This was only a temporary setback. If it wasn't true, then she would make it true. That determination gave Belfrey the strength to steel her mask against Ivy's gloating. She ignored the sneering remarks about her prison outfit. "What do you want, Ivy?"

"Well, all my life I wanted your approval." Ivy's lip trembled, her eyes glistening as if she was on the verge of tears. The gall of that girl to act as if she was the injured party here! "I did everything, tried everything. But I finally realized it was useless, because I would never be her."

"You certainly won't," snapped Belfrey. "Why are you here?"

"I wanted you to know that I have it all now." Recovering her composure, Ivy rested her interlaced hands primly on the table between them. "Control of Belfrey Industries. Control of all your assets. You have no money, no lawyer, no Chanel."

"And yet you're still pathetically hoping that you can somehow impress me?"

"I'm hoping that now that you have no distractions, you can think about what kind of person you've become. What kind of person you tried to make me. What kind of mother can you be to your precious Anastasia when you're like this?"

"At least I would have protected her from Gothel. Now you've set the witch free. I should have known you belonged to your mistress all along." Belfrey had given up long ago on gaining Ivy's love, and had no intention of sparing her own where it would be wasted, but she had thought Ivy would retain some sense of family loyalty. Apparently she had been wrong. "I only regret not cutting you off sooner."

"Because you wanted to use me, Mother!" Ivy stopped, taking a long breath before she continued in a lower voice, "But you don't need to worry about Gothel. I've taken care of her, just as I've taken care of you."

"We'll see about that."

"No. Oh no. You're not getting out. Not for a long time." Ivy pushed her chair back and stood up. "Good-bye, Mother."

Ivy had little to say to Weaver as she strode past him on her way out, but he saw the pained look she couldn't completely conceal, and felt for her. And for Victoria Belfrey. Another parent and child estranged in a world where that was all too commonplace. Weaver waited until Ivy had gone before returning to the room to collect Belfrey.

"Time to take you back." He dangled the handcuffs in mockery. "Not exactly Tiffany, but bracelets all the same."

Belfrey glared coldly at him. "I should have known you'd let me down. How much did Ivy offer you?"

"I assure you, I'm not so easily bought. If she suggested otherwise..." Weaver slid into the seat across from Belfrey. "She is mistaken."

"Oh, she made a mistake, all right," Belfrey sneered. "And you. You can't be happy that Gothel's free."

"What are you on about?"

"Oh, don't bother pretending. There's no one else here."

That was true enough, and the reason he stayed for this conversation. Weaver grunted noncommittally.

"We can make a deal," Belfrey offered. "I know you're fond of those."

"That would be an option — if you had anything I wanted."

"Come now. Our little arrangement benefited us both. And you need my help against Gothel."

"Your help? What is that worth? And what would you ask in return? Your freedom?" Weaver shook his head. "Not worth the price." He stood up and moved around the table, gesturing at Belfrey to get up.

She glared at him, but complied. As he snapped the cuffs around her wrists, she said desperately, "Wait!"

Weaver, about to herd her out the door, paused.

"You refuse to do anything for me, but what about my daughter? She needs your help."

Weaver raised his eyebrows. "She seemed perfectly fine from where I'm standing."

"Not Ivy; that traitorous brat hasn't been my daughter in years," Belfrey hissed. After a few angry breaths, she said in a calmer tone, "I mean Anastasia."

Weaver frowned. Ivy hadn't mentioned anything amiss with her sister. "What's wrong with Anastasia?"

"I attempted to restore her memories, only it didn't take. She remains 'Stacy'."

"Ah." Well, that was interesting, and information was always valuable to him. "Tell me how you tried to wake her. Don't leave anything out, or I can't answer for the consequences."

"I took an amulet from Gothel, the so-called 'Amulet of Rebirth'. Do you know it?"

Weaver searched through his memories, and those he had inherited from previous Dark Ones. "I've heard the name. Tell me about it." After she had come to the end of her explanation, Weaver nodded. "I'll see what I can do for her. No promises."

"Thank you." For once, Belfrey sounded sincere.

"So there is at least one daughter you still care about."

