Not long before Belle and Will's meeting at the shop.

There was one reason—and only one—for Maleficent to come back to this town.

Oh, there was Rumplestiltskin's promise to revive her. She had not sent out her dreaming mind to find a new host since the last one died (and, had she known that pompous captain who came to confront her in her crypt was hand in glove with the old man's murderer, she might have tried a little harder to do the job Regina gave her and kill him). With her mind awakened and her body gone, she wasn't sure she could have found a host. Fear of failure had been part of it.

But, she'd rather liked the old man. She'd gotten used to the abominable tea he insisted on drinking and the stern, paternal glares he gave his patients. She'd tried to get used to his odd taste for poems and three thousand year old classics, but that was an uphill battle. At least her link had been strong enough that he'd understood when she told him she had to see Gone with the Wind again. She wasn't sure she was ready to move on to someone new, not just yet.

But, the Dark One had promised her child was here. Her daughter was here.

After their meeting with Will Scarlet, they went to the library, waiting till it was locked up by his little wife (not at all surprising, she thought, though she'd still been surprised. True, she'd seen how Rumplestiltskin had looked at his little serving maid—and she'd seen his fury at them for daring to harm her. She'd felt that way herself once and could have warned him how it would end. But, who would think the Dark One needed to be warned about what the future would bring?). At least, the little woman was finally done with her collection of books and ready to trot off to other job. Maleficent wondered when the scrawny thing slept. Or had Rumple given her some bit of magic that made it unnecessary? She'd seen his human self doze as they made this return trip, but she'd never heard of anyone catching the imp in so much as a catnap.

Well, whether he did or not, he knew how to open a lock. They quietly stepped out of the shadows and into the dark building.

It wasn't like the library in New York. People were known to hold weddings in that building (Maleficent, hearing the echoes of some of the ceremonies, hadn't been sure if she should be toasting the bride and groom or—more true to form—cursing their yet-to-be-born offspring). But, she had recognized an affinity between the places when she curled up there to lick her ethereal wounds. She'd tried to get Rumplestiltskin to tell her how he'd known to find her there, but he only smiled in that very smug way of his and didn't answer.

They went down into the caverns that lay deep beneath the town. To the small form Dark One held in his hand, it looked enormous. Her dragon-self had found it comfortably snug. He took her down to the place where Hook had killed her. The Dark One moved his hand as though he were gathering something out of the air, and her ashes began to race across the floor, forming a small pile.

It was rather disturbing, she thought, looking down at her own corpse, even in this condition.

Then he set her down on the small, gray pile. She was perched on top of her own, cold remains. No, nothing at all eerie about this.

"Now, what?" Maleficent asked.

"You must make them burn."

"What? They've been burned. I can't—" she wouldn't say she didn't have the power. Even now, three times dead and trapped in a role players D&D figurine, she hadn't been brought that low.

"You can," he said. "Find your anger. Your fire is there."

Magic and emotion, two twins. Maleficent thought of Stefan abandoning her for that arranged marriage with his little Briar Rose. She thought of her anger at the Yellow Fairy, who had helped Stefan's family lure him away and then stolen their child.

But, Stefan and Briar Rose were dead, and not by her hand. The Yellow Fairy had overstepped her bounds one time too many and brought Rumplestiltskin's wrath down on her head. The anger she felt burned cold.

"You know," Rumplestiltskin said. "I found out the details of what happened to your daughter. There was a poor widow who longed for a child, and a fairy—one dressed in yellow—brought her a tiny baby in cradle made out of a walnut seed."

"That's not possible," Maleficent said. "My baby was born human sized. She couldn't fit in something that small."

"But, she was half-fairy, wasn't she? Even that young, she could take on her fairy form. But, the baby the widow was given didn't have wings. Curious, don't you think? I only know of one way a fairy—even a half-fairy—could be that small and not have her wings showing. Unless you know of another? If what I heard is true. . . ." he let his voice trail off.

"They cut off her wings," Maleficent whispered.

"Indeed. And they gave the old woman strict rules on how to raise her. She was never to give the girl a name, that was the first rule."

