A/N: A Child's History of England by Charles Dickens (Published between 1852 and 1854) was included on the curriculum in British schools well into the first half of the twentieth century. Today, Birkbeck College is part of the University of London and is known for its evening course offerings (among other strengths). At the turn of the twentieth century, it was formally known as the Birkbeck Literary and Scientific Institution. In 1904, the economist Sidney Webb, 1st Baron Passfield described the college as delivering 'the kind of evening instruction for the intelligent workman that is unique in the world. No other city has anything to equal it' (Source: Birkbeck website).

Chapter 20

"You don't mind, I trust?"

Rumple shook his head. "It's only the one copy, correct?" He smiled. "I believe I should be able to accomplish that much before your meeting, Mr. Banks."

George Banks surrendered his document with a sigh of relief. "I must say I appreciate it, Cassidy. When I've the leisure, I can certainly put more effort into my penmanship, but when one's nanny departs without notice, and one's children are tetchy enough that their squalls can be heard clearly from the nursery, and one sits down in one's favorite straight-backed chair only to spring up again upon the discovery that one's houseboy actually did what was asked of him and varnished it but failed to caution against using said chair until the varnish dried…"

Rumple lowered his eyes and fought the smile that tugged at one corner of his lips, as he murmured deferentially, "I shouldn't have thought that to be a standard task for a houseboy."

Banks coughed. "He won't hold that post forever. I thought I'd give him the opportunity to perform other duties and possibly let him grow into the role of general handyman over time."

"Yes, while paying him a houseboy's wages, Banks." Mr. Darling had seemingly materialized from nowhere. "Economical, but scarcely cricket to my mind." A supercilious smirk appeared on his face as he sniffed disdainfully. "Well, carry on, gentlemen."

After he'd swept out of the room, Banks shook his head irritably. "I may have my little economies, but at least I can afford to pay a proper nanny instead of pressing an oversized Saint Bernard into the position, you pompous old popinjay," he muttered. Then, as though the interruption had never taken place, he smiled. "By half-past two, Cassidy?"

Rumple nodded, not entirely certain he could trust himself to speak without chuckling.

Schooling was only free through age fourteen, Rumple discovered. And while the fee for higher education wasn't prohibitively expensive, it would mean having to come up with the amount while, concurrently, managing without the wages that Bae was bringing in. Seven shillings and sixpence a week wasn't really very much, but it helped. Rumple rather thought that they might just get by on his own earnings, provided that there were no unplanned expenses. Unfortunately, there were always unplanned expenses. Whether it was a new shoestring to replace the one that had snapped, or fare for the motorbus on a damp morning when he knew that his ankle wouldn't support him all the long walk to the bank.

Moreover, while purchasing food from a cook shop or peddler's cart wasn't overly expensive, it did take up more of their funds than the raw materials to produce their own fare would have. But to turn groceries into food, one needed a kitchen or, at the very least, a hearth. Their attic had neither. There was a hot-water radiator, but Rumple feared that using it to warm up already-cooked food might prove a fire hazard and there was no question actually cooking anything on it from scratch. He was keeping his eyes and ears open for something more suitable. In the meanwhile, they were buying ready-made food and trying to consume it while it was still warm.

He shook his head. If they had a kitchen, next they'd be wanting plates and cutlery, and pots and pans. Or at the very least, one pot or pan. There would be no end to the necessities that they were somehow managing without for the time being, but would want as soon as they'd set enough by for their purchase. And somehow, there would never be quite enough put by that he'd feel confident enough that he could afford that schooling.

"It's okay, Papa," Bae had reassured him, when he'd brought the subject up. "I've never been to school, so I don't know what I'm missing. And we're doing all right without it, aren't we?"

"Yes," Rumple allowed, "but I want better for you. And I mean for you to have it."

Bae smiled. "I'm fine, Papa," he said. "I won't be a messenger forever; in a year or so, I'm sure to have something that pays better, whether the bank trains me or I find something elsewhere."

