A/N: While, for the most part, I'm in favor of Disney's more gender-inclusive backstories, I'm sadly up against the reality that there were no bona fide lost girls in Neverland (unless we count Wendy). So, to keep the OUAT canon intact, I'm keeping the original gender dynamic from another Disney property.

Chapter 35

"So," Tink said, smiling as she led the others down a stone spiral staircase, "what precisely are you three looking for?"

"Mostly," Belle replied, "information on Merlin."

"Biographical, you mean?" Tink asked briskly. "Or did you want one of his spell books?" Her smile turned apologetic. "I'm sorry if I'm making you repeat what you already told Blue; I only came upstairs in the middle of Pinocchio's speech. And by the way…." she elbowed August in his ribs and released a peal of laughter, "That was wonderful!" she exclaimed. "I don't suppose you have a copy in longhand, or could write one? Just so I could look at it when I need something to raise my spirits a bit?"

August shook his head. "Sorry," he murmured. "I wasn't planning on saying all of that. It just… came out."

"Oh, no," Tink gushed. "Please, don't apologize. At least I got to hear some of it. I'll make do with that." She turned back to Belle.

"So… Merlin?"

Belle hesitated. "Actually, we're looking for information about his spells and artifacts, not the spells themselves."

"Hmmm," Tink said, her playful demeanor vanishing. "Well, he did create many. Spells and artifacts, I mean. Not something I've had much chance to study, I'm afraid." She gave another laugh, a little one this time. "As you probably know, I was still in training when Blue took my wings. Now that she's given me another go at fairy-dom," one corner of her mouth quirked up a trifle sardonically, "I spend most of my days down here playing catch-up." So saying, she pulled open an arched wooden door, reached up, and yanked on a beaded brass chain-pull dangling overhead. There was a click and the room was immediately bathed in light from a many-candled chandelier that hung suspended from the ceiling.

"Oh!" Belle exclaimed, finding herself in a large chamber lined with bookcases from ceiling to floor. Additional shelves surrounded wooden tables and chairs, partitioning the room into low-walled cubicles.

"Well," Tink laughed, "it's nowhere near as large, nor as extensive as the library you manage, but it suits our needs. Unfortunately," she continued, "I'm more familiar with titles like, 1,001 Things You Probably Didn't Know Fairy Dust Was Good For or Mini-Hoop Skirts and Other Fashion Faux Pas… oh. Sorry! That one's actually the working title for a manuscript I'm currently writing. Don't tell Blue…" she added hastily. "But, yes," she herded them toward one of the cubicles. "We do have quite a bit on Merlin. His spell books are here," she gestured toward one of the smaller book cases. "But you said that you were looking for theories and commentaries. So," she pivoted on her heel and pointed to the top shelf of one of the floor-to-ceiling units, "those would start here. And then, they continue…" She scanned the angular script on the spines of the books quickly, "continue… continue… continue…" she murmured as her gaze moved down the bookcase, then up the adjacent unit, "Hmmm… we do have a lot, don't we?" She walked slowly along the wall, her eyes panning the shelves. "Ah!" She'd stopped six bookcases away. "Here. This is the end of the Merlin section. Next comes Par-Salian, then Gandalf and Allanon."

Emma's jaw dropped. "This is going to take months!" she blurted.

Tink frowned. "Maybe it would help if you could be more specific."

Emma hesitated. "I… guess there are three main topics we're trying to learn more about: Dark Ones, Authors—well, their ink, really—and the hat."

Belle blinked. "The hat?" she repeated. "I thought… I mean… If we're looking for a way to save Rumple, surely there's one that won't involve crushing Hook's heart."

"If that was what I had in mind," Emma said quickly, "I wouldn't be looking for answers in a library of Light magic. But it's Merlin's hat, Merlin's people who're… hiring Authors, Merlin's magic that created the Dark One dagger, and now, everything's coming together and I don't think it's a coincidence."

