A/N: According to a respondent on TripAdvisor, deciduous trees in the UK (or, at least more specifically, London) reportedly used to commonly change color in September/October, though today it's generally more like November.

Chapter 23

Belle's eyes had always been one of her more arresting features. They were all the more striking when a mask and hood obscured the rest of her face. "I remember you used to like this," she said with a smile in her voice, as she set an insulated bowl down on the table by his bed.

Rumple pressed the bed control to raise the top part of the mattress, so he was half sitting up. As he removed the cover from the bowl, the aromas of saffron, cinnamon and cloves wafted toward him. The barley had assumed a golden hue, doubtless owing to the saffron. "Dried cherries?" he asked, smiling a bit as he indicated several deep burgundy objects in the porridge.

Belle nodded. "And blueberries and raisins. Uh… if it tastes a bit off, sorry. Dr. Whale suggested adding a bit of protein powder. Vanilla. I mean, it comes in a few flavors and I thought maybe strawberry, but I realized I could probably do more with…"

Rumple waved her gently to silence and took a spoonful. His smile widened. "I do notice a difference," he admitted, "but I think it owes more to the fact that vanilla wasn't a flavoring I was familiar with, back in our land." He took another spoonful. "I think this is quite the improvement."

Behind her mask, Belle gave a relieved laugh. "I'm glad you like it. You… uh… I think you look better today."

"I feel a bit better," Rumple admitted. "Though I'm a far cry from healed, yet, I'm afraid."

"You'll get there."

"With you," he supplied, with just a hint of a question in his voice.

Gloved hands sandwiched his free hand in a warm grip. "Always." He could hear the smile in her voice and dared offer one of his own in return.

He managed to eat nearly half the porridge, before he replaced the insulated lid over the bowl. "I'll finish it later," he assured her. "Since you've all found a way for me to retain most of my magic, I'll be able to refresh it when I'm ready."

Belle nodded, her eyes crinkling a bit at the corners. She sobered again, almost at once. "Regina told me," she ventured, "that Neal…" She took his hand once more. "I don't… If you'd rather not talk about it, I understand, but if you want to…?"

Rumple sighed. "I don't think I care to relate how I lost him," he said slowly. "Not now. But… we were together for a time. A good long time," he added with feeling. "And despite some rather penurious circumstances, we were quite happy…"

By September, the weather was turning chillier. Rumple and Bae had spent some of their hard-earned wages at the second-hand clothing market in Spitalfields to procure appropriate attire. There were pawnshops closer by, but by now, Rumple had come to realize that many people in the neighborhood turned in their 'Sunday best' during the week, to tide them over until their next pay, at which point, they redeemed the garments. At least, such was the typical plan. At times, though, unexpected expenses would crop up and force them to leave the clothing in the shop a bit longer. Once a certain deadline passed—often, but not always, thirty days—the shop would make the items available for purchase. It was understood. It was fair. It was perfectly legal. But Rumple was still unwilling to take advantage of another's misfortune when that other, much like he and Bae, was likely also scrabbling just to get by. Even as the Dark One, he'd much preferred bringing the powerful low than the destitute lower.

The clothes they purchased might not have been the height of fashion, but they were warm and designed to last, much as would have been the case in Pen Marmor. They'd had to examine them closely; people here were slow to discard a garment whose only crime was that of being part of the previous year's fashion catalog. Rumple knew a thing or two about getting stains out, and frayed stitching was easy enough to replace. It was a near-impossible task to find clothing that required neither amelioration.

Still, they'd done well enough and even had coins remaining for the tube fare.

"Bae?" Rumple noticed his son was lagging behind, peering in the window of a florist shop and drinking in its wares as a somewhat younger child might have, had the merchandise been sweetmeats.

Bae blinked and turned back. "Sorry, Papa," he said at once. "I guess I miss greenery."

Rumple understood what he meant. There were no trees in their part of the city and wildflowers didn't last long, sprouting between the pavement cobblestones. Gardens were for the wealthier areas. Still, there were a few options of which even the likes of them could avail themselves.

"Well," he said, "I suppose we could spend Saturday afternoon in Kensington Gardens. It must be a fine sight in daylight, and if we're to go, we probably ought to before the weather turns completely." He rather thought that London winters were milder than Maine's—or Pen Marmor's for that matter, but he wasn't certain if such was the case in this time, before global warming would be a concern.

