She stared at it for a few moments before crumpling it up and banging her head gently back against the door. If she'd been back at her father's palace, she'd be in her dressing room with several maids prepping her for her birthday ball. Twenty-four wasn't a significant age by any means, but as a princess, every birthday was received with the utmost extravagance and celebration. Her dress probably would have been one of traditional ruby, her neck and wrists and ears and hair dripping with jewels; princes would have been coming from nameless countries, with unabashed hopes of winning her hand, for beauty or for kingdom alliances, despite her engagement to Gaston. Perhaps, if her day had been spent with Rumpelstiltskin, she could have said honestly she was glad to be here rather than there, but as it was . . . she could not help thinking wistfully on the company she would be in were she at the palace.

The door swung open behind her, and she almost fell backwards.

Rising to her feet and smoothing down her dress, Belle made her way through the castle to the main dining hall where she knew Rumpelstiltskin would be waiting. As she gently pushed open the last door, she looked at her feet, refraining from searching for him with wanting eyes. He would come to her if he wanted attention.

She glanced up for a brief second, and he came into view, a lot closer than she expected.

And she looked.

And she saw.

And she stared.

The hall was adorned with candles; they sat in rows on the window sills, the stair case, the shelves, and hung suspended by magic upside down from the ceiling, not a single drop of wax escaping. The dining table was meticulously laid with a red cloth, two plates set, one at either end, complete with rows of silver cutlery and exquisite wine glasses. In the middle was a huge tureen of steaming soup, and all manner of breads, meats, cheeses and marinated vegetables, enough food to feed an army. The corner of the room usually taken up by her master's spinning wheel – why, she'd never seen it anywhere else – was occupied by a cluster of instruments; a cello, a violin, a harp, a flute and a double bass, standing without instrumentalists to hold them up. The walls were adorned with hangings of gold thread, woven meticulously to form tresses that just barely brushed the floor.

And then she looked at Rumpelstiltskin again, and her jaw nearly dropped.

He was wearing . . . she didn't know. She'd never seen him in anything other than his thick, scaly vests with the high collars that did nothing but contribute to his foreboding façade. But now . . . now he was clothed in a low v-neck vest over what she presumed to be a white cotton shirt. Over this was a deep blue dress jacket, complete with gold trimming and tails that hung just below his rather superb behind; his pants were just as black as usual, but not made of leather, and his boots were more simple, without the pointy details. His hair was just as untamed as always, his eyes just as beady, his skin just as thick and textured, and none of it mattered a single bit because he was looking at her with a smirk that wasn't part of his usual act, but one of you didn't see this coming and I got you. In his hand was a small box wrapped in red paper and a gold silk ribbon. Her eyes finally met his.

"Happy birthday, dearie," he said, and even though he used his showman's voice, the look on his face told her he'd wanted to say her name.

She could barely speak. "Rumpel . . . I-I don't know what to say . . ."

He gave her a look and clicked his fingers at her. That familiar purple mist engulfed her body, cool and soothing as it swirled around her; she couldn't see what it was doing, but as it dissipated, she felt clean again, devoid of sweat and aches. And when she looked down, she nearly cried, for she was wearing the dress, the one they'd met in, only better, new and improved; a more dazzling gold, more extravagant detail in the beading, more flattering in the waist and chest, puffing out in the skirt which had been so deflated last time she'd worn it. Reaching up to touch her hair, she found it silky and smooth and laced with the gold thread he spent so much time spinning, done up in that twirling, half-bun style she loved so much and saved for special occasions. Pressing her lips together, she felt a thin sheen of make-up coating them, and knew her eyes were the same; so little that one would hardly notice it, but enough to accentuate her features, just as she would have chosen had she applied it herself.

She gave up on speaking, and flung her arms around him, the Dark One, her master, the man who had so many titles and made so many deals and hurt so many people, all because no one had showed him love in such a long, long time. But to her he was Rumpelstiltskin, the man of strange kindness who hadn't quite figured out how to deliver a proper smile and could only express feelings in overwhelming displays of magic. And so she held him for just a little longer than might be deemed appropriate, and whispered a thank you into his tangled mess of hair, and when she pulled away, he was looking at her with such wonder and disbelief that she thought she might cry again.

So she laughed instead, breathy and excited. "How did you do all this," she exclaimed, suddenly needing a reason to pull away from him. She looked up at the ceiling, marvelling at how the candles just hung there, superbly bright and never dripping.

He gave an amused snicker, and the tension was gone. "Well, you must know the answer to that, dearie."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, magic, I know, but . . . how did you think it all up?"

"I'll tell you over dinner," he grinned, extending an arm to her with a short bow. Blushing now, she took it, and let him lead her over to one end of the table, let him pull out her chair and help her into it. Watching as he made his way to the other end – it suddenly seemed so far away – she couldn't keep the smile off her face. Not that she wanted too.