Emma has never captured fireflies before.
It was Henry and Roland's idea. During science lessons, while she instructed them about insects, they talked of little else. When she told them that it was up to Miss Adelaide if she could spare a few precious mason jars from the kitchen, they almost leapt from their seats.
And now here they are, catching the stubborn creatures with a net salvaged from a stocking. The soft luminescence of the full moon, an overlay of twinkling stars, and the bronze glow of several lanterns transform the small glade in the gardens into a magical place.
Roland giggles as Henry tries and fails to trap a large group of fireflies at once, waving their makeshift net frantically with wild swoops and dives.
"You look like a knight, fighting great enemies with your sword," she teases, holding tightly the jar with the most fireflies. It feels like embracing the sun in your arms, the way they smolder through the glass and outshine the coming night.
"It shouldn't be so hard to win," he says through gritted teeth, "when they are only bugs!"
"But the bugs are winning! They must be smarter than you," Roland adds gleefully, shrieking when Henry drops the net in a huff and starts chasing after him. In mock anger, he growls, arms raised as if he were a great bear. They run in circles, fireflies forgotten, until Henry finally lunges and grabs Roland around the waist. He lifts the smaller boy off his feet and spins in circles, faster and faster till they collapse in a heap in the parting grass, laughing.
"One would never think that they are about to become stepbrothers." Neal comes out of the darkness, carrying another lantern. The contrast between light and shadow only emphasizes his profile and the contours of his handsome face.
She clears her throat, which has suddenly gone dry. She should not be thinking about how his appearance affects her. Instead, she should marvel at how he voiced her thoughts just now. Slowly, she lowers the jar to the ground, where it can rest safely next to its siblings.
"What are you doing here?" A cool breeze sweeps across her face. She wraps her shawl more securely over her arms. "You are not supposed to be here."
"It happens that I was sent by the housekeeper to fetch you ― she says dinner is ready for the young masters and their feisty governess," he counters with a half-smile, also putting down his lantern.
A smile darts across her face without her permission. She glances at her young charges, frolicking amid the rising number of fireflies, their hands extended upward as they try to touch those that fly beyond their reach. "Neal," she whispers in a low voice, "you know what Mr. Locksley said ― we cannot be openly seen together."
He cocks his head. "This hardly counts as ―"
"But it does!" She bows her head. "I do not want either of us to lose what is important to us because of one mistake."
His fingers, gentle and persuasive, lift her chin so that she is looking straight into his eyes. That soft, kind, moonlit sea of dark brown and green accents, beckons to her conflicted heart.
Then he takes her hand into his, pressing a kiss to her palm while the boys are occupied. "What is important to me, Emma, is that I see you again. I cannot begin to express how much our conversations and shared moments have meant to me over the past months." He exhales raggedly. "I look forward to any chance I have of seeing you again. Please."
He sounds earnest and forthcoming. And she knows how much she wants to believe him.
"Meet me behind the stables tomorrow, when you are free." His bright gaze pleads with her. "We'll have a picnic, and then I have a surprise for you ― an adventure. Will you come?"
The boys' laughter rings out once more, joyous and carefree. A sudden stab of loneliness pains her deep within, reminding her that they are not her children. They are her students. Robin is her employer, and that is all he will ever be to her, no matter how understanding he is. She cannot be friends with any of the servants thanks to their difference in station.
Somehow, she found a kinship with Neal, a forbidden friendship that makes her anxious to meet with him. She will not lose what she has, even though there are great risks involved.
She will not lose him because she is afraid.
"Hullo Neal," says a smiling Roland, tugging on his sleeve. "We are catching fireflies with Miss Swan."
Neal grins back. "And I can see you have done a fine job of it, Master Roland. Say, what do you have hidden in your hand there?"
"More fireflies!" he answers, jumping up and down. "I caught them all by myself." Then his smile turns into a frown. "But..."
"But what?"
Roland seems disappointed instead of proud. "There aren't any jars left to put them in. It was Miss Swan's idea ― the jars, that is."
It is true. All around them lie jars filled to the brim with the sparkling rebels, buzzing against the sealed lids in a bid to escape their glass prison.
