"Let me get this straight: Emma left you, then came back and kissed you. She then stayed for dinner, and yet, you are not speaking to each other." David gives him a puzzled frown, pitching more hay into the stall. Nearby, hungry and wide-eyed sheep bleat plaintively.
Leaning against the entryway, Killian sighs into his hand, shifting his weight from his sore right foot to his left. They have been working since before bloody dawn, and everything aches. "Mate, it is complicated. We both have pasts, and we both came here to escape them. But she... Bloody hell, she really cannot see a life for herself here. She is... Well, she's floundering. There's no other word for it. Bloody floundering, in the murk that is our quaint little town."
"If she does not want to stay here, Killian, then there is not much any of us can do."
He rolls his eyes. "One would think you would be able to read women by now, with how long you've courted the lovely Mary. Bloody damnation, Dave ― Emma does not have a home anywhere, can't you see that? She is a piece of driftwood, floating aimlessly in the sea."
David shakes his head, muttering, "How romantic, even when he is being an insulting ass."
"Oi, stable boy, I can hear you," Killian snaps back at him. He does not like being criticized any more than his friend likes that nickname. "My point is that no one has ever taken the time to show the poor lass the possibilities ― even in wretched Storybrooke. She is a fine teacher and a good woman. But she does not know herself or what it is she wants. It is our duty to help her."
"Duty, duty, duty ― always 'duty' with you. It's a sign you're up to trouble, I say." Finished with the hay, he grabs the nearby milking stool and approaches the nearest ewe next. "Just what magical ideas did you have in mind, Jones?"
In all honesty, Emma really does not know how to reply to Graham's letter.
What should she say? "You are a fine man, but I'm better off being miserable in this town than marrying you?" Or the more typical excuse, "I'm not ready to be anyone's wife?"
She came to Storybrooke to find peace within herself. To find a new purpose and sense of self. Will she give up before she has even started?
Marriage has never been in the cards for her. She is too withdrawn and independent to rely on another for a full life. Besides, happiness starts inside. If she cannot forgive herself for her own failings and her mistakes, how can she forgive another? Her own problems are more than enough of a trial without dealing with someone else's.
Graham needs an understanding partner. One who will be attentive and empathetic and unselfish.
But she cannot even follow her own path, driven by the past and her fears to huddle alone and take no comfort while her heart bleeds out. She does not how to take care of him. She cannot give him what he needs or offer the parts of herself he wants most.
She does not know how to be a wife ― even more so now, after all that happened between herself and Neal.
Folding the letter carefully inside her memory, Emma locks these thoughts out of her mind. She cannot think about how Graham must be counting the hours and waiting for her answer, or how much courage it took for him to reveal his feelings.
One glance at her students, occupied with scribbling out their alphabets on their chalk plates, and she is back to ruminating over what her life has become. She used to be full of dreams, full of wishes and hopes for the future. Now she is practical, focused on what she has and what she needs. Not what others need. It is selfish and cold, but what can she do?
The only person who will ever put her first is herself. No one else has, and no one else ever will. Neal did not, despite the bond they had.
She peeks inside the stable, because that is where the cook told her Neal is. But the structure is empty, except for the horses themselves. High whinnies and low neighs echo, and the scent of fresh hay reaches her nose. If the smell is any indication, someone must have tidied the stalls recently. The morning air is chilly, so she wraps her arms around her chest.
Nostrils flaring, a white nose snorts puffs of air above one of the stall doors. The black head the nose belongs to appears moments later. She cannot see the eyes because long strands of unruly black hair are obscuring them, but ears flick forward knowingly. The horse then shakes its head and snorts, as if to let her admire the white star hiding under its forelock.
Emma smiles. "Hello there," she says, keeping her voice quiet. She does not want to spook the poor creature. Holding her hand out, she watches it smell her for a few minutes before she dares to pet its muzzle.
Heated breath warms her fingers. Dark eyes meet hers. She giggles when the horse leans forward to encourage more petting and the stall door creaks under its weight. Her fingers ascend to rub at the star on its forehead.
There are too many shadows within the stall to tell whether the horse is a he or she.
"I should have brought an apple for you ― or at the very least, a handful of oats." She eyes the brush hanging on the rack. The horse is very tall, towering over her, but she could comb its hair without needing a stool, though she is not the best judge of horse grooming.
Standing up on her tiptoes, she is about to reach for the brush when a male voice interrupts the silence. "His name is Phantom." Emma turns to see Neal leaning against the stall right by the stable entrance, arms crossed over his chest and a smirk on his face. "In case you were wondering."
