Hello everyone,
Just a little disclaimer: "The Music Box" is technically speaking the sequel to my previous Rumbelle fanfiction, "The Snow Globe", but can be read separately. All you really need to know is that it ended with Belle breaking her deal with Rumplestiltskin just before the Curse strikes the Dark Castle, leaving Rumple to believe that she has effectively killed herself after Regina told her about Rumple's evil background. The story then picks up twenty-eight years later in Victorian England, where the Curse has transported the people of Storybrooke. Although it is essentially a Rumbelle fanfiction I do dedicate some attention to various other characters because I think it is interesting to ponder what their roles might be in this setting. And finally, I am not a historian so I apologize in advance for all historical inaccuracies. Thanks for reading!
I
Storybrooke, Kent, 1865
The Kentish coastline was a rough stretch of land, and the people of Storybrooke proudly considered their town a pinnacle of civilization among its dark pine woods and ragged, rocky shores. The respectability was apparent in the town square with its neat, white-washed church, cobblestones and chestnut trees; the stately houses of the well-to-do elite in the centre of the town and the well-cared for cottages with their thatched roofs on the outskirts, the neat farms among the surrounding fields. The town lay cradled between two hills, each crowned with an imposing building surrounded by high walls, visible from almost everywhere in town but not quite part of it. One was the extravagant Gold mansion, basking in its magnificent park that was one of the sights of Storybrooke. And facing it from the other hill, there was the asylum. A high building of grey stone, neat bars at each window and with a sturdy front gate above which it read in wrought-iron letters: STORYBROOKE INSTITUTION FOR THE INSANE. The people of Storybrooke, looking up at the building, felt both a thrill of discomfort at the thought of these people, like crazed, caged animals, and at the same time a sense of priggish satisfaction that they were safely locked away.
The institution was accessible only by a road that wound up the hill and it was on this road that, on a Sunday afternoon in early November, a horse-drawn carriage was making its way to the asylum. The farmer children in the fields, brown and barren now with winter quickly approaching, turned their heads when they heard the sound of wheels. All of them recognized the black carriage with the golden wheel on its door immediately, but craned their heads for a better look anyway in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the mysterious Lord Gold. As it was, they could make out no more than the outline of his head under the top hat, and when they ran along by the side of the road the coachman irritably shooed them away with the tip of his whip.
Inside, Gold paid no attention to the sounds of children's voices. He rested his hands and chin on his cane, staring ahead. He was not looking forward to his weekly visit to the asylum for tea, a preposterous little ceremony of "gratitude" from staff and patients for his generous funding to the asylum. A routine all the more dull because Storybrooke had been trapped in the interminable, dreary month of November for twenty-eight years.
As the carriage passed through the gate (the porter tipping his hat) he could already see the staff in their white uniforms lined up in military formation outside and, at top of the front steps, the three most important figures at the asylum. Head Psychiatrist Dr. Hopper, a bespectacled gingery fellow; the flashy Head Physician Dr Whale, who cut a dashing figure even in a white coat; but they both stood, as always, in the magnificent shadow of Headmistress Mills. It was she who shook his hand first when he had descended from his carriage, with a false smile on her face and a genuine glint of malice in her dark eyes, welcomed him to the Storybrooke Institution for the Insane and led him to the institution's little chapel, where the rest of the staff and patients were waiting. So it always went and so it was again on this particular Sunday, as Gold found himself reclining in an uncomfortable chair with a cup of lukewarm tea in his hand. He was not listening to the psalm that the patients, neatly lined up in rows, were singing to him (songs about loving father figures and green pastures had lost all appeal to him long ago) but instead surveyed the rows of faces, automatically picking out the people he knew – although they had no idea that they knew knew him. There was the wolf girl of the red cape ("wayward and hysterical"), looking washed-out now in her starched apron and tightly pulled-back hair. The foolish old man ("prone to persistent delusions"), sorrowful and strangely bereft with his arms hanging down limply without the wooden puppet he spoke to as if it were a child. The seven ridiculous little men, Hypochondriac, Manic, Anxious, Hypersomniac, Morose, Mute and the one who thought he was a doctor. And off to the side, the catatonic man they had found in the woods, who neither spoke nor moved, but slumped in a chair, mouth slightly open and eyes to the ground. No longer quite so Charming, Gold thought dispassionately. There was one familiar face missing, however. Where was Jefferson? he wondered, just as he realized that Headmistress Mills, Dr Hopper and Dr Whale had started clapping on either side of him, as well as the rest of the staff. The psalm was finished and he joined in the polite applause with languid movements.
