"I'm looking for a book."

Belle looked up from her laptop, blinking at the sudden disturbance. No one ever came into the library this early in the morning. In general, most people never came near the library. She had begun to think that the citizens of Storybrooke were allergic.

"That's why most people come to libraries," she said, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. She almost winced at her own rudeness, but the man seemed unfazed.

"I'm sorry. What can I do for you, sir?" She knew she was blushing, but she tried to look as professional as possible, clasping her hands on the desk in front of her.

He wore a well-tailored pinstripe suit, with a light blue pocket square and navy tie, and his hands rested over the head of an elegant cane. "Aren't you going to open the web catalogue?" he asked, gesturing to her computer.

She glanced at the word document open on the screen he couldn't see, and then smiled at him. "It is open. But I probably won't need it. What are you looking for?"

"No, it's not. You're writing something personal."

Belle stared at him, smile faltering. "Well, I minimized my personal writing. Really, sir, what are you looking for?"

"No, you didn't. There was no click."

Belle stood up, annoyed to see that, despite his slight stature, she barely came to his chin. "Does it matter if I use the web catalogue to find your book?"

His lip twitched. "If you don't need it, then by all means, don't use it. I'm looking for a book called The Virgin and Her Lover."

Belle could do nothing for a few seconds but stare at the well-dressed man. When he raised an eyebrow, she walked around the desk and toward the cart with books that had been checked back in, but not yet re-shelved.

"You know, it's funny," she said, righting the small stack of books left on the shelf.

"Funny that a man like me wants a book like that?" he asked from somewhere behind her, closer than she'd expected, and she jumped. How had she not heard his cane moving?

"No," she said, once her heart had calmed. She plucked the book out and whirled to face him, skittering back when she found that he was only about a foot away, and nearly toppling over the shelf. She thrust the book toward him.

"What, then?"

"That book's been on the shelves for years, gathering dust, and now two people have checked it out in as many weeks." She shook her head. "I just think it's strange."

He looked at her, eyes narrowed in thought, and she had the sudden feeling that she was being x-rayed.

"Well, if that's all you want, I'll just check you out, then—I mean, your book. I'll check your book out. If you'll just follow—"

"Miss French," he said, grabbing her arm before she could even take a step, and she vaguely wondered how he knew her name.

"Yes?"

"Would you like to accompany me to a luncheon this afternoon? Formal affair, so you'll need to change. Since you're a librarian, I'd imagine you need a new dress entirely, but that can be arranged, and I'll need you to promise not to write it into the novel that you're working on. It's at one o'clock, sharp, and I never arrive late."

She stared at him. He wouldn't have surprised her more if he'd taken out a baseball bat and started beating her with it.

"I'm sorry—what?"

"I need a date, Miss French, and you'll do."

That was something she understood—he was insulting her. "I'll do?"

"Yes. As long as you can get a new dress, as I said."

Things were moving so fast, Belle wasn't sure what was going on anymore. How long ago had she been staring at her blank computer screen? An hour? Half a minute?

"I'm engaged," she said, though this was a fact she usually forgot—and tried actively to do so.

"Oh, I assumed you would be fine with it, since your engagement isn't happy. My mistake." He started to turn, and Belle found herself lurching after him.

"Wait! What do you mean 'it's not happy?'"

He paused, and she could have sworn she heard a smug chuckle before he turned back to face her. This man was infuriating. "Your ring is sitting on your desk."

Belle blinked, and glanced down at her bare hand to find that he was right. She was so used to taking it off that she didn't even notice when she did it anymore. Flushing, she clasped her hands behind her back so that he couldn't see them, and decided to change the subject.

"So this—this lunch. Why should I go with you? What do you mean 'I'll do?'"

"Miss French," he said, taking a step closer to her. She couldn't move backward because of the shelves, but she did lean away, feeling like she had to look up more than she should have to meet his gaze. "This lunch is a matter of life and death. If I go unaccompanied, something awful could happen."

Belle stared at him, and she had the impression that he was telling the truth, though it sounded unreasonable and ridiculous. Fixed with his intense gaze, however, she could do nothing but swallow and nod.

"Yeah—okay. I'll go with you."

She didn't know what he was looking for. When he'd said that he could arrange getting her a new dress, she hadn't realized that it meant he was going to take her shopping.

