Chapter 8
Will Scarlet and Emma Swan had been standing side by side, listening to the bells of Prague call the morning hours as misty sunlight blossomed over the city – she imperviously repelling his periodic attempts at small talk – when the door of the brownstone flew open with a crash. The reason it had done so was for a clearly out-of-temper Killian Jones, coattails swirling, to storm through it in magnificently black dudgeon. This he did, without so much as a sidelong glance at them, and proceeded out of sight down the alley at a correspondingly blistering pace. They had to run to catch up with him, which Will did by the arm, spinning him back around to face them. "Oy! Where n' blazes are you off to now, leavin' us behind as a snack? Because I'm not bloody going to do that ag – "
"Shut up," the pirate snapped. "We've got something else to steal, and we have to do it as soon as possible."
Will arched a skeptical eyebrow, in perfect imitation of the captain's own habit. "Oh? And what's it this time? The Queen of Sheba's jewels, I reckon?"
Hook flinched for some reason, but angrily brushed it off. "My – patron," he said, "requires something kept in the vaults of St. Vitus Cathedral, which he cannot retrieve himself due to there being wards against any person of magical ability. I, for obvious reasons, cannot permit the lady out of my sight, as then she'll immediately run off and turn us in to whatever highly placed employer she has in the British Government. Nor can I permit you to watch her, because I don't trust you either. Therefore you, Will Scarlet, are going to do as you did at the Great Exhibition, and steal us the item in question."
"Am I." The young man's tone dripped sarcasm. "Let me out of your sight and trust me to do what you want and not, say, nick it for myself and sell it out for some staggeringly high sum? After you've just told me to me face that you won't and you don't? You have a bloody peculiar way of makin' friends, mate."
"You're not my friend. You're a member of my crew. You will do as I command."
"Am I?" Will repeated. The tension between the two was quickly darkening to open belligerence, and Emma put a hand to her derringer in the event she needed to fire a warning shot to break up a fight – a scenario which would then bring every constable in the city down on their heads, and hence was to be stringently avoided. Maybe she could just knock their heads together. "Seems to me that you made it damn clear I wasn't, not no more. And you can't make me do anything. Pirates' code. Men serve or leave at their pleasure. Can't be pressed or forced like the bloody Navy. So – "
"I am delighted to see that you are so intimately acquainted with the work of our friends Morgan and Roberts," Killian Jones said icily. "But not so well as you think, else you'd remember that the captain can press men when there is no one else suitable for the job. Not to mention that desertion in times of battle is punishable by death, and believe you me, this is a battle. Aye, you may have ended up in the Tower by your own clumsiness, but I bloody well got you out of it. You're mine, as long as I like, until I say you can leave. And I don't say."
"Why, you. . . you. . ." Will was to be observed fishing for an insult of suitable potency. "You grub-faced, snot-nosed, shit-arsed, pig-fucking, sleazy, treasonous, miserable, buggering carbuncle!" he burst out at last. "Throw me out like rubbish one day, then hold me hostage the next when you need something. You selfish, arrogant son of a whore, I don't – "
"I have to!" Hook roared. "I have to! He'll have what he wants, and then I'll get what I want, and I'll have my life back! I have to. . . I have to!"
Despite herself, Emma winced at the raw anguish in the captain's voice – and was disconcerted at how closely it resembled her own. From the look of things, both she and Killian Jones were doggedly pursuing service for powerful, dangerous men, against their better judgment, out of the desperate belief that when they were done, said men would reward them with everything they had ever desired, had suffered too long without. But what if there are some things that even magic cannot mend? Even if Gold and Jafar kept every promise they made, and that is less than likely? What if we are just more of the same useless, disposable fools, gulled by the promise of having it all – and who would not be? She wondered suddenly who Killian's demons were, why he was so hell-bent on this, and then reminded herself that it was better not to know. Circumstances had forced them into a grudging working relationship, but they were, at best, cordial enemies. And he was still supposed to not even be that, just another faceless mark she turned in for the money and never thought of again. Supposed to be.
She and Will stood staring at Killian as his outburst faded – was that a glimmer of tears she saw in his eyes? Surely not. The pirate dragged his hand across his face, struggling to regain his composure. "As I said. We have no choice."
