Emma sipped her tea—peppermint this time. She'd read somewhere that it was good for an upset stomach and hers hadn't come close to settling in the hour since Killian had ripped the chain off her neck—and recoiled when the scolding liquid bit her tongue.

"I'm sorry, Emma." August spoke with such earnest sincerity she had no choice but to believe him. "I had no idea."

What else was there to say at this point? Even as a throbbing ache started in her chest, even as her thoughts turned toward increasingly defeated outcomes, Emma knew she would eventually rally. It wasn't in her to quit, even when the cards were stacked against her. She'd survived everything the universe had thrown at her. She would survive this.

Still, it was cathartic to wallow for a while. Work could wait. The world could wait. Destiny and the Director and whatever ultimatums came her way.

She caught August holding back a smirk when she forced down another scorching sip of tea. "So what're you doing here?" She asked him. "You look me up or something?"

"Believe it or not, my life doesn't revolve around you."

"Believe it or not, that's a nice change of pace."

He gave her what was meant to be a sympathetic smile, but one that veered a little too near pity for her tastes. "A prospective client happens to live in your building—I was on my way to them when I ran into you. Well, when you ran into me."

"Sorry. It's been…a day."

"And only half past nine."

Emma sighed, feeling a great deal older than almost-twenty-eight. If things kept up, she'd never make it to middle age. "How'd it go with the last perspective client? Did you let him down easy?"

August shifted from one foot to the other then back again after a slight wince, and ultimately settled for leaning his weight against the counter. "He wasn't exactly pleased, but we came to terms."

"Vague."

His gaze hadn't stopped wandering since she'd invited him in, what Emma first dismissed as curiosity. A way of adjusting to new surroundings. He'd make eye contact when he wanted his words to have impact—like now, when he said, "That wasn't the man you knew."

"I kind of got that." Emma choked down another burning gulp, if only to hide the shiver her last memory of Neal sent through her. He wasn't at all the man she'd known when she was a teenager. The man she'd loved. "I know ten years is a long time, but…" she shook her head, unable to pinpoint what it was, exactly, that'd been off about him.

August flipped through Emma's junk mail, seeming to tire of this topic. When nothing piqued his interest, he stood straight and asked if he could use her restroom. He was en route before Emma could nod, favoring one leg over the other as he walked. Not a full limp, but not his natural gait either.

—

"Did it ever occur to you that you were simply shown what you wanted to see?"

For the first time since she'd told Alistair to leave, to never come back, Emma felt a short, sharp pang of guilt, which she opted to ignore.

They'd moved their conversation to the living room. August had seemed uncomfortable after standing too long. Even seated, he appeared out of sorts. Anxious. His body unable to settle. His eyes darting about points in the apartment.

"Why would I want to see Alistair doing those things?"

Though August's attention still wandered every nook of Emma's apartment, only minimally invested in what they were discussing, he answered every question without delay, his voice the only part of him fully engaged. "Maybe he was getting too close. You said yourself you don't have the best track record with making friends. Maybe you were looking for something to justify pulling away."

Was she really so easy to read? August had been back in her life all of five minutes and already it felt like those first few weeks after her wish. Killian had been far too adept at seeing through her, far too soon. She'd always assumed this to be a special skill of Killian's—quite perceptive, indeed. But what if it was her?

Open book, Love.

"The visions, or…whatever they were," she said quietly, in a voice that barely warranted the title, "felt so…real."

"I'm not saying they weren't real." August looked at Emma. Whatever had distracted him up to this point was forgotten. She had his undivided focus, and it took her aback. His eyes had never held such clarity or resolve. Such…purpose. This was a man on a mission. "I'm saying they might only be one side of the story. People are capable of anything when threatened. Look at what's happening to Killian. And what you're considering doing in order to save him."

The guilt Emma had suppressed with little success finally surfaced. Wholly and completely until she was overwhelmed. She'd known it was reckless to send away the one person who could help Killian. Even as the words had left her lips, she'd known she would live to regret them. She'd acted out of fear and distrust.

Every attempt to use magic in Alistair's absence had been an utter failure. All she'd managed were sparks that singed her topcoat but little else.

She was about to admit defeat, admit that August was right on all counts, when the doorbell rang. Had she been right about guides being able to sense when their clients needed them?

