So, I forgot a note on the last chap, when Whale suggests using 'sodium pentothal' on Emma. At that time, it was used by governments & nefarious types as a "truth serum". It opened one to suggestibility more than getting out the actual truth, of course, but it was still used for many years.

In some nice news, 4getfulimaginator (burntbrokensoul on Tumblr) made an ah-may-zing graphic for this story on that site, so...y'all should go check it out. It's on both our pages.

And lastly, there is *violence* in this chapter, culminating in a *character death* (not Emma or Killian of course, but I'm sure some would still like a warning).

There was no singular, grand gesture, but over the next few days, Emma became supremely uneasy with the atmosphere in the mansion—moreso than usual, at least. The tension was almost a physical thing, hanging like a heavy morning mist.

Just that morning, Rumpelsteiger had actually given her a radiant, unsolicited smile at her over the breakfast table blintzes. Elsa was paler than usual, if that were possible, staring down at her plate blankly, only taking a bite when Hans gave her a not-so-subtle jab in the side. No matter what issue she was wrestling with, real or imagined, Emma was glad that she had a token of the other woman's trust. With the current state of affairs, she didn't want to brush off an offering from a potential ally.

She gripped her fork tightly, forcing herself not to scowl down at her lap, and reminded herself that less than a week now she would be privy to what she had risked her cover for at the party and be able to speak to Killian. Though, she thought glumly, jabbing the folded pastry until the jam burst out, was that even a good thing now? After they'd left the cellar during the party and eluded the Rumpelsteigers' to their true activities, he'd acted like he couldn't wait to be rid of her. It hadn't been just that, either; it was as though he was being purposefully cruel with his barbed remarks…. Had he finally gotten his fill of her, slated his fantasies of being with a working girl? Or maybe…maybe he was thinking in a purely professional manner, pushing her back to ensure that her amateur self didn't make a false move to implicate something going awry under the Rumpelsteigers' noses. That notion only made her more cross; if it weren't for her, those government idiots wouldn't even have gotten into the damn party and found…well, something. And now there was the matter of holding onto another puzzle piece, which she'd had absolutely no say in.

Once Elsa had handed her the locket, Emma had made straightaway for the bedroom, looking wildly around for a prime hiding nook. The bureau, the closet, the nightstand, even under the mattress—there really wasn't anyplace that felt secure enough now that she was sharing a room with the enemy. That logic also applied to her; Emma had had to rule out carrying it on her person constantly—the bastard couldn't seem to keep his hands to himself ever since he'd had his way with her after the party. She even flipped over one of her heels, studying its sturdy sole. Dammit—if she still had the rags she'd gone around in most of her life, there'd have been no problem prying a corner of the sole or inner lining away to tuck something inside. But she was no cobbler; if she tried anything like that now, it would definitely draw attention.

But maybe the same idea could be applied elsewhere…Emma flipped over the room telephone. The bottom could be unscrewed, but she didn't want to damage the inner workings and have the trinket discovered. Frustrated, she flipped over her bedside lamp; it had a wider base—maybe there'd be more room to maneuver. Leaving it tilted on its side, she sprinted to bedroom door and turned the key in the lock, not wanting to risk discovery. Using one of the pesos she'd collected in change during the day, she twisted out all three pieces of hardware and popped the bottom off. There were still wires, but they were mostly gathered in the center, going up the inside column of the lamp—leaving most of the base. Emma circled the chain around the inside base, meeting the clasp with the locket, and started to repair the dismantled parts.

"Emma? Emma!" The doorknob jiggled noisily, and she looked up with a fearful start. "Why in hell is this door locked?"

"Just a moment!" She called, hastily tightening the last screw.

"Open the goddamn door now!"

Emma set the lamp upright, and took a flying, highly unladylike leap, across the room and wrenched the door open.

"What were you—"

She gripped the doorknob tightly, muttering, "It was just an accident…sorry."

He gave a skeptical look down his nose at her. "See that it doesn't happen again. And watch that flippant tone. As your husband now, you'll afford me the utmost respect."

