A/N. For a-monthly-rumbelling, December prompt: relax, puppy, hair, cupcake, wash.

A continuation of my WIP "Rumplestiltskin's Final Battle," in which, 100 years from now, Rumple, unable to care for himself, his family and his friends long gone, is in a fairy-run nursing home. Bound to a wheelchair, his dark magic increasingly overtaking his body and his mind, he longs for his life to come to an end, but his immortality prevents him from moving on. In this chapter, Gold reminisces about the first time he met his current caretaker, the fairy Cerise. Christmas, kids, cupcakes and puppies—a guaranteed fluffapalooza! Oh, and a reemergence of Zelena's gold-digging granddaughter.

"Nothing's stopping you except what's inside

I can help you, but it's your fight, your fight"

-"Get Out of Your Own Way," U2

It's the week before Christmas and we staff are busier than ever, scheduling people in and out: of the building, as family members arrive to take our residents out shopping or to their homes for holiday visits; of the holodeck, as residents relive Christmases past (real or imagined) with friends long gone; the rec room, as hologrammed visitors—or, for the lucky residents—flesh-and-blood ones—pop in and out to deliver treats and gifts and gossip or spend an afternoon playing games or reading books with their loved ones; of the kitchen, as, carefully overseen by the android cooks, our residents warm up munchies for their visitors. This is a thrilling time for all of us, but it's also an emotionally draining one too, especially for me. It's my first Christmas here, but I'm kept hopping, because for some of the residents, it can be a reminder of what they no longer have—their freedom, friendship, love.

We do what we can, taking full advantage of the technology at our disposal: the house's automation adjusts lighting, heating, sound and scents to compensate a little for the seasonal depression that results from nature's short, cold days. The androids and I dig through the files of patients who haven't had a visitor in months, to make sure that we find some for them (even it we have to cajole or bribe). The cooks, in collaboration with the nutritionist, prepare low-sodium, low-sugar comfort food and decorate it with color: carrots and peppers, sprinkles or parsley springs.

But I know that while tech helps, it can't alleviate the loneliness that comes from lack of human touch, so I lengthen my work hours, sometimes spending the nights here on a cot in my office so I'll be available if someone has trouble sleeping or awakens from nightmares. Someone like Mr. Gold. I take my meals in the dining room with the residents, instead of in the staff break room; I forgo business meetings to bounce from room to room, dividing my time with those who need individual attention: knitting with Mr. Smee, Parcheesi with Ms. Schulman, scrapbooking with Ms. Lucas, chess with Mr. Gold, and so many tea-and-cookie parties that my teeth float. I bring with me a mishmash of skills, some of which were taught to me as a child, in preparation for my career assignment, some of which the Fates bestowed upon me, and some of which are my own. Nothing you learn in life is ever a waste unless you make it so, Blue the First liked to say as I pitched a fit over her insistence that I learn to embroider when I'd have preferred to play outside with neighborhood kids. I suppose now she was right (though I still kind of wonder how my personal life would be different if I'd joined that softball team).

Christmas. I've never felt so needed, yet so useless. Everything I do is temporary. Nothing I do can make up for the fact that love lasts, but people don't.

Pavel awakens me sweetly at 7:30, as ordered, and Andy has my first cup of tea and a report on the residents' progress during the night ready as I haul myself up from my cot. If I didn't know better, I'd think that was a gleam in Andy's eye as he reports that fifty-five percent of the residents are checked out for the remainder of the week—some of them for longer—gone home with kin. Another twenty percent will be going out shopping today. Twenty percent won't be going anywhere but will have visitors. Even Smee has a dinner date. That leaves ten for whom I'll be their main source of human interaction today. I'm ready. I have a good old-fashioned program planned for the afternoon: a children's choir coming in to perform. Ms. Lucas will be playing piano for them and Ms. Schulman, guitar. Seven of my remaining charges promised to attend. That just leaves Mr. Gold. "Not a joiner, Ms. Cerise." But I'm going make him one, just for today. It's not in his nature—he's generally content to be alone—but I have a hunch he needs some companionship today. He's been watching a lot of Christmas-with-Belle holoplays lately.

A quick shower in Blue's en suite and I'm ready to start my day. I have a noisy breakfast in the dining room (oatmeal with artificial sugar sprinkles) as the androids bustle about, carrying luggage for those who are leaving and announcing visitor and taxi arrivals. I'm informed that after a hasty breakfast, Mr. Smee is already in the holodeck. An impromptu off-key and lyrically mixed-up version of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" breaks out in the hallway. We usually don't allow broadcasts in the dining room, but this week, deluged as we are with messages, we're permitting it, so on the wall behind me, the house flashes incoming holiday greetings. Residents drop their spoons and push forward to the wall when messages addressed to them pop up.