"I only have one daughter. Traitors have no family."

"And what about the one who died for you?"

"What?" Belfrey frowned, looking confused.

"Surely you haven't forgotten Ella — excuse me, Jacinda," Weaver prodded. Was Belfrey really so narrow-minded in her definition of family?

"She was Marcus's daughter, never mine." Apparently she was.

"And yet it was only through her sacrifice that you — that any of us — exist. You might spare a thought for her, too."

"What is your point?"

"Family is a precious thing. Don't be so quick to throw it away."

"I don't need lectures on parenting from the Dark One!"

Weaver sighed. "I let go of my son once, and he hated me for it. He thought as little of me as Ivy does of you, but I never gave up trying to make things right with him."

"Good for you." Belfrey looked distinctly unimpressed.

"I spent three centuries regretting my mistake."

"Then you're a fool."

"But reconciliation is possible. Maybe it's too late for Jacinda, but Ivy still lives. You're not the only parent whose child put them behind bars." He didn't know what she had heard of the Dark One's imprisonment, but that secret was no longer worth keeping. "Don't waste the chance in front of you." But it was useless.

Belfrey was in no mind to listen to the Dark One's advice. Ironic that it was only the people he tried to push down a path of darkness who were swayed by his words. And equally ironic that Regina, under the curse, had a happier family than Rapunzel, who was awake. The latter's attempt to assert control over the curse had only resulted in her own imprisonment.

Success in finally closing the Eloise Gardener case left behind a strange, hollow feeling in Rogers' soul. Sure, he had the satisfaction of saving someone from a terrible fate. And he had basked in the praise and admiration of the rest of the precinct; he was finally accepted as a real detective. (He tried not to think of Weaver's grudging congratulations, delivered with more resignation than anything else. Eloise was free again; that was the important thing.)

He finished his report for the case, then started on the backlog of paperwork that had accumulated while he had been chasing after Victoria Belfrey. Of course crime didn't end because he had found Eloise Gardener. There were still plenty of open cases, but somehow none of them loomed as heavily in his thoughts. He couldn't help feeling that nothing else he did would ever be as meaningful as saving Eloise. He would never matter to anyone so much again.

Rogers shook his head, knowing it was irrational. He had work to do.

"How's it feel to be a hero?" And here came one more person to hammer in the point.

"I was just doing my job," said Rogers. He reminded himself he wasn't in this line of work for his own ego, but to help people who needed help. It didn't matter how he felt. He didn't need an obsession to do his job.

"Well, tell that to her."

Her? Rogers followed the other cop's gaze and saw Eloise Gardener heading towards them. "Eloise? Is everything all right?"

Eloise set a box on his desk, smiling broadly. Rogers felt a prickle of unease at the smile, but brushed the feeling aside.

"This is for you."

Rogers tipped the lid of the box open. A cake? "Uh, thank you."

Eloise nodded. "I made it myself. It will fortify your roots."

"I see. How are you adjusting? Have you seen the therapist?"

That smile again. "All is well. The garden grows as nature intended. Isn't it wonderful?"

"I'm sure it is." Rogers slid his card towards her. "Here's my number. If you need anything, you can call me anytime."

Eloise plucked up the card, gazing at him coyly. "My white knight. Thank you."

"Mmm." Rogers watched as she left, his focus lingering on the door as it swung shut behind her. Well, after everything she had been through, she was bound to seem a bit strange, wasn't she? And the therapist was more qualified to deal with any issues she might have. He dropped his gaze to the cake. It looked normal enough, the white frosting tempting him to dip in a finger for a taste.

"Hey, Detective Rogers!" A female voice interrupted him, and he looked up to see Tilly bounding across the room towards him.

He withdrew his hand from the box in favor of waving at her. "Hi, Tilly."

Tilly reached his desk. Her eyes narrowed at the cake box. "What's this?"

"It's a thank you from Eloise."

"Hmm." Tilly swept the box, cake and all, straight into the trash can next to his desk. Rogers was too astonished to speak. Tilly met his eyes. "You don't want that cake. You don't know what's in it."

