"Uncle Sam's on Mars, he's on Mars

He's digging for dreams in the red sand
He's got his bucket and spade in his left hand
He's digging for dreams
He's looking for life"

-"Uncle Sam's on Mars," Hawkwind

We buried Ms. Hua yesterday. The House has been silent today; appetites are off and I've canceled the programs I'd scheduled for the week. The mentoring sessions, scheduled for yesterday, were postponed another week to accommodate the funeral. Every resident and staff member at the Home attended, requiring us to rent several autocabs. As the long line of cars rolled through a red light, people on the sidewalk stopped to watch, then lowered their heads as we passed. "Ms. Hua was well liked," Dr. Marine observed.

"I'll miss her." Jonquil twisted her handkerchief.

"Her family came in last night from Philadelphia. A grandson and two great-grandkids." Amaranth stared out the black van's window. "Blue is riding with them."

Pressed next to me, Jo glanced back at Mr. Gold. Jo wanted to say something comforting to his employer, but Gold's face had lost all expression, his body had closed in on itself. He'd positioned his wheelchair in the back of the van so that he could look out the rear window (or avoid facing us). He usually faces forward, to be included in the passengers' conversations. Since our return from California, he has been as silent as the House. Jo and I have tried talking to him, separately and together, but he answers in single words. I respect his grief process and trust our friendship; he'll come around when he's ready.

Jo showed me the funeral bill. We don't know what Gold said to the Huas, but they accepted his offer to pay for everything. Whether it's because they're poor or because they weren't close to their elder, we're not sure, but Gold made certain Hua had a funeral she would have been proud of. A former soldier, she always did like ceremonies.

When we returned from the cemetery, most of us headed to the kitchen, where Ruby Lucas baked a batch of Hua's special recipe cookies. From now on, that's how we'll celebrate her life, Ruby said; with cookies and stories about her. Jo joined us, looking especially handsome in his black suit, but Mr. Gold retreated to his rooms. I let him go.

As he assisted me and the residents in cleaning up the kitchen, Jo stroked my back. "How do you feel?"

Was it disloyal to Ms. Hua that I was comforted by the realization that, for the first time, I have someone who wants to comfort me? "Heartbroken, but gerontologists are trained to expect and cope with loss. Thanks for looking out for me, Jo."

He squeezed my shoulder. "I always will. And your magic?"

I hadn't spared a thought for it since we crossed the town line. To check, I commanded my wings to open, then rescinded the command when my shoulders started to tingle. "It seems I'm still winged." I summoned the fire to my fingertips and transported a salt shaker from table to counter. "And fully powered."

He winked at me. "Maybe Blue's wrong about the Fates' intention for us."

I grinned slyly. "Let's find out. Take me out tomorrow night."

At bedtime, I checked in on Gold to find him in his nightclothes and sitting up in bed, Andy standing nearby. Gold was reading a book. I asked if he was all right (yes, just tired) and if he'd like to talk (not now, Sparrow). I bent over him. "When you're ready, then." I kissed his cheek.

He patted my hand. "Thank you, my dear." He returned to his book. By my order, Andy stayed with him through the night.

Ms. Hua has been gone two days. I come in a little early this morning. I haven't unpacked from Malibu, but I'm needed here (and, I admit, feeling too heavy-hearted). Ruby especially needs to talk about the loss of her best friend. Even Mr. Herman asks for a private chat with me. He's feeling kind of guilty, he admits, for all the times he made passes at Hua, even though she rebuffed him (and could have broken his hand if he's gotten grabby with her.)

It's after lunch before I finally get around to Mr. Gold. I'm worn out from all the tears (mine as well as the residents') but of all the residents, he needs me most today, I think. I find him in his room, playing chess with Darwin.

"Did he eat anything?" I whisper to Andy.

"He took tea and a fruit cup. That's all."

I check his vitals. Blood pressure's a little high, but not enough to alert Amaranth. I sit on the arm of the couch, beside Darwin, and watch the game a while. At a slow point, I offer to fetch a supper tray. Gold shakes his head, then looks at me kindly and says, "A sandwich, perhaps."

I give him a smile before sending Andy out. I understand: Gold has no appetite but he'll try to eat something to set my mind at ease. I let the game continue without interruption until Andy returns with a tuna sandwich and two cups of corn chowder (a favorite of Mr. Gold's).

We split the sandwich and spoon up our soup, Andy tending to Gold's needs. I'm not hungry, but as long as I'm eating, Gold will too.

"I'm all right, Sparrow." Gold sends Andy away with a wave of his hand. "Or will be. It doesn't get easier, that's all."

"Losing a close friend," I murmur.

"And being reminded, you can never see them again. None of them, ever."

"Most people have that comfort, I suppose. That someday, they'll be reunited. When they die too." I tread carefully into this topic. I'm not a psychiatrist; it could be dangerous to open old wounds like this. But Gold trusts me when he doesn't trust anyone else. If I can get him to start talking, perhaps he'll accept an appointment with Amy Hopper.

"Yes." Mr. Gold studies the chess board. He won't look up. "I'll miss her. Especially every time I smell cookies baking." He moves a chess piece. "I will have your queen in three more moves, Darwin."

"It appears you will, sir."

He finally looks up at me. His eyes are dull, but his tone is sincere. "Soon, Cerise. Be patient."