"No," August said. "You're right. Merlin might not be directly involved in what's been going on lately, but too much of his stuff has been turning up around here lately for it to be random happenstance." He turned to Tink. "Don't suppose you have anything here on his house, by any chance? May as well cover all bases."

All playfulness vanished from Tink's face, though her smile remained. "You'd all best sit down. I'll bring you what I can find." She darted out of 'their' cubicle and returned a moment later with a stepladder. "This may take me a little time, but I'm confident I can find what you're looking for a bit faster than you lot will if you go looking on your own." She reached up, pulled down a leather-bound volume with pages edged in copper. "Please don't go about trying to reshelve these when you're done," she added. "I know where everything belongs; I'll put them back for you."

"Not right away, I hope," Belle said. "We may need more time than we have this evening."

"Oh, no," Tink said, her smile mischievous once more. "I'll need to leave them lying about long enough to infuriate Blue…"

Rumple wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting in his living room before he finally unclenched his fists and uncrossed his arms. His shoulders felt stiff, his ankle was throbbing, and every bone in his body seemed as though it was heavier than usual, but his mind felt strangely light and he blinked as though someone had flung cold water in his eyes and he'd been shocked wide awake.

And the voice that had been whispering at him almost constantly was gone. He was, at least for the moment, alone in his head, as he was alone in his house. But while the latter circumstance left him with a painful emptiness, the former gave him some much-needed peace. For the first time in a long time, he felt whole.

The Darkness hadn't truly left him; he'd be a fool to think it had. Where would it go, after all? But, for the moment, at least, it wasn't nagging or giggling or trying to persuade him to think the worst of those who kept demonstrating that they truly did have his best interests at heart.

He'd never thought that they'd allow him to return if they'd understood what it would take to save his life. Not without some deal imposing all manner of checks and concessions, at any rate. Not only had they understood his situation almost from the start, they'd spent time over the last two weeks examining the problem, looking at it from different angles, coming up with possibilities that he'd been too locked in his own mindset to consider. Maybe the savior was flailing about, trying to find a way to save herself without abandoning him, but while that was, in all likelihood, part of her thought process, her arguments were all too sensible and thought out. She wasn't grasping at straws. She was pounding in spikes, strong and solid enough to lift both of them clear of the abyss they were teetering over.

And she wouldn't have come up with her theories…

…Unless she'd truly been looking, not for excuses to keep him out of Storybrooke, but reasons to justify his return.

Unless she'd been in his corner from the beginning.

His Darker nature would have hooted at that notion, would have reminded him that nobody ever spared him a thought unless they needed his services, that polite indifference to his situation was the best he could hope for or expect. But in its absence, his mind replayed every sincere apology, every hand that had reached out to clasp his arm or shoulder, every listening ear, every attempt to work with him instead of back him into a debt or a deal, and he realized that he knew better.

He'd taken on Darkness to protect himself and his boy, but it was that same Darkness that now sought his destruction. Or, more accurately, had been seeking it all this time and finally stopped pretending otherwise. Everything it had given him had been an illusion, one which had been slowly killing him.

But everything that the others had done for him in New York, done for him without an agreement, or a contract, or any other coercive measure… had been real. Tears coursed down his cheeks and he didn't bother trying to stop them; there was nobody else here to notice them. If he'd ever had this sort of support back in his peasant days, he'd never have accepted the ersatz version that the Darkness had been handing him. He wasn't prepared to say that he would never have become the Dark One; Bae's life had been at stake, after all, and he would have still done all he could to save it. But perhaps, once that initial heady rush of power had subsided, he would have been better able to control the force residing within his head, instead of enthusiastically absorbing everything it had offered.

All magic came with a price. He'd put off paying it, and now the interest that had accrued over the centuries was far greater than the original debt. He'd thought that there could be no way to diminish what he owed, that—at best—he could delay the inevitable a bit longer, even if the reckoning, when it came, would be that much steeper.

He looked at the dagger and wondered whether it was just wishful thinking, whether the very faint outline of the 't' in his name had been there earlier, or whether it was even there now and not just his mind seeing what it wanted to.

