A/N: Thanks to "10 Weird Foods Sold by Victorian Street Vendors" by Nene Adams on ListVerse for telling me about saloop and plum duff. The book that Rumple purchases for Bae is the 1892 edition, published in the UK by T. Fisher Unwin.

Chapter 37

Mr. Carstone had been delayed, or so Mrs. Darling had told Bae apologetically when he'd arrived for his lesson. "Have you had dinner, yet?" she asked, smiling gently. "Wendy and John usually eat earlier when Mr. Carstone comes, but as he won't be here for another hour, I thought they could eat at the usual hour.

Bae ducked his head and hoped his stomach's growling wouldn't put the lie to his words. "I've eaten already, ma'am, thank you." It wasn't a lie. The bread and cheese Emmy had given him for breakfast on his way to work combined with a cup of saloop purchased from a vendor along the way had been consumed nearly ten hours earlier, but he had eaten them. In the past, he might have bought a plum duff and splurged on a drizzle of treacle on top of it, but if he was to keep coming up with the money for these lessons, it was generally one or the other and saloop—a hot drink made from sassafras bark, milk, and a great deal of sugar—was better on a cold morning like today, when he'd been out before sunrise.

"Well, perhaps," Mrs. Darling said, still smiling, "you'll at least come up to the nursery and keep your friends company." She beckoned Bae into the house and began to escort him upstairs. "Really, there should be quite enough, should you change your mind." She made a show of sounding irritated, but there was a warm laugh in her voice as she continued, "I do think Liza sent up entirely too much food; she must think Michael's appetite as great as his elder siblings…"

Bae didn't intend to partake; he really didn't. He was almost glad when Mrs. Darling led him into the nursery and he saw that the others were just finishing up. From the look of it, they'd been having some sort of meat and potato dish and Bae thought he saw quite a bit of boiled cabbage on the nursery floor by Michael's seat. "C'mon, Nana," the little boy was coaxing. "Treats!"

From the look on the St. Bernard's face, she'd clearly rather have had a bit of the stew.

"Michael," Mrs. Darling said, trying to sound stern and failing rather badly.

"I didn't think it was fair," Michael said staunchly. "Everyone says cabbage is healthy and Nana never gets any. Isn't her health important too?"

"Ah, but what's healthy for a little boy isn't what a big, grown-up dog needs," Mrs. Darling informed him. She sighed heavily. "I suppose I'll have to ask Liza to sweep up after she brings your pudding."

As though in response to some prearranged signal, the little maid bustled in pushing a small, wheeled tea trolley. In a twinkling, the dirty dishes were swept onto the lower shelves and three, no four plates of milk pudding were set down in their place, and a bowl of milk laid on the floor for Nana, who thumped her tail in gratitude.

With a sniff, Liza exited the nursery, returning a moment later with a broom and dustpan. "I'll give it a proper mopping when Master Michael's bathing," she murmured, whisking away most of the wilted cabbage.

"Baelfire," Mrs. Darling said gently, "I can't have that extra portion going to waste and it won't be nearly as good if we leave it till tomorrow. Will you oblige us?"

"I can have sec—" John started to say, but Wendy, it must be owned, placed her hand firmly over her younger brother's mouth, even as she beamed and echoed, "Yes, Baelfire, do."

Bae hesitated. And then, ducking his head, he murmured, "Well, if you're sure you don't mind…"

Mother and daughter exchanged a satisfied look as he sat down.

Carstone still hadn't arrived by the time the last of supper had been cleared away, so Mrs. Darling suggested that Bae, Wendy, and John repair to the library to practice the last tasks the tutor had set.

Bae rather liked the library. While the nursery was usually cluttered with toys, games, and building blocks, the library—while perhaps slightly smaller—was light and airy with windows at each side and a glorious skylight. Bookcases lined the walls and though the wood was stained dark, the wallpaper bore a pattern of arcing golden-green leaves on a pale brown background and the carpet was of yellow and periwinkle blossoms on an ivory backdrop.

When the children entered, they saw that part of that carpet had already been rolled back and their easels set up with newspapers beneath. A low table stood a short distance from each easel with a fruit bowl at John's station, a sewing basket at Wendy's, and a shallow bowl of seashells at Bae's. Bae looked at his easel and the sketch he'd begun at the last session. In a way, it was harder to pick up where he'd left off in the still life than it was to start fresh, but he couldn't do that with a subject this detailed. He studied his watercolor paper, frowning a bit, before picking up his charcoal and adding a few new lines. Ordinarily, he'd be shading in his drawing with the charcoal, but Mr. Carstone had him working with colors now and he had to remind himself to draw lightly, using the lines as a guide for where to apply the pigments.