I nod. Soon.

"How is he this morning?"

Andy has worked a double shift (not it bothers him; androids don't need sleep) so he could stay with Gold through the night. "Vitals normal. He slept soundly for five and a half hours, then woke up and read for a while before nodding off again. He woke at seven, showered, shaved, took breakfast. A boiled egg and dry toast."

"He can't survive on that. We'll have to pump up his lunch. Has he said anything to you? Called anyone?"

"He drafted a message for Joey. Talked about his friendship with Ms. Hua and how much he'll miss her company. Then he talked about Joy's first day in medical school."

"Where is he now?"

"The Holodeck."

I don't know if that's a good thing. Is he hiding from his grief or working through it? I don't like to violate a resident's privacy by interrupting his or her Holodeck programs, but I need to know what I'm dealing with. I ask permission to enter the Holodeck; Mr. Gold instructs the House to admit me. That's a good sign. As I walk in, I rehearse a firm little speech about getting enough to eat and returning to the social fold, but the Holo-play being performed all around us sets me back. Through his connection to the automated system, Mr. Gold is watching a surprisingly bucolic scene: a flock of white sheep silently moving as one across a green meadow, cropping grass. Lying on a slope that overlooks the meadow is a skinny boy, perhaps seven or eight years, with shaggy brown hair and a slightly crooked nose. His arm is thrown across his face, protecting his closed eyes from the sun. He stirs, groans, sits up, rubs his face and squints at the sun. I recognize him as Rumplestiltskin. He stands, straightens his tunic and whistles. That strikes me as odd: no other people are around and, as far as I know, sheep don't respond to whistles.

Suddenly a flash of black and white streaks past him and darts down the hill into the meadow. The streak is moving so fast I can't make out its cause, but it's headed right for the sheep and I gasp, under my breath crying, "Wolf!"

Mr. Gold hears me but he doesn't turn around. "No. Lady. A sheepdog. A very fast, very talented sheepdog. Watch her round them up. We're taking them home."

I stare in fascination as the dog dashes and whirls in instant response to young Rumple's whistles. Before long the boy has come down the hill and has approached the flock, now, through the nips and yips of Lady, gathered up into a tight group. Panting, Lady looks up at her master, eager for the next command.

"Wow."

"Yes, wow, indeed. She was a queen. Herders from miles around came to Longbough just to watch her work. Or 'play' might be a better word."

Another whistle from the kid and Lady got the flock moving ahead in an orderly group. "Was she yours?"

"I wish. No, like the sheep, she belonged to a duke. And at the time, I guess I did too. But in those days, almost everything and everybody belonged to a royal or noble. This was a year before I was accepted as an apprentice to a weaver. My aunts worked for the duke, and I was part of the employment package." He sighs as we watch the on-screen troop move homeward. "Those were fine days."

The scene changes. We're now in a barn and a storm is raging outside. Two old men and the boy are in a stall, hunkered down on their haunches. From the location, I'm expecting a horse or a sheep to be the object of their attention, but as the Holodeck brings us into the semi-circle, it's Lady at the center. She's lying on her side, panting, her bulging belly heaving.

"Puppies," I guess, my face lighting up. I can see a slick little being sliding out of Lady's body. We, along with the boy and the men, murmur our excitement as two more bodies are expelled. The men wipe the puppies down with sacks and the newborns whimper. But Lady whines, her body fighting to bring a fourth life into the world, and at the same time the men are admiring the healthy infants, the boy is stroking Lady's ears, whispering encouraging words to her.

One of the men bends over Lady, reaches up into her, and when he straightens again he's holding a smaller, still body. Lady sits up, inspects and licks her babies, then whimpers until the man holds the stillborn down for her to sniff. She nudges the stillborn but he doesn't react. Meanwhile, its brothers and sister and sniffing around for their first meal.

"Let me." The boy reaches for the stillborn.

"It's already dead, kid." But the man allows the boy to take the puppy. As the men assist the living pups in finding their mother, the boy scoots to the back of the stall with the dead pup clutched to his chest.

"You can't do nothin' for it," the man warns the boy, then loses interest in him. The man straightens, wipes his hands on his trousers. "His Grace's waitin' for word. Let's go."

We watch that boy hug the dead pup to chest and rock back and forth. There are no tears—I've seen this before in children who've been neglected or bullied: they seem to lose the ability to cry. But the boy keeps rocking, to soothe himself since he can't soothe the pup.

"My first encounter with death," Mr. Gold says.

Suddenly a smaller boy bursts into the stall, rainwater sluicing from his hair into his eyes. "Rumblethilkin," he stumbles over the name, his tongue poking through the gap where his front teeth would be. "Your auntie says come quick."

"And my second," Mr. Gold says. With a wave of his hand he makes the scene go away. The House shuts down the Holodeck and brings the lights up. Gold's back remains to me so I can't see his expression. "It had been a cold and rainy spring that year. A lot of elderly people came down with lung fever. My aunts were healers and were called upon to tend the sick. Aunt Flora came through that season in good health, but Aunt Fauna didn't. Four hundred years ago, but sometimes it seems like yesterday." The wheelchair makes a U-turn and moves toward the doors.

"We should talk about it," I urge. "About Ms. Hua." I patter after him as he rolls down the hall.

"We will. Just not now, Cerise."

