Graham comes back, and with him many a box. It takes Emma's breath away, and she forces herself not to panic at the sight of all of his things carefully packed and brought to his bedroom. (They're to live together only once they are married, a century-old tradition that makes her roll her eyes as much as it soothes her worries.) Mostly, he comes back with his easy smiles and clear laughs – she had missed him, already fond of him the way she's never been with anyone else. It's not love but. But it could be, some day, if she lets her affections grow for him. And perhaps it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, really.

She helps him settle, mostly because it allows them to spend time together, and allows her not to be stuck in meetings all afternoon long. Graham owns an entire library, it seems, and they stand hip by hip as they put them on the shelves of his bookcase. It is too small, and so they'll have to buy a new one once they start sharing the same room, but for now it will be enough. She reads each and every title, curious – there are some classics, of course, but also books about nature, animals, wanderlust. It makes her smile, and perhaps they'll go skiing in the winter, if they find the time, perhaps they'll go trekking through the mountains.

"So, anything happened while I was away?"

Emma forces herself not to blush at the thought of Killian and her in the broom closet, a few days ago. This is not a tale to share with her future husband, lest she wants to upset him. (Would he be jealous? Does she want to know?) So instead she thinks of her meeting with her father – it is easier a topic, after all, and so she throws herself into the tale without missing a beat, grin settling on her lips. Graham smiles back, soft and gentle.

"How did you not know how to ride a horse?"

She slaps his shoulder with a book, and he laughs.

"Well, now I do. So who's laughing now, huh?"

He is laughing, a little louder, and she soon joins him with a bump of her hip against his. He bumps her back, playfully, and so she pokes her tongue out at him. Easy, simple.

On the day of the review of the guard, her stomach is in knots, and Emma pushes her food around her plate instead of eating. She doesn't want to get sick and make a fool of herself, even if she knows she won't need a stomach ache for the latter to happen. Her lessons with her father were successful, of course, but she is a pessimist at heart and can only dread the worst-case scenario, as always.

"You okay?" Graham asks, rubbing a hand against her back.

She nods around a mouthful of scrambled eggs, and it tastes like sand on her tongue. She washes it down with a sip of orange juice, making a face as she swallows. Graham's grey eyes are full of concern as she stares back at him, but Emma forces a smile on her lips.

"You'll be fine," he tells her, and for a second Emma believes he's going to lean forward and kiss her forehead. He doesn't, but it's a close thing.

"Let's elope and live in the forest," she replies, serious.

He laughs, crinkles at the corner of his eyes, and shakes his head. "You don't need me to run away, you know."

"I wouldn't survive five seconds."

He laughs again, and the sound eases her nerves, if only a little. "You do know how to make a bloke sound important."

Emma grins and, when she shoves some more food in her mouth, it feels better already. Perhaps her lady mother was right, after all. She doesn't need a husband to love, she only needs a husband who will support her no matter what. And Graham perfectly fits the bill for such a job.

He squeezes her hand one last time before a maid forces her out of the kitchens so she can get ready for the review of the guard. The next hour or so is spent doing the last alterations on her outfit – a deep blue jacket over beige trousers, with leather boots and gloves – as well as doing her hair and make-up. In the end, she looks more like she is ready to enter a horse-riding competition and less like she will review Eala's army, but it isn't a bad thing. She loves the look, and rolls her eyes playfully when Ruby insists on posting a picture to her social networks – official pictures will be posted everywhere in an hour or so, but a little sneak peek never hurt anyone.

Her nerves come back with a vengeance when she is led towards the royal gardens, knot settling in her stomach once more at the sight of her father standing next to the horse she is going to ride. He is in the middle of a conversation with Graham, both smiling and apparently enjoying themselves – it shouldn't warm her heart, but it does.

"Gentlemen," she greets them, with a smirk.

Her father smirks back, and rolls his eyes playfully – she made him promise not to give Graham the protective father speech, and he doesn't sound like the type to go back on his words. Instead, he kneels a little and links his hands together, to propel her up on her horse. Emma does so easily, and readjusts her position for it to be as perfect as possible. Her back is straight and her head high, a gentle but solemn smile on her lips.

When she looks back to her father, she can only hear the words he said to her the first time they met – you look so much like her. For the first time, it doesn't sound like such a bad thing.

"Let's do this shit," she says, and both men chuckle at her words.