"How do you do it?" Wendy asked suddenly, startling him.

"Do what?" Bae asked, setting down the charcoal and wondering if he'd need to rub out the smear he'd just made or if he could just paint over it.

"Well, all the whorls and ridges and whatnot," Wendy said. "I can manage the contours, but I am such a dunce at the details."

"I don't know," Bae admitted. "I just… sort of look at it and draw what I see. Here," he took Wendy's hand without realizing what he was doing, just as though she were Morraine back home and not the daughter of his superior at the bank. "C'mon, let's look at it together." He started tugging at her hand and it was only when she hesitated, looking down a bit wide-eyed that he released her, feeling his face grow nearly as warm as her hand had been in his. "I'm sorry," he said at once. "I didn't mean to…"

"No," Wendy reassured him, smiling now. "It's quite all right." A bit nervously, she extended her hand to him again. "Please, Mr. Cassidy," she went on, affecting a greater maturity than she came by honestly, "if you would be so good as to show me what it is you mean, I should be quite delighted."

Bae thought he heard a derisive snort from behind John's canvas, but he knew something more of manners in this realm than he had a year ago. "It would be my pleasure," he said, the formality settling about him like the too-stiff frippery Papa had produced for him when first he'd become the Dark One. It might have fit properly, but nowhere near as comfortably as his usual attire. "If you'll do me the honor?"

Wendy's smile was warmer, as she matched her step to his.

"Here," he said. "Let's look at everything a little more closely. See how the thread isn't a solid piece. It might look it, but here and there, it's not perfectly wound; it slips a little, it's a bit thicker here and there and it looks a little heavier. And the pincushion, the pins are all different sizes and they're not all pushed in as far. And some of the heads are different, too," he added.

"How observant you are," Wendy murmured. "And I do see what you mean. At least, my eyes do. But when I pick up my charcoal again, my hand doesn't seem to know what to make of it."

"I think it will, if you keep at it," Bae said. "And your colors always come out so much better than mine."

It was true. He found it so hard to mix the tints and hues properly and once he did, if he miscalculated and needed to blend more, he never could quite seem to get the new batch to match up.

"It's kind of you to say so," Wendy said, taking a step closer. "Baelfire? Do you remember that day in the park when I said you might give me something?"

"Uh…" Bae's throat was suddenly dry and he wondered whether it was merely the scent of her lily-of-the-valley soap so strong in his nostrils, or… "I…" But she was leaning toward him, her eyes closed, a hopeful smile on her face and he felt himself leaning back toward those lips…

Just at that moment, Nana trotted in the open door, whuffling softly.

"Here," Bae said, reaching onto the display table quickly, grabbing something quickly, and pressing it into her hand. "I-I hope you like it."

He hastened back to his easel.

Wendy's eyes flew open and at first, Bae registered surprise, which yielded quickly to hurt. But almost as soon as it did, a faint flush rose to Wendy's cheeks when she beheld the St. Bernard. Flashing Bae a grateful smile, she exhaled and then examined the silvery object he'd given her. "Thank you for the thimble."

"Well, they do seem to like one another quite well," Mrs. Darling said later, after Carstone had finally bustled in, gasping apologies and promising such a thing would never happen again. "But are you certain we ought to encourage such a thing?"

"In our house, with a chaperone?" Mr. Darling harrumphed. "Times are changing, Mary. We need to acknowledge this. The old class structure is starting to crack. Not entirely so, of course, and thank goodness for that. But an intelligent hardworking youth can aspire to make more of himself now than he might have a generation ago. And it's hardly like he was born to the working class," he added. "His father's a gentleman fallen on hard times and forced into reduced circumstances."

"Still… I mean, friendship is all well and good. And there's no question that the young man is intelligent and personable. But a mailroom clerk, George?"

"He was a messenger a year ago, and I've been speaking with his superior. The boy's quite capable of advancing further, and I've no doubt he will. Why when Wendy's of an age where she might entertain such courtship, Baelfire might be a department head, or at least assistant to one."

"Or an artist, perhaps?" Mary Banks suggested.

George sniffed. "A bit of instruction does no harm, and I'm certainly not against nurturing his talent, since Carstone assures me he possesses it. A gentleman should have a bit more culture in his life or he'll feel its lack all the more keenly. Especially should he come into some better fortune and then rejoin his peers; it wouldn't do for him to feel disadvantaged when matters of culture become the topic of discussion. All the same, I think that when he realizes the future that awaits him in finance, he'll be sensible enough to do the right thing. It's not as though he won't be able to draw for his own amusement on his own time, after all."

