"Just think, Killian — a few more years, and we'll be deckhands instead of cabin boys." Liam begins to scrub the wooden floor faster. He nearly topples over when his knees dig into a crevice and his hands slip from their hold on the heavy brush. Though he catches his balance, he still says nothing about the reddened, raw palms he has been hiding for weeks now.
Scowling, Killian glares at his own brush with distaste. The bristles are dark, stained from the tobacco the captain likes to chew and then spit on the floor. The captain's cabin is by far the largest on the entire ship — and the filthiest. Even the crew has cleaner bunks and less debris scattered around. Captain Silver is not a tidy man.
Nor is he a fearful one. Winter months came and they voyaged across the sea, with cooling waters and an icy wind that bit into one's bones. Relentless and merciless, he drove his crew onward like steeds about to collapse from exhaustion. He cares for no one but himself.
If the old miser were not so sure that he could gain free labor out of the Jones brothers, he probably would have thrown both of them into the churning waves below at the first sign of illness or fatigue.
Six damn years. Six bloody years since their father abandoned them without so much as a farewell. Killian was but a boy then, a naïve child who could not fathom why the only parent they knew and loved would sell his only sons to save his own skin.
If he ever comes across that despicable, vile—
"Steady there, little brother." Liam is looking at him with concern. One hand has covered Killian's fists, stalling his brush's violent strokes. "Calm yourself."
"Younger brother," he spits out, wrenching his hands away. "How can you? How can you just kneel there like a slave and not be angry?"
"I am angry. But it does neither of us any good to act out that ire at this moment."
His fingers shake. "I can still see him, Liam. After all this time, I remember that terrible morning as if it were yesterday. God help me, but I have not forgiven him."
"And yet you cannot let hatred overwhelm you—"
"Do not preach to me. That hate helps me. It keeps me strong and alive. All I see when I go to sleep at night is our father's face as I beat it into the dust."
Liam is thoughtful, staring into the distance. Then he murmurs, "I do not blame you for that, nor can I judge you. But do not confuse justice with vengeance. We must rise above our misfortune, rise until we have the true strength and power to seek that retribution you so desire."
The portrait calls out to her like a reflection in the mirror. Haunted eyes, pained and sorrowful, shelter a glimmer of light that must be joy. No pleasure without pain, no joy without remorse. Nevertheless, Killian has taken bright colors and created a vision of her true self, reaching out from hardship and lost hope toward a brilliant future. The sunshine exuding from his paints makes the white clouds outside seem dull and gray in comparison.
His work is mesmerizing.
"Have you ever considered selling your artwork?" When he does not reply, Emma adds, "In the city — any city."
She turns to see him putting a kettle on the cook stove. Then he rakes at the chopped wood inside, stirring dying embers to back to life.
"I have done that — in the past," he finally says, with his back still facing her. "And that is in the past. There is no future for me as an artist."
"What makes you say such a thing? With your skills, you have a chance at success."
He glances at her. "Once, perhaps." His eyes dart toward his missing hand. "Not anymore."
And yet, she has a hard time believing that this is the true reason for his reluctance. However, it is not her place to question his motives. After all, she is here to learn, not to teach.
He leaves for a short while, presumably to his studio, and then re-emerges with an armload of stiff paper and charcoal sticks. Laying them out on the table, he arranges everything neatly, allowing no disarray. An image of the church social comes to mind, clashing with the order within this room.
"Are we going to discuss what happened today?"
He chuckles dryly, still not looking at her. "What happened to David? Or what happened to you?"
Her limbs tense at his tone, guarded and serious. "Which are you willing to talk about?"
"Emma." His eyes catch hers, holding her in place. "You are astute. You know it would be bad form to speak of David's predicament while not in his presence. I may be many things, but I am no gossip."
"I do not want to gossip ― I want to help, in any way I can."
"I understand, lass, but in this instance, you cannot." His jaw tightens. "Please. Do not try. I say this out of concern for you."