He didn't know and, right now, it wasn't as important as something else was. If he truly meant to take this second chance that was being extended, then there was something he needed to do now, before the Dark whispers began again.

Rumpelstiltskin reached for his cane. And then he rose from the chair and walked to the carpeted staircase that led to the second floor. His ankle barely protested as climbed the eighteen steps without pausing and headed for the master bedroom.

He slid his hand under his pillow and allowed himself a triumphant smile as his fingers closed on the charm. He wasn't about to cast any new magic; the price and the risk were far too high to even consider it. But he knew his Darkness well enough to recognize that it would mount its next attack when his guard was down. When his will was weaker. When he slept. True, as the Dark One, he seldom needed to. But he had a feeling that an exception was in the offing.

He slid the charm's leather cord about his neck and tucked it into his shirt. It wasn't precisely like the one he'd once made for Henry. That one had been designed specifically to help the victims of a sleeping curse deal with the traumatic after-effects. But while this one was meant for ordinary dreams, the principle was the same: he would control the direction his dreams, not the Darkness that seemed more and more to be separating from him. Much like a rat deserting a sinking ship, he supposed. Except that this rat seemed to be bent on taking hold of the tiller and plotting its own course.

Rumpelstiltskin had just about had his fill of being controlled by others. He pulled the charm out once more and gripped it tightly, willing it to work as it should, doing his utmost to make himself believe that it would.

If he could keep his Darkness at bay, then perhaps, there was a chance that he might survive this after all.

Emma let her gaze pan down the page of the volume before her and wondered exactly what she was supposed to be doing here. She couldn't read a single one of the spell books. Instead, Tink had found her some sort of language primer. It wasn't helping much. Fairy didn't use an alphabet exactly. From the way Belle had described it, it sounded a bit like what she remembered learning about Egyptian hieroglyphics, back in junior high; a sort of blending of consonants and pictograms.

"I should've known," she moaned, rubbing her eyes. "If Gold couldn't master this language, then how could I expect to? And how does he think—?"

"It can't be read by practitioners of Dark magic," Tink spoke up from behind, startling her. Emma glanced over her shoulder at the fairy. "What?"

"Fairy script can't be read by those who use Dark magic," the fairy repeated. "Just like we can't make head nor tail out of Daemon or Efreet."

"I'll take your word for it," Emma muttered. "But that doesn't help me much. I don't suppose there's some spell someone can cast that'll teach me how to understand… this?"

Tink considered. "Not teach you to understand it, I'm afraid… but to read?" She hesitated. "There might be. I've never tried this before. I don't dare do it on you directly." She frowned. "I… don't suppose you have a pair of spectacles? Reading glasses would do."

"Contact lenses?" Emma asked, bringing her fingers to her eyes. "I haven't worn glasses in years."

"I'm not sure," Tink admitted. "I know glass will hold the spell. We didn't have plastics back in our land, though. Well," she took a breath, "I can try. These aren't your only pair, are they?"

"No," Emma shook her head, "but if they break, I guess we're walking back home after this. No way I'm driving at night if I can't see properly."

"Well," Tink said, holding out her hand for the lenses, "I'm sure we can provide you with accommodation for the evening, should it come to that. And, hopefully, it won't," she added, as Emma dropped the two lenses into her palm. The fairy cupped her other hand over them, closed her eyes, and concentrated.

"I think I can do something with these," she said. "It won't be perfect; magic and spell books are traditionally written in Old High Fairy, which doesn't generally translate to mortal languages very well." She heard Belle snort and her smile broadened. "There's a reason why Merlin recorded so many of his thoughts in our ancient language. While, as I said, it's impossible for a Dark wizard to read, it's difficult for almost any non-fairy to decipher easily. There are a number of safeguards built directly into the language and style. What I'm doing to your lenses," she added, as she took one hand off of the contacts, reached into her uniform blouse, and pulled out a leather pouch that hung from her neck on a narrow strap, "will make it possible for you to read the books." She opened the pouch and reached in with her thumb and index finger. When she withdrew them, Emma could see something glowing between their tips. "You'll still need to focus to understand what it is you're reading," she continued, as she rubbed her fingertips and a fine shower of fairy dust sprinkled onto the lenses. For a moment, Tink's entire palm was bathed in a soft pink glow. Then it faded and the fairy held the lenses out to Emma once more.