"Oh, but we do, mate. Sayin' we agree to this stupid plan of yours – why can't all three of us go down and get it?"
"Because as she proved to us so spectacularly on the ship, Miss Swan – oh, I doubt you've been properly introduced, Emma, Will, Will, Emma – is a savant. To take her down there, assuming the information about keeping out magical persons is correct, would not go well."
"So?" Will persisted. "That's a problem how? Seems to me it would be plenty convenient for our current difficulties if she just went. . . poof." He waved a hand vaguely, in apparent demonstration.
Emma's grip tightened on the derringer, removing and cocking it in the same swift motion. "If that's your plan, I'm afraid something much worse than 'poof' is going to happen to you, right here."
"Don't mind her," Killian informed Will, "she derives a great deal of satisfaction from pointing guns at gentlemen of our particular description. As for your suggestion, no. I'm not going to waste her on that, Christ! A savant could be useful in any number of ways, or profitable in others." His eyes darted briefly back down the street to Jafar's fortress-like residence. "Henceforth, as I said, the plan remains the same. We wait. You steal."
"Like hell I'm goin' to stick my neck out again and do all the dirty work. Specially if you're not even telling me what this bloody whatsit is."
Killian glowered at him, but Will glowered right back. At last, the captain expelled a frustrated sigh and glanced from side to side, scanning every corner and cranny for potential eavesdroppers, then beckoned Will nearer. Emma moved unobtrusively in as well, but even she couldn't make out what Killian whispered into his compatriot's ear. She did, however, see Will's startled, bug-eyed reaction. "What?! Bloody hell! No!"
"He says it's just a bluff," Killian snapped. "He's not planning to actually use it."
Will regarded the older man with utter disbelief. "And you're buyin' that, Jones? Really? He wants it just for collector's purposes, look nice in his parlor, that so? He'll have it there any time he wants! He could hold all of Prague hostage with that threat – bloody hell, all of Europe! I don't know much about this fellow, granted, but he strikes me as the sort who should be clapped up in that asylum back in London. He's not bloody stable."
"It doesn't matter to me what he's planning to do with it," Hook said flatly. "I don't care about Prague, or London, or the Royal Society. If he accomplishes what I suspect he's hinting at, it won't even matter, anyway."
Will continued to look stupefied, slowly shaking his head. "You're bein' a complete and total prat, I'll have you know, and that's the kindest way to put it." With that, he turned to Emma. "You. Tell him he's bein' a prat."
"And what on earth makes you think he'll listen to me?"
"Thought it was obvious. He fancies the lacy underthings right off you, that's why."
Emma choked, but Hook only looked furtherly annoyed. "Shut it, Scarlet, before I make you."
"Oh, make me, is it? That's right, I forgot, the only damn things you love in the world are the ghosts of your dead brother and your dead lady friend. And your ship, I suppose, but she don't keep you warm at night."
"Shut. It." Hook's face, instead of flushing, had gone pale, icy-white and remote. "Fine. What do you want? Name your price, I'll pay it. Just steal the fucking thing."
"We don't have to do this," Will said stubbornly. "We could leave, go somewhere else – America, maybe. The Royal Society's got no power there. There's all sorts of talk that half the damn country is right pissed about slavery, there might be a fight comin'. Plenty of work for us."
"And what?" Hook sneered. "Set up a happy home in a ménage a trois? No thank you."
"Why d'you have to be such a bloody bastard all the time? I was serious!"
"We're not going to America. End of discussion. Now – "
"All right then. In that case, these are your choices, Jones. We all three of us go down there together and get the sodding thing, or you go down there yourself and leave me to watch the lady. I ain't doin' it alone this time."
There was a fraught, loathing silence, as Emma could see that Hook was calculating his chances of coaxing, cajoling, or clobbering his underling into submission. Then at last, he swore again and spun away on the heel of his boot. "I really hate you, you know that?"