With an exception. A heavily made-up face framed by red hair appears on the wall, accompanied by a voice that cuts right through "Have Yourself" and curdles the milk in my tea. "Incoming message for Mr. Gold," the house announces. Andy appears at my side to ask if he should transfer the message to Mr. Gold's room, where he's reading, as usual.

I wince. Normally I'd say yes; our residents' messages are their property. We leave it up to them to decide when and where to listen, and which messages to make public. But I've been doing a little digging around—online searches, queries in Granny's Diner—and I have my doubts about Daeva Greene Keres, a. k. a. "The Gold Digger." What I have no doubts about is Gold's feelings toward her. "Give me a minute," I push my chair back from the dining table and abandon my oatmeal. As I pass the Christmas tree in the lobby, hope strikes and I pause to examine the newly arrived packages beneath the tree. Maybe I can temper the bad news—Keres' message—with some good news for Mr. Gold, if someone out there has taken my hint and sent a small remembrance for the one remaining town founder.

Bingo! Mayor K. T. McIntosh has sent a gaily wrapped box, with a card signed by all the Immigration and Emigration Committee members. But oh, there's another, a large, flat box, like the kind that would contain clothes, wrapped in green paper with a huge gold bow and a card signed with a flourish: "To my darling Rumpy from your Daevy." Good gods, I want to gag. I recover by wondering what's gone on that Ms. Keres now thinks she can take such liberties with Mr. Gold.

I steel myself as I round the corner and knock on Mr. Gold's door. Behind his "Enter, Ms. Cerise," I hear Keres' voice and I momentarily panic: did she somehow sneak in? But as the door slides open for me, I see it's her message, being played on Gold's wall. I wait politely for the message to finish but I don't try to hide the disgust on my face—nor does Gold. The message is a holiday greeting followed by an invitation to visit on Christmas Eve. She teases that if he's nice, she might even take him out for dinner; if he's naughty, she might bring him home with her for dinner.

I'm rendered speechless by her audacity. I point at her face on the wall: "How did she—I mean, take you home with her? 'Rumpy'?! Has she been—in communication with you recently, without me knowing about it?"

"She's sent messages. I couldn't tell you what they contained; I deleted them without listening to them." His lip has curled in a snarl.

"Well, we can put a quick end to that, just reset your settings to block her."

He pauses for a moment, running a hand across his mouth as he thinks. I know he hates to ask for help, even with a problem that I'm as eager as he is to end, so I prompt, "We've got to do something about her."

The tension drops from his shoulders. He won't have to risk his pride by asking; I'm offering. His sneer reforms into a smirk and a light flares up in his eyes. "Yes. . . ."

"Yes," I agree, practically rubbing my hands together in evil glee. "You have a plan, don't you, Mr. Gold? And I have some information. I've been checking up on her."

"Sit down, please, Ms. Cerise. Let's share, shall we?"

I plop down on the couch. "Does this mean we're in collusion together? Partners in crime?"

His lifts his open hand as far as he's able and I accept the handshake. "Indeed, partners."

On the morning of Christmas Eve, I awaken to a house that's practically empty. All the human staff and the majority of the residents are gone and will be for the next two days. I wiggle my toes under my blanket and stretch out on my cot in luxury. I'm tired from a super-busy week, but the next two days will go easy. I order the house to open the blinds to my windows so I can gaze out upon a pale sun beginning its day's work melting a new snow. My ten charges and I will cook breakfast together, giving the androids a day off. Not that they need it, or even understand what Christmas is, but we need it; we need a task to do together, to make us feel useful, to make us feel together. Pavel—now Pablo—reports that I have no messages and no action items on my calendar. He wishes me happy holiday and signs off.

After I return from my shower, I find a cupcake on my desk, accompanied by a handwritten note: "Merry Christmas, Ms. Cerise.—RG." Tears sting my eyes: what it must have cost him in effort, to write that message, when he can barely hold a pen.

Andy appears for the morning report, spies the cupcake. "He made that himself, and a dozen more, that he will be giving out at lunch today. We sneaked into the kitchen last night, after you'd gone to bed."