It took all she had not to wrest her hand from his clammy, iron hold as he led her down to dinner.

"Emma? Pet?"

Her thoughts rudely interrupted, she forced her mind back to the present. Everyone at the table was staring at her.

"Sorry, dear," she smiled, patting her mouth briskly with her napkin. "You were saying?"

"I was saying ," Bae said irritably, "Perhaps you'd like to go into town for the afternoon? This godawful heat is letting up, and—"

"Maybe I could rest awhile longer?" Emma cut in, pressing a palm to her stomach. "I'm…feeling rather poorly."

"Oh?" Rumpelsteiger turned his hawkish scrutiny on her. "You're not flushed, nor perspiring."

Did he think having a rogue doctor for a crony made him one as well? Emma consciously kept her eyebrow in place, biting her bottom lip sharply to keep back a rude retort. "It's my stomach. I may—may have had one too many blintzes," she lied, the nausea having hit fast and furious as soon as she'd woken up that morning. But she was afraid admitting that would have father, son, or both insisting Whale take a gander at her, and having that fink's mitts on her would cause an unpleasant reaction.

Rumpelsteiger merely shook his head at her, and dug back into his breakfast. "A Rump—pardon, Gold, is made of sterner stuff, dearie. Going out will be good for you—and you can help Cook pick out a decent roast for supper."

If she was being forced out of the house and to be accompanied by anyone, she hoped to get Elsa alone to question her more about her cryptic warning from the other day. "In that case, might I request Elsa's company instead. We—"

"No!" Rumpelsteiger barked, so sharply all others present jumped. Emma watched as his hands tightened around his cutlery, seeming to fight for some composure. "That is to say…she's needed here."

Emma tipped her head towards the other woman, but Elsa hadn't had any reaction except to possibly grow even more sallow. Christ on a cracker, the woman looked blanched as a parsnip. Emma leaned back with a sigh. Tuesday couldn't come quickly enough.

2 Days Earlier

The quarter flipped over and between his fingers in a harried rhythm. "Couldn't this wait, Mills?" said Killian, fixing the woman across the desk with a blank expression. "Swa—Miss Blanchard is coming in for the brief in only three days time, and you—"

"It—it was my call, Killian," Agent Graham Humbert murmured meekly from his spot at Regina's side.

Doubtful, Killian thought grudgingly. He didn't know what the razor-tongued harridan had that enchanted his superior so; the man looked more like a whipped dog each subsequent meeting since the mission had begun. Even now, if the angle of Regina's arm was anything to go by, she had her hand on Graham's knee in a vise-like grip behind her desk. Her other was occupied with holding her cigarette to her lips while she puffed it rapidly. Killian spotted the ashtray, loaded with at least two dozen half-finished butts. He quirked an eyebrow; Regina Mills was…anxious? The thought was both heartwarming and unsettling all at once. Killian flicked his thumb, sending the quarter onto the desk surface with a noisy clatter, earning himself a glower that didn't bother him a whit. He had a more important problem—and lass—to worry about.

"We've received the results from that vial, Jones, and Gra—I mean to say, Agent Humbert and I, have come to something of an impasse."

So there were still some things Humbert wouldn't cave to? Interesting. Killian leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "The contents, Mills?"

Surprisingly, Humbert jumped in before she could answer. "It's…DNA tissue." He pulled nervously at a curl that had escaped from his mop that no Brylcreem could seem to tamp down. "Human DNA, Killian."

"It's not just any human's cells, Agent Jones," Regina cut in, for once looking ill at ease. "It's the…the Führer's. Former Führer's, I mean to say. The most likely scenario is that 'Whale' did some sample collecting before he was forced to flee Germany—most likely at Rumpelsteiger's behest."

"For what possible purpose?" What kind of nonsense was all this? Why would anyone…? He mulled over this new tidbit aloud, more to himself than for the other two. "Well…if I were a rabidly delusional Nazi suffering from acute megalomania…why would I want my beloved Führer's organic matter?"

