Magic was actually very boring, Rogers decided, but there was something hypnotic about watching Weaver patiently picking at the boundary between matter and void. He had a kitchen chair pushed up with its back to one of the downstairs walls, and sat back to front in the chair, scraping away at what looked like pure nothing with a paring knife.

Weaver and Rogers had managed to push up one of the windows to reveal a rectangle of "nothing" on the other side. Weaver claimed that if he could get enough of a grip on this "nothing", he could somehow turn it into usable magic. "A trick I learned from Tilly, in another life."

"And you can use that to break us out?" Rogers would have preferred something more tangible, but none of his efforts at physically dismantling their prison had yielded anything useful.

"I'm afraid not. There's no way to open the door from the inside," said Weaver without turning his head. "We need help from outside, or at least establish a link."

"And what are our chances of getting help like that?"

"Oh, not as bad as you might think." This time Weaver sent Rogers a fleeting smile. "Samdi didn't kill us, which means he needs us for something. Or even if he just wants to gloat, he'll have to make an appearance... but this time I'll be better prepared." He tapped the tip of his knife against the void.

"Ah. Well, good luck with that, then." And he meant it, only Rogers hadn't realized at first just how tedious a process it would be. Weaver had been at it for hours with barely a break, and looked ready to continue for hours more. "Were you like this in the other world?"

"Like what?" Weaver continued scraping the knife against the nothingness.

"I mean, were you ever in a dungeon? Were there dungeons? I'm seeing you as the kind of man who would dig a mile-long escape tunnel with a rusty spoon."

Weaver laughed. "Oh, you have no idea. We're lucky this is a crude, makeshift prison."

"Seems effective enough at keeping us in," noted Rogers. Weaver hadn't made any progress as far as he could see.

"Nothing like as effective as a cell custom-built by the fairies to keep me trapped."

Rogers boggled. He was serious? Hell. Rogers could only hope Weaver was right about their chances of escape.

Henry ran away.

The text from Roni was the beginning of another nightmare for Neal. He in turn texted Ivy, but she didn't answer, so Neal drove over to meet Roni.

"He snuck out last night," Roni told him. "He wanted to go look for Nick, but I told him 'no'."

Neal nodded. "How would he find him, anyway?"

Roni made a face. "Henry saw something about the case on some police Twitter, a manhunt in Olympic National Park."

"Oh. Yeah, actually that fits with what Weaver said."

"But then he said it must be a trick," said Roni. "He didn't think Nick would be there at all."

"Why not?"

"He wouldn't tell me. Said he needed to go check something first."

"Did you report him missing to the police?" asked Neal. He wasn't sure how effective they would be under the curse, but the rest of Seattle wasn't cursed, and if Weaver was looking for Nick outside Hyperion Heights, how did that even work...? Neal didn't know, and he couldn't talk about it to Roni without sounding insane.

Roni shrugged. "I did, for all the good that will do."

"Ok, that's good, but we should look for him ourselves." Neal tried to think where Henry would go to "check something." Check what? "Maybe he went to Nick's house?"

Roni shook her head. "I already asked Nick's father. He hasn't seen Henry."

Neal sighed. "Make a list of every place you think he might have gone. I'll do the same."

Roni nodded. "Right. We can split up to cover more ground."

Neal had hoped to hear back from Ivy, but she still hadn't replied by the time Roni and Neal set out to search. He started with the libraries on his list, in case "check something" meant "look something up at the library". Hours later, he was sure he was on a fool's errand, but he had to try. Then he received another text from Roni.

It's all right! Found him, followed by a line of happy emojis.

Huh. Where was he?

Ended up going to Nicks house after all. Samdi called me.

Ok! Neal sent, along with three thumbs-up emojis. Which was more optimism than he really felt, because after all, there was still a killer out there, and the killer could still be Henry's best friend. Neal hadn't been able to apply any of Ivy's charmed items to Henry. He hoped Roni (and the baseball bat she kept handy behind the bar) would be enough protection for Henry.

Gothel initially planned to waylay 'Roni' at her bar, but the magician-crow had flung his cards at her.

"That won't be necessary." His voice was cold, but Gothel sensed the fear and simmering rage behind the coldness. "She will come to us."

Gothel chuckled. "You still think to play games with me?"

"Would I dare?"

"Very well. Play your games." If it made him more cooperative to think he had some control over events, so much the better. "It makes little difference in the end."

As it turned out, it wasn't Roni who came to Samdi's door, but her adopted son, Henry.