"So you helped him." I purposely ignore the fact that it's a violation of the rules for residents to use the kitchen without a human staff member present. "It's lovely." It's lopsided, but the white icing is decorated with a little red star. I smell cinnamon and nutmeg. "Spice cake?"

Andy nods.

"So that's why he asked me yesterday what my favorite cake was," I hum. He's not a joiner—has never before exchanged gifts with other residents. So why's he growing soft now? I collect my cupcake and patter down to his room to find him already up, shaved and dressed, not a button unbuttoned, not a hair out of place. A box of old-time Christmas cards lies open on his coffee table. I haven't seen paper greeting cards since my kid days—the last person I knew who sent them out was Blue II. Some of them sparkle with glitter. Some are elaborately artistic. Several are hand-drawn. I wonder which ones were made by Joy, which by Gid, which by their children. I doubt if any of them are recent, and that reminds me of the project I've been working on for two months now—the project other than Operation Get Rid of Greenie. I've hit a brick wall with my research; I might have to call in some favors from the LWM. But I will complete the project, I vow it.

"They're lovely," I gesture to the box.

"Antiques, some of them." He grins wryly. "I understand there are collectors of ephemera like this, but I've kept them for another reason." Perhaps he feels he's getting too close to vulnerability, so he closes the lid on the box. "Even the town monster received Christmas cards."

"Oh shush." I seat myself, the cupcake on my knee. "Thank you for this. Spice cake!"

"You may not believe this, but I used to be a gourmet cook." He shrugs. "During the twenty-eight years of the First Curse, I had plenty of money but no family to spend it on, so I bought a set of Julia Child videotapes. It gave me something to do."

"That's great! We're going to cook the meal tonight, me and some of the residents. Would you supervise?"

I can see the automatic refusal forming on his lips, but suddenly he clamps his mouth shut, then offers a small nod. "Ms. Cerise. . . I watched your Christmas program last week." I'm puzzled, so he explains, "Through the wall. As you know, I'm not a joiner, but I did watch the program. It was nice. It reminded me of a similar program here some years ago."

I sift through my memories of his files. "Gid was in the Scouts when he was little. Let me guess: his troop sang here at Christmas."

"That is correct, partially; his talent was juggling instead of singing, however. But no, that wasn't the event I was thinking of. It was about fifteen years ago, a holiday program involving a pack of puppies from the animal shelter. Does that ring a bell?"

I struggle to navigate through the thick clouds covering my early childhood memories, but nothing involving puppies and holidays comes to me. Surrendering, I shake my head. And then it's Mr. Gold's turn to struggle, his fight being with his own body; his right hand trembles; his mouth flattens and his cheeks redden and I worry that he's having some sort of cardiac incident, but when I speak his name with a questioning tone, he shakes his head, signaling me not to interfere. I have no guess as to what he's doing, but it's intentional, so I wait, my eyes darting between his and the biopanel on his chair. His blood pressure elevates slightly, not enough to cause concern; his jaw grits as the movement in his hand accelerates to shaking. Then suddenly he grins and grunts, "There," as his arm elevates to shoulder height and his fingers uncurl, spreading open. That thick leather-and-metal band locked around his wrist must weigh heavily. I'd yank it off if I could; what's stopping me isn't the huge infraction of the rules that that would be, but the magic that would be required, a laser-like concentration of magic sharp enough to break through the magic binding the cuff. My magic couldn't even untie a shoe lace.

"Ms. Cerise." His calm voice belies the triumphant and impish grin on his face and summons my attention. I finally get it: he's offering his hand. I swallow, stunned and honored at the cost he's paid to do this, and I come closer, clasping his damp fingers. This is his real Christmas gift to me, the effort it's taken to raise his arm for the first time in ages. This will be my Christmas gift to him, something that's been missing from his life for ages: human touch. I encircle his hand in mine and seat myself on the edge of the couch, signaling to him that I will not let go until he wants me to.

His eyelids flutter and his breath slows. After a moment he comments, "Your magic is flimsy and random, like bits of straw scattered on the ground. You never use it, let alone school it. Why?"

I lick my lips nervously. I'd rather keep my reasons to myself, to avoid the embarrassment behind them. But there's no criticism, only curiosity, in his tone, and I suppose an unspoken bargain has made itself available here: my truthfulness for his. I start with what will be for him a familiar foundation. "Gideon was born with magic, wasn't he?"

"Yes. And he rejected it early on."

