The Eight of Wands depicts eight diagonal staves flying over an open landscape. Things are in swift motion! Where will they end up? That's not shown. We only know that change is in the air...


The book didn't work. Neal had met his son for lunch at Roni's bar and presented the book as a gift. Henry had leafed through the pages, sparking no magic, no sudden awakening of the Truest Believer. Neal tried to hide his disappointment, and thought he did a better job than his son did.

Henry's disbelieving "Uh, thank you" was accompanied by a look that said louder than words that his father didn't have a clue. He flipped through the pages, his expression scornful, skimming here and there before setting the book aside in favor of his sandwich. At least he had enough respect for his father not to drip mustard on the cover.

"Look, kid, you probably think you're too old for fairy tales," said Neal. He wondered if the magic had gone out of it when he had ripped out the portal page, despite his father's assurances on that count. "But actually, they weren't originally children's stories—"

Henry scoffed. "That's the problem with them, isn't it? Stories! Tidy morals and happy endings. Real life isn't like that. I wish you'd tell me about this case you're involved in..."

"You know I can't do that." Neal had seen Henry's usual reading material and wasn't that clueless, but he couldn't exactly blurt out the truth. "Stories don't have to be factually accurate to be true in some sense. There's a lot you could learn from this book."

"I already have enough textbooks!" Henry peered at Neal warily. "Is this, like, some religious thing? Not that I have anything against religion. I mean, Nick's dad is into some weird stuff..."

Neal sighed, running a hand through his hair. "No, it's not a religious thing. Not that faith is such a bad thing. Coming here to meet you was a leap of faith." He saw Roni out of the corner of his eye, watching them. Faith was all well and good, but what happened when mother and son remembered that their relationship was created by a curse? If they knew that it was real for their counterparts in Maine, perhaps they would believe that there was a truth worth saving behind the illusion. "Fairy tales are meant to be about hope."

Henry snorted. "Tell that to Hilda Braeburn."

It was a moment before Neal recalled that as the name of the dead baker.

Henry continued before Neal could respond, "Oh wait, you can't. Because she's dead! Come on, I'm not a little kid. You don't have to pretend. Does that detective of yours believe in fairy tales?"

"You'd be surprised."

Henry gave him an annoyed look. "If you wanted me to believe in happy endings, you should have found me ten years ago."

"I wish I could have." Neal had apologized, but he could tell Henry wasn't satisfied with his vague explanations as to the reasons, and knew he was hiding something. "What can I say? I'm here now."

Later, Neal met with his father in Faye Lipson's house, where Neal was still living as a 'guest'. It was cheaper than a motel, and less suspicious than staying at the detective's place.

"I should have guessed it wouldn't work," Weaver said. "The other Henry was a potential Author, but this one isn't."

"How can you be so sure?"

Weaver shook his head. "All the Authors are born in the Land Without Magic. This realm has a special relationship with the fates that other realms lack."

"But the Truest Believer can be born from any realm, and Henry..."

"He was, yes. But I fear that the Dark Curse took its toll on him. The price he paid to cast it cost him his belief."


The charts said "Mel Esposito", but Rumplestiltskin knew better. This was Maleficent in the hospital bed, teetering between life and death in what the healers in the Land Without Magic called "critical condition." Now that there was magic in Hyperion Heights, Rumplestiltskin had thought she might wake up on her own, but as it turned out, her injuries were too grave. The prognosis was grim, the doctors having little hope of her recovery.

Well, then, Weaver wouldn't be getting any answers from this source. Nor would Rumplestiltskin, but — he reached for the wand hidden in his jacket — he had more options to wake her up. Or he could let her die. After all, she was no friend of his, and might still harbor a grudge against the Dark One. Bae would say he deserved it. But Bae wanted him to do the right thing — believed in him enough to trust him with magic. And didn't the old dragon deserve a chance to find her child?

Not that it was his responsibility to dispense just deserts to anyone, be they hero or villain.

Still, he had spun her life into being. Why cut the thread short when he could preserve it? With a discreet tap of the Blue Fairy's wand, he nudged the healing process forward. Mel Esposito would survive to wake up, remembering nothing.


After Weaver had been discharged, Rogers found himself pushing Tilly through the hospital in a wheelchair. "So, Weaver asked me to keep an eye on you while he's resting up. I thought maybe you could help me with this case I'm working on."

"Yeah?" Tilly turned to give him a tilted grin.

