold has no magic to taint me with).

Nevertheless, Ruel waggles a finger at me. "You may approach, Storybrooker."

The steps leading to her throne are six: I take two of them, then kneel again. I make my wand vanish and in its place I bring forth a long, narrow black box tied with a blue satin ribbon. I make my little speech, reciting word-for-word what Blue would have me say, and offering my humble gift. Ruel's magic takes the gift from me. She opens the lid, extracts the wand and holds it up to the light. It glows with its own magic, and she surrounds it with hers. "Interesting. Our scientists will certainly be entertained as they examine this. Tell your master I thank her for her gift. And thank you, Cerise, for bringing it to me."

With a flick of her finger a wooden box appears at my feet. I breathe in deep: I can smell the odd combination of scents from a variety of herbs. I've read about most of these: how they grow and are harvested, how their healing properties can be extracted. I've made a deal with Blue, that in exchange for this errand, I'll be given small cuttings from each of these herbs. I thank the queen.

And now, best wishes for the long lives and safety of both tribes having been expressed, the gifts having been exchanged, the formalities are over. The queen invites me to stay for dinner and since to refuse her would cause a scandal, I accept with profuse gratitude. I follow her and her entourage into the Great Hall, where dinner awaits. All organic, raw and spiceless (I can't wait to get home to Jo's fresh-baked bread). I speak only when spoken to, as required, but fortunately, I'm spoken to a lot, as Ruel pumps me for information about Blue and Storybrooke. I get the feeling that, although Ruel considers our magic impure and our lifestyle, living as we do among humans (and even worse, allowing them to rule over us) inferior, she'd like to visit sometime. But Blue said nothing about making such an invitation, and I've proven myself completely useless at reading Blue's mind, so I don't extend that invitation. Not that an invitation would be strictly necessary; Ruel Ghorm outranks all other fairies.

When the queen abruptly stands, signaling the end of dinner, we diners all stand too and lower our heads. She bids me a safe journey and repeats a request that I extend her personal greetings to Blue, then in the blink of an eyelash she's gone. I sigh and glance over at Green. "Okay, then. Guess that's that."

Green informs her fellow guards that she'll escort me to the gates. They disperse without questioning her, which suggests to me that she has their trust and loyalty; that support may explain why she's allowed to live in the Meadow, instead of being sent out, as a lesser leader would have been after punishment. When we've reached the courtyard, she lets me know it's safe to talk. "What did you have on your mind, Cerise?"

"It's what's on my heart, really. Humans."

"Oh."

"I've heard that you spent a lot of time with them."

"I have. Still do, whenever I can sneak off." She tilts her head toward the castle. "They're a lot more fun that this bunch of stiffs."

"I'm in love with one."

"Are you now?" she smiles.

"I think marriage may be in our future."

The smile vanishes. "Ohhh."

"Which of course is against the law."

"Cavorting with humans in any shape or form is against the law. Though, we do have to socialize with them a bit if we're going to help them, so some amount of cavorting is—ignored." She clicks her tongue as she leads me through the herbal gardens. "But marriage. I don't know. I've never felt that way about a human. Or anyone else."

"What did they do to you, for 'cavorting'?"

"It wasn't too bad, all things considered. Blue banished me; her magic blocks me from ever returning to Storybrooke. But you see, I picked myself up again." She spreads her hands. "I had skills that are in high demand here. That's why my leash is long."

I get down to brass tacks. "What do you think they'd do to me for marrying a human?"

"Well, we don't need any gerontologists in the Enchanted Forest," she quips before growing serious and grabbing my arm. "But here's what I do know: there is a power higher than the Reul Ghorm and the Fates put together."

"True Love?" I ask hopefully.

"I was going to say the gods, but True Love is good too. When the gods created humans, they gave them three gifts: water, fire and True Love. The fable goes, it's True Love from which all that's good in mankind was born: strength, courage, generosity, sacrifice, friendship. So here's what I think: if you have True Love, you'll have all those other gifts too, and that's what'll see you through. Besides, the only way you get True Love is through the gods, and who would dare to challenge the gods?" We're at the gates now and the guards open them for us.

"So you're saying Jo and I should go for it?"

She runs a hand through her hair, frustrated that she doesn't have a definitive answer for me. "Look, I've never seen a fairy who's been gifted like that, but I have seen a whole lot of humans who had to put up with all kinds of crap, but their love is what got them on their feet again and kept them together." She shrugs. "So don't take my word for it. Look at the humans you know who've survived the crap and ask yourself, do I have what they have?"

