"Mmm, you make a fine breakfast, milady." Killian is chewing every bite thoroughly, looking extremely pleased after each swallow. Behind her back, he had woken up silently, dressed quickly, and readily sat down at her two-place table. In retribution, Emma's mind is wondering how he is not a mirage and is still here. Everyone leaves eventually. No one stays.

She shrugs meekly in response to his praise. "It's only fried eggs and bread and butter―"

"All of which create a feast fit for a king," he counters, raising an eyebrow defiantly when she opens her mouth to contradict him. The gesture renders her silent and she closes her mouth after a moment of reflection.

"I'm not much of a cook," she finally says, looking down at her lap. Her own morning meal lies untouched on the table, the plate and fork and napkin arranged in perfect symmetry. But nothing looks appetizing.

When Killian folds his napkin beside his own plate, placing his soiled cutlery on top, she smiles weakly and moves to take it ― and her own failed sustenance ― to the iron sink on the far-side wall. His hand reaches out to stop her.

"You're not eating?" he inquires softly, looking as concerned as he did when she almost drowned. Blushing, she shakes her head.

"I don't feel hungry."

He bows his head, and Emma worries that she's embarrassed him. To escape what could be coming, what might be coming, she makes a choice and takes a leap of faith: she places her hand over his. The action clearly startles him, because he is staring at their nearly conjoined hands as if they are unknown objects that have suddenly appeared.

"It's a memory," she explains softly, touching his skin a second time before withdrawing and completing the task she started. The swish of draining water and quiet gurgle of it reaching the pipe that leads it home outside masks his footsteps, for one moment she is alone and then he is right behind her, removing her hand from clutching the edge of the sink and returning it to his hold.

"You seem to have many painful memories, I think," he murmurs. The gentle tone of his voice, the way he caresses her fingers with his, makes her turn towards him. He makes her look at him, even though he is not doing anything. He is naturally persuasive ― or perhaps she has been seeking a kindred soul all this time and she still hasn't learned her lesson, that friendship doesn't really exist.

"But then..." He smiles sadly. "So do I."

She marvels that he doesn't just assume their kinship, that he's letting her set the terms of their relationship ― whatever that might be. Because these feelings he stirs in her, profound and mysterious, refuse to be disregarded and demand to be defined. They remind her of what she once dreamed of, a time that appears to be so distant and unreachable now.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Swan," he recites, but there is sincerity in his words in lieu of cold formality. He adds an instant later, "This is the first time in a long time that I've been ― and stayed ― in a place where I haven't been judged." He looks down. "Or laughed at."

She tries to smile. "And who says I haven't judged you?"

"I have my ways," he chuckles drily. Then his expression is increasingly sombre. "But, if you truly had, you wouldn't be asking me that question right now. I speak from experience." His gaze softens and strengthens all at once. "You are afraid to trust me, to reveal yourself, but how can I expect more, when I feel the same as you do?"

Earnest, kind, questioning, anguished... Killian Jones is no ordinary man. He has been forced to wear the coat of a scapegoat, taking the scorn of Storybrooke in stride with his own pain. "But I thought I irritated you," she replies to a passing thought, unable to form an answer equivalent to his previous query.

He only grins and follows the mutual memory as well, remarking, "You were at the right place at the wrong time. I was in a particularly foul mood that afternoon, and even the smallest amount of patience was lacking." He moves closer, daring to lower his face so that their noses are almost touching. "If you believe that I don't like you, you are quite incorrect, darling. Oh no. When I see you," he whispers breathlessly, "I see hope. There's a beacon of light in this town again, and I'm helpless to stay away from it."

She searches his eyes, suddenly desperate for reassurance but not sure what to say. His fixed stare is quite as scrutinizing as hers, and again, she feels this lengthening connection, like a taut line of rope anchoring her to her course, extend out from him to her. "Maybe the reason is that we understand each other," she offers with a timid smile

"Aye. You and I..." He brushes his lips against her forehead, and the soft kiss he leaves there makes Emma gasp quietly and a jolt of dread sweeps through her. "To have someone who knows precisely what you have gone through is a powerful antidote."

