~Wonderland~

Her task didn't get any easier to endure when they beheaded him the second time. Once again, Clara resigned herself to seeing to her patient's needs, her lifelong duty of sewing flesh-to-flesh as wave after wave of nausea rolled over her. It wasn't the act itself that affected her so, but the fact that the eyes trained on her throughout the procedure were very much awake. Aware. Alive. A perversion of the laws of nature that her extensive instruction in the healing arts had been built around. Forcing him to live so that he might succeed in the task bestowed upon him.

A task that would be impossible to achieve without the presence of magic.

Sighing through her nose, she pulled the thread taut, finishing another suture. All the while, she knew he was staring at her, but never made eye contact with him. She couldn't. She just couldn't. Not when memories of his manic behavior only hours ago continued to plague her mind—

"Why?"

She froze, still unable to bring herself to look at him as his unexpected inquiry hung in the air.

"Why do you help me?"

Breathe, her mind whispered, remaining silent as she set her jaw and proceeded with her next stitch.

"Clara."

Hearing her name jolted her heart, causing her to freeze yet again.

"Please…say something," the man implored. "Anything."

Closing her eyes, she exhaled quietly, and when she opened them again, she finally summoned the courage to look at him…and proceeded to be captivated by those eyes once more. So different than what she'd seen in them while he was frantically working to make all those hats earlier in the day. The repetition of his words and actions becoming ever more frenzied the longer he forced himself to work.

But the clarity in them now…the focus on her…

Blinking slowly, she lamely rasped, "Be still." It was all she could think of to say. Pursing her lips, she pulled the thread taught as she completed another stitch.

Several minutes passed before she heard him say, "You fear me."

"No," was her immediate reply.

"Then why do you cry?"

She drew up then, bringing a hand to her cheek, and sure enough, her fingers came away glistening with tears. She hadn't even been aware that she'd been crying, and seeing the dampness on her fingertips had her releasing a trembling sigh.

"It's my doing," he rasped.

But then she was shaking her head slowly. "No. No; it's not you. I hate her for what she's done to you."

"The Queen of Hearts."

She gave a measured nod, feeling more tears fall down her cheeks. "I don't care what your crime was," she looked at him, "no one deserves to be punished like this."

For a long moment, they regarded one another, those blue depths regarding her with an emotion she couldn't decipher…

Trust, her mind whispered. It was trust that she was seeing in his gaze, and the realization triggered an unexpected ache beneath her chest.

"I-I'm Jefferson," he finally said.

Jefferson, she repeated to herself as she wiped the tears from her eyes. Not a name that was native to Wonderland, which made sense given the Knave's words. He claims to have come to Wonderland by means of a magical hat. "Where do you come from?"

"The Enchanted Forest."

Yes, she'd heard of that place, but had never seen it with her own eyes. Had never even left Wonderland, for that matter. "You're a long way from home," she commented as she brought the needle to his neck once more.

"Why do you do this?" Her eyes darted back to him. "Why do you help me?"

"You asked me to help."

"But why? I know they're forcing you to, but I am no one to you; you have no obligation or responsibility to me. So why bother helping a stranger when it's no benefit to you?"

The furrow in her brow deepened as he spoke, and she simply told him, "Because regardless of circumstances, I don't turn my back on those who need me." Her voice dropped low. "And right now, you need me."

Those shimmering eyes were still locked with hers, the trust in them evident even as they began to overflow with tears. "Grace," he whimpered. "My girl…"

Feeling her heart clench painfully, Clara was suddenly glad for the distraction of her work. Aside from his audible sniffs, Jefferson remained quiet as she continued her task, and every so often, she stole glances at his stricken face. Just by looking at him, she could tell his heart was broken, which only served to intensify her hatred for the usurper Queen. How could she do this to him? Do this to a man who wasn't even one of her own subjects? What did it even matter now that she and Jefferson had been assigned to their respective fates?

Still, she had to admit what a drastic change in his demeanor this was. How much more lucid he seemed to be whenever he was in this position—

Snipping the thread of the last suture, that familiar rush of magic had barely passed over them before Jefferson reared up, and Clara gasped as his hands grasped her shoulders.

