She slept, but she hadn't slept well - and now, she was antsy.

The cellar was dark, but not pitch-black as it'd been the night before. Little strands of light snuck between the boards of the cellar door, brightening it just enough for them to be able to see–just enough for her to see how calm Robin was and how unbothered he seemed by the uncertainty the day brought.

She'd never been good at sitting still, and it unnerved her to watch him whittle away at a branch, slowly but surely turning it into an arrow.

So, she paced–back and forth, back and forth–along the short length of the cellar, her mind spinning.

Now that she was dry and rested, she no longer had a distraction–all she could think of was that she was living on stolen time, and that any minute the cellar doors could burst open, that she'd be discovered and killed right there on the spot.

"Would you please stop pacing?"

She blinks as she looks to Robin, watching as his knife skims down the thin stip of wood as he slowly twirls it between his fingers. "It's not like there's much else to do." She sighs, her hands settling on her hips as her jaw tightens. "You're not exactly a riveting conversationalist."

"Oh," he murmurs, his voice low and hushed. "I'm sorry I didn't come up with a more entertaining escape plan." Her eyes roll and her tongue clicks. "And I'm sorry I'm not willing to risk both of our lives talking." He gestures to the cellar door above them. "I'm not sure that you've considered this–given your penchant for witchcraft–but typically, the ground doesn't speak."

"That's such a–"

"Look, we only have a few more hours til dusk and–"

"A few?" she asks, her brows arching quizzically. "That's quite the understatement! There's no way it's even noon yet."

Robin sighs and his eyes roll. "Regardless, I'd like to actually live to see dusk."

Bristling, she crosses her arms tightly over her chest and looks to the cellar doors. He does have a valid point, and it wasn't long ago she heard the dogs barking as they ran ahead of a search party–and thought it'd been an uncomfortable hinderance, she was glad for the rain and its ability to wash away her scent. Then, in a huff, she looks back to him–and just before she's about to concede his point, she remembers watching him pick the lock of the cellar. She'd been impressed by how quickly he'd managed it, and now she knew that it wasn't the first time he'd done such a thing or–

Her thoughts halt as a realization settles upon her. "It's not even locked!"

"What?"

"This cellar," she hisses. "You picked the lock!"

"My pick was easier to find in my pocket than the key."

"Robin! That means–"

"A friend locked it."

"What? How would–"

"I had a plan, alright?" he interjects, finally looking up at her. "As I pointed out before, I'd been watching."

Her eyes narrow. "That's creepy, you know."

"Mm, very well, but it saved your ass." She gasps, feigning shock at his foul language–but Robin only rolls his eyes. "I told my friend John to check the cellar before dawn, just in case I had to bring you here."

"Just in case?"

He nods. "I hoped we'd get farther, back to my camp but–"

"And where is that?"

"Away from Salem." He pauses. "Near the Wampanoag."

Her eyes widen. "But they're–"

"Perfectly civilized and damn good hunters." He pauses, his eyes narrowing. "Far more civilized than the good, godly men who ordered your death."

Shifting a bit uncomfortable, she nods. Never in her life had she had any interaction with the native people who surrounded the colony; but Leopold often likened her to them when he caught her burning incense or reciting chants. He called her a savage and damned, a brute and barely human.

"I believe it," she tells him, her voice suddenly meek. "So, you're… you're sure your friend locked it?"

"Positive," he replies, gingerly rising up on his feet. "And I'll prove it."

Regina watches as Robin gets up and moves toward the cellar doors above them, climbing up a few stairs as he reaches up above himself to push on the cellar doors. "See, it's–"

Robin doesn't finish the sentence.

Instead, his voice is replaced by a high-pitched squeal and fluttering–and as her eyes widen and her head cocks to the side for a better look, she sees a tiny bat fly away from the door. She grins as she watched the frightened bat relocate itself across the cellar–but Robin remains on the stairs, a shrill noise escaping him as he shakes his head and limbs wildly, trying to clear away the bat that's no longer anywhere near him, hitting away the air as his face turns red.

And all she can do is laugh as she wonders who screamed louder, Robin or the frightened bat–and as she considers this, she laughs to the point of tears.

"What the–" He stops, blinking at her as he pants. "What the hell was–"

"It was a bat," she laughs, motioning behind herself to where the wide-eyed bat hangs. "And I'm pretty sure it's a baby one, at that."

Robin stares indignantly at her. "Those things are known to suck the blood from–"

Her eyes roll. "Unless you're a tomato, you have nothing to worry about."

"Excuse me?"

"Bats eat fruit, not… people."

His eyes narrow as he draws in a long breath, slowly exhaling it as he comes down from the stairs. "And how would you know that?"

"Well, I am a witch, and everyone knows that witches have an affinity for other creatures of the night." Robin just stares at her, still attempting to recover his breath, and her eyes roll. "Seriously, though, the only thing that poor little thing is going to do is steal your snacks and protect you from cockroaches."

Again, Robin's eyes go wide. "Excuse me?"

"Did you say you lived in a camp in the woods?" she asks, waiting for him to nod in reply. "That's… somewhat alarming. You–"

"Can we just… change the subject?" he asks, cutting him as he sits down on the bench, placing his hands on knees as he draws in deliberate breaths. "To literally anything else."

"Fine," she murmurs, sighing a little as she realizes her distraction has ended. "Does this mean you're willing to talk to me?"

"Was I ever unwilling?"

"Well, this morning–"

"Look, we need to be quiet," he tells her, watching as she sits down beside him. "It's nothing personal, it's just… well… after everything, I'd like both of us to live to see another day."

