The Page of Wands tarot card depicts a youth in a jaunty cap, both hands clasped around a long staff planted firmly in the earth. He looks up at the top of the Wand where leaves sprout in contrast to the barren background. Hearts kindled by fresh inspiration or news, we set forth boldly to advance our mission (or to set the world on fire)!

The woman was dead. They had identified her as Andrea Sage, a doctor at the Hyperion Heights Hospital. There were no fingerprints besides Tilly's on the scalpel she had dropped before she fled. Weaver pointed out a tattoo on the doctor's forearm. It was the same eight-spoked design that had been drawn in Eloise Gardener's journal. But there was too much work to be done at the scene and too many other people around for Rogers to try to pry explanations from Weaver.

It was only the next day, back in the relative privacy of Weaver's corner of the police station, that he had a chance to ask the questions he had been saving.

"What's the connection with that wheel tattoo?" Rogers wondered, more to himself than in expectation of a reply from Weaver.

"It's a representation of the wheel of fate," said Weaver, confounding expectation.

"Wheel of fate? What does that mean?" Hell, was this another of Weaver's delusions? But the symbol was there. The team had taken pictures, hi-def images that Weaver now had displayed on his laptop for examination. Rogers remembered that Tilly had recognized the symbol, but she hadn't explained its significance. He still thought it likelier to be a gang sign than whatever mystical mumbo-jumbo Weaver was spouting.

"It's very old."

Not trusting Weaver, Rogers searched for the term on his phone, but had no more luck finding an image of the symbol than he had in the past. "You sure you don't mean the 'Wheel of Fortune'? Maybe they're fans of the game show."

"Google doesn't know everything."

"Oh, and you do?"

"I didn't say that." Weaver closed the images and called up the security footage from the hospital instead. "Forget the wheel. I could use another pair of eyes to go over this." For the next few hours, that was what they did.

"Tilly didn't do it," Rogers concluded with relief. Not that he had ever really believed she had. The murder had taken place in a blind spot, but the cameras had captured a man in a hood, head lowered and face hidden, who had been lurking in the garage when Doctor Sage had stepped out of the elevator and headed (presumably) for her car. The unknown assailant had left the scene before Tilly even arrived.

"No," Weaver agreed. "We need to find her. She may have seen something."

"And she's probably scared out of her wits." Rogers looked at Weaver, and saw by the look on his face that he had probably thought of that, too. It just didn't fit his image to mention it.

"Come on." Weaver shut his laptop and got up. "No time like the present."

They tried Tilly's shipping container home, but she wasn't there.

"She'll be at the troll," said Weaver. "Try not to scare her off this time."

Rogers rolled his eyes. "You told me to go after her."

"I didn't say to charge at her like a pouncing tiger!" Then Weaver sighed. "Sorry. You're not the only one who's worried about her."

Rogers nodded tightly. "Let's go."

Tilly had her back to the street when they pulled up near the bridge. She seemed to be talking to the stone troll. Rogers eased out of the car and approached her slowly. "Tilly."

She whirled, eyes wide. "I didn't do it! I didn't kill anyone!"

Rogers stopped, hands spread out in a gesture of peace. "No, no, we know you didn't. We're here to help you."

"It's too late. I knew, I knew it was a bad day. And then it was." Tilly began backing away. "Bad things happening..."

"You're right. It was bad. Someone is dead. Did you see who killed her?"

"I couldn't see. Ugh!" Tilly batted at her own head with a fist. "Too much fog. He hates them. He hates them all."

"Who? Who are you talking about?"

Tilly shook her head violently. "Burning, burning, blood and fire. I smell smoke."

"There's no smoke here." Weaver had come up beside Rogers. "And the killer is still out there. It's not safe for you right now. Maybe..." He glanced at Rogers.

Rogers nodded. "You can stay with me until we catch him. I have an extra room." He forced a smile. "And plenty of bread and marmalade."