"Antidote? To what?"

"We've both been left alone."

She can smell his earthy scent, as if he carries the fragrant spices of the world with him wherever he goes. He has heaven's gaze, and though he is no Hercules from the Greek myths she read as a young adult, he has the looks of a demi-god, beauty and strength and fire melded together so that the closest reminder of a celestial angel remains. And he is fallible, which makes him human and within her touch, her reach. Despite her efforts to deny it, her body is relentlessly attracted to his, and she can't stop it.

But as for what he thinks of her...

"Emma Swan, you are more of a rare bird than you believe," he reveals, his hand stroking her cheek. She is now convinced that he can read her mind, but not like a street magician selling card tricks. Similarity is a double-edged sword, for you can see through another by recognizing yourself in them. "And to set the record straight, to put any doubts to rest, let me be perfectly clear and open. I like you. And I'd like to experience the pleasure of your company more often in the coming days. Will you do me this honor, that I will continue to see you and talk to you once I take my leave today and walk out of this door?"

She lets her growing smile take over her lips, lets the flutter of happiness building inside shine through. "But what are your true intentions?" she challenges one last time, not wanting to tease him ― however, she does need to know his ulterior motives, if he has any. Clues would be helpful.

He smirks all too charmingly. "Why, I intend to be your friend. I would never presume more unless you wished it." Bending down, he kisses her hands and clasps them in his single one, as if she is a lady and he is a lord. Utter honesty in every gesture, every word, every glance. Who is this man, really? He has the airs of a gentleman ― but then, a true gentleman is one at heart and not at appearance. And Killian Jones seems to be the former, not the latter.

She realizes she's been holding her breath, speechless, when Killian clears his throat expectantly, awaiting her reply. He is anxious, and there's a visible sign of worry that she'll reject him, that he could never be anything to her. "Ahem. I'd like that. Very, very much." She would enjoy spending more moments like this with him, but from the way the sun is shining on her windows, it's time to go to the schoolhouse. "And now we must say good-bye." The look of heartbreak on his face makes her shiver, and she hastens to rectify it. "I'm due for work, Killian," she adds with a gentle laugh.

The sound of his name uttered by her voice mollifies his expression like the magic dust of dreams does in fairy tales. His smile is the proof. "Oh. Well, in that case..." He helps her don her coat and shawl, quite adept and agile as he springs toward the door, eager and pleased as can be. "Allow me to escort you to the school, my Swan?"

She chuckles and rolls her eyes. "And how am I your Swan, may I ask?"

"Simple. I saw you first. There are only two swans in this town: one resides in the night sky, and the other... She's found a permanent place in my dreams, my thoughts, and my life." The intensity with which he says this, his gaze searing and piercing, causes a blush to dance upon her cheeks, and she can feel the atmosphere in the room grow hotter and hotter, like he has become a singular burning star because of his fine speech.

"Killian Jones, you certainly know the power of flattery." Pretending to be chagrined, she tsks at him. After locking the door behind them, she leads him down the small trail down to the main path. Vague fog has settled around the houses and dots the landscape like runaway clouds from the sky gone rampant.

"It's not flattery when it's the truth, love. But no worries ― I've always been told I'm quite good in rhetoric." This earns more of her laughter ― and his answering smile ― once again. Their breaths are puffs of white smoke in the chilly air, and though it's sunny and bright, the world looks like a land of mist. She holds on to his right arm, her steps are perfectly in time with his. Though he is peering at street corners and windows, the look of exile and condemnation entering his eyes, she keeps her head up high and tells herself that she cares less what the villagers will think of the schoolteacher parading around with the lighthouse keeper.

Out of all her new acquaintances here, this is one she's willing to take a chance on for more.

Robin Locksley's mansion is more grand and awe-inspiring than she could ever possible imagine. However, in some ways, it feels cold and empty, as the master of the house is usually not in, leaving her frequently alone with two children and a kitchen full of servants.