"Lovely, lovely," he said.
"It is in the voices of children and fools that you can hear the true voice of the divine, don't you agree?" Headmistress Mills said, looking at him innocently over her tea cup.
Gold bared his teeth. "Quite." He rose to his feet for his customary little address to his beneficiaries. "My dear unfortunate souls," he started, knowing they cared as little as he did, "you have all been struck by a variety of ...afflictions of the mind; as with any affliction of the body, you require tranquillity and care, and are fortunate enough to receive this from the excellent Drs Hopper and Whale, and of course the saintly Headmistress Mills..." He thought he saw the wolf girl's eyes flash up, "...for which you owe them a life-long debt of gratitude. As always I am glad to be of assistance, in any way I can, for are love of thy fellow man and charity not the greatest virtues?" He let a brief pause fall to let everyone ponder his rhetorical question, then set down his tea cup on the table beside him. "I therefore hope to see you all much improved in mind and spirit when I return next week," he said, as always. There was never any improvement.
The assembly hereby being effectively over, the parlour started to empty. Gold started towards the door when Headmistress Mills laid a hand on his arm. "Might I speak to you in my office?" she said, adding: "It will only take a minute."
He grudgingly inclined his head. "As you wish, Headmistress."
"Good, I -" she started, but was interrupted by the porter who came rushing up behind Gold.
"Urgent message from Chief Inspector Graham, Headmistress," he panted, and she sighed.
"I'm terribly sorry," she told Gold. "Could you possibly see yourself to my office? I'll be there as soon as I can."
….
Headmistress Mills's office was a large, if sombre, room overlooking the grounds; standing by the window, hands clasped behind his back, Gold could see the flawless green lawn, the rigid privets planted along the high walls, which were stripped bare of any plants that might aid a patient in climbing over. The asylum was a place devoid of love and happiness, he knew, no matter how well-maintained it was, how tasteful the dark shingles on the roofs, how immaculate the long, echoing corridors, how stainless the white uniforms. No-one would ever get better in this place. No-one was truly expected to get better.
He heard the door open and turned – but it was not Regina who stood in the doorway.
"Please," the wolf girl – what was her name again? - whispered, hurriedly closing the door behind her and coming closer, "I need to speak to you."
"Do the nurses know you're here?"
"I managed to get away when everyone was leaving the chapel." She looked at him beseechingly. "I need to speak to you."
"So you said."
"This place," she said in a low voice, "is hell. 'Honest labour is the best cure for any unfitness of the mind' they say, and we scrub and clean, we do laundry and copy Bible texts until our hands blister; we are not allowed any possessions of our own, not even letters from home, and every few days they search our rooms to find something – anything – that they can take away from us. And there is punishment if they find something; or if we're tardy, or work too slowly, speak too much, laugh too loud, walk out of line, don't make our beds properly, leave our room without permission; they deny you your meals, or drench you in cold water and make you stand out in the yard for hours or... or they lock you up by yourself in the basement. For days, even weeks." She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hands, and he suspected it had happened to her. She had always been a feisty one, he seemed to recall.
"That is the policy at the Institution, my dear," he said. "Your grandmother is the one who had you committed, isn't that right?" She nodded. "Clearly she agrees with Headmistress Mills that discipline is what you need. What on earth do you want me to do?"
"Get me out of here," she said, her voice urgent as she drew closer to him. "Please. You are the institution's greatest benefactor – the Headmistress won't refuse you if you say you want to take me with you. I can cook for you, clean for you, whatever you want." She stood very close to him now, her expression a mixture of despair, fear and hope as she ran one hand slowly down his chest and repeated: "I will do whatever you want."