In the dressing room, she was pulling up a ruched green gown with a sweetheart neckline that the sales clerk had chosen. It wasn't her favorite dress—that navy polka-dotted a-line that fit her like she was meant to wear it had already been shot down by Raphael the second she stepped out of the dressing room—but it fit, and it was the twelfth dress she'd tried on, and she was tired.

"Okay, what do you think?" she asked, determined not to glance down at the hem that went far past her flat feet. All she'd need to fix it were heels. Just heels.

"No, it's wrong," he said, not even bothering to glance up from his phone.

"You're not even—"

"It's too long, too formal, and that bow on the shoulder looks ridiculous next your head. Next."

Belle made a noise that was something like a growl—a noise she was sure that she'd never made before—and Raphael looked up, blinking at her in surprise.

"What are you looking for, Raphael? I have tried on twelve dresses, and some of them have looked really nice on me. We don't have much more time, so just pick something out and be done with it." She knew it was rude of her to yell at him when he'd already claimed to be paying for her purchases, but she hoped that he knew how uncomfortable it was to wriggle in and out of expensive dresses.

Raphael sighed, as though she were being difficult on purpose instead of listening to every word he said and following all of his directions. "I've already told you. The dress needs to look alluring, but demure—classy, but a little bit dangerous—captivating, but unattainable—and expensive."

For the first time in a long time, Belle found her nostrils flaring with annoyance. "Raphael, if we could not find that dress in the twelve that I've just tried on, then it does not exist."

"I'll unzip you," he said, standing up.

She turned around and lifted her hair, too fed up to mind that they barely knew each other and he had already seen the back strap of her bra plenty of times. When he'd gotten it undone, he handed her a lacy red dress.

"Go on then, Miss French. Haven't got all day."

Once it was on, and she was twirling alone in front of the dressing room mirror, Belle bit her lip. Since the blue dress fiasco, she had determined not to get attached to any of them, but this dress was proving just as tricky as that one. It fit her well—not like the others that fit acceptably, but really, truly well, and she felt as flattered as if the dress was spouting sincere compliments.

She allowed herself half a minute to admire herself, shuffling her feet so that he would think she was still getting dressed. He was going to put his foot down, just like he had with all the other dresses, because this dress was modest and came just past her knees with a high-neckline and a swishy a-line skirt.

"Miss French?"

With a sigh, she opened the dressing room door. He stared at her, and she wasn't sure what to make of the way the corners of his mouth twitched. Was this dress even worse than the bubblegum halter top that he'd had to look away from, despite the fact that he'd selected it?

"It's perfect."

He turned to pick up his suit jacket, but she just stared. "What?"

"It's perfect. Exactly what we've been looking for. Wear it out, if you'd like, I'll go pay for it. Unless you need to run home and get better underwear."

Belle was barefoot, still staring at him as he shrugged into his jacket.

"But this isn't dangerous. It's hardly even captivating. It's something I would pick out for myself."

"It's red, dearie. Red is always dangerous. I should have thought of it before." He shook his head as if to clear a fog, and then looked back up at her. "Well, come on. She can't ring it up if you're wearing the price tag over there."

She didn't know what to say, so she just rushed back into the dressing room the get the dress off, tossing it out to him before she was dressed so that he could hurry. She'd need to go back home anyway, to freshen up and accessorize, but now what he said was sinking in, and she found herself blushing. Did she need different underwear? Was he paying close enough attention to realize—or had it just been a guess, some sort of courtesy he was trying to provide?

Clutching her purse in clammy fingers, she hurried out to meet him and retrieve her new dress.

The Storybrooke socialite scene was well publicized, and televised on most local networks, according to the woman who washed her hands next to Belle. An hour later, Belle still hadn't come to terms with the fact that she'd been photographed on the still-mysterious Raphael's arm at least a dozen times. He'd been good enough to fend off anyone with a video camera or tape recorder, but it was difficult to keep photographers from snapping candid shots.

She didn't know why she was at the luncheon, and she also hadn't figured out why Raphael was. He interacted with no one, save for a man that she recognized vaguely as some sort of local politician for a short time during their salad course. He did lean in close to some groups of women and take deep breaths, but Belle found that too odd to mention. It seemed that her date lacked social skills, though he looked at ease throughout the meal, even when he was seized by sneezes after he leaned into a woman who smelled like the gardenia apocalypse.