"And if he's less sensible than you think?"

"Don't worry, Mary," George reassured her. "I'll not see our daughter entertain the suit of a penniless artist. Meanwhile, they're both young. I'm hardly encouraging either of them, but should things spark, I'll not discourage it either. It might be a bit unconventional, but," he smiled, "I think perhaps easier for others to accept than a dog for a nursemaid, eh?"

Mary Darling laughed. "Well, perhaps…"

Bae could hear the Shoreditch bells chiming ten as he neared home and he picked up his pace. The streets were still relatively safe at this hour, especially the busy ones, but Papa would have expected him home by now and he was still more than a half hour away.

"Bother Mr. Carstone," he muttered under his breath, realizing that he sounded almost exactly like John Darling. "And bother Nana and Liza and children who throw perfectly good food away for dogs!" And bother that every time I start to notice that Wendy's getting to be a little more than a friend, that blasted dog pokes her nose in!

It wasn't funny, he thought furiously, even though he knew that Robertson Ay would split a side laughing when—no if—Bae mentioned it. Papa would probably smile, but that would be okay.

Lately, Papa's condition seemed to be improving. He hoped it would continue to do so, for all Papa told him that it was the nature of the illness to wax and wane, but that they ought to enjoy these better times while they lasted.

Bae had wanted to. He'd barely had time lately to go through those stories Papa left out for him, and when he did manage to read them, one or both were usually too tired to discuss them. He'd been hoping to do that tonight, but it was going to be nearly eleven when he got back and Papa would surely be asleep.

Or up worrying about me, Bae thought with a pang. Papa always did worry, and Bae no longer resented it. Not like he had when the piper had called to him. After all, he worried about Papa now, too.

It was twenty minutes to eleven when he finally made it back and mounted the stairs as softly as he dared. He needed no candle. The house was silent apart from his footsteps, though the door to the room creaked softly as he pushed it open.

"Bae?" a sleepy voice murmured.

"Sorry I'm late, Papa," Bae whispered. "Good night."

"Night…" Papa murmured.

Bae listened carefully, wincing a bit to hear the wheeze in his father's breathing. It wasn't nearly as pronounced as it had been several weeks ago, but it was still plain to hear. He should have left the Darlings at the usual time and come back sooner. Next time, he would. Because as well as Papa seemed to be doing right now, neither one of them knew how much longer that could continue and Bae didn't want to squander any more time than he could help.

"Henry!" Belle looked up with pleasure when the boy entered the library shortly before closing time. "Are you just browsing, or are you here for some school project?"

"I haven't started back at school, yet," Henry informed her. "I think my mom's taking care of that next week. One of them. I was, uh…" He looked away and scuffed his shoe on the library's marble floor.

"Henry?"

Henry winced. "I… You can tell me to butt out if you want. I don't mind. But, I mean, if one of my moms needs to talk to someone, well, Emma's got her parents and Regina's got Robin Hood now. And I've got," he gave her an embarrassed smile, "well, a lot of people. But you've mostly got Grandpa and… that's it. Only now, with him being sick and all, I guess…" He stared at the floor. "Look, I know I'm just a kid and all, but I know what it's like to not have anyone you can talk to when you really want to and I…" He took another breath and blurted out the rest of his words at a rush. "Look, if you want to talk to me ever, I'm here, okay?"

"Oh," Belle felt her face grow warm. "Uh… Thank you," she managed, feeling oddly touched. "I mean, I-I'm managing fairly well, I think, now that Rumple's back." But she'd watched him die, and she'd seen the abject horror on his face when the witch had got hold of his dagger, and after what she'd commanded him to do—

"Yeah," Henry nodded. "Sure. If there's anything I can do, though…"

Belle hesitated. Come to think of it, she had meant to pay another visit to that mansion with its library of magic and healing. She'd been so excited to find the answer for Rumple's immediate condition that she hadn't bothered to look at what else might be there. Perhaps there were other things on those shelves that might help Rumple! And while she had no intention of burdening a twelve-year-old with the pain she'd been carrying all this time, she couldn't deny that another pair of eyes and hands might be useful. She took another breath. "How comfortable would you be with helping me do a bit of research tomorrow?"

Henry beamed.

Rumple awakened in the middle of the night feeling worse than he had in a long time. He was burning, up, his forearm ached, and his stomach…

He managed to lean over the rail of his bed before it released its contents. Shaking, he pressed the call button and he kept pressing it until a nurse arrived. Light from the hallway stabbed at his eyes and he whimpered, even as a cool hand touched his forehead.

