The new day brings Emma out of a restless sleep, hurrying dizzily within the small space of the cottage. While she completes her morning toilette, washing her face and pinning her hair into a simple chignon, her hands shake uncontrollably. Her eyelids feel heavy. She has to pick up her feet when she walks toward her wardrobe, searching for a clean dress to wear.
Today, she must catch the post before it leaves the town limits. But each movement she makes seems slow and strained, delaying her.
She decides to skip her usual repast in favor of making her way from the center of town to the schoolhouse. Before she locks the door, she slips her letter to Graham under her coat. It would not do for the townspeople to notice that she, an unmarried woman, is writing to a man unrelated to her. Hurtful gossip is far from welcome in her life.
Her steps are measured and stiff, taking her past house windows and tiny shops until she reaches the rendezvous point.
The post is one wagon and one driver, who is preparing for departure while his forlorn mule paws the ground impatiently. There are no passengers, but the back of the wagon is filled with packages and a colossal bag of envelopes, as well as some goods and miscellaneous items. It will reach the nearest city within a week's time, and then another week will pass before her letter will be on its way to Graham's university, where he is situated. Thank goodness she bought a leaflet of stamps from the post office before coming to Storybrooke.
Godspeed, Graham, she whispers to herself, tucking her envelope into the overflowing bag, peering about to make sure no one is watching. The beige parchment immediately blends in with its siblings, unrecognizable but for her own cursive handwriting.
It is hard to part with the written words that will wound the closest friend she has had in years. But it has to be done. Ever since they met, there has been only honesty between them. What good would it do to deceive Graham now? After all he has been through, he deserves the truth. Somehow, she trusts he will understand why she cannot accept his proposal.
Emma wraps her shawl more tightly around her, a burst of cool wind whipping its soft tassels against her arms. Well, she cannot tarry here until the wagon driver rides off. If she arrives early at the schoolhouse, she will have time to prepare today's lesson and make sure the room is tidy before the children arrive. Eyes fixed on the peeking tip of her envelope, she holds that image in mind as assurance that her reply will safely reach its destination. Despite her limited experience in dealing with men, she is certain she will not be hearing from Graham for some time.
The driver tightens the heavy, thick drawstring of the bag so that its contents are protected.
"Wait! Wait, I need to send this out!"
August rushes by her and climbs into the bed of the wagon. Pushing aside items, he cuts a straight path toward the pack and opens it, visibly inserting several letters among the others.
A thunderous scowl on his face, the driver mutters under his breath about being on schedule and en route. Nevertheless, he waits until August reseals the bag and gets down, wiping his hands on his trousers. It seems that even he recognizes Marco's son.
Without another word, the man climbs up and sits on the front bench, readying his feet. He flicks the reins with more force than necessary, so that the mule gallops forward. The wagon soon becomes a distant speck of color on the dirt road, taking their letters away with it.
Overhead, wispy clouds float lazily about a bright, azure sky, promising a light day with low winds. The smell of wet grass drifts by, clean and fresh. Despite the morning's rough start, perhaps today will be tranquil. That respite would be most welcome.
Refocusing her attention, Emma catches August staring at her, a slight smirk on his lips. "Was there something you wanted to say?"
His grin widens. "Good morning to you as well, Emma ― it's been a while since we've spoken. And fancy meeting you here, right when the post departs."
"That's an unspoken question."
"Indeed." He raises a brow. "But one you will not answer."
Shrugging, she crosses her arms over her chest. "I have nothing to else to say about the matter. I simply mailed a letter, like you did. Is that wrong?"
"Only in that you clearly want me to drop the subject as soon as possible." He bites on his bottom lip, scrutinizing her. "Why else would you look so uncomfortable?"
She knows she is being defensive. Nevertheless, it really is none of his business whom she writes to. His attempt to pry for details is getting on her nerves.
"Perhaps my privacy is important to me. Good day to you, sir." Turning on her heel, she strides toward the schoolhouse, a good quarter of a mile away.
August does not let her escape that easily. Following her footsteps, he blurts out, "Emma... Emma, I apologize. I was untoward. Recall that I am rather blunt and idiotic when I'm nervous." He offers her a sheepish smile. "I'm sorry. I ― I've been hoping for a chance to speak with you. I simply was surprised to see you here of all places."