It is almost time anyway, a stable boy popping out of nowhere to stand next to her horse. She looks back to her father and fiancé, one last time, before they walk away to go and stand in the crowd with the rest of the court – her father fading into the background while Graham is first in line, standing next to her mother. Mostly so the journalists' cameras can dwell on him to their heart's content – she can already hear them, analysing his every proud smile and happy eyes and, gosh, this is her life now.

Her horse bristles at the sound of trumpets, but then she presses her leg to his sides and the mount moves forwards at an easy, slow rhythm. They round around a corner, stable boy guiding them, and here they are – soldiers lining up with their weapons to their chests and hands to their temples in a perfect salute, heads high, shoulders squared. The captain of the guard is first in line, two steps in front of his soldiers. She stops in front of him with a nod, to which he replies by clicking his heels together and taking two steps back.

Emma presses her horse forwards once more, acknowledging each and every soldier with a nod. It takes time, of course, but time she does have, and so she forces herself not to rush through things, lest she makes a mistake along the way. She should have it covered, but one never knows.

She is almost at the end of the line, almost done, when her horse starts bristling under her. She doesn't mind it at first – it is an animal and not a robot, after all – but a particularly loud snort has her frown down at the horse. She tightens her hold on the reins seconds before the horse rears. Not too high at first, but then he snorts once more and does it again, high enough that she loses her balance and falls against his neck.

"Wow, wow," she says, forces herself not to yell.

She hears her name being said by several voices, echoes of 'Emma!' and 'Your Highness!', as the horse gets even more nervous and scared. She tries to gain her balance once more, but there is no point – it all happens fast, but also in slow motion, the horse neighing loudly before he jumps forwards. The strength of it has Emma lose her balance and fall down, face first in the grass. People around her gasp, loudly, and she faintly hears her mother calling after her over the pounding of the blood in her ears. She looks up to many cameras pointed at her, and even more eyes.

So Emma does the first thing that crosses her mind.

She stands up, and runs away.

Emma doesn't cry.

She doesn't allow the tears to roll down her cheeks, even with the sting in her hands and knees. The soft grass broke her fall, but not enough for it not to hurt – the palms of her hands red and bruised, her knees grass-stained and burning. But, mostly, it is her ego who hurts the most. She made a fool of herself on national television, and knows enough about the way internet works to guess it will go viral – probably already is viral, who is she even kidding? A small, desperate part of her hopes that her mother will have paid off the journalists not to broadcast the videos, but she doesn't feel too optimistic about this. They aren't a dictatorship, and the liberty of the press was still a thing, last time she checked.

Emma heaves a sigh, and forces herself not to cry.

"Are you all right?"

The cackle escapes her lips before she even raises her head – she doesn't need to see the newcomer to know his identity, the sound of his voice more than enough. (And what does that say about her?) The sound is bitter and sarcastic in her mouth, and Killian looks perfectly scolded when their eyes meet, like he is aware that he pressed his luck with such a question. Still, he doesn't back away, and the shame in his eyes turns to concern as he takes in her state of disarray and her reddening hands.

"If you're here to gloat," she starts, but has no idea how to actually finish her sentence. Any kind of threat feels empty and useless, all of a sudden.

"I'm not," he says, soft, caring.

He kneels in front of her, close without touching her, and tilts his head to the side. The urge to punch him is present, but that would be useless too. She can already see the headlines from there – Runaway princess punches her nemesis in the face. Good for her nerves, not so good for her reputation. Or even the reputation of her family, when you think about it. She huffs and closes her fists, swallowing down a hiss of pain at her nails digging into the sensitive skin of her palms.

Killian drops something in her lap and, when she looks down, it's to find a carefully folded handkerchief, his initials embroidered with a blue thread in a corner. It would be sweet but – it's Killian Jones. Nothing is ever sweet with him, always measured and calculated.

Still, she says, "Thank you," because she was raised better than that. Her voice sounds nasal, her nose stuffy with the tears she refuses to cry. She is a wreck, and of course she is a wreck in front of the man who could take her weakness and turn it into ammo. Just her luck.

"You shouldn't be hiding. It will only make matters worse."

She wants to laugh – both because an open bandstand in the middle of the gardens makes for a poor hiding place, and because she hardly sees how things could get worse from here. Emma feels like she has hit rock bottom, at that point.

She goes for saying as much, when another voice startles them both. "Lord Jones. May I have a word?"

They both look up to find her father on the first step of the bandstand, worry at the corners of his mouth even if he offers Killian a deadly glare. The younger man doesn't need more to give her one last smile as well as his hand. Emma hesitates, if only for a second, before she grabs it and lets him propel her up. Her smile is careful but present as she ducks her head and walks past him – she slows down to squeeze her father's hand, and he squeezes right back.