"Not as a souvenir, I can assure you," Graham said with a weak chuckle, cutting off when Regina shot him a deadly glare. "B-but think, Killian: what can you do with something once you've got an original blueprint? With paper documents, with plant seeds, even with, er, two p-people when they're fond of each—" he trailed off, blushing furiously.

Killian ran his hand through his hair, exasperated. "But we aren't talking about conception in the old-fashioned sense of a bloke and bird rogering each other stupid, now are we?" he said bluntly, watching Graham turn even redder. Killian fought an eyeroll; how had someone with such delicate countenance risen through the ranks to where he was? He acted as flustered as a green lad. "I may not be adept in the sciences, but I know you need two parties to make another one, see?"

"Perhaps…until now," Regina said evenly. "It appears Rumpelstieger and his mad scientist hope to annihilate that barrier—if they haven't already."

"And what's the grand plan, then?" Killian snarked. "Xerox off a few copies of one madman, stick 'em in the ground, and hope they grow into several madmen in a decade or so?" When there wasn't a response from either of the other two, Killian continued impatiently. "Impossible."

"If you're such the expert, why aren't you on the lab team in DC?" Regina snarled. "It's their informed opinion, the most likely explanation—and I don't care if you believe it or not."

"I'm not an expert, but—but this is all bloody impossible!" He gave Graham an uncertain glance. "Correct?"

Graham rubbed a hand down his face. "I know it sounds utterly preposterous, straight from some badly written fiction. But what you said…it's—it's not far off, and it makes sense—if you can see things from Rumpelsteiger and his band's distorted world view."

His first-in-command continued on, blathering about the minutiae and step-by-steps that could make this new curveball—Führer clones—a reality, while Killian let his mind wander, leaning back and cradling his head between hand and prosthesis, staring at the ceiling. He still couldn't—wouldn't—buy this load of hogwash. Not only for the sheer eeriness of it all, but…he didn't want to think of Emma being in the clutches of someone who thought they could bring such insanity to fruition. He'd known the man was a danger before, but now this—he had even less scruples than previously assumed, and Emma was essentially in his clutches.

"Wait, what's this other business about?" He looked up, squinting between the other two. "You mentioned an impasse? On what?"

Graham pulled at his curls again. "It's…well, this strange, new anomaly is something I didn't see coming, Killian—I don't think anyone could have predicted—well, I'm prepared to pull the mole. Have to run it by a few—"

"And I say the suggestion is purely laughable," Regina broke in, folding her hands on her desk. "Miss Blanchard was trained extensively, and knew what she signed on for. If she's pulled out, we won't get another chance at finalizing Rumpelsteiger's takedown. He'll know something in the water isn't clean, and clear out."

"She does seem particularly committed," Graham conceded. "To marry the fiend, after Regina found the funds couldn't be spared to relocate her…."

Killian looked up sharply, but of course Regina was avoiding his pointed look. So she hadn't told Humbert about her nasty little bit of blackmail after she'd gotten the man to backpedal on his post-mission plans for Emma. It figured. Contemptible Gorgon—he'd ensure this matter wasn't over.

"You're going soft," Regina sneered at Graham. "Are you trying to say all the time and resources we've invested for nearly a year now are going to be made moot? She's just a civilian—an expendable one—and we all know it."

Killian bent his metal pinkie finger back almost to the point of dislocation. Of course he wanted Emma out, but, much as he was loathe to admit, the she-devil was simply stating facts of the case.

"Killian," Graham swung his torn expression back to him. "What'd do you think?"

Present

Emma wearily opened the manor's front door, letting Cook slip past her to put the groceries in the icebox. The day certainly had not been cooler, and she was plain miffed. Fuck his respect; she could well give him a piece of her mind, wasn't that what married people did even if—

Glass appeared in front of her suddenly with a little bow, holding out a hand.

"I haven't got any bags, Glass, the cook brought them—"

"But of course, madam. It's not that; I've been instructed to escort you to the study."

Emma yanked away from his outstretched palm, suspicion building. The house, while never a hubbub of activity, was almost churchlike quiet. Except for Glass, there were no other servants about. "Whatever for?"