The boy had a hole in his heart. Gothel saw it easily. The curse clouded his vision, and his eyes turned by inclination to the dark places of the inside. But that didn't matter. He was part of the old, corrupt order that would soon be swept away. Gothel only needed him as leverage to secure the cooperation of the eighth witch, and the boy had delivered himself to the house of the magician-crow. Gothel was delighted at this sign of fate's favor. It was only the work of a moment to plant the seed in his flesh, binding him inside a tangle of vines.

"Now that we have him, we will soon have our witch." Gothel ran a hand over the vines, admiring her own handiwork.

"She isn't really his mother," the magician-crow pointed out. "Once she remembers, do you think she'll care what happens to him?"

There was a strangled cry from the boy, but a wave of Gothel's hand shut him up.

"You will secure her surrender before restoring her memories. Once she is mine, it won't matter what she remembers or who she loves. Do you understand?"

"Yes." The magician-crow's eyes glittered with anger, but he couldn't disobey. He took the phone out of the boy's back pocket, then held the boy's finger to the screen. Then he stepped away, typing a new message. "She will be here soon."

And so it was.

"Henry!"

The outcome was inevitable. As Roni, she faced the threat of magic with disbelief, but the danger to Henry was obvious and real. She would do anything to save her son, even surrender her soul. Even if she didn't know yet what it meant.

The magician-crow knew all too well. His face was lined with sorrow as he prepared his spell.

"What the hell? Is that some kind of voodoo doll?" Roni asked incredulously.

"I am sorry," the magician-crow said, his words meaningless now. "If I could spare you, I would..." He called upon his magic, forcing the power through the doll, then touched his lips to the doll, whispering, "Now wake."

Roni gasped. Gothel didn't wait for her to recover her equilibrium. She stepped forward to claim her eighth witch. In her last moment of free will, in the confusion between one life and another, Roni cried out, "Wait! What about Henry? You said you'd let him go..."

"I said I would let him live," Gothel corrected. "And he shall, but in a more harmonious form."

"No..."

"Hush." Gothel completed her spell, and Roni — Regina — was bound to the coven as the eighth witch.

The magician-crow stood watching, his hands tightened into fists, trembling with the need to interfere. But he couldn't.

Gothel smiled at his fruitless struggle. She could be magnanimous in her victory. "Take a moment to grieve, if you wish. But when the time comes, you will stand where you are needed and fulfill your duty." She swept her magic around her new prize and transported herself and Regina to where the rest of the coven was waiting.

Another earthquake shook the house.

"He's opening the door!" Weaver stumbled away from the wall. He was doing something with his hands, twisting nothing around nothing and winding it around the paring knife.

Rogers grabbed the chef's knife he had picked out for the occasion. Sure, the last time Samdi had only appeared as a hologram, but if he came in for real, Rogers felt better with some kind of weapon in his hand.

Light blazed through the house, a flash bright enough to leave Rogers blind in the aftermath.

"Bloody hell!" Rogers dropped into a defensive crouch, holding the knife out against anyone physically assaulting him.

Weaver yelled something in a foreign language Rogers couldn't identify. He sounded like he was above Rogers. Had he run up to the second floor? Then there was a heavy thud that Rogers could feel through the floorboards.

Followed by Samdi's voice, saying conversationally, "An admirable effort, but futile."

And a second thud.

"I apologize for the cramped quarters, but you'll have to make room for another guest," Samdi said. The black receded at last and Rogers blinked to see Weaver curled in on himself on the floor. A few feet away, Samdi stood next to what looked like a small tree, or maybe a largish bush.

"Henry," groaned Weaver. He scrabbled weakly at the floor, struggling to sit up.

Rogers hastened to his side, helping him up and checking for injuries. To his relief, there were no broken bones or open wounds. "What about Henry?"

Samdi grinned at them. He gestured at the tree. Rogers noticed distantly that his fingers passed through a branch. The knife would be useless, then.

"He turned Henry into a tree," said Weaver.

"Not my work," Samdi corrected him. "Gothel's. And the transformation is not yet complete..."

"Who the hell is Gothel?" Rogers remembered Weaver mentioning the name, but hoped she wasn't really the villain from the Disney movie. He didn't want to believe that it was true, but he couldn't help seeing Henry's face behind the branches and snaking vines.

"You knew her as Eloise Gardener," said Weaver, but his focus remained on Samdi. "Not complete? That means you can reverse it."

"Perhaps."

"Of course you can, or you wouldn't be here. You want something from us."

Samdi smiled. "Let's make a deal."

