The text I received from Sidney said to meet him at Granny's at 7:15, but when I walk in at what the clock on the wall claims is 7:12 to see him near the back of the diner, wearing an expression of pure exasperation, I'm not at all surprised. Partly because there is no such thing as being on time when Sidney Glass wants something from you; partly because Sidney loves to assert his self-perceived superiority over whomever he can, and looking exasperated is one of his favorite, albeit subtle, means to that end.

Granny's smells like fried food and syrup, which instantly makes my mouth water, Pavlov's dog style. I catch the eye of Ruby, Granny's only actual (grown – very much grown) grandchild, and make sure she acknowledges me – and therefore, my desire for food – before I head across the place to see my sort-of employer.

Sidney taps his fingers on the table, glaring at me as I sit down and pull off my trench coat. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't show up," he says.

"I'm early, Sidney," I reply patiently. "And considering the fact that your text woke me up thirty minutes ago, I would say that I've done quite well. I even brushed my teeth a little longer than usual to ensure that you would get the full effect of my endearing smile." I give him that smile now. He only grimaces. My well-practiced charm doesn't work on Sidney. I don't mind – it makes him fun to play with. "Now," I say, straightening my vest – school uniform, standard issue, I loathe the thing – "What can I do for you?"

He slides a newspaper – his newspaper, The Storybrooke Daily Mirror – across the table. I flip it around and look into the drooping black-and-white version of a woman's eyes. She's in her mid-to-late twenties, I'd say, with long, light hair – also, the photograph is a mugshot. Notable. Stranger Destroys Historic Sign, proclaims the paper. Alcohol Involved.

"Who am I looking at?"

Sidney leans over the table and lowers his voice. "Her name is Emma Swan."

"Okay, and why are we whispering about her?"

"Because she's sitting at the counter behind you."

I twist around and find her right away. If I had reason to look, I could have found her without Sidney's prodding; a stranger is a sore thumb in Storybrooke. From my angle, I can only see her long blonde curls, defined cheekbones, the tip of her nose, but, again – sore thumb. I could identify nearly every person in this town from this view, most of us could. Welcome to Storybrooke.

I turn back to Sidney. "What's she doing here?"

"Making trouble."

"I can see that. I hate when strangers destroy historic signs. Was that her sole purpose?"

He sighs, dark eyes threatening me with death. God, he's fun. "She's making trouble for the mayor."

I incline my head. I figured out a long time ago that most, if not all, of the jobs Sidney gives me come by order of Mayor Mills, but he's rarely so candid about it. "In what way?"

"She's Henry's mother," he says, then flinches and corrects, "Biological mother."

At this, I can't resist turning to seek out the woman again, even though I know I can't see her face. When I'm done taking in the side of her head for the second time, I quietly say, "Alright, then. What's Henry's biological mother doing here?"

"Henry brought her."

"Henry – how?"

"He tracked her down, asked her to come. Somehow he got her to stick around."

"Does she want back into his life?"

"Reg – Mayor Mills thinks so. She's booked a room, she doesn't seem to have any intention of leaving."

"Mmhmm. And is this defacement of Miss Swan –" I hold up the paper, he looks away, twitching his hand – "connected in any way to her decision to stay?"

"I printed that up before I knew she had a room."

I put the paper down, stretch my legs out beneath the table, cross them. Fold my hands in my lap. "Alright. Henry's mother is a sign-destroying drunkard, so be it. What do you want from me?"

"Whatever you can find on her."

"Isn't digging up dirt your job, Sidney?"

"I procure hard-to-find information from government vaults," he says. "Lying down with the dogs is where you come in."

I grin. "I do love mongrels."

His patience, I see, is wearing as thin as the veil of professionalism he's trying so desperately to cling to. "Will you do this?" he forces out.

I shrug. "Haven't turned you down this far into our arrangement, have I?"

He nods once. The deal is made. "Henry is going to be at your, uh – whatever you call it this afternoon."

"It's called fencing," I say. "A junior fencing class."

"Right. Which you're still not qualified to teach, I assume."

"I don't teach it, the club does, I just happen to be team captain and –" I stretch out my arms "– the best member. And we're running the class out of the goodness of our hearts, so I don't think we actually require any qualification . . ."

He stands up. He stopped listening sometime after "member," I'd say, so honestly I'm surprised he stayed sitting for that long. He pulls out his wallet. A fifty-dollar bill falls onto Emma Swan's mugshot. I draw my knee into the chair and draw the bill into my right boot.

"Talk to him, the mayor says he likes you," Sidney says, eyes and thoughts already beyond me.

"Aye-aye, boss."

"See if you can get close to her."

"I know what I'm doing, Sidney." I've done it before.

He gives me the same doubting, demeaning look he gives me every time I'm about to do the damn thing he hired me to do, and then he leaves.

"Good riddance." Isn't it funny how the most entertaining toys seem to break the fastest?