"For numerous reasons, I imagine. Because his mother was opposed to the casual use of magic. And because his sister didn't have any, and he feared accidentally hurting her. And because there was no place for magic in the identity he wanted to carve out for himself. The kids he wanted to hang out with, they were builders and mechanics and scientists. Their tools were screwdrivers and schematics, not spells and potions. Yes?" At Gold's nod, I tiptoe into my past. "And if he was like me, when he did try to access his magic, he caused more harm than good."

"Everyone does, at first. It takes years to gain control."

"Yeah, and it's a rare kid who has that kind of patience." I grin wryly. "Especially when your heart isn't into it. Like learning to play the violin or something: if it comes naturally to you and you're blessed with early success, you'll stick with it, or if the work is your bliss."

"Or if you crave the power," he adds. "Then the years of study will seem worth it."

"Yeah. And I know a lot of born mages will tolerate the hours upon hours of practice and failure, but environment plays a role too, and I didn't have the most nurturing environment, as far as my peers went." Again I seek ground that will be familiar to him. "You've seen what bullying can do to a child."

A muscle in his cheek twitches: is it guilt or the resurfacing of childhood anxieties? "I have."

"It happens here too. Kids without magic will lord it over the magic-born for as long as they can, while the magic's still too weak or unformed for the victims to fight back." He squeezes my hand; whether it's to urge me to continue or to offer sympathy, I don't know. "I got pounded a lot in elementary school, physically as well as emotionally. I used to run down the back alleys all the way back to the convent in hopes of escaping. I'd throw myself into Blue's library, poring through the books in search of a release."

"How to get rid of your magic," he supplies.

"Yeah. The nuns, they didn't know that much about kids. A fairy is created only after one dies, so it's rare for there to be more than one child fairy at a time. So the nuns didn't understand what I was going through. And it didn't help any that Blue was a strict magic teacher. Patient, but unforgiving of mistakes."

"So it was easier for you to pretend you didn't want the magic, rather than get your knuckles rapped by your magic teacher or your nose bloodied by bullies."

"Yeah. The daughters and sons of witches, at least they had each other; they could form a clique. And the same for the kids of sorcerers. But I was the only fairy." I grunt. "I'd have given anything to get out of that trap."

"I see." He's still clutching my hand; I wonder at the strength it's taking for him to fight his own body like that. "Would you mind, however, if I gave you one brief lesson, for the purpose of freeing up your memory? Just enough to conclude my story of your first visit to the Arbors."

"Oh. . . well, I'm awfully rusty. . . ."

"I'll bear that in mind." He softens his voice. "I can promise there'll be no knuckle rapping."

I don't want to learn magic. I don't need magic; I've done just fine without it; why wander into such dangerous territory when I don't have to? Even if I do have a very experienced and knowledgeable guide, there's no point. But as I look at him and he looks back, a mixture of caution and confidence, fondness and determination in his face, I feel a longing that's yelling louder than my fear. There's something else I want even more than I want the peace and quiet of my current life. I don't know exactly what, but I hear myself agreeing, "All right." Then the twinkle in his eyes promises to fulfill my need, if I'll let him lead me. It's a fair bargain: a few minutes of my time (and just how dangerous can it be anyway, when I have him directing me?) in return for his approval.

His approval. Yeah, that's what I need. How strange that I should need approval now, when long ago I gave up on obtaining another's acceptance. Maybe I want to make him my parent, having never had one before. And maybe it's because his approval is so rarely given, it's a prize worth striving for. I want to hear him say "Good job, Cerise." Just that will be enough. "Teach me," I request.

He does, slowly, quietly, explaining the why before the how of a task. He leads me into a deep meditative state, in which I can no longer hear the footsteps in the hallway, the background murmurs of my colleagues. I'm no longer aware of the passing of time; I'm no longer mentally ticking off items on my daily task list. I'm not planning for tomorrow or mulling over yesterday. I'm simply breathing.

A sudden burst of heat in my hands disturbs my trance. My fingertips are glowing; a steady but faint pink light leaks out from under my fingernails. He smiles. "There. Feel the warmth. Feel the tingling. That's magical energy waiting to be directed. Keep breathing." His eyes have widened. He can feel my magic in the hand he's holding; I wonder if it's difficult for him, this power just beyond his reach. He keeps talking, low and soothing, taking me through the baby steps until the pink light bursts forth, fills the room, and now we're in a holodeck of my making. Or something better: we're not watching hologram actors; we're inside a memory and watching our younger selves.

