A/N. For a-monthly-rumbelling, September prompts: island, family, wildlife. A second segment in "Rumplestiltskin's Final Battle," a longer story I'm developing, in which Rumple is in a fairy-run nursing home, confined to a wheelchair and bound to immortality by his curse. The first part is "Rumplestiltskin's Final Battle: Fragment: The Runaway Bride." It's the year 2117, and with his family and friends long gone, Rumple longs to be released from his burdens, but it will take the help of a young fairy to win his final battle with the Darkness.

Here, Gold relives some life-shaping events from his past, including a college graduation, a serious illness, and a visit to the most remote town on the planet. As memories tend to do, his jump around in time and space. To make the timeline a little easier to follow, I'm providing dates and places in brackets.

"Oh the sea is cold and the sky is grey
Look across the Island into the Bay

We are all islands till comes the day

We cross the burning water. . . .
A seagull wings across the sea
Broken silence is what I dream
Who has the words to close the distance
Between you and me"

"Asimbonanga," Johnny Clegg

[Storybrooke in the year 2117]

It's Visiting Day at Arbor on the Bae.

Not formally: these days, visitors are allowed anytime between 11 a.m. and 8 p.m., and in any form: in the flesh or by holographic projection. But when Arbor opened fifty years ago, the director, the first Blue Fairy, established one official Visitors Day each week and required the staff to stick to it, prohibiting visitors on any other day of the week—to "keep order," she insisted, "and reduce disruptions to routine. Our sort of patient needs routine."

I, for one, am glad I never met Blue the First. I've seen what a visit, especially an unscheduled one, can do for a resident's spirits, and I've seen what a lift in the spirits can do for physical health. Fortunately, the current director, Blue the Third, agrees with me—on that point, that is.

But today is Wednesday, the traditional Visitors Day, so at mid-afternoon we have a houseful of drop-ins. They've programmed Visitors Day into their home electronic systems, along with Mother's Day and Father's Day and birthdays. Our house tends to get noisy on Visitors Days—Blue III takes Wednesdays as one of her days off—and messy, with family members and friends of all ages running about, bringing small gifts and taking afternoon tea with their patient-loved ones. We don't do anything about the noise, though we could: we could order the house electronics to apply a sound dampener; I've argued that the noise is good for our patients' emotional well-being and all the activity stimulates the brain. We do, however, take care of the messes as soon as they crop up, lest someone trip and fall. Our cleaning staff—three silent androids—move about gracefully, tidying up. The house system pipes in gentle sounds and scents that mimic the outdoors, seasonally correct. Ours is a very pleasant environment.

Mr. Gold doesn't like pleasant environments. Or so he wants us to think. Nor does he like visitors—that, I know to be true. I guess I'd feel the same way, in his shoes, because the visitors are all here for someone else. Gold has only one living relative out there somewhere, who's never visited. Gold's never even met the young man. Once when he was in an unusually gregarious mood—and capable of communicating—I asked him about the great-grandchild. "I think he lives on Mars."

I've never known if he was joking or not. There is a small colony on Mars—scientists and engineers, mostly. Musk City, it's called. But sometimes Mr. Gold speaks in metaphors. I rather like his snarky attitude and sharp wit; it's the mark of a lively mind.

It's Visitors Day, early in the autumn after a long, hot summer, and people are feeling rather spunky. There's a lot of laughter and storytelling and hugs and food (perhaps an alcoholic beverage or two, I suspect, sneaked in in tote bags). Some of the residents and their visitors stroll or roll outside to picnic or just watch the falling leaves. There's a party going on in the Rec Room, a baby shower with someone's great-granddaughter and her wife. They're playing silly games with ribbons and bows, and there's a cake and punch and presents. I move through the throng, greeting everyone, thanking them for coming—a sly way of reminding them how important these visits are. I accept a cup of punch (safely unspiked, for the sake of the mother-to-be) and join in the toast to the happy couple, and I'm especially touched when the honorees turn things around and salute the patient they've come to see, thanking her for all she's done for them over the years. Alexandra Herman, her name is, and last month this same crowd was here to celebrate her 106th birthday. I raise my cup too and echo with the revelers, "Hear, hear."

That's when I spot Mr. Gold in the hallway, looking in. Glaring. When I make eye contact with him, he wheels about and rolls away. Glaring, but when I think about it later, I remember a sadness in the glare.

When it's polite to, I slip out of the party and seek Mr. Gold. As I pass from room to room, for the first time I feel a stab of envy for my patients: in the kitchen, Ms. Darling is walking her guests through a lesson in radish rosette creation; in the lobby, Ms. Hatter is welcoming a mother with three small kids who's just dashed in; in the library, Mr. Anton the famous poet holds forth with a lesson in enjambment to a creative writing class from Storybrook High; in the Exercise Room, Mr. Kristoff and his son and grandson (the latter coming in by hologram) are watching a football game. It's all lively and lovely and normally I'm delighted for all these people, but at this moment, a black cloud settles over my head. Envy and a long-seated loneliness darken my vision of this cheery scene.