I want to throw more questions at her. I want to hear her story. Where did she find her strength, her courage, her friendship? I want to know this unique fairy, so unlike any in my Tribe. But the guards are waiting at the gate for me to pass through. "Time to go, Cerise. Nice meeting you."

"Thank you, Tinker Bell, and good luck to you."

"Good luck to you and your human."

The gates close behind me.

I tell him about my visit and he tells me about his as we dress for the ball. We agree that my visit was more interesting. "We've had some crap to deal with," Jo muses, borrowing Tink's terminology.

"Nothing that comes close to what the Golds had to deal with."

"I hope we never do. Remember, he killed himself to protect her and Bae."

"And she exiled him from Storybrooke."

"And sent their child away because she feared Gold would hurt him."

I sit down on the bed to strap on my shoes. "That's an awful lot of crap."

"Yeah." He sits down beside me. "The Darkness was behind all that."

"But beneath all that were fear, anger, selfishness, emotions that all of us fall prey to. We may not manipulated by the Darkness, but we have our own destructive forces following us around."

"Every couple does. It's part and parcel of the human experience."

A denial of my humanness leaps to my lips, but I withhold it. At heart, I'm learning, there isn't that much difference between humans and fairies. Jo is saying something about the Golds and how, despite all the crap, they managed to make a good life together.

Another phrase jumps to my lips and I let this one emerge. "If they can, after all that crap, so can we." Jo's eyebrows rise and a hopeful smile starts to form. "I believe," I add, and then to clarify: "I believe in us."

He hugs me tight. "Then let's go dancing."

"We had the best time—well, second best, after Malibu," I'm chattering already as I dash into Mr. Gold's chambers. I have so much to tell him and it all wants to tumble out at once. I have photos to show him, and a handful of wildflowers I picked in Mab's Meadow, and a pretty pebble from Arnulf's castle, and—which I'm saving for last—the diary. The doors stand open but it's only later that I'll remember that; right now I throw myself onto his couch, the tote bag of gifts slung across my shoulder. "Sorry," I pant. "I forgot to ask how you are."

He doesn't respond. His wheelchair is facing his windows; I assume something in the gardens has attracted his attention. A pot of tea is waiting for us on his coffee table. "You've already ordered tea. Am I that predictable?" He doesn't answer, not so much as a nod. "Mr. Gold?"

"Mr. Gold?"

"He had one last night too. A brief one, ten minutes or so," Amaranth straightens from Gold's wheelchair, where she has been reading the biofeed.

I want someone to blame, someone whose shoulder I can smack. But it's me who deserves the slap. "Why didn't you call-" I cut off the rest of the question. She couldn't have called me if she'd tried.

She misinterprets the fragment of a question. "I did notify Dr. Marine, as always. Though there was nothing out of the ordinary." She nods at the still unconscious patient. "As his blackouts go, it was just another typical episode. Besides," she shoots a nasty look at me, "you know as well as I do, there's nothing we can do for him but make him comfortable."

Which is what we'll do now. I nod and mumble a thanks, then gesture to Darwin, who lifts Mr. Gold into bed. Darwin will change him back into his pajamas and pour out a glass of water to leave on the nightstand, for when Gold awakes. While we wait the episode out, he will stand in the corner, watching for a sign. Mr. Gold will not be left alone through this experience.

My throat burns. Amaranth leaves to tend to the awake, and I seat myself on the edge of Mr. Gold's bed, staring out the window.

At some point I feel a shift in the bed and my trance breaks. A finger reaches out, curls around one of mine. His voice is rusty. "Sparrow."

If 'droids can feel relief, Darwin does. He carries the glass of water to Gold's lips. Dutifully, Gold sips enough to satisfy Darwin, who then retreats to his corner. Gold pulls up a weak smile. "Miss me?"

"Yeah. Miss me?"

"Yeah. Is there anything you need? Anything I can do for you?" I fuss with his blankets.

"Let me go."

My heads snaps up. "What?"

"I'm tired. Let me go." His eyes shift meaningfully to the pillow.

I kiss his forehead and tuck the blankets in. "I'll check back in an hour." When his eyes shut, I nod at Darwin and make my way out into the hallway. I have other residents to check on. But my memory nags me: what did "Let me go" mean?