"There you go. Tilly, you can trust him to protect you." Weaver gave Rogers an unreadable look. "There are some things I need to check first, then I'll come visit you two, all right?"

Things? Rogers wondered what Weaver was up to now, but knew it was pointless to ask. Meanwhile, Tilly needed him. That was clear enough, from the way her frightened expression eased on hearing his offer. "All right."

Another witch dead. Hansel counted it a victory, but it was a lonely triumph when he couldn't even share it with his best friend.

Afterwards, restless, he went to Henry's place to hang out and play video games, hoping to distract himself from the jittery feeling he had after a kill. Even though Roni's apartment wasn't as spacious as Facilier's house, the atmosphere was less oppressive for Hansel, who became more paranoid every minute he spent under Facilier's unnerving gaze.

"Hey, what's this?" He found an unfamiliar book half-buried under a pile of junk mail. At first he thought it was a textbook, but upon extracting it from the pile, he saw the title: Once Upon a Time.

"Oh, that. Yeah, my dad gave it to me. I think it's one of those personalized storybooks. You know, where they fill it in with your name and picture and print a custom copy just for you. Kinda cheesy, but I guess he meant well."

"Huh." At first Nick took it for an ordinary collection of fairy tales — a bit old-fashioned, the artwork beautiful but not really to his taste — until he came to the illustration of Snow White's first meeting with Prince Charming. He froze in shock. Hansel knew the story from countless re-tellings by Henry's family, and it was not the one told here in the Land Without Magic. How...?

He glanced up at Henry, but his friend was still lost in the video game. Nick quietly paged through the book, much more carefully this time, matching what he read to what he knew of the history of the Enchanted Forest. The older tales, the ones that supposedly took place long before he had arrived there from Oz, were consistent with what he had learned of the royal family, including things once held secret, such as the true identity of their Prince Charming and his twin brother. Whoever had written the book displayed an uncanny knowledge of the land of fairy tales.

Then it diverged into a different history, one where the Evil Queen defied her exile to cast the Dark Curse — not to save the realm, but to exact vengeance on Snow White. This was a history of the other realm, Hansel realized, the one the Dark One had mentioned, that Captain Manzana had confirmed. The realm of the same Evil Queen who had murdered Henry's grandparents, the same realm that had stolen Henry's mother.

Hansel's heart pounded in shock. This was it. This was what he needed. "I can find her!"

"What? Find who?" Henry paused his game to stare at Nick in bemusement. "I thought you weren't even into girls."

Hansel, embarrassed to have spoken out loud, shook his head. "Nothing. Just something I read in your book."

"Huh. I didn't know you liked that kind of thing. You can borrow it if you want. I already finished it, anyway."

"Really? Cool, thanks. I... yeah." Hansel smiled gratefully at Henry. "Maybe I will."

"No problem. It's weirdly violent. People ripping hearts out and crushing them." Henry wrenched out an imaginary heart and clenched his fist, matching the action with guttural sound effects, then laughed and unpaused his game.

"Yeah?" Hansel chuckled along, pretending to be surprised.

Then came another shock. Sir Baelfire was in the book, only he wasn't a knight in this version. He was the son of a crippled spinner. A spinner who had become... the Dark One! Hansel sucked in his breath. Could it be true? His thoughts spun as he reevaluated everything he knew in a new light. His mouth opened, about to blurt out to Henry, Hey, did you know you're the grandson of the Dark One? but sanity prevailed. Even if Henry did have his true memories, Hansel wasn't sure Henry would believe him.

Hansel wasn't even sure if he believed it himself. He needed to study the book more closely. Was it magical? Why had Baelfire given it to his son?

The third shock came when he found Henry's mother in the book. Hansel clapped it shut, hands trembling. He waited until his heart rate returned to normal before carefully standing up, book tucked under his arm. "It's, um, it's getting late. I'm supposed to get home before dinnertime."