Emma reached into her pocket and pulled out a small case. "Cleaning them won't wipe off the spell, right?"

Tink shook her head with a smile. "It won't, but I shouldn't think you'd need to. The magic took care of that."

Emma smiled back, but she still opened the case and pulled out a bottle of cleaning solution. "Just in case," she murmured. "I mean, these are my eyes we're talking about."

"Actually," August said, "if you ladies don't mind, I think I'm going to head off."

"In the storm?" Belle and Tink asked, nearly as one.

August nodded. "Yeah, it won't be so bad. At least the streets are salted. I promised my father I wouldn't stay out too late."

"Are you okay?" Emma asked, seeing something in his face, made all the more apparent once she'd re-inserted her contacts.

August closed his eyes briefly. "Let's just say that being selfless, brave, and true can be a little draining sometimes. What I said before… I had to. That doesn't mean I want to face Blue again tonight." He shook his head. "It just… took a lot out of me, that's all. I'll be fine." He let out a noisy breath. "Eventually."

"Hey," Tink grinned, punching his forearm lightly. "I meant what I said before. You did good."

"That doesn't mean there won't be consequences," August sighed. "But thanks." He smiled at the other two women. "Guess I'll probably see you in a day or so."

Emma and Belle nodded. Then Emma picked up her book again. "Whoa," she exclaimed. Before her eyes, the strange, spidery script seemed to rearrange itself into clear, bold English. She reached for one of the books at the top of Belle's stack and opened it. Right away, she could see what Tink had meant. This was going to be like reading Shakespeare without Cliff notes or annotations. But she could read it now, even if it still didn't make sense. At least, now, there was a chance that she could make some headway.

Tink had provided them with pens and scrap paper for taking notes. Emma took a sheet now and began jotting down what she was reading, hoping that it would help her make sense of the text before her.

The house had never seemed so big or so empty before, not even when Belle had moved out of it and into the apartment behind the library. He was used to being alone, he told himself fiercely. He preferred it. He didn't need anyone else about him, not now that he was back home where he belonged. He…

He was reaching out for his phone, trying to come up with some pretext to call one of the others. He jerked his hand back as if the device were a red-hot ember. He didn't need them. More to the point, he didn't want to appear needy and pathetic before them. Whatever he'd been reduced to in the world outside, here he had his image and his reputation and only he knew it was all a façade. And it was going to stay that way. He didn't know how they hadn't seen through him until now, but he wasn't about to provide them with further opportunities to do so.

He tried not to admit the possibility that they had already seen through him, and that they wouldn't think him pathetic if he were to reach out to them. The savior had declared that she considered him a friend earlier and she hadn't sounded as though she'd been exaggerating the relationship to spare his feelings. He was going to call…

…And say, what precisely? That he was afraid to sleep? That he missed them already? That—no. No, he'd been alone for decades and it was better that way. The savior was probably at the convent, trying to find some way to help him. He wasn't about to tear her away from that. And Booth was likely catching up with his father after two weeks away. And he couldn't call Belle. Even if she wasn't likely at the convent as well, even if he'd rather her company now than this desolate silence, calling her now would send all the wrong signals. It wouldn't be fair to her. No, he couldn't call her.

But he didn't think he could stay here either.

Rumple hesitated for a moment. Then he walked to his vestibule and took down his coat. Perhaps, there was nobody that he was comfortable calling, but that didn't mean he needed to be alone…

There was a harsh wind blowing and August lowered his head and did his best to bury it in his jacket collar for warmth. The snow was still coming down, and there was no Snow Queen to blame for it this time, only Mother Nature. There weren't many vehicles out on the street, but the plows were still circulating and the town seemed to be in better shape than it had been on their arrival.