I'm left standing in the lobby.

Ms. Hua has been gone twelve days. I find Mr. Gold on his couch, reading a small, black-covered book. He seldom sits on the couch; he prefers to be in his wheelchair, ready to move around. Besides, one of the 'droids has to lift him on and off the couch, and Gold doesn't like to be "'droid-handled," as he puts it.

"Good morning." I seat myself beside him. "What are you reading?" I'm hoping this will be an opening for one of our book chats.

He shows me the cover. "This belonged to Ms. Hua." The New Jerusalem Bible. "She asked me to take it, that day. While we were waiting for her priest and the doctor to come." He reads a few lines from the book, his fingers sliding over the words, before he resumes speaking. "Over the last few months, we had some talks. She was devout, you know."

I nod. She attended Mass with some of the other residents, going out to the church with Blue when they could, staying in when the weather was bad and the priest would come to them. She'd told me that she pledged herself to the church after an especially fierce battle in which too many of her troop were obliterated. She'd needed something to hang onto, to get her through the rest of the war, and the only man of the cloth who traveled with her battalion was a Catholic priest. She converted on the spot and never regretted that decision.

"Even more so in the last year. She would tease me to come to services with her, but I never did."

I wait for an expression of regret or guilt, but it doesn't come. Later, as I talk to Jo about it, I realize that perhaps I'd expected more than Gold was capable of giving. After all, he'd been raised in a village in which the poor were not welcome in the church, in a time when the poor could not read, and by a father whose spirits were found at the bottom of a bottle. After becoming the Dark One, he'd taken magic as his religion, those texts he'd given me his bibles, and older, more practiced mages as his priests. He'd learned immediately that souls exist, but the souls who spoke to him were the haunted ones of his Dark predecessors. Only after he'd begun living with Belle was he exposed to other ways of thinking about gods and the afterlife. I know that she had attended church as a child and returned to it after her children were born, but not the Catholic one (to stay out of the war between her husband and the fairy-nuns) and not on a regular basis. Gold had never attended with them, and as he grew into a teenager, Gideon had fallen away.

"But as we waited for Marine and Father Patrick to come, she gave me this book and asked me to read to her from it. She had certain favorite passages. When Patrick arrived, she asked me to keep the book to remember her by and read it from time to time. I held her hand as Marine examined her, but we all knew there was nothing he could do. 'It's your time now, Father,' she said. She bade me goodbye before turning herself over to Patrick. He removed the sash from his shoulders and kissed it, then put it back on. Then he said a prayer as he and Ms. Hua drew a symbol across their bodies and heads—to ward off evil or to call upon helpful spirits, perhaps? He called upon her to admit she'd done wrong and ask God for forgiveness—Sparrow, surely any wrongs Ms. Hua has done are so few and so insignificant as to be forgettable to anyone else. He said she was absolved of her sins—how could she not be? She was such a good person. Then she and the priest said a prayer together. It related a dramatic story about a god who was killed and rose from the dead, a god who will pass judgment on everyone, living or dead. But the end of the prayer promised forgiveness and everlasting life. It was. . . surprisingly hopeful, for one who was about to die. After that prayer, Patrick pressed a drop of potion onto her forehead and hands and set a little wafer into her mouth, all the while praying. In the midst of it, she fell very quiet and still."

"The prayers took the pain away," I try to reassure him.

"Perhaps. Or the potion did." He looks puzzled. "She was smiling and there was excitement in her eyes as the priest recited his prayers. She'd been a warrior, you know. She was fighting her last battle, I think, and she'd won. She closed her eyes before Patrick finished, and there was such a smile on her face—a smile of triumph."

It was a good death, I have to admit. If death can ever be good. "How do you feel, Mr. Gold?" I don't specify about what. I want him to continue to lead the conversation.

He looks down at the book. "I'm glad she had this. She took comfort from it in the last years."

"I'm glad she had you. No one should have to die alone."

"She wouldn't have been alone. She had Marine and Patrick. And maybe—" he shrugs, still staring at the book. "She thought she was never alone. She talked about angels." He taps the book. "You grew up in this tradition, didn't you? Why did you leave it?"

I shrug. "I guess I wasn't really leaving the tradition; I was leaving the people." I roll my eyes. "Well, one person."

"If you lived in another town, would you go to church? The Catholic Church?"

"I don't know," I have to admit. "I didn't go, when I lived in Durham. But I think that was more about separating myself from Blue than from the church. I go to church sometimes with Jo."

"Not the Catholic Church, though."

"No."

"Are the differences between the churches so many?"

"Not so many, I suppose. Not at the root." I'm reluctant to admit that I don't really know that much about the beliefs, practices and rules of Jo's church. I go, when I go, to be with him. And, yes, to piss Blue off.

"It's much different from what people in Misthaven believed. And the Frontlands, before, when I was a child, who believed in multiple gods, not all of them good or kind. And even the good ones were good only part-time. But like the Catholics, we were taught there is another life after the one on earth, in a realm that can be entered only by passing through the Underworld."

I tiptoe into questions. I need to encourage him to keep talking; this subject is clearly of vital importance to him. But, as for myself, I'm shuddering inside. A whisper in my head cautions me that talking about death is bad luck. "The Underworld. What is that?"

"The realm of the dead. Usually." A small smile flickers across his lips. "Someday perhaps I'll show you in the Holodeck."