I pause in the solarium, hugging myself, analyzing myself. It doesn't make sense for me to feel these emotions. Envy and loneliness have never been problems for me: I have friends, in town and out, friends from school, friends from church, friends from professional associations and social clubs. I have family, right here in this very building: seven of my sister fairies work here. I share a house with two other sister fairies. The convent, where twenty other fairies live, is less than five miles away.

Then I remember Mr. Gold's glare and I figure it out. I'm not feeling my emotions; I'm feeling his. I shudder as I resume my search for him.

I finally locate him in the holodeck. The door is locked. I could break in, of course; the house is programmed to override a patient's commands to accept those from staff, in case of emergency. But we have an agreement, he and I, that I will respect his privacy if he will respect my need for information. A flat "no" from him and I will drop any I knock; the house displays an image of me onto the holodeck's walls. Through his wheelchair's connection to the house's electronic system, he permits me to enter. He's facing away from the door and he doesn't turn around for me, but his eyes flick briefly in my direction as I come up on his side. He says nothing. This is a bad day, then; his brain is misfiring and he can't talk. I nod to him, indicating that I understand the situation, and greet him softly, not wanting to interrupt his holodeck program. He returns his gaze to the staging area, in which the visions of his imagination are brought to life, or, more accurately, a pretty good imitation of it.

He has the right to protect his privacy; he can terminate the program and I won't chide him for it. But more often than not, he allows me to see what he's seeing. As wonderful a healing device as the holodeck is—it's in constant use by our residents (and sometimes by staff)—he recognizes (though he won't say so) the need for the companionship of a living, breathing human being. There are safer companions, ones that won't argue or lose their tempers or demand anything—the artificial ones of the holodeck and the androids we use as CNAs—but he knows as well as I do that where there's no risk of rejection, there's no thrill of acceptance, no true affection. So he lets me in, figuratively as well as literally.

The first time he allowed me in, I felt guilty, but I've gotten over that. The holodeck is an important therapy tool. Sometimes, the holodeck is the most efficient, most accurate and most honest way for the residents to communicate with me. Sometimes, for Mr. Gold, it's the only way he can communicate.

And so I intrude. I won't interrupt the program playing out before him, but I rest my hand on the armrest of his wheelchair. I'd like to touch his shoulder or his arm to offer comfort—over the year I've worked here, he's warmed up to me enough to allow me these small caring gestures—but today his shoulders are tight, his neck is stiff and his eyes are hard, all signs warning people to stay back, if not completely away. As he stares at the stage, I sneak a glance at the panel on his wheelchair: his blood pressure is a little elevated, but not enough for me to call the nurse. Then I sneak a longer look at him. As he is every day, he's dressed from head to toe as if he's ready to roll into a corporate board room and bark orders and twist contracts around. His shoes are shined and his tailored suit freshly pressed (he pays one of the human custodians extra for those services, despite the fact that an android would do it for free: he complains about the androids' lack of "appreciation for the quality of the materials"). His silk necktie is kept in place by a genuine gold pin. His nails are buffed, a sandalwood scent wafts gently from his cheeks and his thinning white hair neatly combed (boldly, there's no attempt to hide his bald spot. I could apply a formula that would grow him a full head of hair in under an hour—that was one of the first "medical conditions" that researchers "cured" in the last century, there was such a high demand for it). Nobody else here, not even Blue III, dresses so formally.

In the beginning of our acquaintance, I asked him why he doesn't dress down like the other patients, in comfortable clothes: the home provides colorful, loose-fitting, soft cotton pants and tunics. He raised a chilly eyebrow: "Ms. Cerise, what makes you think I'm not comfortable in my attire?" When, instead of acting insulted, I laughed at his snarkiness, his other eyebrow shot up. That moment had established the grounds for our relationship from then on.

I don't dare keep my gaze on him too long; though he's not able to talk today, the clarity and brightness in his brown eyes clue me in that he's fully aware of everything going on about him. There are days when he isn't—days and nights when his mind has gone wandering to the past in search of memories of his Belle, or to other realms in search of his Bae. Nothing, not a shake of his shoulder or a hand clapping in front of his face or a ringing bell or an injection of a stimulant, can bring him back when this happens. We've learned to wait it out and watch his vitals, though they're always pretty strong.

"That's the problem," he's growled when we assure him, upon his mind's return to the present, that he's in good health. He won't say more, no matter what tricks I use to pry an explanation from him.