"Because names have power." Rumplestiltskin was famous for using names in his magic. But, he was hardly the only one who understood their use.

"So they do. A name is the word we choose to give our true self. And that was just what no one ever wanted your child to find. The second rule was that the old woman could only feed her barleycorn and was never, ever to give her anything from a flower."

Maleficent turned her small head, looking at him. Flowers had a special power on fairies. How could they begrudge her that? Even now, fallen as she was, Maleficent could read the history of summer days in their scent or the taste of fruit or honey.

"But, one day, quite by accident, the girl drank a drop of nectar and her magic awoke. She went out into the world to seek her true name.

"I suppose the fairies knew of it, but they did nothing to help her on her quest. Or perhaps they hoped for the best, that the child would never succeed, that she'd give up or die. Tell me, Maleficent, what do you think happens to someone that small setting off alone into the great, wide world with no magic to protect her? Or none that she knew how to use?"

"Stop it," she whispered. "Stop it."

"Well, perhaps some things are better shared between mother and daughter. She did survive, after all, and managed—rather improbably—to have an audience with the Blue Fairy herself, who acted very happy to see her and produced a pair of wings that immediately clung to the little fairy's back. Nothing at all suspicious about that, now, is there? Oh, and they gave her a name, Nova. It meant 'new' in our world. It means the same thing here but it's also a word for a kind of star, one that has exploded and filled the world with light. I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing."

"I'm sure the Blue Fairy would say it's better than collapsing into darkness."

"Ah, your time in the library wasn't wasted, I see. You've been reading the astronomy section?"

"Among others. What—what is she like, as a fairy?"

"Awkward. Uncertain. Her spells have a way of going wrong. Perhaps because of all the years she went without training. Perhaps because she should be learning human magic to balance her fairy skills. But, she dreams of being a fairy godmother."

"Fairy godmothers are horribly overrated," Maleficent said bitterly. "I should know. They stole my child because I dared fall in love with her father, while that yellow icicle. . . ." But, Maleficent didn't have words foul enough to say what she thought of the yellow fairy.

"She fell in love," Rumplestiltskin said. "Your daughter, not the Yellow Fairy. Although, she fell in love, too, if that's what you want to call the little thrill she must have felt every time she looked in a mirror."

"My daughter . . . fell in love? Did she—did she leave the fairies?"

"Oh, no. The Blue Fairy didn't want a repeat of all that foolishness. Nova had fallen in love with a Dwarf, of all things. And, unlikely as it sounds, he'd fallen in love with her. Blue went to him and convinced him Nova didn't know what she was doing, giving up her wings, her magic for him. He couldn't do that to her, he couldn't destroy all her dreams.

"So, he convinced her he'd never loved her, that it had been a mistake." An old pain glimmered in the Dark One's eyes, as though he were remembering something. "She didn't believe him, but he sent her away.

"They stole your daughter and, instead of raising her as one of them, the tore of her wings and sent her to be raised in a dark hovel without even her name, living on barley bread and water. When that failed, they lied to her again. They blame her for her mistakes even though they're the ones who won't teach her what she needs to know. When she had a chance for a life of her own, they stole it from her. Think of that, and tell me you don't feel angry."

Maleficent remembered coming home and finding her daughter stolen. She remembered calling on her sister fairies, begging them to ignore her past, promising them anything if they would only help her find the child. She's been met with nothing but silence. When she finally was able to force a meeting with Reul Ghorm, the Blue Fairy had sniffed and told her the fairies only interfered in the lives of the pure and innocent—which Maleficent clearly was not.

They had torn off her wings.

Maleficent's cold iron turned to fire.

X

Belle fought the sense of being trapped, of the walls closing in and crushing her as she tried to look around the small cell. It wasn't sensible, she told herself. The cell—room, she corrected. The nuns might call them cells but it was just a room—had cream colored walls made of plaster, not stone. The one window was small and narrow, but there were no bars on it. The door didn't even lock. It wasn't a cell.

