The décor of the second level proved to be just as quaint as it was downstairs, from intricate leaves carved into the oak moldings, to the serene appeal of cream-colored walls. Cresting the winding staircase, Lydia noted the neatly framed pictures lining both sides of the hallway, her eyes scanning each one as Jefferson continued to lead her along. Most of them appeared to be rough sketches of trees, making her feel as though she was walking through some sort of strange charcoal forest. Part of her had to wonder if Jefferson had drawn them by hand.

But despite her quiet fascinations, Lydia found herself unnerved by Jefferson's silence, especially when she focused on the series of closed doors flanking them on either side. It served to remind her of the countless cells down in the dungeon, the nightmare that had become her reality for the rest of her days…

A shiver ran up her spine. "Where are we going?" She heard herself ask, hardly caring how breathless she sounded.

"Not far," was his vague reply.

She sighed, tightening her arms around herself. "It's just us, isn't it?" That was when he finally paused, turning to look back at her with that intense blue gaze. "We're the only ones in Storybrooke who remember. Aren't we?"

He continued to stare. Then, "So it would seem."

Slowly, she shook her head, trying to think of something more to say, but all she could come up with was, "Why?"

His eyes searched hers, and she couldn't ignore the way her heart unexpectedly fluttered. It never ceased to amaze her how much those bright orbs could convey without uttering a single word. Every emotion, every hope, every fear, every shimmer of pain…A quiet language she'd come to understand all too well in their time together.

"I don't know," he admitted softly, reaching out to turn the knob on the nearest door.

A sudden sense of warning flared within her chest. "What's in there?"

"Something I need you to see," he pushed it open to reveal darkness on the other side.

She swallowed. "Jefferson, we should talk."

"And we will. But for now," he indicated the doorway, "ladies first." Still, she hesitated, looking at him uncertainly…but then something in his features softened. "Please," he gently pressed.

It wasn't so much the request that struck her, but the pleading undertone in his voice, and with a conceding sigh, Lydia squared her shoulders and entered the darkened room—

As Jefferson flicked on the lights, she came to an immediate halt, a sense of dread settling in the pit of her stomach. Oh God…The room he'd brought her to was obviously a workshop, but not just any workshop. The materials strewn upon the table; the assortment of cutting tools and pins; the shelves lined with examples of his finished products…This was a hat-making room.

Get it to work…get it to work…

No, her mind whispered, the weight of those memories causing her heart sink. Not again…

"They don't work," Jefferson announced, snapping her out of her reverie as he brushed past her. "None of them do; there's no magic to make them work." Approaching the illuminated shelves, he reached out and selected a hat, turning it over in his hands. "I've made so many of these. Twenty-eight years, and I never understood why I felt so compelled to keep making them. I just had this drive, this incessant need that told me I had to—"

"Find a way home," she interjected, rubbing her hands over her arms. It brought her no comfort. "It's what you knew. From Wonderland; something about it…stayed with you."

His shoulders visibly sagged as he exhaled. "Just as your devotion to your patients has stayed with you."

A pang of guilt hit her chest, and she clenched her jaw tightly. My devotion, she silently scoffed…

"You know what it's like," he said, lifting his eyes to hers, "feeling like an outcast in the very world you're supposed to call 'home'? Living your life—day in, day out—wondering why your dreams feel more like reality than your very own existence?" She held her breath as he walked towards her once more, remaining rooted to the spot as he drew near. "Not understanding why you feel drawn to certain people, but knowingyou have some sort of connection to them? Like you knew one another in a past life, and fate has suddenly decided to bring you back together once more." He practically loomed over her now, but her eyes remained riveted on the hat in his hands. "You know how that feels, don't you?"

"Yes," she rasped harshly. She knew exactly how that felt, and everything she'd ever questioned about her life here finally made sense. All those times she'd gazed out her apartment window and wondered why she felt so out of place here; her unexplainable remorse whenever a co-worker inquired about her absent family; the mild panic seizing her whenever she heard the occasional drip, drip from the kitchen faucet. And why—despite having a full roster of patients at the clinic—her thoughts inevitably returned to one man in particular. A man whose erratic behavior intimidated her, but also intrigued her at the same time. Jefferson Harris. Simply seeing his name on his file folder was enough to captivate her in a way that was completely different from all her other patients.

Because I was with him. "Yes," she repeated on an exhale.