"I see." He pushed her hand away impatiently. "Unfortunately, my dear, I have no use for that. Any of that."
"No – please," she said, her voice raising almost to a shriek now as her hands scrabbled at his waistcoat, his jacket, as she tried to cling to him. "You have to get me out of here! Please!"
"You are not well, my dear," he snapped, grasping both her wrists to pry her hands away from him. "It is only a manifestation of your disease that you try to resist the cure, which is strict guidance to lead a fruitful and disciplined life. Now," he said, as her head slumped dejectedly forward, shoulders shaking lightly, "I forgive you this outburst; I suspect Headmistress Mills would be less inclined to be charitable if she were to find you in her office, harassing the man who is – as you yourself pointed out – the institution's greatest benefactor."
She nodded slowly, turned and went back to the door. "I do apologize, Lord Gold," she mumbled at the door and, without meeting his eye again, left the room and closed the door behind her. It was not a moment too soon, either, for within a few minutes Gold heard brisk footsteps in the corridor, the door opened and the Headmistress entered.
"Rumple," she smiled, as usual the first to break the charade. "So sorry to keep you waiting."
"You've done worse." He watched her cross to her desk, her Victorian decorum abandoned for a moment as she perched on its edge to look at him. The rather severe look she affected in this world, the gathered skirts of dark green satin, the tightly corseted waist, the meticulously pinned-up dark hair, suited her well and brought out the strong beauty of her face. He noted this with complete detachment, not altering for a moment the fact that there was no one in the world whom he hated more. It had been a fierce, consuming hatred at first that, over the years, had burned itself out to a dull, blunted feeling of intense distaste. As Regina was well aware.
"You seemed exceptionally distracted during your visit today," she said, "considering how much you care about the plight of these poor idiots."
"I can relate to them only too well," he retorted, sauntering across the room.
"You were never quite sane yourself, after all."
"No," he agreed immediately, "but none of these people are insane, and we both know it; they just haven't lost every remnant of their true selves, so you have locked them in a prison within the prison that is Storybrooke. Tell me," he said, voice hardening a little, "do you enjoy playing house with the people who suffer most?"
"As a matter of fact, I do," she said, pretending not to notice his tone.
"Well, you got everything you wanted, after all. The wealth, the power, the knowledge that you stripped absolutely everybody else of their happy ending." He paused in front of an oval oil painting of a pale young boy in a sailor suit, suspended on the wall beside the bookshelves. "How is dear Henry?"
"He is well," she said, coming to stand beside him. Gold noted the sudden softness in her tone with another little stab of hatred and envy, which prompted him to do something he immediately regretted.
"Yet another reason to be smug," he said tartly. "You could simply replace the person you loved most." He wished he had kept quiet: he never referred to the Unspeakable.
"My dear Rumple," she said softly, "but you can't possibly blame me for that little tragedy? Whose fault is it really that sweet Belle chose to take her own life in the old world, rather than come to this one with you? All I did, after all, was tell her the truth."
Gold had not heard Belle's name said aloud for years, and the pain upon hearing it from Regina's mouth was shockingly vivid and sharp, as if not a day had passed by since he had found himself all alone in the new world, holding in his hands nothing but a single chipped tea cup. It was the only strong emotion he was still capable of after all these years and it was with an enormous effort that he said softly: "Was there a reason you asked me to your office? Or was it just for small talk?"
She shrugged. "You and I have known each other for a long time, Rumple; I admit, sometimes I like to reminisce about the old days – if only so that I can congratulate myself on the improvements I made." There was something almost akin to affection in her voice as she looked at him, and for a moment they both stood there in silence, two people from another world together in that study on a grey English day. It was Gold who snapped them out of it – if only because it was too much to bear.
"I'm afraid I have matters to attend to," he said, seeing from her eyes and her smile that she knew his pain exactly.
"Of course," she said, "and I have my poor idiots to attend to. It's not easy being the headmistress of an asylum, you know."
"Well," he said tartly, pulling on his gloves, "you're the most demented creature I know. I couldn't think of a better place for you."
And with that he bowed stiffly, and left.
….