His shoulders drop from his jaw-line and his forefinger flicks toward the stage, an unspoken command to the holodeck. For a moment longer, the images are frozen; he put the system on pause when I knocked on the door. There's always a twenty-second lag between the command and the response, as the patient's instruction has to travel through the neural lace connection between his brain, through the house's system, then into the holodeck's system. Whatever images the patient calls up in his mind are then projected onto the stage. Sounds and smells are replicated to make the image more realistic. It's easy to get carried away in here; we don't censor the holodeck plays, despite the complaints from some residents and visitors about "obscenity, pornography and violence" in the content of the plays they've walked in on.

We do, however, have to limit the amount of time a patient can spend here. We discovered the hard way that some of them would rather live here, inside their imaginations, than interact with the living world—or take care of their physical needs. Mr. Smee was the lesson for us: we found him unshaven, unwashed, half-starved and dehydrated after two days locked in this room. When we forced our way in and yanked him off the theater seats, he struck at us and cried. For three days he whimpered, begging to go back "to the seas." After that, we set the four-hour rule. . . and we scoured the town for someone who remembered Smee. We still pay that guy fifty credits and a bottle of rum to visit Smee once a week.

An accented female voice pipes up, drawing my attention to Mr. Gold's hologram play. Accents are so rare these days, what with a global commerce, mergers of nations, instant intercontinental communications and high-speed travel; those of us born in this century speak the same language and sound pretty much alike. But not this lady. My head snaps up as I recognize her voice from the talking photographs on Mr. Gold's dresser, so youthful, so energetic, her voice is out of place in the home. I notice Mr. Gold's eyes widen, his jaw loosen and his shoulders fall down from their usual position up around his ears. Good. I breathe out: he's reliving a happy memory. I turn toward the staging area, where two hologram actors perform his personal play, taking their directions directly from his medial temporal lobe.

The scene is the interior of a brightly lit train with video screens flashing advertisements on the walls. The video screens clue me in that this is sometime in the past; the actors' appearance helps me narrow the timeline further: Belle's auburn hair is streaked with gray. She's wearing eyeglasses—nobody has worn eyeglasses in decades—and she's reading from a paper book—I only see those in archives now, and on some of the patients' shelves.

My eyebrows rise. This Mr. Gold—Rumple—is wearing stubble, jeans, a denim jacket and a black turtleneck. A pair of stylish wraparound sunglasses rides atop his head. Ah, Belle, only you could bring this side out in him.

[Victoria Falls, 2053]

"They're an English-speaking British territory. The local government is run by an administrator and a 'chief islander' who answer to a governor who lives on Saint Helena. The population is 292 and no immigration is allowed, because the island is too small to accommodate more people. Their income is solely from farming and fishing."

"Sounds peaceful," the holographic Rumple sighs. "Yes, let's go there." He scowls out one of the windows at skyscrapers flashing by. His body scrunches together as if he's being jostled in a crowd. "Soon."

"Next," Belle replies. "We can skip Johannesburg. We can hyperloop to Cape Town, but from there we'll have to take a boat. It'll be nice, floating on the sea." She purses her lips as she slips her book into a tote bag. "I could use the rest." She blinks up at him coquettishly. "A leisurely day in bed. . . .At my age I tire easily."

He snorts. "You're one-tenth my age, my dear." Then his smile fades. "We should go back."

"It's not time yet. My numbers are still pretty good. I'm just getting on in years. After all, for the twenty years I raised two children, worked 40 hours a week at the library, plus ten hours a week at the animal shelter—"

"Dealt with hundreds of magic-wielding villains and one cranky husband—"

She squeezes his knee in a manner that's both comforting and suggestive. "I couldn't have done it without you, darling."

He leans into her, sweeps her long hair over her shoulder so he can kiss her cheek. "Same here, sweetheart."

She rests her head against his chest. "Thank you for this. For giving me the world."

"It's thanks to Gid that we can do this. Morocco to Victoria Falls in ten hours. Six hundred and fifty miles an hour—almost as good as—" he wiggles his fingers.

She wrinkles her nose. "Better. Your transport spells always left me nauseated."

"I still think—"

"I will, I promise. But let's not talk about that. Don't take this away from me. Not until we have to." She fiddles with his fingers before lacing them between her own. Then, clever girl, she deftly changes the subject and her playfulness tricks him into allowing the shift. "Remember the day Gid finally solved the last mathematical equation that enabled the train to be built?"

Rumple grins. "Like yesterday. First time I've ever drunk a virtual toast."

"I'd never seen him so happy. Not even on his wedding day, or the day Gabrielle was born." She lifts her head. "Don't tell her I said that, though."

"Of course not. But I think you're right: finding his true love came easily for him, but solving that equation took years."

"He has your patience, persistence and inventiveness."

"He has your research skills and book smarts. So does Joy, along with your devotion to public service."

Belle's eyes shine, but I'm not sure if it's with the idea she's just come up with, or a sentimental longing—maybe both. "Rumple, I know they're both busy, but—"

Rumple is already doing some calculations on his watch. "If they takes an airbus, the kids could meet us in Cape Town in about 21 hours."

