A/N: Paid holiday time would not become a reality in Britain until 1938.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Belle took another volume down from the shelf, flipped to the back, and smiled to find an index there. She knew the topics she was seeking, and it only took her a moment to ascertain that none were dealt with in the tome she held. While that was disappointing, there were many more books to check, and it was far better than spending an hour or more scanning each page in hopes of some tidbit of useful information.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Henry take down a book of his own, but instead of checking for an index, he opened to the front. Any thought Belle might have entertained that he was looking instead for a table of contents was quickly disabused. He gazed down at the first page, but then his eyes flicked to the other wall, where the storybooks were. He sighed, pulled his attention back to the volume in his hand, and began to read.

Belle had checked three more volumes before she realized that Henry had yet to turn his page. She shook her head. She'd cared more for fiction than academic writing when she'd been his age. Honestly, if she'd had to choose one over the other, she'd probably still rather curl up with a good novel than a good textbook, but over time, she'd come to appreciate and enjoy the latter as well. Just not quite so much as the former. Well, Henry might have offered to help her, but he oughtn't to be suffering for it! Aloud, she said, "Henry?"

Startled, the boy looked up and started to apologize, but she cut him off. "Why don't you take a break? We've been here nearly two hours. Why don't you," she shrugged, "walk about? Stretch your legs? Perhaps find something else to read for a change of pace? You can come back to this in half an hour."

Henry started to refuse, but his eyes were turning toward the other wall again, and Belle heard the hope in his voice, when he asked, "Are you sure it's okay? I-I really do want to help, I mean…"

"Well, I doubt I'll finish everything in the next half hour!" Belle laughed. "Go on, then."

"Okay," Henry said quickly. He was almost to the storybooks when he looked back over his shoulder. "Uh, thanks!"

Belle smiled. "You're more than welcome," she returned, reaching for a fresh volume. After a moment's hesitation, Henry did the same, but this time, it wasn't an academic text.

That evening, after supper, Bae was able to read the first four chapters of The Story of a Puppet, or The Adventures of Pinocchio, as the subtitle on the front matter proclaimed. After that, his mind started wandering. He didn't care much for the writing style of this one; it was hard to take in after a long day at work.

He cared for the illustrations even less.

Oh, there was nothing objectively wrong with them, he allowed. They simply didn't portray the characters and scenes the way Bae pictured them.

Thoughtfully, Bae reached for his sketchpad. Maybe it would help the story sink in if he tried his own hand at illustrating. Nearly an hour and a half later, he had four rough charcoal drawings. They weren't anything he was about to show to Mr. Carstone, he allowed. Not without refining them further. But he did find that he'd retained rather more of the novel than he had before making them.

"Work tomorrow, son," Rumple said. "We ought to douse the light soon."

Bae nodded and closed the book. "Yes, Papa." He frowned. "Papa? This story… It's not from our land, is it? The titles are wrong."

"Titles," Rumple repeated with a faint smile.

"Well, yes. It uses 'Mastro' instead of 'Goodman' or 'Master'. And there's a soldier called a carabineer—or, at least, the footnote says it's a military policeman, so I guess that's a soldier, right?"

Rumple nodded. "Ah, but Bae, remember that such stories from our land as filter through to this realm do so in a distorted manner. This author is a Tuscan, I believe. From Italy. It's reasonable to think that he'd try to fit his tale into the language and society with which he's most familiar." His smile broadened. "In fact, when you think about it, I believe you'll find similar issues with the stories you've already read, particularly when it comes to their treatment of women. Let me assure you that the Snow White I encountered back in our land may have been insipid enough, but she was nowhere near as timid or passive as the version I had you read makes her seem."

He glanced at Bae's rough sketches. "I can see your instruction is bearing dividends. These are really quite good."

Bae lowered his eyes, but he was smiling, too. "Do they look anything like the real Geppetto and Pinocchio?" he asked.

"Not in the slightest," Rumple chuckled, "but they're done well, all the same."