"Bloody well, thanks," Will groused. "You're no basket of kittens and roses either, Cap'n. Right then. I'll help you steal the fool thing and hope you get your arse beat like a rented mule, because frankly you more n' deserve it at this point. Then when that's done, it'll no longer be a time of battle, so I'll have the right to leave the crew as I please. You might not be goin' to America, but I will. I'm gettin' far away from this madness, and fast."
Emma thought she spotted something odd in Killian's eyes, something desolate, angry, confused, almost heartbroken, but if so, it was gone again in the next instant, and his usual bitter, guarded expression took its place. "Very well, then," the pirate captain said coolly. "It's an accord."
Both men spat on their palms and eyed each other malevolently, then shook hands. Emma, however, hesitated, as this left her in a pinch. She was not eager to go down and confront whatever shadowy menace might lurk in the cathedral (though she was a fool to be worried – she didn't actually have magic) but nor could she permit Killian Jones to once more hoodwink her and get away. That entailed going with him, but this also might be her only chance to escape and alert Gold of where they were and what was happening. There was no good choice, only selecting the lesser evil, and she was still wary of what Hook could know about Henry. If she did take him down, it would not be difficult for him, or his crew, to retaliate against her son. Lady Regina would defend him, Emma tried to reassure herself, but as far as she was aware, Regina was only a well-to-do Yorkshire lady who knew nothing about magic or the secrets of the Royal Society or any of it, wealthy women being vigorously discouraged from such topics of study. Hook's hare-brained tales about her having an enchanted vault were surely just that, lies and nonsense. Will that be enough? It was very slender surety.
She cleared her throat. "If I'm not needed in this transaction, I shall just. . .?"
"Oh no, lass," Hook said, with a charming crocodile smile. "You're coming with us."
Though she had lived an adventurous life and run a great deal of risk, within the bounds of the law and without it, nothing in Emma's repertoire had prepared her for how one might go about robbing a cathedral. Though she was the furthest thing from devout, she couldn't help but feel a sinner's cold shiver scurry down her spine, as if the retribution for failure would be far worse than usual (or for success, come to that). Normally, one would start by picking up small magical items – and Prague had plenty of these establishments, even with the Night Market out of commission – but considering that magic was precisely what they did not want on this job, step one was perforce skipped. Emma asked if they were going to return to the ship, only for Killian to inform her that it was gone, had upped anchor and flown off soon after they disembarked. Smee and the crew had their orders to be spotted as far away from here as possible, plant a false trail about where he was and what he was doing. It was another example of his formidable cunning, and once again made her realize that she underestimated him at her own clear and present peril.
Instead, they passed the day in a small garret room, in a boarding house run by a large, square German hausfrau, who eyed them all suspiciously but asked no further questions after Killian accidentally spilled a large quantity of golden coins on her desk. There was a narrow bed covered with a patchwork quilt, which both the men gallantly offered to Emma, but she declined; there was no way she was going to sleep in front of them. Killian shrugged, then lay down on the floor, covered himself with his jacket, pillowed his head on his arm, and appeared to drop under almost instantly.
Emma watched him carefully, expecting some sort of trick or trap to put her off her guard, but as his breathing deepened to soft snores, she was forced to conclude that it was in fact genuine. She sat down on the bed, and despite her resolve to remain awake, she found herself drowsing too, until her head snapped up with a start and she realized in complete confusion that it was the middle of the afternoon. Hook and Will were sitting by the window, talking in low voices, and on seeing that she was awake, the former waved her over. "Hey, love. Will's nipped a bit of food. You must be hungry."
Emma was about to stiffly rejoin that she was not, thank you very much, but her stomach growled loudly, making the lie quite obvious, and she gritted her teeth and came over to join them. She wondered which honest Czech baker Will had burgled, but the savory sausage kolaches and warm stuffed pierogi were too good to resist, and she couldn't remember the last time she had eaten; she barely stopped to breathe until her share was gone. Hook and Will appeared entertained by her unladylike manners, but made no comment.
When she had gulped down the last crumbs, the pirate said, "Right then. We go after Compline's over. There won't be any worshipers there, and the priest will have gone to bed. I've got this – " he pulled a glossy paper from his waistcoat, which when unfolded proved to be a pennyfarthing tourists' map of the cathedral – "and the entrance to the vaults is here. I am sure there will be barriers or obstacles of some sort, but otherwise, I'm hoping we can be in and out by midnight. Then we'll take a public dirigible to Monaco and deliver it to my patron in person. No mistakes this time."