She slows down her pace. "Do we not live in the same town?"
"Yes, but..." He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I haven't been able to attend services the past couple of Sundays, with the overload of work I've had to handle, and long hours confine me to the shop more often than not. But I have been thinking of you. I have missed our conversations, and I've wondered when our paths would cross again. My father's invitation to dinner still stands."
The quiet memory of Marco's warmth and kindness sweeps over her temporary anger and makes it vanish. Half-smiling, she finally looks into August's eyes. "This morning has been stressful," she begins carefully, "so I apologize for taking out my worry on you."
He ducks his head. "Is there anything I can do to help? More paper, perhaps? For your lessons? Anything?"
It is sweet, that he wants to make her feel better. However, her mind is consumed by images of her friends and every possible worry. These thoughts cannot be chased away by mere gestures, for she alone has the power to make them disappear.
Emma gives him a small smile, unsure how to dismiss his concern without upsetting him. Then something he mentioned earlier strikes her as unusual. "Why has your workload been heavier?"
His expression, cheerful and eager, is suddenly shrouded by shadows. Turning away from her, he clenches his jaw and his hands, staring hard at the ground.
"Is something wrong?" She was not expecting this sort of reaction from him. Evasiveness and secrecy are not qualities she could ever possibly associate with August.
He moves as if to leave, then turns around. Motioning that she should follow, he gently ushers her along the street, until they are beyond the hearing of any of the cottage windows.
"Emma, this has to stay between us." Running a hand through his hair, he comes to a stop, grimacing. "My father has been ill lately. For a man who always rises with the dawn and never stops working, he can barely rise from his bed."
Her jaw drops. "August, how long has Marco been feeling like this?"
Shrugging, he rubs the back of his neck. "At first, I thought he had a cold. He waved away my concerns, said he was fine. I was enough of a fool to listen and not insist he see a doctor right away. Dr. Whale lives in the next town. Even if I ask him to come ― which my father has demanded I do not do ― it will take days for him to get here. That letter you saw me send?" He swallows hard. "That was all my doing. I guess I disobeyed my father."
The husky tone of his voice and his bowed shoulders confirm that he is being utterly sincere. The only way she can offer him comfort is by slipping her hand in his and softly squeezing it, as reassurance that he is not alone. She tries to smile as well, but this news is too troubling. "Is there anything I can do to help you?"
He bites down on his lower lip. "I do not want you to guilt you into visiting our home. But my father does speak often of you. You made quite an impression on him. He would be quite cheered to see you if you would like to visit."
"I would be more than happy to visit you ― him." Her cheeks grow warm at the thought of Marco's kindness. "May I ask why you have told no one else about his illness?"
"Again, my father. He does not want to worry anyone." Rolling his eyes, August shoves his hands down the pockets of his trousers. "Or worse, have a group of elderly matrons crowding around his bedside with prayers and baked goods. I asked him to at least tell Pastor Hopper, but he has been very stubborn. He doesn't like being the center of attention, nor does he want the town council to pounce on this news."
In the recesses of her mind, Emma recalls Mary Margaret saying that Marco and the minister are good friends. However, she can understand the older man's pride and resistance. No one likes to be dependent on another's care, even from family.
But the town council?
"Is it not right to notify the council, that he is temporarily bedridden?"
A glimmer of understanding dawns on her as he answers with a dry chuckle, "You must have never lived in a small town before. Council seats here are for the patriarchs, the elder men who are respected and qualified leaders. There isn't any voting; once you're in, it's pretty much for the rest of your life, unless you quit yourself.
"If word gets out that my father has been sick for weeks, gossip will twist the truth until rumor has it that he's dying. And believe it or not, Storybrooke is not as quiet as it appears. There are some people who like nothing more than to sit in an open council seat. They have the means to persuade their way into acquiring it."
To sway the votes and control the town's progress. He doesn't have to say it for her to grasp how serious this situation is. The tension inside her chest tightens even more. "It seems like you know exactly who is interested in such an opportunity," she whispers.
Tsking, August shakes his head. "There are a few. But it would just take one of them to cause big changes in this town – changes that the current council is firmly against."