Still grinning, Neal leans down and picks up the jar nearest her. Never taking his eyes off her, he slowly unscrews the lid. A burst of light showers over their faces, illuminating them, as the fireflies emerge in unison. Roland gasps and calls for Henry to join him.
She hardly hears them cheering in the background, saying goodbye to their short-lived science project.
All she can think and see is the genuine happiness in Neal's expression as he watches them fly away into the darkness.
"Here," he reminds Roland, his voice unusually quiet, "put yours in here. Now there's room."
Several fireflies are trapped anew, for the sake of boyish curiosity, and the empty jar is now full again. But the most startling thing that happens is when Neal gives her the jar, gently pushing it into her arms. Embracing it, she opens her mouth to ask him why.
Again, he seems to read her thoughts before she can voice them. "Nothing can be trapped forever. Sooner or later, we all must fly free." Stepping away from her side, he yells over to the boys, "Come now, Miss Adelaide says it is time for your supper ― let's send the rest back to where they belong!"
The next minutes pass by like an eternity would. She is entranced by the sight of dozens of fireflies outshining the stars while they sweep across the heavens, rejoicing in their freedom.
It is during the journey back to the house that she ponders his words. He gathered all the emptied jars into a burlap sack and slung it over his shoulder, leaving her alone with Roland and Henry and one lantern. Neal will undoubtedly take his meal in the servants' quarters, as alone as she will be when she takes hers in her room.
Once she has escorted her students to the housekeeper's care, she almost races to the grand study. Grabbing a piece of paper, she hastily scribbles what has been weighing on her mind since Neal and she parted ways tonight.
Although it could be considered scandalous, she sneaks outside without being seen and seeks the shack where Neal sleeps. The window is lit, and there is also light peeking out from under the door. Peering about, she slips the note underneath it.
He will find it. He told her that he reads books at night by candlelight, a pastime he cherishes from childhood days, so he must still be awake.
Before he can open the door and embarrass her, she runs back to her quarters. She feels reckless and wild and strangely free ― as free as the fireflies that greeted the night sky.
She too wants to fly someday. And freedom means taking the chances she can today, not tomorrow or another day.
Bravery and freedom are born tonight.
Neal, I don't care what anyone says or thinks of us. I care about us. I care about you. I care about seeing you as often as I can. Until tomorrow, my dear friend.
That must be a green shoot, poking its tiny head through the dark soil. He squints hard at it, bending over to ensure his vision is correct.
Aye, the flowers are beginning to bloom. Well, the start of them in any case, the shrubs and leaves and buds that will transform into the gorgeous blooms he has only seen in famous botanical gardens.
All around him, the seeds he has planted have taken root and are growing. It is maddening to wait for their progress, but fascinating to watch them develop little by little. One day, they will stand tall and proud, high above all else in the vicinity.
And he is ready for it all — despite one negative greengrocer's predictions that when flowers come, insects and blight are sure to follow. Mr. French is an unpleasant man, to be sure, but gardening has its woes as well as its merits. Any man knows that for every joy in life, there is a matching sorrow that may happen.
Bloody insects, though... He is not looking forward to meeting that array of turmoil and distress. The damn challenges we face in life for the ones we care about, he muses to himself as he waters each seedling.
Nevertheless, seeing his handiwork come to fruition will be well worth any troubles. Not to mention bringing a smile to the face of a certain lass in town.
"That's your big secret, then, Mr. Jones."
He nearly jumps out of his shoes and drops the bucket on the ground. It eagerly laps up the spilled water, one minute a small pool and the next an empty one.
"Apologies if I startled you." Emma seems to be suppressing a smile right now, given how she is biting down on her lower lip. "You have a garden now, it seems." Crossing her arms over her chest, she joins his side and peers up at him. Her eyes are gleaming. "This wouldn't have anything to do with my advice, would it? Certain remarks I made once?"
He swallows, wishing for a moment to think of a witty response. Bloody hell, his mind is a blank sheet. With a forced grin, he stutters, "No, of course not, Miss Swan. I thought the place needed some livening up. Dirt can be such a dreary landscape to look at, I'm sure you agree."
