It's a violation of etiquette, but in times of war, manners tend to be loose; besides, Sir Gaston figures he's earned the right. The proof of that is sitting in the middle of the long table, rather crudely telling tales (no doubt tall) of life in the forest at the same time he stuffs his face with the King's chicken and ale. A manly man, that's what the generals who surround him are thinking; it's clear on their faces. Over the years they've heard variations on his stories many times, from travelers; now they get to hear the truth, even if it's a bit embellished, from the legend himself, Sir Robin of Locksley. Gaston ignores the generals' booming laughter at the falsely modest but uproariously funny spin Hood (that's his true name, in Gaston's opinion) is putting on the story of how he met not-so-Little John.

Well, if this foreigner can get away with violations of etiquette, surely so can a knight of the realm and a hero recently returned from the war-changing mission that has brought Hood and his magic bow to Amadore. So Gaston rises from his seat across from Hood and pointedly wipes his mouth on a napkin (as a display of proper conduct at the King's table, in answer to Hood's having wiped his mouth on his sleeve). Servants scramble to move out of his way (he loves doing that to them; these servants of the royal castle think they're somehow better than the men who fight and bleed for the King and who have been knighted by His Majesty's own hand). Gaston boldly approaches the head of the table, where Maurice dines with his top generals on either side—though dining is not really what the King is doing; he's barely touched his plate. Rumor has it Maurice has been off his feed for weeks now, so nervous is he, rattled by the hope of hope that this war will soon end, and happily. Interesting: Maurice eats heartily when depressed with loss but only picks at his food when he's teetering on success. Gaston takes note of these things; if all goes well tonight, this man will be his father-in-law before the end of the year, and the better he learns Maurice's habits and thoughts, the closer Gaston can get to him. It's not too far-fetched to imagine that by this time next year, Maurice will gift him with a generalcy, in return for his gift of an heir (male, of course, and what a relief that will be for the old gent, to know that when he passes, it may well be that a male bottom will be seated upon a throne in his place, and Belle will take her proper role as the Queen Mother).

Gaston hitches his pants and with a broad grin walks right up to His Majesty. Bushy gray eyebrows shoot up all around the head of the table. His Majesty tolerates the intrusion; to complain about it would be bad form. Gaston fixes his gaze on Maurice and waits for an invitation to speak—no one speaks before the King does, not in public anyway. Maurice is gracious. "Sir Gaston. My thanks again for securing the use of the famed bow for us, and congratulations on bringing its owner along as well. Our best archers will welcome the chance for private lessons with the Master of the Bow."

Gaston bends his neck. "My honor, Your Majesty. I was wondering if I could have a word in private with you?"

Now, normally, a nobleman wishing a private audience would have made his request to the Chancellor, who would forward it to the Chamberlain, who would then, if he saw fit, make arrangements with the King. But again, this was a time of war and Gaston was the hero of the day, and besides, everyone's known for years he's the frontrunner in the race for the Princess' hand, a favorite of Her Majesty for his handsome features, broad shoulders, noble family, and, of course, his bravery, courtesy and skill at the hunt.

The King hesitates and Gaston leans forward to whisper, "It's about your daughter, Sire."

With an undisguised scowl, Maurice rises and draws Gaston into a small staging room off the Great Hall. The servants use this space to hold freshly filled platters and barrels of wine and ale. As the diners empty a tankard or a plate, a servant will whisk it away, to a table here, while a second servant trots in with replenishments. Gasps and clattering dishes greet Gaston as the King sweeps in; the servants bow frantically and skitter out of the way. With the room emptied, Maurice spins on his heel and growls, "What is it, Gaston? So important that it can't wait for my Chamberlain?"

Gaston gulps. Okay, maybe he's misread the situation a little, but surely his haste can be read as eagerness, not impudence, yes? A future son-in-law so deeply in love that he can't wait another hour to ask his question—won't that score points with the father? "Ugh, uh, S-s-sire, I thought—" He raises his head and puffs out his broad chest, reminding himself he's the eldest son of the richest landowner in Aramore, and a knight, and a hero, and a damn good catch for any woman. "Sire, we've been at war now for nine years."

"Eight," Maurice corrects him.

"Eight years. The people are exhaustible. Fearsome. Unspirited. Now for the first time, with the gainsay of the Hood's Bow, the people have reason to hope. Why not give them something substantal to lift their spirits? The promise of heirs—if you'll forgive my frankness, Your Majesty—has always brought incredible joy to a kingdom, especially when the marriage is between one so beauteous as your daughter and, well, if you'll forgive my fortitude, an up-and-comer." He ducks his head in mock humility.