"Uh. Flour, sugar, eggs...?" Rogers ventured. Then he shook his head. "What the hell, Tilly?"

"Oh." Tilly suddenly dropped her eyes, abashed. "I, uh, I came here to apologize. For running away last time. And for tricking you. I'm sorry."

"It's all right, I forgive you. Weaver put you up to it." Rogers knew how persuasive Weaver could be, and the poor girl didn't have many people in her life. "I was just a stranger to you, so of course you trusted him over me."

"He's a good man. I still believe that," Tilly said obstinately. "He has his reasons."

"Which he refuses to explain to anyone." Rogers was still haunted by the painful memory of the last time he had pressed his partner for answers. If he really cared, he'd tell me the truth.

"Because sometimes reasons are like upside down buckets." Tilly picked up the empty coffee mug from his desk and held it upside down.

"Because they don't hold water?"

"They don't hold water until you realize it's not the bucket that's upside down, it's you." Tilly set the mug back down. "And that's why I trust Weaver."

Rogers sighed. "I don't want to argue about Weaver. I just wish you'd trust me, too."

"I..." Tilly looked at him, as if not quite daring to hope.

"We just need to get to know each other better." Rogers thought for a moment, then smiled as he remembered their first meeting. "Look, you like chess, right? What do you say to a weekly game? We can meet at your favorite bench by the park."

"Yeah?" Tilly's face lit up. "You mean that?"

Rogers nodded.

"Then yeah, I'd like that."

At her agreement, a little of the hollow feeling eased from Rogers' chest. Maybe he could still matter to someone.

"Hey, Roni." Neal had tried to persuade his father to join him for a drink at Roni's bar, but Weaver had made a face, muttering that he was sick of lying to people. Well, that was a new one, but Neal had taken him at his word and gone on alone.

"Hey, Neal." Roni served him his usual, a craft beer that was almost as good as the brew the Frontlands was famous for in the other realm. "So, how's work as a consulting detective?"

Neal scoffed. He was hardly Sherlock Holmes, and as for imagining his father as Inspector Lestrade... no, just no.

"Come on, you can tell me. Bartender-customer privilege."

"Well, they did just close a case. Victoria Belfrey, of Belfrey Industries, was arresting for kidnapping some poor woman." What Belfrey had against Neal himself, he had never found out. Odds favored it being some intrigue having to do with his father, so probably it wasn't anything he wanted to know.

"That bitch had it coming." Roni scowled. "She's been trying to push me out of Hyperion Heights for years."

More fake memories. Neal shook his head in commiseration. The curse couldn't break soon enough. Things were complicated enough without imaginary feuds stirring them up. "Hopefully whoever takes over won't give you such a hard time."

"And hopefully Weaver won't get you into any more trouble." Roni nodded at the cast immobilizing Neal's left wrist.

Neal snorted. "I wouldn't count on that."

"Well, just don't drag Henry into it," Roni warned him.

"Oh, believe me, that's the last thing I want."

Gothel smiles. The world is her garden. The Great Tree has been restored, its shade falling over the myriad creatures that once broke the harmony. Now that their hearts are safely bound to the green, peace reigns again.

Gothel has taken up her inheritance as Mother Nature. Everywhere she looks, blood and violence are no more. Even hard-hearted humanity has softened under her touch. Axe and sword are obsolete. The only fire that rages is the cleansing strike of heaven.

This is eternity.

Until the impossible happens: only a tiny thing, at first. Gothel's foot catches, and at first she thinks it a dry branch — broken and stripped to bare white. She bends to pick it up, but it is no branch.

A bone. Death has crept into paradise. No. No and no and no. She kicks the intrusion in denial. Bones clatter. Assemble themselves. Color fades in, blood and muscle and skin forming over the bones. Clothing.

"Mother Gothel." The voice belongs to her crow. He has another name in another world, but to her he is her Rainbow Crow, raised from ashes in her service. "None of this is real."

No. He must be lying — yet lies are impossible in this garden of innocence. Gothel banishes the paradox, and the crow fades again into nothingness.