"Is that so?" She smirks at him. "David told me that this paddock has been barren for years before you took up residence here. And until today, it has remained so. What has changed?"
Despite her playful tone, her questions seem serious. "Well, I'll be honest with you, lass." He sighs, preparing his next words. "The truth is that I have been living in the past long enough. It may not be easy for me to let go of my regrets, my mistakes, those whom I've loved and lost, or even my desire for revenge against my enemies. But I am determined to try, thanks to you."
"To turn a patch of dirt into the Garden of Eden?"
Though Emma appears to take his confession lightly, he knows she understands. The hesitation in her eyes confirms that she is weighing her responses to him.
To ease the tension, he offers a wide smirk. "No, to add to the considerable beauty of Storybrooke, my dear Miss Swan, which in turn would add greatly to my own happiness." She scoffs at his attempt at sarcasm, but it is worth the small smile pending on her fine lips. "But never mind my struggles with the shovel and hoe. Pray tell, what brings you up here on such a fine day?"
It is then that her careful mask, an emotionless expression, falls. "Killian." She sighs, turning her face so he cannot look into her eyes. "I came to get away. From everything below."
He hoped she wished to see him instead of escape from reality. However, he will not reject the unexpected gift of her presence. Swallowing down the slight twinge of hurt he feels, he decides to prod at her reasoning. "This is not the only place where you can go to do that."
She looks embarrassed, whispering, "Alright, I was not only thinking of myself. I also wanted to keep my promises. Mrs. Lucas and her granddaughter are occupied today, so here I am, ready to repay you."
He winces inwardly. Ah, that. Come to think of it, she is dressed in a manner suitable for housework. If he were less excited to see her, perhaps this would not have eluded his notice.
He should be happy nevertheless. She is doing him a great service. It is not as if he isn't getting anything out of their bargain for art lessons.
Why then has his heart plummeted to the bottom of his chest like a stone thrown into the sea?
She has come out of duty, more than her need to avoid the townsfolk and more than her need to visit him. Ever since Spencer challenged her abilities as a teacher, she has been as reclusive as Killian was months ago, refusing to leave the lighthouse. David remarked during one of his recent visits that she even has declined to visit his farm and Miss Mary has spoken rarely to her. Day in and out, Emma has retreated to the safety of her cottage once school lessons ended — more than two weeks of this behavior already.
Killian fears it will not end now. Spencer too has been oddly silent and aloof, a serpent waiting for the right opportunity to strike. His minion Keith has also stayed out of sight. There have been no incidents as of late. And the Nolans and he are deeply troubled by that unsettling peace.
"Aye, there is that." He finally clears his throat. "Why don't you come inside and I will show you where all the supplies are?"
She cannot bring her eyes to meet his. He regrets that he agreed to this arrangement.
Moreover, this awkward situation is not helping matters between them. After their shared moment in the schoolhouse, with her crying in his arms and his admittance about how much of a positive influence she has been in his life, he hoped... He hopes—
She is wringing her hands together again, skittish as a wild horse. Her gaze darts toward the path whence she came.
Gritting his teeth to stifle a deep sigh, he leads the way with an extended hand — his only hand — abandoning the fallen watering can.
Like it or not, what he feels for Emma must wait. Right now, she needs his understanding, as a friend, more than anything else he can give her.
A strand of hair escapes from the scarf wrapped around Emma's head. She stuffs the locks back under the fabric and silently reprimands them for the interruption.
In her haste to reach the lighthouse before dawn, so no one would see her, she forgot to include such a practical item in her ensemble. She had donned a chignon, as befit a proper lady, but her hair pins were old and clumsy.
She must have been quite the pathetic sight, with her pins practically coming undone, as she stared at the full water bucket, brush, soap bar, and rags on the floor. Killian had made a noise in his throat, disappeared into his chambers, and brought back a black scarf. It was colorful, embroidered with red thread. Garlands of roses adorned something too beautiful to be used while cleaning. She told him she could not accept it.
He shrugged and left her alone with her tumbling thoughts.
Pragmatism conquered her foolish sensibilities. God knows an empty room did not care if she wore the scarf or not.
