Chapter 7

It was nice to have someone around in the evening, Belle reflected. She and Astrid had eaten supper while watching TV—something Astrid confessed she'd never done before. "If I wasn't at the hospital or doing my duties at the convent, I was studying," the young fairy admitted. "First for the novitiate," she rolled her eyes slightly, "and later… well, Blue kept telling me I'd never make godmother if I didn't apply myself." She smiled sadly. "I guess she was right on that one. She just never mentioned that I probably didn't have it in me, no matter how hard I tried."

"Now, you don't know that," Belle protested.

Astrid was still smiling. "Yes, I do. And I probably would have recognized it sooner if I'd ever had the chance to try anything else. But she scuttled that," she added with a hint of bitterness.

"Are you and…" Belle hesitated, wondering whether Grumpy was still Grumpy or if he'd decided to go by 'Dreamy' again, "Leroy," she continued, playing it safe, "seeing each other now?"

Astrid didn't answer immediately. "I think so," she said slowly. "I mean… I hope so. I think. I…" She let out a breath. "When he told me, all those years ago, that he wasn't coming with me to see the fireflies, he broke my heart. And even though I know the whole story now," she sucked in a breath and let it out. "I mean, I couldn't stand up to Blue back then; that's why we were going to sneak off together. And from what Leroy said to me last night, he had to face Blue and Bossy. I can't blame him for giving in. I shouldn't."

"But you do," Belle said softly, understanding.

"A little," she admitted. Then, hastily, "But I still love him!"

"I know," Belle said. "Believe me."

"I want to," Astrid said. "But how can you kn… Oh!" She focused her attention fully on Belle with dawning comprehension. "You too?"

"Yeah," Belle's confession was barely audible. "M-me too."

"Nobody ever said that love could be this… complicated," Astrid said, squeezing Belle's hand fiercely. Belle squeezed back.

Space, Many years ago…

Bené forced down a wave of dread. He had to stay calm, for the children's sake if nothing else. He cleared his mind, closed his eyes, and took several deep breaths. Mercifully, the lights came on again, albeit markedly dimmer than before. "Is everyone all right?" he asked. He was gratified to realize that he sounded concerned, but that no hint of fear breached his emotional defenses. He was the only adult in the vicinity. If the children picked up on the terror that gripped him now, then they would only amplify it. And among these children were those whose mental abilities would allow them to project their feelings onto others. Perhaps even to the crew.

Slowly, the answers trickled back. "What happened?"

The Apprentice hoped that the smile in his voice would reassure them. "I'm going to find out," he said. He moved to the box on the wall—intercom, Trimble had called it—and groped for the button that would activate it. "What is our status?" he asked in a clipped tone.

The pilot—Bené had never even bothered to ask his name—answered at once.

"Are you all uninjured down there?"

"For the moment. What happened?"

There was a long pause punctuated by a crackle of… Trimble had called it 'static'. "Well," the pilot said, "the good news is that we're now through that door and it closed behind us before Malagant could follow. Unfortunately, he blasted us with… something. I don't think it was fire exactly. As I understand it, flames can't last out here."

"Magical flames may not follow that rule," Bené admitted. "But leave that. How damaged are we?"

The pilot hesitated. And though his voice remained calm and steady, there was no mistaking the seriousness of his tone. "That's the bad news. We're leaking fuel."

Bené's hands went ice-cold. "Am I to understand," he began heavily, ignoring another crackle, "that…"

"I think I can still land us," the pilot said. "But we aren't going to make it to Misty Valley as we are. I need you to jettison the pods."

"Are you quite certain?"

The pilot's voice remained even, assurance audible despite the static that grew louder and more pronounced with every moment. "It'll give all of us our best chance. If you jettison the pods now, they'll land in the ocean. They should hit close enough to shore to be detected by local crafts which will pick them up. And without the weight of the pods and their cargo—human and otherwise—I think we might just barely reach the landing coordinates."

"I understand," Bené said. "But once the inhabitants of this realm see the pods, they'll…" He smiled. "Lifeboats."

Trimble had given him the plans for those as well—made of a strange, slippery fabric, something like the rubber Merlin occasionally procured from those merchants who traveled the south caravan route. There was one stowed in each escape pod. The pods could seat twelve adults or twenty children. The boats would seat the same number.

"Exactly. Bené," the pilot said sharply, "does each pod have at least one person aboard who'll be able to inflate the boat?"