Rogers nodded. "It's important. A missing girl."

"Important enough to buy me lunch for?"

"Marmalade sandwich, right? Weaver said that was your favorite."

"Weaver says lots of things," countered Tilly. "How do I know it's my favorite?"

"One way to find out," said Rogers. The hospital cafeteria didn't have orange marmalade, so he drove with Tilly to a supermarket to pick up supplies. She refused the cheap brand Rogers normally bought, insisting on the fancy organic orange marmalade and artisan bread to go with it. "Where do you live? I'll take you home."

Not that Tilly had the resources to lay claim to any kind of legal residence. She had simply taken over a discarded shipping container in an old rail yard. Cluttered shelves lined the walls, and Rogers wondered if she had scavenged it all herself, or if she had inherited the lot from a previous squatter.

Tilly pirouetted as she led him inside, pulling on a cord to turn on the bare bulb fixed to the ceiling. "Home sweet home!"

Rogers traced the path of the wires. "Take care you don't electrocute yourself."

Tilly rolled her eyes. She held out her hand for the bread and marmalade. "Tell me about your missing girl."

"Uh, her name is Eloise Gardener. Disappeared ten years ago." She wouldn't be a girl anymore... unless she was dead and therefore ageless. Rogers shook off the morbid thought as he watched Tilly construct her sandwich, plucking a plate and knife from the shelves. "Normal girl. Liked art, hated school, bit of an amateur poet."

Tilly nodded and hopped onto a small folding table. She bit cautiously into the bread, then rolled the sample around in her mouth.

"What's the verdict?" Rogers couldn't help asking.

Tilly saluted him with the sandwich. "Marmalade, the glue that holds the universe together."

"I thought that was duct tape."

Tilly gave him a quizzical look. "No, duct tape tastes awful."

"Aye, you've got me there. So can you shed any light on the case?"

"What else do you know about Eloise Gardener?"

Rogers showed her the missing girl's journal. "We think something spooked her. Look at the last page: it's supposed to be some kind of protection rune."

Tilly glanced down at the sketch of what looked like an eight-spoked star or wheel. She pursed her lips, and Rogers thought he caught a sliver of recognition in her face. "Hmm."

"You've seen it before? Do you know what it means? What it has to do with why she vanished or where she might be?"

Tilly eyed Rogers. She didn't answer at first, instead finishing off her sandwich and licking sticky crumbs off her fingers. Then she nodded, as much to herself as to Rogers, and slid off the table. "I'll show you."

Half an hour later, the two of them were staring up at a giant troll statue under a highway overpass. The top of the head butted up against the bottom of the bridge, while massive fingers caged a stone car against the ground. A single doleful eye stared out of a bearded face, the other eye hidden beneath a fall of sculpted hair.

Tilly greeted the troll with a wave and a cheerful hello before leading Rogers around to the side of the bridge. "Look, detective."

And then he saw it, hidden in the profusion of graffiti painted on the wall: the same eight-spoked symbol. "Is it some kind of gang sign?"

Tilly shrugged. "All kinds of signs in this city. But are you reading them right?"

"What do you mean?"

"This girl. I don't know her, but I know her story. Bad home life. Parents who didn't care." Tilly smirked, cocking her head at Rogers. "I don't think she was taken."

"You think she's a runaway?" Rogers shook his head. He had considered that before, but— "I talked to the kids on the street. No one knows her."

"Trust me, people like that don't talk to people like you."

"Then you'll help me?" Rogers felt his gut clench, a surge of irrational hope filling him as he waited for Tilly's answer. He didn't know why, but somewhere between the shipping container and the troll statue, he had begun to put his faith in Weaver's erratic informant.

"It's that important to you?"

"I...I have to find her. Ever since I started looking for this girl, I felt I had a connection. A bond." Saying it out loud, Rogers knew it sounded crazy, but Tilly nodded in understanding.

"Seems you need this as much as Eloise does."

Rogers sighed. "It feels like she's family."

"All right, detective. I do hope I can find her for you." And with that she was gone, scampering through a gap in the wall in an eyeblink.

Rogers was only a few steps behind, but by the time he reached the gap, Tilly was out of sight. He muttered to himself, "I hope so, too, Tilly."


Ivy had no luck tracking down Alice — no, better to think of her as Tilly for now — but once her initial frantic search fizzled out, she was almost glad. What if her mother had found out? Ivy was certain that Belfrey was awake. And she had been hiding something in Belfrey Towers, something she was afraid Drizella would find.