At first, Henry thought that it was just another copy of his storybook. But as he flipped through, he noticed that the illustrations looked subtly different. At least, he thought they did. Maybe it was a different printing. Curious, he reached for his book bag; he was hoping to swing by the hospital later and Grandpa had asked to see his book, and pulled out his own edition. No, there were differences. Who was this 'mute maid' that the Dark One was supposed to have killed? He frowned when he reached her name.

A moment later, he was turning to the story in his own book. "He didn't kill her," he whispered aloud. Then he frowned. "Did he?"

"Henry?"

Startled, he turned back to Belle; he'd all but forgotten that he wasn't alone. "The book," he said. "This one, I mean. It's… I thought it was the same as mine, but some of it's not." He flipped several pages ahead in the version he'd pulled from the shelf, and then turned to the same page in his book. "See? In this one, Gilitrutt—or, I guess I should say Grandpa now that I know it was him, though the book doesn't say it—never jumped after Baelfire. And…" His eyes widened, as he pointed to the illustration. In his storybook, as always, a ball of blue fire streaked toward the flaming globe in the Dark One's hand, as two figures plunged into what looked like a whirlpool of green smoke. In the new edition, there was no fire of any color, just the Dark One's empty hand and horrified expression… And falling into the whirlpool, there was only a single person, a dark-haired teenaged boy with a face twisted into a mask of rage and anguish.

"Rumple never mentioned…" Belle said slowly. "I mean, I knew he'd lost his son, but he never told me how it happened, only that he was still alive." She frowned. "And he never mentioned whether Baelfire vanished on his own or if anyone went with him."

Henry caught his breath. "I need to show these to Grandpa," he said, closing each volume, stacking one atop the other, and cramming the two together into his bag. "He's got to see both versions."

That Sunday, Rumple smiled at Bae across the breakfast table. "It looks to be a fine day," he said. "What would you say to a picnic in Kensington Gardens?"

Bae's face lit up nearly at once. "That sounds wonderful, Papa," he said. "But are you sure you're up for it?"

Rumple nodded. "I think so. And I rather suspect that we won't have many more suitable days for such an excursion this year." He was hoping he was mistaken, but he was starting to feel a familiar tightness in his chest, and he wasn't very hungry this morning, though he hoped the fresh air would give him more of an appetite later.

He was no fool. He knew that the less he ate, the weaker his body would grow and the harder it would be for him to fight off the next bout of the illness when it came. But he just wasn't hungry and although he knew he ought to force himself to eat regardless, that was often a thing far more easily thought than done.

Well. The outing would do no harm and it might even do some good. People did occasionally recover fully from his complaint—at least he thought they did. At least, he thought that the disease could become inactive for a long period of time; he believed he'd heard that it did in some cases.

Cases that occurred in people who could afford to go to sanitariums for rest cures. People who lived where the air and water were cleaner and the streets weren't crowded and filthy and the food wasn't adulterated with alum or chalk or who even knew what might go into it in this time or place.

Despite the bleakness of his thoughts, he kept a smile on his face as he looked at his son. Bae didn't need to share his worries. Soon enough, these carefree Sundays would be gone for both of them. At least they could have this one.

Any hopes Belle and Henry might have entertained of seeing Rumple's reaction that afternoon were promptly dashed by the Blue Fairy. "I'm afraid he's not up for visitors today," she told them firmly, though her voice was kind.

"Why?" Belle asked. "What's the matter?"

"I'm afraid I can't share that," Blue said. "For confidentiality reasons, I can't divulge—"

"I'm his grandson," Henry cut her off. "And right now, I'm his only living relative."

Blue shook her head. "Had Rumpelstiltskin provided written authorization, it might be a different matter. I am sorry, Henry, but I can't disclose any information to you."

Surprisingly, Henry broke into a wide smile. "That's okay," he said. "We'll try again tomorrow. Come on, Belle."

Belle would have argued further with the fairy, but Henry was tugging on her hand and it struck her that his enthusiasm was at odds with the situation. More to the point, it was difficult to keep one's balance on six-inch stiletto heels when someone was yanking you backwards. Casting one last pleading glance in Blue's direction, she let Henry pull her away.