Roland is five years old and always tags along with his toy bear, while precocious Henry ― his soon-to-be stepbrother ― still believes in magic at the tender age of nine. Together, they create a lot of mischief, their love for stories causing chaos for the entire household when they're on the search for adventure. They giggle and scream, run and hide about the garden, chase each other across rooms and corridors, ask hundreds of questions during lessons. They are bursts of energy and enthusiasm.

Being their governess is no easy task, but at the end of the day, it feels rather rewarding nonetheless. She is teaching them mathematics, but childhood logic intervenes more often than not, and she finds herself talking off-topic about navigating the world with only a compass, or building a treehouse on a deserted island with barely any tools. They are supposed to be practicing their writing, but she ends up telling them stories about faraway lands and heroes and villains, about good and evil and how love is more powerful than anything else. And during Latin translations, they beg her to narrate tales from Plutarch's Lives or any myths she's willing to share.

Little by little, she learns that she enjoys this opportunity that she's been given, and that maybe Mother Superior was right.

She likes taking care of her students, even if she wishes with all her might that someone would choose to take care of her.

Walking briskly toward the servants' quarters in search of the housekeeper, Miss Adelaide, she runs into another figure exiting that very place quicker than she's entering it.

He apologizes profusely, then his eyes meet hers. It's like a match has been lit and it's being held close to her skin, the way her face flushes and she can't speak. But he overlooks her embarrassment and shyness, calmly introducing himself as Neal, that he works in the stables, and that he was just badgering the cook for his promised lunch. He smiles after she does, he mentions her new position in the Locksley household, and welcomes her to Sherwood Manor. He's handsome, well-voiced, and...

And she still remembers how he turned his head at the corner, giving her another ogling look and winsome grin before heading out of her sight.

Over the next few hours, the stables become a priority to visit, because she is sure of one thing: she would really like to see this Neal again.

Mary Margaret waves to her from across the lane, and Emma gladly reciprocates, wanting to talk to her and David again.

"Hello. I haven't seen you for a long while," she begins awkwardly when she's standing beside Mary. The young woman at her right just gives her a warm smile and gently squeezes her hand.

"David and I ― we've missed you, Emma. Truly." She continues before Emma get in a word. "He told me about that night you couldn't come, and I felt so bad about that whole misunderstanding that I told him we needed to give you some space and let you be, if you wanted some time to be alone. But..." She finally inhales, her cheeks pink. "If you're up for it, we would greatly enjoy having you over for dinner again sometime."

The kindly, happily spoken invitation encourages Emma to accept. "I'd love to."

"Wonderful! Oh, and I hope you don't mind company ― David wants Killian to come over ― you remember him, right? ― and he's practically pulling an arm and a leg to persuade him to agree. But maybe he'll be more agreeable when he hears you'll be there..."

As candid a matchmaker as ever. Apparently, no one knows about the incident with the boat, about Killian furtively staying the night in her abode. For if the town did know about it, Mary Margaret would surely know about it as well. She is considered Storybrooke's resident princess, in many regards, but she never acts like it. She has the most congenial disposition in the world, and David is a very fortunate man.

"No, I don't mind. I don't mind at all." Emma hefts her heavy canvas bag up on her shoulder, trying to soothe her aching back and shoulder. "I was meaning to ask, by the way, if you know of anywhere I could find more sheet music paper?"

Mary Margaret strides in time with her as they follow the winding paths, some of the town out of view as they near the girl's house. "I do. Marco's carpentry shop sells some paper on the side. But what do you need it for?"

She groans when the strap of the bag digs into a particularly sore muscle. "Oh, me being an idiot as usual." She sighs when Mary Margaret gapes at her, both brows furrowed. "I want to teach the children about music. I was thinking about forming a school choir, just for them, so they can do something together as a class."

"That's a splendid idea!" She beams at her.

Emma shakes her head tiredly. "More of a recipe for disaster than anything else ― some of the older boys are tone-deaf, and getting them to get into group formation is like taming a pack of wild dogs." She rubs at her eyes, pulling her shawl tighter about her shoulders. "But I'm not going to give up so easily. I'll start by teaching them how to read music, music history, music theory. Dear Lord, this is going to be so difficult."