It had to be Gothel.

Two hours before daybreak, when there was no one there but a security guard, Ivy made her way into Belfrey Towers. The guard let her in with no questions asked, and Ivy ensured his continued discretion with a cash bribe. She used the maintenance overrides to break into the secured area on the top floor.

There was no one there.

A methodical search turned up suspicious-looking steel rings set into plates fixed onto the building's frame. Scratches on the walls and floors, and traces of food, all suggested that someone or something had been living there until recently. Ivy checked the security camera footage, but the whole area was a blind spot. The closest she came was the elevator, and the only visitor was her mother. After erasing her own visit from the record, Ivy went back home.

It had to be Gothel. Ivy was more sure of it than ever. Gothel, plotting something with Ivy's mother. Or Mother plotting something with Gothel. Ivy didn't know which was worse, but she knew she had to find out — and stop them. Because since when did Mother ever consider her daughter's well-being, much less that of anyone else except herself? She longed to confront her mother, but until she had all the facts, she would be at a disadvantage, and Ivy was unwilling to gamble against the odds. No, she had to find Gothel first, and Tilly, before she made a move.


Neal had never imagined himself as a magician's assistant, yet here he was in Weaver's empty studio, enchanted book page in his hand, helping his father dissect the magic locked in the paper. It was only because it was too dangerous to let his father touch it directly; it wasn't as if he was learning magic himself. Even so, he couldn't quite suppress the queasy twist of his stomach at his own participation. Neal cleared his throat. "So, um, how do we do this?"

Weaver himself still looked shell-shocked at the concept of his son approving of anything magical. He leaned forward in his chair, the Blue Fairy's wand balanced delicately in his left hand, while Neal stood halfway across the room. "You're sure you're all right with this?"

"Nah, it's fine." Neal covered his nervousness with a cheeky grin.

"You don't have to. I know how much you hate magic, son." Weaver seemed to have trouble meeting his eyes.

"Because I thought it had stolen my papa," Neal said. Looking at his father now, his heart broke at how much damage the darkness had done to their family, but he no longer blamed magic for it. His revulsion was a relic of his own bad memories; it was time to put that behind him.

"I once thought the same," Weaver said in a near-whisper, his eyes still downcast. "Pan..." He swallowed visibly.

"I know. You... your other self told me." He left it at that, not wanting to talk about the rest. He remembered all too vividly the sight of his father dying in the middle of Main Street, taking Pan with him. His father had known the price all along, freeing himself from the darkness of his curse long enough to make that choice.

Weaver sighed. "We're all Lost Boys, aren't we? I'm sorry, Bae."

"But you found yourself, Papa. And so did I. And so will Henry. We have to help him, and if that takes magic, we'll do whatever we gotta do." Neal had once thought of magic as an external force that had warped their lives, corrupting his father, but the truth was more complicated. They were all of them magic as much as they were flesh and blood, and to deny that was to deny life itself. Magic had given a whole realm existence. If there was a kernel of dark magic animating each curse-woven soul, that, too, was part of life. He said gruffly, "There's no moral superiority in wielding a sword rather than a spell."

At that, his father looked up, scoffing. "Many a 'hero' would disagree with you."

"Guess I'm no hero, then."

"Don't say that, Bae!" Weaver looked indignant at the idea. "You vanquished the Dark One. You're a knight of the realm, you saved—"

Neal shot him an amused look, raising a hand to halt his father's outburst. "Not bad for the coward's son, then?"

"You've always been a better man than me."

"Look, Papa, what I meant was, heroism or cowardice isn't as simple as people make it out to be. I'm proud to help you however I can." If his father took pride in his son's achievements as a knight, then Neal could take equal pride in his father's achievements as a sorcerer. When he had been a child, he had worked alongside his father, learning and helping with every aspect of their everyday lives. In the end, this was no different. He had no more natural affinity for magic than he had for spinning, but that didn't matter. "It'll be just like the old days."

Weaver smiled, misty-eyed. "Aye, son."

Neal only wished that he could have had the same opportunity with his own son, but in neither reality had that happened, except for one brief shining moment in Storybrooke. But if he could reconnect with his father so many years after their separation, surely that meant it wasn't too late for him to find a way back into Henry's life. For that chance, Neal swallowed his distaste for magic and let Weaver direct him.

