In Emma's opinion, one of life's greatest challenges is motivating people to do something they're not keen on doing at all. It was the reason why she had been so hesitant in even listening to Mother Superior's suggestion that she teach for a living.
As if she really had any choices. In these times, women... Well, the only thing they own is the position of "Mother and Housewife." And that is not a type of employment she will be considering anytime in the near present or future.
No, sidestepping youngsters ranging from five years old to fifteen in their efforts to distract and dissuade her from her set course of action to educate them is a much better solution to what she likes to call "the marriage problem."
Still, despite how aggravating the ogling stares of adolescent village boys and the high-pitched giggles of frolicking little girls are, she remembers how tough it was to discipline some of her other pupils under different circumstances, and it's safe to say that in the end she believes she has made substantial progress.
Clearing her throat to make her voice loud and true, she enunciates very pointedly and in no uncertain terms that disrespectful behavior of any kind will be not be tolerated in or outside the schoolroom, whether it is directed towards her or any of their classmates. Tardiness, absence without sufficient cause, and failing to complete assigned work will result in punishment.
When a few of the oldest boys sitting in the back snicker at this, Emma smirks and says that since the schoolhouse was refurbished so nicely, the townsfolk will be very happy to receive any gratis aid in repairing their own houses, regarding whitewashing, thatching the roofs, general yardwork, repairing the outdoor water closets. Naturally, since she will be openly promoting compassion as another reputable virtue inside her classroom, they are very welcome to volunteer first to help their neighbors out of the goodness of their hearts.
If they fail to do as they've promised, she's quite sure they'll be hearing from other people besides their parents about not keeping their word and leaving their unfinished work hanging by a thread. And if anyone wants to become the classroom cleaner, washing the chalkboard and sweeping the floors after school five times a week, she can make that dream come true quicker than she can snap her fingers twice.
Needless to say, no one over the age of ten utters even a squeak for the rest of the morning.
Moreover, when it comes to subject matter, the children looked utterly bored by the prospect of learning their ABCs and 123s. She attempts to rouse their spirits by saying how useful these skills are, but one boy pipes up and says he's never even seen a book in his life, while a girl maybe eight years old objects to the idea of counting by stating that she'll be working a loom until she's as old as her granny, so what would she need numbers for?
Emma doesn't even dare to venture beyond mathematics and English, saving the purposes of history, science, art, Latin, and music for another day.
Nevertheless, the Sunday lesson flies by and ends well before lunchtime, and once her last student is out the door, she slumps in her teacher's chair and buries her face in her hands.
How is she going to do this?
How is she going to persuade them that this is worthwhile, when she couldn't even believe it herself?
Emma tells herself that it was just out of desperation that she accepted their invitation, that this has nothing to do with the fact that she likes their company and wants to see at least one friendly face in this town. That's why she's dressed in her best, standing on David's porch with a nervous expression and anxious feet skittering from side to side.
Oh, sure it is.
When she raises her hand to knock again, the door opens slowly of its own accord and an older, amiable looking woman peers out. She scrutinizes Emma for a moment; in that second of time, Emma worries that she'll be turned out and flung away like all those orphanages and possible parents had done to her before.
Instead, she is happily surprised when she is ushered inside as if she were one of the family. "Oh, you must be the Emma that David has been telling me about ― come in, my child, come in! You'll catch your death out here, standing in only that frock and with no leggings."
She is David's mother, Ruth, and she has the heart of a lamb and the manners of a great lady. When she calls her Miss Swan, Emma asks all present to please call her by her first name, as she is a person and not a bird. That quip earns a smile from Ruth.
David grins fondly at Emma when he sees her being herded into a chair by the fireplace and instructed to remove her bonnet and shawl so they can get warm and dry by the roaring hearth. Mary Margaret, on the other hand, only chuckles as she stirs the cooking pot simmering on the stove.
They have shepherd's pie and crusty homemade bread for supper, followed by gooseberry pie and a gentle amount of wine. Surrounded by three people who seem to genuinely care what she thinks and feels, Emma basks in the attention and carries the conversations as far as she can. When it's time to clean up, she offers to wash the dishes and Mary Margaret says she'll dry them, much to Ruth's protest.
Reminded of days gone by, Emma smiles when she overhears Ruth talking to David about the farm, the sheep, and when he'll finally marry Mary Margaret. The girl beside her smiles sheepishly herself and chokes on a stifled laugh when David starts to make excuses.