On instinct I try to draw back to break the connection—not with Gold or the memory, but with magic. I don't want to experience magic, especially my own. I don't trust it. I've seen a lot of magic users in this town: I grew up with fifteen of them, fairies who long ago accepted their cursed identities and have clung to them ever since, proud of the public image that nuns have and confident that these alter egos will enable them to resist the temptations that come with magic. And yet even these pure souls have fallen, time and time again, mostly in small ways—a little magic here, just to change a traffic light or fix a flat tire; a little more magic there, to grant a dying child his last wish, or to mend a broken marriage, or to supply a homeless man with a secure job. From the outside, it would appear that these are all good, honest uses of magic, but I've seen how uncomfortable the fairy is afterward, because she knows deep down there's a price to pay and the payer is either going to be the recipient of that good act (the marriage was repaired, but the wife never sought treatment for her alcoholism because her husband in his affection for her covered up her wrongdoings) or it's going to be a random innocent victim (the homeless man got a good job as a delivery driver but on a slick winter's night he hit a patch of black ice and struck another vehicle, putting the driver into the hospital and causing her to lose her job.) Sometimes the fairy will take the price onto herself, so no one else will have to, and that's generally better, the price is lower because it gets paid promptly, but still, there is a price. I don't want to go there. Besides, magic feels like a cheat to me, a way of avoiding the hard work of solving the real problem behind the individual's needs (better, more affordable marriage counseling; more housing and job training for the homeless instead of the wave of a wand).

So I draw back to break the connection, but Gold's grip on my hand tightens, reminding me of his presence, and I look across at him. His eyes are large and bright, his complexion healthier, his arm steadier, no longer shaking. I wonder if, despite the cuffs that block his magic, he's getting a hit off my magic. The possibility worries me. It can't be good, to give an addict a taste of his favorite drug.

"No, please," he urges. "Just a few minutes."

"I don't know. . . ."

"Please. Look." He nods toward the bed and the windows behind him. Except they aren't there any more—well, I'm sure they are, but they don't appear to be, because instead I see a crystal clear vision, so much more vivid and solid than the holoplays are. Our dining room, looking much the same as it does now, even the same faux wood flooring. The dining table, which holds trays of cookies (fresh baked chocolate chip—I can smell them! Such is the strength of magic.) and milk (cold—I know this because I can see beads of moisture dotting the glasses), has been pushed back against a wall. In the space that the table normally occupies is a circle of folding chairs and wheelchairs, all occupied by patients, some of whom I don't recognize, but I spot many who are still with us today. Inside their circle is a group of little kids in Scout uniforms, and as I look closely at the faces I recognize some of them, including several who bullied me. I shudder and try to focus on friendly familiar faces.

This rings a bell with me. As it should: the magic is accessing a memory that's long lain in dust. Yeah, I was in this Scout troop. Yeah, our troop came to the Arbors on the Bae once, during Christmas holidays, to entertain the residents (and to teach us respect for our elders and compassion for those who have to live in a Home). We sang carols—I can still hear the walls of the house playing "Silver Bells." (I mouthed the words: I'm a terrible singer). And then puppies from the animal shelter were brought in (Heliotrope, the psychotherapist preceding me, was a believer in pet therapy.) I see the pet wranglers standing close by to correct mishaps like tail-pulling or potty accidents. The idea was for the puppies to amuse everyone, and in the process, the children would interact with the elders. The first part succeeded, but not the second: the kids sat on the floor playing with the pups while the adults watched. At least, as far as I know, that's what happened: I didn't stick around for the entire event.

I relax in Gold's grip as we turn to face the magic-produced scene head-on. From the corner of my eye I see him smile, satisfied that he's won our little tussle.

I see myself, age seven, in my Scout uniform and white sneakers, easing away from the other kids; no one the adults seem to notice; I'm a quiet and small kid whose goal in life is to be ignored so the bullies will pick on someone else, so the adults seldom notice me either. I slip away from the circle and back away from the dining room. In the corridor I'm free. But that's not why I've escaped. I remember it all—I'm re-feeling it—a sort of hum under my skin, giving me a burst of restless energy, and an overwhelming sense of sadness that, as a small child, I can't identify—but, re-feeling it now, I can categorize it: grief. An old grief that's coated in rust but just as sharp as when it was new. It's not mine, obviously: I'm only seven and have yet to experience love, let alone the loss of a loved one—but it's in me to feel it and want to heal it (on my eighth birthday I'll learn from Blue why the Fates created me, and I'll have an inkling then why I sometimes can feel other people's emotions. Other people—am I a person? Fairies never ask that question; they proudly identify themselves as a unique species, similar in some ways to humans but very different in others. But I ask that question and many others, because I don't fit in with the fairies any more than I fit in with the kids I grew up with. The Fates saw to that when they gave me this. . . thing. This empathy thing, which they saw as a gift that would help me in my career. A gift that comes with a price.).