All gardens were reflections of the garden. The great tree of the world was the tree of all worlds. The well was the well at the bottom of all wells. But the garden was trampled, the tree only a stump old enough to have become stone, and the well had run dry eons ago, its wisdom gone unheeded.

Using the power of the Dark Curse, Gothel had brought garden, tree, and well within her reach in the under-city buried beneath Hyperion Heights. She gathered the Coven of Eight to encircle the axis of the world with the wheel of fate. Each witch anchored one spoke of the wheel, each witch enslaved to Gothel's will. When the ritual was complete, the roots would bear new life, and the great ash tree would rise again.

The tree created the world anew. The Guardian would stand at the gates of the garden, and the Savior would pour the wisdom of a myriad souls into the well — all under the guidance of Mother Gothel. This time there would be no Fall. No more one-sided giving to feed the insatiable. No more darkness to taint her perfect vision. Only Light eternal.

Once the ritual was complete.

"Will he be all right?" Rogers helped Weaver carry the unconscious Henry upstairs to the bed. Thankfully the crawl of bark had receded from his exposed skin, and the vines had shrunk back and dissipated into wood dust and dirt.

Weaver sat on the edge of the bed and reached out to check the boy's pulse. "Steady heartbeat. He's only drained from the magic. He should wake soon."

Well, at least Samdi had known what he was about, dispelling the parasitic growth with a single touch. But it hadn't come free. "You promised Samdi a favor."

"Yes," said Weaver. He didn't look at Rogers. "I had no choice. Unless you think we should have sacrificed Henry?"

"Of course not!" Rogers touched Weaver's shoulder in reassurance. "I'm not blaming you."

Weaver scoffed. "Why not? I was too weak, too slow with my counterspell to force Samdi to free Henry."

"It's not your fault. And you're not that weak, if Samdi thinks your favor is worth bargaining for. It's just..." Rogers swallowed, not wanting to worry Weaver when the man was already oozing with barely-suppressed guilt and nerves.

"What? Spit it out, Rogers." The edge of bad temper in Weaver's voice didn't completely disguise his fear.

"What favor would he want from you?"

"Oh, I could make a guess or two," Weaver said, but didn't elaborate.

Rogers sat down next to Weaver, giving him a sidelong glance. "Should I be worried?"

"Considering that Gothel seems to be loose, my debt to Samdi barely makes the top ten list of things to worry about," said Weaver.

Rogers frowned. "You said Gothel did that to Henry. And that Gothel is..."

"Eloise Gardener, yes. If I told you that she is a witch and that she had you bespelled, would you believe me now?"

Rogers thought about how obsessed he had been with the Eloise Gardener case. He remembered how it had seemed to give meaning to his life. Weaver had discouraged him from the beginning, never giving the true reason, and Rogers had only resented his interference. Magic, though. "I don't know..."

Weaver turned abruptly, his right hand rising to brush lightly across Rogers' cheek. Weaver's fingers were like ice, cold enough to leave a shiver of frost. The ice melted and sank into his memories, washing them of an influence that Rogers had not been able to notice until now. Then Weaver drew back, murmuring, "A little bit of her magic that I picked up from the residue on Henry. Enough to clarify things for you, I suspect."

"Bloody hell. She was manipulating my mind?" Rogers rubbed at his face, haunted by the ghost of Weaver's touch. His memories felt strange, as if something that had been a part of him had suddenly morphed into a foreign intrusion. His obsession hadn't arisen from his own guilt, as he had believed, but rather from an outside influence.

"She needed someone to free her from Victoria Belfrey," said Weaver. "You wondered why I seemed to work for Belfrey. It's simply that she was the lesser of two evils."

"And now she's out of the picture." Rogers stood up, swaying slightly. He paced back and forth a few times as he tried to sort out his thoughts. The movement helped clear his mind. "What about Ivy Belfrey? She was helping me find Eloise."

"Just like her mother, Ivy remembers the world we came from."

"And she's not the only one," Rogers said slowly. He stopped and looked at the boy in the bed. "So if Neal Cassidy is Henry's father, and Cassidy is your son, then... you're Henry's grandfather?"

"That's generally how it works, yes." Weaver didn't seem to be lying, but he also didn't seem old enough to be the grandfather of a high school senior. If fairy tales were real, then maybe Weaver wasn't even human.

Rogers suppressed a shudder, not wanting to think about that. Weaver was human enough in the ways that mattered. Maybe he had used the magical equivalent of a face lift. "You said he would wake up soon. What are we going to tell him?"