"Some fever," a concerned voice said. "Not high enough for concern. I'll have someone in to clean up in a moment."

"Not high enough for concern?" Rumple croaked. The nurse was moving away and he could hear water running from the sink behind him. A moment later, she was back, handing him a paper cup.

"Feeling nauseous?" she asked. "Do you think you can get this down? It's just water."

He'd risk it to get the sour taste out of his mouth. He lifted the arm that didn't ache to take the cup. The water was wonderfully cold going down and he had an urge to pour the dregs onto his forehead. Before he could consider acting on it, though, the nurse was offering him a damp cloth.

"Fever, nausea… anything else?" she asked.

Rumple didn't answer for a moment; he was too busy mopping his brow. Finally, he nodded. "My stomach hurts," he said. "And my ar—" Relief flooded through him, as he remembered what Whale had told him earlier. "This is a reaction to that inoculation, isn't it?"

"DTap," the nurse supplied, nodding. She pronounced it 'Dee-tap'. "It certainly looks that way." She frowned. "Was that the list, or are you dealing with any other issues?"

"Isn't that enough?" Rumple demanded incredulously.

The nurse smiled apologetically. "Just be thorough. The good news is," she went on briskly, checking his pulse as she was talking, "as unpleasant as you're finding them, none of the side effects you're having right now are cause for alarm. Your arm might hurt for a few more days, but most of the rest of what you're experiencing should clear up within the next twenty-four hours." She picked up his chart to make a note. "So, fever, nausea, stomach pain, arm pain…" She hesitated. "While I'm here, do you need some help getting to the ensuite, or should I get a bedpan?"

Right. That was another possible side effect, but one Fate seemed thus far merciful enough to spare him. "Thank you, no," he murmured, wondering whether it was just fever making his face feel hot now. "That won't be necessary."

The nurse nodded. "All right. So, we'll just mop in here and I'll be back with some Tylenol. It'll help with the aches and fever," she added. "And if you need anything else, just press the call button again."

Rumple nodded. He wasn't relapsing. Of course, he wasn't relapsing; the symptoms he was experiencing now were nothing like the lung complaints that had dogged him for nearly two years. But there had been other symptoms too, early on, and fever had been one of them. Knowing the cause of his current discomfort was nearly sufficient to alleviate it. Nearly. But he still took the Tylenol with alacrity when the nurse returned, an orderly with a cleaning cart a half-step behind her.

Henry blinked when the mansion came into view the following morning. "Where did this place come from?" he asked. "It sure wasn't here the last time I came this way."

Belle nodded. "Mr. Schuler told me about it shortly after Rumple came back."

"Who's he?" Henry asked, trotting a bit to keep up. "Or who was he in the Enchanted Forest?"

Belle frowned. "You know," she said slowly, "I'm not certain. He's elderly and quite well-educated. I suppose he might have been a court advisor, or perhaps a scholar of some kind. He might have been a tutor, but not one of mine. At any rate, when he told me about the collection here, I came to look it over. I'm wondering now," she added, "whether we might not be able to clear a space in the main library to transfer them over. Most of what I saw on those shelves weren't spell books; I'd never suggest making those freely available for anyone to browse. But the lore and knowledge from our realm and perhaps others beyond that… I'd never dreamed that it crossed over with the Curse. I'd hate to think of losing it all again."

They were nearly to the mansion's gate now. The wrought iron door was latched, but not locked. Belle lifted it, and the door opened noiselessly.

"Should we knock?" Henry asked, taking in the imposing front door.

"Well, it was open last time," Belle said slowly.

"Wait, you mean you just walked in?"

Belle raised an eyebrow. "Are you trying to tell me you wouldn't have?"

Henry looked down. "You've been talking to my mom?" he asked, horrified to hear himself whining.

"No," Belle smiled. "But you remind me of a character in a novel I read when I was about your age. Inquisitive, determined, quite observant, and fairly intent on getting to the bottom of a mystery, even if it meant bending a rule or two to get there." She fought an urge to ruffle his hair. "Those aren't bad traits, Henry. And yes," she added. "I did." So saying, she pressed down on the door handle and pushed. As before, it opened readily. She glanced down at him. "Shall we?"

The library was just as impressive as Belle recalled. The polished wood of shelves, tables, and chairs gleamed brightly. It took her a moment to realize how odd that was. "If nobody lives here," she murmured, "who's keeping it so clean? There ought to be more dust here."