His fist is crumpling the uppermost paper. She can see his knuckles, just as white from the strain. Reaching out, she slowly covers his hand with hers. It is warm. His heartbeat whispers from the veins on the surface, pulsing and restless.
"Telling me what to do?" she murmurs, caressing his fingers in hopes of releasing them from their fierce grip.
The gaze that answers is perturbed, as if he barely knows how to reply. "Asking. I am asking you," he rasps, biting down on his lip.
She can respect that request for confidence, that bid for trust. When her hand pulls away, he takes it back, enfolding their palms. "I am not asking you to forget this day or those moments, love," he explains. "I am asking that you let David state his reasons in his own good time, in person. He has been through a great deal since he was young. He deserves understanding, at least. He deserves to be able to tell his side of the story when he feels that it is right to do so."
The memory of Spencer's grin unnerves her and chills her bones. "And your story as well?" She peers at the fireplace, filled with flames. "Are you asking for yourself, too?"
His lips twitch, so slightly that she almost misses it. "I will tell you anything you wish to know of me."
And yet he knows quite well that she would never dare to ask every question she has about him on her mind ― nor would he give her clear answers each time. With a half-smile, she nods. "Very well. Will you tell me why you do not believe in your trade anymore?" Waving at the walls around them, she adds, "How does an artist become a lighthouse keeper?"
"Hmm. You give as good as you get, my dear." He fingers a charcoal stick absently, lost in his thoughts. "It is not just that I have one hand instead of two." He smiles up at her. The gesture is bitter and pained, a mixture of hurt that she has not seen on his face before. How much feeling does he hide every day, even from himself? "It is that whenever I look at this fact, I am reminded of how much I have truly lost ― and it is my fault. I have brought down this tragedy I am living on myself, through my own actions."
"You blame only yourself?"
"No. I blame many. But I blame myself most of all." He is drawing now. The shape of the object is not defined yet, but it is being created. "Our beloved pastor is quick to point out the power of forgiveness, the relief it brings. But he never explains how to forget, how to stop living side by side with your mistakes, seeing how they have destroyed the things you loved. How they have ultimately destroyed you."
A twinge of sorrow runs through her being. After the passing years, one would think that she would have forgotten Neal's betrayal. Unfortunately, that is not the truth. The truth is that she relives her errors by chastising herself over how she could have chosen differently. She could have chosen not to love him so deeply. She could have chosen to keep her heart safe, to not be tempted by the promise of love. Since she was a child, every part of her quietly bled from the intense desire to find mutual love. When she found hope for it, she leapt too quickly, not thinking about the consequences. As a result, she fell to her knees and was wounded. Even now, she carries the scars, thin and easily broken.
Has she forgiven Neal? Can she lie to herself that she has forgotten any of her past?
There, it stirs ― her guilt. The choices she made are not forgiven. Perhaps they never will be. She cannot free herself.
"I used to be a better man, Emma. I used to believe in love, to live for love―"
"You no longer believe in love?" The words escape her mouth, and she is helpless to stop them.
Hand stilling, he bows his head. Then he whispers, "No. No, I still do. To deny that would be unthinkable."
"You distrust it. You distrust yourself." Her sight begins to blur. "But you don't know who you are without it."
"Aye. Without love, I cannot be my true self."
To the outside ear, they are almost speaking in riddles. To her, their voices are simple. He has leaned forward, forearms covering the image he has sketched, his face lowering to hers. His breath, smelling of mint and parsley, is a sweet wind over her skin. She feels their connection more strongly than ever, so much so that she begins to count each time she exhales, shaking hard.
The charcoal stick he has been using rolls across the table. He seems about to cup her cheek. Then she sees his fingertips. "Soot." She points at them when he looks at her in bewilderment. "Your hand is covered in soot."
"Aye ― ashes, really." After glancing at it, he continues to stare at her.
Touching only encourages more mistakes. Instead, she bends down to eye his partially concealed drawing better. When he notices her interest, he moves his arm away.
Judging by the profile, it is a man.
"My brother, Liam." Killian smiles sadly at her. "I do not have many portraits of him."
