Snow drifted on a steady breeze in the courtyard, and Belle found herself gazing at the drifts through the glass, wondering at drops of deepest red against white—roses in full bloom, even in the breath of winter. The grass was already brown and curled before the snows came; only small, defiant splashes of leaves and thorned vines provided any greenery.

The great windows in the main hall were yet bereft of their curtains, a cold breath hovering like the glow of embers at the panes, and Belle considered asking to have the curtains replaced, that she might tuck the velvet about the corners. The danger, of course, was that she might have to fight to keep them open. Better to let the matter alone.

"Do they never wilt?"

She had caught sight of him waiting just past the door; the look on his face told her that he had been there a moment too long deciding how to approach.

Deprived of the first word. "The blooms wilt and die like any others, but the bushes will forever put them forth, whatever the season."

Belle nodded, returning her gaze through the glass at the frosted courtyard. "They're beautiful."

"Like a little trail of blood across the snow." Rumpelstitlskin, having regained himself, joined her with his deliberate, careless gait.

"Like life."

He looked at her as though he could see straight through to the courtyard, to the past, to anything he wished without ever removing his dark eyes from hers—and yet, never quite understand how she was, only what.

"Indeed."

Belle looked again to the snow, but not because she was afraid.

"You could have a walk, if you'd like; I could clear the snow away."

She cocked her head at the imp, a little, knowing smile upon her lips. "And I suppose you could change the whole season—make it spring or summer so that everything would bloom pleasantly?"

"Of course; it is my castle. Anything bigger—say, changing the season of the entire district or the whole country, for example—will have a price." He gave a mischievous trill. "But I could do it."

Belle shook her head—patiently, it seemed, "I would rather wait for spring to come when it will, so long as it does come."

Rumpelstitlskin gave a shrug, hair brushing against the high collar of his doublet. "I assure you, it will, as it does anywhere else."

"Then for now, I'm content with looking until it's time for tea."

The flakes on the breeze had thinned to only the tiny dustings blown from the battlements.

"In that case, take this for your tray." There was a yellow rose offered delicately, a little purple mist yet curling around his fingers until it faded into the air.

Belle accepted it with a smile; for all his teasing, he knew he could not ask a greater price than that from her for anything, and a chilly fear crept into his heart. She chanced a glance between it and the window, brushed the tip of one finger across the petals. "It's yellow."

"I have roses of all colors; the yellow ones don't stand out quite so well against the snow as the red ones you've been studying. I thought you might appreciate it."

"I do. Very much." Belle caught his hand before he could retreat to the spinning wheel.

Rumpelstitlskin found himself rendered completely still. His dark eyes followed her delicate, pale hand clasped around his clawed one up her wrist, her arm, her shoulder, to pale eyes that sought him. For all his power and the icy fingers of fear that gripped him, he could not pull away.

"Would you have tea and watch the snow with me?"

There was the fear and the magic beating around his heart, telling him no, no—she'll be your undoing.

But it was not written for him to refuse her today.

"Yes."

For today, there was snow, and there were roses.