Hi my new readers! I am so floored by the response this story has gotten. I keep a close watch to see how all my first chapters do and I was so happy to get two reviews within two hours of posting. Then I checked three hours later and I had 17 notification emails! So thanks for brightening my day!

I will try to update as much as possible. I have two HP stories I'm in the middle of and one I have to write an epilogue for. I also have to finish my Patriot fan fic. But I've been so inspired by the now TWO dreams I've had about Rumbelle that this story is totally exploding into my mind's eye. It's hot right now.

To those who think Mr. Gold should be meaner: Stay tuned! He's in shock right now but it'll wear off soon enough. So yes, he will be mean… oh yes….

Chapter 2.

Rosalind slipped off her pointe shoes and brushed away the lambs' wool on her toes.

"So you start today?" Nina asked as she packed up, "that was quick."

"Yes," Rosalind responded with a perplexed look on her face, "I don't think he interviewed anyone else. The whole situation is so serendipitous. The job. The mansion. The pay."

"I still think you need to be careful, Roz," Nina warned as they left the practice room and started down the stairwell, "He's paying you a lot of money. You're a young woman. He's… alone in that creepy mansion."

"It's not like that, Nina," Rosalind said firmly, "He has a vast collection of art and artifacts and needs someone to take care of it. Thank God I found a job! I can stay in school and pay rent!"

"Please," her friend grabbed her arm tenderly, "Be careful. That guy looks like he has a dungeon. And he may want to keep you there."

Rosalind rolled her eyes but smiled, "I'll be careful. All right. Time to leap across town. See you later?"

Nina nodded and headed for the subway. Rosalind headed east and crossed through the park.

For the better part of the day, Gold sat next to the window in the parlor. He took his eyes off the street only to glance at the clock.

And then, at five minutes until noon, she emerged from the park. Her hair, again, was pulled back into a tight chignon. The severity of the hairstyle made her look different but no less beautiful. He liked it that way. It gave her a sense of distance that he appreciated.

She shielded her eyes from the midday sun and walked up to the gate. She buzzed and he went to let her in. He opened the front door before her knuckles could touch it.

"Hi," she smiled, "how are you?"

"Very well. Shall we begin?"

Gold led her through the front hall again down a long corridor into a large room with many windows. On the far wall was a large tapestry of a unicorn.

"It's beautiful!" Rosalind exclaimed.

"Yes, it's one of the seven in 'The Hunt of the Unicorn'." Gold said.

"Which one is this?"

"It's the second. It's called 'The Unicorn is… Found.'"

Rosalind studied it intently as Gold intently studied her.

"Many of them are up at the Cloisters," he explained, "I've agreed to loan this one to them as part of an exhibit. Make note of any wear and call the restorer. I've set up an office for you in the next room. All of the contact information you need is in there. I'll leave you to it."

With that, Gold left her.

"Quickest orientation in history," Rosalind mumbled to herself.

She popped out of the room and into her office. She found a pad and a pen and set to work with a magnifying glass combing over the tapestry.

After five hours of painstaking work, Rosalind called the Met and made an appointment for the tapestry to be picked up and restored at their facility. Satisfied with her task, Rosalind set out to find Mr. Gold and tell him the news.

He was not in his study. Nor was he in the parlor.

The mansion was as silent as a tomb. She crept through the halls without a sound. She made a right turn and then a left, then another and another. She climbed one staircase and descended another. Soon she was helplessly lost. Her eyes fell upon a door. Perhaps it was a way back from where she came?

"Worth a shot," she whispered to herself and tried the doorknob.

Before Rosalind could go any further a cane swung in front of her face and slammed onto the wood of the door in front of her.

"Do not," Mr. Gold seethed, "open this door."

"Forgive me…I…"

"These are my private quarters," he growled, "you are not to be up here."

"I'm so sorry—"

"What made you think you could sneak around my house?"

"I'm—I'm sorry." Rosalind stammered, "I was trying to find you."

"Find me?" Gold leaned into her, "find me? You obviously didn't look in the right place! Imagine my surprise when I went looking for you and found nothing. I found nothing."

"I—I am sorry. Please, forgive me."

Gold inhaled deeply, ready to unleash his venom but he refrained.

"Yes. Well." He sniffed and composed himself. "Follow me."

Rosalind obeyed and he led her back downstairs to the tapestry room.

"So, are you finished?"

"Yes, I called the restorer." Rosalind replied dutifully, "A crew will be here on Monday to pick it up."

Mr. Gold surveyed the tapestry. "Accompany it to the facility."

"I will." Rosalind smiled. "Do you have anything else you need me to do?"

"I need your contact information," he said, "other than that, you are free."

Rosalind smiled again, this time a little nervously. Whenever Mr. Gold looked at her a chill ran up her spine. She couldn't decide if it was really good or really bad. She wrote down her address and phone number.