Rumple forced himself to smile, but he was still troubled. An education might not be as important in this decade as it would be a century from now, but it pained him to have Bae dismiss its import so cavalierly. While one might be able to obtain decent employment without one, education also conferred status, respectability, and increased opportunity. Somehow, some way, he intended Bae to have one.

He smiled as an idea came to him. Yes, perhaps he did know where to begin his inquiries, after all.

George Banks listened intently. "You understand," he said, "that I was, at best, an indifferent student myself. I'm not sure there's much I can teach him."

Rumple nodded. "But whatever you can teach him will be better than he has now." He looked away. "I can't afford a private tutor and I must admit that, if we're to find our way into better lodgings, I'm loth to get by without his earnings. If he could come to you in the evenings, though…"

Banks considered. "It's mainly history and Latin that he's lacking, correct?"

"I believe so," Rumple nodded. "There might be some other gaps. I've taught him to read and write, and he attended school as much as was possible. I'm not sure where he's gotten up to in mathematics, but he's always had a head for business and I think he might be able to grasp the material on his own, if he could be given the right books." A quick smile flashed across his face, but it was followed by a rueful sigh as he continued. "While I can't be certain whether the lessons he's had thus far would place him on equal footing with boys his own age here," he shook his head, "I'm much afraid that they didn't teach him much about Britain in the school he attended in Michigan, apart from, well, that 'War of Independence'." He smiled uneasily, not certain whether that event was yet a sore spot in the country in which he now resided. Then he remembered that he, himself, was supposed to have come from here originally. "They do tend to paint us as the villains in that drama, still," he added.

Banks snorted. "I can't say I'm surprised. But surely in Canada…?"

Rumple shook his head apologetically. "It took time for us to settle in. And then, well, I was adjusting to my injury and it was difficult for me to learn to manage without Bae, at least initially," he lied smoothly. "Thus, his school attendance was sporadic, and while I did try to instruct him as best I could so he wouldn't fall behind, well, my own schooldays were long behind me and I'm afraid I was scarcely the most conscientious of pupils myself."

"I see," Banks remarked. And then, nearly at once, "I think I must ask your pardon; I certainly hadn't meant to pry."

Rumple smiled. "Not at all. It's probably best you understand the situation if you're going to instruct him." He hesitated. "That is to say, if you are…?"

Banks considered silently for a moment. Then, his mind made up, he gave Rumple a short nod and a tight smile. "All right. If you're willing to come over several evenings a week to revise and rewrite my reports, and you bring your son with you, I'll see what I can do to coach him for the secondary school scholarship examinations. Different schools are likely to have different expectations, but there are certain basic requirements he'll need to meet, regardless. I shouldn't imagine it would be difficult to discover those details. And I should have some of my old schoolbooks lying about. They'll do for a start. It would be best if he had a set of his own, mind. I think you're likely to find second-hand copies in Portobello Road."

Rumple filed away that information, even as he extended his hand with a smile. "I believe we have a deal, sir."

Banks's grip was firm as he shook it.

Bae was more than a little wistful two evenings later, when he and Rumple made ready to depart for the Banks household. "It just seems like a lot to do," he said, "working at the bank all day and then studying all night."

"It'll hardly be all night," Rumple retorted. "And it's only two evenings a week."

"Evenings are for resting," Bae grumbled. "Or, at least, they're supposed to be."

Rumple smiled. "I suppose there was more opportunity for sleep when one had nothing more than a candle for light after sunset, instead of these gas lanterns and kerosene lamps. Still, it seems to me that a full day's work used to be a good deal more strenuous than ferrying various sheets of paper from department to department and purchasing lunches from the pie shop down the street."

Bae smiled reluctantly. "I know, Papa." He shook his head. "It's starting to feel like all of that was so long ago." His smile fell away. "We're never going back there, are we?"

Rumple hesitated. "I'm not certain. In the manner in which events unfolded before I traveled back in time, you found your way there twice and I, once. I can't say whether the same will hold true now that I've been tampering. It's safe to say, though, that if we both remain in this realm and in this time, your statement is true." He smiled. "After all, the only ways in which I know to travel between realms involve magic and there's none of that stuff here."