I gasp. "You've—seen it? In a vision, I hope?"

He shakes his head. "In the flesh, you might say. A story for another time. A long, long story. In the religion of the Frontlands, however, we didn't believe that forgiveness would gain the dead access to Heaven."

"But you did believe in Heaven?"

"I haven't read that much yet about the Catholic Heaven, but in our tradition, we were certain there is an eternal life in a wonderful world called Mount Olympus, but only heroes are admitted." He bites the last phrase. "And once a villain, always a villain. Forgiveness was something only fools would grant, because villains will never change."

"Is there an afterlife for villains?"

"The worst are sent to Tartarus. Most are stuck forever in the Underworld. Unlike the heroes, who are in the Underworld only until they complete their unfinished business from life on earth. For the Dark One, however, there is a unique place of final repose." He closes his eyes briefly. "I'd rather not describe it. If your curiosity so compels you, you can learn about it from one of the books I gave you." When he opens his eyes again, there's a flash of fire in them—anger and hope at the same time, I think. "But I am unique among Dark Ones; my magic, when I had it, was more powerful, my reign longer, the depth and breadth of my study far exceeding that of any previous Dark One. I had thought, perhaps, I might find a way to power my way out of my predecessors' fate. What I came to realize, after I married Belle, was that there was only one difference that really mattered: I was still human enough to love other people. That remains my hope and my conviction, Sparrow: that the love that connects me with my family is powerful enough to make me a hero."

"And earn your passage to Olympus."

"For which I would have to die first. Would you consider this an irony? I can love strong enough to earn my passage to Heaven, but I can't die to get there."

I don't know what to say to this. I'm so far in over my head. . . I can't even figure out who can help him, Amy Hopper or Father Patrick or ?

"It's been a long day, made longer by such serious talk. I don't wish to send you to bed with visions of the dead haunting your dreams." He yawns and closes the book after marking his place. His long finger taps the book to call my attention to it. "Villain or not, I keep my promises, you see."

"I've long suspected that about you."

"Joey says that it was his faith that gave him the courage to join the Mars expedition. I'd like to read about his religion, to understand him better. Would you get me some additional books, focusing on other belief systems common to this world? I'm curious." His mouth tightens. "And it seems I have plenty of time on my hands for reading."

"Of course, Mr. Gold." I pause to let him continue, but he doesn't. "Mr. Gold? Do you think you might like to talk to Amy Hopper?"

"Not yet, Sparrow. But soon, maybe. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really must say good night."

Part of me doesn't want to excuse him. Part of me wants to pump him for his "long story." I'm a professional. It's my duty and my privilege to help him, and I can't do that if I don't get him to continue to open up. But the weaker part of me, the part that's still a little girl who finds the entire "mystery of the church," as Taupe puts it, frightening, especially in connection with death, wants to walk away.

Gold rolls over, turning his back to me, and the House, sensing his wishes, dims the lights. I have to leave. But I won't let this go. I'll watch for another opportunity to get Gold to talk. Meanwhile, I call Jo and pour my bruised heart out to him.

"You did very well, Cerise." Amy folds her hands in her lap and smiles at me. "You asked the right questions at the right times. It's obvious he needed to talk and he trusted you so well that he shared very personal thoughts with you. No other therapist could have done better."

"Then why do I feel like I failed?"

"You want everything all at once. A weakness of the young, especially those gifted with magic. You want to wave your therapy wand and make all his wounds go away. What he gave you last night was probably more than he's ever shared with anyone other than his wife. Be content. You can build on that, one brick at a time."

"Build what?" I mutter, still frustrated. "A wall?"

"An altar. An altar to love."

I continue to visit Mr. Gold's rooms every day, bringing tea and a chess set, because, if he won't open up to me again—and as weeks pass, he seems fixed against revealing more of his private thoughts—at least we can talk about chess. I try to nudge him by sharing some personal stories of my own, about my time in Malibu with Jo; Gold takes credit for his successful matchmaking. "Belle would be proud."

"Well, Jo and I are grateful." I try a subtle (I think) tactic. "I feel like I almost know Belle, from the experiences you've shown me in the Holodeck. Joy and Gideon and Baelfire, too. Almost as if I could take a walk down Gold Avenue to that pink house and find them playing in the backyard."

He winces; I've said the wrong thing. "That house doesn't exist any more." His statement falls heavy between us. We both can hear the and neither do my wife and children dragging on the end of that pronouncement. But he doesn't say it aloud and, in fact, clams up completely on anything personal. For the rest of our hour together, he will only talk about chess.

When I go to his rooms for our daily tea date, he's gone. I find him in the Holodeck, reliving Joy's birth. I don't interrupt. When I review the Holodeck records the next day, I learn he was in there for two hours and played that same memory six times.

"What do you think you should do?" Amy asks.

I shrug.

"Don't give up on yourself. You'd be giving up on him. You're the only one he trusts."

"I don't know," I growl.

"All right. Trust your instincts. You know him better than anyone does. Until he's ready to talk about his grief again, talk to him about Joey. Encourage him to keep up those messages to Mars. And help him rebuild the friendships he was starting to make. Set up situations that bring him back into the fold with the other residents."

"I've brought some of them together, the ones who were closest to Ms. Hua, in an informal support group. They meet together over cookies and favorite memories of her and their other friends and family who've passed."