"I'll see you on Monday, then?" She asked.

Mr. Gold gave a short nod of assent.

"All right, good night." She smiled once more in response to another ripple of chills running up her back.

She grabbed her bag and left him.

He'd spent years without her. He'd grown used to his loneliness. He'd even begun to accept and tolerate his solitude. And, out of the godforsaken blue, she'd appeared. It was as if she'd assembled before his very eyes. Wasn't it what he had wanted? His solitude had changed him. He'd forgotten how lovely her mere presence had been to him. He had to make amends.

Rosalind's heart didn't stop racing until she was back at Lincoln Center. Perhaps she'd overestimated his kindness. Perhaps she'd mistaken his generosity for friendliness. Or perhaps she shouldn't have been snooping.

She had to face it: she sort of was. Who was this mysterious man? She had tried to google him but nothing had come up, especially without knowing his first name. How did he acquire this enormous house on the Upper East Side? Who on earth was he?

Rosalind was deep in thought as she climbed the stairs back up to the practice rooms. She found her friend at the barre.

"So?" Nina asked with an arched brow. "You're still alive, that's a good sign."

"He's a character, that's for sure." Rosalind sat on the floor slipped off her street shoes and began to put her pointe shoes on, "Very blunt, to the point. A little severe. He… caught me sneaking around."

"What? Rosalind!" Nina cried mid-plié, "Haven't you ever read any female detective books? Snooping happens in the third chapter, at least. Then you get locked in the basement."

"Sorry," she laughed as she joined her friend, "I didn't know there was a formula."

"So do you still have a job?"

"Yeah," she replied as she began a series of tendus, "I do. That's the strangest part. I was sure I'd be fired but he didn't do it. I'm going back on Monday. I need to supervise a transport of a tapestry to the Met."

"Wow." Nina breathed, "Are you sure he doesn't want to get into your pants? You know plenty of men hang around here hoping to get with a dancer."

"Please," Rosalind made an exasperated noise, "I don't think he's like that. He just seems like some lonely eccentric who needs some help organizing his art. I… I feel sorry for him."

"Why?"

"I… I don't know." Rosalind stopped her battements, "You know when you just have a feeling you can't shake?"

"Yes."

"I have this feeling," she said and turned to her friend, "When I look at him. It's like his eyes… I've known them forever. I have no idea why. Do you get that feeling ever?"

Nina sighed and dropped her hand from the barre, "Yes. With Tim."

"Tim?" Rosalind asked with a grin, "Really? Tim? He's –"

"He's not gay!" Nina protested, "You'd think I'd have good gaydar by now in this profession! I know what everyone says about him. The gay guys think he's gay! But he's not. Oh, is he not. We're getting married."

"Okay then!" Rosalind chuckled, "so I guess we're even. You have your … weird… thing going on with… Tim and I have mine."

"Good luck with that."

After a few hours of practice, Rosalind bid goodbye to Nina and hopped onto the train to go home. She climbed the three flights of worn marble stairs to get to her tiny apartment. Waiting for her on the door was a notice from the New York City Housing Court.

"What in the hell….?" She muttered as she read the notice. "I'm being evicted?"

"Yes." A voice stated from behind her.

Rosalind whirled around. It was Mrs. Ratched, her landlady.

"The cheque from the scholarship fund," the sour-looking woman mumbled, "from last month didn't go through. And neither did the one from this month."

"But—but I should have a first warning—"

"Collect your things and go."

"But—I have to go to court!"

"Collect your things!" Mrs. Ratched snarled, "I'm putting a padlock on this door tonight. So you can either collect your things or you can leave. I don't care."

Rosalind frowned.

"And I'm taking your security deposit."

"What?" The girl cried, "Why?"

"I got a complaint from the downstairs tenant today," the old woman explained with a satisfied sneer, "your toilet overflowed and caused extensive water damage. I'm taking all of your deposit to fix it."

Rosalind was speechless. Once again, she felt cursed. Deeply and irrevocably cursed.

"Fine. FINE." She said, "Take all of my money. Kick me out. Just let me get a few of my things."

The landlady grunted in assent.

Rosalind stormed through her water-stained apartment and hastily packed all of her clothes. She didn't have much and she at least was grateful that she'd had her ballet items (which were her only things of value) with her when this disaster happened.

The bed was expendable. The linens were old. Perhaps she could convince this Xanthippe of a landlady to let her back in to get a few more things after this trip.

What a day this had been.

Rosalind clumsily stuffed all of her bags into her grocery cart and hurried out. She let the door slam loudly behind her. The cart bounced down the stairs in a noisy clatter. She was shaking. She'd call Nina. Perhaps she could sleep on her dorm room floor for a while.

