AN: This was originally written for someone, but it's grown into something a lot bigger since then. This has been rewritten as of 12/1/15, and so have chapters 2-3, because my writing has obviously changed in the past year. This sounds pretentious, but my muse is back and I can finally finish this story. :)

Emma could feel the chill in her hands even with the gloves on. Despite the long sleeves of her gown and its heavy taffeta fabric, her skin was still coolly supple. It was the one thing her powers gave her that she was thankful for – heat could be so uncomfortable and stifling.

Her ribcage, however, was in no such luck. No amount of cold could loosen the tight lacing of her corset, and breathing in too deeply pushed the wiring of her underclothes into her torso. Emma kept imagining the ballroom staircase. She was expected to gracefully sweep down the stairs, in all her skirts and undergarment atrocities, and without wearing the dread she felt on the inside out for all to notice. This was not something she felt confident about accomplishing.

"Alright. The gates will be opened soon, Emma. Are you ready?" Emma turned to see her mother, in equal formal fanfare. Snow White had never looked so nervous. Her hands were clutched at her waist so tightly her knuckles were practically translucent, and her brows were lowered as though her worries were weighting them down. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, though unlike Emma's it was rather rigid, the grey streaks through her hair gleaming in the candlelight when she moved.

"I don't exactly have a choice, do I?" Emma replied, flattening down her skirts as best she could. Her efforts were entirely in vain, and she longed for the simple day dresses tucked away in her wardrobe. Or, even better, her favorite cotton trousers.

Snow took Emma's hand into her own and held it reassuringly, her grip warm. "It's going to be fine. You'll keep the gloves on, no one needs to know. And in the meantime, having the castle open to visitors will be better for us. For our friends, inter-kingdom diplomacy, and maybe even –"

"Snow. Emma. The gates are opened, it's time." Charming looked equally unhappy as his daughter and wife, mouth set into a frown and jaw clenched subconsciously. He took Snow's arm in his, and led the way towards the ballroom.

Emma had curtsied when her name was called out after an uproarious fanfare of trumpets. Her traipse down the staircase went without remark, and once the music began she danced with several partners, and was greeted by what felt like almost one hundred people. Everyone wanted an introduction; everyone wanted to meet the princess who had been locked away from the world for so many years. Locked away for her safety, and for theirs as well, though none of them knew it.

Now Emma sat at a table near the back of the party, surveying her surroundings. This was oddly surreal. Her mother and father had so many friends and acquaintances, and seeing them all in the castle, welcome and at ease, was such a strange sight. Clearly the kingdom was under the impression that the Evil Queen Regina no longer posed any threat to the realm, now that the gates were open, and they were in full revelry. The dancing and laughing and drinking were getting to rambunctious levels, with no end in sight. The Blue Fairy even squandered some magic to showcase party tricks for the guests, making the flowers in the centerpieces come alive and dance in unison.

Seeing Blue reminded her of that vial, its contents gurgling out into a basin to be tossed out with the dirty dish water. It was possible that a different decision could have made her a happier person. Maybe small feats of meaningless magic would make her laugh and a dance with a handsome duke or earl or even peasant could make her feel wanted and beautiful. No, Emma reminded herself. It wouldn't be real.

Alcohol. That was what she needed. Pushing her chair out from under her, Emma made her way towards the table serving wine (no hard liquor to speak of at royal balls, unfortunately). The crowding of people was intensely dense, and Emma felt her stomach knot up in nervousness. A rough shoulder bumped into her and nearly knocked her off her feet, but a fellow partygoer grabbed Emma's hand to break her fall.

Her hand.

Not her glove.

The scream came first. It tore through Emma like fire through paper, burning a hole in her chest. She slowly turned to see the damage and prayed, prayed to anyone and anything, that her hand did not touch skin. Please, if there was anything good in this world, let her powers have frozen a skirt, a ring, a diamond-banded bracelet – anything but skin, anything.

The woman clutched her hand to her chest, still screaming. Her bare hand clutching the injured one. And as all eyes turned to witness the cause of the screams, Emma heard a mischievous giggle from behind. She whipped around to see sallow, scaly skin and beady eyes with slits for pupils staring her in the face. He held her right hand glove in his hand.

"Mmmmmmm, sorry dearie.I just couldn't resist bumping into you this way."