Chapter 13

There was nothing anywhere but chaos, and beyond that, fire. They whirled and tumbled and tore through a screaming maelstrom of unmaking, falling stars and broken skies, as Emma tried madly to focus on something, anything, to pull them out. She could see pathways spidering out in all directions, delicate webs of black gauze tugging them down, down, down. Hook's unconscious body was a dead weight as she clawed her fingernails into his torn leather jacket, trying to haul him up to a safer perch. Perhaps she should try to reach the wardrobe door again – but that would open back into the madness of Gold's burning mansion in Monaco, the height of the sorcerers' duel, and they could not. She didn't know how to direct herself or where to go. They were trapped again, the wind of the Place Between Worlds tearing at them hungrily as far off, she saw other doors swinging open in turn. A dark, demented dreamworld, a jungle island where no one ever grew old – a castle on a high crag above a black forest and a harbor – a multi-hued carnival fantasia of talking caterpillars and vorpal swords and a queen that screamed, "Off with her head!" – a world of grey steel and industrial smokestacks, a land without magic – faster and faster they spun. But she had to do this, had to. She had unwoven the time-trap, or memory spell, or whatever had imprisoned them in the vaults of St. Vitus, and she tried to work at this, but it all fell apart and fled away beneath her fingers.

"Hey, beautiful. . ."

The voice came from near her feet, startling her terribly, as she jerked and looked down to see a crack of blue under Hook's bruised eyelids. She reached for him automatically, his hand catching hers as she pressed it to his torso, wincing as she felt the damage. "Your ribs are broken."

"Is that why it hurts when I laugh?" He grimaced again, face contorting into a horrible grin. "Where are – where are – "

"I have no idea. Shut up, I'm trying to focus. We – the wardrobe in Gold's house, some kind of magic portal, I don't know what exactly – "

"Wardrobe?" he interrupted. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth. "Love, I – I think I – "

"No, I said. Be quiet." Emma hissed as the burning warp and weft of the magic scorched her fingers. "You got us into enough damned trouble, I'm going to have to – bloody hell!" She recoiled in pain again; it felt like she'd been stabbed, and with that, the pirate appeared to decide that he had waited through quite enough of her attempts to extricate them from their present difficulty. He reached out, pulled her against his chest with his hooked arm, closed his eyes and seemed to concentrate as hard as he could, and rolled them off the edge into the abyss.

Emma's scream of protest was torn away, as she had no choice but to cling to him as hard as she could as they dropped like a stone, limbs entangled, her face buried in his chest, not wanting to see how this was inevitably going to end. Then the intangible black ley lines whirled up around them, metamorphosed into solid mahogany walls, and with an ungodly crash and banging, they fell out of the otherwhere and spun to a teeth-rattling halt in something that smelt strongly of camphor and mint. Something hard and confined and square, something that did not give when Emma shoved at it, and in a mixture of relief, disbelief, and utter, blank bafflement, she realized that they had landed in another wardrobe. Hook was beneath her, having absorbed much of the impact, his legs jammed up against the wall and her curled atop him, still clutching each other, his breathing whistling in his chest like a stab wound. Aside from that, for the longest moment, there was nothing but ringing silence.

Emma was the first to recover. She scrambled off Hook and pushed the wardrobe door open, revealing a dim, dusty, shut-up sitting room. She stumbled across the floor and hauled at the heavy curtains veiling the windows, but they wouldn't open. Where the hell did he take us? Some safe house, a thieves' den, Jafar's headquarters? Clearly the trick of traversing the wardrobe lay not in trying to undo its magic, but in merely envisioning a destination. Hook had gotten them out of that horrible halfway-between, but wherever they had ended up instead was not liable to be much better. It might be giving the pirate too much credit to think that he could cook up another dastardly plot while half dead and wholly insane, but she had to be on her guard for everything around him.

Nonetheless, the only way to discern the answer appeared to be through direct questioning. She returned to the wardrobe and dragged Hook out of it onto the floor – then managed to lift him onto a claw-footed chaise and tie him to it with the silken cords from the window valances. When his eyelashes, at length, finally fluttered, she shoved down the lurch of abject relief in her stomach and ordered, "Where are we?"

His gaze flicked to hers, lips parting in a leer. "Oh, but you do look good. Commanding tone. 'Where are we?' Chills."