It is better for her not to find out whom he is speaking of. Being kept in the dark about such issues is protection in itself. However, her instincts are murmuring to her, telling her that this is information she cannot ignore. Her mind focuses on Killian and the Nolans, her heart beats out a silent prayer, and only then her mouth speaks.
"Can you tell me who, August?" When he does not reply, Emma pleads, "Please, I live here now, and if I'm to stay, I have the right to know."
He is still deep in thought himself, fingers stroking his chin, eyes set on the path straight ahead.
There are more folk in the streets now that the morning hour is later. Wives and mothers crowd about the tiny shops that sell staples like flour, milk, butter, and eggs. Fresh fish comes in every day from the harbor, as most of the men are fisherman by trade. Only some, like David and Marco, survive through a different trade or off the land itself. The few who own livestock or poultry earn additional money on the side by distributing the goods to those shops. Most families rely on the seasons for produce from their own gardens, while other necessities like yeast and wheat and cloth are imported from the nearest major city.
Personally, she dislikes buying anything from the shops on this road. Mrs. Lucas runs a tad more expensive establishment, but her store feels more familiar than a tight room full of strangers, all staring and chattering while buying their wares. Moreover, the elder lady and her granddaughter have shown a great deal of kindness to two outsiders who are searching for less judgment from the world.
She sighs, exasperated. She really must refrain from musing about Killian so often. They may be friends, but keeping him at the forefront of her mind will do her no favors. She will only be all the more desperate to be in his company again, but she cannot do that. She cannot feel that.
He is not what she needs to focus on right now.
"Good morning, Emma, August – how lovely to see you," interrupts Mary Margaret's cheerful voice. Carrying a large wicker basket on one arm, she is beaming at them, looking delighted. "I was just finishing up my purchases for the week. I'm so glad we've crossed paths, because I was meaning to speak to you both."
Emma catches no glimpse of unhappiness in her friend's eyes. If something bad were happening to the Nolans, Mary would be the first to know.
Wouldn't she? Or is the truth formidable enough that David and Ruth would keep her in the dark as well, to spare her from harm and despair?
Perhaps these are all vain suspicions, sprouting from the workings of overactive emotions. Perhaps Emma's concerns are unfounded. However, it is unlikely that Marco's fears and her own are unconnected. Coincidences are a rarity in her life.
"I wanted to let you two know that you absolutely must come to services this Sunday." Mary Margaret gives Emma a meaningful glance. "It's very late notice, but there will be a small party afterwards, with refreshments. August, you'll convince Marco to come, won't you? Everyone he knows will be there. I haven't talked to him in weeks. He must be quite occupied these days."
He coughs into his sleeve, muttering, "Very occupied, yes." Her hopeful face falls when he explains, "Thank you for your concern, but it will be nothing short of miraculous if I can get him to come to this weekend. You know how my father is when he puts his mind to finishing a task."
By biting down on her tongue, Emma stifles a wayward grin. What a smooth liar August is. She should be scandalized but finds herself impressed at how easy it is to believe every word he says. When her friend turns her back to peer at the incoming flow of passersby behind her, he winks at Emma. She nods back, promising his confidence is safe with her. She would do the same for her friends as he has done for his family.
"Well, at least you'll come, won't you?" Mary Margaret presses, tugging on the strings of her bonnet. "David is making excuses as well, though he hasn't worked on Sundays in years. And Killian will not budge if he does not come. I honestly don't understand David's reluctance; he has always participated in these events before. I've talked to the others, and none have declined."
August has the most charming smile on his face. Coupled with his bright, studious gaze and handsome features, he wears the ultimate look of compliance and the eagerness to please. "I will be there – especially when accompanied by the delightful presence of Miss Swan."
She tries to smile back. "I'm Pastor Hopper's new pianist and vocalist, remember? He will first swamp me with songs in church, then with vittles, the proverbial carrot on the stick to keep me enticed to stay put."
He laughs heartily while Mary Margaret gasps, "Emma! That is most unfair." She sounds shocked, but her eyes scintillate. "He means well, truly he does. And this will be a good chance to meet the parents of your students on more familiar ground. It is only an outside lunch – there won't be too many people. And who knows, maybe David and Ruth and Killian will all join us after all!"