The brush grates against the stone floor, cold and unyielding. She dares not ask if he wishes for her to scour the other two rooms, but it is likely that he will. After all, she knows his secret. Aside from the tiles, there is not much to clean. Furniture is limited, so polishing it will be simple and quick. Then there is the matter of the windows — does he expect her to wash the lighthouse glass panes as well as these on the ground floor?
She hates dusters, which leaves the broom and dustbin as her only comrades. Together, they venture forth and bravely coax dust balls out of hiding. Dear Lord, she will need a bath this evening if she can manage to heat enough water.
The silence is unnerving. It is peaceful, but also intimidating. She pauses often to catch an echo of his footsteps, the rough scuffle that comes from constant work and movement.
He must be in his garden that she cannot hear him. The image of him, smiling about sprouts and budding leaves, fills her mind in a comforting way. There is nothing to fear here. No phantoms, no bad memories.
He is her friend, and she owes him a favor. This is a favor, not a debt, because the look in his eyes tells her he would say no more if she refused or reneged on her promise. He is a gentleman and a man of honor, and she must believe in that. She cannot lose faith.
This brings a spring to her step as she makes rounds, inspecting what she has accomplished so far. She will take care of the windows and remaining rooms once she has asked him for further instructions.
It helps that Killian is so organized. Everything, from the vegetables in the small cellar to the flour in a sealed barrel, is exactly where she expected it to be. It was provident that she took yeast from her own supplies with her, as he seems to have none on hand. Water is the main ingredient she needs for both her planned stew and loaves of bread. She also wants to surprise him with a sweet treat if she can.
Frowning, she eyes the empty wooden bucket.
She needs to visit the well.
Tugging a cumbersome weight across what feels like a mile of terrain drags Emma's buoyant spirits down into the depths of irritation. Killian is nowhere in sight, but even if he was, she does not want to ask him for help. She is no damsel and her arms work just fine.
But damn it all, why does the well have to be in the middle of craggy rocks jutting out of soft soil? The soles of her shoes slip more than once on the smooth surface as she dashes from footstep to footstep, fearing that water will escape and she will have to return. Her hands ache from the burn of the rope, and her shoulders are sore from pulling and yanking it up.
Drawing water from a well conjures such romantic imagery. A wonder, considering how it is nothing but drudgery in real life.
With a dry chuckle, she finally makes it to the door.
Which refuses to budge.
She hits her fists against the wood in desperation. She is certain that it can only be locked from the inside with a key. If it is stuck in the opening, perhaps the wind shut it closed.
Again, she pounds the wood, pushing with all her might.
Of course this would happen. She has no good fortune when it comes to accomplishing things by herself. Now she will look quite the fool when she seeks Killian out to assist in this menial cause.
Groaning, she stomps toward the lighthouse and races up the stairs. He must be up there. If not, did he truly abandon her here while he went off somewhere?
She catches herself before she slips on one step — again — and keeps going. Humming fills the air, words of a melody falling through the sequence of low notes. The deep male voice is unmistakable. Against her will, her face becomes heated. The one time she was here before, they nearly kissed.
Heights only lead to trouble. However, the beauty of the view is perhaps the appealing side of this job for him. Otherwise, she cannot see how anyone could want to be alone like that, chained to the top of a building day and night.
Or perhaps she is being a hypocrite in refusing to acknowledge her own loneliness.
"Killian? Killian, it is I. I need your help."
Her final step onto the platform propels her into the one place she should not be: the bare arms and torso of one Killian Jones, who looks both surprised and amused.
"Whoa there, love. Wasn't expecting you to come on up here."
She can even feel his hot skin through her sleeves. Emma withdraws from his embrace and settles herself by the railing, a safe distance away from him. Her heart is rattling.
On regaining her wits, she notices that his suspenders are hanging down, the lighthouse lamp is lying on the ground, and several, greasy rags covered with black marks are by his discarded shirt.
"Why are you not wearing a shirt?" she mutters before she can contain herself.
His grin is a bit smug. "Does that bother you, my lack of a shirt?"