Emma had heard of the stratagem of hiding in plain sight before, but this felt too dangerous. Still, she could not think of a good way to object, or even if she should. Maybe she could wait until they went down into the vault, then shut it, lock it, and run. There would be no airships leaving for London until the morning, but that was a small matter. With no magic, Hook and Will would be trapped underground with no way to get out, thus ensuring that they would be right there when she returned with Gold to collect them. It was possible. More than possible, it was the best plan she had yet had, and for some reason, that frightened her.
They whiled away the last hours in a tense, introspective silence, counting the bells, until it was time. They all donned heavy dark cloaks and hurried out into the chilly autumn night, and Emma kept close to Hook as he led them into the twisting streets. Evidently his previous escapades smuggling weapons here had furnished him with an extensive knowledge of its back roads and byways, and they spent particular time traversing a tunnel that, from its mud floor and faint rushing sound overhead, made her suspect that it led under the river Vltava. They climbed out on the far side, looking at the specks of light embroidering the dark city, the neat lines of roofs, the uprising of spires, looking like the background cut from black velvet for a puppet shadow-play. Then Hook beckoned them on, they traversed a narrow path alongside a high stone wall with a head-turning drop off the bluff on the other side, worked a postern gate open, and finally emerged into the cathedral courtyard, under the high clock tower with its elegant cupola capped in patinaed green. They crept around to the triple-arched portico on the right, and Will knelt down with a pair of slender wires in hand and applied his professional skill. Shortly thereafter, they were inside.
Emma's first impression was of overwhelming space – great and echoing, forests of stone like frozen, filigreed lace, pouring in a waterfall and arrested in time just before it struck the floor. The great rose window behind them twinkled dimly, as well as the sea of half-burned white candles that stood in wooden racks to the rear of the sanctuary, nestled among pictures of saints and worn rosaries, prayers for the souls of the humble dead. Emma and Will were about to hurry past it, but surprising them both, Killian stopped, dipped his fingers in the bowl of holy water, and crossed himself. Then taking a taper, he lit one of the candles and placed it carefully among its fellows, watching it for a long moment. The glow lit an odd look in his eyes, and Emma was taken aback. The pirate had not struck her as a godly man, though she had seen the silver crucifix he wore, and it might not be a bad idea to pray for success, if that was what he was doing – though she suspected God, if He did exist, was liable to take a very dim view of the miscreants in His house. She lingered, tempted to pull on Killian's sleeve and summon him back to earth. They didn't have time to waste.
"Oy, mate," Will hissed, evidently thinking the same thing. "Let's keep movin', eh?"
Killian started, frowned at them, then shook his head, dismissing the reverie. As they moved into the narrow transept that paralleled the nave, Emma whispered, "What was that for?"
"My mother." He didn't look at her. "She'd have wanted it. And I – I was raised Catholic. So much as I was raised anything."
That once more came as an unexpected insight, one that Emma did not much want – and yet she could not keep back that pang of curiosity and almost sympathy, wondering who he was. After all, he hadn't been born Captain Hook, nemesis of the Empire, but must have become so in desperate circumstances. She remembered what Will had said earlier, about the ghosts of his dead brother and dead lover, wondered if it was just them that he had lost. Enough to make a straight-laced young Navy lieutenant abandon everything he had ever believed in, and emerge only determined to destroy and destroy, to make up for the black abyss in his chest where his heart had been.
Emma was the one who had to snap herself back to the present this time, looking around. The candles and the glow from the stained-glass windows provided just enough light to transform absolute darkness to grey-black gloaming, to see the fluted columns towering up to the ogives braided far above, across the ceiling. The high altar stood at the far end, like some great sculpted angel watching them, and Emma had to firmly repress a shudder. Not that, not anything, just –
They turned the corner, down into the croft that led to the vaults, and she almost screamed.
