DISCLAIMER: I do not dare claim any ownership for the fabulous characters, situations, plots and/or spins on old stories that ABC's geniuses have given us on Once Upon a Time.

This is a what-if story: The way I figure, something DID jog his memory that night in the pawn shop…but it wasn't the windmill…

In the shadow of the toll bridge

A World in Need of Magic

Snow knew the instant she stirred awake that whoever the madman was who grabbed her had most likely tied her up in a hurry, for her bindings were loose and she easily maneuvered the gag from her mouth. It was dark in the room, but the sun was faintly peeking in through a covered window behind her, casting just enough light across the white floor to see…James, crumpled up at her feet. "James!" she hissed, working the ropes down her wrists and twisting her hands back and forth trying to break free. But in her struggles the knot shifted up her arm, pulling tighter rather than slackening. She huffed, blowing her hair off her face with her lower lip, and scanned the room. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light and she started to make out some rather…peculiar details. It had already struck her as odd that the floor seemed to be covered in white plaster rather than carpet or laminate, but when she looked up at the ceiling and found it tiled with faux hard wood flooring, an eeriness swept over her that brought forth disturbing memories from her past. It can't be…she thought, but she continued to scan the room, and unfortunately every fear was confirmed. A few feet to her right was an odd sort of umbrella-shaped iron fixture which to any passerby might appear to be some sort of abstract modern art. Snow knew better though. It branched out from the base into six J-shaped arms, and on each of them were fastened a globe-shaped bulb shaded by a frosted glass sconce. It was a chandelier…bolted to the floor. She wrenched her gaze up again and sure enough, bolted to the ceiling, were a set of two easy chairs bridged by a coffee table. One of the cushions of the chair though seemed to be pulling away from its fastening, gravity working against the intended illusion as one of the corners hung down rather sloppily from a piece of Velcro. The wallpaper had also been hung upside-down along with a half-dozen portraits scattered along the walls. Snow glanced down at James – no change there – and then scooted her chair along the floor, straining to get a closer look at the portraits. They were very delicate, decorative frames, but upon further examination bore nothing but the generic snapshots of attractive families running along beaches that one would see in a department store. Whoever had designed this room, she realized, had gone to great lengths to make it look like a world within Wonderland, but it was a poor substitute for the real thing. No, she thought. They must still be in Storybrooke.

Without much effort, she shifted her chair to the side so that her hands brushed up against one of the iron arms of the chandelier and felt along the edge for something sharp. A rather pointy decorative part of the design proved quite useful and in minutes, she'd cut herself out of the bindings and reached down to undo the rope around her ankles. As soon as she was free, she rushed to James's side and pulled him up from the floor so that his head rested in her lap. "James," she pleaded, slapping him lightly on the face. "James! Wake up!" for one brief, terrifying moment, Snow feared the worst, unable to help herself from flashing back to that fateful night when she'd stumbled into the nursery and saw him lying there bleeding, crumpled up beneath the wardrobe. Thankfully though, James stirred awake, and groaned himself back to consciousness as a few tears of relief trickled down Snow's cheek.

James opened his eyes and focused, trying to blink away the lime green and yellow spots he was seeing, (no doubt from the nasty blow to the head he should have seen coming). When he finally adjusted to the darkness, he blinked up and stared right into the eyes of his wife, beautiful as ever even etched with worry. "Snow," he whispered, reaching up to graze her cheek, brushing a stray tear away as she clasped his hand and squeezed.

"Prince Charming to the rescue, huh?" she said with a light chuckle and helped him reposition himself upright. He braced one palm on the floor and raised his other hand behind his head, rubbing the back of his neck where he'd been struck. His fingers barely grazed the bump and he hissed, the swollen area throbbing with pain. "Some rescue," he groaned, lowering his hand back to the floor and leaning back on both palms as he glanced around the dark room. "Any idea where we are?"

Snow shook her head. "No, but I think it's made up to look like Wonderland."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Wonderland?"

"Yes."

James leaned forward, urging her to elaborate.

She sighed and hung her head, frustrated by the cacophony of memories still at war within her mind, for this was a story she knew both as Mary Margaret and Snow White. In her uglier moments, she quite envied James who, as a result of his coma and amnesia, had had very little of the Storybrooke world to battle in his brain and could drift back into a far less fragmented sum of remembrances. Snow on the other hand had to dig through her 'Miss Blanchard' knowledge of Alice in Wonderland as a children's book by Charles Dodgson – a book she actually taught to her fifth graders – to reach the far more buried (and more disturbing) memory of the real place she'd once heard spoken of…very long ago. "I overheard the queen talking it over with her mother when I was very young," she said finally, and James reached for her hand. "Aurora was visiting and we were racing through the castle," she paused and smirked, "looking for trouble."

He smiled. Racing with Aurora. Of course they were getting into trouble.

"Anyway, I was showing her some of the passages behind the kitchens and we overheard Regina mouthing off to her mother about this place called Wonderland."

"Is it another realm?" James grunted, pushing himself up off the floor.

"No…no I don't think so," she threw his arm around her shoulder and helped him to stand. "From the way they described it, it's not any kind of world we've seen before. It's more like…a world outsideour own. Sort of existing beyond our reality."

The remark struck James as bitterly ironic and he scoffed. "Sorta like a world beyond this one where Emma's a princess set to inherit two kingdoms, and dwarves and fairies are part of everyday life?"

"James—"

"I'm glad we told her—" he said at once. "Don't get me wrong. I just…wish we'd had more time to explain before—"

"Before I got drugged by a psychotic madman with a back seat full of hats?" she sighed, opting for the lighter, more sardonic reply rather than the truth she stifled – the truth that was gnawing at her…that she wished they'd never said a word.

James, meanwhile, grinned at his wife's quip and slipped his hand behind her neck, tunneling his fingers through her hair before pressing a tender kiss to her forehead. He sighed and made another scan of the room, noting the same details as Snow had. "So is everything in Wonderland upside-down?"

Her hands came to her hips. "I don't think so. I just remember them describing one of the 'rooms' that way. Cora was…quite adamant that Regina be sure to steer clear of the 'upside-down room' when she arrived."