"He's in between projects right now; surely Telsa could spare Gid for a couple of days. Do you think he'd mind awfully leaving Gabrielle and Grace? They really are too young for such a strenuous trip. The problem will be whether Joy can take a brief vacation on such short notice. If she's at a critical stage in her research—"

"All we can do is ask." Rumple is lowering the sunglasses sitting atop his thinning hair. "Menu." When they're over his eyes, he visually scans the lenses, speaks commands to the menu. "Phone. Call Joy. Joy, honey? Yes, she's fine."

Belle peers over Rumple's shoulder. "Hi, honey. I'm fine. How would you like to join your globetrotting parents in a little trip to the most remote island in the world?"

I glance over at the flesh-and-blood Gold, who's leaning forward in his wheelchair, his fingers elevated toward the stage. It's apparent he longs to touch the holo-actors, but of course he can't. No one can; they exist only in his imagination. I feel privileged that he has permitted me to watch along with him something that means so much to him.

A cacophony of bird calls fills the room, drawing me back to the stage. I now see squawking seagulls swooping over an ocean, competing for sky space with squeaking albatrosses, a chain of mountains behind them, misty clouds overhead. On the rocky shore below, sea lions bark at each other and penguins toddle to the waterline. A yacht is unloading six passengers at a dock. They huddle under umbrellas and walk carefully to avoid slipping on the wet wood. Everyone is in jeans, hiking boots and mackintoshes; they've been warned of the need to dress for hot, humid weather.

[Tristan da Cunha, 2053]

A man in a yellow raincoat waits on the dock. His leathery face creases with a smile as he nods to two of the passengers, greeting them by name with a "welcome home"; those two amble past him and climb a hill to a cluster of buildings badly in need of paint. Swinging in the wind, a sign signifies one of the buildings as The Albatross Bar; the two locals bang the door as they enter that establishment.

"You must be the Golds." The sunburnt old man turns his attention to the remaining four. His accent is unrecognizable, but he speaks slowly and clearly so they can understand him, as if he were talking to non-English speakers. "Welcome to Tristan da Cunha. I'm Tommy Currie, your host."

The Golds take turns shaking Currie's hand. "Thank you, Mr. Currie, for accommodating us on such short notice," Belle says.

Currie openly appraises each as he shakes hands. He seems to have some concerns about Belle, so petite and small-boned that a strong wind might knock her down. He's still frowning slightly as he judges her slightly-built husband, but the frown disappears when their hands connect. I can guess why: Gold has told me that in his mobile days, he worked with his hands a lot and had a strong grip and rough-skinned fingers. It's been fifty years since he could tinker or spin, though.

"Glad to do it, ma'am," Currie answers. "We got to limit the number of tourists we let in; we're such a small island, y'see, and we make our livin' off our farms, so we can't build up too much, no hotels and taxis and the like, but my wife and me keep a real nice guest room. We'll make you comfortable."

Currie's eyebrows shoot up as he shakes hands with six-foot tall Gideon and his five-foot-ten-inch younger sister. Belle twinkles as she assures him, "Yes, these are our children, Gideon and Joy."

"I understand the necessity for limiting tourism and development," Rumple comments, watching the penguins scuttle about in the waves. "Growth, as our cities have learned, can cause irreparable harm to the ecology of an area."

Currie gestures with an open arm toward the cluster of buildings, and the group begins their climb up the hill. "Most tourists got to wait on a list for two or three years before they get the invite, but the Island Council voted to let you in right away."

"Oh?" A stiffness creeps up Rumple's spine and his face hardens. He tends to act that way with all strangers, as if he expects them to take advantage when they find out he's wealthy. Belle immediately catches the signs of suspicion and links her arm through her husband's, a nonverbal message for him to stay calm. But they both are taken aback when it's Joy that Currie shines his admiration upon, "We're all kinda anxious to meet you, Doctor Gold."

"Me?" Joy sniffs. "But I'm a geneticist. Nobody outside of the medical profession would've heard of me. Hardly famous."

Currie reaches out to open the pub door for his guests. "Ma'am, retinitis pigmentosa did awful things to our families, til you came along."

Now I can't help myself: overcome, I squeeze Gold's shoulder. He tolerates my touch, maybe even welcomes it. I've read the files, I've talked to Gold for hours on end (when he's had good days) about his children, and though they passed away before I was born, I consider myself a fan of their work. Gold knows I know, but he shows me anyway; through the neural lace, his brain instructs the holodeck to change the scene.