There was a narrow bed, barely more than a cot, with only a thin mattress. But, it was neatly made and still looked more comfortable than the beds (if you wanted to call them that) Belle had known as Regina's prisoner. A small dresser stood against the wall, a mirror hung above it, turned against the wall. Mirrors were to be looked in only when necessary, according to the order's rules. A symbol of humility, if Belle remembered correctly. And common sense in a world where evil queens spied through mirrors.

It isn't a cell. The door behind me is open. I can walk out any time I want.

It was too small, smaller than the holes Regina had kept her in.

The same size as the cage Zelena had kept—had kenneled Rumplestiltskin in.

"What are we looking for?" Will asked.

Breathe, Belle told herself. Just breathe.

"Anything personal," Belle said. "Something that was Astrid's, not the order's."

"Clothes?" Will said in a I'm-trying-not-to-say-you're-missing-the-obvious voice. He pointed to the niche where a couple plain dresses and the cloak-jacket all the nuns wore as part of their uniform hung.

Belle shook her head. "No, the clothes are communal property, too. I was told, when they do the laundry, they just sort things out by size. Then they put them in piles so each sister can pick up one."

"Bloody hell. Even underwear?"

Belle shifted, thinking of her time in the asylum. At least someone cared that the nuns got things in the right size. They also had more frequent changes, clean clothes—and bathes—once a day, if they wanted them. Maybe more, if there was cause. Belle remembered the first bath she'd had after her escape—not a quick, cold shower but a bath, soaking in hot water as long as she wanted, using rose scented soaps and bath oils. She'd suspected Rumple of conjuring them up just for her.

Rumple.

Why did everything remind her of him? Why did a nun's cell remind her of his love, his kindness.

She'd thought she'd understood him, she thought she'd seen his heart. And, all the while, he was lying to her, using her to convince the others to trust him. Had that been in his mind when he danced with her after their wedding? When he led her up to that bedroom (a large, airy room where she could breathe), when he gave her that smile she thought was just for her, was he only thinking how easy it was to fool her? To use her?

What was real and what wasn't? She'd thought she'd known.

It didn't change what she had to do. She had to finish this, to find him, to help.

If he needed her help. If he wanted her at all. If he ever had.

No, she couldn't think about him. Not now.

"I think it was part of the curse," she told Will. "Real nuns don't take communal property quite this far."

"There's curses and there's just being nasty. Why'd the queen do that to them?"

Belle shrugged. "Maybe to keep people from doing the kind of magic we're trying. Next to Rumplestiltskin and the Savior, the fairies would have been her biggest threat. But, the curse has been broken a while now, and I don't think Astrid was ever very good at keeping the rules. She ought to have something." I hope she has something. "We're looking for anything that isn't part of a nun's uniform or—" she waved a hand, taking in the cot, the mirror, a small shelf of books (order texts and a stack of library books), "—or standard issue. Her wand, maybe?" The wands belonged to individual fairies, didn't they?

"Wouldn't a fairy be holding onto her wand, what with a curse about to fall and all that?"

"Not if she was afraid of hurting people," Belle said, opening a dresser drawer. Underwear. Will wouldn't want to see this.

"Then she'd hide it so she couldn't get at it, lock it up or something."

"Maybe," Belle said. "But, no one's seen her. She put herself under a spell. Or maybe the Blue Fairy put her under one. They meant to release her if they stopped Ingrid, but. . . ."

He nodded. "But, they aren't around to do it." His eyes widened. "Bloody hell, you think they were ready to cast it on themselves? You know, if they couldn't stop the Shattered Sight thing in time?"

"I hope so," Belle said. "That means they would have left the counterspell out where anyone could find it. Unless they had some other sort of failsafe. . . ." Or no failsafe. They'd been rushing to find a solution to Ingrid's spell. It was a little amazing they'd had the time to think about what would happen if they failed, a town under attack by an army of enraged, magical nuns.

She thought of Rumplestiltskin. Under a curse like that, he could have squashed the town flat. But, he'd been immune. Not that he couldn't be angry on his own. He'd told her something of his past. She thought he had—no, she trusted that much of what he'd told her. He could be angry and terrible, yes, but not like that.

