"Since I am soon to be the lady of the house," Regina says proudly, smiling at Robin on her right, "I have been speaking frequently to the household staff."

Emma sighs inwardly, stabbing at the baked fish on her plate. Her stomach is growling, but listening to Regina Mills dispels her appetite. The woman likes nothing better than to harp on about other people and discuss meaningless news.

Henry and Roland are happily occupied further down the table, playing with their food. They are pretending they are soldiers devouring their rations, wide smiles on their faces as they chatter about their next adventure in the gardens. On the other hand, their father is listening, half to his soon-to-be bride and half to his children, and seeming not to notice the boys' lack of manners at the table. He must be enjoying their antics, if his amused smile and interested glances are anything to judge by.

"I was especially intrigued to hear the latest gossip. It's surprising how quickly the servants circulate stories."

Robin nods, more focused on his plate than her face. Regina's grin twists, tongue caught between her teeth as if trying to bite back words but no longer able to.

"One tale caught my attention above all the others," she starts, putting down her utensils. "It seems that our Miss Swan and a certain stable boy have been spending time together."

All breath leaves Emma's chest.

"Quite a lot of time, if Mrs. Potts is to be believed. Every free moment, they have been engaged in conversation, dallying amid the grounds. They have even been seen returning with horses, saddled for riding. A secret romance, right under our noses! Isn't it wonderful, dear?"

His jaw has become quite still. He swallows, then opens his mouth. "Regina, I appreciate your concern." She starts to smile, but he continues, "However, I would prefer we discuss these matters in private ― not at the dinner table for all to hear." He pointedly nods at the children, oblivious to the adults' conversation.

Then he glances at Emma, looking displeased as he returns to his supper. Her stomach sours inside, churning together malignant thoughts. She had always assumed that a mere friendship with Neal would never bear serious consequences. From the expression on her employer's face, this will be far from the case. Though Robin seems to be a good man, he does have a temper — and he certainly does not approve of his governess befriending a servant any more than his fiancée does.

The scratch of the chalk against the blackboard irritates her. The sound, dry and thin as paper, stiffens her bones and make her skin crawl. On an ordinary day, perhaps it would not unnerve her so.

However, today seems to be the proverbial portent of doom, ready to fall right down on her head.

First, she awoke too early in the morning, to the cacophony of something breaking just outside her door. The object in question happened to be her milk jug, waiting for its daily fill as per agreement with the one villager who owns a milk cow. She paid a considerable percentage of her monthly stipend to acquire that right. It saved her early morning walks she could do without.

Her jug has met its demise. Sadly, she cannot currently afford to purchase another, which means that the rest of her milk money for this month is gone for nothing. Wood for her precious cooking stove, a novelty in this town, and various other necessities have almost devoured her spending allowance for this month. The weather, so promising at first, turned ghastly and caused a chill that only the heat of fire could dispel.

Now, in the schoolhouse that has no stove and affords little respite from the sudden cold (thanks to its stark wooden walls), her students are being obnoxious.

What a marvelous start to her day.

"The ancient Romans ruled most of the world we know for hundreds of years. One reason for this was that they were clever. They used mathematics and science to build roads and bridges and aqueducts that still exist today."

She turns to see if the children are listening. Some giggle behind their hands and sit up straight, secretive smiles on their faces. The older boys lounge in their chairs, looking bored.

Her hand trembles as she finishes writing arithmetic problems on the board. Three weeks, and most of her students still do not understand multiplication. Addition and subtraction were simple enough, but multiplying numbers has been hard to interpret a number of ways to explain to them. She can only imagine what a rebellion fractions will cause — if they ever reach that goal.

"That is why," she continues, her voice shaky, "it is important you learn your tables well. Math is of great value in the world. It helps you be strong in all areas of your life."

When one of the main troublemakers, a fisherman's son named Peter, smirks, she realizes too late that she just made a mistake.

"Miss Swan?" he asks in a deceptively innocent tone. "Can multiplication really help make my life better?"

Clutching at the piece of chalk, she gazes at the younger children's expressions. They are expecting her answer. "Well, Peter, I suppose it can be useful, yes. However, it cannot be a magic wand that waves over your life and makes everything wonderful. You have to work hard, every day, to gain the skills you need."

He seems to ponder her words for a moment. "So will math make the fish easier to catch?"

She winces. "Not exactly."

"Will it make the fish easier to sell?"

"No, but if—"

"Will my father be able to work less hours? Will my mother have to fix less nets?"

"Fewer nets—

" See, that's what I mean." Turning around, he gestures at the rest of the children. "She's telling you that all this learning and education can help us. But at the end of the day, I still have chores to do at home, and work won't get any easier for anyone. It won't make work go away—"

"Peter, sit down at once!"