"Why was she going there?"

Snow shuffled her feet and stared at the floor. "I…I don't know. We didn't stick around to find out," she shuddered, remembering all too well the moment she realized that her brand new step-mother, a woman who had saved her life, who claimed to love her as if she were her own daughter…was trading in dark magic and leading as secret and dangerous a life as they come.

James gave her hand a squeeze and moved toward the door – locked of course: bolted shut, it seemed, with three different padlocks on the outside. He cursed under his breath, fruitlessly pulling at the knob as pieces of rust flicked off in his hand. "I should've made her wait outside," he muttered.

"Who?" Snow started.

James closed his eyes. "Emma."

"What?" her eyes flew wide open and she grasped his shoulder. "She's here? Emma's here?"

"She wanted to come, Snow—"

"But how could you—"

"And I couldn't have stopped her if I'd wanted to," he argued, but Snow's nerves were shot. She retreated back toward the covered window where a thick sheet of muslin had been stapled to the inside frame keeping out most of the sun from the early morning sky. "If I had left her in the woods, she still would've come after us, trust me," James tried again, coming up behind her.

But Snow shook her head, hugging herself around the middle. "You sure about that?...Don't we…make her sick?" she asked, her voice cracking under the strain of having tried to ignore the horrible conversation that kept replaying in her head.

James's heart ached for his wife and he was at her side at once. "You know she didn't mean that—"

"Oh, James I can't even blame her—"

"Snow—"

"I know it's true and even I don't believe it sometimes. That we've all been stuck here? Frozen in time? That we've been living out these…these horrible versions of ourselves—"

"Hey!" James steered her around. "The queen couldn't stop you from waking me up, or keep us from finding each other. And thanks to you, she never even had a chance of getting to Emma."

"But—"

"No. No buts. Curse or no curse, she couldn't. change. you. There is no 'horrible' version of yourself. Mary Margaret, Snow White – doesn't make a difference. I know that…and so does Emma."

"No she—"

"And so does Emma. She's tough Snow, walled-off just like you said. And she might not be at the point yet where she can admit it out loud." He crouched a bit and leveled with her, lifting her chin to meet his gaze. "But she loves you…and she trusts you." He bent his head and kissed away a stray tear trickling down her cheek before wrapping his arms around her. "Now it's time to trust her."

…

"Will that be one lump?" the man purred in her ear and then sashayed over to the other side. "Or two…your highness?" And with a chilling giggle, he skipped back around to the front of the table and made an exaggerated bow. "I must admit, Emma Swan, I knew that you were special from the moment you arrived and the clock started ticking but when I overheard your mother—" he gestured with his free hand toward the hallway down which Emma knew Mary Margaret and David were trapped "—Snow White reveal the extent of it, well…" he did a tiny jig before skipping up to the chair opposite her and plopping down before her eyes. "I had no idea I'd be entertaining royalty today."

Emma sat tightlipped and fuming as she glared at her captor, ignoring the steaming hot cup of tea he'd just poured from an ornate ceramic kettle in front of her. Ordinarily she would have drop-kicked this asshole down the stairwell by now…except that was pretty hard to do with a gun trained on her head.

"Oh come now," he tsked, glancing down at the untouched teacup. "I know I'm but a humble milliner but that's no excuse to be rude, princess."

"What do you want?" she asked, hastening a quick glance at the exits and windows before fixing her glare once more on the assailant. It was as strange a room as all the others had been so far, the bright white doors in direct contrast to the blood red and purple wallpaper creeping up the walls in an opulent Edwardian pattern. To her left stood an equally extravagant fireplace, festooned with brass ornamentation below the mantle and three white pillar candles nested in identical wrought iron holders. Where she might have expected a deep cherry wood dining room table was instead an austere white work slab propped up on four mismatched table legs. But the two most disturbing details about the room were the long gold telescope pointing downwards, aiming off the balcony, and the austere metal shelves stretched across the wall behind her…displaying dozens of identical over-sized top hats.

"What do I want?" the man replied as he reached toward the center of the slab and poured himself his own cup of tea. "Why I want your help of course." He leaned back in his chair waving his hands casually around him as if he didn't have a gun in his hand. "Why else would I go to all this trouble?"

"Your telescope," she nodded toward the balcony. "You've been watching me?"

The man leaned forward again. "Since the day you arrived."

"Why?"

The man narrowed his gaze and Emma saw something shift in his eyes. When he responded, the high-pitched, jovial tone he'd been using was gone and a chill went up her spine as he said in a smooth, low voice, "I need you to do something for me."

…

Henry hadn't had time to look for Snow when he first arrived at school that morning. The evil queen had gotten a rather late start and seemed quite distracted all the way through breakfast. So he was quite the bundle of nerves all the way through math class and even during gym as he anxiously waited away the hours until it was time to go to Miss Blanchard's room.

Stupid, he thought childishly as he remembered the furious look on his mom's face when she read the note he'd accidentally uncovered. Stupid! he chided himself again. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Oh why hadn't he read it first before claiming it was the one left by Mr. Tillman? Part of him didn't even want to know what Emma had done with the information, for judging by the smoke steaming out of her ears, he knew it wasn't likely to be pretty. And from where Henry was sitting, he couldn't imagine any scenario that ended well. Not with how hard she'd taken the fate of the Zimmer children. All he could hope for at this point was that when he walked into his English class, 'Miss Blanchard' didn't look too sad.

It was almost 10:00 when Mr. Shields finally blew the whistle and his classmates started dribbling back their basketballs and tossing them into the cage. Hastily, Henry grabbed his backpack from the bench and started right for the doors when he heard someone call behind him, "Big Hank! What's the hurry?"

Henry let out a frustrated groan and turned obediently to Mr. Shields as he locked up the rest of the balls (his classmates filing casually out the door while he was stuck waiting!). It wasn't that he disliked his gym teacher. Actually, the guy was pretty cool and was in fact one of the first people to inadvertently alert Henry to the fact that things in Storybrooke were…different. A few years ago Shields started calling Henry 'Big Hank' in reference to the fact that the kid seemed to be growing so fast. It wasn't too long afterwards that Henry realized…he was the onlykid growing at all. "Just wanna get to class Mr. S."