A guilty look flashed across Weaver's face at the question. "I, ah, I decided to postpone that conversation. At least until we can escape from here. It's safer for him this way."

"What the hell did you do to him?"

"Nothing. A trick of time." Weaver gestured vaguely. "I said he'd wake soon. However, 'soon' is sooner for him than it is for us."

Rogers stared at him. "You can do that?"

"More residual magic." Weaver shrugged. "We're still under the curse, and the curse stops time."

"It does what?" That couldn't be true, could it? Rogers remembered time passing, events happening.

"Not completely. But more than you realize." Weaver gestured at his face. "How long has it been since we shaved? Wouldn't you expect more stubble by now?"

"Huh." Rogers felt along his chin. "Oh." Now that he thought about it, Rogers felt rather odd about it. "I didn't even notice."

"That's how it works. Time is out of joint, but you don't feel it from the inside." Weaver sighed. "It's worse here in this box. Or perhaps it's a side effect of my memories coming back after Tilly shot me."

Rogers gave Weaver a worried look. "Wait. If time is stopped, what happened with the wound? How could it heal?"

"Things under the curse tend to converge to the status quo. Not exactly the same as natural healing, but close enough." Weaver paused, then added, "Dead is still dead. A mere curse can't change that. Do keep that in mind before you try anything too reckless."

"But your son...?"

"Call it a miracle. A gift beyond any mortal means."

"So... you're saying there's really a God?"

"More than one." Weaver gave him a look. "Before you ask, I'm not exactly on good terms with any of them."

Rogers chuckled. "Why am I not surprised? Well, if there's to be no help from higher powers, I guess it's up to us."

Weaver rolled his eyes. "I'm doing my best."

Roni wasn't at her bar. Neal had already tried her apartment. No one was answering his calls.

Something was wrong. Neal couldn't deny the sick feeling in his gut anymore. Ivy Belfrey and her sister were nowhere to be found. Tilly was impossible to track. Neal had asked at the police station for Weaver or Rogers, but they weren't there, either.

Neal had a few enigmatic texts from his father, but Weaver didn't pick up his phone or call back. Neal suspected those last texts hadn't been from Weaver at all. No one would give him any information on the manhunt going on at Olympic National Park, but since he had no official standing with the police, he couldn't force them to tell him anything.

He decided to rent a car and drive there to see what was going on for himself. There was nothing. As far as Neal could ascertain, there had never been any manhunt there in recent memory. The park police had never even heard of Hyperion Heights. He tried to show them, calling up a map and showing them where it was. At that point, they would agree that Hyperion Heights existed, unaware that they hadn't known of it until that moment.

And for a short time, as long as Neal held them in conversation, outsiders could speak rationally about it as if it had been there all along. But as soon as he left, or if he stopped talking for long enough, the topic would drift away, leaving scant memories behind. People didn't forget him, but the names of Nick Branson and Detective Weaver refused to stick.

All right. Neal retreated to his rental car to think. What exactly had happened? The police in Hyperion Heights acted as if they were cooperating with the outside world to catch a killer, but none of that was real? Their presence on the internet was an illusion? Where had Weaver and Rogers gone, then? Everyone Neal knew in Hyperion Heights had vanished in the past few days. His gut told him they were still in Hyperion Heights. Something had happened. Someone must know.

He went to the one person who was left, who might know something: Victoria Belfrey.

Belfrey greeted him with a sneer. "Did Weaver send you? Or Ivy?"

Neal shook his head.

"Then why are you here?"

"I came to ask you some questions," said Neal. "You always knew too much about everyone in this town. Almost like magic."

"Why should I tell you anything?" Belfrey's eyes narrowed, but she didn't acknowledge Neal's I-know-you-know-and-you-know-I-know look.

"Your daughter's missing."

"And why should I care about that ungrateful brat?"

"Ivy isn't the only one missing. Anastasia is gone, too."

"What!?" The blood drained from Belfrey's face. "I should have known she was lying to me. The little bitch sold out her own sister." Belfrey locked her gaze on Neal. "Get me out of here. We have to find Ana before—"

"Before she gets butchered by a serial killer? Yes, so if you want to help—"

"Serial killer?"

"Nick Branson. Though you may remember him as Hansel."

Belfrey scoffed. "He's just a boy with a knife. Certainly no match for Ivy."

"Maybe." Neal already suspected there had to be more to it, but he kept his misgivings to himself, hoping to provoke Belfrey into revealing more than she otherwise might. "Everyone can have an off day."