She realizes a moment too late that she's taken the Lord's name in vain and probably shocked the very demure Mary Margaret, but to Emma's surprise, David's fiancé is barely holding back her laughter.

"What's so funny?"

"You," she giggles. "Emma, no matter what you say or how you grumble, you're the most dedicated teacher I've ever met."

She scoffs. "The only teacher you've ever met."

"True," Mary Margaret admits, "but you fit my vision of what a teacher should be like perfectly."

Throughout her life so far, many people have bestowed compliments and derision upon her. The latter came easily, while the former was occasional, and when it did come, it was usually offered in expectation of something to be given in return.

Nothing is for free, says the age-old adage, and Emma learned this one pretty early in life. But the genuine admiration in her friend's eyes speaks to the contrary.

For several days, there's no sign of the elusive Killian. Not that she's counting the days. It's obvious that he's occupied with his own work, and that maintaining the lighthouse requires constant vigilance. However, Emma secretly hopes that he would try to find a moment to visit her in the midst of his daily duties. She knows it's a selfish hope, when if she truly wanted to see him, she could go visit him herself.

Oh, the horror of old women's gossip and the town's disrepute if she were to do such a thing.

Luckily, David catches her on her journey back to her cottage after the class has been dismissed for the day. After sharing greetings and relative small talk, he offhandedly comments about helping Killian fix the faulty lighthouse lamps and a breakage near the main lamp. She quietly suggests her help. Without a second thought, he answers with a big grin and hearty whistling as they tread upward, wandering farther and farther from the heart of Storybrooke on their way to the mysterious outcast's home.

Well, she wanted adventure, a break from this tranquil life and its predictability ― but daring venture or not, this expedition will certainly change much. That she believes more than anything as she hikes up her skirt to her calves and trudges alongside a panting David.

As David predicted, the lighthouse and its adjoining quarters are nestled in the heart of a high foothill, almost hanging on a nearby promontory. Thick forest surrenders to sparse outlying trees, and they in their turn yield to an abundance of high, green grass. It is extremely windy when they arrive at their destination, but it is a blessing in disguise. The strong breeze pushes Emma closer and closer to a jutting cliff, but she ignores the possibility of danger and instead focuses on what's below and ahead.

The awaiting view takes her breath away and stuns her.

When the sunlight catches the ocean waves and tosses its reflection back and forth upon them, the sea indifferent to all elements except its own, she knows that is freedom. The open horizon, tomorrows not fixed in a particular place and time, the promise of endless drifting...

Yes, that is a true escape, a passage to another life.

Her skirt is billowing about her like a mad, fluttering sheet. Her bonnet has been blown into inactivity, thin strings keeping it hanging behind her head until she can use it again. Her hair has been stolen by air itself, toying with each strand individually and together. Her eyes are watering, but they're adjusting the new sensations and growing bolder.

She loves this. Absolutely loves it. No fences, no gates, no walls, no chains. No heartbreak ― not up here. Fear of exposure has fled.

Spreading her arms, she pretends she's riding the winds of time, and she lets her eyelids close, reveling in how weightless and transparent she feels. Tilting her head back, she inhales deeply as her cheeks are caressed by fingertips that are not of skin and bone.

At night, the endless stars ground you, remind you that you are so small in space that is so vast and beyond your comprehension. But it is the ocean that encourages you to stake your claim on the earth by actually being with all of it, not just one little piece.

Finally, she smiles as the wind dies and she comes back down from the skies. No wonder Killian hides up here rather than coming to Storybrooke. In all his solitude and loneliness, he has one thing that she does not: the splendor of nature and its calling to the most intrinsic part of every living creature.

"Emma?" David calls out, waving her over. God, he is so much like Mary Margaret that there's not separating one from the other, she muses, biting back a laugh as she runs her fingers through her curls and tries to comb through her now messy, entangled hair.

Enough of her daydreams and fantasies.

It's time to go see Killian Jones.