This home smells and speaks and breathes of family, of true love, of happiness. Emma can recognize poverty when she sees it, being an unwilling participant in its sorrows herself, but in spite of how little they have materially, David and his mother have the greatest treasure in this world. It's written in their faces, how much they care for those they love, and it's like a great light has entered into Emma's dark, dark world.
Now she knows why Mary Margaret shines throughout the day like a star, why David is a gentleman to every person he meets.
When Ruth offhandedly mentions that a girl like her will have a hard time of finding a husband, Emma laughs and asks why. Laughter gets passed around to all when she replies that men share a common fear: smart, clever women who are not only beautiful but also terribly outspoken.
Before she departs to return to her lonely one-room cottage, she sadly declines Ruth's proposal that she stay overnight and sleep over.
Because she is wishing with all her might that this was her family, that she could stay here forever and never leave.
If only that were true. If only.
"Darn it!" David swears loudly, nursing a red, bruised thumb after his hammer swings the wrong direction. He is currently replacing the wooden tiles on the roof, determined to finish the job before sunset. "If only Killian were here, instead of tending to his ego and hiding away in that secluded glen of his..."
Emma looks up, putting the bucket of soapy water down on the ground. It's her first Saturday here after one whole week of being Storybrooke's schoolteacher. For herself, she has learned that initially, Mary Margaret offered to be the schoolteacher, but she had only experience in watching over some of the younger children and she had never taught anyone in her life. It looks like she was the next best option.
Rolling her eyes, she glances at her handiwork, the outside of the house now gleaming and sparkling. The walls are made of stacked stones covering bricks, so the most that can be done is securing the windows and resealing the edges, replacing that broken door with a new one, and cleaning out the inside. David has kept his promise and visited during the week to start on the outside tasks, little steps leading to an improved chimney ― Emma and Mary Margaret couldn't stop laughing when they saw his woeful, blackened face after tackling the age-old soot monsters inside ― and a better overall exterior. She has been cleaning and cleaning and cleaning while he has been hammering and nailing and pulling apart what must be a centuries old foundation, but David has a good eye and the entire building now actually looks like a house instead of a dump heap.
Presently, she processes her friend's ― yes, she wants to be friends with David and Mary Margaret ― complaint and dares to ask, "So who's Killian?"
He chuckles in response and says, "No old women gossiping in the street corners have clouded your judgment yet?"
She smiles and shakes her head.
"Well, as you'll soon hear, he is what I call the town's only scapegoat. I swear ― the narrow-minded have nothing better to do than to pick on him, of all people."
"Why ― what has he done?"
David scoffs. "Absolutely nothing. He moved here about five years ago, from the city. Wouldn't say where he's from or what his history is, but he was looking for work and much like you, he was given a position that most wouldn't be eager to accept."
She half-grins, brushing sweaty hair out of her eyes. "He's the mayor?"
"Very funny, Emma." He sighs. "He's...uh...the lighthouse keeper."
Emma swivels slowly, staring in all directions. "There's a lighthouse here?"
"Yes...but see, it's far from the center of Storybrooke, and it's very isolated. The path to it is a long hike, and the cottage that's adjoining it is surrounded by nature's wildlife. Not exactly a place you'd want if you're planning on being social. It's also a constant job, making sure the lighthouse is always in order." David groans as he climbs down the ladder. "I mean, who wants to be working all the time?"
"The extra wages probably don't hurt," she comments wryly, double-checking that the handkerchief wrapped around her head is securely keeping her hair dry and dirt-free. It's more difficult to keep herself clean than the damn windowsills.
"True, that," he says with a lopsided grin. Then his expression drops into sadness, sympathy in his eyes. "But that's just it ― Killian doesn't do it for the money ― as little as it is. He pushes himself relentlessly into his tasks and seldom withdraws from them, and let's just say that someone as unusual as he is has gained more than a few distrusting and jealous glances from some of the townspeople, because they don't understand why he has chosen such a life for himself. They simply believe the rumors and refuse to see the honest man in front of them." Then David suddenly clears his throat and noticeably changes the subject, but Emma doesn't press him for more information about this mysterious man. "Speaking of work, how's the new school going, Emma?"
One brow raised in reply, she hesitates, concentrating instead on helping him lower the bucket of nails that had been resting on the second-to-last rung near the top of the ladder. "It's...well..." She bites her lip and squints at the horizon, the sun blinding her and leaving sunspots in her vision when she finally looks away to gaze back at him. "It's complicated. The children are not receptive to what I'm teaching."