After the lobster course, Raphael leaned back, letting his hand hover at her shoulder without coming close enough to touch.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked, and for a second, his voice almost made her believe that they were on a real date, and that she wasn't some volunteer escort for his strange outing.

"Not really, no," she said, and she thought she saw his mouth twitch into a tiny grin.

"Don't worry, we'll leave soon." He leaned back in his chair, threading his fingers together atop the table. "So, why haven't you been sleeping with your fiancé?"

Belle choked on her breath, eyes watering. "I beg your pardon?"

It was true, though, and she found her anger dissipating faster than she'd expected in the face of Raphael's watchful gaze. She knew nothing about him, and yet he knew things about her that she'd never told anyone—her engagement was unhappy, she was writing a novel, and now that she and Clive hadn't had sex in over a year. She sighed.

"How did you know?"

He shrugged, looking impossibly elegant with his coarse hands and hair that brushed the tops of his shoulders. Belle wished she could figure him out as easily as he seemed to have figured her, but thus far, she didn't have anything more impressive than the thought that he might be lonely and friendless.

"Lucky guess."

Pressing her hands into her lap, Belle turned herself toward him. He flinched when their knees brushed, glancing down like she'd set him on fire. When he looked back up at her, his eyes were narrowed, until she saw him flick his gaze to her thighs, where she was clutching at her skirt. He relaxed.

"Have we met before today?" she asked.

She was glad that he at least pretended to give the question some consideration. She might have thought that he was actually thinking about it, but she could see his eyes darting around, taking in everything around them while he stalled.

"No, definitely not."

"Then how do you know all about me?"

He chuckled, and she felt like it was somehow at her expense. "Let's just say that I have a gift."

She pursed her lips. "What kind of gift?"

"The gift of knowledge. I know all about you, Miss French."

"Oh, do you?" She folded her arms, leaning toward him, a little unnerved when he mirrored her, leaving only about a foot of space between their faces.

"I know your name is Belle French, that your father is Moe French, and that he is in a lot of debt. I know that you are engaged unhappily to a man you've known for a very long time, who is not as wealthy as you think he is—though that wouldn't matter to you either way, you're not a woman who needs riches. You want a family and children, but you're starting to wonder if your fiancé is the right person for the job. You don't have many friends, which is why you have no one to tell you not to marry him, so you still think it's a good idea. You're close enough to thirty that you're feeling like you're running out of options, but far enough away that you're still okay with a long engagement. You haven't told anyone that you're writing a novel. You—"

"Okay!" Belle squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. "Okay, you've made your point. You did your homework this morning."

Raphael let out a bark of laughter. "I didn't research you. I'm just observant."

"I can observe too, you know," Belle said, not quite sure where this competitive side was coming from, but also not surprised that this man was the one to bring it out in her.

"Oh?"

"Yes. I remember everything that everyone checks out at the library. Do you see that woman over there?" She pointed to a woman she knew was middle aged because she'd read her driver's license, but who'd had enough Botox and plastic surgery to look just a bit older than Belle. Her hair was up in a coif that Belle thought was unnecessarily fancy for just a luncheon, but it lent a cocktail party elegance to her pastel skirt-suit.

"Yes. That's Susan Adcock."

"Well, she was the first person to check out The Virgin and Her Lover."

His lip curved to the left, and it was like a compliment that Belle could feel all the way in the tips of her toes.

"Perhaps not the most useful skill, but certainly impressive. Your betrothed should learn to appreciate it more."

Belle's pleasure evaporated, and she scowled. "Would you stop that? You don't even know Clive."

"Clive." He made a face like he'd just taken a bite of something rancid, gave a tiny shudder, then waved a hand and returned to normal. "Well, you've confirmed my suspicions. Come on, it's time to go confront her." He started to stand, and Belle frowned.

"Confront her? For reading romance novels?"

He let out another bark of laughter, reaching for his cane. "Of course not. We're confronting her for murder."

Belle opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She tried many more times, gave up, and just let her face pale and her eyes widen before she managed to choke out, "Murder?"

He nodded like she'd just asked him if it was raining, and she tugged him back into his chair. He fell in a graceful heap. She hated him a little bit for it.