She scurried down the street to the subway station. She could hear a familiar squeal from below; a downtown train was pulling in. Rosalind raced through the turnstile just in time to squeeze through the closing doors. There was one thing, however, that did not make it. Her phone.

She turned just in time to see it clatter to the ground of the station and literally shatter into pieces. It had fallen out of her pocket. The train sped away and tears began to stream down her face. She cried all the way from 137th street to the 66th street stop.

Her face was swollen and red as she dragged her little cart around a desolate Lincoln Center. It was getting late. Rosalind went to the dorms and tried to get in but as she did not have a resident escort, she was denied access. She meandered around until she collapsed onto the edge of the fountain. Her spirit was breaking. She began to sob.

A cool wind blew through the plaza that made the tear trails on her face feel like ice..

"Miss French."

Rosalind gasped at the sudden voice.

"I didn't mean to frighten you." Mr. Gold appeared before her.

"No… no… you didn't."

"I feel it would be remiss of me if I didn't ask you what was wrong."

"My life. My life is wrong."

"Oh?"

"I just got evicted." Rosalind sniffed, "I just broke and lost my phone. Security wouldn't let me into the dorms. I can't call Nina. She's probably out anyway. Having fun with the rest of my friends. And now I can't get in touch with anyone and I have nowhere to go. I'm homeless."

"You're… homeless…" Mr. Gold gazed upon the beautiful creature in the stark moonlight.

"Yes. And I don't even think that's legal."

"It's not." He seethed, "who is your landlord? What is the address?"

"It's Mrs. Eleanor Ratched. 600 West 141st street." She answered, "But she's got connections with the Housing Court. She evicts people all the time—"

"—I'll take care of it." There was an edge to his tone.

Rosalind nodded meekly, "thank you."

"So, you need a h—er—you have nowhere to stay?"

"No."

"You can stay with me."

"Wh—what?"

"My home is very large." Mr. Gold tread carefully. "I have seven guest rooms. There is more than enough room."

She opened her mouth to speak but paused.

"And it would be beneficial to me to have you so close."

She looked at him confusedly.

"For work." He finished.

"Really?"

"If you'd so choose."

"Well," she allowed her lips to form a small grin, "it would be much closer to school – and a much nicer commute. Thank you, yes."

"It's done then."

"And it won't be for long." Rosalind assured him, "Just until I get another apartment."

"Of course."

"Can—can I stay tonight?"

Her voice was so sad, so broken. Her eyes were pleading. Gold felt the air rushing out of his lungs. It took every ounce of power he had to keep all the revelations on his tongue from escaping. It took every fiber of control he had to not clasp her to his chest forever. He nodded.

She rose from the fountain and wiped her eyes daintily.

"All right," she straightened her spine, "let's go home."

Gold echoed the word nearly inaudibly.

"So…." Rosalind narrowed her eyes a bit as they walked through the park, "what—what were you doing at Lincoln Center late at night?"

"I came to apologize," he said, "I didn't give you any rules of the house and it was unfair of me to treat you as I did. For that, I am sorry."

"Apology accepted," she was struck with unabashed surprise, "and let me apologize again—"

"No need, it is forgotten."

They continued in silence as they entered the house. Rosalind tried to quiet the squeaky wheels of her sad little cart but the noise echoed off of the cavernous corridors. She tried to suppress a bout of sudden giggles. Mr. Gold glanced back at her slightly perplexed.

"Sorry," she shook her head, "it's just… this day…and this stupid fucking cart. I just had to … laugh."

Rosalind gazed at Mr. Gold. He somehow didn't look like the type who would laugh a lot. If he did, she was certain it would sound very strange indeed.

The house at night seemed to hum even more intensely with that energy that Rosalind had felt the first day she'd been there. She trailed Mr. Gold up the marble staircase. He led her to a room on the east side of the house. He opened the door and switched on the light. Rosalind stifled a gasp. It was modern. No, it was traditional. It was both. It was classic.

The walls were a dusty grey. On one wall was an ornate Louis XIV limestone fireplace so common in houses of this age. Opposite of the fireplace was a large bed with a headboard upholstered in charcoal merino wool. There were parquet floors and plush rugs underfoot. The chest of drawers was four hundred years old. The chandelier was an art deco piece. Rosalind gazed longingly at the crisp white bed linens. She realized at that moment how tired she was.

"This is incredible!" She breathed, "Thank you. Thank you so much."

Gold could only gaze at her. He cleared his throat and refocused.

"This button," he indicated a device on the wall, "will call downstairs to my housekeeper, Mrs. Brazier. I'll leave you to get settled."

"I'm so grateful for this." She said, "I don't know how I can ever repay you."

The corner of his mouth flicked upward for a moment before settling back into a thin line

"Good night."

"Good night, Mr. Gold."

Thanks for reading! Stay tuned for chapter 3 as this story is just flying out of my mind and onto the keyboard! Reviews are always appreciated.