Her initial lessons have proceeded at a snail's pace. Given that this is her first position, she feels helpless and unsure what to do. Henry and Roland, whom she was told are rambunctious boys, are quiet and attentive, as if they are wary of her.
She cannot blame them. Her school taught how to teach, not how to deal with children — especially children from unconventional families. Robin Locksley's fiancée is already distrustful. Regina Mills' acerbic tongue and withering glances upon their introduction spell out trouble for Emma. Robin appears to be kind and thoughtful, the opposite of what she expected. But aside from his assurances and his patience in dealing with her inexperience, she is a stranger in an unfamiliar place. Regina is a prime example of first impressions gone wrong. The woman has been prejudiced towards her from the start, for no visible reason.
Mother Superior did warn her that this post would be a challenge, and it is indeed proving to be so. Emma has no idea how to approach her young charges, to gain even footing here when she's stumbling. The little confidence she had on arrival was short-lived.
"Miss Swan?"
She stops staring blankly at the small blackboard, hanging on the wall of the schooling room. Roland has fallen asleep, toy bear crushed in his embrace. His head is resting on the table, quills and paper deserted right by his ear. It is Henry who is waving a rather thick book at her, wide awake and full of questions.
"Yes, Henry?" Quietly as she can, Emma sweeps away the slate, pieces of chalk, and paper from under his stepbrother, carrying him to the small settee in the corner. The comfortable spot was meant for reading, not napping, but there is plenty of room for an exception. She slips off Roland's slippers and lays him on the soft cushions, covering his form with her shawl. He is quite the adorable sight, still hugging his bear with all his might.
Henry's brow is furrowed, as if he is thinking hard about something. "You said that all stories come from somewhere. That includes fairy tales."
"Yes. They are the result of people's many ideas."
"So why aren't they worth as much as the history stories we read? We learn from both of them." He points at the book. "If these stories are old, they are part of history."
She smiles to herself. He's quite a clever boy. "Because some people decided that learning history is more important than learning fairy tales." Being bold is wrong, and it's also not right to influence her young student, but she adds, "The same for people themselves — the world says some are more important than others."
Henry frowns at the carpet. "That does not sound right. Why would anyone say that?"
The last thing Emma wants to do is upset him. She hastens to say, " One day, Henry, you will understand why. For now, your task is to study your history."
He mumbles "Yes, Miss Swan" while he puts the fairytale book back on the bookshelf.
"Wait." She walks over to the same shelf and pulls the book out again. The title glitters, reminding her of days when she wished with all her heart that fairy tales could come true, that happy endings were possible. He's just a boy; he needs to hold onto his hopes a little longer. "That does not mean you cannot also study fairy tales. Just remember not to believe everything you read, no matter what it is."
Handing him the book, Emma watches his expression brighten a little. "I think I understand," he starts slowly. "My mother does not like when I read fairy tales. She says it takes away from my schooling and fills my mind with silly thoughts."
Despite a similar opinion about such tales, she finds herself defending them. "I think reading is a great adventure. Fairy tales have their own lessons."
His eyes gleam. "Do you enjoy them, Miss Swan?"
She smiles sadly, recalling every story with reunited parents and children. "I did once, very much."
"What happened?"
"I had to grow up. Adults don't believe in fairy tales."
Pouting, he declares, "I will never do that, then. I'll refuse to grow up. And I'll make adults see them differently.
She bites back a laugh. That is obviously impossible to do, but it is so like Henry to be determined, stubborn, and defiant. She has learned this much about him in the weeks she has become acquainted with him.
Far be it from her to discourage Henry. Open minds like his are the only hope for change that this world has.
" Would you—" Henry looks down at the book, then at her. "Would you read to me, Miss Swan? A few of them?" His cheeks flush. "My mother used to, when I was little. I miss that."
They settle by the couch, where Emma spreads a folded duvet on the floor so they can sit down on it. Excited by the prospect, Henry chooses the favorites he remembers. His head resting on her shoulder, her skirts spread out upon the lush carpeting, they are the most comfortable and relaxed they have been since their first lesson.
The scene almost feels domestic, as if Emma is not a hired governess but a beloved family friend. While she eagerly narrates the tales, she peeks at Henry and sees him smiling, his gaze fixed on the pages of the book. This is the most focused he has been all day long. It is also heartening to know he is enjoying her reading so much, that he is listening to her with rapt attention. Perhaps she does know what she is doing after all.