"What do you mean 'murder?'"

He looked at her like she was asking how gravity worked. "She killed her lover. I knew it was her, but I had to get close enough to smell her perfume and I hadn't yet. You just confirmed what I already knew."

Belle blinked, keeping her fingers clenched around his sleeve so that he couldn't go anywhere while she was processing the information. "I don't understand."

He sighed, and she considered poking him in the eye to get the smarmy glint out of it. "David Howell was murdered last week. Left next to his body was a hand-written receipt for the checkout of The Virgin and Her Lover. It had your signature, the book title, and the faint scent of perfume, but not the woman's name. I had a hunch that it was Mrs. Adcock, but this was the solid proof that I needed."

Had he come to the library with the expectation of bringing her to this luncheon? Was she okay with that? The one thing she did know was that, if what he said was true, they shouldn't just walk up and say so.

"Raphael, if that woman's a murderer, then we should call the police."

"Why would we do that?"

"Because she's a murderer!"

"Don't be ridiculous." He shook her hand off and stood up again, pushing his chair in and adjusting his tie in one swift motion. "This is the best part of solving a crime."

He walked off, leaving Belle flabbergasted in her chair. He was only a few feet away when he turned around to frown at her. "Aren't you coming?"

Belle stared at him. "Of course I'm not coming. She's a—" She lowered her voice, though no one was paying attention to either of them. "—murderer."

"Oh." His jaw pulsed, like he was clenching his teeth, and the corner of his mouth twitched like he was considering smiling to make himself look neutral, but couldn't quite manage a fake expression. "Of course. I just thought you might want to come with me."

Belle had never thought that she would hurt anyone's feelings by not wanting to confront a killer with them, but it was clear to her that Raphael was feeling rejected by her concerns for her own safety. With a sigh, she stood, smoothing her dress out. He looked at her, reminding her of a puppy watching its master eat and praying for scraps to fall.

"All right. But if things start to get out of hand, we're running away." She thrust her finger at him, daring him to disagree. Belle liked to consider herself brave, but she was also practical, and she was not about to be murdered today.

Raphael nodded, back to looking like the mysterious man he was, and waited for her to catch up. She couldn't help the fact that she just inched along behind him—she had never spoken face to face with a murderer before. Even though there was no reason to suspect that Raphael was actually right, she couldn't find it in her not to trust him, so she was taking any precaution she could.

He stopped, and Belle almost collided with his back.

"What's wrong?" she asked, frowning. "Did you change your mind?"

"No." He turned to face her, and she shrank from the disapproval on his face. "I can't walk up with some sniveling coward trailing along behind me so no one will see her face."

Belle's lip dropped, and she drew herself up, straightening her shoulders and lifting her nose in the air. "Excuse me. I am not some 'sniveling coward,' thank you very much."

She strode forward, hoping she was striding to the right person, and feeling like her will could crumble at any second and she'd be reduced to a weeping mess. Raphael fell in step with her, a smug tilt to the corners of his lips.

"Oh, I know, dearie."

She whipped her head around to look at him, and he just chuckled. Bastard.

He met her gaze out of the corner of his eye, and offered his elbow. Against her less-than-kind feelings, she wrapped her hand around it, just in time for them to approach Mrs. Susan Adcock from behind.

Her table fell into a hush, and everyone's gaze was drawn toward Raphael. All of the chairs were full, save for one draped in black silk in between Susan Adcock and a redhead in all black.

"Mrs. Adcock," Raphael said. The woman turned in her chair and jumped, pressing a hand to her bosom.

"Mr. Gold. What a surprise. No room at your table?"

Belle frowned. Mr. Gold?

"Oh, plenty of room, I just fancied a chat. Mind if I sit?" He gestured to the chair draped in silk, pulling it out before anyone could speak. Belle was about to be angry that he was just leaving her standing there after goading her into coming when he turned to her, waving his hand to the chair. "Care for a seat?"

She looked between the woman in black and the chair in black, and it wasn't hard to deduce that her husband was dead, and that this seat was meant for him.

"No, thank—" Belle interrupted herself with a yelp, clenching her hands in front of her so they couldn't fly to her mouth. In front of her, Raphael bared his teeth in a shark's grin.

