"Be careful now. Don't want any of you to fall and skin a knee or get arrested for trespassing or whatnot."

Thirteen thirteen-year-olds made quick, fearful glances into the eyes of the birthday boy's father. Later, out of the range of his hearing (which, through much testing over the years, they'd learned could pick up his child's voice from 1.5 miles away), some of the kids would swear they'd witnessed Old Man Gold's eyes change from ordinary brown to catlike yellow. Even those who, too scared to look into Gold's face, had missed the transformation, didn't argue the point. They'd grown up in a town where stranger things had happened.

"We have a deal, then." Mr. Gold snapped his pocket watch open. "Remember, you have until the library clock chimes to acquire the item on your list. The one who returns first will win the pony."

Thirteen pairs of wide eyes swung past Mr. Gold to the white unicorn cropping grass on the front lawn. "Ready now. Four, three, two–go!"

With shouts that drowned out Mrs. Gold's warning to mind the traffic and the Millses' guard dog, the children dashed off in different directions. As the last youngster safely crossed Gold Boulevard, Belle clicked her tongue. "Really, Rumple? You couldn't have offered a bicycle? It had to be a unicorn?"

A sheepish shoulder shrug accompanied his reply. "I wanted Gid's party to be something memorable."

"Did you ask the parents first?" When he didn't answer, she continued, "What about the ones who live in apartments? What are they going to do with a unicorn?"

"Sell it?" Gold suggested.

"Oh, now, what child is going to allow his pony to be sold away from him?"

"I guess I didn't–"

"You got that right. You didn't think about that."

One of his brilliant ideas struck and he made a gesture with his thumb and forefinger, spreading them apart, then bringing them together. "I could miniaturize the pony. They can keep it in a bathtub."

She snorted. "You'll send the unicorn back and conjure a bicycle." Her eyebrows drew down. "Or you'll sleep on the couch tonight."

With a wince, he snapped his fingers. "Done."

Belle snatched a sheet of paper from his suit pocket. "How hard did you make this scavenger hunt?"

A note of alarm invaded his voice. "Nothing dangerous, I assure you, sweetheart. These are children!"

She hummed as she recalled all the scraped knees he'd bandaged and all the broken toys he'd repaired over the years, very few of them Gideon's. Their phone number was in every mom's contacts list under "Get My Kid to Stop Crying." Among the teachers, he was known as "Go-To Dad." Even now, he'd conjured a crystal ball and was using it to oversee the game.

"All right." She unbristled but nevertheless read from the list of items to be collected. "'Scrapings from the chrome bumper of a black Mercedes'–Rumple, the only black Mercedes in town is Regina's!"

"Oops."

"'Three straws from a flying broom'–do I detect a pattern here? 'A Best Seller list from the home of a former Author.' 'A dill pickle from a Granny's deluxe cheeseburger.' "

"She owes me," he muttered. "And so does he."

Belle gaped at the next one: "'A nose hair from a district attorney'?!"

"He's got plenty to spare."

"'A paw print from a mouse wearing a tiny wool hat.'"

"That one may take longer to find. When Smee was last seen, he'd made a nest for himself in the back alley at the Rabbit Hole."

"'A ring from a pirate's booty.'" She crumpled the list and tossed it into the green recycling bin.

"Two points," Gold observed.

"Rumple, this isn't a children's game. This is an act of mischief against everyone who's wronged you."

"Not everyone," he protested. "That game would take years to complete. No, they're raiding just the reformed villains who live in Storybrooke. And each child is in pursuit of a carefully chosen item from the list." Gold snapped his fingers and the crumpled sheet of paper rose from the recycling bin and flew into his open palm. He smoothed the sheet so he could read it. "Roland Hood will acquire the shavings, Lucas Hopper will acquire the pickle; Hope Jones, the ring; Samantha Smee, the paw print–you see?"

"You have them raiding their own relatives." Belle caught on. "So no one will get too mad." Then she growled as a new realization hit her: "Wait. . . thirteen children, on the thirteenth day of the month, on Gideon's thirteenth birthday–These are ingredients for some kind of revenge curse, aren't they?"

"No, no, sweetheart." He rubbed her back soothingly. "Would I spoil our son's birthday with a curse? You know me better than that. Not a curse. No."

She leaned into his chest for a hug. "Yeah, you wouldn't do something so nasty. Not to Gideon." Then she pulled away from him and shook her finger in his face. "So what kind of spell are these the ingredients for?"

He sighed, caught in his own semantics, and arched his hand in the air. "When I mix them all together and add a tablespoon of baking soda, we'll have fireworks that light up the sky with the words–"

"'Happy birthday, Gideon,'" she guessed. She snuggled against his chest again. "Here. Something to kick-start the spell, from Gideon's mama." She pressed her lips against his.

He identified the gift: "True Love's kiss." And returned it to her as gold and blue sparks lit up the sky.