"Horses like to be called by their given names," he continues. "It soothes them. Otherwise, they tend to bite at strangers."
It annoys her, that he thinks she is ignorant. "Is that so? I doubt he would bite me for getting the burrs and tangles out of his hair," she snaps. "You're the stable-hand, but Phantom looks like he just ran through a hundred bushes."
He seems to be biting back a grin. "That's because he has. Locksley took him out for a ride early this morning ― but the beast took off on his own, again. I just managed to round the rascal up and drag him back here."
His tone sounds irritated, but Neal strides up to Phantom's stall and strokes his hair with apparent affection, not impatience. Emma watches how he reacts to him, nuzzling his hand and nickering softly.
"It seems you are good friends, despite your differences," she teases, petting Phantom's mane. Between the two of them, the stallion is getting more than his fair share of attention today.
"He's purebred Arabian, you know. Wild and headstrong as they come, but riding one of these steeds is like racing the stars." He swallows hard. "But I'm guessing you did not stop by to learn about horses, from me of all people."
She blushes, hastening to make some sort of excuse. "I wanted to introduce myself. After we collided in the hall..."
"But I already told you: I know who you are. Emma Swan, Henry and Roland's new governess." He gives her a sideways look. "They chatter about you all the time during their riding lessons. You're their hero."
"No, really," she sputters, embarrassed. "They are wonderful children, but..."
"Kids know how to tell the good from the bad in the people they meet. And these two see a world of good in you." His eyes crinkle when he smiles. "I think that's special. They really like you. The bond you share ― I've never seen anything like it. Not in this household, or anywhere else."
His family life must not have been that rosy ― she recognizes the sorrow that is clouding his face.
Gently, she touches his hand. Neal looks surprised, but he does not flinch away. "I have never seen anything like this either," she says shyly, looking around the stable and out the door. "This...the manor, the estate, the children...it's all very new to me."
"Change is hard. It wasn't easy for me either, when I first came here."
"When was that?"
He hesitates before he answers. "Some time ago. But I got used to the work quickly. And Locksley is a good man. He's fair and honest."
She smiles at that. Robin is not what she expected at all. "Yes, he is."
Cocking his head, Neal gives her an understanding look, one that could pierce her deeply if she lets it. Taking a deep breath, Emma finally meets his gaze. "The cook did not tell me much about you."
"Mrs. Potts? Well, truth be told..." He peers around as if to make sure no one's listening. "I think she has a soft spot for me."
"Really?"
He shakes his head. "No."
Chuckling, she turns her attention back to Phantom ― the horse is safe and not as overwhelming as the sudden excitement building in her chest, letting her believe that somehow she was meant to meet this man.
"To be honest, I am not exactly spreading rumors about myself here. I don't talk to anyone in particular ― I do my job and I get paid. No socializing required."
"That sounds very lonely."
"You're lucky ― you get to see Henry and Roland every day. But I am not one of the house servants. I smell like manure, get dirty more often than I take baths, and I don't follow household gossip. Nothing really there to recommend me to others."
That is exactly the sort of thing she would say about herself, that she is not worthy of anyone's company because of what she is. She hasn't quite decided yet what being brave really means, but she wants to try. The fear at the pit of her stomach, goading her to turn away from Neal, vanishes.
"I disagree," she replies, chewing on her bottom lip. "I like you."
His smile is sad. "Then you'd be the first."
They stand there, staring at their shoes. Phantom nudges Neal's hand, eager for more petting, but he doesn't react. Sunlight begins to sneak through the window, and the light paints his face with a brightness that takes her breath away. His eyes, brown and warm, are searching hers, and it takes all her courage not to glance at the horse instead. Then he licks his lips, and they move.
"I know this is perchance a strange question, but have you ever ridden a horse before?"
"Miss Swan?" Framed by tendrils of wheat-colored hair, Ava's green eyes blink expectantly ― she and her brother, the Zimmer siblings, are two of her more astute, attentive pupils.
Good God, the entire class is staring. Emma sits up in her chair with a snap, back straight as a broom handle.
The girl looks apologetic when she says, "It's noon. Can we go home now?"
She nods quickly, waving them off. "Of course you can. Class dismissed."
Was she really just daydreaming in the middle of a school lesson?
Her face is hot to the touch when she gets up and starts to wipe down the blackboard, ignoring the giggles and whispers that are surely directed at her back.