His uncovered chest is a sight not for a proper lady, which she is trying hard to be at the moment. Clearing her throat, she replies, "You did not answer my question first."
He chuckles. "Very well. The reason my shirt is off is so I can avoid the hindrance of additional laundry. I don't want to be more of a burden to you, considering how unpleasant it is to wash off oil and grease smears from one's skin, let alone one's clothes."
"I see."
"Do you? Will you now answer my question, love?"
"You are free to do as you please in your own abode," she answers, shrugging. "I was simply taken aback. Most gentlemen take great pains to hide their nudity."
"True, and I'm always a gentleman. However, I hardly view this particular situation to be offensive or obscene — especially when it is of great benefit to both you and me."
"It does not benefit me, Killian!"
"So you are disturbed by it."
"I did not say that, only that it makes me uncomfortable."
"Uncomfortable." He rolls the word over his teeth. "I find that when a lady is uncomfortable, she is delving into uncharted waters of feeling. Not necessarily unpleasant feelings. Judging by the color of your cheeks, you must find those feelings embarrassing."
"You are too bold, sir." She glares at the floor. "I do not wish to discuss this subject. Please don your shirt and open the door of your house so I can complete my duties and leave you to your situation."
He shows her his hand, which is covered in oil. "Unfortunately, I will only be able to fulfill the second of those requests. Unless..."
"Unless?" she prods.
"You can help me put it on."
"No."
"Why not, Swan?" His eyes are unapologetically playful. "I thought you were my friend. Have you changed your mind? Would you like me to just go down as I am?"
And risk someone seeing him in that state? With her bad luck, one of the townsfolk might visit the lighthouse this instant. What would they think of him and her coming down the stairs, with her red face and his visible torso?
Gritting her teeth, she leans over and picks up his shirt.
Smirking, he raises his arms over his head. Standing on her tiptoes, she struggles to fit the sleeves over his stained hand and his lack of the other. She should have offered to at least wipe his hand off before attempting such a feat.
But she can't keep looking at him disrobed!
However, succeed she does, and without touching any dangerous skin. His chest disappears underneath unrevealing fabric. She heaves a sigh of relief.
"Thank you. Now that is out of the way..." He tilts his head, still smoldering at her. "How may I be of assistance?"
He not only opens the door but also carries the bucket of water inside, placing it gently on the counter. Then he straightens and surveys her handiwork, nodding his approval.
"Well done, Swan. You have my thanks."
"You're most welcome. I was meaning to ask if you wish for the other rooms to be cleaned — and the windows. I was preparing sustenance before the wind shut me outside."
"If you wish to."
"If I wish? What about your wishes? Our deal—"
"Our deal." He purses his lips. "Our deal is mutually optional. I will not hold you to your side of the bargain if you wish to be released from it. Say the word, and we will speak no more of it."
"I gave you my word," she insists, crossing her arms over her chest.
His voice hardens. "I know what it is like to be under obligation to another. And I know I accepted your word, but I was a fool. No lady should be doing this, especially for me."
"Doing what, exactly? Helping you?"
His tone quiets. "I apologize for my behavior in the lighthouse. I appeared nonchalant, but I admit I was anything but. The thought of you cleaning my personal effects, stooping to that... I could not stay and watch. I would have acted in a way undeserving of your kindness."
She attempts a laugh. It sounds weak and unconvincing. "More comments about indecent attire?"
His answering smile is too sad. "More like a flaring outburst of temper. After all these years, it is hard for me to accept my...disability and what that means for the rest of my life. Cleaning my house or preparing a simple meal reminds me acutely of that reality."
Against her better judgment, she rests her hand on his shoulder. He seems stunned. He always seemed stunned that she sees exactly who he is but does not turn away. "I am not ashamed of being here. Neither should you."
Guiding him to the sink, she works the bar of soap into a lather and washes the oil from both his hand and his stump. He lets her. He does not even twitch or flinch. After she gently rinses off the suds with water from the bucket, she finds the dishcloth he left for her and tosses it to him. He catches it with one hand and a wide grin.
"No more excuses." Eyebrows raised, she grabs the apron she brought and ties it around her waist. "We are going to make bread, and you are going to help me."