"You have a lot of sore places I can make you hurt." Emma accidentally knocked the chaise with her knee and smirked as his face contorted in agony. "And you better explain what the hell just happened. Back there."

"Do I really need to, love? I inflicted some quality damage on my foe. And while my ribs may be broken, everything else is still intact, which is more than I can say for other bad days." He pulled at his bound wrists. "Oh, you're really into this, aren't you?"

Emma stood above him, implacable. "Talk."

"Going to torture it out of me? That would be fun for us both, as long as you have me tied up in bed. But look around, darling. I'm sure you know this place better than I do. Assuming we ended up where I was aiming, that is."

Emma glared at him, then turned on her heel and strode smartly to the door. It was locked, but for someone of her particular occupation, that was no trouble. She picked it with a hairpin, stepped out into the hall, and –

Oh God. She did recognize the view down the long, empty drive, the wild copses of hawthorn and yew trees, the hedges, the old Tudor beams of the house, the worn carpeted staircase that led to the lower floors, the diamonded-glass windows. Yorkshire. They were in Yorkshire. More precisely, they were in Applewood Hall, Lady Regina Mills' remote, magnificent estate, the one she visited every Easter to see Henry and felt like a barely welcome guest the entire time. But what the – ? She knew the pirate had been here before, as he'd used it to blackmail her into helping him rescue Will from the Tower, but – she still had the shem, Jafar and Gold and every other unscrupulous magician in Europe would be after them, and Hook had brought them here, laying a blazing trail to her son, to –

Furious, Emma spun around and stormed back inside the room. "You bastard!" she hissed. "How dare you!"

"What was that, darling?" the pirate muttered, eyes closed. "Gratitude?"

"Why did you bring us here?"

"It was the only place I could think of that I knew had a magic wardrobe. Lady Regina mentioned it upon the occasion of my last visit, and she's no friend to the Royal Society. As well, you get to see your boy. What's the fuss?"

"What's the fuss? They're all after us! Henry was supposed to be safe here, and now they'll descend on it in swarms! And Jafar – did you notice the little fact that he arrived at the ball dressed as the Red Death, or were you too inconveniently unconscious? What do you think that means?"

"Jafar?" That wrestled Hook's pain-bleared eyes open, fixing on her with startling urgency. "Did he hurt you, love?"

"No," Emma said, disconcerted. "Not specifically. Although I'm sure he was planning to, once he found out that I had the shem. He was more interested in saving you from Gold, because he said your life belonged to him. Then the two of them started dueling, and. . . things went to pot."

"You got me out, evidently. What became of Scarlet and the queen?"

"I. . . don't know. Hook. Jafar said the two of you made a bargain. What was it?"

The pirate sighed painfully, turning his head away. "It's not important. Between him and me."

"Yes, well. Now you're here, which I assume means that he will be too, shortly. He's been one step ahead of everyone to date. You're putting my son in terrible danger. So I need to know."

After a long moment, Killian Jones glanced back at her. She thought he might, might have been about to speak, but she never found out. That was when they heard footsteps thumping up the attic stairs and pounding along the hall, and the next instant, the unlocked door of the room flew open. "Stop! Burglars! I'm going to make you wish you were never – Mother?"

"Henry?" Emma stared in shock at the person of her eleven-year-old son, gripping the fireplace iron with which he had intended to manfully defend hearth and home, who in turn was staring with just as much shock back at her. When he ventured intrepidly to the attic on thinking that vagabonds had broken into the house, this was, to say the least, not what he had expected to find. "Henry, I can – " Explain? No, she certainly could not.

Instead of asking her for one, however, Henry's gaze shifted past her to the chaise, and he broke into a huge smile. "Liam!" Abandoning the poker, he galumphed across the creaking floorboards and knelt solicitously at the injured pirate's side. "You brought her here to break the curse, didn't you? Just like I asked! That's – that's wonderful!"