Every passenger over the age of nine could. Bené frowned, remembering. Not all of the children he'd escorted here had been happy about it. Several had pleaded to stay behind. He'd refused them… But now he thought of it, he hadn't seen them enter any of the pods either! Hastily, he peered into each of the open pods. His breath caught when he took in the inhabitants of the seventh. If any of the others… but no. The other eleven pods were fine. "Pod G," he relayed. "The oldest aboard can't be more than six. I could move one of the others—"

"No," the pilot cut him off. "No, there's no time to start mixing things up now. You go with them."

"But—"

"You can't fly this thing and I don't need you here. The children do. Watch out for them, Bené. Make sure they have their star-cases with the maps. And when they're able to seek us out," the static was even louder now. Bené had to strain to make out the pilot's instructions through the noise, "make sure that they know… that the watchword… is…" Another crackle almost completely drowned out the pilot's final word. Almost, but not quite.

Castaway.

Rumple had much to reflect on that night. Was he self-sabotaging again? It would scarcely be surprising if he was. Any time that his fortunes seemed poised to take a turn for the better, he never failed to stumble and fall flat on his face. If he was extremely fortunate, he merely ended up where he'd been in the first place and not even farther behind.

Becoming the Dark One had made the pattern more obvious, but that had been but one poor decision—a link in a chain of poor decisions both earlier and later.

Everything had been going so well. What had possessed him to kick that hornet's nest?

He wondered whether he could talk it over with Belle. He did want to; he'd have to be a fool not to see that she was upset that he still wasn't opening up to her the way he had previously. The irony was that 'previously' he'd never let on just how much he was keeping from her. She'd been happy with him because she'd been blissfully unaware of his plots and schemes. And now… well, he was still closing himself off, still keeping things from her, but at least, he was being open about it.

He sucked in his breath. She was going to find out about this; if not from him, then from her father. He thought he could rely on Regina's discretion. In fact, he was almost positive he could. Moe French was altogether a different matter.

Rumple sighed. He might no longer be the Dark One, but he was still a coward. And since he hadn't had the nerve to discuss his plans with Belle earlier, things were only going to be worse when she learned what he'd done. He'd deceived her too many times and far too recently. He'd kept things from her, hidden his plans beneath a web of glib talk and misdirection, and now, even though he'd meant well… Well, hadn't that been his excuse so many time before?

The fact that he truly had been trying to do the right thing this time wasn't going to help. She'd accuse him of reverting and…

…And maybe he was. Maybe he just couldn't help himself.

Maybe he was still cursed, after all.

Maybe, he should reach out and discuss this with… He shook his head. No, he really didn't want to talk this over with anyone. Not even anyone who had promised to be there for him if he needed a listening ear. He wasn't going to call that number on his phone.

But knowing that it was there, knowing that it was an option, did make him feel marginally better. And perhaps, a cup of tea and a good night's sleep might help.

Things might look better in the morning.

Maybe.

Pacific Ocean, U.S. Coastal Waters, 11.8 nautical miles off the coast of Washington State, many years ago.

Bené had never experienced freefall before, and certainly not for hours unending. Years later, he would learn how lucky he and the others had been, that had they been traveling even slightly faster, had the outer hull been even slightly weaker, they might have burned up in the atmosphere above and never survived the landing. As it was, when they hit, they hit hard.

Most of the children screamed. Bené wouldn't remember doing so himself, but he would subsequently wonder whether some sense of dignity had blotted out that part of his recollection. And then a small hand slipped into his. "Uncle Bené?" a small voice said hesitantly in his mind. "Is this our new home?"

He took a breath. "It's Tia, isn't it?" he said. He'd recognized the little girl almost at once when he'd slid into the seat beside hers, but he sometimes had a poor memory for names.

"Yes."

"Hi!" a new voice chimed in. "I'm Tony!"

And even a harrowing descent and a rough landing couldn't dampen the exuberance in the boy's voice. Bené smiled. "Well, Tony," he said aloud, "and Tia," he added, "I believe we have a task ahead of us. We need to get the hatch open and the lifeboat out."

"And then?" Tia asked, still in his mind.

"Then, we need to get into the boat and await rescue."

He didn't want to think what might happen if none was forthcoming. But even if help did arrive, the local authorities would have questions. And children were not always circumspect in their answers. Bené weighed his options. Then he took a small vial from within the folds of his robe. "Is there any flatbread in rations?" he asked.

A boy with unruly sandy curls, who looked to be about six, reached over his head and pulled down a survival pack. "I think so, Uncle," he replied, unfastening the ties. A moment later, Bené held a cloth-wrapped package in his hands, clearly labeled. He opened it and smiled. Twenty-four children in the pod. Yes, there was enough food and potion. It would do.

