Note: This takes place in an alternate universe version of Victorian London. The spellings of some places and people are different. Also, the times are a little different. Anything from any part of the 19th century may show up as needed. See the end for further details.

Oh, and looks like I lied about this being the chapter where everything gets bad. That's the next chapter (I had to break them up).

X

It was too early in the morning for any of the servants to have brought warm wash water, but the pitcher by the wash basin was left full overnight. Rumplestiltskin, still shaking from his nightmare, poured the water into the bowl, icy cold as it was, and stripped off his nightshirt, trying to scrub away the polluted feeling of his dream.

It was just a dream, he told himself. Because the alternative was unthinkable. The alternative was that the murders he saw really happened. Maybe in this city. Maybe in this world. Maybe somewhere far beyond it. He had no way of finding out, no way of finding the children he saw being tortured and killed.

And, most sickening of all, the feeling he had when he saw them die.

Oh, what he saw horrified him-he woke up weeping for the victims he was powerless to help.

But, he felt the curse deep inside him. Weak as it was, it stirred in its sleep, growling and hungry. When the children died, Rumplestiltskin felt as if food had been snatched out of his hands.

Perhaps he was going mad.

Perhaps he had been mad all along. His memories of magic and another world, maybe these were ravings of a diseased mind.

What does that mean, to be mad?

The question echoed in his mind, spoken by a familiar/unfamiliar voice.

Jumbled phrases went through his mind. Madness. A cell with dark walls. Am I mad? The unknown voice asked. My world is dark rooms and narrow corridors. It's screams in the middle of the night. Is that what madness is?

Rumplestiltskin splashed more cold water on his face, trying to drown out the voice. But, he couldn't get rid of the feeling of death and filth.

The light coming through the window was still a weak gray, but some of the servants might be stirring soon. They were expected to be able to step quietly into a room and start up a fire without ever waking the occupant. Rumplestiltskin supposed it would do no good for one of them to step in and see him naked and shivering. He grabbed a towel and began wiping the cold water off.

His arm stung where the towel touched the wound on his arm. He grimaced. He kept hitting the scab where the doctor had bled him when he first came here, pricking it open. It wasn't as if he were a young man any more, he told himself as he got out the bandages he'd taken to keeping near the wash basin. Wounds took their time healing, and there was no magic to hurry this one along, especially when he kept rubbing against it.

Rumplestiltskin pulled on his bathrobe. Unlike the suits and polished boots he wore each day, this was one he'd bought for himself from a secondhand shop. His clothing, after all, reflected on his employer. But, he could penny-pinch all he wanted to with his nightclothes. His wages seemed excessive—a hundred pounds a year. It was a larger fortune than he could have imagined just a few weeks ago—and for a job anyone could do. One of the medical students at the university would have already read the books the doctor had told him to familiarize himself with. If Rumplestiltskin had a good memory and a gift for organizing what he read, they weren't talents the doctor had known about when he hired him.

So, why hire him?

Because he felt sorry for him? Because he felt pity for the man who'd almost died on his threshold? It was a reasonable answer, but one Rumplestiltskin didn't believe.

Rumplestiltskin had seen the picture of the doctor's dead son. The young man reminded him of Bae. It wasn't his looks, although there was something similar about them. It was more in their expressions, if the artist was to be trusted. There were things Miss Beaton had said about her cousin, as well. He and Bae had shared a reckless courage and quick wit. Rumplestiltskin suspected that, had Benjamin Hastings been in Bae's place, he might have snuck into rich houses by the front door to steal their bread, too.

He also suspected the doctor had begun to see that resemblance. Dr. Hastings spoke fondly of Bae. He showed an interest in his education beyond letting the governess, Miss Grosvenor, teach him. He'd begun to talk about the opportunities a boy like Bae could have with proper schooling.

It all felt like a trap, as if the nightmares he had were closing in on him. So, Rumplestiltskin guarded every coin he'd been paid. His wildest extravagance was the fee he'd paid to join the lending library. It gave him a place to read and study outside of the house, as well as access to books the doctor didn't have—or might not have approved of (Wendy guarded her stash of novels as closely as Rumplestiltskin guarded his coins).

It also gave him a place to hear gossip, to get some idea of how people in this part of the city thought. It might as well have been a different world from the one Bae and he had lived in on the East Side.

And chess. There were a few players who met in the reading room, quietly playing while bystanders watched. When newcomers were allowed to try their luck, Rumplestiltskin had sat down and played. He was good at the game and rapidly becoming better. And he spoke to the people he played, who didn't have scorn in their voices or look at his leg with pity or disgust.

He could almost believe he was a man, an ordinary man who didn't dream of murder and blood or wake weeping for the children whose deaths he craved.

X

Smith knocked politely at the door, something lesser servants sometimes neglected to do. Of course, unlike the house maid going from room to room lighting fires, he expected to see a man wide awake on the other side.

Mr. Weaver had risen early. He always did after late nights with Dr. Hastings. The doctor, in Smith's view, sometimes pushed Mr. Weaver too hard. The man was recovering not just from a recent collapse, after all, but from months of trouble.

The two men conversed at other times, of course, and they had begun a tradition of a nightly chess game—after the first few games, the doctor had made a point of telling Mr. Weaver not to lose to him on purpose. Naturally, they discussed the work Mr. Weaver was doing for the doctor, organizing the writings of his brother-in-law (the doctor, Smith thought, had chosen better than he knew in hiring Mr. Weaver. He had a sharp mind and a remarkable ability to reconstruct a whole picture from just bits and pieces. He also listened to Miss Beaton, who had read her father's notebooks forward and back a dozen times as well as understanding how her father thought).