Liam? Hearing the name gave Emma a turn, remembering the tall, handsome, steadfastly proper Royal Navy captain she had briefly met in Killian's memories in Prague. She supposed he had chosen it as a convenient alias for his last sojourn here, though if she knew Lady Regina in the least, it had not weathered close scrutiny for long. She wheeled on them, already looking thick as the proverbial thieves – which in this case, one of them very much was. "Is this about what K – what he was inventing about a magical vault filled with sleeping people? I didn't come for that! We don't have time, we can't – "

"Oh, he did tell you?" Henry looked desperately hopeful. "About the people and how you're the savior, the only one who can wake them up? Come on, if you hurry, we can do it right now. It was smart of you to wait until Mother – Lady Regina, I mean – is gone. She went to Edinburgh, she won't be back until tomorrow at least!" He was almost dancing in anticipation. "Liam said he'd find you and pass on the message, and he did, he did!"

Trapped, Emma stared wildly between the two of them. She was rattled that Hook hadn't lied to her about what Henry thought, though just why she couldn't say, and furtherly rattled that Henry himself was now plainly convinced that this was why she was here. "Look," she said at last, feeling like a treed cat. "This is a misunderstanding. We did not come here on purpose, and honestly, we need to get out of here as soon as possible."

"But – " Henry looked crushed. "This might be the only chance we have! Mother's gone, she can't stop you, she – "

"What is all this about Regina stopping me from doing anything?" Emma pressed her fingers to her temples. "I thought she was just an ordinary aristocratic lady who needed money and agreed to raise you, not a – "

"No," Henry and Killian said in unison. "She's not."

"Marvelous," Emma muttered. "All right, even if there was a vault, I can't actually do real magic, I can't save anyone. We don't have time, we – " At that moment she accidentally joggled the chaise again, Killian moaned in pain, and although she'd done the exact same thing on purpose earlier, she felt horrifically guilty. "We – just – need – "

"Is he hurt?" Henry interrupted, pointing at Killian. "He looks hurt."

"He's – he's – " Emma fumbled for an answer that would require the minimum amount of bald-faced lying. "He – well, he – "

"I've certainly been better, lad," Killian said wryly. "But don't trouble yourself."

"No, you're wounded. We need to find you a doctor." Henry screwed up his face and thought hard for a moment, then brightened. "I know! There's a man in the village, he came to London for the Great Exhibition and now he's touring England. He sells all kinds of potions and medicines and cure-alls, I'm sure he can help you. I'll go get him." And with that, and nary a by-your-leave, Henry raced out.

"Energetic lad, isn't he?" Killian remarked conversationally, though the strain in his voice showed just how much his ribs were hurting him. "Must take after you. Who was his father?"

Emma stiffened. "None of your business." She wanted to leave it at that, but something made her add, "Why do you ask?"

The pirate attempted a nonchalant shrug. "Reminds me of someone I knew once. That's all."

Emma stayed quiet, watching him warily. Given how long Killian had lived in the London underworld, and the fact that Neal, for all she knew, could still be part of it, it certainly wasn't out of the realm of possibility that the two of them had crossed paths or even worked together. But Neal had not been heard hide nor hair of since he had left her holding his stolen goods and done a bunk, and besides, he had always been talking about New York, how they should book passage on a steamer and start a new life in America. Likely that was what he had done to escape the law; there would be just as much work in the Manhattan magical black market or wherever else he had decided to take his talents. So Killian, if he had known him, couldn't have done so recently, but for some reason still held the memory close enough, after all these years, for Henry's face to bring it up. Dangerous. Dangerous.

This was more than she had let herself think of Neal in nearly as long, and she turned away, arms crossed tightly over her chest. The ticking of the old clock on the sideboard sounded oppressively loud, until at last she saw the smaller, lighter phaeton, rather than Regina's heavy black coach with its massive matched Percherons, roll up the drive – whereupon Henry and an unfamiliar man in a dapper suit and top hat disembarked from it. He was carrying a large, much-patched suitcase slapped with bright stickers, and followed Henry into the house. A few moments later, she heard their footsteps creaking on the stairs.

"I'm back!" Henry blew through the door, face flushed and eyes bright with eager anxiety. "Here he is, just like I said."

"Ma'am, your servant." The newcomer doffed his top hat to Emma, speaking in a flat American accent. "Walsh, Patrick Walsh. Wizard, doctor, miracle-worker, purveyor of potions and panaceas that have made men rise from their deathbeds! Flew my balloon here to jolly old England all the way from Kansas Territory, will you imagine that? It's a wonderful world we live in. Now, if you'd like to examine a selection of my perfumes, paints and powders, perhaps a special charm or two? Not that a woman as lovely as you needs any – "

"I'm not here for your sales pitches," Emma said sharply. She pointed at Killian. "Do you have anything to help him?"

