Sunday service is, per usual, monotonous. People cough, clear their throats, and snore during Pastor Hopper's sermon, the dull noises creating a haze of noise that makes Emma want to run out the door and seek the seashore. At least there it is quiet and calm. And void of company. It isn't that the minister is not a fine speaker. He chirps away about God as merrily as a trickling brook running through a forest of trees. But who hears that small stream among the sounds coming from the living creatures who've made the forest their home?
Mary Margaret waved to her when Emma entered the small church, slinking down the aisle in an effort not to be seen. The girl's pleasant, warm demeanor forced a smile out of her, if only to be duly polite to the one person who still liked her. Well, judging by how David eyed Emma with an expression of sympathy, he at least feels sorry for her, even if he is loyal to Killian first and foremost. She respects that.
She was about to walk over to them, tempted to sit next to them and not be crowded as usual by old women who give her disdainful looks or boisterous children who nearly shriek in her ear in order to gain some sense of excitement during a boring interlude. And she would have, if not for the figure standing next to David.
At first Killian Jones had been looking down, his hair combed back neatly, his attire tidy and well-chosen. Then again, everyone is in their best clothes. God, David must have pulled an eye and a tooth to get him to come here. But the moment he peered upward, she perceived that his stare was directed toward her. It was strong enough that she knew he pointedly sought her attention.
She refused to return it, refused to give him another thought. Instead of joining the friendly couple, she bowed her head and walked toward the pulpit, not glancing back.
In the morning, when she first arrived, Pastor Hopper took her aside and asked her if she would take Mrs. Tremaine's place, the old lady being ill and unable to move from her bed. Naturally, Emma paused. She never liked playing the piano in front of others, always felt that restless urge to impress and the pressure of perfection when on center stage. But the minister pleaded with her, saying that it was just for now. Music, he said, was important for the congregation's participation in the liturgy. It was another way for them to reach out to God, to talk to Him.
How could she argue with that?
So here she is, sitting on the bench, glad that the simple upright is positioned against the wall, only one side of her exposed to the listening crowd before her. When she played the welcoming hymn, everyone took notice. Though it has been some months since she really played, all of her learning came flooding back to her immediately. Her fingers flew over the keys, and some religious piece by Handel softly encouraged the parishioners to think of the divine while managing to keep them awake due to the allegretto tempo.
She never told anyone she could play an instrument, let alone the piano, so it was more surprising than shocking that a round of applause erupted as soon as she finished the coda, dying down on its own as the pastor rose to his stand to say his sermon.
Now, his preaching draws to an end, and true to form, she prepares her hands, readying herself for another piece. But then, while he walks down the small stairs, he stops short, turns around, and heads straight toward her.
"Miss Swan," he whispers, "would it be too much of a bother to ask you to lead us in song?"
She gulps, keeping her gaze fixated on the walnut wood in front of her so she won't look at anyone in her audience. "I'm sorry ― I haven't played for some time, so my skills―"
"Emma," he interrupts, though not unkindly, "your performance was beautiful ― and I want to thank you again for taking this responsibility onto your shoulders on such short notice. But you see... We're used to singing one final hymn before departure. It's a routine part of the service."
She wants to bang her forehead against the keyboard. "Me? Sing?" Chuckling wryly, she shakes her head. "I don't think I can―"
"Please?" he implores.
She's never been much for singing. The last time she sang was... But she is going to teach her students music, so lying won't work. Clearing her mind, she smiles tightly at him and replies, "Alright. Give me a minute, if you please?"
He nods and returns to his seat. In a flash, she has to think of a song she remembers that is in her range and that she can play confidently. Clearing her throat, she licks her lips before she begins the introduction of her selection.
Music is a funny thing. A few notes well placed together have the power of conjuring dozens of memories, all related to that very theme. They also can bring one back in time to access feelings long forgotten or left behind. For her, the confined space of the church interior fades away when she opens her mouth to sing, reminding her of how Sister Astrid trained her school choir even when it seemed hopeless. How Emma was told she had a beautiful voice. How more than two gentlemen, ones she respected, had concurred with that compliment many times.