Rick Shields nodded as he swung the equipment storage doors shut and they slammed together behind him with a huge metal thud. "Never seen a kid so excited about English," he winked, having hypothesized for the last few weeks that his favorite soccer player had developed a little crush on the pixie-haired Mary Margaret. He zipped up his hoody and grabbed his bag and gradebook from the bench. "You've got Miss Blanchard next dontcha?" he tapped Henry on the head with his clipboard as the two exited the gym.

"Uh huh," Henry replied, smoothing his hair back down.

"Well I'll walk with ya then. Since I'm your sub today!" he announced with a huge grin, expecting the 5th grader to 'party-on' at the prospect of having a gym teacher sub English.

Henry however, came to a dead stop. "What?" he cried.

Rick – who had kept walking – stumbled forward a bit and turned, quite surprised by the kid's horrified expression. "She's…not…here today, Henry," he said slowly, stepping back towards his pupil. "I'm subbing next period for her since I'm free—"

"Where is she?" he cried. This was not good. Not good at all. Couldn't be coincidence. Could it?

"She's absent today—"

"Well I know that now!" he snapped. "Where is she?"

"Whoa, Hank…calm down—"

"Is she sick?"

"Henry—"

And 'Big Hank' did something that surprised even himself. He reached up and grabbed the gym teacher by the whistle around his neck and yanked the poor guy down to his level. Mr. Shields jerked and coughed as he crouched down, too surprised to react otherwise. "Please Mr. S," he pleaded. "Just tell me, did she call in sick?"

"I'm sure she's just…running late kid," he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck and snatching back his whistle.

"You mean you don't know?" he cried as a million worse-case-scenarios flooded his already hyperactive imagination. She killed them! he thought, irrationally. Emma killed them both! "I uh…I gotta go see the nurse Mr. S!" he said and, dodging out of Rick's grasp, sprinted down the hallway.

…

The sparkling stone tile of the veranda gave her the impression that she was walking along a blanket of stars as he escorted her along the terrace. The air was warm and breezy – a perfect summer night it seemed – though she knew this to be impossible as it was still February back home, and the townsfolk of Ebonridge were stoking fires and warming themselves by their hearths. An amused smile graced her lips as she added it to list of impossible things she'd seen and experienced since agreeing to stay at the castle. To stay with him.

"Are you warm enough?" he asked in that low, growling timbre of his that had once inspired such fear.

She smiled as she brought her other hand up to clasp the one resting in the crook of his elbow, letting her fingers stroke over the scarred fur from his wrist up his forearm. "I was just thinking about that."

Beast looked down, his face as hideous and monstrous as ever, though she no longer noticed it. "Oh?"

"Yes. How is it that the night air feels as warm as a summer's eve and yet—"

"And yet beyond the castle, the wind howls with the onslaught of snow and ice?" he finished for her, nodding out toward the distant tree line with pines indeed blanketed by late winter flurries.

She nodded, licking her lips. She loved his way with words. She could tell almost instantly, even in the first few days of her captivity that he was well read and that, despite appearances, this was an incredibly intelligent and cultured being…if only he could control that temper.

"The weather responds to my moods much as the house does. It is part of the enchantment," Beast replied, a faraway look in his eyes. "I am sure you noticed," he added quietly, "the gray skies and frozen rains when you first arrived, despite it being scarcely the beginning of autumn in Ebonshire."

She nodded. Goodness, had she really been here that long? It certainly didn't feel like it. As unlikely as it may have seemed to her at the time, her father's trespassing in Prince Adam's prized rose garden was quite possibly the most wonderful thing to ever happen in her otherwise provincial life. Of course, as soon as such thoughts crossed her mind, she felt instantly guilty…for she knew her father was back at home – alone and worrying.

When Maurice had first returned with the rose – a gift she'd requested only so her poor father needn't feel obligated to purchase anything lavish for her at the convention – he had presented the rare bloom with the most frightful expression of terror and regret. He proceeded to tell her of that wretched night on his way home from the fair, when a pack of wolves had spooked Greatheart – their trusted Clydesdale – sending him bolting across forbidden terrain and quite far off the path that would have led Maurice safely home. Stumbling upon the famed Ebonshire Castle, about which so many tales had been spun since Prince Adam's return from the Goblin Wars, Maurice was most reluctant to enter through the swinging iron gates. Ebonshire's most decorated and beloved hero had been triumphant against Circe's forces at Bierden Ridge, but it was rumored that their honored prince had paid a terrible price for the victory. Reports ranged from the tamest of battle scars to the most horrific curse imaginable, but the prince had sentenced himself to a lifetime of isolation, returning home in the dead of night and seen only by his generals and staff.

Unfortunately, in Greatheart's panic, the poor mount had thrown a shoe and was quite lame, so Maurice had little choice but to accept this ghostly invitation to take shelter at the palace. To his immense surprise and relief, he was greeted at once by a rather suave maître d and treated with the most extraordinary hospitality, well cared for by the small but efficient palace staff. They sheltered him for two evenings while Chip, the stable boy, tended to Greatheart's shoe and swollen ankles. Maurice did think it odd that the prince himself never appeared during his stay, but with such overwhelming kindness (and he dared to think friendship) accorded him by the maître d, majordomo and head housemaid, he hardly thought the estate would mind if he took one bloom from their master's exquisite garden to bring back to his daughter. How sorely mistaken he'd been when no sooner had he plucked the blossom than their master at last appeared, bellowing for retribution. The instant Maurice turned his frightened gaze on the prince, he understood why His Highness had condemned himself to seclusion. The stories were true. Circe had indeed cast one of her infamous creature curses on the once exceedingly handsome royal, for it was not the face of a man who tore after the poor merchant, but that of a horrid, gruesome beast. "You dare to repay my benevolence and hospitality by stealing from me that which is most precious?" he'd roared, insisting that such a crime on his grounds was punishable by death. Belle could hardly believe so severe a reaction to such an obviously innocent error and was further mortified to learn that Maurice's new "friends" – Messieurs Cogsworth and Lumiere – did not speak up on his behalf or offer any sort of interference. Only upon hearing that the rose was a gift intended for the old man's daughter did the beast reconsider, insisting, in exchange for release, that this daughter be sent back in his place. "You shall have one week to make your good-byes and she must come to me of her own freewill if you are to truly be spared…and I have ways of knowing whether you have communicated the terms accurately," he'd decreed before having the old man thrown into an enchanted buggy and carried all the way back to town.