Not until your grandfather sends that shadow off to abduct… Rumple went cold.

"Papa?"

He forced himself to smile. "Oh, just a trifle homesick, I suppose. I imagine I'll soon adjust at least as well as you are."

Bae smiled back and reached for his overcoat—recently purchased from Spitalfields market second-hand (at the very least!).

As Rumple fastened his own, though, his thoughts were reeling. At some point, perhaps in a day, perhaps in a year, but soon, Pan would be sending that… demon… to the window of George Darling's nursery.

And, when he did, Rumple resolved that that Bae would be nowhere near the place.

"What progress, Cassidy?" George Banks asked heartily after what seemed like no time at all. Rumple tried not to appear rattled as he looked up from his papers. It wasn't that his task was hard, but he certainly hadn't bargained on a particular hourly distraction. He was doing his utmost to persevere for Bae's sake, but he had to admit that it was something of a strain. Their arrangement had been going on for just over a fortnight now, and though—in addition to the aforementioned distraction—the long walks and extra hours were beginning to wear on him, he thought he was concealing his tension well enough that no sign showed in his smile.

"Nearly done, Banks," he replied. "Nearly done. Bae?"

"We read about Athelstan and the six boy-kings," Bae replied. He frowned. "But they weren't all boys, I don't think. Twenty-three isn't a boy anymore, nor eighteen. Not when…" His voice trailed off, but Rumple knew what he meant.

Not when a boy of thirteen is ready to propose marriage in hope of saving a friend from being sent to the front. Not when one can be drafted into the army at fourteen. And not even when the law of the land deems it sufficient for children to receive free schooling through age fourteen, after which it's considered meet for them to join the workforce. Not at an adult wage, of course, he thought with a faint bitterness.

"Well," Rumple murmured, "no doubt Mr. Dickens had his reasons." He picked up the fountain pen once more. "There's but the final two paragraphs, yet," he said apologetically. "I'll just need another moment or two. The lesson went well, then?" he asked, getting back to the page before him.

"The boy has a talent for memorization," Banks smiled. "I do believe that it will be to his credit when he's ready to sit the scholarship examinations. It's been some time, but as I recall, much of the material was rote learning."

"I hadn't realized you'd taken the examination yourself," Rumple said. His pen scratched on the sheet of paper as he inscribed the last word. Then he gave the page a cursory look, noting with satisfaction that there were no blots or smears to mar his work.

Banks coughed uncomfortably. "Yes, well, I've come up a bit since then."

He recognized a demand for reassurance when he heard one. "I can see that," he smiled. "And I must compliment you on your home; I was just admiring the quality of this desk earlier. It's rare nowadays that one finds a Wooton in the Renaissance Revival style."

Maybe he was laying it on a bit thick, but Banks's answering smile was almost boyish in its excitement. "I received that piece from my great uncle's estate almost a decade ago. They haven't made them like this in over thirty years!"

"I know the model quite well," Rumple nodded, judging that a small fib might be in order now. "My own father had one that was similar, though I believe that one might have been graded as 'extra'. I think this one would be 'standard'?"

Banks raised an eyebrow. "You certainly do know your desks, Cassidy. I'm impressed. Well," he went on, "I shan't keep you if the work's done."

"It is," Rumple nodded. "And the ink ought to be dry by now as well, though if you'd prefer to wait a moment or two just to be certain." In Storybrooke, there would have been no doubt, but Rumple wasn't certain whether the inks in this time period might not dry a bit more slowly.

"Right then," Banks said. "I'll see you both in the office on the morrow. And for now," he reached for the bell-pull that hung on the wall, "Robertson Ay shall show you ou—."

"Posts, EVERYONE!" a woman's voice shrilled from the hallway.