"What are you—" But her voice abruptly failed her when her eyes met his…and immediately felt a penetrating chill cut deep down to her bones. Gone was the coherent man she'd tended to on that table, the lucidity she's previously seen in his gaze replaced with a restlessness that haunted her waking thoughts. Once again the deranged individual she'd first seen when they dragged her to this cell…and an acute fear began overtaking her senses the longer his gaze held hers.

"Get it to work," Jefferson rasped. "That is my task. That is how I return home."

As her vision swam with tears, Clara somehow managed to wheeze, "Jefferson…"

Something in his eyes seemed to waver then, even if only slightly.

Pulling in a breath, she exhaled shakily. "Please."

He blinked, and though it took a moment longer, he finally loosened his grip, allowing her to pull away as he visibly became preoccupied with his thoughts.

"Get it to work," he breathed, swinging his legs over the opposite side of the stone table. "So I can be with Grace; I've gotta get it to work."

Clara watched him as he stood, repeating those phrases under his breath as he made his way over to his work table, which was already littered with dozens upon dozens of finished hats. None of them worked; not a single one. Tears rolled hotly down her cheeks, and it was only then that she realized how tightly she'd been gripping the shears in her palm. Whether it was out of fear, or because she thought they might offer some sort of protection against the frightening shift in his demeanor, she didn't know. All she knew was that for a brief time…she'd seen something more than just the maniacal hat-maker she'd been doomed to spend the rest of her days with.

Only to be lost to his endless task yet again.

Forcing her hand to relax, she waited while the stinging pain from that awkward grip gradually subsided. It was a welcome sensation compared to the aching fear in her heart.

~Storybrooke~

From the front third-story window, he watched her go. Down the brick steps, across the stony drive, and back to that modest white car she'd driven over here…though she did pause, sparing his mansion one last glance before opening the door at last.

Jefferson's hands subconsciously clenched into fists. Don't go, his mind whispered. Lydia…

But as her car made its way down the curved driveway, he sighed in disappointment, waiting until she was on the main road before turning away from the window at last. The one person who could potentially reunite him with his Grace, and yet she wanted no part of it. Despite her determination to help him escape from Wonderland—to help him find a way back to his daughter...something had drastically changed since their days in captivity.

Not everything, though, he mused silently, clasping his hands behind his back as he made his way back down the hall. Her name may have changed, but Lydia looked exactly as he remembered her. Her dark brown hair was only slightly shorter now, which she typically had pulled back in a French braid whenever she was on-duty; her green eyes—flecked with touches of hazel—still conveying the warmth and intelligence that had always been part of her character. Her hands: still so steady and sure after all this time, even if all she was doing was checking his vitals. Everything about her so familiar in appearance that it had been a relief when his memories returned to him. His apprentice really had come back to him, and he could only hope that somehow, the same could eventually be said for Grace.

That is, if she ever got her own memories back.

Returning to his hat-making room, Jefferson peered through his telescope once more, seeing the image of his Grace now sitting alone at the dining room table. She was drawing—or writing; he couldn't really be sure—and it broke his heart all over again to see her now. Gnawed by guilt knowing that he'd left her all those years ago and never returned; that he'd broken the promise he'd made to never leave her.

Which also meant he'd broken the promise he'd made to Priscilla…

Drawing back, the ever-present pain of loss intensified in his heart, and he didn't bother wiping away the tear that fell down his face. My Grace, he thought. It was hard to say why the curse had suddenly faltered, or why he and Lydia seemed to be the only ones who remembered their pasts, but the only thing that mattered was that after all these years, he'd finally found his daughter again. Whether Lydia helped him or not, he knew he'd stop at nothing to be with her, regardless of the consequences that followed.

That curse…she would have done everything in her power to keep us trapped here.

Lydia's words echoed in his mind. It was true: based on her mastery of dark magic, Regina's curse wouldn't have weakened so easily, not without the presence of some kind of—

—of magic.

He drew in a breath, released it. Magic that could very well be solution he was looking for. Only a strong magic could have lifted the veil of Regina's curse in such a manner, and there was no doubt in his mind that it was because someone had brought magic to Storybrooke.

The question was: who?