Belle of course brooked no opposition, and agreed to the terms at once, despite her father's protests that they should flee. Over the course of the week, the entire town seemed to arrive in droves to talk her out of it, including – she remembered derisively – Gaston, who seemed to think he had some sort of claim on her because she once allowed him to show her his room full of hunting trophies. Belle's mind, however, was made up, and at the conclusion of a week's time, Greatheart appeared at their small estate ready to carry her off. After a tearful farewell on their tiny front stoop, she went willingly, prepared to face a lifetime of servitude and imprisonment in exchange for her father's freedom.

Servitude and imprisonment, she thought now with great amusement. How wrong she had been. How wrong she had been about everything. The relationship she had developed with 'Beast' (as he had insisted she call him, despite her protests that she be able to use his real name) could only be described in the initial months as…explosive. As soon as it became apparent to Belle that she was to be neither the monster's evening meal nor true prisoner in any sense of the word, she set about trying to reform him, soundly reprimanding him for his horrid behavior, his violent temper, his complete intransigence toward all matters of etiquette. And from the seeds of these initial quarrels blossomed the most unlikely of friendships, strengthened all the more by their shared passion for language and literacy. Why just this afternoon, she had convinced Beast to actually respond in writing to one of Prince Thomas's many invitations to court, rather than continue to ignore the fellow royal's attempts to reach out. King Christopher, it seemed, was throwing a ball at which the young prince was supposed to choose a bride. Thomas wrote that he could think of no better occasion for them to rekindle their childhood friendship than at this 'farcical attempt to subject him to the woes of matrimony' (as the younger prince put it) at which his Highness's presence 'would be greatly appreciated in helping him ward off the throngs of husband huntresses sure to attend.' While Belle understood the Beast's need to refuse (given his unfortunate cursed state), she insisted that he at least reply in kind to Thomas's request and acknowledge with gratitude the prince's efforts to renew their friendship, especially as the elder prince continued to keep secret his tragic fate from all neighboring kingdoms.

"Belle?" he asked quietly beside her, shaking her from her reverie.

She looked up, startled by how fragile, how anxious he suddenly seemed. "Yes?"

"Are you…happy here…with me?"

She halted their stroll and turned to face him, placing her tiny hands in his massive paws. "Yes Beast. I am. Very happy."

Even through his heavy layers of fur, she could feel him shiver as she took a tiny step forward and reached up to smooth a strand of his mane away from his eyes – such beautiful eyes, she thought. Deep pools of starlight that, despite his beastly form, struck her so majestically she hardly noticed any other feature. Tentatively, and shaking while he did so, Beast placed one massive hand around her tiny waist and pulled her close to him. "Then why have you not come to me?"

She started in his embrace, pulling back at once. "What?" she stuttered, confused.

"You must find me, Belle…please…" he said, and to her horror, his face began to twist and contort before her, writhing into such distorted versions of his face that the motion made her nauseous.

"I don't…" she wheezed, suddenly breathless as she stepped back and clutched her stomach, "I don't understand…"

"Find me, Belle!" his voice streaked through her, the low, purring timbre replaced by that of a harried tenor, crying out of madness, out of sorrow. "Find me before it's too late!"

She reached out to him, terrified as his form continued to writhe and morph, "Rose!" he called out suddenly, and Belle gasped…for he was no longer a beast. He was a man...a man in a hospital gown…"Rose?" he called again as their two souls seemed to be pulling farther and farther away—

"Rose!"

Two strong hands gripped her shoulders and were shaking her awake when she wrenched upward, gasping for air.

"Rose, wake up!" she heard a frightened cry and her eyes flew open at the familiar voice.

"S-sean?" she rasped, her coworker's worried face coming into focus as she slowly emerged from unconsciousness. His hands left her shoulders and she felt him slip one behind her back while the other came to support her arm, helping to tilt her forward and regain her bearings.

"Jeez, are you ok?" he said, steadying her as she sat up and tried to focus on…well, anything. Gradually, the room came into view and she came to remember where she was.

"Oh God, Sean…I'm sorry," she squeezed her eyes shut and held her hand to her head, trying to stop it from buzzing. They were at Garcon's, more specifically behind the bar, where she had propped herself up against an old worn pillow on top of stacks of newspapers and trash bags. Not the ideal place to be taking a nap, but it was the only place left she could think of where she had a chance of—wait a minute: "What are you doing here so early?" she asked suddenly, her eyes finally coming into focus.

Thomas settled back on his haunches, thankful at least for the moment that she was awake and alert, though still keeping one hand around her arm for support. "It's…Monday," he said guardedly.

Rose stared at him blankly, but implication finally sunk in when she glanced up and saw a half dozen brand new cases of lager sitting on the bar. "Oh!" she cried, slapping a hand across her forehead. "Monday," she said, embarrassed. "I completely forgot about the shipment," she reached up and grasped the edge of the bar, pulling herself up with one hand while pushing against Sean's with the other. The two of them stood, and Rose squinted as she stepped out of the unforgiving sunlight streaming in through the front window of their otherwise dim, unseemly bar. "God, I'm such a mess," she muttered, running her hands through her stringy, sweat-stained hair.

"Rose," Thomas said, following her as she reached down and grabbed the coat that she had spread beneath her to sleep on and then shimmied past him to grab her keys. "Are you sure you're—"

"Look, can you just…forget you saw me?" she said with an unconvincing laugh. "Really, I'm just…I feel so stupid I—"

"Rose!" he said again, grabbing her arm before she sped out the door. "You scared me half to death! I've been trying to wake you up for the past five minutes!"