When it came down to the nitty-gritty work of spell construction and deconstruction, magic was as tedious as any other job requiring precision and calculation. It felt like hours later when the paper in Neal's hand dissolved into motes of silvery light.

Weaver's gaze was fixed on the light, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he angled his wand to absorb the motes of light. The air seemed to vibrate, a shiver against the skin just below the range of hearing. Weaver gasped and gave the wand a sharp jerk, then sank back into his chair. He wiped his brow with his free hand. "That's done it."

"You all right?" Neal started forward, but his father gestured at him to stay back.

"I couldn't get all of it." Weaver slipped the wand into his jacket. "Something... something got out. Something changed. Did you feel it?"

Neal frowned. Something had changed? "I... I'm not sure."

Weaver surveyed the room. His eyes stopped. Lingered on a point behind Neal. Neal followed his gaze, craning his head around to see— Had that workbench always been there? Most of its surface was taken up by a large object concealed under a blue tarp. "What... what is that?" He stepped forward warily. Half-joking, he added, "You're not hiding a body under there, are you?"

"I think... I remember..." Weaver began slowly, but didn't finish his sentence.

Impatient, Neal flipped up the edge of the tarp. "Crap." It was a body. Or... no. Upon closer inspection, he saw the silver sheen of the skin, the blank featureless oval of its face, and the smell of something more metal than human, whether dead or alive. "Is that some kind of dummy? Or...?"

"It's an android." Weaver paused for a moment, as if disbelieving his own words, then added, "It's broken."

"Broken?"

"I never was able to get it to work." Weaver stared fixedly at the inert figure lying on the workbench. "The magic in the page. It did this."

"Did what?"

"It wasn't there before. And yet it was. The past has changed."

"Time travel?" Neal remembered a witch obsessed with changing the past. That was a nightmare he would rather do without.

"Not exactly. No travel. Only a shift in what was, what is..."

"All right. But why a robot? Did you conjure it up?"

"No."

"No? That's it? What does it mean? Who sent it? Is it good or bad?" Neal pulled the tarp all the way off and scowled at the exposed torso. "Should we destroy it or fix it or what?"

Weaver finally tore his gaze away from the android and quirked an eyebrow at Neal. "It does seem odd. Not the kind of thing you find in a fairy tale. Back then we called it a golem, but seeing it now..."

"Yeah." Neal turned back to his father, closed the distance between them. "So how the hell did you end up with an android?"

"Actually, it was a gift from Captain Hook."

Neal blinked, trying to parse that answer. Disney cartoons weren't the only things he had watched in the Land Without Magic. Killer robots were a thing, and if those were real, then—

"He upgraded from dreamshade poison, huh? Did you go all Dark One on his ass?" These days, after everything that had passed between them, Neal could joke about it, but he still tensed in apprehension. No matter how many lives he lived, he didn't think he would ever stop being afraid of the darkness his father carried. "I'm surprised he's still breathing."

Weaver gave him a look. "No, I mean, it was a New Year present. A broken android."

"It was broken when he gave it to you?" Then his comprehension caught up with his mouth, and he said in bewilderment, "Wait. A New Year present? Are you serious?"

Weaver nodded, an odd look — embarrassment? — flitting across his face.

"...and did you get him anything?"

Weaver, looking increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation, shrugged. "Knitted a pair of socks for him. I wasn't at my best at the time."

Neal gaped at his father. "You knitted me socks when I was a kid."

"Are you accusing me of something, Bae?"

"I'm trying to wrap my head around the idea of Captain Hook and the Dark One exchanging New Year gifts. I thought he wanted to kill you. Made a whole song and dance about it — literally, if that rumor can be believed. And no love lost on your side."

"Yes, well. We realized we had better things to do. Something about unreality about to implode on us."

Neal stared at his father incredulously. "A truce I can understand, but that's going above and beyond, don't you think?"

Weaver looked amused. "Perhaps so. He's always had a penchant for dramatic gestures."

"Pot. Kettle." Neal shook his head. "Ok. But why an android? And where did he find a damn android in the Enchanted Forest?"

"Golem. Some wizard's toy, I expect. Cheap because it was broken, or never worked at all." Weaver's fingers twitched. "Hook was trying to take my mind off things after I finished spinning the Dark Curse, while we were waiting for it to be cast. He thought fixing it would be... I don't know. Therapeutic for me."