My seven-year-old self is pattering in her spotless white sneakers down the corridor, escaping the notice of the receptionist at her desk and the android cleaning the lobby. I follow the feeling into another corridor, past androids cleaning the residents' chambers, and to last suite in the east wing of the building. The door stands open (I know now how rare that is; Mr. Gold likes his privacy). My child-self walks right in to the chambers, to this very parlor, with this same furniture, with the same photos on the walls and the dresser. Only the bedspread, the drapes and the books on the shelves have changed.

Oh, and the occupant of the room. He's sitting in that rocking chair to the left of the couch. There's no wheelchair in sight, but there is a walker behind the couch and a gold-tipped cane hooked over the rocker's arm. He's got a full head of hair, mostly white, and his cheeks are fuller and his wrinkles shallower than they are today. A book lies upside down on his knee. I can see the title (and I know today its significance): Her Handsome Hero. His thin lips are stretched in harsh line and his shoulders slump. Ocean waves of sadness roll off of him. The whites of his eyes are cracked with red.

On his dresser the image in one of the film-photos dances. Literally: it's Belle, a plump-cheeked Belle in a yellow apron (flecked with dust and flour) covering a blue dress, waltzing with a broom to some tune she's humming. Mr. Gold is watching the dance, until I march right up to his rocking chair. As his eyes slide over to my face, I boldly point to his head and ask, rudely, "Why do you have long hair?"

His tone is cool, but his voice is rich and accented. "Since when do mites like you get appointed to the Fashion Police?"

I like his accent. I like his long hair. I like the shiny gold bar holding his tie in place. "Can I see that?"

Obligingly he detaches it and lets me take it so I can examine it closely. "Why have you chosen to forgo puppies to pay a visit to an old geezer?"

I give the tie clasp back and in doing so, I notice that the skin on the back of his hands has goose-pimpled. "Why are you all bumpy?"

His answer is clipped and beyond my comprehension. Worse, in less than two minutes of our acquaintance, he's got me figured out. "Because you have magic."

"No I don't." My denial is a desperate act of self-protection. I take a step back, expecting to be punished, not for my intrusion, but for my possession of magic.

He softens his stance, perhaps in acknowledgment of my tender years. "What's your name, young lady?"

Is this a test? Blue has taught me not to reveal personal information to strangers, but in Storybrooke, pretty much everyone I come across is someone I've known all my life. I clamp my lips together to resist the impulse to answer the question. He is, after all, an adult, and adults get mad if you don't answer them.

The corners of his mouth rise. It's kind of a smile, but one he has to concentrate to produce, as if he's forgotten how. "My name is Mr. Gold. And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"

His stiffly formal diction makes me laugh, and that makes me forget the stranger danger rule. I approach him a few steps and hold out my hand, Blue's etiquette lessons taking me over. "I'm Cerise."

"Oh, a fairy."

I shoot a hasty glance at my back, worrying that my wings are showing. It's tiring to always remember to tuck them in; sometimes I slip up.

He understands what I'm doing. "Your name. Only the fairies are named after colors."

"You know what cerise is?" This surprises me. No one outside the convent has ever bothered to ask.

"A lovely shade of red. A strong name for a strong shade."

I like that answer. I think I like him. But as with everyone new acquaintance, I want his approval, and I'm too small, too plain-looking to be pleasing, so I fall back on intelligence. "Your name is a color."

"Touche, Ms. Cerise. Still, these goosebumps assure me my assumption is correct." He rolls up one of his sleeves to the elbow, exposing not only the bumps and the arm hairs that stand straight up, but also a thick black band tight on his wrist. I want to ask about that, but he's already explaining, "I'm a magic sensitive, you see. I can detect the presence of a magic user. I can tell what kind of magic they have, and the strength of their powers and when they've last used those powers."

I have a little doubt—adults seem to like to make jokes of the truth—but I don't argue about it. I look around his room, taking in the people in the photos. There are lots of pictures of the same people, two women, two men, two kids.

"Would you care to join me for tea?" He gestures to the couch, an invitation for me to sit.