Her mouth fell open in an inaudible 'oh' and she glanced up at the wall clock. 10:30? Goodness, had she really been here that long? "I uh…I'm sorry," she mumbled, shaking her head. "I haven't been sleeping well." She started to leave again, but Sean held her there.

"Hey," he forced her to look at him. "You really think you're gonna leave without telling me why you're here at 10:30 in the morning, sleeping on top of a bunch of garbage bags behind a bar?"

Rose winced. When he put it like that…

Thomas stepped a bit closer, resting his other hand on her shoulder. "What's going on?"

His concern was well-intentioned, she knew, but at the moment it did little more than remind Rose that there was reason to be concerned. "It's nothing," she mumbled, looking away. But she said so without conviction, and she knew Sean wasn't fooled. She glanced back up at his rueful frown and sighed. "I just…I couldn't fall asleep at home, and I thought no one would be here for hours and…" she trailed off, annoyed with herself at how hollow she sounded.

Thomas dipped his head down, searching out her gaze again. "Is it…your father?" he asked.

She started, confused for a moment and then rolled her eyes. Of course, she thought stupidly. As far as Sean knew, Mo was still in the hospital. "No no," she said. "Nothing to do with that. He's um…" she glanced up and managed a small smile. "He's home, actually. We brought him home last night."

Thomas sighed. "Well that's…good isn't it?" he asked, relieved to hear things had improved with Maurice, though now even more perplexed at her befuddled state.

"Yes, very…" she admitted, ashamed she couldn't share in Sean's relief about her own dad. "I just…there's something…" she fumbled for words that simply didn't exist to accurately convey her stress. Had she a right to confide in Sean when she hadn't even told Jack yet? "Something I found out…at the hospital," she caved at last, knowing she could not hold off the tears forever and knowing that her favorite co-worker would never let her go once they spilled.

"Something…else?" he asked, squeezing her shoulder the way a brother might, urging her to continue. "Something new…with Mo?"

She shook her head, feeling a familiar salty sting behind her eyes. "No…with me."

"You?"

She nodded.

"Are you sick?" he assumed at once, and his concern was heart-breaking. Sick, she thought morosely. If only…

"No," she whispered and stepped back from him, clutching her hands to her belly while she hung her head low. Eventually, she summoned the guts to look up, staring pointedly into his baffled gaze until gradually…realization dawned across his face.

Thomas's eyebrows shot up on his head. "Oh," he mouthed, finally understanding, though thoroughly nonplussed. Belle was…pregnant? "Oh…oh really…" He was stuttering now, wanting to slap himself for how stupid he sounded. "I didn't realize you…I mean…who um—"

Her bottom lip trembled. "It's Jack's," she moaned, shaking her head against the shame of her confession. God, how had she screwed up so badly?

"Jack?" Thomas hollered, the force of his voice startling them both as she jerked back and he struggled to contain his temper. "Jack—as in Jack Hunter. Owns-this-bar-Jack."

"Yes, Sean…that Jack," she snapped and turned away, unable to look at her friend any longer as his shock (and no doubt disappointment in her) only amplified her own self-loathing.

Thomas shook with alarm as the synapses in his brain ceased firing. Jack Hunter—Gaston—Gaston got Belle pregnant? "Rose," he leapt toward her, thoroughly unable to mask his rage. "Did he..." he turned her around, noting her bleary eyes and mistaking their meaning. "Did he…did he hurt you?"

Rose's jaw dropped and she yanked her arm out of his grasp. "What?" she cried. "No! Of course not! God, why would you think that?"

Wouldn't be the first time, he thought angrily, though he had at least enough sense to keep that to himself. Thomas wouldn't soon forget the eve of Adam's wedding when that drunken buffoon snuck onto the grounds of Ebonshire Castle and somehow wheedled his way into Belle's suite. The engagement feast had long since concluded and many guests had retired for the evening, but James had foolishly challenged Adam to a game of chess before rejoining Snow in their chambers. To this day, Thomas couldn't quite figure out how Adam knew his beloved was in trouble nearly three floors up, but he was certainly glad he and James were still awake, for when the three of them walked in on Belle – just as she gave Gaston a well-deserved kick in the groin – it took both Thomas and James together to keep Adam from beating the brute to a bloody pulp (not that the bastard didn't deserve it of course…but the entire realm knewwhat Adam was capable of in battle).

"I'm…I'm sorry," Thomas stammered, holding his hands up and stepping back. "I just…I had no idea you and he were…I mean…Rose, you spend most of our shifts—"

"Complaining about him, I know," Rose conceded, adopting a less defensive tone. It was true. She'd displayed nothing but derision for Jack Hunter in public, mostly to mask her own embarrassment at having surrendered to the purely… physical needs he'd fulfilled. "I guess I can't…blame you for thinking that, but no—" she said firmly, determined at least with Sean to own up to her actions. "No, we've been…seeing each other for a while."

Thomas swallowed hard, noting the shame and regret in her voice and loathing himself for having reacted so badly. "Do you…" he treaded carefully, "…love him?"

And the question pushed her over the edge. "No!" she cried, the tears she'd held at bay now streaming down her cheeks. "No I don't," she sobbed, her face falling into her hands. "Not at all! It was…he…I was so s-stupid…"

Thomas rushed to her at once and cradled her against his shoulder, his heart breaking as she clung to him. He'd had a fondness for Belle from the moment they'd met, when not two hours after they'd been formally introduced, she had soundly admonished him for teasing Ella about her fondness for romance novels. In that instant, it was plain to see that Belle was Adam's match in every way, and she had been quite the surrogate older sister to Thomas ever since.

Rose shook with heavy sobs as the shock of Doc Stone's pronouncement hit her all over again, but she had to admit that Sean's embrace was somewhat of a comfort…not to mention oddly familiar. Why was it that she felt such a kinship suddenly for a young man she simply worked with?

"God, Rose, I'm so sorry," he whispered, wishing he could somehow will away her tears while simultaneously trying to work out the implications of Belle's news with respect to the curse. If Belle was pregnant with Gaston's child, could she ever get her happy ending?