He drew up slowly. "Clara Forsythe, renowned surgeon of Wonderland; now Dr. Lydia Warner of Storybrooke," he uttered, glancing back down at his hat. "So my apprentice returns to me."

Hearing that made the blood in her veins go cold. "Please don't make me do this," she nearly whispered.

He lifted his head. "Do what, exactly?"

"The hats," she pleaded, shaking her head. "I can't go through all that again. Please."

He blinked, his brow furrowing. "That's not why I asked you here."

Oh…Though relieved, it was her turn to furrow her brow. "Then why?"

His eyes searched hers, that blue gaze seeming to shimmer as he told her, "Because you're the only one who truly understands. I needed to know that I'm not alone."

Hearing this had her heart swell unexpectedly. "You're not alone," the words left her lips before she even realized she was speaking. Deep down, though, she couldn't deny the sincerity behind them. "You never were."

There was the barest quiver in his chin. "I know where she is."

Lydia felt her eyes slowly widen. "Your daughter?"

"Grace," he acknowledged, his grip on the hat tightening. "She's here."

Her lips parted on a faint intake of breath. "Where?"

Looking to his left, he gestured toward the ornate bronze telescope at the far window. "See for yourself."

The idea of him spying on others should have unnerved her more than it did, but she found her curiosity outweighing her uncertainty as she stepped over to the telescope, bending down to look through the eyepiece. In the illuminated dining room of what she knew to be the neighboring house, Lydia saw the circular image of a family gathered around the dinner table. A scene she would have normally regarded as peaceful; lovely...if not for the little girl who immediately became her focal point. One whose dark hair, sweet face, and gentle smile were hardly unknown to her, and she drew in the barest of gasps as she looked up from the telescope. "Paige..."

"It's Grace," Jefferson's voice was suddenly behind her, but she managed not to jump, "that's my daughter."

His daughter. So many times during their confinement, she'd wondered what a child of his might look like, had entertained the hopeless thought of perhaps meeting her one day…

"I know her as Paige," she offered, looking back at him. "Paige Treemont. She's one of my patients."

"It's Grace," he stated firmly. "Her name may have been changed, but it's her. I know it's her. All this time, and she's been living right next door to me…"

Hearing the underlying pain in his words had her heart swelling sympathetically. "She's a sweet girl," she said, her stomach stirring when his eyes searched hers. "And smart; very smart. And her parents are good people. I know her father—"

"He's not her father," he suddenly hissed. "I am."

After a pause, Lydia patiently lifted a hand in a placating manner. "I'm just telling you what I know of her in this world. The Treemonts are good people. That's all."

His eyes remained locked with hers, and then he pursed his lips as he walked over to the window. "She looks exactly the same," he said, "the same as the day I…" He trailed off, shaking his head slowly. "So many times, I've looked out and seen her, not understanding why the sight of her caused me so much pain, but now it all makes sense. It makes horrible, horrible sense." He lifted a hand to the glass. "This house; this entire way of existence…all these years, they've been nothing but empty without her. What I would give to hold her in my arms again…"

His words were heartfelt, but something about his tone caused an uneasiness to itch at the back of her mind. "Jefferson…"

"All this time. All this time, and you've been right here…"

"Jefferson," she repeated, a bit firmer this time, "you didn't call me over here to reminisce on the past; that's the last thing either one of us wants to do. So why am I really here?"

His head was angled back towards her, giving her only a glimpse of his profile against the darkness of the window. "She has no memory of me at all, does she?"

She thought about how to answer that. "I would think that—considering the relationship you said you had with her—if she had regained her memories, then she'd be knocking on every door in Storybrooke until her father was found. Not sitting at home with her family."

His shoulders rose and fell visibly. "My sentiments exactly. Which is why I need your help."

"My help?"

"Yes. I know nothing about her life here, save for what I've seen from the confines of this house. But you," he turned to face her at last, "you as her doctor have been treating her all these years, so you have critical information about her in your records."

Her eyes widened slightly at that. "Jefferson—"

"You do," he insisted, closing the distance between them, "and that means you're the only one who can give me any possible answers. What have you treated her for? Does she give any indication at all that she remembers her past? What does she tell you about her family? Does she ever indicate that she feels like doesn't belong here, either?" She held her breath as his hand grasped her shoulder, squeezing slightly. "Please. You have to tell me everything you know about her."

God, those eyes. The way they shimmered with so much sadness, hope, longing…Opening her mouth, she breathed the word, "No."