Mutely, she affirms her acceptance, head lowered as she partly listens to the young woman's continuing conversation with August. Mary seems excited about this gathering — and with good reason. It is a rare and welcome occurrence in any small town, promoting gossip, business discussions, and romantic pursuits.
This Sunday social is to her advantage, as both a single woman and the town's schoolteacher. However, she is not looking forward to it. If David and his mother are concealing something from Mary Margaret – and given her attitude, that is most likely – nothing bodes well. Certainly, it doesn't for anyone who matters to Emma.
"I hate to interrupt, but I was just about to escort Miss Swan to the schoolhouse. I also have several orders to complete before the day's end." August adjusts the cap on his head until his eyes are fully shaded from the sun. "But it was lovely to speak with you, Miss Blanchard. You have my word that I will come this Sunday, if not my father."
For once, Emma is overly prepared to reach her morning destination. "And I too will be there, I promise."
Murmuring her farewells, Mary Margaret proceeds forward with a smile on her face, but she is not yet out of sight when Emma sees her expression sadden. She has never asked her friend why she lives alone or how she came to be in Storybrooke. The Nolans seem to be her closest connection; no wonder the poor girl is vexed and confused about their behavior.
August whistles lowly under his breath as soon as Mary has turned into the nearest street corner. "I know exactly what my father would say right now. 'It's good for you, my boy, to be around people.' But..."
"You're dreading it, as I am," she finishes, clasping her hands in front of her as they begin to walk in the direction of the schoolhouse. "And for all the wrong reasons."
"Exactly. Is it just me, or is a storm is headed our way this Sunday?" He glares at the cloudless blue sky. "There are only so many questions about my father's absence that I can stomach at a time. I don't like lying to people, even if I have his permission to do so. As the saying goes, lies have short legs."
The white porch steps come into view all too soon. When she reaches for the railing, she feels a soft tapping on her shoulder.
August is holding a wildflower out to her, his cap in his other hand. He must have picked it along the road while she was lost in her own thoughts. Touched, she takes the delicate yellow blossom, thanking him with a small smile.
"Thank you again for your understanding." His eyes search hers. "I hope I was not a bother."
"Everyone needs a friend." She clears her throat. "I am honored you consider me yours."
His grin is wide and quite catching. "Likewise, Emma. I wish you a good day." He waves to her before he dons his cap, still staring at her before he finally turns around and takes his leave.
She watches him climb up the small road. What is to come next in life's odd twists and turns?
It is only when she is by the blackboard, ready to write today's vocabulary for the children to print out, that she realizes August never answered her question.
Squeezing out an abundance of sweat from his damp handkerchief, Killian sighs as he inspects the fruits of his labor for the past several weeks. Fortunately, he made it with the planting before the middle of spring. Now his would-be garden has a bloody chance of blooming before the summer comes.
Rows upon rows of upturned soil mark where his moderate supply of vegetables will grow. Right by the main door of his house are two small gardenia shrubs, which were hard to import to Storybrooke; Mr. French made a hell of a fuss, insisting on special shipment fees for his troubles to acquire the tropical plant. Jasmine and sweet pea were two other varieties on Killian's list of flowers to acquire. Their seeds, foreign to this land, also cost dearly because of their popularity — or so the grumpy greengrocer claimed, thinking himself the expert florist.
However, the honeysuckle seeds were the least expensive of Killian's botanical purchases. He has sprinkled them along all the sides of the house and even around the lighthouse itself. With the gardenia and jasmine shrubs, the honeysuckle and sweet pea will be a host of winding vines that promise to fill the air of this hill with their fragrance. He can imagine nothing better intermingling with the scent of the sea.
The rocks interspersed in the surrounding fields have been gathered, thanks to David's intervention, and used to decorate what was once a mixture of dirt and brambles clawing at the fenceposts. French's instructions were fortunately not hard to follow, and it is now Killian's daily task to keep the seeds and shrubs watered and be on the lookout for new weeds (and hungry insects). Otherwise, there is nothing left to be done but wait for growth. And waiting is the hardest task, more exhausting than any work. It can build anticipation and dread or drive a person mad by the time that the waiting is over.