"Henry Mills, why on earth are you sitting on the floor?"
Grinning from ear to ear, he leaps to his feet, racing towards the owner of the displeased voice. "Mother! You came home early!"
When he flings his arms around her waist, Regina Mills has a pained smile on her face, one arm embracing her son while the other clutches at a leather purse. As always, she is dressed in the latest fashions, from her elaborate hat down to her pointed shoes.
"Miss Swan?" She eyes the discarded fairytale book with distaste, demanding an explanation.
Emma rises as gracefully as possible, quickly folding the duvet and hiding it behind her back. "Miss Mills. I rewarded Henry for good behavior and let him read—"
"Fairy tales?" She lifts a dark eyebrow up in disbelief, glaring at the book as if it were dripping poison. "In future, my son needs to read realistic stories during his spare time, not this nonsensical fantasy. I will attribute this foolish mistake to your ignorance, Miss Swan, and not to a lack of common sense. You are here to be Henry's teacher, not his entertainer or his nurse. If you cannot fulfill your duties and responsibilities, be sure that I will take swift and effective action. Do I make myself clear?"
"Mother," Henry protests. "Miss Swan was only trying to help — it was my fault—"
"Do not interrupt me, Henry. While I'm away, your governess is responsible for your education and upbringing, but you will still do as I say. She has no authority — you learned the meaning of that word last year in your vocabulary."
"But she's still my teacher!"
"And I am your mother and I know what's best for you!"
While Emma has been standing here, listening to their argument, the pointed insults do not fly over her head. She has just been called incompetent and a fool — all because she tried to be understanding — and Her Majesty has just threatened to terminate her employment.
Her blood surges with newfound heat. Robin hired Emma, not Regina. She has no right to speak to Emma like this, especially over a small matter like a children's book. The woman is not married yet to her employer. Roland is not her son, and this is not her house. Her quick tongue belongs right back inside her bitter mouth.
Emma can fight fire with fire.
"You have made yourself very clear, Miss Mills," she finally replies. Her voice is as stern and cold as she can make it. "In future, I expect you to clarify your son's reading list and any specific requests for his curriculum. Otherwise, I remind you that I am under Mr. Locksley's employment and I answer to him, not to you. I apologize for the inconvenience."
Regina's face darkens with rage. "How dare you—"
"You will also find I am not so easily intimidated." Nevertheless, her limbs are shaking as she snatches the poor book from the table and hugs it to her chest. How she hates confrontations... "Thank you for your words of advice. If you'll excuse me, my work here is done for the day. Good evening to you, Ma'am. Good night, Henry."
On leaving the room, all Emma can hear are the sounds of Henry sniffling while Regina scolds him in whispers, angry over nothing. What little progress she made today with her pupils has gone up in smoke.
Clearly, this post would be much simpler if not for this tyrannical woman's involvement.
With August's warnings ringing in her head, Emma cannot help but find Pastor Hopper's service tedious, testing the limits of her endurance. The past few days have been remarkably trying.
One of the older boys released a rat into the classroom during her Thursday lesson, causing utter havoc. Some of the younger girls were crying after the creature crawled over their feet in its haste to escape; a few children had jumped onto their desks and were refusing to allow others to take refuge there. Their screams and yells and cries filled the small space until the combined noise was an uproar she could not quell. The remaining lesson time was interrupted by worries that the rat would come out of hiding, so she dismissed the class early. She managed to finally corner the rat into a sack and release it outside, but the entire incident was frustrating and embarrassing.
Even though rats are commonplace in these areas, children would still fear them for the vermin they are. She did not appreciate the prank and went straight to the culprit's father to complain. His heated reprimands toward his son resulted in pointed looks of loathing from the boy, all directed toward her. It is not promising news, since he will continue to be in her classroom. Word must have gotten around how she exacted punishment on the prankster, because on Friday morning, she entered a schoolhouse full of quiet resentment and disinterest.
After all the rats she saw in the orphanage, she despises them as much as any of her students do. Being made a fool of — petrified from fear, unable to solve the problem calmly and quickly for the sake of the other children — was not on her agenda for the day.
Her responsibilities are a big headache she wants to ignore. Even now, the sermon about loving one's enemies makes her tempted to kick at the pews in annoyance. And there is still the church social to live through! How she longs to rush to her cottage for some much-needed silence and reflection. She has to find a way to earn the respect of these children. Otherwise, if she cannot maintain discipline and order in her classroom, this will be the end of her post.