"I am not at liberty to discuss—"

"Fine. But I'm perfectly able to walk by my lonesome," she snapped, practically stomping off in front of him, though he tailed her up to the study door and swung it open for her, stepping back quickly once she was inside.

Emma's mouth dropped open at the scene that had just been foisted upon her; indeed, the room was so congested that it took several seconds. Her eyes first fell on Jefferson, who perched on the desk, aiming a gun lazily at Hans' chest, who was seated in a plush smoking chair front of him. Whale stood behind him, Rumpelsteiger and Baelthazar next to him, all facing a woman bound in a slotted wood kitchen chair, rope pulling her wrists behind her, ankles to the chair legs. But who…Elsa? Emma hastened around to the Rumpelsteigers' point of view; no, it couldn't be—

It was. Besides her limbs being trussed up, there was also a thick rag secured in mouth and tied at the back of her head. Distressed eyes met her own, and for a moment Emma just stared with a dropped jaw, before gathering her wits enough to sputter: "What's the meaning of this?!" She tried her best to quench the quaver in her voice, to project nothing but indignation.

"It's time you see what this household is about, Miss…my dear daughter-in-law. Family is an important, nay, thee most important bond one can have. As your loyalty to your slain hero father so clearly shows. But crossing a member of the Rumpelsteigers as one of us—there is no greater offense I can think of."

Emma glanced quickly into Elsa's watery blue eyes, then back, unflinchingly, into Rumpelsteiger's stony gaze. It sounded like he'd found her out somehow—but then, why was his niece tied and gagged? "I still don't understand."

Bae put his hand to her back. "See, Father, this isn't—"

Rumpelsteiger stepped out from behind the chair Elsa was tied to, crossed to Bae, and backhanded him so hard across the face, his sharp knuckle opened a gash high on Bae's cheekbone. "Don't you dare interrupt me, boy! I will stand for it no longer! Leaving the old country may have made you forget your manners, but I certainly will not forget my prerogative to put you in your place when you do!"

He moved to the side, in front of Emma, grabbing her hands so tightly she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. She was sure that would thrill him. "I'm sure our dear Emma has no such reservations as my spineless offspring. She knows too well the pain, the heartache, that comes from losing good people to the capitalist savages that drove us from our home." He dropped her hands, turning and clasping his own behind his back, circling the chair. "Do you know what happens when the farmer finds a fox in the henhouse, Daughter?"

"I grew up in New England boarding schools, not the homesteads of the Great Plains, Father," Emma replied with a straight face, noting the twitch at the corners of Rumpelsteiger's mouth. She was sure he'd like to strike her just as hard as his son, and probably worse.

"The answer, child, is to put it down—to kill it so it cannot inflict even more damage than it undoubtedly has already. At least, that is what one should do." He reached out suddenly, and wrenched off the handkerchief tied around Elsa's head. She coughed up the second one stuffed in her mouth, choking raggedly on her dry tongue. Rumpelsteiger didn't seem to want her to speak though, as he continued talking.

"Several years ago, I found a fox in my own henhouse, in the form of my niece that you see before you." He spun on Emma abruptly, as though trying to take her off-guard. "Did you know Elsa was a member of the Norwegian Resistance during the later years of the war?"

What? Emma dug her nails into her palms, answering steadily: "How would I have known such a thing, sir?"

He gave a falsely offhand shrug. "I thought perhaps my son might've mentioned it, but then again—you see, in spite of her treachery, my weakling boy has a fondness for his cousin. Didn't want her past revealed, especially once she came back to us, begging forgiveness. And I foolishly allowed it, even assigned a watcher to her, though"—he gestured towards Hans—"that doesn't seem to have been a success."

Hans finally spoke up. "Sir, please—"

Rumpelsteiger raised a hand, and Jefferson cracked Hans across the mouth. He stuck the tip of his tongue out to gingerly dab at his split lip, and didn't attempt to continue.