Maurice sighs. He isn't surprised, but he'd been passing on most of this duty to his Chamberlain and Her Majesty, and he'd hoped to not have to deal with any of Belle's suitors—especially this one. "Gaston, I'm not the sort of father to give away my daughter's hand in marriage as a thank-you for the successful completion of a negotiation. Especially when the other party was already an ally."

"But, Sire, surely a match between Belle and myself—just think what the people will say, the Princess and a war hero; it's a match made in Elysium, and the heirs we'll produce—well, just look," he gestures at his handsome form. "And m-m-may I remind you, Sire, if it's not too foured, my father has been the biggest contributor to your war coffers."

Maurice grunts, wondering how the ill-spoken lad managed to use the word coffers correctly, instead of coffins. Well, Maurice hasn't time for this. The generals are in there making plans without him. Belle knows her own mind and has never hesitated to speak it; let her break the bad news, as she's done for so many other suitors. "Tell you what, boy, the man my daughter has given her heart to, she describes as intelligent, well-read, inventive, insightful, great-hearted and self-made. Spend an hour with her, and if you're able to convince her that you're a better man than he is, you may court her, if she'll tolerate it. But you'll have to wait, because Belle and her mother will be leaving in the morning on a war mission of their own." He drops a hand on Gaston's shoulder, and the knight dares to think the King will embrace him, but instead the King pushes him aside. "Now, I have battles to plan." And he's gone before Gaston can protest—politely, of course.


Rumple awakens a half-hour before dawn, not of his own volition but the cat's; she's marching up and down his chest. "What's the matter?" he croaks, his throat dry. "Something wrong with your door?"

She sits down on his stomach and stares. He sits up, shooing her away, then decides he might as well get up to answer the call of nature. It's a wet morning; must've rained last night while he was sound asleep. As he's returning from the outhouse, he hears hoofbeats on the road. It's still too dark to make out the rider's identity, but he leans on his walking stick as he swings around to face the road. The stick isn't just a means of support; it's a potential weapon, just in case. Then a new thought stabs at his heart: what if this rider is the sheriff?

The horse is reined to a halt at the edge of his lawn. It's not Fort's horse. The cloaked rider dismounts; he's dressed in a red uniform. He removes his helmet and walks up the lawn. Rumple nearly falls over, only his walking stick holding him up. "Oh noooo."

"Rumplestiltskin?"

He can now partially see the rider's face, dotted with stubble and pimples, the brow creased with concern. Rumple gulps as he nods. "Father of Baelfire," he whispers.

The rider understands now and relaxes into a smile. It's rather forward of him, but he touches Rumple's arm reassuringly. "Who is well and safe at Avonlea, probably snoring away in his bunk. I'm sorry, sir. I guess I wasn't thinking, else I wouldn't have ridden up on you like this, in the dark. It's just that I have a message from the Princess and—" he shrugs—"I wanted to impress her, I guess, by delivering it fast."

Rumple's eyes are still large with fear; the words haven't sunk in yet. The rider prompts, "May I give you that message?"

Rumple straightens himself and draws in a breath, as though awakening from a nightmare. "Of course. Please come in. You'll need something to eat after that long ride."

"Thanks." The rider follows Rumple into the house and accepts his invitation to be seated at the table while Rumple moves about, boiling water for tea, frying a slice of pork and two chicken eggs, slicing bread and setting out the pot of honey. Keeping busy covers up his embarrassment for his earlier reaction to the soldier's arrival.

"I'm Corporal Terrowin from the Avonlea Regiment," the young man introduces himself. "I'm not with the Home Guard, but I've met your son a couple of times because my regiment is stationed on the castle grounds. He's a nice guy, Bae is. The lieutenant he works for is the best swordsman in the Guard." Terrowin yammers on as Rumple serves him breakfast. He's just a kid himself, probably no older than Bae; he describes his job as messenger for the General. "Got another year yet before they let me train for warfare. They're real strict about that. No one under nineteen can serve in a battle position. I want to be an archer. I'm good; I won an archery award back home."

Rumple sits down across from him and lets him chatter. The mere presence of this boy makes him feel closer to Bae. The uniform, the unbridled energy, the nonstop talking, and the drops of honey now staining the boy's tunic all seem appropriate for breakfast in this house.

"Oh!" the boy yelps, leaping to his feet. "Forgot!" He stuffs a bread crust into his mouth, then dashes outside; in a blink he's back and dropping his saddlebags onto the table. He stuffs a spoonful of egg into his mouth and as he chews, he opens the bags to draw out an envelope (her characteristically messy penmanship, Rumple observes with glee) and a glove-box sized package wrapped in dyed paper. "F'm th' P'ncess," Terrowin manages around his food. He swallows. "I'm supposed to say, 'with her deepest thanks and congratulations.'" He gives an awkward bow before sitting down again to resume his meal.