She's missed this, indeed. Because when she's playing, nothing else matters. It's as if music takes her soul and sets it somewhere heavenly, somewhere safe and warm and welcoming. No angry men there. No sad women. No lonely children. Just happiness, lifting her up from darkness.
A few times, her voice is off pitch, she misses a key when one of her fingers slip, and her legs tremble. But most importantly, she does her best, and altogether, it is a success. The townsfolk are convinced to join in, singing their hearts out, and the roof nearly shakes with the power of their duet with Emma. After Archie intones the closing prayer, some of the men and women start to clap, the children being the loudest of all. She can guess most of her students are in the congregation, accompanied by their parents.
Feeling embarrassed and confused, she wrings her hands and tries to make a timely, discreet exit. She needs to avoid Killian.
Unfortunately, that doesn't work at all.
She cannot turn her back on Mary Margaret, cannot be rude to her friend. So when she sees the woman approaching, David and Killian lagging far behind her, Emma pushes down the notion that she's being ambushed and swallows her discomfort with a weak grin.
"Good Lord, Emma ― I didn't know you could play! And you sang like an angel too!" She claps a hand over her mouth when some remaining people sitting in the pews give her reprimanding glares over her shouts. "When did you learn?" she now whispers.
Emma shrugs, wishing she had something to clasp to her chest so her arms wouldn't dangle so awkwardly at her sides. Focusing on Mary alone, she thanks her and states, "It was part of my education, growing up. My teachers were demanding when it came to practice. My palms have stung from the slap of several rulers in their time."
"How horrible!"
Emma sneaks a glance at her followers, who have finally caught up with their leader. David appears to be intrigued by this short snippet of her past, while Killian is observing her again.
Heaving a sigh, she hates what she has to do next. "Well...Mary Margaret...David..." she nods toward both of them in turn, making their companion a blurry blind spot in her vision, "it was nice to see you. But I have much work to do back at the cottage, so if you will excuse me, I will take my leave now." Sidestepping them all by way of a curtsey, she walks to the open double doors, raising her skirt to her calves so it doesn't get caught on her shoes when she descends down the stairs.
Killian told her he is always ignored by the villagers, and despite appearances, it sounds like he doesn't appreciate being ostracized. But that is what she's just done ― she's pretended he doesn't exist.
What she wants to know is if it hurt him to be on the receiving end of her contempt as much as it hurt her to give it. But it doesn't matter, really.
She doesn't want to see him or speak to him again.
The moment she crosses the threshold of the church, she nearly races back inside, considering it the better option in comparison to what's awaiting her outside.
"You're very quick with your hands, Miss Swan ― and on your feet, I daresay." Winking at her, August the carpenter politely tips his cap, his thumbs later hooking around his suspenders in an air of nonchalance. Not far from him is a gray-haired man whom Emma can only assume must be Marco, August's father and legendary woodcarver. He's made furniture and memorabilia for all the families in Storybrooke, if the stories are to be believed. However, both men are devoid of sawdust, she notes to herself, and have donned simple but well starched attire that befits them.
After Marco finishes his animated talk with Granny, Red off to the side and surrounded by a group of young men and women, he slowly strides over to his son, clapping him on the back. "You should join them, my boy." He nods at the social circle that seems to be comprised of all adolescents in the village. Her side vision proclaims that some of the females are secretly eyeing Killian, and not in an innocent way. Hypocrites.
August bites down on his lower lip and gives Emma a hint of a smirk, his gaze scintillating in the daylight. "Why would I do that, when I'm already in the company of this lovely lady before me?" he answers smoothly, gesturing toward her. "Father, this is Miss Emma Swan, our talented schoolteacher. Miss Swan, allow me to introduce Marco Geppetto di Firenze. Or as most know him ― Marco. My father, and one of the council."