She sprang from the couch to answer, flinging the door open with an eagerness to bury the hatchet, if her guide was willing. But it wasn't Alistair on the other side.

A man wearing a brown button-up shirt with matching brown shorts towered over Emma, a brown paper parcel in one hand and a tablet in the other. His badge said his name was Bruce. "Package for Emma Swan."

Bruce offered her a stylus to sign, but as she reached for it, August, suddenly at Emma's side, knocked it from his hand. "Isn't it customary to leave deliveries at the front desk?"

"Usually," said Bruce as he bent to retrieve the stylus from where it'd rolled on the floor—nearly the full distance to Killian's apartment. "But no one was there. Manager's out to lunch or something."

"Likely story." August crossed his arms. "Are you even allowed to be up here? How do we know you really work for the postal service?" He leaned in close, lowering his voice. "Who sent you?"

Bruce looked at Emma then back at August and scoffed. "You think I dress like this for the aesthetic? Look, I just need someone to sign for this and I'll be on my way."

"You'll have to excuse him," said Emma. "He doesn't get out much. A little socially underdeveloped." She glared at August, who relented but didn't go back inside until the package was in his hands and not Emma's.

He rolled it over, inspecting all angles, weighing it. Sniffed it a couple times before tearing at the brown paper.

Bruce raised one brow and said, "Boyfriend?"

"No."

"Good call."

—

"Killian, this is August. August, Killian."

August held out his hand and said, "Pleasure."

Killian eyed him curiously, looked him up an down with zero interest in making his acquaintance. "Have we…met somewhere before?"

"Depends." August tucked his hands in his front pockets. "Ever been on the run from an unwanted destiny? Magical in nature? Predestined role vis-a-vis savior of a set upon kingdom, hero of the common folk, singular pure-hearted soul within a three-realm radius commissioned with the breaking of a curse and subsequent restructuring of an antiquated system of government?"

"No…?"

August shrugged. "Then I probably just have one of those faces."

"Right. Would you give us a minute, Atlas?"

"August."

"Of course," said Killian as he directed Emma toward her room.

Once inside, he closed the door behind them and Emma took a few steps back, putting a cushion of safe space between herself and whatever mood Killian had brought with him that afternoon.

"What is it, Love?"

The name sounded exactly as it should have, exactly as it had since the day they'd met, but Emma's heart hesitated to put faith in this one detail.

"Do you…remember this morning?"

When Killian admitted with some shame that he didn't, Emma filled him in on what'd happened the last time they were alone.

"I'm so sorry, Emma." He pulled her into an embrace and Emma felt herself relax against him. Exhale.

"I'd just come to ask you about Liam's ring," he said when they broke apart. "I was certain I'd lost it back at headquarters. But suddenly, there it was on my finger."

Vibration in her back pocket set Emma instantly on edge. With all the calls she'd gotten regarding Killian's strange behavior, she didn't know if she was up to facing whatever he'd done this time.

She braced herself for the worst when the voice over the line said he was looking for Emma Swan.

"Speaking," she said, looking into Killian's contrite eyes.

"Marcus Watson, returning your call. You put in an inquiry a few weeks back as to the location of your birth parents?"

"Oh. Right." Emma's heart raced, pulsing like static in her ears, even as rational thought reminded her she'd moved on from such things. Found new avenues to pursue. Not to mention more pressing concerns. To say that old habits died hard wouldv'e been an understatement as Emma was faced with intentionally turning down a lead. Curiosity beckoned, like an un-slakable thirst at the back of her throat. "You didn't find anything…did you?"

"Find? No. Information's been collecting dust coming on twenty-eight years."

—

She was escorted to a small office just off the main lobby. Where the rest of the building had been modernized beyond its outdated exterior, the room where Marcus J. Watson spent his days looked like something out of the 1980s.

Watson stood when Emma walked in, shook her hand, and offered her the empty seat opposite his desk, the better part of which was inhabited by a computer the size of a small country.

They engaged in the usual small talk before getting to the point. When Emma asked Marcus J. Watson to walk her through everything again, the haggard reporter said, "It's like I told you on the phone. October '83, woman comes in hysterical, claiming to be looking for a newborn—said someone snatched her and made off with her in the night." He reached for a stress ball by his keyboard and sat back in his swivel chair, squeezing the blue orb at steady intervals as he spoke. "Didn't take much digging to discover the infant she was looking for had passed. I break the news, she cries for a bit then thanks me for my time. I never see her again."