Despite his fleece-lined jacket and Bugaboots, he was shivering. He couldn't believe he'd said those things to Blue. She'd brought him to life, which technically made her the closest thing to a mother he'd ever have. Even in his puppet days, he'd been too much in awe of her to challenge or question her methods.

He was so lost in his thoughts, he barely realized when someone brushed against him in passing with a, "Par'n me, guv."

August nodded absently. Then, after the other passerby had gone several steps ahead, he turned, looked over his shoulder at August and smiled. It seemed that, for a moment, the elderly man's eyes glowed a sinister red. August gasped. And then, the man went on his way and, in a moment, had vanished in the swirling snow.

"No," August whispered. "It couldn't be him. He's dead."

A gust of wind walloped him and he seemed to hear a voice crow, "Hi-diddle-dee-dee!"

This time, his shiver had nothing to do with the cold. He had to get home, where he'd be safe…

He couldn't go home. His father would notice that something was the matter. And if August told him everything, he knew that it would only cause Marco needless pain. The past couldn't be changed. Marco hadn't known the first thing about having a child, let alone a feckless, flighty, trouble-maker, like he'd been. Marco had been on his own since he was a boy not much older than Pinocchio had appeared when first animated, and he'd grown up just fine with Jiminy looking out for him. How could he have known that his son would need a different approach?

August would have nightmares tonight. He was sure of it. Dwelling too much on past bad choices almost always triggered them. He definitely couldn't go home now.

Down the street, a door opened and light and conversation, and the smell of old beer spilled out. August winced. More temptation. But if he drank himself into a stupor, it just might ward off the dreams, albeit temporarily. Maybe that was all he needed. Get drunk tonight, find somewhere to stay, make it home after Marco had already left for work, and sleep everything off tomorrow during the day, when his nightmares wouldn't disturb anyone other than himself. It wasn't a great plan, but it would do.

He squinted up at the sign over the door. "The Eggshell Brewery," he said aloud. He made a mental note to add Thomas Crofton Crocker to the list of potential past Authors, when he got around to updating it again. Just when he thought he'd found most of them, he stumbled upon another name. Well. Time enough for that tomorrow. Or, considering how he meant to spend tomorrow, perhaps the day after.

In a day or two, he'd pull himself together. In a day or two, he'd be there for Emma, for Rumpelstiltskin, for his father, and for anyone else who might need him.

Tonight… he just needed to drown his demons. In ethanol.

He ducked his head guiltily as he stepped into the 'Brewery.

He hadn't come here to drink. He wouldn't have taken the Cadillac if he had. Besides, he had an ample supply of liquor at home—most of it of far better quality than the fare here. No, he'd just wanted to be someplace not so well-lit, where he wouldn't expect to encounter the people who generally burst into his shop seeking assistance. And the Eggshell Brewery lighting was poor enough that most of the patrons probably wouldn't realize he was there. He hadn't minded the anonymity in New York as much as he'd expected to. At least, not for the most part. He was glad to be home, but here, he was going to have to get used to furtive looks, mumbled excuses, and hasty getaways all over again. They'd never bothered him much before, but he couldn't say that he was looking forward to them now.

To his surprise, he spotted a familiar face almost immediately. August Booth was sitting at a table alone in a far corner, a nearly-full shot glass with some sort of creamy liquid before him. Booth was, however, sipping something clear out of an iced tea glass by means of a bent straw. Rumple paused for a moment, wondering what had brought the puppet here and whether he ought to bother asking. Then Booth looked up and Rumple saw a haunted look in his eyes, one he'd last seen over a week ago. He debated with himself for another moment, before he made his way over to the table.

"If you'd prefer to be alone," he greeted him, "I'll sit elsewhere."

Booth shook his head with a reluctant smile. "Probably not the best idea for me, right now," he admitted. As Rumple pulled out the facing chair and sat down, Booth added, "It's just club soda. I thought about something stronger. Even ordered it," he added, gesturing toward the shot glass. "But it seems I haven't got much taste for the stuff after all."