To her great surprise, the elder man kisses her hand. "It's an honor to finally make your acquaintance in person, Signorina Swan. August here, and Signorina Mary Margaret, have told me many good things about you."
Emma blushes at how musical he's made her name become by uttering the Italian form of address before it. How tactful and kind of a man who's more of a patriarch of this place than anyone else. She had never been brought before the town council personally, since Graham and Robin's joint recommendation had been enough to convince them of her merit, so she wasn't really aware of particular names and seats and so forth. Pastor Hopper had been her main contact throughout for the position. "Thank you, Signor Geppetto―"
He waves formalities away, smiling at her. "Please, call me Marco, Signorina ― everyone else does."
Yes, she likes this man. Of course, August is grinning like a madman at their friendly exchange, but who cares about that? His father has a sincerity and warmth about him that, like with David's mother Ruth, makes her feel at ease and at home. "Marco, did you study art in Florence?" she inquires, quite curious. Well, if she is going to make small talk, then why not ask real questions that have value?
The man chuckles. "I was born in Florence, Signorina. My father before me, and his father before him... We all are woodcarvers and carpenters by birth, woodcutters by trade. Yes, I took the opportunity to learn about sculpture under a few great artists, but I had no desire to stay there forever. Firenze has changed so much since I was a little boy." He sighs deeply, frowning. "I haven't been there in years ― since August was born, in fact."
In an instant, a perpetual gloom settles over the conversation, despite the abundant sunshine, crisp wind, and azure sky around them. Emma realizes that August's mother must have died a long while ago, and both father and son are surely missing her amid this memory. "I've never been abroad at all," she inserts amicably. "But I've read much about Italia, and I'd love to visit there sometime. Traveling the world..." A wistful smile tugs at her lips. "It would be a dream come true, to see and learn so much for myself."
August cocks his head at her, looking startled that she has shared such a detail about herself with them. "Perhaps someday, you could make that dream a reality." He shrugs, grinning boyishly. It drives the shadows away from the pensive expression on his face. "I'd carve you a wooden sailboat, but I doubt it would be large enough to take you far. Moreover, it would probably sink into the first wave."
The lighthearted comment brings Marco back to life. Laughing, he ruffles his son's hair playfully, earning a mock scowl from said recipient. "You know, my dear, I think I've hardly heard anything else from mio bambino caro all month but talk of you. Why, last night, he said you visited the shop―"
"That's enough, Father," August growls out in warning, his cheeks flushing a deep shade of red.
Emma stifles a laugh of her own. He looks thoroughly embarrassed by Marco's insinuations, and while her intuition signaled that this rather attractive man was flirting with her in his own manner during their interaction yesterday, she never really thought afterwards that he might like her as a man likes a woman, especially not for a lengthy period of time. Red can easily be called beautiful, and on seeing other women of this town parade about, Emma cannot believe that she herself stands out at all.
Still, August never dared to approach her himself, waiting patiently until they would cross paths on a more dignified level, and honorable intentions count for something. Impressed by his gentleman-like behavior, she clips her response so that it is diplomatic. "Your son was very kind and hospitable yesterday ― and I thank you for it," she nods at August, who is anxiously wringing his cap between his hands. Reassessing her surroundings, she notices that Killian is now also outside with David and Mary Margaret, who are both talking to the local doctor, Victor Whale, as well as an eager redhead named Zelena. But he isn't speaking or paying attention to any of them.
He's staring at her again, his jaw set, hand clenched into a white fist, eyes burning like twin blue stars. Then a death wish of a glower is sent toward―
August.
Oh dear. She needs to leave. Now. Before some sort of masculine fight erupts. "I hope we can talk again soon," she softly rebuffs, half-turning so that they will indirectly know of her intention to depart. "It was wonderful to talk to the both of you."