Bae's face lit up at once. "That would be perfect, Papa! And could we stop at the stationery shop on the way home? If I could get some paper and charcoal, it's been ages since I've done any drawing!"

"I believe we might have enough for that," Rumple nodded. "Though I think you might also bring your history book along on the day."

Bae started to roll his eyes. Then he brightened. "You're right, Papa. It'll be good to have something hard to lean the paper on when I'm sketching."

Rumple smiled ruefully. His son laughed.

Saturday dawned overcast and foggy, but by the time the bank closed at noon, the sun was out. Rumple might have considered walking the distance, had it not been over four miles away. His ankle was starting to pain him a bit; a sign that winter was on its way. He made a mental note that they ought to look for better lodgings. Something with fewer flights of stairs, he thought. No, it would be the 'two-penny tube' for them today. And perhaps, if he rested the joint, it would cooperate enough that they could walk back.

He smiled at Bae. The boy was beaming as though they'd just arrived at Longbourne Fair. Rumple supposed he couldn't blame him. They'd spent these last three months getting their bearings, learning their way in this new world in which they found themselves. And while Rumple did have his curse memories to guide him, in some ways, Bae had the advantage.

Rumple wasn't quite fool enough to ask about computers or radios or other technology that was yet decades away from realization. However, there were a number of machines that, although already in existence, were not widely used. For example, the only reason that he currently had a job at the bank was because his penmanship allowed him to create legible copies of various documents. And yet, the typewriter had been patented about a half-century earlier. While its use was spreading, the Fidelity Fiduciary Bank still clung to tradition. At least, for now.

Typing was not a skill that had been imparted to him by the aforementioned curse memories, and he'd never had reason or occasion to learn it after the curse had broken. Well, he certainly had reason now, if he was to settle down in this place and time. And he thought he knew how to begin going about doing so.

"Bae," he ventured, "I-I was thinking. Perhaps, next week, we might call on that Birkbeck place you mentioned some time back. Now I do mean for you to sit the scholarship examination," he added quickly, even as his son's face lit up. "But I suppose it couldn't hurt to see what sort of classes they offer. Perhaps there'll be something to give you an advantage when the time comes."

And hopefully, one of those classes would be touch typing, so that when the bank was finally dragged fully into the twentieth century, Rumple would not find himself wanting for employment anew.

Bae knew he was going to need gloves before much longer. As much as he told Papa that his coat pockets were warm and they could save the money, the fingers that held the narrow piece of coal to the page were feeling a bit stiff. Still, he glanced again at the blue-headed bird with the yellow breast that was perched in a beech tree, standing out in bright contrast to the red leaves surrounding it. He looked down at his sketch again and added a few more lines. He wondered what one did for colors here. Back home, he'd found a number of berries that were either unsafe for eating or far too sour to be palatable, but which, when pressed, yielded juices of red, blue, and purple. He even knew of one with a faint yellowish tint, too faint to be of much use on its own, but helpful if he wanted to get a lighter shade from one of the other juices. He'd realized some time ago, that if grass could stain an article of clothing, it could also be used for dye, though he wasn't quite sure how to extract it in any measure. Papa hadn't been able to help him with that either, but he'd suggested that Bae might want to inquire of Wilona, the village dyer.

"If you're that interested, she might consider taking you on as her apprentice," he'd mentioned, when Bae had been about nine. And when Bae had hesitated, added, "It's a respectable trade, Bae. And one that might enhance my own. Many customers would rather pay extra for thread and fabric already colored than go to the inconvenience of getting it done themselves."

He'd thought about it. Even gone by Wilona's shop, but the dyer, a hard woman, still grieving the husband she'd lost to the Ogre War nearly a decade before, had been caustically berating a customer who seemed plagued by indecision. Bae thought he could still hear her demanding, "Well, did you want robin's egg blue or river? Or perhaps, sky? Azure? What am I to make of 'blue' when there are upwards of fifty colors of that name?"

And the hapless customer stammering, "Uh, l-light blue?"

As Wilona gathered her breath for another blast of invective, Bae had cautiously and prudently crept past the shop, his head bent low that she not spot him through the window.

So, Bae had never learned how to make those other colors and he had yet to see a berry he recognized as fit for the purpose in this new land. For now, he was making do with charcoal, but if money came a bit more easily, Robertson Ay had told him of paint-boxes that contained every color imaginable—or at least twenty! It was something to wish for.