"All right, Henry," she said finally, when the boy stopped in front of the elevator. "What's going on? I agree we're not likely to get past Blue, but I could have asked to speak with Dr. Whale."

"It doesn't matter," Henry said. "I mean, yeah, it would if Blue was lying to keep us out, but… she's the Blue Fairy. She wouldn't do that."

"I agree," Belle said, irritation giving way to confusion. "But why wouldn't it matter if we spoke to Dr. Whale?"

"Because we already know the most important thing," Henry explained. "Look, I've watched enough medical shows on TV to know that patient confidentiality is important and there's no way she'd tell us anything about grandpa. Except she did tell us the most important thing without knowing it."

"What are you talking about?"

Henry grinned. "Grandpa's going to be okay. If he weren't," his expression sobered for a minute, "if he were really bad, they'd have to break confidentiality to notify next of kin. And I just reminded Blue that that's me." His grin was back. "Grandpa's going to be okay. What else do we really need to know?"

Belle smiled back, deciding not to mention how many times, during those first days when Rumple had been so ill, Dr. Whale had violated patient confidentiality to keep her and Emma and perhaps even Regina informed. Henry sounded so certain and she didn't definitely didn't want to dampen his hopes.

All the same, though, she was going to talk to Dr. Whale later this afternoon or, perhaps, this evening. She had a feeling he'd be more forthcoming with answers than Blue had been.

Papa was getting better; Bae was sure of it. They'd walked from the Albert Memorial clear to the Italian Gardens and he'd only had to pause to rest three times! Why in winter, it had been an effort to get him out of bed some Sundays, though he'd always managed to be at the bank on time, no matter how tired he was.

When Bae had pressed him, Papa had said only that while this might be a realm without magic, it wasn't a realm without herbs and he knew of more than a few that would grant him the strength to persevere, at least, for now. But even with those herbs, Bae had seen how easily Papa had wearied, all efforts to hide his weakness to the contrary.

Today, today, Bae actually believed Papa might get well again, but he knew that damper days would return and when they did, Papa was often the worse for them. They needed to get somewhere drier and sunnier. Maybe, Bae thought with a pang, if he gave up his art lessons, he could put that money behind a trip to the seaside.

A cloud passed over the sun and Bae flinched in the slight shade. They might be able to get to the seaside, but the bank was unlikely to hold their positions open against their return. And would taking Papa out of London for a week or two be better or worse for him when they did return? Sometimes, it was easier to endure a bad situation when you didn't know that there was anything better. Maybe going and coming back would be worse than never going in the first place.

"Bae?" Papa was looking worried. "Is everything all right? I thought you'd enjoy the day here."

Bae turned to his father with a smile that belied his concern. "Everything's fine, Papa. I'm just getting a bit hungry. Let's look for a place where we can spread out our blanket."

Lunch wasn't elaborate, but it was filling enough. Afterwards, the two repaired to one of the wooden benches. Bae shared some of his impressions of the stories Rumple had marked for him to read and Rumple was only too happy to elaborate.

"So the evil queen is the Miller's daughter," Bae remarked.

"Well, she will be," Rumple nodded. "Though assuming she casts the Dark Curse—"

"The curse you created. Or," Bae frowned, "the curse you're going to create…?"

"In a manner of speaking," Rumple nodded. "I mean, the elements were fashioned by various wizards over the years. I didn't create the curse, so much as take advantage of the ingredients that were already there and reweave them into a pattern of my own devising. At any rate, when the curse brings everyone to this land, she'll find herself established as mayor, rather than queen."

Bae frowned. "Isn't that a big demotion in rank?"

"Well it's not as though there are kings and queens ruling the state of Maine," Rumple remarked. "Or did your studies gloss over that point?" He asked the question lightly, though it did pain him that Bae had ended his academic schooling so abruptly. Then again, in this time, the United States held only a fraction of the power it would later realize. Perhaps even the education Bae would have received had he earned that scholarship would have afforded him little help on that front. "At any rate," he continued, "the curse created an isolated town magically shielded from prying eyes and random passers-by. Whatever her title, Regina was very much the ruler of her own little kingdom, and all who dwelled therein."

