Rumpelstiltskin clapped his hands together, and the food came to life; the pot of soup elevated and stopped next to her, the ladle lifting up to tip a generous serving into her bowl before speeding down to the other end of the table. The bread knife started slicing of its own accord, and before long, both their plates were full and the food had settled back in the middle of the table again.
Belle looked up at him, beaming.
"Shall we start, then?" he asked.
She squinted at him. "What was that?" she called in an overly loud voice. "I can't hear your from all the way down here, you'll have to speak up."
He glared at her, waved his hand, and appeared in his chair at her left elbow, his entire meal before him as well and not a drop of soup spilled. She nodded her approval.
"Much better."
He gave a small tilt of his head and raised his glass to her. "To Belle, on this very special day," he stated simply, and she refused to acknowledge the way her stomach jumped when he said her name.
"To Rumpelstiltskin, the man," and here she looked pointedly at him, "who made a princess a maid, and then treated her like a princess anyway."
They clinked their glasses together, and ate.
Dinner took a beautifully long time to finish; when the soup wash finished, the dishes disappeared and were replaced by a flawless lemon tart which Rumpelstiltskin cut without magic and waved the platter away as soon as they each had a slice on their new, clean plates. Conversation ebbed and flowed in a pulsating motion, the silences sometimes awkward, but mostly just comfortable as the two ate. When the tart was finished, it was replaced by their tea set – it must be called their tea set by now – and he poured hers into the chipped cup and set it before her with a knowing smile that turned her hands to jelly and almost made the cup slip from her hands for a second time; but he caught it with magic, and giggled and teased her about how clumsy she was, and it was all undeniably perfect.
"Now," Rumpelstiltskin began when the tea had finally been finished and cleared away (no doubt it was all waiting in the kitchen to be washed up), "a birthday is not a birthday without four things, the first two of which are pleasant company and exquisite food, and I do believe we have succeeded in enjoying both." She had trouble stopping herself from gaping at his eloquent speech as he continued. "The third, however, is a gift, and I would have given it to you before dinner, but you unfortunately knocked me over so – " from beneath the table, he produced the small, red-wrapped, gold-ribboned box, and handed it gingerly over, shifting closer to her in his seat and leaving his forearms resting on the table, very close to hers. "Happy birthday, Belle." Her breathing was shallow, but she ignored her light-headedness and smiled up at him, turning the gift over. He was avoiding her eyes, looking down at their hands (so, so close together), nervously licking his lips in a way that made her stomach clench. His gaze darted up to her. "Well, open it."
She laughed and slowly began to untie the ribbon, unfold the paper. As she pulled them away, a black velvet box was revealed. She didn't need to look at Rumpelstiltskin to know he was watching her closely.
Lifting the lid, she gave a sharp intake of breath upon seeing the necklace that it held. The chain was undeniably spun by him, but it was the pendant that caught her attention. About the size of her thumb-nail, it was a perfectly sculpted rose, made of pale pink . . . it almost looked like diamond, though she dared not believe that. It was backed by gold plating, and she held it tenderly as she lifted it out of the box. "Rumpel, it-it's stunning!" she breathed.
He was staring at her when she looked up at him, and a moment passed before he blinked rapidly and tentatively reached forward. "Let me put it on for you," he said, with such uncertainty that it almost sounded like a question. Without hesitation, she turned her back to him, sweeping her hair over her shoulder and handing him the necklace as she did so. His left hand reached across her throat briefly and brought the chain around, and as he fumbled with the clasp at the base of her neck, she could feel his warmth but not his breathing, and she fought a smile at knowing that she wasn't the only one holding her breath.
"Thank you," she said, turning back to him, wanting to express her thanks with more words, but being stopped by the look on his face. He was almost gaping at her, his eyes wide and so full of wonder that she could not help thinking it was not just the necklace he thought to be beautiful.
After a long minute, he cleared his throat. "It, ah . . . it suits you," he muttered. Another tense pause, and then he clapped his hands, grinning. "But that's not all it does!" he exclaimed, and it was he showman's voice, but a special one, just for her. "If I may," he said, pointing at the necklace.
She looked at him in bemusement. "Um . . . yes?"
He almost leapt forward to touch the pendant, and she jerked a little at the sudden closeness. But then, as fast as he'd come towards her, he leant back, watching her with an excited little smirk on his face as she stared down at the rose. A tiny hole seemed to click open in its centre, and as she watched, pink mist flooded out of it and down on to the table in front of her. When the rose had been emptied of mist, it clicked shut again, and the substance swirled and solidified and cleared away to reveal . . . a book.
She picked it up, and opened to the first page. "The Snow Child," she read. She looked up at Rumpelstiltskin. "What is it?" she asked.
He shrugged. "It's a book, dearie! How am I to know what it's about?"
She giggled and turned to the next page, where the story began. Rolling his bug-eyes, Rumpelstiltskin reached over and took it from her before she could read even the first word. "Hey!" she protested.
"Ah, ah, ah. I'm explaining," he said, waggling his eyebrows at her. She sat back, and gave him a patient look. "This book," he said, motioning towards it, "is unlike any book you've ever known, dearie. Each time you touch the centre of that rose and think of the story which means to most to you, it will open, and the book will come out. However, each time it comes out, its pages will be filled with a different tale, a different – " he paused for dramatic effect – "adventure, as you so like to call them." He sat back again, looking pleased with himself.
Belle beamed at him. "What story did you think about, just then?" she asked.
"I created it, dearie, the rules don't apply to me."
And even though she knew he wasn't telling the truth, she didn't push him, because he would have told her if he'd wanted to.
She cleared her throat. "Now," she said, in a business-like tone, biting back a grin as he straightened automatically. "You mentioned something about a fourth element to a perfect birthday?"
He seemed torn between wanted to run away like a shy school-boy or to jam up his showman façade, and when his next words came, Belle was overjoyed to find he'd chosen a mixture of the two. "Well, what do you think the instruments are for?" he said, jumping to his feet. His eyes darted around the room before landing on her, and with a single swipe of his hand, the table disappeared. She felt nervous at the lack of solid wood to separate them.
At another snap of his fingers, the instruments into the corner sprung to life, filling the hall with rich, wonderful music; a waltz, if Belle wasn't very much mistaken. She stared at him as he bowed.
"Milady . . . if I may be so humble as to ask for this first dance?"