[Malibu 2052]

We're now on a white-sand beach, Belle and Rumple, and vicariously, Gold and I; the sun is setting over white-capped waves. Behind the couple, who are stretched out on a picnic blanket and sipping wine, lights come on in a small house on stilts. A breeze lifts Belle's locks, blowing them into her face; Rumple leans over to stroke her hair back. He's moving in for a kiss when a phone rings. The ringtone is an old one that it takes me minutes to identify: "Doctor My Eyes." Rumple straightens immediately as Belle scrambles in the picnic basket. She finally turns it upside down, scattering sandwiches and strawberries onto the blanket, shoving them aside in search for a phone. Triumphantly she lifts her prize to the sky, then presses it to her ear. "Joy?" She listens for a moment, then presses a key. "Say that again, sweetie, so your dad can hear."

A tired but youthful voice leaps through the air. "Hi Dad!"

"Hi, honey! What's up?"

"Mom, Dad, we did it! We did it!" In the background voices yip and glasses clink: there's a party going on.

From the parents' proud smiles, it's clear they know what "it" is, but Joy proceeds to elucidate. "We've found a cure for blindness!"

"The gene queen rules!" Belle shouts. "Tell your team your dad and I say 'congratulations!'"

"We knew you could do it," Rumple leans on his wife's shoulder to purr into the phone.

A shining face peers over Joy's shoulder. "When can you come up? The entire Institute for Human Genetics wants to throw a banquet in your honor!"

"It's your investment that got us here." There are cheers, then Joy returns: "Dr. Seymour wants me to tell you we're drinking in your honor tonight, Dad. That two million you contributed—"

"Seed money," Rumple shrugs modestly.

"Yes, seed money that grew a ginormous crop. When you gave, five other philanthropists stepped up to the plate, and then we were able to get that matching grant from the Adelson Foundation." More muffled voices. "Dad? Dr. Seymour says next we conquer diabetes, so get your checkbook out."

As the holo-actor Rumple chuckles, I hear a small rumbling in Mr. Gold's throat. Good: these memories are doing the trick; he's slowly emerging from the darkness. Maybe he'll regain speech today and we can have a chat about loneliness and envy.

[New York, 2038]

I see his finger flick and the scene changes again. Of course: he doesn't play favorites between his children. We're now in a football stadium, although it's being used today for commencement ceremonies. A long line of purple robes trails up the stairs to a stage, where solemn-faced faculty in purple-and-black robes sit. A white-robed woman wearing a black sash is shaking hands with each graduate as the line snakes by, while an assistant distributes diplomas. As each name is announced and the graduate receives his or her handshake, the audience applauds, but when one young man is called to the stage, two spectators clamber to their feet, clapping and whooping.

"Gideon Gold, dual major: mechanical engineering and mathematics. Mr. Gold graduates with a 3.8 grade point average."

"And admittance to Princeton," Belle murmurs as she sits down again. "And to think, it all started with a magic spell."

[Storybrooke, 2024]

I make a puzzled sound. Mr. Gold doesn't leave me in the dark: with a finger flick he changes the scene. We're now on a lawn I recognize: it leads to a tall Victorian house set back from the quiet, shady street. The house no longer exists—Mr. Gold's knee-jerk magic burned it down fifty years ago—but he has photos of it on his wall. In the driveway, behind a Cadillac, a little boy kneels, a bicycle before him, a toolbox beside him. He's got both wheels off the bike and is doing something with a wrench. On the porch, his frazzled mother is attempting unsuccessfully to soothe a fussing baby by rocking her in a swing and rubbing her gums.

Suddenly a puff of purple smoke appears on the porch. It quickly dissipates and an exhausted Rumplestiltskin steps out. He's carrying a grocery bag, which he sets down on the porch as he drops to one knee before his wife and his baby. "Don't worry, honey, Papa's back," Belle coos. "Papa's got the answer."

"I hope." Rumple reaches into the bag with both hands and produces the fruits of his labors. "Here, baby girl, a brand-new pacifier and a teething ring." He offers them both: the baby grabs the latter and gnaws on it, her sobs ceasing. With mutual deep sighs, both parents lean back. "And I picked up dinner at Granny's. After last night, I'm just too tired to cook."

"Thank you, darling." Belle's voice cracks with weariness. "I don't remember Gid having this much trouble with his teeth."

In the driveway, the boy has let his wrench drop as he listens intently to the conversation. He looks from his father to the bike, from the tool kit to his father. . . .

"He did," Rumple assures her. "But it didn't last long, thank the gods." He runs his hand through his hair. "You know I really don't want to use m-a-g-i-c in front of the k-i-d-s, but this was kind of an emergency."

"I agree." Belle rests her head against the swing. "Maybe we'll get some sleep tonight."

The boy rises to his feet, his gaze fixed on his father.

"You know that trip to Rome we were planning for our anniversary?" Belle murmurs.

Rumple catches her drift right away and groans. "No, Belle. . . ."

"Yes. When she starts school—"

"Sweetheart." Rumple seats himself beside her, slipping his arm around her shoulders. "No. . . we've already put it off for too long. I promised you—"

"Yes, and I still want to go, but she'll still be in diapers then. And he's still so rambunctious. It's a ten-hour flight."