"Surely not you, though," Bae said. "I-I mean, if it was your curse."

Rumple sighed. "One of the things I wove into that curse was a forgetting spell, designed to affect everyone except its caster. Perhaps, I could have exempted myself from it had there been time, and had I been free to do so, but it was more important that the curse bring me to this land than that I recalled the reason, until it became pertinent."

Bae frowned. "I-I don't understand."

Rumple sighed. "Do you recall what you shouted at my younger self, when he released your hand and we came here?" Seeing Bae lower his eyes, he smiled sadly. "I can see that you do."

"I'm sorry," Bae said. "I-I was angry, but I didn't mean to hurt—"

"I know. But you weren't wrong. When I made that deal with you, I meant it. Even when I was dragging my heels through the wood, I had every intention of going with you. But when the moment arrived and the portal opened, I… panicked. I knew what I'd promised, but I just couldn't do it. At that moment, I did everything in my power to remain back in our land. And then the portal closed and you were gone. The curse I created was my second chance to join you. Perhaps my last chance. And I couldn't risk my fear getting the better of me again. When the curse came, I needed to be powerless to prevent it or to prevent myself from being carried away by it. So, months before Regina cast it, I took steps to ensure that I would be powerless. Even if it meant that for much of the curse, I would be just as ignorant of the truth as nearly everyone else who was affected…"

The hour grew later as the two talked on, but Bae and Rumple scarcely noticed. Not when the children romping close by drifted away, bundled home for tea by parents and nannies. Not as the sun dipped lower in the sky and the shadows lengthened.

Not even when one shadow—a shadow that appeared to belong to a man, though there was no man present to whom it might fit—broke out from the penumbra of the trees to soar homeward through the clouding sky.

On it sailed, riding the air currents, testing the breezes, until it found one that smelled of milk pudding and stuffed toys—a breeze carrying a young child's dreams to the realm the Shadow called home.

Triumphantly, the Shadow leaped from the gust it was currently riding, landing easily upon new wind and settling in for its return to Neverland.

Pan listened to the Shadow's report, his cheeky smile never wavering, but there was a tightness in his eyes and a chill in his voice when the creature had finished. "So," he said. "Baelfire no longer feels lost and unloved." He shrugged. "Well, that's a shame. I suppose I'll have to find some other way to coax him here."

"Really?" the Shadow drawled. "Are you that upset he escaped you the first time?"

Pan smirked. "Come with me," he beckoned, taking to the air and sailing over the trees, guiding his companion to a clearing and alighting on a broad limb. He motioned toward another tree a short distance away, from which dangled a rectangular object about the size of a decent laundry hamper, covered by a woven mat of plaited grasses.

"Your disciplinary cases aren't of any interest to me," the Shadow remarked. "Why have you brought me here?"

"You misunderstand me, my old friend," Pan replied. "No, this one's here for his own protection. The other boys, well, they tend fear those who aren't quite like them and those whom they fear, they're likely to shun or destroy. They never once stop to think about how… useful such individuals might be."

Grinning, he flitted to the tree where the box hung and ceremoniously pulled back the tarp to reveal a wicker box with one end latticed. Judging by the light streaming in from above, the roof was similarly exposed. "Hello again, lad," he said to the figure who crouched inside.

"P-please," a high voice whimpered. "The sun is so… bright in my eyes."

"And you've so many of them," Peter nodded, sounding almost apologetic. "Sorry. I just wanted to introduce you to a new friend."

"He's no friend of mine," the boy hissed, scuttling as far back as he could in the confined space. Even so, there was no missing the eyes that covered his exposed limbs, face, and the part of his torso visible beneath his ragged shirt. "Nor yours, for that matter."

Pan chuckled. "Well, perhaps not," he said, "but we've learned to get along. There aren't many of us on this island, lad," he went on. "Can't go making enemies when we all depend on each other, now, can we?"