"That's a fine idea, Cerise. I see from Dr. Marine's reports that the physical health of many of the residents has improved a bit. That suggests to me your support group is working."

"Not for Mr. Gold." An old memory of something I once heard in church prods me. "Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn't he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it?" Mr. Gold is my lost sheep. I have to be careful not to neglect the other ninety-nine.

"Set up a situation, then, similar to the cooking lessons that brought Ms. Hua and Mr. Gold together, and the magic lessons that brought those two boys together with him."

"A chess tournament? Mr. Gold's a very knowledgeable player. Too good, really, to give any of the other residents a good game, but he could organize a tournament. He could help the weaker players to prepare for the tournament."

"Open the tournament to the public. Make it an 'us against them' competition, Arbors versus Storybrooke. That will appeal to Mr. Gold's pride and give him a team to lead."

"An excuse to make friends."

"Yes."

I don't take the suggestion directly to Mr. Gold. I do the dutiful thing by taking the idea to Blue first, then once she's on board, I bring it up to the Mayor after one of our Immigration Committee meetings. Of course, both ladies like the idea: the potential for positive publicity is tempting. Mayor McIntosh even gets a local shop to create a trophy for the event.

Then I take the suggestion to Mr. Gold. And it thuds against a brick wall. "I'm sorry, Sparrow, but I'm just not up to it."

On Amy's advice—and because we have to, anyway, with the Mayor on board—we proceed with the tournament. I get the owner of the Living Chess business to organize the event. Gold ignores our preparations, spending his days in the holodeck or his rooms, reading. He rolls in for a few minutes to watch the tournament, but he doesn't stay to see the awarding of the trophy. Growing more frustrated and a little angry with him, I sigh when I bring him his tea and his holy books.

"Well, that went down like a lead balloon."

"No, Cerise, the board loved your idea. Visitation at the Home has increased. You reminded Storybrooke that the Arbors exists. The press and the public loved your idea. Even Blue said complimentary things in her report to me. You gave many of the residents a reason to get excited, and to feel a part of the community. You should run the tournament again next year."

"But my lost sheep is still lost in the weeds somewhere."

"He may have been more involved than it appears."

I snort. "If he was, it hasn't brought him out from under his books." He'd mentioned irony when he talked about Heaven—what would Belle think, I wonder, of the irony that her husband is using books as an excuse to withdraw from society?

Amy is unfazed. "So what's your next idea?"

He resumes my magic lessons, and I try to use them as an excuse to twist the conversation to death, Heaven, the Underground. He's too smart to be manipulated. I give up on the heavy stuff and try to cheer him up by sneaking in awkward questions about his loved ones: "From the holodeck memories you let me see, I get the impression that Belle wasn't the best cook. Were you ever tempted to sneak a spell in, while she was cooking, to rescue the food?" "I'll bet this spell would work wonders on a scraped knee. Like if a child fell off his bike and scraped his knee. Did you ever use this spell to fix Gid's or Joy's scrapes?" My questions grow increasingly lame as I struggle to get him to chuckle: "Now that I'm living on my own, I'm tempted to use magic to do my housework, especially the messier jobs. Did you ever use a spell to change diapers?"

He tries too. He really does: he gives me a smile when I come into his rooms. He greets me with the same affection as before: I'm still his Sparrow. He has resumed our book talks (but it's classical literature, not the religious tracts he's been reading) and he asks about my dates with Jo. He eats what we put on his plate, but takes all his meals in his rooms. He nods good morning to the other residents as he passes them in the hall on his way to the holodeck or the garden. He speaks their names and asks polite questions about their plans for the day, but he'll break off the conversation abruptly and rush back to his chambers.

"He likes dogs," I remember and my mind leaps to a class about animal therapy that I took from Duke. I call Volunteer Services at the hospital and learn that they have a "Caring Canines" program led by the director of the Storybrooke Animal Shelter. A call to her and a call to Amy for her opinion and I'm ready to write. I dash off a proposal peppered with quotations from often-quoted therapists and gerontologists and numbers from successful programs. Blue relies on numbers, trusts them far more than she does people. By lunchtime the proposal is submitted and Amy, Ms. Swendson and I have a lunch date to discuss Caring Canines.

Then we wait.

"He still calls me, once a week," Jo says. "Nothing personal, but he's still active in managing his properties. And I can get him to talk about my parents and grandparents. That seems to be a safe, sentimental subject."

"And he talks to me about us. That cheers him up." I bite a fingernail—Jo swats my hand out of my mouth. It's a bad habit I'd thought I'd conquered.

"And Joey. I can always get him to talk about Joey."

"Joey. Okay. That's the next idea." My fingernail automatically approaches my teeth again, but a frown from Jo brings my hand back to my lap. "It's been two months. It's time for the bear to awaken from his hibernation." I stand up. "I'm calling NASA."

"I've spoken with our attorney, our insurance agent and Mr. Felder." That's the hospital director. "The liability issues concern me, but our attorney assures me that if the patients sign a waiver, we'll be protected if a dog bites someone."

From what I've learned, it's far more likely that a patient will manhandle a dog than vice-versa, and I remind Blue of this. I'd covered the liability issue thoroughly in my proposal.