However, like she told August and Mary Margaret, Emma must lead the congregation in song and play her part on the piano as dutifully and diligently as possible, whether she feels up to the task or not. Pastor Hopper is relying on her, and he is on the town council. She is not in the position to refuse his request, especially when it's such a small, innocent one. Demoralizing favors are another concern, one she does not want to think about. Despite the necessity to please one's employers, she will never let anyone manipulate her that way.
From her post behind the pianoforte, she can see the increased number of attendees today. So many strangers, all staring. The church is filled with people like a cup to the brim. Careful not to hit the wrong keys, she searches for Killian out of the corner of her eye. To her great relief, he is present, right next to David and Mary Margaret, crushed in the final pews. Ruth is not with them. If August came, he must be well hidden in the crowd.
As the service stumbles toward its end, the air becomes hotter and stuffier. Sealed glass windows prevent drafts, and because there are so many villagers standing against the back wall for lack of empty pews, the main doors are closed. No breeze comes to the rescue. By the time she sings the last verse of the closing hymn, she is sweating and can barely breathe. She needs to exit the small, stifling space — if she can make it to the doors in solid form.
"Now, before you go, I would like to take a moment and invite you all to today's social." Adjusting his spectacles, Pastor Hopper grins widely at his assembled parishioners. "The lovely ladies of our community have prepared refreshments, sponsored by the town council, and there are games for the children. Don't hurry home. Please stay and enjoy yourselves. I, for one, would like to get to know you better — there are so many of you I've yet to speak to, heart to heart."
Emma was about to leave the piano and walk towards her friends, but now it seems rude to do so during his announcement. Doing so would give the impression that she is fleeing from her post — which is an accurate interpretation, with how her stomach is churning inside and how heavy her head feels — and she cannot allow that. Now she is frozen in place between the pulpit and the choir area. She must look quite the fool, standing with her hands clasped behind her back, a silly smile plastered on her face.
Luckily, no one seems to notice her. The pastor is on his way to the main doors when she finally has the courage to escape. Since they were sitting by the entrance, her companions must be outside already, where the luncheon is spread out on covered tables. At the rate the church is clearing of occupants, it will soon be empty.
Bonnet and cloak in hand, she settles onto a deserted pew. She is not the best at socializing, at saying the right thing and not offending anyone. Today's social will be another trial for her, another challenge she has to overcome. Dear Lord, give me the strength to endure it.
Rising, she dons her cloak and fastens her bonnet securely. They are her battle armor and helmet, but the only shield she has is her composure. She cannot allow it to break.
She cannot show she is afraid.
Slowly, with deep breaths to quiet her thudding heart, she marches forward to the open doors and spares one last glance for the welcoming wooden walls behind her.
Life is not about hiding in the shadows and hoping tribulations will go away; it demands sacrifice, risks, adversity. To accomplish much, one must do much. And to do much, one must feel a great deal more.
She must abandon the safety of this sanctuary, because there are people out there who need her.
Head held up high, Emma enters the awaiting fray.
The presentation of the food and beverages has been a pleasant surprise. Each dish and basket is neatly laid out on tablecloths, the dying wind ceasing to disturb them.
There are townsfolk everywhere. They are surrounding the tables, crowding into small groups of four or five. Some women sip on the offered punch and whisper to each other, no doubt exchanging the latest gossip.
The air should feel light and cheerful. Instead, it weighs Emma down. Head bowed, she helps herself to several of the refreshments, small sandwiches and home-baked pastries lining her napkin. It is hard for her to make eye contact with the people next to her, let alone start a conversation.
This social does not feel right. She cannot explain why. A familiar urge rises, bidding her to run home.
Home to an empty cottage, with crushing silence and painful reminiscence.
"Why, you must our new schoolteacher, Emma Swan. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Swan." An older man, tall and balding, tips his hat at her. "I am the local magistrate. Perhaps you've heard of me — George Albert Spencer, at your service."
Her stomach tosses when he also kisses her hand. The gesture, while considered polite, seems rather pretentious within this setting. "You know my name, Mr. Spencer," she stammers, not certain what else to say.
His lips form a thin smile. "Miss Swan, I know everything about this town. Making the acquaintance of all its inhabitants is my priority."
"Surely not your only priority?" Her hands are restless and quivering, so she pours herself a glass of punch to distract herself. "When I arrived, I was unaware that Storybrooke had a magistrate to begin with."