Rumple drops his head. "But I promised you—"

"It's just too much for small children. Five more years," Belle vows. "I can wait."

"We could take a nanny—"

"That would help once we're in country, but ten hours on a plane—" She suddenly jerks back, disturbing the baby and setting up another wail.

Rumple too startles as a second puff of purple smoke appears on the porch. "Gid!" he admonishes after he's regained his composure. "You know you're not supposed to do that."

The boy has picked up another trick of his father's: dodging questions. "But Daddy, why don't we poof there?"

"Gideon," Belle begins. "We had a deal about the magic—"

"We don't have to fly in a airplane. Me and you can poof us there. Then Mama can see the fountain and the Colonium and—"

"Gideon, what did we say about using magic? Besides, it won't work outside of Storybrooke."

"Why not?"

"Well, there's just not enough magic out there. It takes a lot of power to transport a person—" Rumple shakes his finger. "Like you just did. Without permission, might I add." He rises, offering his hand. "Come on. Ten minutes in the naughty corner."

"But Daaaaddy!" As Rumple pulls the boy into the house, Gid pleads back at Belle, "Mama! Why can't I use magic? I could make Joy feel better. I could take us to Rome. I could fix my bike."

"Naughty corner, Gid," Belle instructs. "And then we'll have another long talk."

"But Daddy, you just did!"

"Gid, it's our hope that you'll develop a different sort of power to use in this world, so you won't be limited," Belle says.

"And so it won't corrupt you, like it does most magic users," Rumple adds. "I don't want you to struggle against your better nature, like I have."

"But Daaaad. . . ."

"Naughty corner, Gid. And then we'll talk."

[New York, 2038]

The image whites out, then we're in a restaurant, a noisy and crowded burger joint where, incongruously, Brahms is playing on a jukebox. I shoot a quick bemused look at Mr. Gold, but he doesn't react to me; one of the issues I've had with the holodeck's dependence on the neural lace is that human memories are often faulty, tainted with error, whether accidental or intentional—people purposefully altering their memories for emotional reasons. In this case, I'm wondering if Mr. Gold is misremembering a small detail; maybe his personal tastes have substituted classical for the popular music of the time, perhaps just to sweeten the scene. Later, when I consult with my supervisor, she replies with a quirked smile. "Sometimes we can learn more about a patient from his faulty memories than from the actual facts of his life."

In this noisy burger joint, around mouthfuls of chili fries and fist-sized burgers, a young man, the tall and long-faced fellow that we saw earlier in cap and gown, is gushing about his future. "I'm the low guy on the org chart," he is saying, one rein on modesty as he lets the other rein loose on enthusiasm, "and I'll only be working fifteen hours a week—"

"It won't be wise to work more than that. Your studies have to come first. And it won't be easy; it's Princeton." Belle points out the obvious.

"Working along side some of the most creative engineers in the country." Gid shakes his head in disbelief. "Who'd've thunk? A punk kid from Nowhere, Maine. Literally, Nowhere."

For Storybrooke, even today, still isn't on any map or travel guide. We've learned to work around that over the years, as in 2017 our first high school graduates went out into the world to start college or jobs. In those days, a triumvirate of master manipulators figured out to slip falsified records and "memories" into the computer files and minds of educators, employers and government agents so that Storybrooke High grads would stand a fighting chance out there: Mayor Regina Mills, with her clout and insider knowledge of bureaucracy; high-school principal Snow White, who exuded integrity and devotion to education; and Gold, with foresight and focus on the fine points and knowledge of the right buzzwords. Assisted by tech-savvy Emma Swan, her charming and conniving husband Killian Jones, and Gold's right-hand man Josiah Dove, who demonstrated a remarkable talent for forgery, the town leaders managed to produce the paperwork that convinced the outside world that Storybrooke existed, that its high school was accredited and reputable, and that its businesses were run more or less in compliance with the rest of the country's rules and regulations, as much as could be expected, anyway. So with a little boost from the folks at home (but what eighteen-year-old doesn't depend on support from home), our graduates got jobs and college placement, but it was up to them to make good on the promise of their paperwork, and by and large, they did, and they do, going out into the wide world to serve as teachers, dancers, painters, bartenders, mechanics, doctors, psychotherapists.

And engineers planning to change the world in their own unique way. "I thunk it," Belle answers Gid's rhetorical question forcefully. "From the first time I caught you in the garage, taking your tricycle apart to try to figure out how to make it fly."

"You're the reason I'm here, Mom. You never punished me for all the damage I did. You never dissuaded me. You just brought me more tools, more books and more patience." Gid sets his fries down to reach greasy fingers across the table and grasp her hand. "If I make it, my success is yours. And you, Dad. From the time I was old enough to sit up in my crib, I'd watch you, hour after hour, taking broken things apart, a schematic or book in front of you, and with the carefulest of touch, making them whole again. And when I was old enough to ask questions, you'd take me onto your lap and hold my hands steady so I could fix things too."