Bae was shading in the bird's head, and the narrow stripe of feathers that ran down its chest, when it took to the air and flew off. The boy sighed, but he wasn't all that put out; the sketch was nearly complete. He could finish it later, even without its subject present. Meanwhile, his hand was starting to cramp a bit, and he decided that he could rest it for a bit. He closed the sketch book, set it down on the grass beside him, and opened the history book he'd been holding beneath it. Leaning back against the tree behind him, he raised the book to eye level and started to review the last lesson he'd had with Mr. Banks.

"I say!" a youthful voice exclaimed. "That's one of my books!"

Bae set down volume at once, to see a bespectacled youth a couple of years his junior smiling at him. Although there wasn't a cloud in the sky, the boy carried an umbrella in one hand and a top hat—the kind Bae had only seen adults wear here, and then only if they were going out for the evening—on his head. Behind him trailed a girl about his own age, a much younger boy, and a large St. Bernard who, strangely, gave Bae the impression that it was the one in charge.

Bae hesitated, not intending to give offense, but not ready to hand the book over either. "It was loaned to me," he said quickly, wondering if this boy expected to be addressed as 'sir' or 'governor'. He'd heard Robertson Ay use both terms, though Bae wasn't clear on when to use one over the other.

The boy laughed, but it wasn't a nasty laugh. "No, I meant I've one at home just like it. How far have you read?"

Bae glanced down at the page. "Um… Edward the Confessor," he said.

The boy sighed. "Dash it, I was hoping you'd reached the Restoration. It sounds jolly exciting, but my class hasn't got that far, yet and if you had, I thought perhaps, we could discuss it."

"John!" the girl remonstrated, drawing closer. "Where are your manners? You haven't even introduced yourself."

The boy rolled his eyes, but a moment later, he extended his hand toward Bae. "How d'you do? My name's John. John Darling." He turned to his sister. "For a formal introduction, oughtn't someone else be here to do it?"

Wendy frowned for a moment. "Well," she said finally, "since nobody is, I suppose I can rise to the occasion." She dipped a careful curtsey. "Allow me to present my brothers, John Napoleon Darling and," she pushed the youngest child slightly forward, "Michael Nicholas Darling." Then she leaned over to John and whispered loudly, "You do me."

"Um..." John cleared his throat importantly. "Good sir, I should like to present my sister, Wendy Moira Angela Darling." He was still holding his hand outstretched.

Bae shook it a bit hesitantly. "Baelfire. Bae," he added. "Uh… Cassidy."

The girl blinked. "Bae? How unusual."

"Wendy," John smirked, "manners?"

The girl blushed. "Well," she said, "now that we've all been introduced—"

The St. Bernard whuffled gently and Wendy smiled. "You're quite right, Nana," she said apologetically. "We haven't all been introduced." She turned back to Bae. "And this is our nurse, Nana."

Nurse? Bae realized that she was quite serious and fought back the laugh that had been rising in his throat. He dropped to one knee and extended his hand, palm up. "Nana? Hey, come here!"

Nana whuffled again, but she came forward, gave his palm a dignified sniff, and then trotted back to Wendy and sat back on her haunches.

"Well, since Nana likes you," Wendy said, "I imagine we can dispense with further inquiries into your character."

Bae tilted his head to one side, unsure what to make of this girl who spoke so formally, but seemed so… not full of herself. "Uh… all right," he said, with a hesitant smile.

The two older children grinned back. "Well then," Wendy said briskly, "what shall we play first?"

"I…" Bae realized that the games he knew back home might not be at all familiar to these new acquaintances. "I don't know; what would you like to play?"

"Follow the Leader?" John suggested.

Then again, maybe things weren't so different after all. He nodded happily. "Sure."

Had Rumple been a younger man, and had sitting on damp ground not been known to distress his ankle, he might have joined Bae under the tree. Instead, he was seated on a wrought-iron bench, some distance away, observing his son.

He'd tensed a bit when the other children had approached. From their clothes and manners, he took them for members of a social class somewhat higher than the one in which he and Bae currently found themselves and, knowing that in this time and place, such distinctions were rather rigidly enforced, he'd been bracing for trouble. No matter that the park was public, if these children meant to act as nobles back home might and order them to go, Rumple knew that it would be prudent not to argue.