"But you all know that, don't you? You're here because your ma and your pa want you to be here, so we can be smarter folk. Right? Well, says I, if this education can't help me right now with what I need, why bother?"

"Because it adds to the person you and helps you become more, helps you grow and change," she defends, feeling helpless. How did Mother Superior manage to sound so persuasive?

Peter's eyes flash. "But I don't want to be more! Miss Swan, you're just doing your job. We all have jobs. My job is to help reel in the catch, separate the fish, clean the nets, tidy up the boat. And that's all I ever will be. My great-grandfather was a fisherman, my grandpa was one... This is my family. This is what we are. The sea is our lives. And no books or sums or tables will change that. You may be from the city, but this is Storybrooke. We don't need growth, nor do we want it."

The genuine anger in his face surprises her. He truly hates being here and thinks school is a waste of time. She can only gape in disbelief as he grabs his cap from the table he was seated by and strides toward the door.

One of his close companions, Felix, calls out to him, "But you'll get in trouble."

"I really don't care. I can take a beating — but no more of this. No more lessons." With a sneer, he tips his hat at Emma, closing the door behind him after he leaves.

With an uproar of chatter, her classroom and her dreams of success darken.

She is failing.

She cannot make a connection between her students and the benefits of education. Do they all believe as Peter does, that this means nothing?

A series of knocks makes her heart jump. Then she calms herself, hesitant to hope. Perhaps he has returned.

Sadly, the person who enters the chaos inside is the last one she wants to see.

"Greetings, Miss Swan." George's odious voice echoes across the room. "I thought I would stop by and pay you a visit today. Well, we."

As if on cue, Keith comes up from behind him, grinning maniacally.

Her head aches in turn.

What a fine kettle of fish she has gotten into.

It is all she can do to keep from wringing her hands together like a damsel in distress in a Gothic romance. Two greedy pairs of eyes, narrowed and small, scour the classroom as if searching for dust.

As long as George says nothing, she can handle this. It is when he speaks that she finds herself unable to think of how to reply.

However, while the silence continues, both men inspecting everything in sight, she starts to lose her resolve. Even the children look nervous, squirming in their chairs. Though the majority may not like school, perhaps some of them do like it. Perhaps they know that the magistrate has the power to make her post disappear if he so wishes.

"You run a very clean classroom, Miss Swan. Very neat and tidy, indeed." If he had a riding crop, he would be swinging it with the way he is parading about. "You are to be commended for that."

She breathes out a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Mr. Spencer."

"No need for gratitude, no need." He then turns and faces the children. "Now let us see if you are keeping order as well. You there, what is your name? Stand up, lad."

The small boy can barely look at George when he whispers, "My name is Franklin, sir."

"Franklin. Strong name." He rubs at his chin. "Tell me, Franklin — do you like going to school?"

Franklin glances at her. His frightened eyes show he doesn't know what to say. She tries to encourage him with a smile.

"It's hard to get up early in the morning. But if I wasn't here, then I'd be at home, doing chores."

"That's not what I asked. I asked if you enjoy learning what Miss Swan here, your schoolmistress, has to teach you."

The boy cowers under the man's stern gaze. "Learning is hard, sir. I'm afraid I don't understand it all that much."

"Understand what?"

He timidly points at the board. "Numbers. Letters and sums and words and reading. They confuse me, sir."

Peter's bold words come back to her, filling her anew with dread.

"Confuse you? You are confused?" He turns his attention to another student, this time an older girl named Sara. "You — do you agree with Franklin here? Are you confused by Miss Swan's teaching?"

Franklin protests, "That's not what I—"

"Quiet, boy." He presses his question again. Sara only bows her head in response.

Facing George is as difficult as it was during their introduction. The sight of him scrutinizing her, with cool anger brewing under the surface, frightens her. He embarrassed poor David in public. She has no idea what he is capable of doing to her.

"Miss Swan," he begins. "You have employed here for how long?"

"Nearly four months."

"And in those four months, you have made little progress."

"How could you possibly know that? We have studied—"

"Countless subjects, I know — the usual. But these children frankly look miserable and upset. They do not look like happy children, excited and eager to be at school. This is an opportunity for them beyond their wildest imaginings. It will create future opportunities beyond this town. Did you tell them that?"

Keith is leaning against the door, arms crossed over his chest. He clearly is not about to let her leave.

"Did you tell them," he emphasizes, "that their parents are paying you to do this? That if they learn nothing, it is caused by one of two reasons: either they are stupid — a sad state of affairs that cannot be fixed — or you are a poor teacher. The latter, on the other hand, is something I can remedy all too quickly."