"What are you doing, Uncle Bené?" Tony asked, as he drizzled the potion over the bread.

"You must be hungry," Bené remarked. "Here." He tore off a piece of the flat bread and handed it to the boy. "And for the rest of you," he went on, ripping off chunks and passing them around. The draught was odorless, tasteless, and harmless. But it would make the children open to suggestion for a short period of time. And unlike other means of altering consciousness such as hypnosis, it would not require regular reinforcement.

The children took the proffered food readily enough. Once they'd consumed it, Bené waited several minutes until he could be sure it had taken effect. Then he smiled sadly.

"Once you leave this vessel," he said, "you will forget. You will forget Camelot and the Pebble Islands. You will forget everything of your lives before leaving this escape pod, retaining only your names, your ages, and the need to retain your star-cases, no matter what happens."

"I don't have mine," a small voice piped up.

Bené regarded the speaker gravely. "Have you a sibling with you, Alexander?"

The little boy shook his head.

The Apprentice looked about. "Are there any here with a brother or sister in this pod?" A half-dozen hands shot up. He didn't know most of the names, so perhaps it was unfair of him to single out the two he did. But decisions needed to be made and he wasn't about to suggest drawing straws.

"Tony," he said, "give Alexander your star-case. And now, you must ensure that your sister keeps hers and that you stay with her." He took a breath. "You will each remember the importance of the star-cases, but you will forget the map concealed behind the front panel. Someday, somehow, those maps will make themselves known to you and when that occurs, you will begin to remember who you are and where you come from. You will remember," he added, remembering the pilot's words, "the name 'Castaway'. So long as you retain that much, your people will always find you." He looked at the children, committing each face to his own memory. "Do you understand?"

A chorus of yeses greeted his question.

"Very well." He nodded to the six-year-old who had handed him the flatbread. "It's time to open the hatch."

Belle awakened in the middle of the night, or, going by the red digital display on the alarm clock by her bedside table, the wee hours of the morning. Everything was stiff and sore and she could barely rouse herself to stumble to the bathroom. Astrid was sound asleep and snoring softly, almost musically. It wasn't an unpleasant sound, but Belle didn't think she was likely to fall back to sleep now.

Sighing, she made her way to her small kitchen. She didn't want herbal tea, nor any drink likely to keep her awake. As a child, she'd occasionally enjoyed a mug of warm milk, but while it wouldn't be unwelcome now, she thought she'd rather something less… mundane. She pondered for a moment. Then she remembered something that Anna had purchased for her before they'd set out to visit the rock trolls. It had been a warm drink, milk-based, yes, but sweeter with an aniseed flavoring. Thoughtfully, she picked up her phone from the counter where it had been charging and brought up Google. Here it was. "Anijsmelk," she said aloud. "Anise milk. I suppose that's descriptive. And fairly easy to make; it's just milk, honey, and aniseed." She didn't have whole milk, unfortunately, but two percent would suffice; the drink simply wouldn't taste as rich. She smiled as she eased herself out of the chair and took a small saucepan down from an upper cabinet. She was rather partial to anise as a flavoring, for all that it seemed to be a taste that most people she knew loved to hate. It oughtn't to be any odder than adding cinnamon to chocolate—a combination that Belle had a hard time wrapping her own head about. To each their own.

As she got the milk out of the fridge and poured it, first into a measuring cup, and then into the saucepan, she found herself thinking back to her father's visit and wondering what she ought to do, or if she ought to do anything.

Rumple hadn't consulted her, it was true, but then he seldom did. She shouldn't be surprised or hurt by it; he'd always been close-mouthed about his affairs, even around her. But he was supposed to be trying to change.

And she was supposed to be trying to trust him.

Trying to change didn't necessarily mean being more open and above-board about everything in short order. They were both still working on getting to know one another all over again, including the parts of themselves they'd tried not to let show. She still didn't know for sure how much of her feelings for Rumple had been for him and how much for the Dark One who'd resided within him. And, at least to herself, she could admit that she was more than a little frightened of what she might find out. Because if she was attracted to Darkness in some way, however slight, and Rumple had lost that part of him… She didn't want to be one more person he'd thought loved him only to reject him. She'd already rejected him too many times and this second chance had not been granted her easily.

But it was one thing to be attracted to Darkness and another to turn a blind eye to…

Rumple had never liked her father. So why had he sought him out today? Yesterday. Whatever, it might be after midnight, but it still felt like the middle of the night. Father hadn't believed that—or cared whether—Rumple's show of remorse had been genuine.