He smiled and relaxed when he realized that the children intended no mischief beyond the usual exuberances of youth. Bae had, he realized, not been able to partake of such joys in quite some time. Rumple blamed himself for part of that. He'd become the Dark One and ended the Ogre War so that Bae—and all the other children—would be safe and free to be children. But then, in his fervor to protect his boy and ensure that no hand (or wagon!) would strike him with impunity, he'd forced Bae to put aside childish pursuits. For who, Rumple reflected sadly, would chance the scuffles and tussles of youth if it meant that one's friends (or even total strangers) might be turned into slugs for causing an accidental scrape or bruise?

Bae hadn't truly had the opportunity to be a child since the day that the soldiers had come for Morraine. Rumple's becoming the Dark One had only forced the boy to grow up that much faster. Rumple might have taken the dagger for his son's sake, but his son had taken the bean, made the decision to strike out—not for another village, as Milah had pleaded to, but for a different realm entirely—for his father's. Bae never should have been put in that position, Rumple thought.

And since coming here, Bae hadn't had much opportunity to be a child. At fourteen, he was working an adult's hours, though not quite for an adult's pay. And his wages were needed. The only friend Bae had made thus far, was Robertson Ay, but the older youth's leisure time seldom coincided with Bae's, apart from Sunday afternoons. And while Robertson Ay had cheerfully made it plain that it was his mission in life to do as little work as was needed to maintain his post, he couldn't generally leave the Banks home unless he was sent on some errand—a rare occurrence indeed, since his predilection for dawdling seemed to be known to the entire household of No. 17 Cherry Tree Lane.

So, it did gladden Rumple's heart to see Bae running and playing with these new children and their dog. Still, when their activities took them out of his line of vision, he got up from the bench and walked over to where he could continue to observe.

The sun was getting low in the sky; Rumple judged there to be another hour or so until dusk. Already, shadows were noticeably long, he realized, seeing his own stretching—

Eyes wide, he looked down at the grass again. There was no error. Months ago, he'd sent off his shadow to hide the dagger, lest Zoso hear its song, for all the good that had done. And now the thing was back.

But then, where was the dagger?

He raised an inquiring eyebrow at the silhouette on the grass, but he wasn't surprised when it didn't raise itself to reply. With a troubled expression, he lifted his eyes once more and fixed them on Bae and the others, now romping in the distance.

"You're quiet, Papa," Bae said suddenly. He'd been telling his father about his new friends, commenting about how surprised he'd been to learn that they were Mr. Darling's children, seeing as how they 'hadn't been a bit snooty'."

"I trust you didn't share that observation about their father with them," Rumple had remarked somewhat nervously. He knew Bae hadn't quite outgrown a tendency to speak before he thought, but he hoped his boy had been discreet enough not to disparage a man to his progeny.

"Of course not," Bae had grinned and continued sharing the details of the encounter with his father. And Rumple had assumed an interested air and thought he was nodding at the right places, but clearly, Bae hadn't been fooled.

Now, he shrugged. "I suppose I've a bit on my mind is all," he said, opting for a vague answer over an untruth. "My ankle's always worse in cold weather. I think we might want to look for better lodgings before the winter sets in." He gave Bae an apologetic smile. "The stairs," he added.

Bae gave him an encouraging smile. "Maybe we can find a boarding house where we won't have to give up our beds to other boarders during the day. And that way, we'd get our meals included, so we wouldn't have to keep stopping off to buy on the way back from work when our feet are hurting and we just want to get home." He stopped. "Would it be worth it?" he asked with a frown. "I mean, if our rent includes meals, then the rent would be higher, wouldn't it? Would it still cost less than we're paying now for food and lodgings?"

Rumple smiled. Bae still had his head for business he noted. "Why don't you check the advertisements this week, son?" he suggested. "See what the rates are and compare them to our expenses now. I should think that it would be more or less the same outlay each week, but perhaps you'll prove otherwise."

Bae grinned back. "Sure, I can do that," he nodded. "And we'll find somewhere else before winter, you'll see."

"I'm sure we will," Rumple nodded.

As they walked, though, he was still trying to puzzle out the conundrum of his shadow's reappearance. And then a recollection surfaced from nearly two years earlier.

Graham Humboldt had been a good man. While Rumple had scarcely counted him as a friend, now that the sheriff was dead, it was only proper to attend the funeral and pay his respects.