He blinked. "No?"

"No," she repeated. "I'm sorry, Jefferson, but I can't do that."

He stared in disbelief. "You're the only one in any kind of position to help me, and you're telling me no?"

"It's a matter of confidentiality," she explained, trying to ignore the tightening pressure on her shoulder. "Legally, I'm not allowed to divulge patient information unless they've explicitly given me consent to do so. That's how patient privacy laws work here."

Those blue eyes narrowed. "You mean that's how the laws work in this world."

"Yes," she replied without hesitation, "and I face serious repercussions if I ever consciously break them. I don't want to jeopardize all the work I've put into building that trust with my patients."

Slowly, he shook his head. "You probably know more about her than anyone in this town—perhaps even more than her adoptive parents—and yet you won't help me?"

"I'm sorry, but no. Not like this."

For what felt like an eternity, he simply stared at her, and all she could do was stare back. Then she drew in a breath when his hand slid down to her wrist. "There was once a time when you would help me without a second thought."

She squeezed her jaws together as his thumb traced the scar encircling her skin. "And look what that cost me," she whispered, carefully pulling out of his grasp. "I'm not the same person you knew back in Wonderland. When I said that life is behind me, I meant it. I feel like I've been given a second chance here, and I don't intend to repeat the mistakes of my past."

His lower lip quivered. "But she's my daughter."

She looked at him sadly. "So you say, but how do I know that for sure?"

The iciness that suddenly overtook his gaze was enough to get her heart pounding all over again. "You think I'd lie to you about that?"

With a sigh, Lydia lifted a hand to calm him. "It's not that I'm trying to accuse you of lying. You were the only one who came to Wonderland, so I have no idea what she looks like. And knowing that you've a tendency to—"

"To what?" He interrupted, the scorn evident in his voice. "Display moments of instability from time-to-time? Dare I say, symptoms of 'madness,' as you might have so eloquently put in your notes?"

Closing her eyes, she said, "Don't do that. I was using what resources I had at the time, and diagnosing you as bipolar was the best I could do." She crossed her arms over her chest. "Right now, I have to make sure this isn't a potential fantasy built up in your mind because of how you are desperate to see your daughter again. I have to think about Paige's safety first."

He was staring at the hat in his hand once more. "Her name is Grace," he muttered quietly, "and you suggest that in madness, I don't recognize my own daughter."

Lydia watched as he slowly lifted the hat and placed it on his head, an ultimate sense of déjà vu overwhelming her senses as he settled it into place. Fates…

He bent close, his face mere inches away from hers. "Madness or not, I have never—never—lied to you, Lydia. Not in this lifetime, nor any other before it."

She swallowed, only able to focus on the fact that he was so, so close…

There was an almost indiscernible flicker in his eyes, and then he was pulling back, averting his gaze with a sigh. "You were always deserving of honesty."

At that, she blinked slowly. Something about his words struck her in a way she hadn't expected—comforted her, even. And as he stood before her, she found herself overcome with the desire to reach out to him; to place a hand on his shoulder; anything to reassure him…

"I should go," she heard herself whisper.

He didn't look at her, but she caught the barest purse of his lips. "As you wish."

She hesitated, but knew there was nothing else to be said in that moment. Turning on her heel, she made her way back towards the door, but then paused halfway across the room.

"That curse," she breathed, turning to look at him. "With everything you've told me about Regina, she would have done everything in her power to keep us trapped here. Indefinitely." She shook her head. "So why has it suddenly weakened?"

"I don't know," he uttered turning back to the window once more. It was all he said.

She released a breath through her nose. "You're not alone, Jefferson. I'm still here if you need a friend."

"Is that what you are?"

"It's what I can be," she vowed. "Just remember that."

When he still didn't look at her, Lydia took that as her cue to leave, and finally exited the room. Once she was out in the hall, she came to a halt, suddenly aware of how rapidly her heart was beating beneath her chest. Inhaling deeply, she glanced down at her wrists, seeing the pale scars that encircled them both. No longer due to the accident she'd convinced herself had occurred in her youth, but an ever-present reminder of the nightmares that had once been her reality. Her punishment for helping those who'd convinced her that she was their only hope.

All magic comes with a price…

Her eyes stung with tears, but she forced the sensation aside. Clenching her hands into fists, she continued to make her way through the vast maze of a mansion.