"Well, if you're sure," he said, settling himself into the seat. The woman that Belle knew had to be Mrs. Howell threw her napkin at her empty plate and stood up.

"Mr. Gold, this is uncalled for, even from you!"

Surely, there had to be more than one Mr. Gold in town? If he'd been the Mr. Gold, he'd have introduced himself as such, wouldn't he? No one knew Mr. Gold's first name. He wouldn't have given it to her right off the bat.

"I need to speak with Mrs. Adcock. Were you saving this chair for someone?"

Mrs. Howell squawked, and all of the people at the table either looked elsewhere, or glared at Raphael. Belle hurried over and put her arm around the widow, not considering the fact that some of the socialites might be loathe to touch a poor librarian.

"Mrs. Howell, he's so very sorry. He'll only be a minute, I swear."

It was only when Raphael looked at her like a shark who'd just spotted particularly fun prey, and Mrs. Howell frowned that Belle realized what she'd done.

"How do you know my name? Have we met?" she asked. Belle cast a helpless look at Raphael, knowing he would be of no use, and then her eyes fell upon the table.

"The place card!" she blurted. "I have good eyes. I read a lot. I'm a librarian. Have to spot book titles from miles away, you know?"

"Oh, yes, of course," Mrs. Howell said, nodding. Belle patted her shoulders.

"Why don't we go find a cup of tea?" she offered, not knowing what else to do while Raphael stirred up trouble.

"Don't trouble yourself, Miss French, I'll only be a moment."

Belle bit her lip, counting down from ten in her head, knowing—even after only a few hours of being acquainted with him—that something terrible was about to happen.

"Mrs. Howell, did you know that Susan was having an affair with your husband?"

There was a collective gasp from the table, and Belle squeezed her eyes shut.

"I beg your pardon?" Susan Adcock said.

"Now, look here, Mr. Gold." A man with a walrus mustache leaned around Mrs. Adcock, and Belle wasn't surprised that she was having an affair with someone else. He had a toupee that didn't quite reach the limits of his actual hair, leaving a small gap, and his face was ruddy from drink.

"You have my attention, Mr. Adcock," he said, tapping his fingers on his cane.

"My wife is loyal. She knows where she stands with me and she accepts her place in the world." He laid a thick hand on the back of Susan's neck that made Belle's blood boil. She couldn't imagine that anyone would kill poor Mrs. Howell's husband when they shared a life with this man.

"Oh, yes. Like a loyal dog," Gold said.

For a second, Belle was afraid that Mrs. Adcock would jump on him. She clutched at her fork like she wanted to raise it and stab. Belle tensed, ready to leap.

"Exactly," Mr. Adcock said.

"What?"

Everyone turned to look at Belle. Belle would have turned to look at herself if she could have—she hadn't meant to speak. Now that everyone's attention was on her, she couldn't just cover her mouth and beg silence. She looked at Raphael, who inclined his head a fraction, and then swallowed.

"You shouldn't talk about your wife like that," she said, arms still around a confused Mrs. Howell. "She's not your property, she's your partner. She shouldn't be comparable to a dog, unless it's a seeing-eye dog."

Mr. Adcock stood up, mustache quivering. He was about Raphael's height, but stubbier. Belle squeezed Mrs. Howell to her side when he loomed over them.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

Belle looked up at him, dropping Mrs. Howell's shoulders put herself between the man and the widow. "Who are you? You think that just because you can afford to eat here, you can treat people however you want? Well you can't. This woman is your wife, and you should be grateful that it wasn't you that she killed."

This time, when the table gasped, Belle's hands did fly to her mouth. What had she done?

"What?" Mrs. Howell screeched, closer to Belle's ear than she remembered her being. She winced.

"I beg your pardon?" Mrs. Adcock said. She whirled to face Raphael, but her husband spoke first.

"Gold, what is the meaning of this?"

"Why don't you ask your wife, Mr. Adcock?"

Mr. Adcock turned his attention on Belle, taking a step closer and clenching his fists at his side. "Why don't you keep your woman in check, Mr. Gold?"

Belle would have really liked it if Raphael had stood up then, and told her that they had the wrong suspect—that Mr. Adcock was the real culprit—but he did no such thing, and Belle was left retreating as the pudgy man gained on her, while everyone watched and no one tried to stop him.