"Nevertheless," Blue ignores my comments. "I brought your proposal to the board and they liked it well enough to approve funding for a six-month trial. You can set up a start date with Ms. Swendson." Her voice drops, since we're in the hallway and Amaranth might hear us. "On a personal note, I. . . might have been wrong about Josiah. But I stand firm on my advice about Gold. I've known that. . . being. . . many, many decades. I've seen the destruction and heartbreak he's caused. Heed my warning, Cerise. If for no other reason than to protect your professional status."

Jo is as bewildered as I am as we discuss the matter at dinner. "What do you think 'protect your professional status' means?"

"I guess she's referring to professional objectivity. But it's different for psychotherapists than for medical doctors. We should get close to our patients. We have to care."

"But at least I have the Blue Fairy Seal of Approval." Jo smirks.

"Maybe we could ease up on the Sunday dinners."

"It's working for us; we should maintain the status quo. Your 'Caring Canines' starts tomorrow, right?"

"The press will be there. Blue's going to give a little speech and follow Ms. Swendson's team around with the dogs." I lean back in my chair. "Gods, I hope this works. Mr. Gold's as isolated now as he was when I first came here."

"His kids had a dog once. Did you know that? A stray that Belle brought home. The kids adored that mutt. Dad has pictures of them playing in the backyard."

"Kids ought to have dogs. Or cats."

"Our daughter will."

I'm annoyed with the show Blue is making of the first day of Caring Canines. Swendson is too; having reporters underfoot makes the patients nervous and the dogs can't do their work. She cuts the visit short, but when Swendson comes back the next week, the strangers are gone and Blue is ensconced in her office. Caring Canines' team of three dog-handler pairs can make quiet visits with any of the residents who wish it—the only residents who refuse are those with pet allergies. The team stays for the entire afternoon.

The residents have signed up in advance, choosing visits from one of the three dogs: a corgi, a spaniel and a beagle. The Fates are at work, I think, when I learn that the spaniel is called Lady. I say nothing about this to Mr. Gold—I don't want to make him suspicious—but when Jonquil returns the sign up sheet to me and I see Mr. Gold's name on Lady's list, I'm thrilled. I ask Swendson to save the visit with Mr. Gold for last, and I explain the situation to her. She decides to handle Lady herself for that last visit. "Lady and I understand grief."

As much as I want to, I don't go into the residents' rooms with the teams. I'd be a distraction. But I pace in my office and snoop, via House security cameras, and I'm pleased with what I see: smiles on the residents' faces. For the more active residents, bending and stooping, even kneeling, to play with the dogs. For the less mobile residents, cuddling and petting.

And the resident I worry about the most—he's having a bad day physically, can't move his hands; he'd had a blackout last night at dinnertime. But Lady understands exactly how to approach him: softly, nudging his knee with her nose, then sitting patiently at his feet as he speaks to her. She cocks her ears and smiles at him, and even on camera I can see his heart open up. "Up, Lady," he invites, and she launches herself onto his lap. She sits between his legs, her back straight, her eyes fixed on his, and when he speaks her name again, she licks his hand. His fingers quiver: he's trying so hard to pet her. When she figures that out, she stretches across his lap and nuzzles his quivering fingers. Swendson says nothing, having faded to the back of the room.

They're like this, dog and patient, unmoving and silent, but I suspect they're talking, maybe in that dog language Rumple learned as a kid. A half-hour ticks by. Then, with a hint of regret in her voice, Swendson comes out of the corner and pats her leg, summoning Lady to her and reattaching her leash. "Mr. Gold, we must leave now. We'll be back next Thursday. It was a pleasure to meet you."

Mr. Gold replies, "I shall look forward to your return, Ms. Swendson. Thank you, Lady."

That evening, even though he takes dinner alone in his room, he sends back empty plates.

The stories exchanged between Joey and his great-grandfather have become more personal and more emotion-revealing as the months have gone on, but they haven't become any longer, unfortunately, due to the tremendous expense, which NASA has to bear. I can hear increased frustration under every sentence that so much of what the men want to say to each other has to remain unsaid, but at the same time, that frustration is evidence of growing affection and mutual support. It's a good thing, I conclude, and Jo and Amy agree. It's always good to have someone to love, despite the disappointments inherent in personal relationships. When Joey returns to Earth in six years, each man will have a wonderful reunion to look forward to.

But something is coming that may offer a day's reprieve for the Golds. I know this because I received a message through the Communications Unit at NASA last week, and I now go through my day humming to myself, excited for my friend and pleased for my small role in making it happen. Something is coming, Pierre (I'm back to the French accent for my automated secretary) reminds me every morning in my daily messages. September 1, something terrific is coming. I don't even care that the idea came through NASA's Marketing Department (or as they call it, "the Office of Strategic Communications") and is blatantly a public relations stunt; the fact is, something terrific is coming.

"Excited for the Thanksgiving Feast?" Astrid takes notice of my mood as I carry into the convent kitchen our contribution to the Sunday dinner. In the dining room, Jo and Blue are preparing the tea and chatting about the Chamber of Commerce's plans for the new year.

I nod; I am looking forward to the Thanksgiving meal Jo, the nuns and I will be preparing and serving at the Women's Shelter. But that's not what gives me my secret smile. I haven't told anyone except Jo what's happening on September 1, though; I'm afraid word will leak out around town and Mr. Gold's surprise will be ruined. So I settle for this vague explanation: "It's been a good year so far."