"Oh yes, yes. I'm sure we have just the ticket." Walsh unlatched his suitcase, which emitted a bang and a puff of smoke, and began to rummage industriously among the corked glass bottles inside, tenderly jacketed in green felt. "A drop of this cordial mixed into this elixir. . . one sip, sir, and you'll be right as rain." He shook the contents of one bottle into another, producing a second bang, and held up the result triumphantly: a vitreous green liquid that looked like an especially toxic version of absinthe. "For you, only a shilling sixpence."

Killian regarded the bottle with patent skepticism. "You expect me to pay you a shilling sixpence for that? Aye, it'll just knit my bones back together in a flash, is that it?"

"I sold all my Skele-Gro in Scotland – no damn idea what they do with it, drink it like whiskey? – but this is a brew of my own concoction that is, I daresay, much faster-working and with much fewer nasty side effects." Walsh smiled jovially, rubbing his hands together. "Tried, tested, and patented. Couldn't keep it in stock at the Great Exhibition. Had an elderly gentleman throw aside his cane and scandalize his wife, skipping out like a spring filly, after a sip! Every guarantee, sir, no risk, not even a – "

Ripping free of its restraining silken cords, Killian's hook shot out like a snake and twisted in Walsh's cravat, so hard that the so-called wizard choked, eyes bulging. "Do you think I'm a bloody idiot?" he snarled. "What the hell is in that fucking potion of yours aside from green dye and horse piss?"

"I – sir, gently, sir – cannot reveal – trade secrets." Walsh disentangled himself and edged out of the pirate's range. "I understand, however, if a gentleman of your nature finds himself short on hard cash at the moment. Not to worry, not to worry, another bargain can be arranged. Such as. . ." He removed a small brass instrument, set it spinning with a flick of his thumb, and proceeded to walk around the room with it like a dowser, until he stopped by the chaise again – the instrument now glowing and whirling frantically. "Sir, what do you have in your pocket?"

Killian stared at him with cold, narrow eyes. "It's your damned business why?"

"Just tell him," Henry broke in. "He wants to help."

Killian grunted as if he very much doubted it, but after another look at the boy, sighed heavily and reached into the innards of his jacket, removing a much-worn military insignia attached to a torn-off piece of leather. "This. And no, you can't have it, so don't bloody bother asking."

"Really?" Walsh eyed him shrewdly. "Even with the enchantment?"

"I beg your bloody pardon?"

"The enchantment." Walsh plucked it from the pirate's unresisting hand; the effort to intimidate the wizard had left him white-faced and gulping in agony. "Quite a strong one. Real magic, high-quality. Here, let me take a look." He stashed away the brass instrument and removed a jeweler's loupe instead, which he affixed to his eye and bent over the medallion with a professional's acumen. "Dangerous bit of spellwork. Sure I can't change your mind? I'll take it off your hands – hand, sorry – for a song."

"I – beg – your – pardon?" Hook looked rather dangerous himself, broken ribs notwithstanding. "Give that back!"

"The enchantment," Walsh repeated, as if the other man was terribly dim. "It's of a new vintage, can't be more than a month old. Some sort of surveillance spell, most intricately done, aimed to collect the smallest details. Are you sure someone hasn't been watching you, my friend?"

Killian opened his mouth, clearly preparing for a blazing retort, but something occurred to him – and Emma – at the same time. Before the pirate could say anything, she moved closer to Walsh, looking over his shoulder. She could sense, though she couldn't say how, the faint waves of sinister magic pulsing off it, and suddenly, a great deal of previously mystifying events made total sense. "Him," she said, wheeling on Killian. "J – your friend. He enchanted that the first time you met him. That's how he's known exactly what you were going to do, all along."

"What?" Killian stared at her, rolled over with a grunt of pain, and tried to grab the insignia – which, Emma saw now, was a Royal Navy crest, the word Jones etched beneath. "What are you talking about?"

"This. It belonged to your brother, didn't it? Your friend must have known, or guessed, it was the one thing you'd never part with." Emma felt cold at the depths of Jafar's manipulative ingenuity. "So whatever you've said, wherever you've gone, he's known it the instant you've done it."