"You are nothing," he said, pausing when he realized they'd garnered an audience.

"Mr. Gold," she said, glancing at him. "Now would be a good time to reveal what you know."

He shrugged, watching her with more amusement than anyone else. "Why? You're doing fine. Keep going."

His eyes flicked to the left, and Belle followed. Lurking in the corner was a man in a blue uniform. Belle almost cried with relief.

"All right." She turned to Mr. Adcock, raising her hands to ward him off just in case he chose to attack. "You, sir, are rude. You should respect your wife more because she is a person, just like you. More of a person than you, even though she killed someone."

She glanced at Mrs. Adcock. Her head was bowed, and Belle could see her cheeks flushing. She felt a twinge in her chest. "It was an accident, wasn't it? He wasn't going to leave his wife for you, like he'd always promised, and you didn't mean to kill him. You just lost control of—"

"—The candelabra," Raphael supplied.

"You just lost control of the candelabra—wait, who loses control of a candelabra?" She turned to Raphael. "Really, that's a deliberate weapon."

"I don't know, you're the one telling her she's a murderer," he said.

"No!" Susan Adcock looked up, clutching in front of her at nothing. "No, he was never planning to leave Deborah. That was never part of our plan!"

Belle frowned, while the rest of the table gasped. "Well, if that wasn't it, then why?" She looked down at Raphael, and he jerked his head at the stunned tablemates. One woman was watching Mrs. Howell instead of Belle.

"Oh!" She clapped. "He was having another affair—with her!"

At that, Mrs. Adcock let out a wail that made Belle jump.

"He promised I was the only one. He promised!"

Mr. Adcock started to bluster, but was stopped by the young cop cutting his way between them. "Come with me, Mrs. Adcock," he said, his voice calm and soothing. Belle wouldn't have minded if he'd said that to her instead. With the day she was having, she could use a nice cop with nice muscles and an Irish accent to help unwind.

Raphael stood up, letting the officer lead the blubbering woman away in cuffs while her husband chased after. He sidled over to Belle, resting both hands on his cane.

"Well done, Miss French. Shall we?"

Belle turned to him and just blinked for a few seconds. "We can leave now?"

"Well, we've made at least two women cry—I think it's time, don't you?"

"Are they going to take us in for questioning?" she asked, feet planted on the ground. She watched TV and read crime novels. She knew how these things worked.

"We'll get down there. No need to rush."

Belle had never seen anyone take murder so lightly. He'd been far more concerned about which dress she was wearing.

"Well, then maybe we should stay for dessert?" It was exhilarating to solve crimes, and she was feeling reckless enough to postpone their trip to the station at least half an hour. Maybe now that she'd earned his respect—visible in his upturned lips even in the aftermath—she could find out more about him.

"Certainly." He spread a hand toward their table. "Or we could take it with us, and eat outside."

Belle cast a glance at their table, at the politician she vaguely recognized, and then the circle of otherwise unfamiliar faces, none of which had made any effort to engage Belle in conversation or respond to any of her efforts. Raphael, it seemed, was full of good ideas.

"How do we get it before they set it out?" Everyone was set back by the surprise murder-solving, including all of the wait-staff that had stopped what they were doing to watch the confrontation.

"I can be very persuasive."

Since she was at a charity lunch on a day she had work, in a dress she'd been coerced into speed-shopping for, and on the arm of a man she'd just met, she was inclined to agree. He disappeared toward the kitchens and then, less than five minutes later, he was walking back toward her with two white boxes balanced in his free hand and chin.

"I've got it," he said when she tried to take them from him so that he wasn't fumbling. "I can carry a box of food."

He still managed to look graceful and elegant, even with his chin hooked over a box. Belle stepped back with a murmured apology, watching his mouth tighten. She made a mental note to never do anything obvious about helping him with his bum leg again.

"I saw some tables outside," she said, standing close enough that she could catch a box of one fell, but far enough that she hoped it looked casual. He cut a glare toward her, but said nothing. Battle won.

"Yes, those will do."

The doors leading outside the museum were glass, which meant that they saw the flock of news people with their cameras and recorders before they had to meet them. Leading the gaggle was a man Belle recognized as Sidney Glass, editor of The Mirror, with a man carrying a camera at his shoulder. Belle stopped walking.