He frowns. "If they're misbehaving, I can go to their p―"
"No, it's not that at all," she denies hurriedly. "It's that they're listening, but not really listening." Rubbing her temples, she tries to explain. "It's that the material I'm supposed to teach them is not sinking in, so to speak. I've used pictures and diagrams and everything imaginable to help them understand and retain what they've heard and seen, but it's not working."
Emma settles herself on the low fence encircling the property, ignoring the cold feel of the flat stone under her skin. Looking concerned, David sits next to her, his respectful silence encouraging her to continue speaking her thoughts. "I want to teach them what I know, to find so much beyond what they have already through knowledge and reading and discovery. To not be afraid to broaden their views. But I need to reach them first, to have a way to connect with them. Number and figures and words aren't that way."
"They need more," David punctuates easily, a kindred spirit in her own time of need for understanding.
Yes, but how to accomplish that...
During the next several days after the dreaded first week is over, Emma thinks little of the elusive "Killian" between her new friendships and adjusting to her new routine. Each morning she rises with the dawn, preparing the few books she owns to take with her to the school, scrambling eggs on a pan over the small open stove over the hearth, having breakfast while bemoaning the loss of all those glorious books Graham had. He had proposed she take whatever she wanted, but how would that have worked?
She is more or less a nomad, so carting around boxes full of books would not only be impractical but also impossible. God, she misses her stories. The ancient and the contemporary, musings and narratives, the serious and the humorous. Reading brings sunlight to a rainy day, comfort in a time of grief, flowers in the midst of spring.
She can't even have that, as this wretched hole of a village doesn't have a library.
Most of her students have chores at home to complete or younger siblings to look after, so school begins early and only lasts until lunchtime. After ascertaining that the classroom is in top shape, the remaining hours until dusk are for Emma to do with as she pleases.
Which is why she is now undertaking that most dreaded of errands, something she has always loathed: shopping.
She scans the shelves for the items she needs to purchase, stopping every once in a while to look at something either repulsive or fantastical. Both categories are beyond her expenditure range.
Fortunately, those in charge of the establishment are very nice and helpful. Granny sits behind the counter, yawning after her long night running the local tavern, while Red organizes some parts of the shop that are in slight disarray. Mary's best friend is every inch the lovely lady as well, natural beauty coating her from head to toe. For a girl living in the middle of nowhere, she is dressed impeccably and up to taste with the fashions, attractively vivid but not gaudy. Her personality matches her looks, but while Mary Margaret is very forgiving and maintains her temper well, Red has the fiery eyes and ear of a wolf, never forgetting a slight or wrong move and quite passionate about voicing her opinions on the spot, whether they be positive or negative.
In other words, Emma likes her a lot. After all, honesty and boldness do wonders amid a world full of stuffy, judgmental―
The windchimes hanging above the door jingle merrily as it opens, and from the corner of her eye, Emma can see a cloaked figure slip through.
"Why hello there, stranger," Red greets teasingly, watching as her grandmother disappears into the back of the store. She goes to take her place. "It's been a while since you've been in this neck of the woods." When whoever it is doesn't respond right away, Emma hopes she is well hidden and peeks between the shelves.
When she reflects back, she really wasn't prepared for what she saw.
The man leaning across the counter, his stance both cocky and self-assured, is without a doubt the handsomest man she has ever seen. From his would-be beard, dark bristle accentuating his strong jawline, to his sharp facial features and elegant physique, he looks like...
A warrior on the prowl, judging by his steady hands and ready feet, muscles tense from being so alert.
A pirate ready to raid, his smirk devilish and very, very dangerous. The way his lips move speaks of eloquence and wit and charm and intelligence.
He can be a rogue, an adventurer, a scholar. He can be everything and anything.
When his eyes, colored like the sky and the ocean and every bit of water on earth, flicker over various areas of the shop, she decides he might be a spirit of air like in her stories, created by the wind and breathing life into the world around him. Yes, he has that commanding presence, that demand for attention. And it's not just his appearance ― it's him. She can feel that there's more to him than what a mirror would show.
Having not even listened to the words exchanged between him and Red, Emma finds herself with her mouth agape, her hands clenching the edge of the soft wood. If he only notices how she is staring at him...
"―they look fine, but I haven't sold any of the last ones you gave me. Additionally, when customers start asking who made them, it makes selling them...tricky," Red excused, waving her hands about like she did when she was nervous. Or embarrassed.