Only long practice enabled her to bite her tongue in time, and Hook's hand gripping her arm hard. As the first shock receded, she saw that they were statues, just statues, which the government, evidently thinking them an effective deterrence to the dim-witted, had paid several penny-dreadful sorts of artists a handsome sum to sculpt. The nearest was a chimera, or at least Emma thought that was what it was supposed to be; the monster looked only as if it had eaten something disagreeable and was suffering riotous flatulence. Its clawed fists each clasped a goggle-eyed sinner, done fashionably in bronze, and a cadre of outraged cherubim, hovered nearby, venting their fat cheeks into reprobating trumpet blasts. Very Last Judgment, she supposed, or perhaps a warning of what happened to ye who ventured here (abandon all hope, indeed). All sorts of things must lie hidden in St. Vitus' depths. Prague was renowned for its magical knowledge and power – was the headquarters of the famed and feared sorcerers' guild, the Bavarian Illuminati, the only real rival the Royal Society still had – and where better place to hide all the things rival magicians craved most desperately to get their hands on, but the one where they could not go? It gave Emma a chill to think of everything that might be down there. And if it gets stolen from at last, will that open the floodgates?
She stood tensely, not wanting to turn her back on the statues, amateurish as they were, as Will and Killian inspected the apparently unprepossessing grate that guarded the entrance to the vaults. A pure and perfect darkness breathed out of it, the cold black air of the grave and the deep sepulcher, and Emma felt the hairs rising on her arms and the back of her neck. I do not want to go down there.
Oblivious to her unease, Will and Killian conversed in hushed whispers that nonetheless sounded, to Emma's panicky brain, as loud as a shout. As Will crouched in front of the grate, apparently to resume his lock-picking duties, Killian glanced back at her. "All right, love?"
"Fine." She certainly was not about to reveal any weakness to him. "Why don't I – I stay up here and keep watch?"
The pirate gave her a long look. "Keep watch, or run to fetch the guards on us?"
Emma flushed, angry at how easily he had read her. "I had no intention of any such thing," she lied. "But it seems counterproductive to send all three of us down there together."
"We've come this far." He shrugged. "Don't worry, love. I'll protect you."
She was on the verge of another tart retort, but it abruptly died on her tongue. This place was unnerving her, he clearly was not about to take the risk of leaving her behind to do a bunk, and she made no protest as he took her arm and escorted her nearer, not quite letting go as they watched Will at his work. The bright ching! of his instruments against the metal made Emma wince again, glancing around. She had the oddest sensation that the statues were moving behind her back the instant she took her eyes off them, but that was just her imagination.
It took Will quite a bit longer than it had to obtain entrance to the cathedral, but finally, he eased the grate open, revealing a narrow stairway down into the darkness. They had passed the tombs of several Holy Roman Emperors and other luminaries on their way in, and Emma wondered if someone or something else was interred down here – again not a thought of particular comfort, and she instinctively leaned into Killian's warmth. As much as she was well aware of what and who they were to each other, he at least was alive, and more or less interested in her welfare. She thought of what else Will had said earlier, about him fancying her, then dismissed that as well. It was just manipulation, the same as she was trying to do to him.
"Right," Will breathed. "Onwards and upwards, then? Or downwards?"
"Aye." Killian's hand fell to his sword hilt, loosening it a few tugs in the scabbard, and then he offered it to Emma, helping her down onto the first step. With Will coming after them, pulling the grate closed but not locking it, they began the descent.
It had been quiet in the sanctuary to start, but Emma noticed how quickly all sounds utterly fell away, as if gulped up by the mouth of some great beast; even their footfalls barely echoed. They had almost no light, having not dared to bring a lamp, and had to grope along by touch, her body pressed close alongside Killian's as they continued to wind into the bowels of the cathedral. Whenever she came close to losing her balance, he steadied her, and she was clinging to him more than she wanted to admit. Will came along behind them, which was better than having nothing there.
As her eyes slowly began to adjust to the blackness, Emma could make out faint contours of ancient stone, which might have been first laid here in the cathedral's great buildings in the fourteenth century. Here and there was an arch close over their heads, flickers in the shadows, skittering that might have been rats. She hoped they were rats, at least. The stairwell was opening up into a low, dank earthen passage, stumps of torches still burning in iron sconces. Even that amount of light made her squint and wince, blinking hard.