"You mentioned." For a moment, they're both quiet, and from the corner of her eye, she can see him staring at her with narrow eyes as if sizing her up. "What? Why are you–"

"How did you get into it?"

"What?"

"Witchcraft."

"Oh," she murmurs, somewhat taken aback. "It's… it's all I've ever known."

"So your parents–"

"My mother," she corrects. "My mother practiced it."

"Not your father?"

"I never knew him. He died before I was born. He was a privateer and he rescued my mother from a shipwreck near Barbados. That's how they met."

"Was your mother–"

"She was English, but her father was curious about faraway lands."

"So, he took her along on his voyage."

"Mmhmm," she nods, conjuring hazy memories of her childhood on the island. "She always wanted to get away, but…"

"The shipwreck foiled her attempt?"

"Yes, and then she had me, and then my father died and–"

"I'm surprised she didn't practice a Christian faith."

"I'm not," she admits. "To me it was… just magic. She'd burn herbs and damn people, and… I liked the way it smelled and the songs she'd sing and… and a maid taught me."

"A maid?" he asks, sounding surprised. "Why not your mother?"

"She practiced something that was dark. What my maid taught me was… all about healing and–"

"Magic."

"Mmhmm."

"And how did you end up here and not… well… um… there."

A little grin edges onto her lips at the awkwardness of his question, and when she looks over at him, he seems genuinely curious. So, she tells him–or at least, she tells him what she knows. She explains that her mother had never been happy in Barbados, and blamed her father for having to stay–though, that never quite added up since she stayed so long after his death.

It seemed there was no way out, and Cora Mills had been resigned to that. However, as she gave up on her own fate, she seemed to push her hopes and expectations onto her daughter–and when Regina turned seventeen, she'd heard a rumor of a ship coming to the island. The ship was commissioned by Leopold Blanchard–an incredibly wealthy and powerful widower. They'd known each other when they were young, and from what she gathered, her mother had once been fond of him. But the reunion wasn't meant for them–and instead, when the Blanchard's ship docked on the island, it became all too clear that a maid wasn't the only thing Leopold Blanchard came to the island for.

She wasn't sure if it just happened or if it was some convoluted plan, but nonetheless, it completely shocked her. The wedding happened before she could even process it, and by the time Leopold Blanchard set sail again, he had a new, young bride–and that was the only time her mother ever told her that she was proud of her.

The voyage went smoothly, but that was the only part of the transition that did; and she soon learned of both her husband's cruelty and expectations for her.

And she bucked against them whenever she could.

"Is that why you don't go to church?" he asks, his voice soft and not at all accusatory. "Is that why you… well… why you practice… what you do?"

"You won't go to hell just for saying it," she tells him, giggling softly. "And, yes… to both of your questions."

"I just… don't want to be insulting."

She blinks, unused to that sort of courtesy. "How about you?" she hears herself ask. "How did you end up in the life you did? It's not exactly–"

"The life of a god-fearing man?"

"No."

He grins. "I don't remember all of it," he tells her. "We have that in common."

"That's hard, isn't it? Not even knowing your own story?"

Robin nods. "That's why I decided that I was going to decide the rest, and not let anyone else do it for me."

"What do you mean?"

"Just… my parents came here involuntarily." Her eyes widen. "It seems my penchant for theft was one that was passed on through the generations."

"Your parents were thieves?"

"My father, yes," he tells her, nodding. "They didn't make it."

It takes a moment for her to understand, and when she does, her breath catches in her chest. "Oh, I'm–"

"Don't apologize for it. I barely remember it."

"Still–"

"Well, the captain of the ship took me in and wanted me to work off the passage."

"How old were you?"

"Seven."

"Oh, that's awful."

"It was," he agrees, nodding. "That's why I ran away."

"At seven?"

"Well, I gave until I was eight–"

"That makes it so much better then."

He grins at her sarcasm. "I thought so, at the time."

"Not now?"

"Not after the second day," he laughs. "I was starving by the next morning, but too stubborn to go back."

"So, what happened?"

"An old Wampanoag woman took pity on me. She was recently made a widow, and I think she was looking for a distraction. So, she took me in and fed me and gave me something dry to put on, and… raised me. She'd argue that she's still raising me."

"That explains–"

He laughs gently and nods. "She's not very fond of my thievery, but she always forgives me."

"And you were… going to take me there?" she asks, touched that he'd take her–a stranger and a convict–to a place so personal and special. "That's–"

"I watched you once, performing a sort of ritual. You were burning herbs and breathing in the smoke, and looking up at the sky, swaying. It's–"

"Something my maid taught me when I was a little girl."

"The Wampanoag do something similar, just not alone."

"I have no one to do it with. It's to summon–"

"Courage," he supplies–and she nods as a slow smile edges onto her lips as they find a moment of understanding. Then, to her surprise, he reaches for the pine torch he'd lit the night before. "Here," he says, voice somewhat gruff. "It's not the same but–"

"You want me to…"

"It seems to me we could use all the courage the two of us can muster." Regina watches as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little pine stick. He strikes it against the wall, and a moment later, a little flame flickers at the end of it. Her eyes widen at it and he grins, shrugging. "A little something I picked up from a trader."

"Picked up?"

He nods. "From his pocket. While he slept."

"Ah–"

"You should do the honors," he tells her, carefully transferring the little stick from his fingertips to hers, and then, as she draws in a breath, she lights the pine needles, already comforted by the ancient tradition she's not even sure she truly believes in–yet, as she looks between Robin and the flame, in that moment, she can't help but believe in it fully.