Rumple resists the urge to hobble outside to open his gifts in private, but he does retreat the hearth. In his rocking chair, his back is turned to the table, affording him some privacy. He tucks the letter into his tunic for later reading, but he holds the box on his lap as he opens it, carefully preserving the pretty paper. The box did indeed once hold gloves, but now it contains a gold-plated whistle inscribed with his name—spelled correctly—and a sheet of linen paper embossed with the King's icon, a green M topped by a gold crown. In a stylish looping hand is written "The Lord Chamberlain is commanded by His Majesty to request your presence at a dinner meeting of the war council, two days hence at 9 of the clock. A carriage will be sent tomorrow at 7 of the clock to transport you to His Majesty's castle in Avonlea, where overnight accommodations will be provided. Please respond through the messenger bearing this invitation." Despite the latter sentence, Rumple senses that the only acceptable response on his part is yes—not that he would refuse the King.

An additional line in a familiar spidery scrawl has been added to the bottom of the card: "I'd hoped this would be an opportunity for us to actually talk at last. We seem to work so well together, I'm sure we could have created additional ideas for dealing with the ogres. But alas, Mama and I have an urgent mission to undertake, for the war effort: we go with Lord Locksley and his grand Bow to Firefly Valley, where we will bargain, negotiate, argue, cajole, plead, or whatever else it might take to persuade the Queen of the Fairies to study the enchantment on the Bow. If she can replicate its magic upon our soldiers' bows, this war will soon be over. The one blessing in disguise here is that we have the perfect excuse to cancel the lavish birthday ball that the gray men have planned in my honor and against my will. (I fear, however, that they will resurrect their plans at Yuletide.) Please, please do accept my father's invitation nevertheless. He wishes to introduce you and your whistle discovery to his military advisers. He and I believe it may mark a turning point in the war. Your friend and co-researcher, Belle."

Rumple searches for a clean sheet of paper, but remembers he used his entire supply. He takes down the letter he wrote and adds to the top of it "I regret that we will not meet but I shall accept His Majesty's invitation with thanks. Your friend and collaborator, Rumple." She will learn of his appearance at court—and whether he's comported himself with dignity or made a fool of himself in front of all those educated and well-mannered people-before she receives this letter, but he wants to share his acceptance with her personally. . . especially if he does something stupid at the meeting and Maurice intervenes to cut off Belle's correspondence with him.

He has no paper with which to write his acceptance letter to the King (or should he address the letter to the Lord Chamberlain?); he'll borrow some from Morraine tomorrow. She keeps a boxful so that she can write to Bae.

"Mind if I use your privy?" the messenger stands and stretches. Rumple points in the right direction, adding, "You and your horse are probably tired. You're welcome to turn him loose in my neighbor's sheep pasture, then come back and sleep." He nods at Bae's pallet. "You'll find the blanket clean and the pillow recently refeathered."

"Thanks, sir. I am kinda saddle sore."

With the boy outside, Rumple is free to read Belle's newest letter. He's glad he waited for privacy: some parts of the letter make him blush. Not that anything the Princess writes is unladylike, but she does tend to exaggerate her compliments and pepper her paragraphs with "my dear friend" and "my inventive hero."

He has the chance to reread the letter twice more before Terrowin opens the door, letting in the sunshine. The boy strips down to his longjohns before easing into the pallet. A quick goodnight and he's out like a light. The sleep of youth, Rumple thinks as he listens to the snores. May Terrowin and Bae enjoy it for years to come.

As for himself, Rumple has a royal dinner to prepare for.


Half the village—Rumple recognizes among them the faces of people who still despise and, in a few cases, openly revile him—line up along both sides of the main road as the shiny black carriage bearing the green M rumbles into town. Some of the onlookers know what's going on, but most are amazed when the carriage stops at Rumple's hovel and the footman steps down from the box and walks right up to the doorway, where Rumple, in his best tunic and trousers, leans on his mahogany cane. At his feet is a knapsack that contains a full set of court-worthy clothes borrowed from the tax assessor. There are breeches and matching stockings, pointed shoes, a shirt and a surcoat—all of which make Rumple sweat and itch, but the taxman assures him these clothes will enable him to blend in. Rumple had to apply a great many temporary stiches so the clothes would appear to fit him; he will restore them to their previous state as soon as he gets home.

The footman sweeps his plumed hat from his head and bows—slightly, because though his passenger is an invited guest of the crown, the footman still outranks him by any measure. "Rumplestiltskin, I presume?"

Rumple licks chapped lips. "Aye."

"Aalot, footman of His Majesty King Maurice, at your service. I shall serve as your valet. Should you require anything to make your journey to Avonlea more comfortable, or your stay at the castle more pleasant, you need only ask."