The classroom is empty in mere minutes. It is the most peace and quiet she has had in hours, and it could not have come soon enough. The door is wide open, to let in fresh air and indicate that school is over for the day. Usually, she always closes it to minimize outside distractions and prevent interruptions. One of the older boys, Frank, once pointed to a seagull chasing one of his feathered companions, and the whole class was put on hold when everyone flocked to the porch to watch the show.
Well, she cannot put drapes on the windows, but she can rule the classroom with discipline and order. Education is a fickle thing. For some, it causes rebellion and confusion. For others, it is an opportunity to open all the windows of the world and explore. Creative minds drink in knowledge like water, soaking in every drop they can get. But despite the opposition, those who refuse to learn, there are still those who do not see how much it means to learn and discover.
And learning is not limited to books. It also concerns matters of the heart.
Emma touches her lips, feeling warm in spite of the wind's sudden chill. It has not even been a day since she kissed Killian Jones. The morning came and went, with her departing to ready herself for school and he escorting her home like the gentleman he is. He did not press her for an explanation, or for a reprisal of the evening's event. She promised herself she would not think about the romantic interlude at all.
Sighing, she begins to pick up discarded papers and chalk, separating the piles into their respective bins: one is an old tin bucket, the other a flat, rectangular wicker basket.
But it is impossible not to think about Killian. He kissed her back. His mouth was soft on hers, but also unyielding and firm. He was sure of what he wanted, tender and willful as his lips met hers.
Her eyes were closed at the time, but she recalls the moment over and over again in her mind. How it felt, to be kissed by him. How hard it was to hold herself back from kissing him not just once, but twice. How she cried in front of him, letting herself be vulnerable. She would like to blame it on her turbulent emotions, that her heartbreak propelled a need for affection and pleasure. But there is something about him that she cannot name, a depth and singularity to his person, that pulls at her. Every look from those clear blue eyes cuts at her soul and makes her feel too much.
If she ponders that kiss too much, her impulses will push her up that hill and back into his arms. It would not be fair to him, or to herself. She cannot presume too much regarding their tentative friendship.
Graham's letter made her realize that it all too easy to get close to a man. Instead of taking a relationship at face value, he starts to form other expectations.
A series of quick knocks on wood makes her turn around. She is surprised to see August standing in the doorway, cap in his hands. His entire face lights up when he meets her gaze, and he offers her a small smile in greeting. "Good afternoon, Miss Swan."
Ducking her head, she pretends to be occupied with neatly arranging the chalk pieces in their bucket. "Good day." How stiff she sounds, like an old matron of a schoolmistress.
He clears his throat. "Please, call me August. My father never chose an English surname when he came here, and he is not about to now."
She searches for the broom, ready to sweep up any dust that has collected on the floor.
"Do you need any help?"
"No, but thank you for asking," she replies through gritted teeth, keeping her back toward him. "Was there something you wanted, August?"
His eyes flicker from her makeshift desk with wobbly knees, to the broken chair behind it. Then he glances over the old but sturdy benches where the children sit. "My father thinks that I am good with words ― that I could even be a writer ― but I do not. 'You're a born storyteller,' he says." Pursing his lips, August shakes his head. "Every time I open my mouth, I step around what I truly want to say for miles of sentences."
That makes her grin, just a little. She tries hard not to let it show.
"But I have been hoping that you will allow me to be blunt now." He is twisting his poor cap in opposite directions, so that it already appears quite misshapen. "I want to apologize for my boorish behavior at dinner in Miss Blanchard's home."
She protests, "That is not―"
"Necessary? I think it is." He bites at his lower lip. "Judging by how you couldn't bear to speak to me all evening, I was an ass ― pardon my language," he quickly amends. "And I need to explain myself. For days, I've been working up the courage to come here and speak to you."
She leans against the desk, settling her feet. There is no point in arguing him out of this when he is so determined.
He lowers his line of sight to the floor. "From the moment we met in the shop ― the moment I saw you, actually ― I knew you were different. And I wanted to get to know you, so I..." His throat bobs as he gulps. "I asked Miss Blanchard if I could join you for dinner that night. She did not invite me herself, but she is a good, kind soul and let me come nevertheless. My presence was neither wanted nor welcome, but she let me stay and treated me well as her guest. She and David ― I like them. They've always been decent folk."
Emma nods her head, puzzled by his sincerity. "They are, indeed."
"They, and the rest of this town, may love my papa, but I've just never fit in, with everyone else. Most people my age bore me, so I stay in the shop and work. I love wood and what I can make with it, using my hands." The way he says the words, so fondly, makes her believe that it is true. This is an intimate piece of himself, the real August and what he treasures most. "I would rather do that than waste my time on pointless conversation that leads nowhere, but I am not about to look a gift horse in the mouth―"
"But you were welcome," she interrupts, blushing furiously. She feels so ashamed of herself. "I did not mean to make you unwelcome. I had a lot on my mind, and I did not expect you to come. Please accept my apologies."