With a quick glance toward the hallway, I sit down on the edge of the couch. I don't hear any footsteps approaching, so I figure I have a few minutes before I get caught. I'm not allowed to drink tea, only water and milk, so the temptation alone is enough to elicit my acceptance.

Mr. Gold speaks into the air: "Andrew. Two cups of tea, please. With milk and sugar and a plate of cookies. Golden Monkey."

I grin about the cookies (another treat I'm not allowed), and that pleases Mr. Gold. He sets his book onto the coffee table and eases back in the rocking chair. I mirror him, scooting back on the couch. "What's Golden Monkey?"

"It's a kind of tea. From China. I think you'll enjoy a cup."

I like the way he's phrased that: enjoy a cup. Yes, I decide, I shall enjoy a cup.

His hands fold in his lap. "So, Ms. Cerise, why have you come to visit me?"

I still want to impress him with my cleverness, especially since he's speaking to me like an adult. "I'm a people sensitive. You didn't come to see us. I thought you might be lonely."

"Perhaps I choose to be alone."

"But wouldn't you like to meet me?"

He chuckles and I know I've won him over. "Yes, I believe I would."

I'm still wondering about his 'magic sensitive' remark. "Are you magic?"

His smile droops. "I used to be."

"Can you be again?"

"I suppose so, if the conditions were right. I don't want to."

"I don't want to either," I confess, staring at my feet. I admitted this once to Blue, but she sent me to my room.

"Magic can be dangerous."

I lower my voice, just in case there's someone in the hallway. "I made Ms. Hopper's Schitzu turn green with my magic."

He confesses too: "I burned down my house with my magic."

Footsteps make me clam up, but a rap on the open door reveals it's only an android carrying a serving tray. "Your tea and cookies, sir." He sets the tray on the coffee table. Mr. Gold thanks him and sends him away with a wave of the hand before pouring our tea. I get half a cup, and half of the drink is milk; nevertheless I feel almost grown up as I take the cup and thank him. "Help yourself to the cookies. They're snickerdoodles." I detect a slight catch in his voice. "They were my daughter's favorite."

I take a cookie and dunk it into the tea, making him chuckle again. "She used to do that too."

I'm completely won over now. "What's her name?"

"Her name was Joy. She was." I follow his gaze to the dresser, where a photo shows the dancing woman holding a tiny baby. "She was just that, a joy."

"Where does she live?" I know that young people don't live in this House.

His answer, when it finally comes, is cautious. "In another place."

I'm looking at the photos on the wall as I chew my soggy cookie. "Do you have other kids?"

"I had two boys, Baelfire and Gideon."

"Are they in the other place too?"

"Yes."

"With their mother?"

"Yes."

"Don't you want to see them?" More sadness fills the room, robbing me of my appetite. I already know his answer.

"Every day."

I want to erase his sadness, reestablish the bond of common experience we were forming. "Fairies don't have moms and dads. Did you know that?"

"I believe I read that somewhere."

He's so smart, and better yet, he's honest and patient with a pesky seven-year-old. Maybe he can tell me something that's been bugging me, ever since my first day of kindergarten, when my classmates' parents came in to meet Mr. Blanchard. The other kids had one or two or even three parents; I had only Astrid. "Why?"

He cocks his head. "'Why' what, Ms. Cerise?"

"Why don't fairies have parents?"

"I see," he murmurs, then takes sip of tea.

My question exposed, I go for broke. "How did I get born? Astrid says a stork brought me, but Carrie says that's stupid. Carrie says that's a made up story that adults tell when they don't want to tell the truth."

"Carrie is right and wrong."

I'm pissed off now. He's treating me like a little kid, like the other adults do. "How can you be right and wrong at the same time?"

Mr. Gold's eyes sparkle as he takes another long drink of his tea. "She's right that humans aren't brought by a stork. Their mothers give birth to them. But she's wrong about fairies. After the Fates create a new baby fairy, they send her into the world by stork."

I throw myself back against the couch and huff, "I'd rather have a mom and dad like everyone else."

"Someday you might like it that you're not like everyone else."

But there's a hint of doubt in his tone and I'm suspicious that he doesn't like being unlike everyone else. I challenge him: "Really?"

He backs down. "Well, maybe not."

I finish off my cookie, buying time to think. "Blue says I was created for a purpose."

"Yes, I've read that too, that fairies are always created for a purpose."

"I don't want to have a purpose."

"Why not?" His eyes stray to the photo of the dancing lady. The adult me recalls something I heard Belle say in a holoplay: "Nobody decides my fate but me." The moment I heard that, I decided I admired her.