The resemblance between them is visible. "Was he a restless soul, as well?"
Killian chuckles. "Restless?"
Her cheeks are warm, but she presses on. "Whenever perchance we meet, you seem to be always occupied with some task, toiling hard. I only wondered..."
"Aye, Liam was the same — restless, as you put it." His gaze softens. Then the kettle whistles, an urgent signal coaxing him back to the stove. He swiftly removes it from the source of heat.
"He was always occupied, being a ship's captain. It was all he had ever dreamed of. It was difficult to pull him away from the thing he loved most, though it cost him sleep and privacy."
"Surely he loved you most," she interrupts. He turns toward her. "From what you have described of him so far, he does sound like a dedicated captain. However, you would not have drawn him with such care," she gently traces over the careful lines with a hovering fingertip, "if he had not loved you."
Bowing his head, he clears his throat. "I can only assume. I confess that at times, the brash young lad I was doubted his older brother's affection because I was a burden he did not need to carry. He chose to look after me, a decision that resulted in the many sacrifices he made on my behalf. But if you are asking, Emma, if I loved my brother," he says gruffly, " then aye, I did. I can count — on the one bloody hand I have left — how many people I've loved throughout my life. Only almighty God can tell me, someday, if they deserved it."
And she does not even need one finger to count hers.
Liam is smiling at her, his eyes kind and just a bit mischievous — just like the set of piercing eyes in front of her, watching for her reaction. They must have been quite the pair together, these dashing Jones brothers. Hearing Killian reminisce about him deepens her own loneliness.
"I wish I could have met him," she finally answers.
Biting down on his lower lip, he takes the drawing and, after staring at it for a long moment, turns it upside down. "Ah, well," he murmurs. "It does no good to dwell on the dead."
When he pulls out the chair for her, offering her a seat, she knows the conversation about Liam Jones has ended. He sits down at the same time as she, settling next to her so they are side by side. He now has a clear view of the paper before her.
"Show me how you hold your writing implement." His voice is stern, serious ― but his smile is encouraging.
She first pushes up her sleeves to the elbows, then takes a charcoal stick, holding up her hand to demonstrate the position of her fingers.
"Excellent, lass." His smile widens. "Now, show me how to draw a circle."
Her circle looks more like an uneven apple, but it meets his approval nonetheless.
"Shade it for me — make it a sphere."
Her teeth toy with her bottom lip as she thinks about where the figurative light is coming from, shining on her circle. A few minutes pass. By the time she is smoothing out the charcoal's strokes with her thumb, smudges becoming solid shading, the curved line has transformed into a sphere.
He tsks. "My dear Swan, you are more knowledgeable than you have led me to believe. I see that you are more intermediate than beginner. Let us progress, then. Can you..." His tongue glides over his teeth as he ponders. She tries not to focus on his lips meanwhile. "Can you draw a vase for me? Grecian urn, whatever you please."
Of course, a memory enters her mind and a rather embarrassing one at that. The first time she entered Graham's home, she accidentally collided with a misplaced vase. It was displaying some dying blooms, but Graham assured her that neither the broken porcelain vase nor the flowers had any real value. However, his mother had silently disagreed, with that mysterious smile of hers. It so happened that the vase was one of his mother's wedding gifts, apparently from her own mother. Emma surmised at the time that the object was in itself considered precious, but the gift giver was not.
Painstakingly, she tries to recreate that unfortunate vase, line by line. Its contours are wobbly and uncertain, but the general shape is correct. Her shading is not so well done this time.
"Alright, so it seems we must address more complex scenery than my house's glaring lack of material objects to draw. Can you...?" He reconsiders what he was about to ask. "No, that might be too complicated just yet."
"What is it?" Sketching inanimate objects can get quite boring. While the nuns had approved of life drawing, they did not like any of the girls in class to model as human figures for art's sake. They wanted to avoid vanity and inflated self-worth at all costs, given some of their students' origins.
His throat bobs as he swallows, wetting his tongue. "Would you try sketching your left hand?"