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, Shakespeare said. Well, this woman is damn outraged. "Just because they need more time to understand does not mean they cannot ever." Her fingers are digging into her shawl, clawing at it as she struggles to stay still. "And for that matter, ignorance is not a disease to be cured. My job is to offer them knowledge and the tools to acquire it."

"But they have not been properly motivated, Miss Swan. Why, I just met a young man on my coming here, who said he had forsaken school altogether. Is this how you encourage your students? Is this how you motivate them?"

"You assume too much," she argues. "Four months is not nearly enough time to learn anything well."

His answering expression is terrible to behold. Before she can stop him, he grabs a slate from the nearest child, a little girl with braids, and stares at it. Then he holds it up for all to see.

Keith bursts into laughter, inspiring a series of giggles and snickers from some of the children. The girl blushes and looks away.

The letters are, in a word, atrocious. But Emma sees more — she sees potential. She sees effort. She is not prepared to give up now. She will find a way to get through to these children, each and every one. Peter is not the end, but the beginning.

"Every child in this classroom has the chance to make mistakes, because it is through mistakes that we learn to do things better." She points her chin at him. "What is it you want, Mr. Spencer? Did you come here to discredit me and my skills? To crush these children's hopes? Or are you simply a sadistic man with nothing better to do than prey upon the town teacher and a room of innocent children?"

His cheeks become a shade of purple within seconds. "Don't be smart with me, Miss Swan. I am still the town magistrate, and critiquing your abilities is certainly within my authority. Kindly remember who provides your salary."

"The town council does — and if I also remember correctly," she snaps back, icy venom in her tone, "it is their unanimous vote, and their vote alone, that can dismiss me from this post. I have a year-long contract, sir. The probation period was over after the first three months, which has passed. Evidently, the council believes I am doing something right."

She stands taller and straighter, determined to fight her way to that end — where this village's children see farther than the limited horizon they currently have. "This inspection, whatever its true purpose, is over. Today, you have disrupted my class, shamed my students, and insulted me thoroughly. Next time, please do bring the town council with you before you pass judgment on me and my work here."

Fearless, she marches up to the door and despite Keith's interference, yanks it open. He almost falls down from the force of the door smacking his behind. "Kindly show yourself, and your constable, the way out. Good day, sir."

She should not be afraid. But she is.

Friendship with Neal was a risk, knowing how much the Lord of Locksley despises relationships among his servants. Perhaps he is right to discourage them. Neal could be affecting her clarity of mind, her abilities. She could be wrong to defend her actions.

On the other hand, how can such a connection be wrong, when she has done nothing wrong? There is nothing untoward in their interactions and conversations. Her status may be above his according to the laws society dictates, but that is of no consequence.

Neal makes her feel like she is not alone.

"Miss Swan?" The master of Sherwood Manor is concealed by mountains of paperwork on his desk.

She clears her throat. "You called for me, sir. Miss Adelaide said you wished to speak to me."

"Ah yes — I did." There is a scuffle, and one of the mountains moves, assimilating with another pile of documents. Now he is visible, looking flustered though his attire is impeccable, as always. "Apologies for the chaos, Miss Swan. I'm afraid bills and letters do tend to accumulate quickly, given my infrequent presence here."

She decides now is not the right time to mention how much Roland speaks of his father or how much his son misses him.

"Well then, best not to delay matters." Rising to his feet, he comes round to the front of his desk and leans against it, crossing his arms over his chest.

She must brace herself for what is to come. Despite what the news may be, good or ill, she will face it with determination and courage. If she does not believe that she possesses both qualities, the small life she has will surely crumble away.

Her employer heaves a heavy sigh, shaking his head. "I confess that I am at loss for words. I cannot describe how disheartened I was on discovering that you have been fraternizing with one of my servants. However, innocent until proven guilty. Is it true, that you have been spending your free time with Neal Cassidy?"

There was no point in denying the truth. "Yes, Mr. Locksley."

He cleared his throat. "And you admit that it is more than casual conversation — it is purposeful, correct?"

"Purposeful?"

"As in, you are seeking each encounter out. It is not accidental?"

She glares at her clasped hands. "It can be argued that all friendships, at some point, are accidental. However, maintaining a friendship makes it purposeful."

For the first time, she witnesses his smile. A true, breathtaking smile, one that almost makes her hope that she has been forgiven.

"I have never been good at riddles, Miss Swan. Therefore, for both our sakes, let me make myself clear: I know that controlling one's feelings is a difficult task. I am not demanding that my workers and servants repel the possibility of love if they are lucky enough to come across it." He fingers the gold ring on his finger. "I simply want to avoid a chaotic unfolding of drama in my household. Illegitimate children, unwanted pregnancies, the heartbreak of rejection. These are casualties I wish to avoid altogether. Do you understand?"