The crowd parted before him as he approached the grave, his expression solemn as he dropped a single purple gladiolus into it. The flower, he knew, was a symbol of strength and integrity. It was also sometimes called a sword-lily. Rumple couldn't think of a bloom more appropriate for a man who had long ago found within him the strength to disobey a royal command that went against his moral fiber. Rumple had always admired such courage, having so little of his own. But as for where such defiance had led the sheriff…

Some steps behind him, Emma Swan was talking quietly with Mary Margaret Blanchard. Emma still sounded shocked.

"…I-I mean, one minute he's telling Regina it's over between them and he needs something more and then…"

"It was a heart attack," Mary Margaret murmured gently. "Not something you ever think would take down anyone his age. Our age. It just feels so… wrong."

She didn't know the half of it, though she would once her daughter fulfilled her destiny and broke the curse. Rumple wished she'd get on with it already; Bae was waiting in the outside world and Rumple couldn't begin to search for him until the curse was lifted from the town line. Still, it wasn't her fault she'd grown up with nobody to groom her for the role she was meant to perform. He'd just have to be patient a bit longer.

"Funny thing," Emma said, her voice sounding a bit distant. "That it was a heart attack. I don't mean it like it's a joke," she added quickly. "But just before we went to Regina's… mausoleum, Graham was insisting he didn't have a heart. That he had to-to find it. I tried to tell him he wasn't making sense. I even tried to show him that of course he had one. And when I felt it, it was, well it was a little fast, because he was upset, but it was beating. I mean, obviously it was beating, or he wouldn't have been standing there. And now," she added, "I'm wondering whether it wasn't just stress making it beat so fast. Maybe if I'd told him to get it checked out, the hospital would have caught it and he'd still be here!" Her voice was rougher now, as emotion raged and roiled, trying to break free. Mary Margaret hesitated for a moment, before wrapping an arm about the shoulders of the woman she'd one day soon call 'daughter' and pulling her close.

"You can't second-guess these things, Emma. Graham was a young man. There's no way you could have suspected anything was wrong. It's nobody's fault," she continued, her own voice breaking a bit, as she did her best to console the child she didn't know she had. "Nobody's."

But, Rumple realized, Sheriff Humboldt hadn't had a heart in his chest. At the time, he hadn't thought much of it, assuming that, not believing in magic at the time, Emma Swan had simply felt what she'd expected to feel when she'd laid her hand on his ribcage. Certainly, when Pinocchio had later admitted to him that his efforts to kindle such belief had failed, and that Emma hadn't even been able to see that he was reverting to wood, Rumple had assumed that the two denials were of a piece.

But what if they weren't? What if, in a land without magic, one whose heart had been taken somehow acquired an illusory heart to compensate for the loss of the true one? What if, similarly, in a land without magic, he'd somehow acquired an illusory shadow?

Had he his books of magical lore with him now, perhaps he could have found the answer. Instead, he was left to speculate and ponder.

Later that evening, after Bae had gone to bed, he went to the lone window in their room, opened it, and stretched forth his hand, willing his dagger to him. When he'd tried this a year ago, the shadow he'd last seen in Neverland had borne the blade to him in Storybrooke almost at once. But now, the minutes ticked by, and there was no response.

When the chill air grew uncomfortable, Rumple shut the window and readied himself for sleep. But slumber was a long time coming that night.

In Storybrooke hospital, Rumple opened his eyes. He wasn't certain if he'd been sleeping, dozing, or merely lost in his memories. He'd noticed that when he was alone in his room, and had no need to engage in conversation with another, he seemed to slip into a fog quite a bit. He knew from the information sheets that Whale had reviewed with him that at least one of his medications could be responsible. For that matter, it could be chalked up to fatigue from the tuberculosis itself. At any rate, when he'd mentioned it to Whale, the doctor hadn't seemed unduly alarmed.

It was dark in his room now. A glance at the window told him that it was the middle of the night. He thought it had been mid-afternoon the last time he'd looked. Where had the time gone?

A moment later, the irony of that thought struck him and his lips curved in amusement. He recalled now that he hadn't finished the porridge that Belle had brought earlier. Perhaps a staff member had removed it while he'd been oblivious, but if they hadn't, he rather thought he might have the rest now. He reached over and turned on the lamp. Yes, the insulated bowl was still on the side table. He started to reach for it and then he stopped. Eyes wide, he waved his arm before the lamp again.

The result was the same.

His shadow was missing again.