Henry glanced at the clock. "Oh, yeah. Ok, see you later."

Hansel let himself out of the apartment and walked slowly home. Dinner was out of the question. His stomach twisted at the thought of food, his agitation taking physical form as his body prepared for battle, though his rational mind knew better. He had to find the battlefield first.

He locked himself into his room and read Henry's book from cover to cover. Twice. By then, it was long past his bedtime, but he knew. He had found them. He had read about the little town in Maine created by the Dark Curse.

Storybrooke. He fell asleep with the name still resonating through his thoughts. Storybrooke, Maine.

Early the next morning, Nick tried to look it up on the map. It wasn't there. He couldn't find any mention of the town at all, as if it didn't even exist.

Damned magic! Hansel guessed it to be some kind of concealment spell. He refused to let it stop him. He pored over the pages again, making note of every clue. It was on the coast. A major highway ran through it. An old diner not far from Storybrooke might still be there. A newspaper article from 1983 about an infant found by a roadside named both diner and road. That was enough for Nick to figure out where the town was hidden. Once he got close enough, he would comb the highway inch by inch until he found Storybrooke.

Now it was simply a matter of getting there, all the way across the country. Nick had theoretically earned his driver's license last year. Even though all his memories of driving were fake, Hansel thought he could manage a car — if he had one. A car would be easier to wrangle than a plane ticket, as well as giving him more freedom of movement and a cheap place to sleep. At least it was still summer, so he wouldn't be risking hypothermia. He just needed cash.

Well. The curse had given his supposed father plenty of that. Hansel just needed to claim his share. Facilier had barely spoken to Hansel since he had woken from the curse, so Hansel would have to take the initiative. He prepared everything he could ahead of time, packing the carry-on-sized suitcase from his closet (Nick had memories of traveling with his father, and sometimes with Henry and Roni) and his backpack, making sure to remember Henry's book. He printed out a list of individuals advertising cheap used cars for sale.

Finally he went to confront Facilier. "You know, all of this" — he gestured, encompassing the entire house and its luxury — "was created by the curse."

Facilier, for once sitting at his desk doing something with his computer rather than anything magical, looked over at Hansel. "Indeed. You have a point?"

"So it doesn't belong to you, not really, and I have as much right to it as anyone."

"Ah!" Facilier smiled. "You're asking me for money." For a moment he was Nick's father again.

"Yes."

"How much?"

"Two thousand in my bank account." One thousand was the maximum amount Nick could withdraw in a day from an ATM. He didn't plan on using his card again once he had left Seattle, but asked for double, just in case. "And as much cash as you can give me right now."

Facilier thought about it for a few moments, then nodded, still with a faint air of amusement. He began typing again. "As you wish."

"You're not asking what I want it for?"

"As I've told you before, you are a free agent. What you do is none of my business. I don't know and I don't want to know."

"I—" began Nick, wanting to say something to the man he knew as his father, someone he had always trusted, even if the memory was an illusion. But Hansel saw the glint in Facilier's eye and quickly shut his mouth. "Thank you."

Facilier nodded. He finished his transfer, which Nick confirmed on his phone, then opened a drawer and took out an envelope of cash, sliding it across his desk to Nick. "Enjoy."

Added to his own stash, plus the thousand he would get from the ATM, it would be enough for gas and food, if he got a car with decent fuel efficiency. It took him the rest of the day to acquire a beaten up rust-bucket (that still ran once he put in a new battery) from a seller just outside of Hyperion Heights who was willing to fudge the paperwork. And then he was on his way. It didn't feel real.

Well, he would find this Storybrooke and show them just how real he was. They would learn how wrong they had been to dismiss the wish-made realm as nothing more than a bad dream.

The boy is a random factor, but the magician doesn't need the cards to read his intentions. Hansel has always been obvious in his hatreds. Others, however, are more elusive. The cards turn, and turn again, until what he needs falls within his grasp.

Time to complete his preparations.