She hiccupped against his chest, letting out a hollow laugh. "Would you believe that's not even the worst part?" she cried, pulling back from him.

"It's not?" Thomas asked. Good Lord, there was more?

Rose shook her head and rubbed the heels of her palms against her eyes, smudging the tears across her temples. "No. The worst part is—" she stopped herself, remembering suddenly how preposterous the whole thing was. No use having Sean thinking she was a tramp and a nut job. "Nevermind," she muttered and reached again for her coat.

"The worst part is what?" Thomas followed her.

"Nothing…it's…don't worry about it," she stumbled about the bar, gathering her things and readying once more to flee.

"Rose, come on—"

"No seriously, it's…it's just…it's gonna sound crazy—"

Thomas slammed his hand down on the bar, blocking the path between her and the exit. "Try me," he said with a slight smirk. Crazy, he thought hopefully. In this town, crazy could be good.

He was glaring down at her, obstinate and unyielding. And though she knew the rest to be ludicrous, she also knew she'd never escape without telling him the whole truth…and really, at this point…she might as well tell someone. "The worst part is the…dreams."

Thomas drew a sharp breath, determined this time to maintain his cool. "Dreams?"

Rose groaned and rolled her eyes, turning away from him. How could she possibly explain this without giving Sean the impression that it was time to call the Funny Farm? "Yes," she said. "Dreams…or more like nightmares. At least they always end like nightmares."

"Nightmares…about the baby?"

Rose started. That was…eerily close. "Not…exactly," she said slowly, looking up and noticing no doubt in his expression. No judgment. She pressed on. "But I can't help feeling like…they're connected."

Thomas made no reply, but gestured for Belle to sit back on one of the stools. He joined her at the bar and nodded for her to continue.

"Well they—"she took a deep breath, then blew out a sigh. "No…this…this is nuts—"

"Tell me," Thomas insisted, covering his hand over hers atop the bar.

Rose stared at their clasped hands feeling suddenly motivated to continue. "Well…they kinda started around the same time….right before I…well, right when I…found out.

Thomas nodded, but again just listened.

"A few nights ago, after my father finally fell asleep …I got a bit restless. So I picked up a book and went for a walk and…somehow wandered up to the psych ward." She waited for a reaction, looking up cautiously at Sean. But he merely sat patiently, resting his elbow on the bar railing, waiting for her to continue. "I didn't even know Storybrooke General had a psych ward," she let out a weak laugh. "But there I was and…and I heard voices coming down the hallway and I panicked cuz I knew I probably didn't belong there so," she sucked in a breath, closing her eyes and seeing it all play out again before her. "I ducked into this…patient's room. And when I turned to look at him? I felt…I felt like I knew him." She opened her eyes again, startled by how intensely focused Sean was on her story…and not at all looking at her like she was crazy.

"Like you knew him," Thomas repeated slowly, cautiously. Don't flip out again, Thomas… he said, acutely aware that he must not say the wrong thing here. Dammit where was James? He always said the right thing. "So you…you recognized this guy."

She nodded. "At first, he kinda…scared me. I mean, it's the psych ward."

There was that word again, and for a moment, Thomas had to dig back into 'Sean' to help him remember what exactly a 'psych' ward was. He was fairly certain that's what they called an asylum here…which, if his theory was correct, couldn't be good news for anyone, much less the man he hoped Belle was referring to. "What did he…um," he cleared his throat, trying to achieve the right measure of passivity in his voice. He couldn't very well spring forward and yell was it ADAM! now could he."What did he look like?"

Rose tilted her head, looking past him as she remembered so clearly – too clearly, she thought guiltily – the face of the man who had been haunting her. "Blue eyes," she said thickly, "blondish hair…tall – at least, he…he seemed tall." Goodness, she was actually blushing. She had no idea if this man was tall. He was only ever standing…in the dreams…if he was a man at all. But the eyes…the eyes were always the same.

Thomas squeezed her hand, fighting the temptation to blurt out anything that would have made him sound crazy. "Blue eyes," he gulped. "So he…hesaw you too?"

She nodded. "For a moment it…it even seemed h-he recognized me." She looked down then, cringing at the terrifying memory. "But then all hell broke loose and the doctors rushed in and had to hold him down and he started screaming and yelling at me—"

"What did he say?"

She blinked. "What?"

Thomas was close to hyperventilating. "What did he…I mean, do you remember what he was…um…yelling?"

Rose shivered. Of course she remembered. That awful night was burned into her retinas. "He…told me to run. In fact he begged me to. But—" she looked down, fidgeting with the material of her skirt. "He was obviously confusing me with his…his wife or his girlfriend or something."

"Why do you say that?" Thomas asked, trying not to crush her hand in his, the suspense slowly killing off his own sanity one detail at a time.

Again her eyes closed, and again she saw his face staring down at her. Belle…don't be afraid… "He called me…Belle."

Thomas had been leaning so far forward in his stool, he hadn't realized how close he was to the edge of it. Belle shrieked as he stumbled off, slipping from the cushion and falling clumsily into her shoulder before he caught himself and pushed himself back up. "S-sorry," he mumbled, regaining his balance. Gods above…Adam was awake…and being held in an asylum. "Belle huh? That's um…that's weird," he said, as offhandedly as he could muster.

She gave a weak shrug, deciding not to reveal that for a while now…it didn't feel weird at all.

"And…these dreams? They're about…" he pushed her now, needing to know more.

Rose stared at him warily, wondering why he wasn't laughing at her yet, or at least glaring at her like she herself needed to be admitted to the psych ward. No, with the exception of his awkward stumble, Sean seemed just as invested in this story as she felt. Slowly, she nodded. "They're all about him." God, why was she admitting this out loud? But there was no going back now. "Every time I close my eyes," she said, her voice breaking. "I can't sleep. I can't eat. I can't think about anything but him. And every time I dream, I get this feeling that…he's slipping away, or I'm slipping away…or…something! I can't tell! But when I wake up," she drew her free hand over her stomach and clutched the waist band of her skirt…near her womb. "I feel this awful pain right here. Like it's all…" she trembled and shook her head.

"Like it's all connected," he whispered.