He follows suit, sipping slowly on his own serving of the sweet liquid. "Oh, I have duties here. But I also have duties that take me away more often than not. Nevertheless, I am this town's law and order. I keep the peace."
"There is no constable here." She purposely makes it sound more like a statement than a question.
"True, but that is the town council's doing. When I suggested hiring such a man, they refused to impose a tax that would pay his monthly dues. Having my own business in the city and elsewhere, I maintain my post without payment."
A typical boast, if she ever heard one. "That is very generous of you. Were you born in Storybrooke, that you are so loyal to it?"
He chuckles, the harsh sound grating against her ears. This is not a man she wants to anger. "You are quite the inquisitive lady, Miss Swan." Hard and calculating, his gaze meet hers. "Yes, I was born here. I made a name for myself and have a life beyond this place, but my roots are deep. It seems that I cannot let go of how much those roots mean to me."
"Very commendable." She drowns opposite thoughts in her punch, drinking slowly and thoroughly so she will not have to talk.
After a moment of silence, he asks, "And how about you? What's your story?"
Emma gulps, almost choking on a piece of unmelted ice. "Whatever do you mean?"
"Oh, do come now, I shared some of my history with you. I'm curious why such a lovely young woman as yourself would agree to come to such an isolated town, so far away from all you've known. I, with the council, saw your qualifications. Your recommendations were enough in themselves ― even I've heard of Robin Locksley's repute. You have good connections. You could have had any available post nearer to the city, yet you chose Storybrooke. Quite the mystery, if you ask me."
"Yes, she is mysterious, isn't she?" August cuts in, gently touching her elbow from behind before he stands next to her. He quickly crosses his arms over his chest, the expression on his face mirroring her own unease. "And we all need a bit of mystery in our lives to keep ourselves interesting, wouldn't you agree, Mr. Spencer?"
Her heart feels like it is being squeezed, caught in a snare. It is all she can do to keep herself from vomiting the little food she has eaten.
"Well said, August." Mr. Spencer mockingly toasts him. "Miss Swan here was just asking me why the town has no constable. It happens that I have a solution to that problem."
"Oh? You do realize that any solution of that sort would need to be presented before the council first," he retorts, hardly masking his annoyance.
"And your dear father, of course — speaking of whom, I do hope he is well. Please give him my regards when you see him. However, as for the matter of a constable, I have come fully prepared this time." He waves over someone she cannot see from her vantage point.
"Why have you returned now, Spencer? You usually stay in the fall for what, a few weeks? And then we don't hear from you for months. You're either busy lining your pockets or sweeping out your son's terrible scandals―"
A man strides toward them, dressed for a hunt rather than an informal party. His dark hunting boots shine in the sun, polished and stiff, and his attire looks crisp. When Emma sees his face, she feels faint. He is the trespasser who accosted her at the Nolans' farm. As if recalling their meeting as well, he smirks at her.
"I am proud," Spencer claps the man on the shoulder, "to introduce Mr. Keith Warren as our new constable. He has excellent credentials and comes highly recommended."
August crosses his arms over his chest. "Does he, now? Such interesting timing, to hire him now."
Spencer shakes his head. "You never learn, August. Having Keith watch over Storybrooke will make us all feel more secure and safe. I know I will."
Her mouth is gaping open, but she has no fan behind which she can hide her face, no way to escape Keith's probing, relentless stare.
"This is August, son of Geppetto, town carpenter and head of the council." Keith nods at him. "And Miss Emma Swan, our charming schoolteacher."
"Pleased to finally make your acquaintance, Miss Swan." Keith tries to take her hand in his, but she slips her fingers into the crook of August's elbow, clutching at his arm.
Spencer's eyes narrow, flickering between them. "Have you met before, by chance?"
"Indeed." Keith sounds amused. "We crossed paths on the Nolans' lands. Miss Swan here was quite the fiery defender."
The growing understanding in the magistrate's expression frightens her. Then he smiles, a horrible thing to behold. Like a dog with bared teeth, he seems ready to bite.
"Emma, there you are." This is the first time that she has seen Mary Margaret genuinely worried. The young woman tries to smile brightly and ignore the hungry gazes of Spencer and Keith, but it is a valiant attempt at best. "Some of the parents are eager to meet you—"
"Miss Blanchard, how lovely it is to see you again," Spencer chuckles. "Tell me, has young David finally bought you a ring? Or is he waiting to dig up hidden gold somewhere in his potato patch, so he can afford to actually marry you?"