"Yes." She bumps her shoulder against mine as a teasing gesture and whispers in my ear. "He's a fine man. Don't let the rules come between you, like I did once."

"It's too late for rules to divide us." She and I carry in the first course.

It's still dark—barely 6 o'clock—when Andy taps Mr. Gold on the shoulder and speaks quietly into his ear. The sorcerer's eyes fly open, alarm in them; over a thick tongue he murmurs, "Bae? 'S wrong?"

"It's us, Mr. G." Standing behind the android, Jo at six-foot-seven is hard to miss. Standing behind Jo, I'm invisible; I have to poke my head around him to add my greeting. "Sorry to wake you so early, Mr. G., but we have something that can't wait."

He struggles to pull himself up on his elbows; Andy moves automatically to lift him. "Who's hurt?"

"No, no," I hasten to assure him. "It's good news. It's just that—there's such a difference in time zones."

Jo glances up at the wall clock. "We have twenty minutes to get you up, showered and dressed."

"And then something good is going to happen." I'm practically bouncing with anticipation.

Jo lifts Mr. Gold into his wheelchair, like Hercules lifting a leaf. This worries me, because Mr. Gold has been eating more and sleeping better this year, except for the episode with Ms. Hua. Still, he seems frailer.

"Now, Ms. Cerise, if you'll leave the room momentarily, so we gentleman's gentlemen can tend to Mr. Gold's bath." Jo makes light of the situation with a false formality.

"I'll prepare breakfast," I offer, taking a quick look at the wheelchair's bio-readout (blood pressure a little high, all other vitals normal). By the time I come back with a loaded tray, Mr. Gold is dressed and shaved and demanding to know what's going on, though his tone reveals he's secretly delighted with our secret plan.

As I set out the breakfast things, Jo gives us the countdown: "Eleven minutes. Just enough time." He nods to Andy, who steps out into the hallway, and as I'm serving Mr. Gold his first cup of tea for the day, the android slips back into the chambers with wrapped packages under each arm.

"Surprise!" Jo and I cheer as Andy leans the packages against the couch. "Happy birthday, Mr. Gold!"

"There'll be a proper party in the dining room after lunch," I explain, "with a spice cake baked by Ruby. But we wanted to start with something more private."

"Birthday?" A frown forms between his eyebrows. "I've lived here half a century, never had a birthday celebration."

"Well, that's going to change," Jo says.

It had taken some digging for me to find a suitable date to celebrate Mr. Gold's birthday. His Arbors records don't show a birthdate; he admitted to me once that he has no idea when he was born, because his father didn't consider the event a cause for celebration. I'm rectifying that now and paying him back for the birthday he and Jo gave me.

"Ta-da!" I stick a single candle in a bagel and light it, then present the imitation cake to him for blowing out. "Make a wish."

If he does, he doesn't tell us about it. I wonder if a man who's spent most of his life immersed in magic holds to any superstitions? He grew up, after all, in a superstition-believing time in an uneducated place. As I smear cream cheese onto the bagel, Jo counts down: "Five minutes, Cherie. We should get to the presents now." As I feed a forkful to our birthday boy, Jo lifts the larger of the wrapped packages onto the coffee table.

"This is from Cherie," he announces, then reads the attached card: "'To my dear friend and mentor, with love, your Sparrow.'"

"Thank you, my dear," he smiles at me. "Will you open it? My hands. . . ." He waggles his fingers to show he can't lift his hands today.

I peel off the paper with no intention of sparing it. I'm fixed on his reaction; after all, I'm an amateur artist, untalented, barely skilled, despite Jo's instruction, and I want so much for him to love it. . . .

"Malibu," he breathes, and I'm dancing, because he recognizes my landscape immediately. "A view of the ocean from Belle's cottage." His fingers attempt to reach out to touch the painting. "Yes, that's exactly how it looks just after the moon has risen. You've captured the blues and silvers perfectly." He falls silent, lost in memories, then seems to be talking to himself, "She loved to take midnight swims, until she became too weak. We'd grab a blanket and a bottle of wine and we'd sit on the beach, watching the tide roll in and out."

Jo and I smile at each other, feeling victorious in our achievement: Gold is cheering up!

He clears his throat, forcing his mind back to the present. "Mr. Dove, would you hang the painting on the ceiling above my bed?" It's an odd request, but we understand: he wants to look at the painting as he falls asleep each night.

"Gladly. But now, one from me." He sets the smaller package into Gold's hand. With a fingernail Mr. Gold pries some of the paper off, exposing the box underneath. We're pleased that he can have this much of a birthday experience, just getting the wrapping paper off; Jo has to open the box and take out his gift, the crystal cube containing the perfectly preserved white rose. "From a shop along the beach."

"They were hers." He's flashing back again, then blinks to recall us. "Roses. They were her favorites. She raised them, or tried to, in the gardens at the Dark Castle, and then again here, at the pink house. Grandma's Blessing, Kiss Me, Little Mischief, Mystic Fairy—though she wouldn't use that term around me. She called them 'Mystic Beauties.' Forever Roses were her favorite; she associated them with me. My favorite, the one that always made me think of her, was the Snowbeauty." He strokes the crystal. "This one." We give him a few minutes to admire the crystal.