Rumple frowned. "Are you quite all right?" he asked.

Booth shook his head. "No. Not… quite," he replied. "I… guess I did something that took a lot out of me, tonight and it's… haunting me. Or something else is," he added in an undertone.

Rumple's eyebrows shot up. "Something else?" he repeated. "Do tell."

August hesitated, but only briefly. "I thought I saw someone tonight in the storm," he said. "Someone I'd heard—I'd hoped was dead. Or, at least, that I'd never see again…"

Emma massaged her forehead with one hand, as she scrawled notes with the other. "Are you actually getting any of this?" she groaned.

Belle looked up. "I understand the language rather well," she said with an understanding smile. "But the metaphor and allusions to historical events that were important to the fairies but barely registered for mortals…"

"Yeah," Emma nodded. "I guess it'd be… I had to study American history in school. Sometimes, the material overlapped with other countries' histories. It's hard to learn about the world wars without covering a little of what was going on in Europe and the Pacific. But really, we mostly focused on the battles where the Americans were involved, and dealt with the others in passing."

"So, Pearl Harbor, but not Dieppe?" Belle asked.

"Dieppe?" Emma repeated blankly.

"Uh… It was a raid on a port in France. A disastrous one. Almost sixty per cent of the Allied force—mainly Canadians and British—were killed, wounded, or captured."

Emma sighed heavily. "Yeah, sounds like a good example," she nodded. "So, it's as if," she gestured to the book before her, "this was a Canadian… novel, that was written… let's say in the 50s, about a decade or so after that raid. And it's like I'm looking at a line that reads, 'It was like Dieppe' instead of 'it was a military attack gone horribly wrong'. If we don't know what Dieppe was, it's meaningless."

"Exactly, Belle nodded. "Chances are that most Canadians, especially only a few years later, would know about Dieppe—at least the bare bones," Belle nodded, "so there'd be no need to explain the metaphor further."

Emma sighed. "Does this mean that I'm going to have to read up on Fairy history before I can start getting at what Merlin actually wrote? Because seriously? I'm going to have to be a fairy or… or… someone else with a longer lifespan to get through all this."

"Don't say things like that," Tink spoke up nervously from behind Emma's chair. "The last human who used a spell to become one of us… nearly destroyed us. That brand of transformation isn't knowledge we'll share with one not of our order again."

"I-I wasn't seriously thinking of it," Emma stammered.

Tink slowly relaxed. "I know," she said, "but you still shouldn't mention such a thing lightly." She gestured to the books. "As you're discovering, we have rather long memories and some events cut deeper than others." She hesitated a moment longer. Then she pulled up another chair. "I'm afraid that being immortal doesn't mean my time is unlimited," she sighed, "but perhaps, I can at least help you get started…"

August knew how to tell a good story, Rumple reflected. He could see why the Sorcerer had considered making him the Author. When the puppet was finished, Rumple was silent for a moment. Then he took a sip of the tonic water he'd ordered when a server had come 'round and said, "If it sets your mind at ease, I can confirm for you that the Coachman is dead."

August sucked in his breath and held it for a few seconds before exhaling. "You're certain?" he asked. "I mean… no offense, but sometimes reports can be exaggerated or falsified."

Rumple snorted. "True enough, dearie, but when you've seen a man's shadow torn away with your own two eyes, it's not something you forget…

He'd tried to forget Hamelin for far too many years, and for the most part, he'd been successful. But every now and again, it reared its head again in his thoughts. The delegation from the village of Crone's Pass stirred up that old memory once again with their talk of missing children and their plea for his help in finding them.

One had even mentioned hearing that he'd come to the aid of a village in similar circumstances, over a hundred and fifty years earlier. Apparently, his reputation for rendering aid—for the right price, of course—had overshadowed the truth of the matter: Hamelin had been the site of one of his greatest failures. Not only had he not retrieved its children; Hamelin had been—at least, to his mind—the point when Bae had truly begun to leave him. For the woman's temerity in mentioning the place, Rumpelstiltskin had nearly turned her into a goose, but he'd managed to check his irritation and remind himself that she was a woman half-mad with grief over the loss of a son.