Belle cared.

Was her husband truly trying to make amends for the past…

…Or was he trying to exact some sort of retribution in a way that made him seem like the hero and her father, the villain?

And really, with or without Darkness fueling Rumple's motives, either option might be valid.

She could talk to him.

She could, but even asking for an explanation could be perceived as a lack of trust. And right now, after everything he'd been through, not just with her, not just in the last few months, but for nearly his entire life, the last thing he probably needed was to suspect that the people he'd finally come to believe in and rely upon still questioned his every action, as though they were waiting for him to fail.

If she brought the subject up with him, she'd have to do so in a way that wouldn't put him on the defensive. Emma and August seemed so good at that. Or, at least, he seemed more willing to discuss his reasons with them. Was it because they knew how to draw him out? Or was it because their rejection of his arguments would hurt him nearly as much as hers might? Probably, Belle allowed, it was a bit of both.

So, how could she make him feel safe enough to open up to her, when she wasn't entirely sure that she wouldn't reject a truth she didn't want to hear?

She couldn't.

And she couldn't go back to her father and try to get him to tell her objectively what had happened, without coloring his account with past recriminations and current accusations.

Emma and August would sympathize with her. They'd understand. They'd try to help her find positive slants for Rumple's actions—something she was having no trouble doing on her own; she just wanted to be certain that such views were warranted.

So, she needed to talk to someone who'd actually been there.

She squeezed honey into a tablespoon, stirred it into the simmering milk and aniseed, and repeated the action. She needed to talk to Regina.

The children were frightened. They were island dwellers; they knew their way around fishing boats well enough, but they'd never seen a craft like this. No sail, entirely made of fabric—and not canvas sailcloth, made from cotton or hemp. No, this was slick and slippery, difficult for small hands to grip. It was fortunate that each child also wore a jacket made from similar fabric that kept them afloat in these rough waters. And that all but the very smallest could, if not swim, then at the very least, tread water.

"My case!" a little girl's anguished cry caught Bené's attention. Tia's hair was soaking wet, which made it appear darker. He might not have known her, were it not for her younger brother, already aboard the inflatable lifeboat, and holding fast to the back of her floatation jacket. Bené saw the star-case, bobbing just out of her reach.

"Stay there," he called. "I'll get it." He had a toddler on each shoulder and he thrashed his way over to the lifeboat to deposit them. He knew how to swim, but he was glad of his own floatation jacket.

Without the added weight of the children, he reached the case with swift, sure, strokes. As he turned to bring it back to its owner, he caught sight of something welcome: an approaching vessel. To Bené's eyes, it was a metal fortress gliding toward them. He could just make out the image of a flag painted on its hull. Trimble's ship had born such a device. They were saved.

And then, another thought struck him. No government would consider a boatload of small children to be spies or invaders. When they proved unable to answer questions about who they were, where they were from, or how they'd come to be adrift in the water, doubtless, it would be assumed that the older ones were too traumatized and the younger too inarticulate. They would be looked after. Perhaps adopted, perhaps apprenticed, but they would be taken in and cared for.

But only if he wasn't with them.

He was an adult and old enough to give an accounting of himself. He might feign memory loss for a time, but sooner or later, these authorities would realize that he was not of them. They would have suspicions he wouldn't know how to begin to allay. And those suspicions would extend to anyone found with him.

Bené looked at the approaching ship. He looked at the lifeboat filled with frightened children. And he made his decision. The children needed their best chance. And Tia? Tia needed her star-case, particularly since her brother no longer had his. He paddled back to the lifeboat and passed the case into the child's outstretched hand. As soon as he knew that she'd grasped its strap tightly, he smiled.

And then, he let himself fall backwards below the surface of the water.

He could hold his breath for nearly three minutes without difficulty. Thanks to his master's lessons, he could create a portal in less than one. By the time the rescue ship reached the lifeboat, Bené was gone.

He would spend the next few years mostly in the realm of Misthaven, a land which its own denizens called 'The Enchanted Forest'.

"So," Belle said, "it-it's not that I don't trust him. I mean, I-I want to. But he and my father… I mean, the way they feel about each other, I don't know what the real story is or what actually happened yesterday. And since you were there…"

Regina regarded Belle coolly. "I take it you haven't discussed things with Rumple, then."

Belle shifted guiltily in her chair. "Not yet. I…" she colored slightly. "I feel like I'm so afraid of doing things wrong that I don't know how I dare to do anything. If I ask him about it, he might think I'm trying to interrogate him. Or that I feel like he went behind my back."

"Do you?" Regina asked.