She looked up. "I swear I'm not crazy—"

"I didn't say—"

"I mean I'm sure it sounds completely nuts—"

"You don't—"

"But I swear—"

"Rose!" he brought his hand up to cup her cheek, steadying her gaze and forcing her to quiet. "I don't think you're crazy. You're the least crazy person I know."

Rose was panting now, unable to tear her eyes away. He believed her. Or at least he was doing a very good job of pretending. "What am I gonna do Sean? How do I make them stop?" she sobbed. "I just want them to stop."

"Do you really?" he asked, removing his hand from her cheek and laying it once more on her shoulder.

She blinked at him, sniffling into her shirt sleeve. "Well I can't very well tell Jack he's about to be a father when I keep dreaming about another man can I? A crazy man no less—"

"But what if—" Thomas started, and then caught himself. A wonderful thought had just occurred…one he couldn't possibly share at the moment. "What if it's all…happening for a reason?" he managed, wishing like hell that James or Snow would walk in and help him out!

Rose reeled back. "Of course it's happening for a reason," she cried, suddenly breaking free and pushing herself off the stool. "I slept with a man I didn't love and ended up pregnant," she spat with disgust. "This is my brain's twisted way of punishing me for my mistake. Torturing with me with visions of a life I'll never—"

"I really don't think—"

"What else could it be?" she threw her arms up in the air as she paced. "I mean the guy," she gestured vaguely in the direction of the hospital, letting out a mirthless laugh, "the guy's an Adonis ok?…And the way he looked at me…I swear Sean, I know he thought I was someone else but he…for just a few seconds I felt like—like—"

"Like he loved you," he finished for her, the right words finally weaving their way into his head.

Rose gaped. "What?"

"Like he loves you," he amended, stepping forward. "You looked into his eyes and knew love, Rose. That's where love is." Her mouth hung open, but he wasn't fooled. Belle was in there somewhere. "Most people think it starts in the heart…they're wrong. It starts in the eyes."

Rose's throat went bone dry. It starts in the eyes…why did that sound familiar?

"When someone looks at you," he rasped, thinking instantly of Ella, "someone who loves you…it's…" he paused, reaching her in stunned silence. "It's magic, Rose. And if there's one thing world needs more of, it's magic."

"So…" she started carefully, still sniffling away a few stray tears. "So you don't think—"

"I don't think you're being punished," he shook his head, taking her hands tenderly in his. "I think someone's trying to tell you something…and I think you need to listen."

...

"Look, I don't know what your deal is here, but if you hurt my friends, I swear I'll make you regret it," Emma spat as she kicked her chair back and sprang to her feet. I need you to do something for me he'd said. Like hell!

"Friends?" he leaned back in his chair, seemingly unruffled by her threat. "Don't you mean parents?" he grinned.

Emma rolled her eyes. "Great. So are you reading Henry's book now too?"

The man started and immediately popped out of his chair. "Henry. You mean the queen's father?"

Her brow creased. "No, Henry. The mayor's adopted kid!"

A light bulb went off above his head. "Oh Henry. Your Henry. And his book of stories. The ones that you choose to ignore," he slithered over to her as she backed away toward the fireplace, swallowing hard as she stared down the barrel of the gun. "Maybe if you knew what I know…you wouldn't."

He'd backed her all the way to the balcony and her left elbow grazed the tripod of the telescope. She nodded toward it, deciding on a change of subjects. "Why have you been spying on me?" she whispered.

The madman glared at her, their noses just inches away from each other, and again Emma saw something shift in his eyes. Slowly, he slunk away from her and started pacing the room as he replied. "Because for the last 28 years, I've been stuck in this house, day after day. Always the same. Until one night you—" he pointed the gun at her again, but she didn't flinch— "in your little yellow bug roll into town…and the clock ticks…and things start to change."

Emma's eyes slid shut and she took a deep breath, trying to process the last 24 hours with increasing difficulty. The note, the toll bridge, the horse. Evidence did seem to be piling up by the hour but to what end? The man was clearly psychotic. His beliefs, judging from the state of the house even more so than his own actions, had shattered his reality. Were David and Mary Margaret…not all that far behind? "Look," she said, splaying her hands out innocently in front of her. "Clearly you've glommed on to this whole…curse…thing—"

"The whole…'curse thing'?" he mimicked her, laughing.

"And you obviously overheard Mary—"

The man's head shot down, his laughing abruptly halted.

"Snow White—" she amended carefully— "talking about it. They believe too, ok? They're not a threat to you. Why don't you let them go—"

"Because you still don't get it, Emma, though it's been staring you right in the face for months."

She lowered her hands. "What?" she asked quietly.

"Let them go," he scoffed. "Do you think those two would ever leave here without you?" he gestured toward the hallway again. "And if I did let them go, what kind of leverage would that leave me?"

"You don't have to do this—"

"You see, I know what you refuse to acknowledge, Emma," he continued, ignoring her attempts to reason and circling around her so that his head rested on her shoulder and his lips just barely grazed her ear. "You're special," he whispered and it sent a shiver down her spine. "You brought something precious to Storybrooke…magic."

"You're insane," she shoved him away from her and stumbled back toward the table.

"Because I speak the truth?"

"Because you're talking about magic."

"I'm talking about what I've seen. Perhaps you're the one that's mad," he advanced on her, the threat of his firearm still preventing her from contriving any viable options.

"Oh really?" she fell back into the chair.

"What's crazier than seeing and not believing? Because that's exactly what you've been doing since you got to our little hamlet." He stepped behind her chair and leaned over her, planting his hands on either side of her as he bent over her shoulder. "Open your eyes, Emma. Isn't it about time?"

"Time for what?" she snapped.

"Time for you…to get it to work."

She jerked her head up. "Get what to work?"

"You're the only one that can do this," he said, reaching behind him for one of the hats on the shelf and throwing it down in front of her. "And you're gonna get it to work."

Get it to work? She thought, panicked. Get it to work…get the hat to work? To work how? To do what? Emma juddered her gaze between the enormous top hat and the other elements of the room. Taking it all in at once, perhaps for the first time today, something clicked in her memory and she wrenched her gaze up at him. "The hats…the tea…your psychotic behavior. You think you're the Mad Hatter!"