"All right, but..." Neal shook his head again, deciding against asking whether it had worked. Clearly the feud between his father and the pirate had changed. "So what, Detective Rogers and Detective Weaver are Secret Santas now?"

Weaver chuckled. "Now that would be a Christmas miracle indeed. But no, I hope we can break the curse before any further gift exchanges are required."

"Yeah." Neal eyed his father, who didn't look too bothered by having his enemy working as his police partner. "Right. What do we do with the android?"

"I'd like to say we can drop it off at the dump, but magic always comes with a price, and I suspect this creature is the price of my meddling with the power in the book." Weaver stood up and shuffled slowly over to the workbench, looking wiped out from his earlier magical exertions.

Neal reached out to steady his father. "Take it easy, Papa. Maybe you should rest first, and we can do this later."

Weaver shook his head. "Too dangerous to leave loose ends lying around. We need to know..."

Yeah, that was Rumplestiltskin the control freak talking. Knowing his father wouldn't be able to rest when he was like this, Neal capitulated. "Fine. But you're not exactly an electrical engineer or whatever. I don't know what you think you can do with that thing..."

Weaver ran a hand, palm down, over the android's chest. He murmured, "There's a trace of magic infused in its essence. If it originated in our world, and it was brought over by the curse, then I should be able to..."

"Magic, maybe, but also electricity." Neal lifted a thick power cable. "Look, it's plugged into the outlet. Huh, maybe that's why you could never get it to work before. Steam power wasn't even invented back home, never mind the electric grid..."

Weaver stared at him. "That's it. You're right. That's exactly it. I never figured out the energy source. I thought it had to be something from Wonderland, which I couldn't access at that point. In this world, I thought..." His eyes went unfocused for a moment. "Weaver acquired it during a less than legal raid on an underground fighting ring, but now I realize that never actually happened."

"Well, I think it's charged up. The light's green." Neal unplugged the cable from the android's torso. "Now you just need to find the on switch." After a moment's inspection, he zeroed in on the indented button on the back of its neck. He couldn't read any magical languages or runes, but this was the familiar circle cut by a vertical line that served as the standard power symbol everywhere in the Land Without Magic. "Aha." He pressed the button.

"Wait!" Weaver's warning came too late.

The android jerked into motion, jackknifing upright at its waist, one arm snapping around to knock into Weaver's face. As his father tripped and fell backward with an inarticulate cry, the android leaped to the floor with uncanny grace, spinning around like a dancer, its blank face seeming to scan the room.

Neal lunged forward and grabbed the android's arm. "Whoa, whoa, whoa!"

The android grabbed back with both hands, yanking Neal off-balance and throwing him to the ground with superhuman strength. He landed badly, his left wrist taking all his weight and more.

"Fuck!" He bit back a scream of agony, rolling onto his side in a frantic effort to get away.

"Don't move!" Weaver called out hoarsely.

Neal froze, his breath shuddering through him as he tried to control the pain.

The android leaped again, in a motion faster than the eye could follow. Either that, or it teleported. Now the android stood fifteen feet away with its knees apart and slightly bent in a fighter's stance, hands raised in readiness to attack. Neal hadn't expected it to be so fast, so coordinated. Real robots were slow and clumsy, weren't they? Or fixed in place to perform repetitive tasks with inhuman speed and precision. This was neither...

His father shouted something alien-sounding. Neal's flesh crawled. Is that a spell?

The android stilled. Its head drooped forward and its arms hung limply at its sides. A soft beep sounded, and the recessed power button on the back of its neck blinked red three times, then went dark.

Neal let out his breath in a hiss. "Voice controls? Wish I'd known."

Weaver hurried over to his side, helping him sit up. "Are you all right?"

"Think I may have broken my wrist," Neal groaned, his eyes tearing from the acute pain.

Weaver examined him with a gentle touch, his eyes worried. "We'll go to the hospital. I can't use the wand. It's too unstable right now, the magic stored in it..."

"It's fine, Papa." Neal glanced at the now deactivated android and sighed. "You were right about it being dangerous. Hook couldn't have given you a cute robot dog instead?"

Weaver snorted. "Well, we can't leave it out here where anyone could stumble across it. I'll put it in my car for now."

Neal was in too much pain to argue. He simply nodded, wondering how much weirder their lives were going to get.


Author's note: It's a Raston warrior robot! (Though with modifications to suit my plot.) My little tribute to Terrance Dicks, who passed away earlier this year (2019).