Only then does Emma see the other people gathering not far off – her mother, of course, and with her Leroy, but also Ruby and Graham and, more surprisingly, Lady Zelena. The latter offers Emma a sneer she probably meant as a smile, before she all but jogs towards the bandstand, no doubt to check on her nephew.

The conversation her father has with Killian is too soft for Emma to make out the words as she goes to stand with her mother – the queen grabs her hand and seems to hesitate, before pulling her into an awkward hug – but Zelena's voice rings loud and clear in the silent gardens.

"Come on, Killian. Showtime's over, let's go home."

"A word, Zelena?" David says, a little louder too, loud enough that Emma wonders if it is on purpose. "You can go, Killian."

Killian does so, head low – he only casts Emma a glance as he makes his way down the steps of the bandstand, then shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket and leaves without another word. Still in the comforting embrace of her mother, Emma watches him go until he disappears around a corner. She blinks, and snuggles a little closer to Mary Margaret, who only tightens her hold on her.

"If you threaten the crown once more…" her father starts, making Emma frowns.

She turns her head ever so slightly, just enough to see her father draping what appears to be a rubber snake around Zelena's shoulder. The woman stands tall and proud, but even from there Emma can see her body shivering – with fear or anger, or both.

Still, Zelena laughs, a high-pitched chuckle. "Oh, we all know how – protective of the crown you can be. How brave of you."

David takes a step closer to Zelena. His lips move, fast, his words too low to be heard – Emma can only guess the kind of threats coming from his mouth in that moment, even more so with the way Zelena forces herself to stand even taller, as if trying (and failing) to get the upper hand in the discussion. It only takes a few moments, really, then she clicks her tongue and turns on her heels, following in her nephew's steps as she leaves the castle's grounds.

Everyone is stunned into silence, and Emma's mind reels with everything that happened in the last few minutes. It is not all that complicated to put the pieces back together – her horse was afraid of snakes, and Zelena took it as the perfect opportunity to ridicule Emma in front of the army, the court, and the press. There is the matter of how she managed to convince the stable boy to help her in her scheme, but this is why they have Leroy – he will deal with it, and soon enough.

It is only when Mary Margaret's body tenses against her that Emma realises David is now by their side – she would smirk at her mother's obvious reaction, were the situation different. As it turns out, Emma only raises her head and offers her father a grateful smile, to which he replies with one of his own as his hand comes to draw circles on her back.

"I – I should go and deal with the press," her mother says, voice as tense as her body. "Do some damage control while I still can."

But even then, the queen seems reluctant to let go of Emma.

"I'm sorry," she blurts out.

"It's not your fault," the queen replies, and kisses her forehead.

It only makes Emma smile – Mary Margaret wouldn't have thought about it twice, not two weeks before, but she is slowly starting to understand that maybe, just maybe, her relationship with her daughter is as important as her duties as queen. Emma's heart squeezes a little in her chest, the feelings unknown but not unwelcomed.

"Don't worry, mom. I can stay with dad while you take care of it, right?"

Both adults are stunned into silence at her casual use of pet names – she rarely, if ever, calls her mother that, but it sounds right in her mouth, all of a sudden. She smiles, even more so when she notices how both of them stare at each other, only for a second, before looking away. There is a time and place for everything, and being smug about that particular topic is neither here nor there, but Emma catalogues it in a corner of her mind, to be dealt with later.

Emma is the one to let go of her mother, then, if only to stand a little closer to her father. It feels unfamiliar but, then again, not particularly unwelcomed. The queen takes it in stride then, with a nod and a smile, before she gestures for Leroy to follow her – her features ease into a more professional expression, as if readying herself for war.

"He didn't know." Her father's voice startles her out of her thoughts, and she looks up at him with a confused frown. "Killian. He didn't know of his aunt's plans."

"Why are you telling me that?"

"If you're going to hate him, you should do it for the right reasons."

There is something dancing in her father's eyes, something Emma refuses to recognize, or even acknowledge. Instead, she looks down at her wounded hands, and picks at the mud stuck under her nails. It is enough to divert her father's attention, and soon everyone is fussing over her hands and her knees, and how she needs to go back to the castle immediately. Graham's hand on her back anchors her all the way to her chambers, and Emma is all too happy to burrow herself under the covers as she lets a maid take care of her hands.

She forces herself not to think of today's events too much but, every time she closes her eyes, she can only picture Killian's ones, blue and concerned. She groans, and curses her father.