No, everything he did was perfectly thought out ahead of time, wasn't it? Killing Zelena, destroying Hook. If he wrote down his plans instead of keeping everything in his head, they'd probably find things plotted out for the next five centuries, down to what he was thinking for having for breakfast half a millennium from now.

Hook said Rumplestiltskin was going to abandon the town. He'd had a plan to rescue Henry and Belle, but the rest of them could go hang.

Belle didn't know if she believed Hook or not. Her heart told her there was more to it than that. The man she knew wouldn't have just walked away. He would have tried to find a way to save them if only because he hated to be beaten on his own turf.

Or the man she thought she knew wouldn't have done that.

Will walked past the dresser, very deliberately not even looking at the drawer Belle had open. He went to the shelf and started picking up the books, holding them up and flipping the pages. Nothing came out of the History of the Anglican Church or The Book of Common Prayer. But, then Will got to Rules of the Order of Saint Melissa. A small bookmark fluttered out.

"Oops," Will said. "Lost her place." He picked up the bookmark and handed it to Belle. "Think this is personal enough?"

Belle looked at it. It was simple, homemade bookmark, piece of cardstock with a pressed flower mounted on the paper. Wax paper had been cut to fit over it and ironed on. "It's a starflower," Belle said. "From Firefly Meadow." She remembered Leroy (or Dreamy) telling her about the fairy who wanted to meet him to see the fireflies. She'd kept this all these years? Even when she didn't know what it was?

Belle thought of her chipped cup. Rumplestiltskin had kept it for twenty-eight years of the curse even though he hadn't remembered who she was—or who he was—till Emma came and his memory returned to him. There were things people held onto.

Or that they didn't hold onto. Rumple had used the cup to try and help her when she'd lost her memory at the town line, and she'd smashed it to pieces.

She'd lost herself at the town line, but he'd held onto her. Even when she turned against him, treating him like a monster, he'd done everything he could to bring her back—even when Regina filled her with false memories, making her into a person who could look at all the good in Rumple's heart and try to crush it, he hadn't let her go.

She hadn't been able to do the same for him.

Belle took the bookmark and opened up the bottle of potion she'd brought with her. "We'll have to move quickly," she told Will. "Once this touches the bookmark, it should go back to her. It won't slow down for us." She sprinkled a few drops onto the wax paper, and it began to move like a small feather caught in a breeze, floating out the door.

And they ran.

The bookmark floated uncertainly, as if it really were caught in the wind—or scenting out a trail, Belle thought, as it made another about face, swooping past them. It came at last to the Mother Superior's office, hovering unsurely in front of the closed door before tapping against the dark oak, then retreating.

"Just curious, think it's got some of Sister Astrid in it? It looks like a kid sent to the head."

Yes, that was Sister Astrid. She bounced back and forth between childish enthusiasm and being a toddler caught with a broken cookie jar on the floor and crumbs on her face. Belle turned the brass handle, wondering if Will had the skills to open it if it was locked (and if there was a polite way to ask. Or a good way to mention she knew where Rumple's lock-picking tools were if Will didn't have any). But, apparently, the Sisters of Saint Mellissa trusted each other. It was only the front door to the outside world that was kept locked and barred.

Belle opened it, and the bookmark floated in, landing on the desk.

No, landing on a paperweight on the desk.

Belle picked it up. It was about five inches of frosted glass, shaped like an egg, a bit thinner and more tapered towards the top with a flat bottom to let it stand.

An egg, Belle thought, holding it up to the light and examining it. Dwarves hatch from eggs that grow from stones in the earth. She'd never heard for certain where fairies came from. Some stories said they burst into life with a child's first laugh. Some said, like Thumbelina—the more usual version of Thumbelina—they were born from certain flowers. Rumple might have known, but she'd never asked him. He didn't like to discuss fairies.

As Belle turned it, she could see a figure inside, sparkling in clear, leaded glass. It was the figure of a woman, curled up in fetal position, eyes closed in sleep. It was a perfect image of Sister Astrid.

Will was the first one to break the silence. "So, you said you needed blood to work the other spell, right? To draw out the other fairies to have them free Astrid. Am I the only one seeing a problem?"