Walsh glanced curiously between them. "May I be of some assistance here, folks?"

"No," Killian growled, at the same moment Emma said, "Yes. Can you dismantle the spell?"

Walsh turned the medallion expertly over and over, peering through the loupe. "Could be, but not easily, and I'd have to get some of the tools back at my balloon. And of course." He rubbed thumb and forefinger together. "It would cost you."

"You'd destroy it, you unscrupulous quack!" Killian tried to grab it back, but fell heavily onto the chaise, coughing up a lung; blood splattered his mouth, and Emma, alarmed, planted her hand onto his shoulder, holding him in place before he tried anything worse. "Give it!"

"Hoo – Jones." Emma kept hold of him. "Think about this for a minute."

He eyed her, as if to say that whatever he was thinking was certainly not in concordance with her, but at that moment, they were all distracted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and an imperious voice calling. "Master Henry? Master Henry! What on earth are you doing up there?"

Henry tensed. "Oh ballocks," he hissed. "Sidney. I'll head him off."

With that, while Emma was wondering if she possessed a remote ounce of maternal authority to reprimand him for swearing or if it would be utterly hypocritical of her to do so, Henry darted to the door, shut it behind him, and proceeded to butter up Sidney Glass, the butler, whom in her annual visits to Applewood, Emma had marked as being so far up Regina's arse that he could see sunlight on the other side. Sure enough, Sidney could be heard informing Henry that surely he was not up to anything of which his mother would disapprove, and demanding to know why Henry had taken the phaeton out to return with a strange man to the house. Henry was full of tales about how he had just wanted to buy some toys, adopting the perfect contritely guilty tone, and decided to bring Walsh back to mend some of his broken ones. As they listened to this performance, Killian glanced sidelong at Emma and murmured, "Well, the lad's a born liar, I'll give him that."

"Gets it from his father," she answered automatically, then bit her tongue. She tensed, avoiding his gaze, as Henry was now dissuading Sidney from coming to take a look at the attic on grounds that he had made a terrible mess, and didn't want to cause extra work for the servants until he had tidied it up. With suspicions mollified, or at least astute enough to realize that he was being dismissed, Sidney retired, and after a long pause, they then heard Henry hurrying back.

"That was close," he announced, cracking the door an inch and squeezing through. "Don't worry, I'll think of something to distract him so we can sneak out. The vault's around the back, down some stairs. I know how to open it."

Walsh blinked. "Sorry. Vault?"

"Oops. Me and – and Miss Swan have an errand to do. You take care of Mr. Jones, all right?"

"Mr. Jones?" Walsh turned to look at his putative patient in surprise, who was glaring at him with open hostility. "Ah, right then. So for the elixir and the disenchantment, I'll cut you a deal. Just a pound and six for the lot."

"I'm not paying you a bloody penny. Especially not for your idea of a – "

"Wait," Emma interrupted, sensing that the situation was on the verge of getting out of control. "Henry, as I said, that isn't why we came here, and we need to leave as soon as possible. You don't know anything about this, and I'd rather it stayed that way."

"But why? I can help!"

"No, Henry. No, you can't, and I've already put you in enough danger. Regina's going to kill me, and then you, and then me again. We're just going to. . ." Emma cast madly about for a plan, and then, one lighting upon her, glanced at Walsh. "You said something about a balloon?"

"I did, madam. If it may be of any use to you, simply say the word."

"Fine. All right. We're going to deal with that – " Emma waved a hand at the military insignia – "then, after. . . are you going back to Kansas?"

The wizard scoffed. "Me? Go back there? After I have seen all the wide world has to offer? Surely not. I intend to move to California Territory and make my fortune selling to prospectors – it's said you can pick gold right off the ground, not aether but the actual stuff, and worth far more in my opinion – then build myself a large green mansion and settle down."

Emma smiled wryly. "Why green?"

"Why, because I am quite fond of the color. That of emeralds, money – and your eyes." Walsh gazed at her.

"It does sound lovely." And normal.

"You are more than welcome to come with me. See the world, run our own traveling magic show – a lovely blonde assistant is a priceless commodity – then find a place together. California, or New York, or. . . anywhere you wanted, really."