"Are they waiting for Mrs. Howell?"

"No," he said, voice rough and brogue thickened. "They're waiting for us."

"What?" Why would a news crew be waiting for them? They hadn't done anything other than solve a murder. Hadn't they gotten enough press coverage inside the luncheon?

"Come on. We'll have to face it eventually."

Before Belle could formulate any sort of plan, or look for alternate exits, Raphael thrust the boxes at her and threw his arm behind her back, letting it hover just above her skin.

"Raphael, we can't just walk into—"

But they could, and he was urging her forward, jaw square and set. Then, he pushed the doors open, and Belle found herself tucked against Raphael's chest with his jacket over her head. It was lucky that she was already short, though it was not lucky for the up-do on which she'd spent a good half hour.

There was no time to ask what he was doing, because all of the news people swarmed them like mosquitoes, and Belle was grateful that no one could see her face. Did Storybrooke even have this many journalists?

"What do we do?" Belle asked, unsure if he could hear her since she was muffled against his abdomen.

"Follow my cane."

She twisted her head so that she could see where his cane stepped, wrapping one arm around his back to keep her balance and pressing the dessert boxes to his stomach and her chin. Every few seconds, he would lash out with his cane at a reporter's feet, and a group of them would skitter back. There were so many shouts of 'Mr. Gold, Mr. Gold!' that they all started to blur together—until someone shouted 'Belle!'

She recognized that voice.

"Raphael, we need to hurry, I have to let go!"

"Almost there, dearie. If they see your face now, you won't get a minute's peace until next year."

She took his word for it, though she thought that perhaps it wouldn't have been so bad if she'd never been forced under his jacket in the first place.

He took a turn between two shops, leading her down an uneven road, and then another. Behind her, she could hear Clive rushing after them—she hoped it was Clive, at least, and not a rogue journalist. The loafers looked like her fiancé's.

As soon as Raphael released her three alleyways over, Clive rounded on her.

"Belle, what the hell is going on? I was at lunch with a client and we saw you on the news with Gold. The news, Belle!"

"Just give me one second, and I will explain," Belle said, smoothing her hair from its sojourn under Raphael's jacket before turning to the man himself. "Why didn't you tell me you were the Mr. Gold?"

"Didn't I?"

"No, you did not, and you know that you did not, so don't—"

"Belle, tell me what the hell happened." Clive gripped her upper arm.

"Clive, please, it was nothing—"

"It didn't look like nothing. You guys looked pretty cozy to me. Does this even mean anything to you?" He raised her hand and wagged it at her, but sucked in a gasping breath when he saw her empty ring finger.

"Let me explain—"

"Belle, are you having an affair?"

"Clive—"

"She was aiding me in a case." Raphael stepped between them, blocking Belle with his slight frame, though Clive didn't let go of her hand.

"What?"

"I'm sure you know who I am, Mr. Gaston."

Belle was still a little miffed that she was the only one who didn't seem to know who he was. Then again, her father was always the one to pay the final rent check.

"Of course. You're Mr. Gold."

"And what is my job, Mr. Gaston?"

"You're my landlord. But that doesn't mean I have to give you my fiancée, and if you think it does, then you're going to have to evict—"

"I have no interest in evicting you, or your future father-in-law." He glanced at Belle out of the corner of his eye like he was trying to tell her something, but she had no idea of what.

"Then give me back my fiancée."

Raphael sighed, a world-weary sigh that suggested people asked him for their own fiancées more often than not, and he was just getting tired of it. "Mr. Gaston, do we need the lesson about how people aren't objects to be bandied about?"

Clive jerked his chin around to face Belle. "What's he talking about? I don't like this one bit, Belle."

"Let me reintroduce myself," Raphael said, and Belle thought he might have gotten a bit taller in front of her. He held his hand toward Gaston. "Mr. Gold, Psychic Detective."

Belle almost choked while Gaston's thick brow furrowed into one long, fuzzy bat shape, but she didn't say anything. If Gold was gulling him, that was his business—she'd long since stopped trying to make Clive look less stupid.

"What do you mean?" Clive asked.

"I mean that I solve crimes psychically. Sometimes it helps to have a person around to translate the visions—Miss French was aiding me in a case."