Abruptly, Banks caught up the inkpot from the desk with one hand, while he braced the other on the fireplace mantel, blocking the Royal Doulton figurines. Rumple tensed, as he and Bae exchanged a resigned look. After two weeks, unbelievable though Banks's assurances had seemed initially, they found that they were indeed growing accustomed to this, though Rumple doubted that he'd ever be able to face the ordeal with equanimity. He locked his hands tightly about the armrests of the padded desk chair. Bae latched onto the bracket that held the drapery sash.

They were just in time. No sooner had they gone into position when there came a deafening roar, followed by a shockwave that shook the house and set Rumple's heart pounding, even though he knew what to expect by now. Unperturbed, Banks slid the figurines back into place and set the inkpot back down. "As I was saying before that interruption," he went on calmly, "Robertson Ay will see you to the door." He smiled and tugged at the bell-pull. "I bid you both a good evening."

"You're sure you're alright, Papa?" Bae asked, as they made their way down the street.

"I'm fine, son," Rumple lied quickly. His heart was still pounding and he imagined that he could still smell the gunpowder in the air, though they were now several streets beyond Cherry Tree Lane and the stuff ought to have dissipated by now. He couldn't seem to get clear of the odor though, mingled as it was with the pungent stench of…

…turmeric paste and honey.

A chill that had nothing to do with the night air washed over him.

"Papa?" Bae ventured, "Do you think Mr. Banks would let you write his reports at our home instead of his?"

Rumple stopped. "What?"

"Well, at least, it would be quieter."

While he took his son's point, he rejected the suggestion at once. "We've no room for working there. I'd need a proper desk, a-a place to put the ink pot where I wouldn't knock it over, and if Mr. Banks should take it upon himself to call for his reports or bring you back here after your lesson, I shouldn't like him to see the state of our lodgings." He forced himself to smile. "I'm sure I'll get used to those cannon blasts; after all, if Mr. Banks and his family can live with it on a daily basis, I can manage a few evenings a week."

There had been canons at the front during the Ogres War. During the day, during those short weeks of training he and the other new recruits had received that they might prove a slightly greater liability to the Ogres than to their own troop, a spirit of camaraderie had persisted. Even his commanding officer hadn't stood on rank much unless absolutely necessary.

At night though, the tent to which he'd been assigned had been only a few yards from that of the camp healers, where the wounded were treated. Through the thin canvas walls, Rumple had been privy to the circumstances of many an injury. Not all were incurred against the ogres. He vividly recalled the teenaged 'powder monkey', who had panicked during an early artillery drill and, disoriented, run in precisely the wrong direction and been hit by a cannonball. 'Friendly fire,' they called it, but thinking of the term now brought to Rumple's mind a phrase he wouldn't come across until centuries later, in Storybrooke, when he'd been channel surfing one evening, only pausing long enough to determine whether a program was worth tuning in to watch.

…With friends like these, who needs enemies?

If there were magical healers at the front, their craft was reserved for the officers and the aristocracy. The youth's wounds had been dressed with poultices of turmeric paste and honey. Rumple didn't know if they'd worked; once it was ascertained that the patient wouldn't be restored to fighting prowess in time for the battle, he'd been sent home to recover or die on his own time. He wasn't the only one, just the first. And Rumple's memories of his brief time in the Frontlands' army were infused with cannon fire, gunpowder, shaking ground, and the smells of honey and turmeric pastes.

"You're sure you're all right, Papa?" Bae asked. "I mean," he tapped the copy of Charles Dickens' A Child's History of England that Mr. Banks had loaned him for emphasis, "I can learn this on my own time, if it's hard for you to—"

"We have a deal, son," Rumple cut him off. "I mean to keep up my end of it."

"I don't even know if I want to sit for this 'scholarship exam' thing if I'm doing fine without it."

"We're doing reasonably well now," Rumple admitted, "though things could always be a bit better. But from what I know of this land's history, a lack of education will hamper you and hold you back far more as the years pass. Things change rapidly here. At least, they do in this time. The Industrial Revolution was only the beginning. In a few years…"

He stopped. Stopped talking, stopped in his tracks, the realization that hit him then nearly stopped his heart.