The man winced at the name, but his reaction was not volatile. "My name is Jefferson," he muttered as he retreated back around the table and returned to his own seat.

"The Mad Hatter," she repeated, more for herself than for him. "From Alice in Wonderland. A book. A book I actually read—"

"Who's Alice?" he asked, dead-panned.

"What?" she blinked. Was he serious? A story she finally knew and—

"Who's Alice?" he asked again. "Perhaps a girl who found her way into our world one day? Decided to write about it?"

Emma sighed. "They're just stories—"

"Stories. Stories," he scoffed. "What's a story? When you were in high school, did you learn about the Civil War?"

"Yeah of course."

"How? Did you read about it perchance in a book?"

"Jefferson—"

"How is that different than any other book?"

"Ok…granted," Emma countered, tucking one leg underneath her as she leaned forward, "But even if you want to believe you're from Henry's book, you're still in this world," she held her hands out wide. "The real world. Where there is no—"

"A real world. One of many!" He planted his hands on the table once again and rose toward her. "There are infinite more, and they touch one another, pressing up in a long line of lands, each just as real as the last. All have their own rules. Some have magic, some don't. And some need magic. Like this one. And that's where you come in. You have to open your mind."

Tears unexpectedly stung her eyes, and she gasped, unable to help herself as she drifted back a few hours to the forest. "Please," Mary Margaret said softly, "Try to open your mind. Try to open yourself up to the possibility that the family you've been searching for…is right here in front of you."

She sat back, staring blankly in front of her. "What do you want from me?" she whispered…though she wasn't really addressing her abductor anymore.

Coolly, he picked up a pair of scissors and tossed them to her, the handles landing right beside the brim. "You're going to make my hat. You're going to get it…to work."

She sniffled, her eyes darting around at all the unfamiliar materials. "Don't you have enough?" she muttered, trying to recompose herself.

"Well none of them work do they? Or else you wouldn't be here. That hat is one of many doorways, and you, your Highness, are the key that unlocks it."

She shook her head, "I don't—"

"You have magic. You can do it."

Hands trembling, she reached for the scissors and picked a stray piece of felt from a pile of scraps. This was just too much for anyone to stomach in one day. First she's the daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming and now she has magic? Shaking, she glanced up at him watching her intently as he paced in front of the fireplace. "So I make your hat…and then what?" she asked quietly.

He paused and to her surprise, he glanced not at the table but at the telescope. "Then I go home."

Emma let out another gasp. This is your father, I'm your mother…and all the bullshit you think is going on here…is just us trying to get home. "Wh-where's home?" she asked hoarsely.

The hatter glared at her, clearly trapped between his own impatience and the knowledge that in order for the princess to truly accomplish anything…she must believe. With a sigh, he pointed his gun in the direction of the telescope. "Take a look," he ordered.

Emma, too overwhelmed to do anything but comply, rose at once and stepped up toward the eye piece. For a second, she expected to see the sheriff's office or Mary Margaret's house magnified before her. He'd already admitted to spying on her after all. So when her eyes fell on a beautiful young girl with two long brown braids falling down her shoulders, flanked by two loving parents sitting down to breakfast, her breath hitched in her throat and her breathing turned ragged.

"Like everyone else here, what I love has been ripped from me," he said despairingly. "Her name is Grace. Here it's Paige…But it's Grace. My Grace. Do you have any idea what it's like to watch her day in and day out? With a new family? With a new father?"

"You think she's your daughter?" she rasped, unable to take her eyes from the girl.

"I don't think," said Jefferson, and he yanked her away from the scope. "I know. I remember. She has no idea who I am. Our life together…where we come from…I do. That's my curse."

The raw emotion in his voice bore no trace of irony. The contrived giddiness of the hatter had vanished completely now. And in his place stood a man whose words might just as well…have been spoken by David. No, she thought…not David… "James…"

"What?"

She started, her eyes moist and red. "James," she whispered again as a salty tear slid into her mouth. And suddenly, she knew what she needed to do. "James a-and Snow. I…I need them." She looked up at him, pleading. "If I'm gonna…make your hat…I need my…m-my parents." Her lip was quivering, but she couldn't believe the relief she felt at saying it out loud.

Jefferson studied her warily, himself on the alert now, searching for signs of deceit. There were none. "So you're gonna help me? You can…get it to work?"

She hesitated only a moment more, then turned to him and nodded. "I can," she said, glancing back at the workstation, a downright herculean task before her. But at the moment she didn't feel discouraged. She couldn't. All she felt…was her parents' faith. And Jefferson was right…it was magic.

…

***Ok…so...Emma's taking her sweet old time, but she's almost there! And that covers a little more Belle/Adam. I don't typically like to make dream sequences so linear and "expositiony," but I felt the backstory was necessary since I'm departing the furthest from most familiar canons of the story.

DISCLAIMER: At this point, I must give credit to Robin McKinley's young adult novel Beauty. It is from this WONDERFUL version of our favorite 'tale as old as time' that I borrowed the horse's name Greatheart. Beauty also draws on more classic versions of the tale where the crime of Beauty's father is trespassing and stealing from the rose garden (rather than just…you know…looking at 'im funny!).

All the other stuff – Goblin Wars, Circe, Ebonshire, Adam's a war hero – was born purely of a personal desire give Adam a little more of an edge than having just been a whiny 10-year-old turning away an old hag in the rain.

I promised a few of you some more of Kathryn in this. She unfortunately didn't make the cut, but she and Rick Shields feature together for a bit in the next chapter, so don't worry. I haven't forgotten her (or you!). We'll also see where Henry skipped off too (as we all know 'I have to go to the nurse' is the universally accepted code for…time to skip class!)

Thanks to Katerina and The Pris for some kick a** commentary and input, as well as all recent subscribers. The conclusion of the hatter scene is fully fleshed out in my head but not quite coming out right on paper yet (plus I'm tired and am going out of town soon…so I wanted to get this out) Thanks as always for the continued readership. Ciao for now!***