Marco cuts in, "But Signorina, today, there is a luncheon for the town by the beachside. Won't you join us?" He points toward the people flocking in that direction, some with dishes and baking pans in their hands. Darn it, Pastor Hopper must have announced the upcoming gathering right before the exit song, and she didn't even listen.
Everything begins to make sense. David invited Killian to come, knowing he would blend in with the crowd but still have a chance to mingle. And somewhere, somehow, a chance to corner her, perhaps. The intensity of his ogling speaks for that deduction.
She has to go. It's a social function where everyone meets everyone, where she has the rare opportunity to see her students ― and their parents ― in a normal environment. When she will encounter dozens of people who haven't met her yet or want to meet her or care less about meeting her but have to.
She can talk to the council about collecting money for art and music supplies for the children. She can mention how she wants to develop a rigorous arts program for all ages, in addition to the math and language lessons they are currently learning.
She can broaden her own social circle. She can eat a family-cooked meal again. She can laugh and enjoy herself. She can have merriment and entertainment in her own right.
These arguments course through her mind in less than a minute, but they are all defeated by her reluctance to confront Killian, her desire to keep avoiding him, her determination to crush whatever exists between them. If there is anything at all.
"Please," she returns, "call me Emma." Bowing her head, she excuses her absence. "The post came in today ― or so I've heard." She bites down on her tongue, hoping it's true. "I'm expecting a letter. It should have been dropped off at my home by now."
August and Marco are bemused, though the latter gives her an understanding smile. Taking her hand in his once more, he kisses it respectfully and says, "There is nothing more important than matters of the heart, cara Emma. May we have the privilege of being in your company―"
"Soon," August interrupts. He glares at Killian, who is nearly scowling. "Very soon." Not very inconspicuously, Marco nudges him in the ribs. "Would you like me ― ahem, us ― to escort you home, Miss Swan?"
Her hair falls down her shoulders when she bends her head, curls shaking as she politely declines.
Thanking her for her time and courtesy, they both make their way to the beachside as well, hands in their pockets. Pulling her scarf tightly about her neck, wishing she wasn't so foolish to leave her bonnet at home, Emma immediately chooses the quickest path that will take her back to the cottage. Consumed by her own passing thoughts, she doesn't hear the heavy footsteps behind her until she crosses the main street and takes a smaller road.
"Emma."
No, not him. Please, not him. But she knows that if she continues to ignore him and keeps walking, he can make this into a public scene. And he would care less.
But she cares about her reputation, so she stops and swivels to face him, heels digging into the muddy dirt. "Leave me alone," she commands icily.
He doesn't falter for a moment. "Love, I needed to see you." She glances up, stricken by his deprecated tone of voice. "I had to see you, Emma. Don't go, lass."
She rolls her eyes, her insides screaming at her to not heed his words. "I can do as I wish, Killian ― and believe me, you are the last person I wish to see today."
His half-smile is cynical. "At least I'm last and not obliterated completely from that list," he counters weakly, coming closer to her. "All I want is a moment of your time―"
"And why, pray tell, should I give that to you?" she retorts, crossing her arms over her chest.
He is growing angry because of her repeated rejections. She can tell. "You spoke to August," he snaps, "so why won't you speak to me?"
She scoffs at his reasoning. "Oh, let me spell it out clearly for you, since you have failed at reading me." She counts out on her fingers, "You yelled at me. You threw me out of your house. You treated me like I was nothing. You were rude. And all because I saw a painting―"
"You bloody deserved it for invading my privacy!" he explodes.
"I was a guest in your home," she shouts back, feeling the urge to run. "The least you could have done was told me why I did wrong. Instead, you tossed me to the side like so much refuse and treated me as if I were not worthy of your confidence or your trust at all. Instead of being the gentleman, you were the scoundrel."
He doesn't look like he is going to yield to her point of view. Lifting an eyebrow, he darkly quips, "I prefer dashing rapscallion."
Throwing her hands in the air from exasperation, she shakes her head before proceeding down her route. But still, he follows. All the way up to her door.