"Tell me, dear: what should I have done when this—" he pulled Elsa's head back by her braid—forcing a harsh, shallow inhale from her— inches from his sneering face, "—came crawling back to me?"

Emma knew what the right answer would be to this screwball, but she also suspected by the wild gleam in Rumpelsteiger's eye that no matter what she said…there would be consequences.

"If she was sincere, of course you should have granted your forgiveness," she said carefully. Rumpelsteiger let out a maniacal little giggle.

"But she wasn't, my dear. Do you know how I know this?" He pulled his key loop out of his pocket, threading his fingertip through the wine cellar key, and held it up for her perusal.

Oh God, she'd been too late. He'd noticed after all. Emma felt like she'd just turned to granite.

"Do you know what this is? The key to my wine cellar. Do you know who else has been granted access to it?" His eyes turned to slits when she remained silent, certain he'd been about to answer himself again. "Well, do you?!"

"I'd wager only you do, sir."

The older man let out a loud laugh, clapping his hands together like some demonic child. "Oooh, Baelthazar, a shrewd one you've won! A point won for you, dearie, a point!"

Emma continued to stare at him with as blank an expression as she could muster, fisting her sweaty palms in the back of her skirt.

"Imagine my chagrin when, during that extravagant gala the other night—hosted by me—to discover the key missing. Being the naturally trusting individual that I am, I thought nothing suspect of it at first—until it re-appeared, threaded back into my keyring the next morning. And then I found this." He walked forward and thrust an object so close to her nose, she had to take a step back. It was a shard of the wine bottle Killian had knocked over, a large piece with the date sticker—1936—on it. Emma wrinkled her nose at the lingering stench of formaldehyde on it.

"Someone took my key, and went snooping in my wine cellar. Did this individual really think I wouldn't notice a bottle of my 1940 suddenly lined up next to the 1934?"

Even in such a tense situation, Emma fought an eyeroll at Rumpelsteiger's inclusion of his affluent life's problems into the mix. "That's quite reprehensible, really," she remarked blandly, noting the anger starting to glitter in Rumpelsteiger's eyes. "But, sir, perhaps it was just—"

"No. It was no servant, no associate of mine, none of the other excuses you're ready to make, Miss—my dear. It was someone who was looking for something in particular—and they found it."

"And what was that, sir," Emma intoned, still trying to sound only faintly interested in where all this was leading.

"That concerns only myself, and the intruder. Which I've deduced to be my niece."

"But—"

"She is the only one whose had ties to different loyalties in the past, the only one with cause to go against me. Why, it couldn't conceivably be anyone else…could it, Emma dear?" He circled behind the chair again, taking something out of his suit pocket—his Luger P08, which he slid a single bullet into conspicuously for everyone in the room to see. After Emma didn't answer, he looked up. "Well, can you think of anyone else, Daughter?"

That deranged, fucking… Emma thought desperately, mind going a mile a minute. Did he know about her? Was this some kind of twisted punishment—make her choose either Elsa's life or the mission—and, consequently, her own skin. She could reveal herself, and most likely be killed on the spot. Then all the work she'd done so far to bring these animals to justice would be for naught. They'd get away with everything, both in the past and whatever they were currently planning. Rumpelsteiger certainly wouldn't let an outsider get this close to them again once she was exposed. But how—how could she just let him kill an innocent woman, a friend?

"Emma," Elsa's hoarse voice broke through her conflicting thoughts. "Emma, don't worry about me. I've done what I needed to do, and—"—here Emma swore Elsa could see right through her—, "—I understand." She held Emma's gaze steadily. "Truly, I do. Please…there are more important things at stake than me."

Emma continued to look straight at Elsa, then to Rumpelsteiger looming behind her. Getting Elsa's go-ahead didn't make things any easier. Sweat beaded along her brow; her heart beat so rapidly, she thought it might erupt from her chest.

"We're waiting, dearie."

"No," she whispered at last, so softly she wasn't sure he'd heard. "No, I can't think of who else it might've been." She felt a single tear roll down her cheek.