Far, far below the office where this exchange took place, in the depths of the asylum, a young woman awoke from troubled dreams with an uneasy feeling. It was a mystery to her that she dreamed at all, because there seemed to be precious little material for dreams. All she knew was this plain room with its thickly padded walls, the high, narrow window with the grill that allowed for light to come in but not for her to look out, the platform with the thin mattress where she slept, and a wedge of grey corridor when she peered out through the little hatch in the door. There were only two people she ever saw; the first was the unsmiling nurse, who brought her her meals and washing water and clean white cotton shifts to wear, and cut her nails for her with brisk – sometimes painful – efficiency, as Belle was not allowed to touch sharp objects herself. The other was Headmistress Mills, who paid her irregular visits. Sometimes she could hear other people, in the remote distance – other patients in the asylum, she assumed, who were brought to the cellars to be punished; they were always locked up too far away to speak to them, however. Once, Belle had started screaming at the top of her lungs when she had heard a shrieking woman being brought down the stairs at the end of the corridor, but within minutes the nurse had been in her room with a syringe, and when Belle had woken up she had a massive headache and all was quiet again. Belle did not know why she was permanently locked up in isolation, permanently punished for a crime she did not remember committing. For Belle had no memories at all of her life before this; she would not even have known that her name was Belle if that wasn't what the Headmistress called her. When asked why she could not live upstairs, where the other people were, the Headmistress had only smiled indulgently and said: "We would not want others to know that you are here, do we know? Word might just get out." Why her existence had to be a secret was only one of the many, many questions the Headmistress wouldn't answer.
Belle rolled over onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. She no longer had the energy to cry.
….
Belle's cell was at the very back of the asylum, too far away to hear the rattle of wheels as Gold's carriage started back towards the gates where another coach was just rolling onto the asylum grounds. Regina saw it swing through the gates from the window in her office and emerged from the front door just as it pulled up and Chief Inspector Graham leaped down from the front seat, tipping his bowler hat politely at her. "Headmistress Mills."
"Chief Inspector," she said, watching the two other constables alighting from the sideboard. One of them retrieved a key from his uniform pocket and started to unlock the padlocked door in the back of the coach. There was no movement behind its small, barred window. "I received your message that you caught him. Did he get far?"
Chief Inspector Graham shook his head. "Never made it across the parish borders. Of course, he was slowed down by the child." His voice, with its melodious Irish lilt, was thick with dislike. "A blonde girl of about ten years old, just like the previous times. Lured her away from the schoolyard – promised to show her a magical world, apparently. It's sickening, that's what it is."
"Well, thank God you found him, Chief Inspector, and brought that poor lamb back to her parents, and this man back here."
The constable had opened the doors now and called inside: "Come on out, son!"
There was no movement and, at an impatient gesture of Graham's, the two constables reached inside and dragged out, not too gently, a haggard-looking, unshaven man in chains. His eyes, sunk and dark, widened when he saw Regina.
"There, there, Jefferson," she started, but he shouted over her, wrestling against the constables: "No! No! No! You said you would take me to the constabulary, not here!"
Regina sighed, smiling at the two constables. "If you would take him down to the cellars, please," she said. "Some time in isolation would do him good, I think."
The constables nodded and wrestled a squirming Jefferson up the steps and into the great hall, where his cries - "No! No! No!" - echoed loudly. Regina and Graham followed, more slowly.
"You really must take better care," Graham said emphatically. "This is the third time now; we can't have a child snatcher on the loose."
"Don't worry," she assured him with a smile. "Let's see him try to escape in a straitjacket."
"All right. The constables can handle it from here; I have to return to the station to write my report."
"Of course." He was about to turn away, but she laid an intimate hand on his arm. "Call on me after dinner, Graham," she whispered.
A small smile appeared on his serious, handsome face. "I will."
He watched her disappear through the same doorway the two constables had taken Jefferson, and the smile turned to a frown. How much time did that leave him for his report? He automatically looked up at the enormous clock in the hall, before remembering that the clock stood still. It had pointed out quarter past eight for as long as he could remember.
Little did he know that it was the last day that time would be frozen.