"Bloody hell," Will whispered, emerging after them and glancing to all sides. "Your terrifying friend give us any helpful bits about where to start lookin'?"
"More or less," Killian answered abstractedly, still holding onto Emma as she huddled against his chest. God, it was cold down here. The air was heavy and thick and damp, biting right through her cloak, and it was starting to make her teeth chatter. She hoped this wouldn't take very long, could feel a sensation like insects crawling all over her, gooseflesh stippling her skin. "We've got to keep going."
With that, the three burglars continued to tromp down the underground corridor, Will also sticking closer to Killian than strictly necessary; Emma was encouraged to see that at least she wasn't the only one feeling adversely affected by this bloody spooky place. As for Killian himself, if he was unnerved, he didn't show it. They reached a wooden door at the end, which he pushed through, and into another, smaller chamber. The ceiling was low enough here that even Emma had to duck, and they scuttled along, bent double, as it funneled into a serpentine labyrinth. Still so quiet. Not that this was, per se, a bad thing. It was better than the alternative, at least. Not as if she wanted –
"That." Emma froze. Was certain she'd heard something – or rather, someone. Someone screaming. "What was that?"
"Didn't hear anything, love." Killian tugged her alongside him. "Come on."
Since it was hardly as if she had another option, Emma let him, though she had to admit a growing resentment at him for leading them here in the first place. Though if what Gold wanted was down here, and he promised me I could have everything by finding it, I can't say I'd do any differently. She still didn't know exactly what it was they were looking for, but thinking of the golem's eye that Gold had showed her back at the Athanaeum Club, she did have a sinking suspicion. Will had said that Jafar would be able to hold all of Prague for ransom, if he had the possibility of unleashing a murderous clay giant on them at any time. What have we gotten ourselves into?
Just as Emma was musing on the oddity that it was indeed we, the three of them having to work together to get out of this, a sensation like a silent lightning bolt ripped through her from head to heel, and before she knew what had happened, she was on her knees, gasping for air, and Killian – who had been gripping her hand tightly when it struck – was kneeling over her. "Jesus. Jesus! Swan? Emma? Are you all right, love?"
"Why wouldn't I be?" she muttered, rubbing a hand over her face and trying to stop shaking. She tried to get back to her feet, but her knees were water, and he caught her before she could fall again. She felt as she had on the ship, right after she had done whatever she'd done to save it and put it back together, as if something had erupted out of her with a force too great to be controlled or contained. Her fingertips felt hot, and when she looked at them, she could see them gently spitting fat, floating golden sparks into the air. "I – let's – just – go."
"Aye, if you say so." He still looked concerned, as she hung tightly onto his arm and they started forward again.
"Where's Will?" she asked, trying to distract herself. "He didn't – "
"No idea. I stopped to see to you, he must have gone ahead to scout the passage. Have to be almost there."
This was welcome news to Emma, getting out of here as soon as possible, and it made her quicken her pace. They turned the corner and entered another narrow bottleneck, but the passage, oddly, seemed to be sloping up under their feet. Another few yards, and she was certain of it. There was also a breath of fresh air ghosting across her face, clean and cold, that didn't smell like the mold of the crofts, and she moved instinctively toward it.
The passage ended in another set of stairs, and she and Killian – she realized just then that they had forgotten to stop holding hands, but she'd get around to that later – exchanged a glance, then started up them. "Will?" Killian called. "Oy, you up there?"
The words echoed, but no answer came. Yet Emma grew increasingly sure that she could in fact hear voices – not angry ones, but indeed happy ones, and something that sounded like singing. The closer they climbed to the surface, the more she was convinced. And then they emerged in a dark culvert with a grate at the end, pushed it aside, stepped out, outside – and stared.