Jo's arm slides around me. "We did good, didn't we?"

Before I can answer, the walls around us come alive with the image of a woman in a navy blue suit with a NASA pin on her lapel and a name tag identifying her as "R. Fontaine." I give Jo and Mr. Gold a nudge to draw their attention to the image. I sort of know Ms. Fontaine already, by written correspondence only; seeing her in person, sort of, makes me feel small, because she's so coiffed, so smooth, so sure of herself. She's standing behind a podium which is also marked with the NASA insignia. "Ms. Fée?"

I straighten my spine. Her voice is rich and soothing, but her appearance radiates such authority that it makes me want to salute. "Yes, ma'am. That's me. I mean, good morning, Ms. Fontaine. We're here." I collect my wits and my manners. "May I introduce Josiah Dove and Rumplestiltskin Gold. Fellas, this is Rosa Fontaine, Director of NASA's Office of Strategic Communications."

"Good morning, gentlemen. I know it's rather early, but we have the least atmospheric interference at this time of day. Mr. Gold, I've already spoken to Mr. Dove and Ms. Fée and obtained their agreement, but before we proceed, I need your permission as well. Especially because this project is for you. Happy birthday, sir."

"Thank you." Gold is perplexed but he's beginning to catch on, the insignia giving the game away. His fingers twitch with excitement. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Fontaine. May I ask, my permission for what?"

"Well." She comes out from behind the podium as if to get closer to us. "A week ago, Ms. Fée approached us with an idea that we found irresistible. Your great-grandson's superiors were all for it as a morale booster, and frankly, my department saw possibilities for drawing public attention back to the Orion Project." She chuckles, her laughter like velvet. "After five years, Orion is, in the public view, a little long in the tooth, and with the latest hiccup in the national economy, polls show that support for space exploration is waning."

Gold's eyes, which widened at the mention of his descendant, now sparkle with a look I recognize as his "make a deal" expression. "Go on. If this idea has anything to do with giving me more talk time with Joey, I'm on board."

"It does." Fontaine recognizes the birth of a deal. "Ms. Fée informed us that today is your 120th birthday. Major Rosales wants to celebrate with you."

I suppress a giggle. I may have fibbed a bit; I have no idea how old Gold is, but I'm sure 120 is an underestimate. Or maybe the fabrication isn't so big a stretch, not if you translate Dark One years into human years.

"And you would like us to celebrate with the world," Gold surmises.

"Yes, sir. A full three hours for you two to talk, with the conversation being broadcast on the NASA Channel. It'll cost us a pretty penny, but we consider it a loss leader. We hope it will generate new private donations and a bigger piece of the public pie. As an added incentive, we'd like use this opportunity to kickstart a new program which we call 'Musk City Mayor for a Day.' You'll be our first Mayor. No actual authority, of course, but you'll be asked to name the newest street, which the engineers finished building yesterday. You'll be given a key to the city and Major Rosales will give you a tour of the entire base."

"I like it."

"For us, it will also be a chance to honor a long-time supporter of our programs."

"I can say a few words about why other private citizens should donate to NASA as well."

"We were hoping you'd see it that way."

"When do we begin?"

"One hour. There'll be a small ceremony. A few words from the Director of NASA. We have a representative standing by in Portland; he'll fly in to make the presentation in person. After that, we'll hand you over to Major Rosales."

Gold glances down at his suit. "So that's why you dressed me in my newest three-piece, Josiah. Is Blue on board with this?"

"She certainly is," I report, pleased that I thought to consult her from the first. A way to regain the public support that we lost over the Keres fiasco, is how I pitched it. Not that it needed much pitching. Blue's only complaint was that it's a shame this honor was going to the Dark One and not a deserving resident, but she agreed that Gold would be unlikely to foul up an opportunity to spend time with his descendant. Besides, while those rich donors were being wooed with the grandpa "aw" factor, they might shell out some funds for Arbors.

There are tears in his eyes but his voice is strong as Gold accepts the proposal. Andy is sent to fetch Blue so that she can be on hand (and on camera) when the marketing rep arrives; she manages to get in a sales pitch for Arbors. While we wait for the show to begin, we urge Gold to eat his breakfast and he obeys with gusto. "I'm going to need my strength for that tour around Mars." Right there in front of my boss, Gold praises me and Jo for our part in this special surprise.

"Three hours," he grins.

"And Mayor for the Day," Blue chirps in her artificially cheerful voice.

"And you'll have a record of it all," Jo reminds him. "What do you think you'll name the street?"

"That's easy."

An hour later, having tolerated the placement of a red sash across his chest and an oversized gold key across his lap, Gold announces as his first act as Mayor of Musk City, Mars, the naming of Belle Boulevard. A man who has always preferred the shadows to the spotlight, he nonetheless gives NASA the show they had hoped for, including the sales pitches, "for Joey," he tells Jo and me later, when we're alone.

"How does it feel to be a national spokesman for space exploration?" Jo wants to know.

"I'm this week's hula hoop. Next week, I'll be 'Whatsisname. Space Grandpa.' Next month, it'll be 'Remember him?' But this," he snaps his fingers and the House begins to play its recording of the event. "This will last." I assume he's talking about the recording, but later, Jo tells me he thinks Gold means the bond with his great-grandson.

I think Jo's right.