"Neal and I — Mr. Cassidy and I — we are not even courting." She blushes at his inquiring gaze. "We are merely friends, sir. We are two lonely souls who wished to find a bit of companionship here. Upon my word, that is all we are to each other. There is no need to speak of babies and love stories."

He chuckles. "Speaking of love stories... My late wife, Lady Marian, was the daughter of my father's steward. We grew up together as children. Once we reached adulthood, our paths were clear. And yes, I made a choice that paints me as a hypocrite when I warn others not to do the same."

"It is your house, Mr. Locksley. You are free to do as you see fit."

"But, Miss Swan, I have no right to be unfair." He sighs. "Do not think I haven't noticed how much my fiancée amuses herself by putting you in a bad light, so to speak. I am aware that she disapproves of you, but I want to reaffirm that though she and I are soon to be married, I alone have power over my employees."

Her heart clatters against her ribcage. He has not defended his reasons for still marrying Regina, but that has nothing to do with Emma. How much longer will he keep her wondering about the status of her post?

"Roland and Henry..." He clears his throat. "They think very highly of you, Miss Swan. I have never seen my son form such a strong bond with any of his previous governesses or nurses. Henry too has undergone such a change since you came here. To hear their laughter in the hallways when I return home is a tremendous blessing. You are quite a find, and no matter what Miss Mills prefers, I intend to keep you."

She bites down on her lip to hide oncoming tears. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate that. I hope you continue to have faith in me and my skills."

Smiling, he ushers her to the door. "You're doing fine work, Miss Swan. But a word of advice, for the future?"

She looks back at him.

"Discretion is the key in all things. Please keep that in mind from now on, in dealings with your compatriots."

The instant the last child leaves the schoolhouse and the door shuts behind her, Emma stops pretending everything is alright.

Everything could not be more wrong.

She was the teapot, filled with rising steam that had no means of escape. She counted every second after George left, crimson-faced and furious. She counted down the moment the clock in the corner, old and crooked and creaky, ticked its way to the final hour.

Now her temper is unleashed. She feels like throwing the broom at the wall, throwing herself at the wall. If she creates a mess, she would only have to clean it up. She, on the other hand, is already broken. Whenever life crushes her under its foot, she shatters more, making it harder to put the pieces back together again.

She will not cry.

The floor does not need to be swept. The blackboard is a dark void, empty of chalk. The quiet school, where she asked her students to peruse their old readers in silence, gave her plenty of opportunity to clean the room.

No one minded. The children had nothing to say to her, not after George and Keith barged in. The day's lessons were over.

The truth does hurt, much more than it should. And she should be accustomed to that by now, having a history of being disillusioned about so many things and so many people.

Nonetheless, every damn time that happens again, it always hurts just as much.

She cannot cry.

"Emma?"

She is a puddle of skirts on the floor as she buries her face in her hands.

"Emma!" Two strong arms pull her towards the source of the voice. One hand parts her fingers, seeking the curve of her cheek. "Love, what's happened? What's wrong?"

Killian's kind, pleading expression — a small bouquet of wildflowers, colorful and wilted, tossed to the side by a single leather glove — the memory of George's sneer as he tore her down in front of her students—

"George Spencer and that vile Keith was here," she chokes out, unable to hold back another gut-wrenching sob. "He — he—"

"Was a bastard — I can bloody imagine what that conniving vulture is capable of." He embraces her. Then he pulls back, scrutinizing her from head to toe. His voice hardens. "Did they hurt you, Emma? If that arse only laid a finger on you—"

"No, he did not touch me." She shakes her head. "Only inside. He hurt me inside."

"I know. I know how much it hurts, and I'm sorry you have to endure that," he whispers. "But you're a tough lass. The light I've seen inside of you? A cad like Spencer cannot harm that. He has no real power."

"He can take away everything that is important to me, Killian. He can destroy my reputation here if he wants to."

His fingers stroke her hair, calmly and reassuringly. All the while, she feels how much his arms are shaking. "He might be able to, but I will not let him."

"You and I? Against the town magistrate and his constable?"

"Emma, I learned long ago that despite the world, despite every blow it can take at me and my body and my spirit, I will still remain. I can change and I can grow and I can die, but I will always exist. Not even a man like George Spencer can erase the memory of you."

"Because I remember myself?" she asks, incredulous.

He stares into her eyes then, not allowing her to look away. "Because the goodness in you is like the seeds of a flower, swept up by the wind. Your goodness lives on in the lives of the people you've touched with your soul. Needless to say, I could never forget you or what you have done for me."

Her own impulsive words, murmured in a moment of emotion, when she feared losing him. "What have I done?"

His gaze shines, as does his answering smile. "You helped me remember who I am."