"I'm supposed to be a healer, but I want to be a detective."

He leans forward confidentially. "I wanted to be a cowboy." He holds out the plate, offering another cookie. "For the time being, why don't you focus on being the delightful child you are?"

Footsteps, and this time I know I've been caught: fast footsteps hitting the floor tiles hard. I forgo the cookie to leap to my feet. I push my cup onto the coffee table and grip my Scout sash nervously. "Uh oh."

"Don't worry," Mr. Gold assures me, and he's risen from his rocking chair before the Scout leader sweeps in. Before she can grab my shoulder and chew me out, he's thanking her for permitting me to visit him. "A charming young lady, and so considerate of you to think of me, alone here. Too ill, you see, to participate in your holiday celebrations." He holds his hand out; she blinks as she automatically accepts the handshake. He covers her hand with both of his, a gesture both personable and dominating.

"I, uh," she stutters.

"I do hope your troop will visit us again. I'm sure the children have brightened the holidays for all of us here." Gripping his cane for balance, he bends to shake my hand. "Ms. Cerise, I hope we'll meet again someday."

"Uh, yes," the troop leader murmurs.

I'm inspired to do something I've never done before: I perch on tiptoe to kiss Mr. Gold's cheek. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Gold!"

"Merry Christmas, Ms. Cerise."

The memory dissolves. A blink later and I see my seven-year-old self standing before Blue's massive desk. I'm already small, but I try to make myself smaller; she comes around and scowls down at me.

"Am I in trouble?" I manage to squeak.

To my surprise, her scowl vanishes (yet she doesn't smile). "No, dear." (Dear is meaningless in her mouth; even at seven, I know that.) "On the contrary, you passed."

Now I'm confused. "Passed?"

"At the Home today, that was a test." She folds her arms across her chest. At her back, her wings flutter. "What did the other children do at the Home?"

I try to remember, as much as I saw of it, and try to find the trick in question. "They sang. . . . They played with the puppies."

"And what did you do?"

Okay, I see where this is going: she wants an admission of guilt. "I disobeyed. I wandered off from the group."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I just. . . ." I'm failing this test. "He was alone. I thought I should talk to him." I grasp straws. "I didn't bother him, honest I didn't."

"No, you didn't bother him. You did what the Fates expected you to do."

My seven-year-old self doesn't get it. My face scrunches, fighting back tears.

She unfolds her arms and sets a hand on my shoulder, lightly, as though she thinks I might shrug it off. "Someday you'll understand what you did." Her hand drops away. "Now go wash for supper."

The memory disappears and I wake up to the present. My hand feels suddenly cold: I glance down to find that Mr. Gold has released me. His arm, shaking again, falls to his side. His eyelids droop.

"Thank you, Mr. Gold. I'd forgotten much of that."

"You're welcome." I watch the energy slip out of him; he lets the wheelchair support his body. "Belle and I used to debate the question of how much control the Fates have over our lives." His smile is crooked. "I came to see that she was right." He raises an eyebrow. "You could still be a detective, if you want to."

I chuckle.

"Was it as bad as you thought it would be, letting your magic out?"

I have to shake my head. "Still. . . ."

"If you ever change your mind, I'd be happy to teach you." He studies my reaction and apparently finds the slight widening of my eyes an encouragement. "You know, we could take it one small step at a time, see how things go."

"It's always been a source of contention between me and Blue," I admit. "She considers my refusal to study magic a rejection of my heritage. I look at it as a stubborn determination to choose my own fate."

"If you ever start thinking that maybe there's a bit of fear in there too, I can help you move past that."

A new thought occurs to me. "It would provoke her, if I chose the Dark One as my tutor, over her."

"Aren't you a bit past the teenage rebellion stage?" he teases.

"Of course."

"Still. . . ."

I agree, "Still. Thank you for the offer, Mr. Gold. I'll give it some thought." I rise. "I need to make my rounds. We're a small group tonight, only eleven of us; most everyone is gone for the holidays. Still, instead of using the food replicator, I thought I'd whip up supper by scratch. Alberta's offered to prepare her macaroni salad. Would you care to join us in the kitchen? We could use a gourmet cook. I bought a nice prime rib."

He nods. "I'd like that. If you don't mind, however, I need a nap beforehand."

I address the House: "Andy. Come to Mr. Gold's room." Gold's going to need assistance getting into bed. Then I kneel at his wheelchair. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Gold."

"Merry Christmas, Ms. Cerise."

I kiss his cheek.