"I'm Detective Weaver, from the Seattle Police Department," Weaver said to the girl he found at Belfrey's house. She was alone, with no one to tell her not to talk to him. "Are you Anastasia Belfrey?"

The girl nodded. "But everyone calls me Stacy."

"You've heard what happened with your mother?"

Stacy nodded again. "I can't believe she would do something like that!"

"Everyone makes mistakes," Weaver said quietly. "But in the end, I think she wanted to protect you."

"Do you know when she's coming home?"

Weaver shook his head. "That's up to the judge. And her own behavior. It could be many years. But if you want to see her, your sister can arrange for you to visit."

"I'll ask her later." Stacy sighed. "So what are you doing here?"

"Collecting evidence."

"What kind of evidence?"

"There's a necklace, a pendant. Your mother told me she gave it to you. I need to check it for something." It didn't take much to persuade the girl to hand it over. He did wear a badge, after all. The amulet seethed with magic. It was neither light magic nor dark magic, but a green power filtered through living things. He could still detect the human imprint left on the central stone — blood magic. It should have worked to pierce the fog of the curse and awaken Anastasia. Why hadn't it? He moved through the house restlessly, pretending to search for evidence.

"They already looked in here," Stacy protested.

"But I haven't," Weaver said absently, most of his thoughts occupied with the spell on the amulet. He moved to the next room, only to find the girl trying to block him out.

"Hey, that's my room! My mother never goes in there."

Weaver stared blankly at her. He wondered suddenly who she had been in the other realm. He had spun every soul through his fingers. He just needed to remember...

Oh. The flaw was not in the amulet. The flaw was in the girl. He remembered a weak, washed out thread that was icy to the touch.

The drowned girl.

Anastasia had been under the ice too long. Her mind was gone, gone before ever the wish was made that created their world. By the time Rumplestiltskin had begun work on his Dark Curse, there was nothing there to preserve. Whoever she was under the curse was all that she was. Weaver stepped back. "You're right. I don't need to search there."

"What about the necklace?"

"Material evidence," Weaver claimed. But he could truthfully say, "Your mother took it from someone else. It wasn't hers to give."

Besides which, it was too dangerous to leave with her. It would make her a target if Gothel ever broke free of Drizella's trap. Stacy was only fourteen years old, the same age Bae would have been sent to fight the ogres if Rumplestiltskin hadn't ended it. She didn't deserve to be caught up in a magical war. He sensed latent magic in the girl, but he didn't want to meddle with it in one so young. Look at how Zelena had turned out; Regina had been by far the more stable sister.

"Thank you for your cooperation." Weaver took his leave and headed out. Curse or no curse, he had plenty of other cases on his plate that he need to investigate.

With Victoria Belfrey safely out of the way, Rogers hoped Weaver would return to the straight and narrow. Well, perhaps not so much of the "straight." He remembered Tilly and her upside down reasons. If Weaver was as mad as she was, was that why they got on as well as they did? He wondered if Weaver actually did have any feelings for him (even if he was a shady bastard). God knew, Rogers had enjoyed having Weaver under his hands (however briefly) far too much for his own comfort. Not to mention what had followed.

Weaver didn't mention the out-of-the-blue kiss (or not so out of the blue, Rogers thought furtively), so neither did he. Was it simply that Weaver didn't want Rogers complaining to HR? If he didn't say anything, it never happened? They were still partners. Neither had asked to be transferred.

"Come along, Detective Rogers," Weaver said, and Rogers wasn't sure how to read the slight sarcastic inflection he put on "detective". "Tick tock. No time to dawdle."

"Where are we going?"

"Hospital." Weaver explained that the homeless woman who had been knifed in an alleyway had regained consciousness, and he needed to take a statement from her.

Her name was Mel Esposito. While Weaver drove, Rogers looked up the case on his phone, refreshing his memory on the known facts. No witnesses. She had been attacked by someone taller and stronger. There had been a struggle, but no defensive wounds on her arms, no blood on the scene except her own, so likely she had been overwhelmed before being stabbed and brutally cut open. No one had heard anything. She had been found an estimated half an hour to an hour after the attack at a quarter after four by an early deliveryman. And that was it. It was a miracle she was alive after her injuries.