"You're as much a bloody gasbag as that ridiculous vessel of yours, Yankee," Hook muttered, in a voice nowhere near quiet enough to go unheard. "And for the final time, neither of us would take a drop of water from you if we were dying of thirst in the – "

"Actually." Emma smiled brightly. "We are. Very well, wizard. Work your magic, get us home, and we'll make you a rich man."

"Why." Walsh swept her a flourishing bow. "You never needed to ask."

An hour and sundry later, after an epically complicated operation involving the distraction of Sidney, Walsh sneaking out and returning with his balloon (which he landed on Regina's immaculately kept lawn) and an extremely unhappy Captain Hook being smuggled out the attic window, he and Emma were aboard. He had been of the vociferous opinion that they should chance the magic wardrobe again and to hell with the danger, but that was an infeasible prospect for several reasons. The first was that the only other place they knew for sure had a wardrobe on the network was, of course, Gold's mansion in Monaco – where they could not return in any circumstances. And if they returned to the Place Between Worlds without a clear idea of their destination, God only knew where, when, and if they would end up. Besides, Emma was convinced that Gold would work out how they had escaped – there couldn't be that many choices – and have it watched, waiting for them to use it again. Given all these factors, therefore, the wizard from Kansas truly was their best option.

The first order of business was to put a temporary silencer on the cursed medallion so it could not transmit their conversations – at least until Walsh worked out how to deactivate it completely. Emma had also wrapped it in several layers of black fabric and stuffed it under some oddment of furniture in the capacious gondola swinging from Walsh's balloon. It was more of a miniature airship than anything, but not so remarkable as to attract attention among the many other similar vessels, and they were sorely in need of inconspicuous transport right now. She felt a qualm of wondering what had happened to the Roger, back in Monaco, then reminded herself that she didn't care. Acquiring refuge and a safe hiding place, away from Henry, was the only priority right now. After that, they could worry about trivialities.

"Right," Emma said, when she had settled Killian in the gondola's narrow berth and returned to the pilot house, where Walsh was firing up the boosters. They shot off, skimmed across the lawn, and then quickly gained altitude, veering like a daredevil along the top of the trees, Applewood Hall falling away below. She should feel relieved, but it was only exhaustion. "How much is this going to cost?"

"Don't worry," Walsh assured her. "I know you're without funds at the moment, I shan't press for payment. Though. . . if you wished. . . perhaps a kiss, for a poor lonely wizard like me?"

Emma hesitated. But it was a currency she had paid many times, after all, and there were worse things he could have asked. So she stepped toward him, waited until they were fully airborne and she would not cause a crash, then turned his face to hers and touched their lips briefly. Then she started to pull away, but he put his hand on her cheek and held her there for a few moments longer. "You need a man, my dear, and I need a companion, a wife. So what do you say? Could you see us having a future together?"

"What?" Emma was shocked. "Are you mad? We – we only just met!"

"I know, I know. But there's a connection between us. Something special. I feel it, I know you do too. Don't you believe in love at first sight? Come on. Take a leap of faith."

"I don't. . . that's very kind, but. . . I'd need. . . time to think about it, I couldn't just. . ."

"It's fine. Take all the time you need. But if you marry me, that would make you an American citizen, and it would protect you."

"Protect me? From what?"

"Charges." Walsh shrugged. "For being an accessory to the crime. When I turn the pirate in."

Emma stared at him for a split second longer, and then it hit. She felt numb, stupid, slow. "You," she said. Empty-handed, no gun, no weapon, trapped aboard his balloon at his mercy. "You – you know who – who he is?"

"Don't be silly." Walsh hit the throttle. "Of course I know who he is. The moment I saw him. His poster is up across Britain – do you think I'm stupid? Had to play it cool until I snagged him. Now I've got Captain Hook, the most wanted man in the British Empire! I've hit the jackpot, baby! Anything I want, it's mine! The big break for the kid from Kansas. You wait, lil' darlin'," he added, in an exaggerated Western drawl. "Oh God, just you wait."

Will Scarlet coughed until it felt as if his chest was being split apart, his eyes were watering, and his throat was raw and cracked and he could taste blood, but he couldn't stop. Smoke billowed and towered, and he could hear breaking glass and crunching wood as the terrified guests fought to get out of the mansion by any means at hand. He had no idea where anyone had gone or what had happened, and considered that the wisest plan was likewise to run for it, but instead he found himself plunging back into the inferno at the place where he'd seen Elsa fall, holding his sleeve over his mouth for what piddling good it did. Bodies loomed and careered crazily in the blasted murk, some running past and some motionless underfoot, until he finally caught sight of an indistinct, huddled form, trying to sit up and pressing a hand to her bleeding head. "Oy! You! Let's step on it, now!"