But, about once a week, the doctor would insist on a second game-or a third. The conversation would drag on. The doctor would press perhaps one glass too many on Mr. Weaver (who didn't drink, as a rule, but didn't care to offend Dr. Hastings either). Smith or Hughes, the Butler, would wind up helping him to his room.

What worried Smith was that Mr. Weaver never looked drunk. He looked pale and yellowish. Instead of a drinker's warm flush, his skin would be cold and clammy. His hands would be shaking too badly to hold his cane.

Then, when Smith went about his tasks in the morning, Mr. Weaver would always be up early, looking troubled and unwell.

Today, he had decided to look in on him. He smiled as if worry had nothing to do with his being there. "Ah, Mr. Weaver, I thought I heard you moving about. Are you well?"

Mr. Weaver wiped his brow. His hands were shaking again, Smith noted. "Quite well," he said. Perhaps realizing what an obvious lie that was, he added. "I slept a bit poorly."

"Yes, that happens to us all, sometimes," Smith said. "If you don't mind my saying, sir, you perhaps shouldn't let the doctor keep you up late. Dr. Hastings is a very energetic man. I dare say he lets himself forget you're still recovering from your indisposition."

Mr. Weaver frowned. He looked as though he were trying to remember something. "I suppose, Smith." He managed a wan smile. "You're not going to set Miss Beaton on me, are you? She's a good child, but she has the heart of a mother hen."

Smith laughed. "Indeed so, sir." He looked at Mr. Weaver's trembling hands. "If you don't consider it an impertinence, sir, could I assist you in your shaving, this morning? I'm up early myself, and Dr. Hastings won't my help for half an hour at least."

Mr. Weaver looked uncertain. Whatever his life before he came to Dr. Hastings, it had not included valets. He seemed to suspect that it was unusual for gentleman's gentleman to make such an offer to anyone but his master but was uncertain whether that obligated him to accept—or refuse.

Smith decided to press home his point. "If I may make so bold as to say so, sir, I think the razor might prove a bit more difficult this morning than usual." In fact, he might be a wonder if Mr. Weaver didn't slit his own throat.

Mr. Weaver seemed to consider that point, too. "If—if you insist, Smith."

"I do, sir. Now, just sit down in that chair. I'll take care of this." He had brought his shaving kit, and quickly busied himself. Mr. Weaver had already cleaned himself for the day—had, in fact, scrubbed himself raw—but there was still water in the pitcher by the washstand. Icy water, Smith noted. "I'm afraid the water's cold," he said, as he poured some of it into a cup and began mixing up a lather. "And we don't have time to wait for hot water. I dare say we'll make do."

"It's no matter," Mr. Weaver said. "I've made do with cold water often enough."

Or no water at all, Smith thought. He was not entirely sure what to make of Mr. Weaver. He suspected there was some truth to Miss Beaton's tale, though he knew a great deal of it was her invention, that Mr. Weaver had known better days before troubles washed him up on the shores of the East Side. He had a remarkable memory. Smith had made several tests of it. Mr. Weaver had remembered his entire recipe for boot polish after hearing him describe it only once—every ingredient, every amount, every exacting direction. Already, Smith suspected he had memorized the contents of a dozen medical books.

Smith wasn't fool enough to expect the world to be fair, but there was something about Mr. Weaver's fall to the depths that didn't add up.

Smith spoke cheerfully as he fixed the large cloth around Mr. Weaver's neck, to keep water and lather from splashing where it wasn't wanted, and set to shaving him. Smith had shaved a great many men in his time—a craft had to be practiced to be learned, after all. He knew the easy manner of men like the doctor who were used to someone like Smith taking care of it for them. They treated a man holding a sharp blade to their throats the same way they treated him as he helped them on with their boots or handed over a starched, white collar.

Then, there were the men who weren't used to it. Some of them tried to pretend they weren't nervous at all. Some glared at Smith to let him know he was a dead man if he tried anything. Some tried very hard to act as if this was something they dealt with every day.

Mr. Weaver held still in the quiet, resigned way of a man who had long ago learned not to fight when a knife was at his throat.

Smith finished. Before he left, he saw the bandages at the washstand and the bloodstains on the arm of Weaver's discarded nightshirt. "Would you like me to take that, sir?" Smith asked. "I know a good trick to get out those stains."

"If it's no trouble," Weaver said uncertainly. "Thank you, Smith."

"No trouble at all, sir," Smith said, smiling cheerfully. "Have a good day."

He had just enough time to take away the nightshirt and then start on preparations for the doctor's shave. Dr. Hastings was hardly what anyone would call a dandy. But, he believed that everything should be neat and tidy—and he was exacting in seeing that everything was up to that standard. Smith made sure the doctor's collars and cuffs were starched and dazzling white when they were handed over. The water for the doctor's shave was hot and fresh. Everything, at least when it was handed over, was as perfect as a first class valet could make it.

They were not anywhere near that standard when they were returned to Smith. Shirts were wrinkled, starched collars had drooped. As for his cuffs, one thing the doctor and his son had had in common was tendency to get their sleeves in their work. At least, at the hospital, the doctor always rolled up his sleeves or had a surgeon's smock over him. Smith never had to deal with worse than the smell all hospitals seemed to have working its way into an otherwise impeccable suit.

Except today. Today, when he picked up the doctor's cuffs from yesterday, Smith couldn't help noticing the blood along the edges.

X

Place Names:

Londyn instead of London (from the Roman name, Londinium).

Skotland (and Skots) instead of Scotland.

Eireland and Eirish instead of Ireland and Irish (Eire being another name for Ireland).

Wales is Waels and the people are Waelsh, not Welsh.

Edinburg instead of Edinburgh.

Americhan instead of American (it's a hard ch).