The boy didn't answer the question. "Have you brought me any water, then?" he asked instead.

"Something better, actually," he said, handing over a small leather bag. "Eat them. They're sweet as well as juicy."

The child—who couldn't have been much older than ten or eleven—dropped the bag to the jungle floor. "You think to use wirberries to make me tell you more than I already have," the boy proclaimed. "But I've told you all I know."

"Then why are you afraid you'll tell me more?" Pan asked, the hard edge back in his voice.

The boy laughed. "Do you imagine that the future is an easy thing to see? Even with all my eyes, much is hidden. I've told you all I know now, but not all I may come to know in future. Someday, I think I will need my secrets and when that day comes, you will be far more suspicious should I refuse your berries then."

For a moment, something rather like anger flashed across Pan's face, but then he laughed aloud. "Well-argued, my friend! Well-argued, indeed. Well, then. Tell me again what you told me at our first meeting. About Baelfire."

"Your grandson?" Neal's whispery voice took on a mocking lilt. "Of course, Peter Pan does not like to be reminded that he's old enough to have one."

"Get on with it," Peter said sharply, giving the basket a kick so that it bobbed wildly in the tree for a moment.

The boy uttered no outcry, though he did clench dirty multi-eyed fingers about the bars of his basket. Only when the swaying stopped did he calmly reply, "Baelfire will come to you when he remembers who his father is. When the betrayal cuts so cruel and so close that he flees into the night. When that happens, he will become the hero he's never realized he can be and then, he will be yours until the time comes when you must release him."

"Must?" Peter prompted. He'd heard this before, of course, but he wanted this part repeated for the Shadow's benefit, as well. "Why must I release him?"

"The Truest Believer must descend from the greatest of Light and of Dark," the boy replied at once. His voice rose shrilly and seemed to whisper in the wind that rustled the trees about them, reverberating breathily in the leaves. "On the Island of the Skull, mark the sand in the upper glass. When half as much remains within as does now, the time will be at hand. Release the son of Dark to his fate and he will find it with the champion of Light. From that union will spring the Truest Believer, but take care lest that child come into his destiny too late to help you. For to fulfill his task, he must be of age to understand the sacrifice that must be made and do so both freely and of his own free will. He must reach this understanding before the last of the sand falls to the lower glass, for should he fail in this, so must you!"

As he finished, the boy slumped to the floor of his basket-prison, breathing heavily. Pan grinned. "Thank you, my dear friend," he said heartily. Now, he took a water-skin from his belt and dropped it through the ceiling of the basket. "Drink up, lad. You've done well. Rest now; I'll give you the peace and privacy for it." So saying, he replaced the grass mat, draping it carefully over the bars. Then he led the Shadow to another tree, some distance away.

"Do you understand now?" he asked, still smiling. "Go back to this 'London' place where you discovered him. Observe him. Find out all you can about him: how he spends his time, who his friends are… Report back to me periodically. I can't predict when my son might show his colors, but as for giving Baelfire an opportunity to play hero, well! I think we ought to be able to arrange that in due course…

"At first," Henry said, two days later, when he was finally allowed to visit Rumple again, "I thought that they were just more copies of my book, only they're different," he went on. "I mean, in this version, it says that you killed the maid when—" He looked away, "sorry."

Rumple shook his head. "Don't be afraid of the truth, Henry," he said softly. "I was considerably less… restrained," he smiled apologetically, "in my younger days." He sighed. "It happened."

Henry nodded. "But it happened differently in my book," he said. "In my book, it says that your uncle—who I guess was you?" He waited for his grandfather's nod. "You helped her escape and you," he took another breath, "the younger you killed her grandfather instead."

Rumple winced. "That was an accident," he murmured. "At least, I believe it must have been. Though since I imagine he'd gone to that house with murder on his mind, and since Talorc did pay the price for it, I suppose I can understand why the book left that part out of it."

Henry absorbed that. "But Grandpa," he said, after a moment, "how did it really happen? I mean, which version's the right one?"

Rumple smiled slowly. "Why both of them," he replied at once. "Of course."