Emma sat silently, waiting for the but or however or what the woman didn't know to justify her having come all this way for what could've just as easily been relayed without putting extra mileage on her car.

"I have reason to believe, Miss Swan, that the newborn in question was you."

"I don't understand."

Even as they left her lips, Emma was struck by how often she'd said those three words lately. Just as she wrapped her head around one aberration, another reared its irregular head.

"What I'm about to tell you stays between us." Marcus J. Watson exhaled a heavy sigh and sat up straight, stress ball set aside as he unbuttoned the top button on his shirt and shot a quick glance over Emma's shoulder to double-check he'd closed the door. "This…case isn't the only reason that night stands out in my mind. October 22nd, 1983 is a night I'll never forget. It marks the first and only time in my career that I took a bribe." He adjusted his position a few times before leaning back again, one leg crossed atop the other. "Here goes nothing," he said under his breath.

He told Emma of a man who didn't give his name. Didn't give much of anything, really, beyond this simple offer: Bury the story of a child found outside the woods, and receive the deepest desire of his heart.

Marcus laughed. Really and truly—the full-bellied sort that was impossible to fake. He looked the stranger up and down, the final undulations of humor working their way out as he said, "What, like a wish? You some sort of genie?"

The man didn 't crack a smile. Didn't blink. Didn't falter in any way that would betray the fact he was full of shit.

"I'll pass," said Marcus. "But thanks for the laugh—just what I needed on a night like this. Unless you have some sort of statement to provide with regards to what took place here tonight, I'm gonna have to ask you to be on your way."

Red and blue lights from nearby police vehicles streaked across the man 's face, highlighting a jagged scar above his left brow—what looked like the result of a serrated edge. The authorities would be releasing the child into the custody of medical responders soon, and then she'd be off to the foster system in the event no one showed up to claim her. If Marcus wasted any more time on this lunatic, he'd have nothing to give his editor.

"I'll do you one better, Mr. Watson," the stranger said, though Marcus hadn't given his name. "I'll show you exactly what transpired in these woods."

"And then he did." Marcus J. Watson sat very still, staring intently into a past Emma couldn't see. "I don't know how to explain it. One minute I was looking at a person, and the next, it was like I'd stepped into a dream. Or a…memory."

She was sure the word magic had wandered its way across his thoughts at least once in the last twenty-seven years, even if he was disinclined to fully invest in such an explanation. Witchcraft, perhaps. Sorcery.

Trick of the mind.

Whatever it was, it'd been enough to sway him toward betraying his ethics.

Emma didn't know how to tell him she knew exactly what he'd experienced. That she'd experienced it, too.

"He asked for one day. Said it was all he'd need."

"What did you wish for?" Asked Emma.

"Nothing extravagant." Watson smiled ruefully. "Just a career maker."

"Did it come true?"

"You tell me, Miss Swan. Ever heard of the Clyde-Bell Scandal?" Emma's surprise must've been answer enough because Marcus J. Watson smiled. "Put me on the map. Unprecedented at the time—it's covered in all the history books printed after '86." He whistled low, shaking his head, as his expression slowly dissolved into something more serious. "Never could quite match the acclaim of that first big scoop. Tried, though—boy, did I try. I still get the occasional favor, still maintain a reputation. Upstanding, by all accounts. But the thirst is still there, you know? One of those unquenchable things."

Marcus J. Watson was lost in a haze of disappointed hopes that Emma didn't dare interrupt.

What was it with these people, with these men making decisions about her life? Even in her first hours, she hadn't been immune to the selfish aspirations of others.

A full minute later, Watson sighed to himself and said, "From what I can tell, guy did you a favor."

"How's that?"

"Not a chance in hell that woman was your mother."

"Your gut tell you that? Journalistic intuition?"

Marcus J. Watson reclined in his chair and stared past Emma, through the window that looked out onto the lobby. A lobby in which August had paced throughout the entirety of their conversation so far, Emma imagined, casting furtive glances their way every now and again. He'd insisted on accompanying Emma to Maine, and wouldn't let her out the front door until she'd agreed.

"Say you'd given birth couple hours before coming to see me. Someone took your kid and you came here seeking my help. Say I told you your kid had kicked it. You're naturally distraught. Beside yourself with grief. What's the first thing you would ask me after learning your newborn has died?"