I study Emma Swan's face a little while longer before I start rifling through the thin pages of the paper. Almost exactly halfway through, I find what I'm looking for, what I can never help looking for – "Sketches of Storybrooke." By Callie Rogers.

Today, my little gift to the world is Marco in his shop, sanding a soon-to-be bench for the park, no charge, because that's the kind of guy Marco is. On that note, he's also a great subject to draw – he carries on his work, carries on a conversation, acts like you come in to stare at him every day. He's a far cry from, for example, Dr. Archie Hopper, who couldn't stop grinning like a maniac when I sketched him on the street with Pongo a couple of weeks ago.

"I love this one."

Ruby. She places a plate and a mug next to the paper, careful not to cover it up. She taps the sketch with a red-painted nail. "You got him just right. Look how focused he is . . . Although I was wondering when you planned on doing another picture of me . . ."

"Because you don't get enough attention?" I ask innocently, reaching for the coffee. Ruby smiles in a way that is somehow equal parts modesty and naughtiness. She smooths the apron that hangs too low to cover her bare midriff as I try the drink. Salted caramel latte, as delicious as it is every morning, because Ruby has a gift, I swear it. And a peanut butter and (raspberry) jam (not jelly) sandwich on whole wheat bread, toasted to perfection. For as long as I can remember, I've come to Granny's for breakfast before school, and as long as I can remember, Ruby has made every last bit perfect. To a tee. "God," I say as I lower the mug, licking my lips. "Ruby, this is delicious. I adore you."

"Yeah, I make a good latte. You can do that." She nods at the paper, then at me. "You've got some serious talent, Callie."

"You're sweet," I tell Ruby, running my hand over the reprint of my drawing. Once upon a time, I thought Sidney truly only wanted me on the payroll for my sketches. Oh, to be young and naïve once more. Sixteen's proving much harder than the previous years. But emancipation does that to a girl, I suppose.

Sketches of Storybrooke. This is how I make my living, if you ask anyone from this town, Ruby included. I give Sidney a new set of sketches every week, he prints them up, pays me. But not enough to live off of. Which is why there's another side to my job with The Daily Mirror, a side I share with no one. A side that leads me into situations like spying on the biological mother of an adorable boy whose adoptive mother happens to be a known witch. Or something that rhymes with witch.

But I try not to dwell on the nature of my job.

Ruby leaves me to my meal, and I eat it fast, so I can go happen upon Emma Swan at the counter. But when I drain the last of my latte and stand, I do so just in time to hear the bell above the door chime, to catch Swan leaving, led by a little boy with dark hair and a scarf. I watch them go, and as they walk down the sidewalk, I get a really good view of Swan's profile for the first time – Henry has her nose. And Henry, right before they disappear from view, looks back at her, beaming. Which is lovely. I see him twice a week for the fencing class, and his smiles have been getting harder and harder to come by.

Later today, I'll manipulate what answers I can from him.

I twist my right-hand ring. The silver ring, with the onyx embedded into the band. It lives on the ring finger. My left-hand ring lives on the little finger and has a tiny black jewel in it. I actually have no idea what type of jewel it is, as Mr. Gold is the only one in town I know of who can tell me, and Mr. Gold is more or less a –

"Who's the drunk girl?" someone says from behind me.

I take a breath. "Her name's Emma Swan. And she isn't drunk in that picture."

"Headline says 'Alcohol Involved.'"

"I know how to spot a drunk." I turn and look at Cade Harper, sitting where Sidney had, holding The Mirror and squinting at Swan's picture like a detective. Or, like a six-year-old pretending to be a detective. "Whereas you know how to be one."

He looks up at me and grins. "Somebody's in a mood this morning." His blonde hair, still damp from the shower, falls over his eyes as they crinkle at the corners – he looks older than his nineteen years. Which is probably why he can get his hands on alcohol so easily.

I pop my eyebrows but give him a smile. "I'm just tired." I glance at the clock on the wall. "And I'm going to be late."

He drops the paper and yawns dramatically. "Then let's get you to school, young lady."

"You're my escort, now?"

He shakes his head, stands, pushes his chair back under the table without worrying about the screeching noise it makes. "Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. Stoplight's out around there. Leroy wanted me to take a look at it."

"Mm. Did he say please?"

"Yes, and then he kissed my hand like the gentleman he is . . . Ruby!"

"No shouting across the diner!" Granny shouts from across the diner, appearing apparently out of nowhere, perhaps to balance the books, perhaps to scold Cade. He flashes her a smile and steps over to the counter, where Ruby hands him the bagel and Styrofoam coffee cup she puts aside for him each morning. He says some smooth words and ducks his head, but when I pay, he doesn't. He's one of the few people I can name who can get away with that, and it's only because Granny and Ruby know where to find him when the tab's run up too high. He has nowhere to go but the inn.