When they had entered the cathedral, it had been a chilly autumn night at the end of September, Michaelmas eve. Now, snow cloaked the quaint houses and towers of the city, more falling swiftly in the light of the streetlamps, and every window glowed with welcoming cheer. Sleigh and church bells chimed silver in the distance, and wreaths and other festive ornaments were hung at doors and posts. Emma could see several decorated pine trees, of the sort that Queen Victoria and The Illustrated London News, reporting on the ones set up in Windsor Castle,had popularized in London quite recently – but those were for Christmas! They couldn't – how could they –
She was starting to shiver, even in her cloak. Killian was already peeling off his black leather jacket and draping it around her shoulders, as he had on the ship, and she didn't refuse it, too dazed, as they glanced around. "Where are we?" she stammered.
"The same place we were before, love. Prague. Just. . . seems there was a wrinkle of some sort." Jones did not look as worried as she felt; in fact, a small, almost sweet smile was pulling at his lip. "I'm sure we can find our way back. But we don't have to go right away, eh?"
"What do you mean?" She trotted after him to the courtyard gate, as he opened it and they passed through the castle complex and down to the street on the far side. Heavily bundled carolers whizzed past in gales of good cheer, and men in ragged coats were wheeling barrows of roasted chestnuts. The chocolatier on the corner was doing a booming business, and several folk hailed them cheerily in Czech, to which Killian responded with a few polite words. Emma's head was turning in every direction, still trying to fathom how they had ended up in the middle of a picture-perfect Bavarian Christmas. What had happened down there?
Killian stopped to admire a nutcracker in the window of a woodworker's shop, Drosselmeyer & Son swinging over the door. His expression was now so openly nostalgic that Emma had to ask. "What is going on? Why are you so happy about this?"
"I've no bloody idea what's going on, love. As I said, we'll sort it out in a bit. But I. . ." Killian paused, then turned to her seriously. "I was here for Christmas, a long time ago. 1835, I think. I was sixteen. My. . . my brother had gotten leave for the holidays, we'd spent all year abroad, and he decided to surprise me. We went to Prague, and he bought me a nutcracker just like this. It was the first time I'd ever had a real, frivolous Christmas present, his gifts tended to run to the devastatingly practical. It's. . . it's one of my happiest memories."
Emma was surprised, but once more able to see, despite herself, how he would be in no haste to run away from it, might want to steal a few more sweet moments out of it, lie or otherwise. "Your brother?" she prodded gently. Didn't want to reveal that she knew his name, from reading the dispatches on the Jewel of the Realm-turned-Jolly Roger in her preliminary research.
"Aye." Killian seemed to realize he'd said too much, and clammed up, but kept glancing around, looking and looking as if he could not get enough. "God," he said, half to himself. "Everything looks exactly as I remember it."
For some reason, that piqued Emma's hackles. "I'm sure it does," she said. "I'm sure it was lovely. But we should get back to the cathedral now. We still have – our mission."
"Aye, of course." Killian was still glancing around as he followed her reluctantly, their footsteps leaving indents in the fresh snow as they climbed back up the street. It wound around, getting tangled up in the countless side lanes, and she must have taken a wrong turn, because they emerged back into the street with the nutcracker in the window and the barrow-man with his chestnuts, his hot iron brazier setting the cold air rippling. She frowned, started back, and kept on going straight, in the way she knew they'd come from the cathedral, and indeed could see its great twin black-iron steeples rising into the wintry darkness. She quickened her pace, lifted her skirts out of the snow –
– and stepped into the same street again.
Emma stopped dead, her suspicion finally wakened to full-blown flame. "Hook," she hissed. "I think we're going in circles."
"Nonsense, we were just there." Killian frowned as well. "Come, I know this place, we'll take a different route. Follow me."
Emma did. They climbed up the side street, emerged onto a narrow dead man's walk lined with candles, the snowflakes catching in her hair and landing elegantly on his shoulders; he must be cold without the jacket, but gave no sign. She hurried to stay close to him, as they stepped up onto a winding stair, started the ascent, and at the top –
Stepped out. Into the same street.
This time, even Killian noticed it, and a frown drew his dark brows sharp. He put out a hand for her, drawing her automatically into his side, and she tucked herself against him, all her pleasure – and his – in the idyllic scene completely evaporated. She didn't know where they were, or when they were, or what they were. If they'd entered some kind of demented dream loop or memory or hallucination, if they had never left the cathedral at all, if they were even awake. But one thing was inevitably, perfectly clear.
They were completely trapped.