He'd heard out the delegation, set his price and, once they'd accepted it, sent them away and cast his scrying spell. The face that appeared in the bowl of still water showed the telltale flicker of a glamor spell. Rumpelstiltskin didn't recognize the round-faced, white-haired gentleman with the reddish nose, but he knew that it wasn't the man's true face, so it didn't mean that their paths had never crossed. The man was driving a coach filled with boisterous children to a pier where a ferry awaited. Laughing, the children—only boys, from what he could tell—disembarked from the coach and raced up the gangplank. As Rumple watched, the coachman smiled pleasantly until the last boy was aboard. Then his smile turned to a leer and he rubbed his hands together gleefully. As Rumple continued to watch the scene in the scry, sailors brought wooden cages out of the boat's cargo hold, each containing two or three donkeys crammed into space that might have sufficed for one. When the last cage was on the dock, the gangplank was pulled up and the boat pushed off.

A long sinister sailing barge pulled into the berth where the boat had been docked and, at the coachman's direction, workers began loading it with the caged donkeys.

And then, a shadow fell upon the scene as a boy swooped down from above and perched atop the barge's mizzen mast. Rumpelstiltskin's breath caught. His father hadn't aged a day since last he'd clapped eyes on him.

"A good day to you, sir," Pan called down from his vantage point. "I see you've amassed for yourself a fine herd here. Wherever might you have acquired them?"

For a moment, Rumple read alarm in the coachman's eyes. Then, he smiled jovially and returned, "And a good day to you, my boy. That was quite an impressive leap. How did you manage it?"

There was a menacing undertone to Pan's grin. "Not telling," he said. "But perhaps, if you were to answer my question first…"

"Am I to understand," the coachman asked, "that you're looking to procure one of these beasts? Because I'm afraid that this lot has all been spoken for in advance. But if you come back an hour earlier on the morrow, I'll have ample fresh stock and I'll be happy to set one aside for you."

"One?" Pan laughed. "But I want them all!"

The coachman chuckled. "My boy, I've over fifty donkeys on this barge, each selling for upwards of eight silver per head. Some of the larger ones fetch twelve. How much were you thinking to spend?"

Pan was still smiling, but now the dangerous note in his voice gained ascendancy. "Not even half a copper," he returned. "But I will leave with your stock and you will have no new shipment on the morrow."

The coachman's smile vanished for a moment. Then it returned in force. "Well, as I said, this shipment's purchased and paid, but perhaps…" He rubbed his hands together again. "Perhaps, we could come to some sort of agreement."

Pan somersaulted lightly down from the masthead and landed several yards away from the coachman. "What kind of agreement?" he challenged.

"Well," the coachman said, "that boat that just pushed off was headed for my stockyards. I've one leaving every day. Perhaps, you could join the boys on the next journey and… I'll find a way to collect the proper cost."

Pan appeared to be considering the offer, but Rumple frowned at the scrying pool. His father might be acting the part of a naïve youth, but Rumple knew he was far too cunning to not be suspicious. And it was obvious to anyone but an imbecile that the coachman was hiding something. Then, Pan's grin broadened and he extended his right hand for the coachman to shake. As the coachman reached for it, though, Peter jerked back the hand and, with his left, flung an unsealed pouch over his shoulder onto the barge behind him. "Actually," Pan said, "I think not."

As the pouch hit the deck, a cloud of dust swirled out. Instead of coating the planked flooring or dissipating in the breeze, it whirled and swirled, creating a foggy curtain that reached to the top of the mainmast, obscuring the deck and everything on it. In their cages, the donkeys brayed. And then, the brays became coughs, and from within the curtain, they—and Rumple—heard, first sobs, and then, shouts of laughter.

The curtain melted and when it did, it appeared that the cages had as well. And in place of the donkeys, were a number of crying, laughing, and cheering boys.

The coachman took a step backwards. "Who… what are you?"