"You think it's magic?" Henry asked.

Belle pondered that. "I suppose it's just possible that we aren't the only people who've discovered this place, but nothing else seems to be disturbed. Who'd come here just to clean?"

"Grandma might," Henry said thoughtfully. "But not when she's busy with the baby. Ashley used to be a maid, but she's also got a baby, plus she runs a daycare now. I don't know."

Belle sighed. "Well, I suppose we ought to be grateful we won't be breathing in dust. All right. The books we need are here," she gestured to the wall where she'd found the previous volumes. "I'm fairly certain I've read everything Tavronius had to say about treating magical beings, but let's look at some of these other tomes."

"Okay," Henry said, eyeing the wide leather-bound volumes as though they were a fortress wall to be breached. He panned the shelves slowly trying to find something that looked useful and not overly imposing. As his gaze reached the end of the unit, something on the adjacent wall caught his eye. "Hey," he said, "those books over there look like…"

…His storybook…

Bae frowned when he woke up the next morning. Papa had been to the bookshop yesterday, it seemed, for a new book was lying on the table between their two beds. Bae imagined he would have seen it, had he used a taper to light his way upstairs when he'd got in.

He looked at the volume suspiciously. It wasn't very big: perhaps six inches long and four wide. Nor was it especially thick, in fact, he thought that the 'Fairy Books' Papa had bought before might have been thicker. It had a cover that might have been white once, but was now a dingy gray, with a blue floral pattern that reminded Bae of the arching leaves on the wallpaper in the Darlings' library. The title didn't sound as though it belonged to another fairytale collection.

"The Story of a Puppet?" he said aloud, as Papa began to stir.

"Good morning, son," Rumple said, greeting him with a smile completely devoid of any recriminations for his tardy return the night before. Bae tried to apologize nonetheless, but Rumple waved him off.

"I do believe that this may be the last title I'll ask you to read," he said. Then he frowned. "Actually, no. There's a volume by one Mr. Lewis Carroll I shall endeavor to procure, and perhaps another by Mary Shelley, just to make a clean sweep of it all. But once you've read those and we've discussed them, I do believe that it shall be time."

"Time?" Bae repeated. "For what? Papa, why have you had me reading these books for over a year?"

Rumple sighed. "Because, son, when first we came to this land, we had no opportunity to research it in advance. There was no way of knowing who we would encounter or what their stories might be. And there's still no way of knowing whether you will ever encounter any of the individuals I've had you commit to memory these many months. Well," he smiled, "apart from myself, of course." His smile fell away as his voice grew serious. "One thing we've touched on, but not discussed in any depth, is that my being here with you in this time and place didn't happen in my past. Not the first time I lived it."

"I know," Bae said. "Papa… my other papa… the other you, I mean… He's still back there, isn't he?"

"Yes. And he's trying to find you yet. And this is where things become… murky. You see, I know what happened in my past: as I told you once, I happened upon a seer who promised me you and I would meet again and I devoted more than two centuries to bringing that about, trusting that however much time would elapse, it wouldn't matter. But when I came here through the portal with you," he said slowly, "I may have altered how my younger self might receive that message."

"I-I don't…" Bae started to say.

Rumple sighed. "I can't overlook the possibility that when the seer tells him that he'll find you again, knowing as he does that at some point, he will travel back in time as I have, he could think that that's how it happens. In which case, perhaps, he won't create the curse that allowed him, or me, to find you as was done in my past."

"But if he doesn't create the curse, then that town you came from won't exist either," Bae said. "And the witch who made the time portal—"

"Baum," Rumple said suddenly.

"She made a bomb?" Bae exclaimed.

"No, no," Rumple assured him hastily. "No, I'd quite forgotten, there's one more author I'll need you to read." He took a breath. "But you make a good point. If I'm here, it rather suggests that my younger self will create the Dark Curse, just as before. And whether he takes as long to do it as he did the first time, whether his clear knowledge that time travel is more than theoretical leads him to crack that mystery before the witch ever dreams of doing so and he turns up in this realm a century early or…" He broke off suddenly, coughing, and Bae leaped up in alarm.

He shook his head. "I'm fine, son," he said. "At least for now. Merely a dry throat."

"I'll get you some water," Bae said at once.

Rumple nodded. "Thank you. And then," he said, "I think you ought to start reading this. Because there is a very good chance that the characters in this volume will, much like the characters in the others we've read, come into your life one day. And the more you know about them before that meeting, the better prepared you'll be for the encounter if I'm… no longer here to advise you."