Elsa stared at him, still in a daze, but took his hand and let him haul her onto his back. He had a mad memory of carrying Penny in the same way as they navigated the chaos of the burning dance floor, ducked as a stray explosion ricocheted overhead, and finally by dint of sheer, unrelenting stubbornness, made it to the broken doors and piled through. Will didn't stop running until fresh cold night air slapped his face, he gasped down gulps and gulps as it simultaneously delighted and tortured his seared lungs, and could hear the bells of the Monaco fire brigade as the unwieldy brass engine with its bucket crew blasted up the street toward the mansion – intent on doing their civic duty, bless their soon-to-be-dead hearts. He, however, did not plan to join them in this endeavor, and dropped Elsa onto her feet. "Are these friends of yours going to bloody get here or not?!"

"I don't know!" Both of them screamed as a window blew out, covering their heads as glass fell like snow, and looked at each other in a sick acknowledgment of the fact that the Captain and Miss Swan were nowhere to be seen, likely trapped in there with no way out. Will felt his stomach lurch – he'd nearly had to watch the bastard die in front of his eyes once this evening and that was more than enough – but running back in there was not about to do anyone, least of all himself, any good. Instead he grabbed Elsa's hand and managed to slip them away, as the panicked survivors milled about. For a moment he hoped furiously that Jafar and Gold had just gone ahead and killed each other, but he already knew that it would never be that easy.

At long last, after an adventure through the Monaco streets at high speed, avoiding incipient calamity by the barest measure, they skidded out of the alley that funneled into Port Hercules, ran down the quay, and jumped aboard the Roger. "Do you even know how to fly this thing?" Elsa screamed, as Will bolted to the helm-housing and employed the time-honored method of hitting it and swearing until it lurched to life. "Or are you just – "

"No, not really, but that's not the question, is it?" Will bellowed back. He spun the wheel, trying to remember which bloody thingamajig Killian used to fire up the zeppelin, but only succeeded in making them lurch wildly like a seasick whale. "Go find Smee, he'll know at least how to – "

"Smee?"

"Porky beardy fellow with a red hat?" Will continued to wrestle the wheel, which by now had deduced that he was not its captain and had no apparent interest in cooperating with him as a result. "Bloody hell, old girl, I'm trying to save our arses, can you just work with me here for a godforsaken – "

"Look!" Elsa screamed, pointing up into the night, as several members of the crew were emerging to investigate why the ship had suddenly been possessed. Upon seeing Will and Elsa, they gaped, were clearly about to demand where Hook was, and then were communally distracted by what Elsa had just indicated – the sight of half a dozen dirigibles blazoned with Kongeriger colors, armed to the teeth, buzzing down out of the sky like an answered prayer. "They're here! We're saved!"

Will let out a rush of breath, relinquishing the wheel (which appeared equally glad to be rid of him) and watched the ships descend, fighting the thief's natural instinct to dig himself a convenient hole and disappear as the authorities closed in. Elsa looked almost overcome with relief, teary-eyed and trembling, and he supposed that his heroic part in her rescue (and he did say so himself) would likely dispose her to give him a reward or two, some nice Norwegian castle and perhaps a nice Norwegian girl to go with it. He was just trying to work out how you'd say Lord Captain Will Scarlet, Duke of This or That, when he noticed that the ships were landing close to every side, boxing the Roger in. Which could certainly be for ensuring the safety of their queen, aye, and dealing with a known pirate while they were at it. . . but there was a sudden cold chill on the back of his neck, and he'd not lived to the ripe old age of twenty-five in this line of work by ignoring it. "Wait a minute, Your Worship, I don't think – "

Elsa did not hear him. Still too relieved that her daring telegram maneuver had worked, that she was (or so she thought) about to be liberated from her long nightmare, returned to control of her country, and prepared to take revenge on her tormentors, she didn't see, did not make even an attempt to protest, as the Kongeriger airships threw out grappling hooks and drew board-to-board with the Roger, trussing her and trapping her. It was only then, far too late, that Elsa frowned, that the crew began to realize that this wasn't what she had been expecting, and a hatch on the lead airship swung open. A young man in full military dress, medals sparkling on his chest, stepped out and grinned. "Good evening, Your Majesty. Lovely to see you here."