Rogers glanced sidelong at Weaver. Speaking of miraculously surviving deadly wounds, he at least seemed to be recovering nicely. Rogers flashed back guiltily to their confrontation in the evidence locker. "Weaver. Ah... I'm sorry. For before. I shouldn't have shoved you into the wall like that."

"Mmm. I suppose you had provocation."

Was that all he was going to say about it? Rogers reached out instinctively, then drew his hand back at the last moment. "Are you all right? Your injury?"

Weaver shot him a look. "Why, do you want to kiss it all better, Rogers?"

Rogers flushed. He opened his mouth to retort, You started it! then closed his mouth again, realizing how childish it would sound. "I'm serious."

"Well. I've suffered worse. No need to fret, detective."

Rogers was thankful that their arrival at the hospital cut the awkward conversation short. Weaver parked his car in the underground parking garage and they navigated through the labyrinthine arrangement of elevators and corridors to find Mel Esposito. Disappointingly, the victim didn't remember anything about the attack. Weaver looked as inscrutable as ever, but Rogers got the impression he wasn't surprised.

"Now what?" he asked Weaver. "The lab didn't find anything." And with the victim a homeless woman that no one cared about, the case would soon get buried and forgotten. "Sometimes I hate this city. We'll never catch the monster who did this, will we?"

"Despair not. You found Eloise Gardener, after all." Weaver gave him a twisted smile. "You never know when a lead may turn up."

Rogers scowled. He still didn't know why Weaver had tried so hard to divert him from finding Eloise. "She's free. I count that as a good thing, you cold bastard."

"That's because you don't know who she really is."

"Cryptic as ever, Weaver. Why don't you enlighten me?"

"You wouldn't believe me."

And how many times had he heard that lately? Rogers shook his head. "Everyone keeps saying that. What's the big secret you think I won't believe? Santa Claus is real?"

"He is," said Weaver, straight-faced. "I've met him, or rather, Kris Kringle, as his friends call him."

"Unless Eloise is Mrs. Claus, that's hardly relevant. What are you really hiding?"

"Magic." Weaver waved his hands in a stage magician's flourish, then sighed when Rogers glared at him. "What did I say? You don't believe me."

"I didn't take you for the superstitious sort," Rogers said honestly. He knew plenty of cops who had good luck charms and little rituals they kept, but that was the nature of the job. It was a way to assert control over a world that was full of dangers beyond anyone's control. "But even so, aren't you taking it a bit far? What does this have to do with—"

"Everything," Weaver said. They had reached the lobby, and as they waited for a lift to arrive, he continued, "I would demonstrate if I could. A few parlor tricks might open your eyes, but these days my possibilities are more limited."

Rogers couldn't tell if the man had gone insane, or if he was trying to pull an elaborate con on his partner. If it was the former, best to humor him and gently try to pull him out of his delusions. If it was the latter... Rogers hardened his heart, resolving not to let his feelings blind him to the truth.

"Now you think I'm crazy, or worse." Weaver sounded amused, but his expression was resigned, as if he was the one patiently humoring a madman. He waited for Rogers to join him in the lift. "As I recall, I parked on P-3."

"The orange level, aye." Rogers let the subject of Eloise and Weaver's secrets drop. He needed time to think it through.

All thoughts of magic were driven out of his mind when they turned a corner and saw the body on the ground, half-hidden behind a pillar in the gap between the spaces and the walls.

"Bloody hell!" Rogers broke into a run towards the body. As more of it came into view, he saw someone crouched next to it. Then she lifted her head and he knew her. "Tilly!"

She leaped to her feet with a gasp, a wild, frightened expression on her face. She held a blood-smeared scalpel in her right hand. Then she bolted, ditching the scalpel and jumping over a parked car with the agility of a parkour enthusiast.

"Tilly, wait!" Weaver called out from somewhere behind Rogers. "Rogers, go." Then Weaver had closed the distance and dropped down to examine the victim.

Rogers nodded, taking off after Tilly. "Tilly, stop!"

But she was gone.