When she tries to slam it shut in his face, he prevents her, pinning her against the wood with his arms on either side of her. His stump is not far from her cheek, while his entire hand twitches near the other, as if his fingertips are longing to reach her skin. "You don't understand, love," he whispers, rage gone.
She slackens her stiff posture, willing the familiar heat of their proximity to dissipate. It doesn't. God, this is so inappropriate, so intimate, so wrong. But she doesn't feel ashamed. Only confused. And aching inside. She broke what little trust he gave her. Then again, he shattered what little of her heart she had shown him.
"Then please, help me to understand," she murmurs back, wishing this ill will between them didn't exist. In spite of all her denials and her vows to forget him, she can't stop being drawn to him, like a moth to a flame.
His lips dip down, so near her mouth that she can feel his slow breaths, this warmth causing her skin to tingle. "I'm afraid, darling," he admits softly, this confession throwing her off guard. Her defenses lower slightly, but she's still wary. Unless he can conquer his own fears.
Well, how can she trust him, if he doesn't trust her? It does not work that way.
If a kiss would make their problems disappear, she would do so in a heartbeat. But that's not the life they know. So she replies, "Perhaps we shouldn't see each other anymore." She angles her head so that their faces are much farther than an inch apart. "We're hurting each other, Killian. It's ― it's not right. Not good, for either of us."
His fingers finally brush against her jaw, caressing right down to her chin. "I'm truly sorry I've caused you pain, Emma." His voice is so close to her ear, almost a thrum. "I shouldn't have lost my temper with you." When his cheek presses ever so gently against hers, framing one side of her, his face almost buried in the crook of her neck, a fractured sigh escapes her lips. "I'd forgotten you understand, better than anyone, the sufferings of a broken heart."
"How do you know," she swallows hard, "that my heart's been broken?" The planes of his body are aligned with hers, and if it wasn't for how he was leaning over her, cautious not to touch her or press against her, he would be literally on top of her. Covering her. Shielding her. And she would like to be protected, after fighting for so long. What could it be like, to just let go and let herself be taken care of?
"The look on your face when you held that letter, the day you were in tears by the door when David and I came to escort you." He gulps. She feels it. "It's what I see in my mirror everyday. I grew to hate my reflection until I covered it up ― in more ways than just the one. The room you saw is where I store my wounds. When the door opens, even for me, the scars are ripped away, and I feel it all over again. That heartbreak."
Killian pulls back, and she can see his features, how tortured they are by his long-lived anguish. "Do you want to talk about it?" she offers. Vaguely, her back begins to cramp from its awkward position.
He sniffles, smiling sadly. "Not today." Then his eyes flicker to hers, and she cannot breathe again. "But I will."
Her forehead rests against his. He shudders, but Emma takes his lonely hand in hers and rubs her palm over his, thinking less of improper and more of caring. "When you're ready," she affirms.
He echoes her own words back at her. When she's ready to forgive him, she will.
He kisses her hands before he says good-bye, and though he casts a longing perusal inside her abode, she needs to be alone today. Perhaps not tomorrow, or the day after that. But for now, yes.
Naturally, he has to make a comment about her singing and piano performances, complimenting her highly with so much enthusiasm that she blushes. Still, she doesn't want him to imagine for a moment that she despises him ― that she's not willing to move past this disruption of their would-be friendship.
First, she promises she'll come to dinner at Mary Margaret's home the day after tomorrow, as an invitation has been extended to Emma through Killian. David thought himself very clever, didn't he? Then she grabs the first object that comes to mind, the first thing in view. A peace offering. A symbol. A symbol of hope.
She peeks out the door as he snuggles into her favorite white blanket, cradling it in his arms as if it were made of glass and not the finest cotton.
It isn't until she drops into her wicker chair, smiling till her cheeks might crack from the strength of it, her heart about to burst, that she sees the letter on the ground, hidden partially by the inside doormat.
She would recognize that handwriting anywhere.
Finally.
Graham.