Rumple scrubbed his teeth, bathed and shaved this morning, and last night Gretchen cut his hair. The clothes he's wearing and those he's taking with him are the finest in Ramsgate. He is presentable and he knows it, yet the slightly cocked eyebrow with which the footman examines him suggests otherwise. Rumple reminds himself that he's going as an invited guest of the King, not a peddler this time—and whether any of the castle's servants know it or not, he's a friend of Her Royal Highness (though if he passed her in a corridor, she wouldn't know him from any other country bumpkin).

Despite the footman's lack of warmth, Rumple responds politely. "Thank you." He's not sure if a peasant should address a footman as sir (funny thing: his instinct is to consult Belle on the matter. Then he realizes that would probably be an even bigger error in etiquette than to misaddress the footman. . . and then he realizes that as far as his instinct is concerned, Belle's status as his friend takes precedence over her status with the rest of the world. Were he to tell her that he thinks of her as his friend first and his superior second, she would be pleased.)

"Shall we proceed, then?" the footman asks.

Rumple wonders briefly if he should invite the footman and the driver in for tea before they leave; surely they're thirsty after hours traveling on a dusty road. But the footman has already bent to pick up the backpack and the driver has already paid a lad to fetch pails of water for the horses, so Rumple meekly follows Aalot. The footman sighs with annoyance when he sees that the driver is busy watering the horses; though it's beneath him, he will have to extract the footstep himself and assist the disabled old man into the carriage. He gives his coat a jerk to relieve some of his frustration, then he moves to perform the duties required of him, only to find that the passenger has already opened the carriage door for himself and is struggling up the footstep.

"May I assist you"—there's a slight hesitation before Aalot adds, "sir?" He reaches for the covered basket resting in the crook of Rumple's left arm. "You need not bring any refreshment, sir. It is a long ride, but I've seen to your provisions."

"Not food," Rumple pants a little as he hauls himself, his basket and his cane into the carriage. "A birthday gift for the princess." As he sets the basket on the carriage floor, a black ear pokes out from under the cloth, soon followed by a squirming fur ball. Rumple tucks the cloth more tightly around the kitten. "Be still," he urges the wiggling gift.

Aalot humphs. "Really, the castle has no shortage of cats. . . sir. Now if you wish, we can stop at one of the shops in Avonlea and I can advise you on a suitable gift for Her Highness."

Rumple takes the basket onto his lap and strokes the kitten's silky ears. "No thank you. This gift will do fine."

Settling into the leather-padded seat, Rumple looks about curiously. He finds on the floor of the carriage a ceramic jug, which he discovers contains cool, sweet water, and a leather bag containing rolls, strips of dried venison, and several pieces of fruit. On the seat across from him is a stack of books tied with a red ribbon, and tucked on top is an envelope in familiar handwriting. His anxiety dissipates as he takes the envelope onto his lap. He almost forgets to say goodbye to his neighbors as the footman closes the carriage door, but shouts from Lucas, Morraine and Fort remind him to look outside and wave. "Good trip, Rum!" "I'll feed your lambs while you're gone, Rum!" "Don't forget to give Bae my letter!"

Rumple has never ridden in a carriage before, though he's passed a few as he's walked along the road to Avonlea. He finds them noisy and clumsy; this one, though better oiled and outfitted with springs to absorb the bumps, still lurches and thumps along the rutted road, and he has to soothe the kitten. Still, it's twice as fast as a man can walk—three times as fast as a man with a bad ankle can travel—so he's grateful for the transportation. The view from the elevated height is more pleasant, too. He doesn't spend long admiring it, however; he has a letter to read and reread.

She informs him that the books under the red ribbon are meant to keep him amused during the journey. One is a history of the city of Avonlea, with chapters devoted to Kings Aubin and Maurice. A slimmer volume describes life at court and answers for Rumple such burning questions as the difference between a valet and a footman—"Now, I don't want you to feel as though you'll be tested on this information, but I thought it might make you feel a little more comfortable during your stay. But really, Rumple, just remember that when you're in Ravershire Keep, you're in our home and you are our welcome guest. It is the servants' job to make you comfortable; it is the royal family's job to make you feel at ease. And remember, my dear friend, that just one generation ago, my family was common. Grandfather Aubin was a lifelong military man, Grandmother Felisia was the daughter of a general; and my mother's people made their wealth by raising livestock (the tenderest beef in all of Misthaven). My father takes the measure of a man not by the cut of his clothes but the sharpness of his mind and the sincerity in his words. He will respect you, Rumple. For my sake, he already likes you.

"I wish I could be there to introduce you to him. I would dearly love to show you my school and the library. But the sooner we persuade the fairies to assist us, the sooner all our soldiers can come home, so I must go. There will be another time, Rumple. Please enjoy your stay.

"Your friend, Belle."

Another time. He folds the letter and tucks it into one of the books. For my sake. The ride doesn't seem so bumpy now.