"The name's Peter," Pan said, smiling dangerously. "Peter Pan." The coachman gasped, and his reddish face grew several shades paler. Pan's eyes brightened. "I see you've heard of me."

"Ye-yes," the coachman stammered. "What… what is it you want from me? The-the boys? Take them! With my blessing. They're no good to me in those forms, anyway."

Pan nodded. "Indeed I shall and I thank you," he said. His gaze was thoughtful. "We're somewhat alike, you and I, aren't we? We both seek out boys who yearn for fun and adventure and carry them off to a place where they can indulge those whims. I suppose I ought to thank you for saving me the trouble of searching this lot out for myself."

The coachman began to relax. "You're welcome, of course," he fawned. "Happy to be of help," he added, extending his hand.

Still smiling, Peter started to reach for it. Then, as before, he pulled his hand back and dropped his smile. "Actually," he snapped, "I hate competition. Almost as much as I hate slavers." He flipped backwards onto a nearby stack of crates, then leaped over the coachman's head to land behind him. And then, before the coachman had fully processed what had just happened, Pan reached out and casually tore away the coachman's shadow.

The coachman let out one unholy scream and fell to the dock, dead.

Pan didn't spare him a second glance. "All right, boys!" he proclaimed loudly. "You're free! Now how many of you want to come to a real island of pleasures?"

A few of the former captives started to edge away, but most roared their approval.

Pan sighed and looked at the malcontents. "You're sure? This opportunity isn't likely to come your way again."

One of the boys nodded nervously. "We-we're sure. Our parents must be worried. Thank you for saving us, but we need to get home."

Pan sighed. "Well, if you must," he said. "But if ever any of you should change your minds… leave your bedroom window open and think of Neverland and maybe, just maybe," he grinned, "you might get a second chance."

He pulled a second pouch out of his belt. "As for the rest of you… Follow me!"

When Rumple finished talking, August let out a heavy sigh. "I suppose some people would say I ought to feel sorry for anyone meeting their end that way," he said, "but I don't."

"Nor should you, in my opinion," Rumple murmured. "It wasn't so long ago that someone told me that Good doesn't exact vengeance and, perhaps, it doesn't. But that doesn't mean it can't appreciate someone getting their just desserts."

August sighed again. "I try not to think about that time in my life too much. It… tends to make me relive things I ought to get past. But talking to Blue tonight, I had to bring up some old history and, I guess it's been in my head."

Rumple hesitated. "Have you considered… talking to someone? I mean, someone besides me."

"Like who?" August asked.

"Well, Doctor Hop…" his voice trailed off.

"Yeah," August nodded. "I've already got one conscience dragging me over my past. I'm not involving the other one."

"Your father?"

"Still doesn't know about everything I went through. He never wanted to hear about it at the time, told me it was over and I was better off forgetting about it and moving on. I always thought he just didn't want to know all the details of how badly I mucked things up." He shook his head. "Whatever Blue did after she turned me back into the boy again—I mean, the second time, here in Storybrooke—it took away my memories—not just of being an adult, but of being a puppet. I mean, I knew my origins, but I couldn't remember anything clearly that happened before the first time she made me into a real boy. It was a real second chance," he rested his elbow on the table and lowered his forehead into his hand. "One I ruined when I told Regina she could change me back."

"Well," Rumple said quietly, "I suppose I understand something of lost chances and… concealing truths thought too terrible to voice aloud. And," inspiration seized him, "I… might have felt a draft coming in from one of my windows earlier. If you aren't going home right now, perhaps, you wouldn't mind taking a look?"

And, Rumple reflected, if Booth came back to the house with him, it might make it easier for him to fight off the next salvo fired by his own Darkness.

"I could do that," August said, a small smile playing about his lips. "It… it might take me a while, to repair it, though."

"Well," Rumple said again, "I think it ought to be seen to tonight, but I know better than to hurry a craftsman into doing slipshod work. Take as long as you need."

When he extended his hand, he didn't pull it back until August had clasped it, first hesitantly and then heartily, in his own.