I stop outside, to button up my coat. Cade takes a few steps down the street, ruffling his hair, and the wind catches his scent and blows it back to me. I inhale. Aftershave and cigarettes. He must have lit up right after the shower. I don't think he likes going out without the smell of smoke on his clothes. Some of the girls he's dated have complained to me about it, and I never know what to tell them. Never particularly want to help them, anyway, because those same girls also typically complain to Cade about me.

"Hey." I slip my hands into my pockets and catch up to him as he's tearing into his bagel. "Can I sketch you this afternoon? Between three and four?"

He chews, swallows. We move along the street, down to the crosswalk. Past the store windows with all of the pretty things no one ever seems to buy. "Didn't you sketch me, like, a month ago?"

"Are you really going to turn down an offer of free publicity? This could be your key to a record deal."

"Right, somebody from Storybrooke's going to give me a record deal . . . nah, I don't expect to get rich and famous until I have enough money to leave this place."

"Nobody leaves Storybrooke," I say. Cade and I live in one of those little towns filled with people who swear they're on the verge of leaving and just – don't. And Cade and I have talked about that, on late nights when one or both of us are delirious from lack of sleep (me) or from drinking (him). But he just laughs, exactly like he is now, and says –

"I'm not nobody."

He sips his coffee. We're at the crosswalk, he punches a button on a pole and we wait for a little glowing man to tell us we may walk.

"I know you're not," I say, and leave it at that. Because maybe he will go. Hell, he probably will. Probably soon.

"You're not, either," he says matter-of-factly. He looks at me, neck loose, head hanging back. Gives me a half-smile that makes me believe he might know everything. "And you could leave anytime you want. Just jump on a boat and go."

"Yes, it's that simple."

"You have a boat."

"What I don't have is money."

His smile grows, leaves wisdom behind for the wonderful world of mischief. "So steal it."

"You're the outlaw. Not I."

Now his smile shows teeth.

The street tells us we can walk. We do. The school is about twenty minutes from here by foot, and I ask Cade what time it is.

"8:15."

"The joke that never gets old . . . Seriously, how late am I –?"

"What the hell?"

He's stopped in the middle of the street, gazing up with his mouth a little open. I follow his eyes up to the clock tower that reaches up from the library. "Well," I murmur, "Would you look at that . . ."

It's the clock. For as long as I can remember, the hands have been stuck at 8:15. Now they're at 7:49 – no, 7:50. The long hand just ticked forward. "I take it from your tone of surprise that Storybrooke's custodial services had nothing to do with this?" I say.

"Not unless Leroy forgot to tell me about it on our date last night."

"What would your children look like?"

"Sexy short guys with dreamy baby blues and the voices of angels."

"It disturbs me that you have an answer to that ready to –"

"Excuse me."

I twist and meet the eyes of Mr. Gold. His lips curl up. His eyes, however, are stone. Probably because we're blocking his way. Also, probably because he's Mr. Gold.

"Sorry." I step to the side and pull Cade along with me. He plants his feet once Mr. Gold has room to pass and gives the pawnbroker a Have a good day, jackass kind of smile.

But Mr. Gold's eyes slide over him as if he isn't there. They meet mine again briefly as he walks away, cane clicking against the asphalt. "It's just a clock, dear."

I watch him go down the way we just came from, off to his shop for a hard day of doing whatever the hell a rich man does. I shrug away a chill.

"I could listen to him talk all day," Cade murmurs, beginning to walk again. "I love European accents . . . You coming, my sweet little English muffin?"

I pull my eyes from Gold's back. "Yeah."

On the sidewalk, as Cade swallows the last of his bagel, I clear my throat and say, "You never answered whether or not you would sit for the sketch."

"Anything for you, Callie."

"Bring your guitar, would you? I liked the one I did of you with it, last time . . ."

"Where? And you said between three and four?"

"Yes, and, uh – the picnic tables, outside of the cafeteria. I need to stay close, I have –"

"The fencing class, I know . . . but are you sure Sidney won't mind you sketching the same person four times in the span of . . . I don't know, maybe two months? Even one as devilishly handsome as me?"

My hands come together, I fiddle with my left-hand ring this time. "Sidney doesn't care."

"You're playing with your ring."

"No, I'm not. It's a figment of your imagination. As a matter of fact, all of this is; you're only dreaming."

"No, I know I'm not dreaming. If I were dreaming, Ruby would have been wearing a Catholic school girl outfit. What's wrong?"

"I'm just . . . busy. School stuff, you know."

"Ah, don't worry about it." He tosses his coffee cup into a trash can, and the next thing I know, there's a cigarette in his mouth. "Hell, I dropped out of school, and I'm doing just fine."

He lights up. The smoke billows from his mouth, and I very much doubt it's a good thing, but he's gotten me to like the smell of cigarettes. The grey cloud snakes around his head and flees into the sky, so I get only the barest bit in my lungs, and then I have to let it go, too.