It didn't take much for Emma to imagine what she might've done if, instead of giving her son away to a loving family, someone had taken him. Someone who might've intended him harm.

"I'd want to see him," she said as hot air flared her nostrils. "I'd want to see the body."

Marcus J. Watson didn't say anything.

"She didn't ask to see me."

He shook his head. "I showed her a photograph from an old case and it was enough to satisfy her curiosity. She thanked me for my time and left. Never arranged a funeral or asked for an obit, asked for justice—any of the things that most mourning mothers want."

"Do you have a record of her? An Address? Anything?"

Watson grinned as he reached for the top left-hand draw of his desk, from whence he pulled a crisp, clear, color photograph and handed it to Emma.

The angle wasn't ideal—something that'd been taken from security footage. A woman dressed like an elementary school teacher, with short dark hair, stared straight ahead at the receptionist. The spit and image of Mary Margaret Blanchard.

"That night is clearer in my mind than any other event in my life—I don't remember what I ate at my wedding. Or the name of my first pet. But I remember the woman in that photograph. There'd been something about her eyes. Something…otherworldly."

Emma studied the image, not sure if she was breathing.

What did this mean? That Henry was right? That Mary Margaret Blanchard was her mother? That she and Snow White were the same person? That the curse on Storybrooke had kept its inhabitants from aging for twenty-seven years?

"If this was taken the night I was born, why…?"

How was she supposed to start? She had a million questions but no confidence in Marcus J. Watson's capacity to answer them. He'd encountered a modicum of magic—that hardly made him an authority.

"That wasn't taken the night you were born."

Watson's words broke her trance, shattered every fragile thought like glass.

"Look at the timestamp, Miss Swan." Emma did as he said. "That photograph was taken two days ago. And Mary Margaret Blanchard is in every way unchanged from the first time I met her."

—

Six Weeks Ago

August came to the last verse of Got No Strings just as he reached the diner door. He always felt a bit lighter after a happy song. Spirits lifted, outlook brightened, he approached the man who would be his client and broke the bad news.

Neal Cassidy grinned. August wouldn't have described it as amused, not fully. There was an edge to the expression that didn't sit well. "Did Emma ask you to do this?"

August laughed an easy laugh. "It's not as calculated as all that. Look, you seemed to really upset her, and she's a friend, so I think it's better if we part ways here. No hard feelings." August offered his hand, which Neal regarded with a tilt of his head.

August couldn't help comparing the action to that of a predator sizing up its prey. He lowered his arm.

"I know what you've been doing," said Neal.

"Uh, yeah," August glanced around. Why was the air suddenly so still? So silent? None of the diners seemed to move. No clink of utensils against plates, no ceramic mugs against tabletops. Did they all hold their breath, the way August did now? "Why else would we be here?"

Neal's grin diminished but didn't disappear. His eyes never left August's face. Why did August feel as though they knew his every secret? Every buried truth of his existence? Why was it so hot in that diner?

"Well, that's all I came to say. So if there's nothing else…" August turned to leave. To sprint. To get as fast and as far away from Neal Cassidy as humanly possible. He ran a mental check of the beans in his pocket—how many realms would it take to shake off the feeling—like a film—left behind by a probing gaze?

"There is the matter of your illegal transportation of stolen goods across worlds."

August didn't have time to take offense at Neal referring to people as goods because when he turned back around, Neal was no longer there. In his place stood a man with white hair and a loving smile. He wore an apron with wood carving instruments in the pockets. But the eyes—they were unchanged.

"Helping the Savior was not a wise move on your part," said a demon wearing his papa's face. "What do you suppose will happen to you once she accomplishes what she's set out to do? Once the Dark Curse loosens its grip on Storybrooke?" The demon took a step forward. August took five back. "Allow me to give you a taste."

The demon didn't move, but pain shot up August's right leg, starting at the calf. He screamed from the intensity of it as the diners seemed to awaken from their stupor to stare. August lifted his pant leg to find that where once there'd been flesh, there was now solid wood.

As fast as the pain started, it began to ebb, the transformation progressing clean to the bone.

"The rest of you may remain a real boy," the demon promised, advancing on August like he'd just staked his claim on a shiny new toy, "if you do as you're told."