It is not a difficult request ― though half an hour later, she regrets being so confident about her skills when she started. She has not observed human anatomy in a long while, not with the precise analysis needed for drawing. Her shading goes horribly wrong, and her fingers look like sausages attached to a fleshy rectangle. The entire result is humiliating and frustrating.
"There we are," he quietly whispers, then clears his throat. "Hmm, you're looking at this the wrong way."
"I beg your pardon?" she sputters, a sudden pang in her chest. She should not feel insulted by her own efforts, not when she knows that mistakes are an opportunity for growth and change. I am here to learn, she tells herself again. No need to feel hurt over what I see as inadequacy. I am out of practice, I've admitted that.
He cocks his head, eyes flickering between her face and her hand. "You are approaching this the wrong way. You're trying to draw the entire hand at once, instead of seeing individual elements creating a whole. Each part of the human body works together to form one uniform piece. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts."
"Aristotle. How appropriate, Master Jones," she teases, at least pleased that she recognizes the quote. When he blushes and ducks his head, she shrugs in her defense. "I am appreciating your overview of my work. Please, do continue."
He clears his throat again, rubbing at his neck. "Instead of jumping everywhere at once with your charcoal, you need to try and outline the general shape of your hand, then detail it ― slowly. Above all, do not hurry. Some masterpieces took years to finish."
"This is no masterpiece, I can assure," she mutters under her breath, sighing. The foreshortening for the fingers is giving her trouble again, as it always has. Moreover, keeping her left hand in the same stance while drawing with the right is becoming nearly impossible. Her fingers keep twitching.
He immediately notices her decreasing concentration. He would certainly make a fine school teacher, Emma muses with a wry half-smile. "You are distracted, love. Would it help if I proposed my hand as a model?"
She nods, not sure how comfortable he is with his own offer. Still, he extends his arm, holding his hand steady in the same pose as hers was. Sadly, it does not help. She cannot visualize his hand on her sheet paper.
"Here, let me show you." He sounds annoyed. He will most likely show her an example of a good drawing, then expect her to learn from his demonstration. After all, she is an adult, not a child. She must learn independently.
Killian takes her by surprise by rising up and surrounding her from behind. "Apologies, lass." His breath is by her cheek once more, and his hand gently covers hers. "Am I being too forward? I hoped to actually teach you, instead of merely showing you, the correct steps. Tell me if you prefer the latter."
Her eyes close of their own accord. In this moment, there is the heat that comes from close bodies, the quiet rush of beating blood under the skin. All her sense are aware of him and his movements, from the shuffle of his feet to the turn of his head.
She trusts he would never hurt her. She trusts his motives, she does. It is herself she cannot trust. She cannot predict what her feverish being would do so near his, given their attraction. That is what is bothering her, is it not? The fact that there is mutual longing here, poorly hidden but clearly felt?
Or perhaps it is how close he is to her, his arms brushing hers as he adjusts her hand and prepares to guide it across the paper.
"No, it is fine." She says it again when he tsks disbelievingly. Her temper flares up a little at the unspoken challenge there. "Go on, then. Show me how it's done."
He starts by turning, searching her expression. Their faces are mere inches apart. Emma can barely stare back at him, but she does not seem flustered. She looks confused, at a loss. Her hand is trembling under his.
Ignoring how his own heart is thrumming, he focuses on angling her hand the correct way. Slowly, they create new strokes together, one breath at a time.
Milah loved drawing. She too had natural talent, a yearning to create and express. It's why she talked to him in that pub. He was sitting and sketching patrons while sipping on his glass of rum. She was a lone woman at the bar, dressed in plain clothing, asking for a drink. When a boor of a fellow jostled her and then bedeviled her, Killian intervened. The bastard went home with a broken nose, but Milah stayed to thank him for his help. Introductions were made, and before he knew it, they were discussing art, traveling, society. He showed her his portfolio. She shared her dreams. They remained in the pub well past midnight, unable to end the conversation. He hailed a carriage for her, thrilled by her promise to meet him again the next evening.