Rumple's voice is husky. "I learned just as much from you, my boy. Do you remember what you asked for, for Christmas of 2021?"

Gid almost blushes. "Same thing I asked for, for every Christmas after that: a subscription to Popular Science. 'The future is now.'"

"And we'd spend hours at the dinner table reading aloud from it, like it was our bedtime story—"

"A road map to the future," Gid amends. "And then came Popular Mechanics, 'how your world works.'"

"And Discover, and Wired and Analog—I remember you had an iPad in every room, loaded with those magazines," Belle chuckles.

"You taught me how to think, Dad, how to analyze and hypothesize and wonder." His burger forgotten, he reaches his other hand across to Rumple, who's blinking rapidly. "You made me an engineer."

[Palo Alto, 2040]

I'm blinking rather rapidly myself. And not a single Kleenex in my pocket, when I need it most. Mercifully, a flick of Gold's finger and we're in a new setting, a lab full of white coats and all kinds of electronic stuff. It's not my kind of lab, and besides, this scene is set some seventy years ago, so I can't identify any of the equipment, but I can identify four of the people: Gid Gold, still lanky and youthfully exuberant, but a bit more sober—he's one of the white coats; Belle, whose thick hair is now cut jaw-length and is more silver than auburn; and Rumple, who looks no different from the earlier version of himself (a consequence of the Dark One curse, he's told me with some disgust—in his years with Belle, his labels have gone from cradle robber to cougar hunter). And the fourth is a woman, nearly as tall and lanky as Gid, dark-eyed and dark-haired, in jeans and a Stanford Tree t-shirt. She moves rather stiffly, in contrast to Gid's basketball-trained fluidity, and I wonder about that until I remember who raised her and taught her to walk: her father, August Booth, and her mother, the former naiad Daphne.

I glance to my side to find Mr. Gold's shoulders have risen up around his ears again. We'll need to talk, when he's capable of speech, about his relationship with August Booth. Though it's been more than a century, Mr. Gold still gets a knee-jerk reaction to memories of the former Pinocchio. (Not that I blame him: I want to hiss and reach for the rotten tomatoes whenever that blackguard comes up on stage.)

But the puppet isn't in this particular memory, thank the gods; it's his daughter Spring, who works on the computer side of things at Hyperloop One. As Spring makes a sales pitch to the man who, though she doesn't know it now, will become her father-in-law as well as her investor, Gid is giving Mom the grand tour, introducing her to his team, and through them, to his dream of making Elon Musk's hyperloop a reality. "Someday soon, we all can 'poof' across the planet," he whispers to Belle, and she giggles.

"You've found your own brand of magic in this world," she whispers back. "Something to serve the rest of us."

Gid sobers. "I'm not forgetting Dad's lessons. I know there's always price to be paid for magic. But we're being extra-careful, Mom. We won't push that price onto the environment. We're using what nature gives us: solar power and magnetism. And we're not shutting the poor out, either. Twenty-five bucks for a ticket from LA to San Francisco, that's the plan, and the goal is to eventually eliminate the need for personal vehicles altogether."

They pause a minute to eavesdrop on the sales pitch. Spring's a bottom-line gal, has a head for finance (and a Bachelor's in it, to go along with her computer science degree); that combination makes her the corporation's secret weapon. Investors trust her because she's not a fundraiser; they trust her all the more because she thinks like they do. And nominally, that's what the Golds are here for, to be courted and to have their pockets picked a little. They're not big-time investors—they're rich but not Buffet rich—but they've always been vocal proponents of R & D and years ago they ventured out from the Storybrooke real estate market to invest in new technologies. It's an easy sell.

"She's good," Belle whispers to Gid. "Look—your father's hand is inching toward his breast pocket."

Gid grins. "Where he keeps the checkbook."

"When the hyperloop is completed, how long would it take to get from Malibu to Palo Alto?"

"Less than—" Gid blinks. "Mom! Are you and Dad—"

She nods. "We love the beach and we want to retire."

"But—from everything? I mean, if you live in California, he'll have to give up his m-a-g-i-c."

I chuckle. This is a Gid trademark: he's grown up thinking of magic as kind of a dirty word. Due to some vague memory of the Black Fairy, his parents have speculated.

"You kids mean more to us than anything we have back in Storybrooke."

"But. . . " Gid's voice drops even lower. "The magic is who he is."

"No. We are who he is. You and me and Joy." A shadow crosses Belle's face. "Besides, there's something else, something we need to tell you." She forces a smile. "But later. Tonight is for celebrating."

I have a notion what Belle's announcement will be. I've studied Gold's files; I know the facts of his immediate family. But I shake my head viciously; I'm not ready for this, I can't face this now, not in the warmth of all this happiness. Let me live here in this family a little longer, please, I want to beg Mr. Gold. Then I give myself a shake: I'm here for him. Whatever he needs to deal with. I slip my fingers through his.