Rumpelsteiger gave a curt nod, satisfied, then snatched a cushion off the loveseat nearest him, and placed it and the gun to the back of Elsa's head in one swift movement. It was all so sudden—a muffled pop, Elsa falling sharply forward as far as her restraints would allow—that for one naïve moment, Emma thought Rumpelsteiger had merely hit her with the butt of the pistol—until she saw the blood pooling in the now-dead woman's lap, running down from the wound through her forehead.

Rumpelsteiger had already turned away, wiping the barrel on the silencing cushion. He looked up at his audience. "Well? Shall I tell the cook to start supper?" he motioned towards Whale and Jefferson to follow before he started to stalk out of the room. Hans fell to his knees in front of him as he passed.

"Oh, thank you, dear sir, I—"

"As you're no longer of use to me, I suggest you make yourself scarce. If I ever see you again, mark my words, you'll meet the same fate." Hans nodded energetically, scrambling to his feet and running pell-mell from the room ahead of the other three.

A hand grasped her chin, turned her head from the grisly sight in front of her. "Emma?" Bae asked, frowning. "Come on, pet, buck up."

She could only stare at him glassily, feeling like every sensation was coming through a cotton barrier. Her knees started to buckle. Then everything went black.

It was dark when she next opened her eyes, looking about the room with unfocused eyes. She'd been brought up to the bedroom, the covers pulled up to her shoulders. Someone—the maid, no doubt—had slipped her into her long, gauzy, white nightgown. What—what had—? Then in a rush, the images started pouring back in, the confrontation, narrowly escaping a reveal, Elsa's—

Emma tried to push herself into a sitting position with her wobbily arms. Elsa was dead. Elsa was dead, and it was her fault. Had mere months knocked all street sense out of her? Putting the key back on the ring; what had she been thinking? She should have done something else, anything else but that. But now it was too late, and despite the wrong person paying the price for it, Emma was sure she wasn't free from Rumpelsteiger's misgivings.

The acrid odor of burning plant suddenly stung her nostrils, and she swiveled to see Baelthazar in the corner of the room next to the wardrobe, a cigar sticking out the corner of his mouth. He grinned as her eyes met his.

"Superb, you're awake! Ready to put all this foolishness behind us?"

"How—how long was I—"

"Nearly eighteen hours, pet. Shouldn't frighten your family like that, you know. It's just plain impolite."

Family…Elsa had been family. More than the wretches she was bound to by marriage would ever be. She caught sight of an empty Scotch tumbler resting on her night table—had he just used her faint as an excuse to hole up, drinking and smoking for hours?—and snatched it up, whipping it in a blind rage at Bae's head. Despite her disorientation, her aim was still on point, though it seemed her speed had taken a hit, and the odious son-of-a-bitch ducked in time to let the glass shatter against the wall behind him.

Emma had risen to her knees at this point, the nightgown splaying out in an A shape between them. Her reaction was genuine, and she saw no reason not to express it—only a psychopath would remain devoid of emotion after what she'd witnessed. At the moment, she was too weary to try and be a good actress in basic human behavior.

Bae jumped up from his squat on the carpet. "What the deuce has gotten into you?!"

Emma shifted forward on her unsteady knees, until she was close enough to grasp one of the bedposts. "Into me? What's gotten into you? You just allowed your father to murder your cousin—in cold blood!"

He strode towards her, and Emma braced herself for a blow of some sort, but he only covered her hands on the bedpost with one of his, stroking them in a pacifying manner as though she were a mad dog. "Now, now, wife, I didn't allow anything, per se—this is my father's house after all, and he can attend to slights within its walls as he sees fit."

Attend to slights…. "Didn't—didn't you care for her at all?"

He shrugged at that, actually shrugged. "Certainly, but everything my father laid out was true. She was given a second chance, and squandered it recklessly. Traitors, my sweet"—his hand stopped its motion, pressing hers uncomfortably tight into the bedpost—"always get found out, you see."

Even though she'd been in a dead sleep for nearly a full day, Emma wanted nothing more than to burrow back under the covers—and stay there forever. But her presence downstairs was demanded—asked—for by Rumpelsteiger.