Clive narrowed his eyes, but before he could protest, Raphael had slipped a card out of his breast pocket and handed it to him. In dark black letters, it read 'MR. GOLD – PSYCHIC DETECTIVE.' Clive took the card and squinted at it before looking back up at Belle.

"You translated his visions?"

"Absolutely." Apparently.

"Oh." Presented with a business card that Gold had obviously not pulled out of nowhere, Clive's steam evaporated. "Right. So, will you be home for dinner?"

"Y—"

"That can be arranged, yes," Raphael said.

"Did you just answer for me?" she asked, folding her arms.

"Yes, I need to speak with you. Run along, please, Mr. Gaston. You may keep my card, free of charge." He shooed him toward the end of the alley, and Clive followed looking like large, confused child.

"Okay, Belle, I'll see you later," he said over his shoulder, blowing her a kiss. She blew one back, and almost hit Raphael in the face as she did because he whirled around.

"Psychic detective?" she asked, lowering her hands. "You're not a psychic."

"Sh. No one else knows that." He pressed a finger to his lips, but the corners were tilting up in amusement.

"Why did you trust me?"

"I knew you were trustworthy."

"How?"

"I'm a psychic, remember?"

"No, you're not."

"I might as well be."

She folded her arms, drawing herself up to look him square in the eye, but he didn't back down—no one ever backed down.

"I know all about you, Miss French."

"Belle. And how? Are you stalking me?"

He laughed in a way that made her shiver, and she couldn't tell if it was a good shiver or a bad one—a mix of both, she thought. The laugh would have made anyone feel a bit like doomsday was nearer.

"Of course not, Miss French. I only met you this morning."

"But you know my father and my fiancé?"

"Yes."

"So you've learned about me from them?"

"Miss French, I would like to offer you a job."

"What?"

"A job. Surely, you've heard of those."

She clenched her teeth together so tightly, her nostrils flared. "I already have a job."

"Oh, this won't affect that. I want you to be my assistant."

"What?" She needed to work on being more articulate when it came to Raphael Gold. "Why?"

"Miss French, I think we both know that you want more out of life than to marry the Hulk and work in a library for the rest of your days. Come work for me, and I can guarantee adventure."

She chewed her lip. "Who says I want adventure?"

He raised an eyebrow at her, and when she said nothing, sighed. "Do content people agree to up and leave work so that they can go have a mysterious lunch with a mysterious stranger?"

She scrunched her lips together. He had a point. "What would being your assistant entail?"

He grinned like a cat with a mouse in its sights. She didn't like being the mouse. "Well, you did come in at the last leg of the case today, so normally you'd come with me to crime scenes, help me research, talk to people when I need you to—"

"You mean, be your social buffer when you need me to?"

"If that's how you want to look at it." He waved a hand.

Belle chewed her lip again. It all sounded perfect—research, adventure, having human contact during the day that wasn't a child or a grandmother. The only iffy part was the crime scene, but she thought she could probably handle it if it wasn't too gruesome.

"And this would just be on an as-needed basis? I'd still be a librarian?"

"Of course. Oh, but I need a caretaker as well, so you'd have to move in with me. I can have your things picked up tomorrow."

He said it casually, like he didn't want her to notice that he was saying it at all, and she almost didn't.

"Wait, what? Move in with you?"

"Yes. You don't live with your fiancé, and it's not like you would have to live in my bedroom. I need someone to cook. Then you'd be available whenever I needed you. Of course, you'd live there for free. You do pay some of your father's rent, do you not?"

"Well, yes, but he needs—"

"I'll cut his rent by whatever your usual contribution is."

It was a good offer, but even Belle wasn't adventurous enough to just decide to move in with a man she'd just met that morning. Gold had a reputation in town, and while she didn't believe most of the things she heard—or thought that he had good reasons for doing what he did—she wasn't positive that she would be safe living in his house.

"I'll have to think about it," she said.

"I need an answer now."

"Well, then the answer is no."

"Take your time, think it over, it's all right," he said, and she tried not to smile in triumph. "You do agree to the assistantship though, correct?"

"Yes." This was the closest she would ever get to adventure. "When do I start?"

He pointed to the boxes at her feet. "After dessert?"

She held out her hand. "It's a deal," she said, and he almost smiled as they shook on it.