And from then on, he felt he had reached heaven — until their romance became the road to hell.
His hand suddenly withdraws from Emma's as if stung. She peers at him in shock.
"What's wrong?" Her attention transfers to the drawing. It is quite good, though it is a simple line drawing with no shading. "Did I do something wrong?"
His throat tightens. Images of Milah, drawing and laughing in his poor studio of a flat, swamp his mind like the deadliest of bogs. He pays dearly every time he picks up his charcoal or paintbrush, all memories of his love for art focused on her — the greatest love of his life, who understood what it meant to be broken by one's survival. There will never be another like her.
With Milah's loss present, the changed atmosphere of the room is suffocating. When she died, he lost all hope for a happy future. It led to heavy drinking and a complete disregard for his own existence. There is no living without her.
"No, it is fine. Perhaps that is enough for a first lesson," he grumbles, eager to be alone. He notices the look of hurt on Emma's face before it disappears in the midst of calm composure.
"Very well." Rising, she takes a step back to assess her work. Her thin smile is not a satisfied one. "Is there a specific day you would like me to come back? We agreed I would help you—"
"I will let you know," he snaps, frustration building on hearing that annoying word. It was not enough that Milah was taken from him, but also his livelihood. "I am a busy man."
Bloody hell, he needs some damn rum.
Unfortunately for him, Emma is a smart lass. She senses something in his demeanor has altered, but judging by her resigned sigh, she is not going to fight for answers now. Deftly donning her bonnet, she extricates herself from the confined space of his suppressed anger and heads toward the door.
A sliver of the man he once was shakes him out of this mire of selfishness he has fallen into. How can he treat Emma so? She has been nothing but good to him. He is being a bloody arse.
"Wait, love." He scoops the paper and charcoal into his arms, reaching her side in moments. "Take these, so you can practice on your own when you have time." Her inquisitive eyes compel him to say more. "I do hope to see you again soon. You will come back, won't you?"
He hears the pleading in his roughened voice, the shame and pain leaking through his poor choice of words. After all these years, he is still a self-absorbed bastard who has no idea how to conquer his worst enemy — himself. And he's still an idiot when it comes to his monstrous pride and apologizing for it.
To his surprise, her gaze is soft and filled with a light that dazzles him. She always exceeds his expectations — which only proves, even more, how different she is from everyone else. With the exception of the Nolans, no one has failed to see the worst in him. The world has no place for a destructive, maimed man like him.
"You know I will." Her smile, gentle and compassionate, warms him. He is grateful she has never pitied him. "We made a deal. And I never break a promise."
"Nor do I." He extends the supplies to her. "I may not believe in honor anymore, but I do live by a code, and I do consider myself a man of my word." His tone gains the strength of conviction. "I look forward to our next lesson."
She hugs the paper to her chest, careful not to drop the charcoal sticks. "As do I. Thank you."
Well, that ended amicably. He is ready to close the door and reenter his solace, but what does he see? Emma has turned around and is striding toward him. She stops short in front of him, and like a bewildered fool, he can only stand there while she quickly kisses his cheek.
In a voice full of emotion, she says, "There is no way to express — and you will never know — just how much this all means to me. Please don't forget that, Killian."
Nodding dumbly, he struggles with the onslaught of heat in his skin as bittersweet desire reminds him of every detail in this minute of connection.
Like a freed bird, his rage flies away, chased off by the beauty of the soul before him.
All he sees is her receding back as she leaves. Meanwhile, a striking, unprecedented realization occurs, and bitterness, his constant companion, is strangely absent.
Emma is not the one in need of lessons. It is he who still has much to learn.
Her first day at school is terrifying. It is not just the new surroundings or the presence of so many girls her own age, all staring at her as she is welcomed by Mother Superior to the classroom. It is not merely the cold stool under her bottom, reminding her of where she is, or the incessant scraping of chalk across the large blackboards on every wall.
She worries that despite her great hopes to call this place her home, some catastrophe will ensure that she will once again be homeless and alone.
That fear of always being alone disturbs her, every night and every day.