Elsa's mouth opened and shut. No words emerged except a strangled, "Hans."

"Prince Hans, but I won't be fussy." He waved a hand. "It was so kind of you to tell us where you were. We were very worried."

"You – " Elsa drew herself up, fury beginning to drown her shock. "You self-serving, backstabbing, rank, vile, traitorous little – "

"Language, please. Won't you come aboard, and we can talk?"

"Over my dead body. Why should I do anything you say, you – "

"I was just waiting for you to ask." Hans gestured at a pair of his men stationed on the foredeck, and they reached down and hauled up the figure of a young woman with auburn hair in two braids, bound so tightly in ropes that she could barely move. "Your sister might want you to, for a start."

"Anna?" Elsa blanched, gasped something in Norwegian, and turned a look of hell and fury upon Hans of Denmark, who in Will's estimation really was setting new records for something rotten in the state of. "You – you – "

"Don't worry. She won't be hurt, as long as you play your part." Hans grinned. "You see, insulted as I was that she would choose to marry that idiot reindeer ventriloquist instead of me, it occurred to me that now I have the opportunity I have been waiting for all along. It looks so much better if I gallantly rescue you from a terrible fate, bring you back to the adoration of your people, and then, to show your gratitude, you marry me, joining Denmark, Norway, and Sweden in a mutual bright future. Don't you think?"

Elsa remained pale as a sheet. "Get stuffed."

"I don't think so." Hans turned to Will. "Which is where you're going to help us out, incidentally, if you want to avoid a date with the hangman at Execution Dock in London. Where's your captain?"

"Sorry," Will said. "Are you talking? All I can hear is a lot of gigantic farting noises."

Hans glared at him. "Don't play smart with me. Where's your captain? He has the legal authority to perform a marriage when a ship is in international waters, and that's what he's going to be doing, for Queen Elsa and myself. Then, of course, for the safety and well-being of Europe, we'll hand him over to the British Empire, creating a new and lasting peace and strengthening the Royal Society and the aether trade."

"Still not understanding you, mate. Send up a chap who speaks Arsehole, and he can translate."

"I will not warn you again." Hans brandished an apoplectic finger. "Where is he?"

"Gone," Will said. "Bite me."

"I'll do a great deal worse than that if you don't take me to him. You're going to die if you don't cooperate, so don't think you can – "

"Calm down, you're goin' to rupture something. You need a hobby very badly, by the way. Knitting, perhaps, or bridge. Croquet's a stupid game in my opinion, runnin' around a garden and hittin' balls – though in this case, we'd all find it immensely beneficial if someone hit yours. But with such a small target, it'd be easy to miss."

"You will lead us to the Captain or – "

"Boo for you. Left the directions in your other pair of evil trousers, did you?"

Elsa made a choked sound, and even a few of the minions on the bridge appeared to be chewing their cheeks very hard. Seeing that his bombastic approach was backfiring, Hans changed tactics. "Very well. Think about what I can offer you. A full pardon, exemption from prosecution for any other crimes, a secure future. It all rests on you. You can bring peace to Europe. Be a hero."

Will regarded him for a long moment, then blinked. "Oy, what was that whistling sound?"

Hans frowned. "What whistling sound?"

"You didn't catch that? It was the sound of all the fucks I don't give sailin' majestically over your head and off to have a long and beautiful life without you. I'm very proud of 'em. Must be how it feels when your children get married."

Hans had heard enough. He gestured to the blue-uniformed soldiers lining the rails, who raised their muskets in unison. "Kill him."

"No!" Elsa lunged in front of Will. "You're doing no such thing!"

It was hard to say which of the men was more surprised by this. Will's jaw dropped, while Hans merely looked blank. Finally, at a curt motion from him, the soldiers stood down, but the tension remained crackling. Then, clearly struggling to regain control of the situation, the prince of Denmark turned on his heel, marched back to the bound and gagged Princess Anna, and jerked her head back, exposing her throat, as she whimpered and kicked and tried, to no avail, to get away.

"Very well, then," Hans said, breathing hard, and drew his knife. "I'll kill her."