Her lower lip trembles. "He gave me his mother's ring, Mr. Spencer. It's a family tradition."
"Indeed, like much in the Nolan household."
"What is that supposed to mean?" August cuts in, clenching his jaw.
Spencer tsks, saying, "You're too touchy, August, too easily ruffled. I was merely making friendly conversation with the lady."
"You do not sound friendly, sir," Emma snaps, finding her voice. She has heard enough. Mary Margaret looks like she is about to walk away. "Your words are barbs you throw at each of us, to wound us."
"My dear, I speak with the best of intentions." His voice hardens, increasing in volume. "Being a man of the law, I despise falsehoods. I believe a woman should be aware of all her betrothed's past before she marries him."
The echoing whispers of other people's conversations become muted. Silence takes hold around them as he continues, loudly and vehemently.
Mary Margaret sputters, "You forget your place, Mr. Spencer."
"On the contrary, Miss Blanchard, I have your best interests at heart. See, your fiancé is quite arrogant for someone who's not living up to his responsibilities." He taps his finger against his lip. "Now who does that remind me of? Oh yes... His father."
Only the wind can be heard now.
"Did your beloved ever tell you that right before he was born, the poor man couldn't pay his debts? The mortgage was overdue on the farm, they were on the brink of starvation, his wife was near her time — but Nolan didn't care. He was always ready to make excuses, with a bottle of whiskey in hand. He loved his visits to the local tavern so much that he ignored his pride and came to me for help. Begged me, on his knees, for help. And I, Christian man that I am, gave it."
Eyes widening, Mary Margaret covers her mouth with her hand. David is several paces across from their group, Killian by his side. He is visibly fuming, and his hands are curled into fists.
Killian pulls him back by the shoulder when he tries to move forward. "Spencer," David hisses through gritted teeth. "Stop. This is between you and me. You cannot—"
"Can't I?" he snorts. "I am shocked you haven't told Miss Mary here the truth. Your father was a reckless, spineless drunk who would fight for his shot glass but never for his family. Your farm still belongs to me after all these years because he would waste his profits on liquor again and again instead of paying his rent. And you, boy, are as much a coward as he, hiding in your bed instead of facing me upfront like a man."
When Emma glances around at the other townsfolk, some are pretending to observe the bottoms of their drinks, while others are already starting to gossip behind their backs. Killian looks furious, limbs taut and strained, barely containing himself. And then at the center of it, David is looking straight at Mary Margaret, pale and silent and sad. Emma only glimpses her friend's bright eyes before she turns and leaves, hastening toward the nearest road. When Emma starts to follow, August keeps her in place.
"Don't," he whispers into her ear. "Spencer is provoking all of us. If you go after her, he will use that against you as well. He already knows you care for the Nolans."
Surely David has some retort, some explanation or rebuff. To her surprise, he swallows hard, glares at the man who just shamed him, and goes after Mary Margaret. With an exaggerated bow, George Spencer wordlessly disappears from the scene, his lackey Keith right behind him. Both intermingle with the crowd.
Slowly, everyone at the social resumes their chatter. Her mind flummoxed, Emma does not know how to act. What happened just now? What is Spencer not saying that poses such an underlying threat to the Nolans? It cannot simply be a matter of rent money. No, this confrontation suggests higher stakes.
In the midst of her confusion, she walks away from August, murmuring her goodbyes as she struggles to maintain coherent thoughts. In that sudden darkness, while her heart is dull and aching for her friends, she realizes that her body has unconsciously been drawn to one person, her light in this town.
His apologetic and concerned expression speaks to her and guides her back to herself.
She thought she had escaped city politics and the troubles they cause. How wrong she was to imagine they do not exist here.
Every heartbeat clamors in her ears. Forget impressing her students' parents — she must have time to process what she has witnessed today, to understand what this all means. Spencer is a spider spinning a web. Is she prey as well?
"Killian. Could you please take me home?"
He does not protest. Neither of them glances back at the church as he guides her through the streets, saying nothing meanwhile.
But once they reach her cottage, she does not enter inside. She keeps walking, marching up the path on the hill, her sights set on one destination. She needs the cliff on the edge of the sea, a moment of solace in the wilderness around her. There are no worries about impropriety when everything inside her is almost bursting at the seams.
She needs to return to the lighthouse, because it is the one place in this town where she feels free.