"The look on your face at the time said otherwise," he replies kindly, "but I do not blame you, Miss Swan. There is nothing to forgive."
She clutches at the desk for extra support, not knowing what to say.
"When I'm nervous," he stammers, "I tend to chatter like a darn magpie ― and I was nervous then. I wanted to impress you. To make you smile. But I did not know how. So I failed in both respects. I hope you will forgive me."
The room becomes silent once more. Emma struggles to collect her emotions, to find the right response to soothe his anxiety. It is true that they both acted abominably, thinking only of themselves, so she has no right to be angry with him. The best solution is to move past the blunders they have made and start anew.
Slowly, she lifts her head. Concerned blue eyes look back at her, and his face carries an expression taut from worry, complete with furrowed brows. "Miss Swan..." He steps toward her. "May I escort you home?"
Emma is taken aback by his scrutiny, and the genuine regret in his voice. The grudge in her heart has already melted. "Only if you will do one thing for me first."
He is hanging on her every word, sounding breathless when he says, "And what's that?"
"I'd like you to call me Emma, August." She smiles.
The smile he offers in return is radiant. "I can do that."
Glancing about, she can see the classroom is in order for tomorrow. She grabs the key to the door from the desk drawer ― which refuses to slide in the right manner again ― and shoves the damn thing closed. He is already putting on his cap, ready to leave.
"Let me just fetch my shawl," she hums lightly, almost prancing to the coat rack in the corner, "and lock the door."
Mere minutes later, they are walking side by side up the trail beneath glorious blue sky, and he has already said something to make her laugh.
After they have said their good nights, whispering their Christian names, and she has closed the door of her home, Emma realizes she enjoyed their conversation ― and his companionship. August truly relaxes during their rendezvous, and it seems he has a lot to say despite his misgivings about his own eloquence. He is not such bad company after all.
But she has been wrong before, and her error cost her dearly. There is no need to be too distrustful, but every need to remain cautious.
Only a fool makes the same mistake twice.
"Moe French is a stupid old rat," Killian grumbles, clutching at the box of seeds with both arms. If he stumbles forward and drops it, the whole purchase will be lost, and so will his money. "I don't give a damn if he is mourning after his long-lost daughter. He shouldn't be so bloody hateful toward his customers ― it's bad for business, by God."
Rolling his eyes, David snorts. "You're not often right, Killian ― but as far as that man is concerned, I agree entirely."
"Too bad he is the only greengrocer in town."
"Too bad I raise livestock and only grow potatoes."
"Aye, too bad. See, Dave ― you could have a fortune, running your own little garden nursery. You're one of the few farmers for miles. Maybe this hidden potential is something to discuss with the future Mrs. Nolan?"
His ears turn bright red. "And why would Mary Margaret be interested in agriculture?"
"Because she will be helping you out with the business someday, if she has anything to say about it," Killian laughs. "You don't want to be a shepherd all your life, do you?"
David clutches at the rather lengthy receipt they got from Mr. French. "It's not something I've thought out very well. Our farm...the land... It means everything to my mother. It's the last piece of my father that she has. You know that. Of course I want to give Mary Margaret a better life ― but not at the expense of our family. Losing James was enough. It broke Ruth's heart."
Seeing his friend's dilemma, Killian backs off. Perhaps it would be wise to change the subject of the conversation, considering he himself is avoiding such a talk. Why bring either of them pain when there is work to do now?
He claps David on the shoulder. "Don't worry, mate. I'm sure it will all work itself out somehow, for the best. For your girl and your mum."
"I simply do not want to start an argument with Mary," he replies quietly. "The plot of land she has was bought with the last of her inheritance. It would kill her to sell it. And I cannot sell mine either. So where would we live? It's part of the reason why I haven't married her yet." He raises his voice. "I have nothing to offer her, Killian ― just sheep and land we can barely afford to maintain. What kind of life is that for someone like her?"
"Hey..." he soothes, stopping their journey short in the middle of the street. "You're overreacting. You both always preach to me about hope. Have a little faith, David."
The man finally harrumphs, glancing at the many seed packets. The tension has left his shoulders. "I should be saying that to you, not the other way around."
"Hoeing with only one good hand? Tilling that wretched dirt?" Killian scoffs, hefting the box higher. "Don't get me started. You may be attending my bloody funeral before I get to see your marriage."