With George's reappearance in town, Killian thought it wise to stay out of sight. Confined to his hill, he has been sure to keep himself occupied, even attempting to repaint the walls of his house on the inside and the outside. However, in his desperation to minimize confrontations with a man he loathes, he has sacrificed encounters with someone he does care for.
He hopes Emma is well and safe. He longs to see her, to show her what he has accomplished, but it is best she does not visit him, nor should he visit her. At all costs, she must be protected from the likes of George Spencer. The cad is a cockroach, greedy and insatiable and persistent, feasting on the lives of others.
But it seems that despite his and David's decision to avoid the foul vermin, he has turned the tables on both of them. Coming up with a community gathering is an undoubtedly clever way to group everyone together so George can not only inspect his opponents but also furtively lash out at them. However, David's attempts to renege on the widespread invitation has tongues wagging already. The residents of Storybrooke leap at the chance to openly socialize. If you refuse to come, it looks like you have something to hide.
Damn George and the whole bloody notion of a social. There is no way Killian is going to attend this form of public humiliation.
"Looks like you are working really hard there." David is trudging up the hill, lugging a huge basket. He gestures toward it. "Care for a break? My mother packed you lunch, supper ― breakfast for tomorrow."
Despite his building irritation and exhaustion, Killian is glad to see his friend. "Ruth is really too kind towards me. Please give her my undying thanks."
David rolls his eyes. "Too kind? Truth be told, I think she wants to adopt you. Just say the word, and you will be our new addition to the Nolan family."
He chuckles, imagining how overcrowded their small house would be if he moved in with them. "Would that make us brothers, then?"
"Hmm, let me think. You would do half of my chores and take up more than half of my mother's undivided attention." He shrugs, half-smiling. "Sounds like a good bargain to me. You already do all of that, so why not make it official? Killian Nolan, née Jones. Brother of David Nolan."
"It has a nice melodic ring to it, I must say ― and benefits, as well. Your mother's cooking is marvelous." Killian cocks his head. Despite the lighthearted comments, David cannot hide the sadness in his gaze. It is horrible, feeling so helpless while battling an enemy you think you cannot defeat. "Perhaps George will back off if he finds out we have joined forces as brothers in arms?"
He sighs, practically shoving the basket into Killian's arms. "The man is not going to give up, Killian." Stalking forward, he turns on his heel and almost yells, "He will stop at nothing until he gets what he wants. And he wants me to play his games for him!"
"Are you going, then? To the social?" He promised himself he would not show his face on Sunday. But George is not going to miss his own party ― and Emma will be there, unprotected. If David keeps hiding from the man, he will seek David out at his leisure. Better to show where they stand now, together, then wait for the coward to make his next move. At least most of the town will be there. That should prevent an actual fight from breaking out if George brings any of his minions with him for support.
David's shoulders slump, and he buries his face in his hands, rubbing at it. "I didn't tell her ― Mary Margaret. I haven't told her the truth." His voice breaks. "I don't ― Killian, I don't know how."
"You will go, just to make her happy and unworried," he states in a resigned tone. "David, you must go for your own sake. You must be prepared to face George and rebuff his offer in person."
Now his eyes are reddened, as are his cheeks. "I cannot."
"You are going to accept? Mate, blackmail leads to more blackmail ― I've told you this again and again. Refuse now. Fight back. A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets."
Liam would have said the right words if he were here. He would have been the golden leader who sparked courage and determination in the hearts of men.
But his brother is not here. This is Killian's responsibility now, to look out for his friend. For all of their jests, he does consider David a brother. He and Ruth are family.
"You will fall right into his bloody hands if you agree, and you will never be free of him. He is vindictive, a bloody demon. He will dangle the lives of your lass and Ruth in front of you as a motivator ― for the rest of your life! Surrendering is not the answer."
Closing his eyes, he prays he will not regret this choice. He walked away from a fight with George a long time ago. In comparison, this will be a war, with only one winning side at the end of it.
But he'll be damned if he stands by while the Nolans get hurt by that filthy bastard. He will do whatever it takes to defend them.
"I am going with you, David. This Sunday, I'll be there. I don't know what will happen, I don't know what that arsehole is planning ― but if you are going, you're not going alone. No more hiding and no more running. We will face him, once and for all. Together."