Belle sucked in her breath. "I'm trying not to."

Regina sighed. "You realize that this is putting me in a difficult position. Because I'm not sure I ought to be going behind his back. If he hasn't told you yet, it might not be my place."

Belle looked up slightly. "Might not be?" she echoed, nearly pouncing on the hint that the mayor was wavering.

Regina sighed again. "Would it help if I were to tell you that Rumple's going to see your father was only remotely connected with you?"

A puzzled frown came to the librarian's face. "Then… why…?"

Now it was Regina's turn to shift in her chair. And Belle thought she must be imagining the guilty look in her eyes. After all, Regina seldom felt guilty about anything. Why, even when she'd apologized to Belle for locking her up for thirty years, Belle warranted that it had stemmed, not from remorse, but from expedience. If saying a few words and seeming to mean them got her closer to foiling Zelena's plans, then they were words well-spoken. But that didn't mean that Regina regretted her past misdeeds.

Regina didn't answer for a moment. Then, hesitantly, she asked, "Have either your father or Rumple ever told you the reason for the animosity between them?"

Belle blinked. "They didn't have to. Back in our land, when the Ogre War reached our duchy, I'd persuaded Father to write to the Dark One and plead for his help. Rumple named me as his price. I accepted over Father's protests." She shook her head slightly. "Father called him a beast. Rumple laughed at him." Her forehead creased in frown. "Are you saying that there's more to it than that?"

Regina nodded reluctantly. "Quite a bit more, in fact. When you burst in here, you asked a question I didn't answer, if you'll recall."

Belle nodded back. 'Bursting' probably was the best turn of phrase for it; she'd stormed into the mayor's office without bothering to knock and asked—demanded, rather—to know why Rumple had gone to her father and why Regina had gone with him. Regina had reacted by looking her up and down coolly, in a way that made her feel like a child being dressed down by her etiquette tutor before calmly inviting her to sit down and making her a cup of tea. Belle reached for the cup now, even though the liquid that remained had gone cold.

"All right. I suppose, I may as well just come out and say it. The terms Rumple set for his assistance certainly didn't start proceedings on the right foot. But that's not the reason for your father's animosity." She took another breath and let it out. Then she looked Belle directly in the eye and said firmly, "I am."

Ten minutes later, Belle practically ran out of the Storybrooke town hall, trying to put as much distance as she could between herself and that building before she broke down utterly. All that time when she'd been chained in Regina's tower and later, locked up in the hospital basement, Rumple had thought that her father had… And then, Regina had prompted her father to rob… And Rumple had…

And Regina had just sat there, calmly, coolly, telling her all of this and finishing with an apology that, granted, had sounded more heartfelt than the one she'd extended a few short months earlier, but one Belle felt far less inclined to accept.

Rumple had never been the only monster in Storybrooke. He hadn't even been the most monstrous. Well. If Belle never had to sit across a table from Regina again, it would be too soon. She and the mayor were done and that was all there was to it.

"I should've cheered that wraith on," she muttered. She was almost at the shop and she took a moment to compose herself before she reached it.

Rumple was behind the counter, polishing the glass top with a dust rag, which he set down the moment she walked in. "Belle," he greeted her with a nervous smile, as he came out to the main floor of the shop.

She thought she could guess the reason for his worry and she drew closer, nearly falling into his embrace. "Father came to the library last night," she murmured. "Are-are you all right?"

The sigh of relief and the way he relaxed in her arms wasn't her imagination.

Lily got up expectantly when Ursula came into the aquarium lobby at the end of her shift. "Okay," the older woman said. "I got Andrina to trade shifts with me. I'll have to work the weekend, but I've got Thursday and Friday off."

"So?" Lily asked, cautiously.

"So," Ursula said, "Wednesday after work, we're going to Penn Station. We'll catch the train to Great Neck and, once we're there…" she smiled, "we'll track down Cruella."

"You're sure she's still there?" Lily asked. "I mean, the arrest was a couple of months ago. She might have moved on."

Ursula shook her head. "I don't think so. You see, Cruella and I go pretty far back. I know a few things about what she wants and doesn't want. And I can tell you this: just so long as she can entice dashing young men to buy her drinks and take her to jazz bars… she won't have gone anywhere." She looked at Lily sharply. "But unless you've come up with a decent plan, once we find Cruella and I introduce the two of you, that's it. I may have a lousy job and a lousy life, but it can always be worse. And I'm not about to gamble away the little I've got unless there are some pretty compelling odds in my favor."

Lily smiled. "Don't worry," she said grimly. "There will be."