"You're concerning him," Bae had said frankly, arms crossed and mouth knitted up in priggish disapproval. "Do you want him to think you sympathize with an enemy of the family?"

Emma pressed her fingertips to her pounding temples. The dizziness and nausea hadn't let up; if anything, it had grown worse. "N-no, of course not. Just grant me a few minutes to change, and I'll be right down."

He nodded his approval, then suddenly stepped closer and ran a hand down her back. Emma suppressed a shiver, feeling goosebumps rising in its wake.

"Remember, my sweet," he said, lips curved into a smile despite his flat tone. "She's nothing to you anymore. To any of us." He clapped her on the shoulder and made for the door. "Unless you want to attract Father's ire, you'll just pretend like she never existed."

Emma stared after him for a moment, before pushing herself to a sitting position against the headboard. Two more days. Two more days, and she'd make it to her meeting at Headquarters, and demand that this whole operation be brought to a close, these animals to their knees. Yes, she was just the government's eyes and ears on the inside, but they had to have some damning evidence from the party, and even if they didn't—now they had her eyewitness account of ruthless murder. Elsa's death couldn't go unpunished.

And speaking of which…Emma's gaze slid to the lamp next to her. Elsa had told her certain things would become clear, that it was up to her to get a message to her sister. She wasn't sure what exactly the recently deceased had been referring to, but if ever there was a time to contact family…. Emma pulled the lamp onto her lap, rummaged around the nightstand's top drawer to find a peso to use as a screwdriver.

The locket poured out with a soft rattle as it fell past the base. Emma inhaled a deep, fortifying breath, held it for a moment, then dug her thumbnail between the locket's two halves, and it opened with a soft click. In the left frame, a miniscule piece of paper had been folded and tucked securely within the photograph holder. She grasped at her now-messy knot of a hairdo, pulling out one of her pins, and pinched the center of the note together to pull it out. Even unfolded, it was still small, and Emma brought it nearly to the tip of her nose, squinting to read the spidery scrawl.

Kopiene er levedyktig

She frowned, then re-folded the note along the same creases, working it back into the frame the way she found it—whatever that meant would have to wait for her meeting with the brass. Only then did she glance at the right side.

It was a photo of two girls, one of them clearly a younger Elsa, who stood tall with less wrinkles on her forehead, a hint of a smile, and her hands clasped on another girl's shoulder. Emma finally focused on the other woman, and let out a horrified gasp. Yes, she was younger…and blonde…but Emma would recognize that wide, beaming smile she'd become familiar with over the past several months.

The image of Anna, her former maid, stared back out at her.

Emma squeezed her eyes shut, trying to gather her thoughts. On the surface, the women couldn't have been more different, but when she reflected further, it all made sense. Of course, the CIA and MI6 would want to protect their investment, and have someone shadow her within her living quarters, keep tabs more consistently than Killian could.

She pressed the heel of her palm to the throbbing in her head. They'd both been so kind to her…even if they'd had orders, surely their solicitous treatment towards her hadn't been a necessity. It had been so long since other women had treated her with something other than disdain, not sparing her even a cordial nod. And now the gentlest, bravest person she'd ever known had been killed, had died because of her. She might as well have pulled the trigger herself. And now she was tasked with breaking the news to the woman's sister. Another flip in her gut, and Emma tumbled out of the bed, hand clasped over her mouth, barely making it to the toilet before the meager contents of her stomach came roiling up.

She sat back on her haunches, arms wrapped around her middle, dazedly trying to sift through her overcrowded thoughts for some answers…but nothing was forthcoming. Elsa might've not harbored any hard feelings towards her at the end, but Emma doubted her sister would be so forgiving. Certainly flesh-and-blood would be less than understanding…if she couldn't even forgive herself.

A/N: Another movie nod in this chap, in regards to Rumple's discovered motives. The movie's set later than this time period, so I made the story be kind of a possible precursor to it. Anyone know/care to guess?