His voice feels like velvet against her ears, accented and spicy and smooth. "Ah, I see. Because they're mine ― right, love?"
The girl shrugs, a small, pitying half-smile on her face. "It's not my fault, Killian. You know what this town thinks of you ― well," she snorts, "the nitpickers in it, anyway."
Killian. Killian.
Not that Killian ― the one David defended, the one he spoke of as a friend would. Not the Killian Mary Margaret described in passing just the other day, the tormented artist and former sailor who had no family, no friend, no one. The outcast who is called a daft cripple behind his back, because of his lost left hand. The one who is mocked by the majority of the town, called a coward and a philanderer.
When he turns at the sound of her loud gasp, she recognizes him. The rude stranger who she ran into on her way to town.
Slowly, Emma emerges from her hiding spot, clutching at the basket in her hands. Her knuckles have become white from the strain.
"Emma! Ready?" Red seems relieved and apprehensive at the same time, and as for the enigmatic Killian... He is eyeing her up and down, his gaze lingering on certain parts of her. If his perusal were any more heated, it would burn her.
She won't blush. She won't.
The counter is wide, but she can almost touch Killian's hip with her own as she takes her stand next to him, placing her purchases on top of the polished plank so Red can count them up. Lying next to his still hand are a bunch of pendants, appearing to be carved of wood and beaded into necklaces.
The silence is downright oppressive, the weight of the man's stare burdening her shoulders and her head and her very bones. Damn it ― now she has a headache. It doesn't help that her body is reacting in a very particular, very familiar way to his proximity. She thought she had put such foolish wishes behind her in the past, when a certain brown-eyed gentleman had caught her heart and hung it out to dry in the gusts of anguish.
"Ahem..." Red is frantically trying to dispel the tension. "Emma, have you met Killian before?"
Rolling her eyes and sighing deeply, Emma accepts that there's no escaping this. She'll have to look at him. "We've met. Once." She gathers her courage and then sees there's nothing to fear. "You were in a hurry."
With one brow raised cheekily, he has the most sardonic smile and mischievous gaze she's ever seen. Underneath, there's this hint of hardness, the smallest sign of pain. Pain that he's desperately trying to hide for the sake of everyone present. The fortress of his soul is an impenetrable one, she'd guess, and from the looks of it, he's trapped miserably inside.
"Aye." His eyes narrow and then widen from recognition. "You're the lass who nearly knocked me to the ground when I was headed down the path last week!"
Emma wants to fling a retort at him. She really does. But she unconsciously searches for the stump that Mary Margaret said repulses all the men and the women too (well, they say they're repulsed). When she looks at him again, his expression has visibly darkened.
Knowing when to avoid a storm, she ducks her head and nods. "I'm sorry for that. Truly. I had just come to Storybrooke ― and it was very windy that day. I'm Emma Swan."
Red explains, "She's the new schoolteacher."
"Ah." He is still scrutinizing her, but it's evident his mind is elsewhere. Then he awakens from his daze and introduces himself, extending his right hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Swan," he purrs flirtatiously. "I'm Killian Jones. I take care of―"
"―the lighthouse." Emma nods again. When she tentatively gives him her hand, he surprises her by kissing it like a gentleman would, but the feel of his mouth on her skin is doing very unsettling things to her stomach. His fingers caress hers, and she's beside herself.
She wants to get out. To run. To take a step back, away from him. He's trouble. He's out of bounds.
Even though she recalls David's words perfectly and feels sorry, she cannot stay and get better acquainted. She can't do anything but say polite nothings and bid her farewells. She doesn't want such an attractive man anywhere near her, for her safety's sake.
Killian is not what she expected, and now that the flames have licked at her feet, she is dancing around them in an effort to survive. Stranger and stranger he is, because he belongs more to the sea than to fire, smelling of earth and woodland and salty air.
She must look terrified, for he drops her hand almost apologetically, as if he had done something to her. "Uh, how much do I owe you?" she directs at Red.
Taking out a ledger, she scribbles something down. "No worries, Emma, I put it on your account until you get your first wages from the council. Granny won't mind."
Murmuring her thanks and her goodbyes, Emma glances at Killian, who is staring at her once more. He is puzzled and transfixed and broken ― so, so broken, that it's a dagger to her heart, reminding her of herself.
It hurts... It all hurts so much...
The last thing she hears before the door closes shut is his whispered "I'll be seeing you around, Swan."