The holo-actors freeze, then dissolve into pixels of color that fade away. The room is silent; the scents dissipate. "What happened next, Mr. Gold?" My lips are dry.

I hear a voice behind me. "We moved to Malibu."

It's not his; he's beside me, immobile in his wheelchair, unable to speak. The holodeck speaks for him.

"Did you miss it?" I'm not sure if I mean Storybrooke or the magic. Both.

"They were who I was."

[Tristan da Cunha, 2053]

A final image, then. Sunset. Gulls swooping against a pink sky. The cleansing salty scent of the sea. Feather-headed penguins amble into the water. A picnic blanket on the beach. Malibu, I assume. But the beach is rougher and darker, its rocks volcanic, and on a hill just behind the beach, cows roam unrestrained. I shoot Mr. Gold a puzzled look. "Where—?"

A leather-faced man in a yellow raincoat sets a heavy basket onto the blanket. He checks the sky before waving his guests forward. "It's going to rain this afternoon, but for now, you got clear skies. Enjoy yourselves, folks."

"Thanks, Mr. Currie." Belle waves back as she and Rumple take their last photos of the penguins and walk back up the hill. Her arm is linked in her husband's. To the outsider, it appears romantic, and it is, but it's more, and their children, who trail behind, know that. They exchange a worried glance. Joy leans into Gid to assure him, because she can't assure herself, "Her numbers are pretty good. We have time yet."

"Let's eat, kids!" Belle steadies herself with Rumple's hand as she eases to her knees on the blanket. She unpacks the basket: a big picnic lunch.

Two picnics, theirs and hers.

As Rumple pours wine for his adult children, the holo-actors fade away. The beach fades, the sky darkens, draped by a curtain of rain. The holodeck whooshes with wet wind. My skin goose-bumps, but it's only my imagination.

[Storybrooke, 2117]

The holodeck speaks for Mr. Gold, in a tone that approximates reassurance. But I know better: it's the computer making assumptions. Gold's not the reassuring kind. "There were more picnics. We had another two years in Malibu."

I grip my arms. "But the world tour ended with Tristan da Cunha."

"We returned to Storybrooke. I hoped my magic. . . ."

From kindergarten, we fairies are taught the immutable laws of magic. We know them as thoroughly as other American children know the Pledge of Allegiance, though, with us, as with them, it's years before we begin to understand them. All magic comes with a price.

"Did she let you try?"

"Once. She lost courage, once. I was able to lessen the pain, but. . . ."

Magic can't create or break love. . . .

"Love did that," I find myself whispering. "Not magic. Your love and theirs."

"Joy came back for the last two months. Put aside her research. Gid and Spring visited often; they had a golden pass on the hyperloop."

Magic can't bring back the dead.

From the corner of my eye I catch a motion. He finds some incredible strength somewhere, enough to lift his arm and grip my hand. He manages to speak: "That was a long time ago."

But the strength fades from him as quickly as the holodeck images do. His arm drops back to its resting place on the wheelchair.

Magic can't change the past.

His wheelchair makes an arc. The doors slide open for him.

She died many years ago, along with everyone else on the holo-stage, and that's the real problem, isn't it? The root of everything for Mr. Gold. His family, his one-time-large and loving family, sprawling across the country, leaving their mark, planting their own individual seeds for the future. Waitresses and witches, teachers and technicians, priests and politicians, engineers and equine breeders, doctors and deep-sea divers, a whole universe of people, some of them very good, some of them very bad, most of them just hard-working folks trying to get along in the world and with it, and all them connected to the man/imp imprisoned in the wheelchair at my right.

I know he gets angry and demands an answer: why am I here when they're all just pictures on a wall?

I wonder if the big picture ever occurs to Mr. Gold—where we as individuals fit into it, how powerful a link in the human chain we make. One decision, small in the life of an individual, can change everything in the world. If Rumple Gold hadn't set that baby on his lap at the edge of the workbench. If Belle Gold had not given him space in the garage for his tinkering. If Gid Gold had not subscribed to those magazines. If Snow White hadn't tolerated a little boy's endless "how" questions. If Regina Mills hadn't funded the Henry Mills Senior Scholarship, making it possible for Ava Zimmer to be the first Storybrooke High grad to go to college, teaching the triumvirate how to con the system, and thus opening the doors for Grace Hatter, Alexandra Herman, Neal Nolan, Carl Clark, Robin Locksley, Gid Gold, Joy Gold, and on and on, all the way down to me.

I never met Gid Gold. He died before I was born. Nor have I met Spring Booth or their daughters Gabrielle and Grace, nor Joy Gold and her husband Ethan Langston and their two kids and three grandkids, nor the one living Gold descendant, whose name our records don't have, whose name Mr. Gold can't remember. Oh, but I will. Upon my wings, I swear I will.