"Papa?"

Rumple willed himself to smile, willed himself to take another step, willed himself to spare Bae from knowing what he himself knew to be inevitable. "In a few years," he said, "if you don't sit for the examination, I fear you'll realize to late the opportunity you let slip through your fingers. You'll sit the examination. And you'll attend school as soon as you're able."

Bae sighed. "Yes, Papa."

Rumple smiled his satisfaction, but beneath that smile, his innards were churning. He'd become the Dark One to spare Bae from being caught up in one war. In less than a decade, he realized, it was all too likely that his son would be swept up by another. And this time, Rumple realized, he would truly be powerless to prevent it.

As he and Bae continued home, Rumple found himself wondering which circumstance could truly be said to be the lesser of two evils: for Bae to find his way to Neverland…

…Or for him to be conscripted to fight in the First World War.

"All right, Papa," Bae sighed, as they closed the door of their attic room behind them. "What's the matter, now?"

Rumple lit the kerosene lamp, bathing the room in dim light, and didn't reply for several long moments. Finally, he said, "I suppose I'm just concerned for the future."

"If it's a question of getting by on just your salary if I go to school," Bae said, "Papa, I don't have to! I know you want me to. I know you've told me it's my best chance and maybe it is. But if it's too hard, I can take second-best! Robertson Ay told me that I can take night classes in mechanics at a place called Birkbeck's on Fetter Lane. I know where that is now, Papa. Meanwhile, there's the bank. I know we're barely earning anything now, but if we get promoted…"

Rumple nodded, not really listening, although his son's enthusiasm made him smile. "You… you're happy here, son? I mean," he looked meaningfully about their small room, "I can't help thinking that for all its lack of opportunity, our old life had a few things to recommend it over this one."

"Papa!" Bae exclaimed and Rumple realized his error at once.

"Oh, I don't mean the power, Bae," he blurted out. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss it, but I made the mistake once of letting my fear of losing it override my love for you and I spent more than two centuries paying for that moment of weakness. No. But… fresh air? More sunny days and less of these belching chimney stacks? Grass beneath your feet without your needing to traverse over a dozen blocks to find a park?"

Bae nodded slowly. "I do miss all of that sometimes," he admitted. "Maybe it would have been better if the bean had dropped us in the countryside or something. But it didn't and we're here and for now, unless we know for sure that some other place would be better, I think we need to make the best of it." He dropped down to his mattress, stowing his books beneath the bed.

"Papa?" he asked. "Do you know what happens to Morraine? If she marries her cousin or…?"

Rumple shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't, son," he admitted. "I didn't remain long in the village after that night. In fact I…" He turned his face away in embarrassment. "If memory serves, I returned home, had one rather prolonged tantrum, and left that place for good. But I did leave a note on the sheepfold gate stating that I was leaving and for someone to take charge of the flock. I know Morraine was wont to stop by near first light and I'd imagine it was she that took them."

Bae nodded. "I hope so," he said.

"You miss her."

Bae frowned. "I don't know. I mean, I do wish I could still talk to her, but I know I can't go back, so it sort of makes it easier. And it all feels like it was so long ago and so far away. I want her to be happy, but… I guess it won't be with me."

"I'm sorry," Rumple said. "And don't try to tell me it's not my fault when we both know that's not true," he added, but without bitterness.

"You couldn't help when the magic changed you," Bae replied. "I know that."

"Well," Rumple allowed, "even then, one thing never changed. I still want what's best for you."

Bae sighed ruefully. "I guess I'd better review that history lesson before bed then," he said, picking up the book and carrying over to the stool nearest the lamp. "And I'll try to make some headway with the Latin translation I'll need for Wednesday's lesson," he added with another sigh. "Though I don't see the point in learning a language nobody actually speaks anymore…"

Rumple smiled, but his heart was troubled. He only wanted what was best for Bae. But his seer's talent was as yet keeping silent on which bad option was the better one.