Belfrey shook her head. "Anastasia is in danger, and you're here wasting my time."

"Danger from who?"

"It's Gothel," hissed Belfrey. "The woman known here as Eloise Gardener. It has to be. Ivy is one of her apprentices. Gothel was sniffing around Anastasia back in our world. If that witch gets her claws into my daughter, it could be the end of everything."

"Looks like you've already lost pretty much everything," Neal said, but his thoughts were racing frantically. Gothel? His father hadn't said much about her, but he hadn't said much about Peter Pan back in the day, either. Neal hoped to all the gods she wasn't some other long-lost relative. No, surely it would have been in the memories he had been granted at his rebirth. "So, what, she's a witch with a grudge?"

"Don't be obtuse. Gothel hates everything that doesn't photosynthesize. She's far more dangerous than your garden variety hex-slinger."

"Then how do we stop her? Where is she?" demanded Neal.

"Let me out, and we'll talk."

"You know I can't do that."

"You mean you won't."

"No, I actually can't." Neal stared hard at Belfrey. "If you care anything for your daughter, tell me what you know and I'll do my best to save her. From witches or whatever."

"You? Don't make me laugh." Belfrey stood up. "There's nothing more to discuss. Next time, send Weaver. He's not as toothless as he'd have people believe."

"Yeah, well, if I had Weaver, do you think I'd come to you?" Neal left it at that. He doubted Belfrey actually knew anything more.

It was only when Neal had returned to Lipson's house that he remembered that there was one piece of magic he could still use to find his father. Something he felt an instinctive revulsion for, a feeling that he didn't fully comprehend until he was dead, and all his memories were restored to him.

Beowulf.

It had been so long ago, when Neal had been barely fourteen, and his father only weeks old as the Dark One. There had been a time when Rumplestiltskin had respected his son's aversion to dark magic and tried his best to remain the humble spinner. He had trusted Baelfire with the dagger bound to his soul, the one weapon that held absolute control over the Dark One.

Baelfire hadn't meant to use it. But when their people were in danger, neither he nor his father could ignore them. They had tried to help, at first without using magic, but they had fallen into Beowulf's trap. The monster was a man, a man who felt entitled to wear the name of "hero", a man who resented the lame coward for defeating the ogres when Beowulf could not.

It was only now, centuries later, that Neal knew that Beowulf had been the Blue Fairy's chosen champion, blessed with a magical sword she had forged for him. He tried not to feel bitter about one more way in which Blue had screwed with his family. Especially as Baelfire had proven just as fallible. He and his father had uncovered Beowulf's deceptions, but Beowulf had turned their threat of exposure back against them: who would believe the Dark One against a heroic warrior? Villagers had died. Easier to blame the Dark One. With Rumplestiltskin too demoralized to stop him, Beowulf had been about to get away with it...

...and Baelfire had used the dagger to command his father to kill Beowulf. That taste of power had gone to his head as badly as it ever had for his father, and Baelfire hadn't wanted to relinquish the dagger anymore. Rumplestiltskin had taken the memory from him, sparing him that guilt and henceforth drawing all the darkness into himself, even if that meant his son saw him only as a monster.

Remembering that day now, Neal thought about Hansel. Easy to condemn someone for wanting revenge, for exacting vigilante justice, but when the world cared nothing for fairness, or seemed determined to grind them into dust, it was an understandable choice. A choice that anyone could make. That Neal himself had made. A choice to use darkness when light had failed.

And now he meant to do it again. I'm sorry, Papa.

He found what he needed at the Hyperion Heights police station. Under the curse, it was easy to slip past the attention of those whose minds were caught in their illusory routines. No one went into the evidence locker except Weaver. No one noticed Neal sneak in. His father had trusted him with the code to the door, as well as the code to another, hidden lockbox. Now he opened it up and took out what he needed. It looked different than it had before, he noted absently. The blade had gone pure black, and the name inscribed on the blade was now silvery white.

There's magic in Hyperion Heights, he thought. And that meant there was magic in the dagger. His father might think he was powerless, but Neal could sense the psychic weight that was more than mere metal. While it held the name, it held the soul. This has to work.

Neal gripped the hilt and stared at the name. He said softly, "Dark One, I summon thee." Then, when nothing happened, he concentrated on an image of his father as he had last seen him. "Come on, Papa, I need you. Please. Rumplestiltskin... Rumplestiltskin, Rumplestiltskin!"

Author's note: Clearly, Eloise Gardener has curse memories of reading the book "The Giving Tree" and Gothel finds it horribly triggering!