It does not help that she is ignorant about initiating a friendship, that allowing others to approach her is nearly impossible. She is unapproachable because she cannot trust. She cannot stop doubting herself and others, not for one minute.
Mother Superior is not one of the teachers, unfortunately. The unfamiliarity Emma feels only grows as the day goes on. Several nuns, each in charge of different subjects at different grade levels, examine her knowledge of mathematics, geography, English, Latin. She knows nothing about art or music — none of the families who adopted her owned any books — and she is deeply embarrassed when the nuns unanimously agree to have her sit with the youngest students for now, since her skills are that of a beginner. If she excels, she will advance.
Perhaps she would not be so dismayed if her new teachers told her this in a friendly manner. To her ears, it sounds like judgment.
She is not clever enough to be in this school.
Trying not to glance around her for the hundredth time, Emma keeps her eyes fixed on her slate, concentrating hard on her sums. She has only seen numbers in the market, when sellers advertised their wares with loud, obnoxious voices. She is fortunate that the orphanage taught her how to read and write, however poorly. Otherwise, she certainly would have been sent out the door the moment she arrived here.
Her teacher, a kindly but strict nun named Sister Nova, is busy writing new figures on the blackboard. Splendid, more problems to solve, when she can barely remember how to print her own name.
"When you add numbers greater than nine, remember to add in columns." The girl across from her is about eleven or twelve years old, with hair the color of wheat and sparkling blue eyes. Her braids toss and turn as she scribbles on her slate. "It helps if you look at one column at a time — and always from right to left."
Sister Nova tried to show Emma the sums of numbers using pebbles, and it made sense. However, when she is now looking at the same numbers in a written form, it is a daunting task.
"Thank you," she replies slowly, all too aware of her flaming cheeks. Because she's unsure what else to say — except to admit how stupid she is — she adds, "I'm Emma Swan."
"Yes, Mother Superior said that you're the new student. It's lovely to meet you."
If she didn't feel foolish before, she does now. All the girls are likely wondering where she came from and what her story is. It is hard to tell if the school is merely for indigents or for the privileged as well.
When Emma does not answer, the girl continues. "The teachers usually address us by our surnames, to keep distance between them and us — 'to maintain respect.' But then the others do it as well, and it sounds so cold." She bites down on her lip, peering up at her. "You may call me by my Christian name, if you like."
"I'm not sure—"
"My father was a tinker. He sold cups and pots and all kinds of things from his cart to people passing by on the roads or in the city markets. We traveled from town to town, ever since I was little. Then one winter, he died. It was snowing, but we did not have enough money to buy wood for a bonfire. We had to sleep outside in the middle of a storm. When I woke up, he did not."
Emma cannot decide what is worse — never knowing one's parents, or knowing them and then losing them. She also does not understand why this stranger is sharing such details about her personal history.
The girl pauses, sniffling. Emma thinks she's going to cry, but then she smiles and says, "He named me, you know — Tinker Belle. Belle, which is French for 'beautiful.' He always told me I looked like my mother and I was the brightest beauty he had in his entire collection of tinkering pots and pans. My entire name was too long, so he called me Tink — and even after his passing, the name stuck: Tink Fidelian. When I first came here, the sisters wanted to give me a name from the Bible, but I wouldn't let them. They meant well, but this will always be my name."
Tink Fidelian is musical, light on the tongue and easy to remember. During her monologue, her voice has not wavered once from its merry, whimsical tone. She has suffered, and her loss is clear. Nevertheless, she does not seem to have lost faith in life.
Despite herself, Emma is impressed by the girl's optimism and apparent endurance. "It's lovely to meet you, Tink. You may call me Emma."
Tink looks delighted, chattering on about the subjects they study, their teachers, and everything else under the sun. The conversation is a welcome distraction, helping Emma to relax.
Then Sister Nova returns to caution them about working in silence. Although they obey, eyes on their slates again, Tink winks at Emma behind the sister's turned back, grinning widely.
Perhaps she needs a friend here as much as Emma does.