Every memory of Neal hurts.

It all hurts more as she sits in this hallway. A grandfather clock ticks and tocks quietly by her chair, reminding of how long she has been waiting for her employer's study door to open.

Something terrible has happened.

On returning to the house, she noticed that the servants were staring at her, whispering behind corners. Gossiping. Were they talking about her? Had her shame spread over the entire household like an engulfing flame, that Neal's betrayal was no secret?

Dread again poisons her stomach. She fears she will soon retch, here on this ornate carpet.

However, no one dared to approach her, except for Miss Adelaide. She calmly stated that the master needed to speak to Emma in his study, privately. Some of maids tittered at that. With a wave of her stiff hand, she shushed them and sent them back to their duties.

The clock chimes the new hour.

She begins to count the passing seconds in her mind instead of mere minutes.

Exactly one hundred seconds later, the Lord of Locksley calls her name.

She does not even look at his face as she enters. Instead, she cowers, head bowed, and immediately sits down on the empty armchair in front of his desk. Folding her hands over her lap, she waits for a lecture about the rules of propriety, how she has failed to keep her romance with Neal discreet. Your failed romance , her conscience mocks.

He remains silent. When she dares to peer up at him, he is staring at the stack of letters and envelopes on his desk. His gaze is intense, focused, and bright enough to burn holes through paper.

Suddenly, he clears his throat. She jumps in her seat.

"Miss Swan. I am sorry to have kept you waiting for so long, but I must confess I am conflicted. For the past half hour, I have debated with myself on how to approach this necessary, critical discussion. My profession calls for much speaking, as you know, but at the moment, I am truly at a loss for words. This situation has never happened within my household before, or my late father's for that matter."

Confusion crawls forward at the back of her mind. He married a servant. Does he think she has behaved in a wanton manner, that he is so distressed?

Her confusion increases when he adds, "However, in spite of what action Miss Mills insists — ahem, advises — I should take, I think it only fair to first hear your side of the story before making any judgments."

"My side of the story?" Her head reels. "All Mr. Cassidy and I did was within the limits of innocent courtship. By your own leave, sir, you permitted us to pursue a romantic relationship as long as it was never untoward or ostentatious. And with Mr. Cassidy on a leave of absence—"

"Wait a moment. You believe I summoned you here to reprimand your relationship with Neal Cassidy?"

"Yes."

"And you also believe that he has taken a leave of absence, which explains his disappearance?"

"Hasn't he?"

Sighing deeply as he looks at a piece of paper lying down on his desk, he then rotates it and puts in before her. It is a rough sketch of a necklace embedded with what seems to be an array of jewels.

"Do you recognize this necklace?"

Regina might or might not have been flaunting it around her neck at every social function since Emma started her employment. "Yes. Miss Mills wore it often."

"Well, it was my engagement present to her. The rare stones adorning it make it worth a small fortune. It also happens to be made of pure silver."

She does not understand why he is telling her this. Inside, her heart warns that she does. He is too formal, too anxious. His hand keeps tugging at his cravat, loosening it and then tightening it again.

Rising to his feet, he pushes his chair aside and starts to pace across the small room. Then he sharply turns about and faces her. "I do not know how to say this, Miss Swan. I do not frankly know what to think or feel presently. But I do believe it is best to be direct, so let us cut to the chase." His blazing eyes pin her to her seat. "The necklace is missing. And Miss Mills claims you have stolen it."

She could not feel more winded if someone struck her in the chest. "She said...I stole...this necklace?" The only question that she can ask is— "Why? Why on earth would I do such a horrid thing?"

"That is the very question I wanted to ask you and Mr. Cassidy. Imagine my shock on my discovery of his disappearance."

"He left before this morning."

"Miss Mills was set to depart for town this morning."

The accusation fills the room like a bad vapor, a cloud of misery intent on destroying her. "I did not steal this necklace!" Her voice, high and tense and nearly frantic, vibrates in the air. "I would never steal anything from you, sir."

"You did not steal it and then give it to Mr. Cassidy."

"No, sir."

"And you did not connive to have him steal it, run, and then you would conceal his guilt afterwards."

Unable to speak, she shakes her head frantically.

"I will not lie to you, Miss Swan." He rubs his face with one hand. "Your close association with Mr. Cassidy does not bode well in a case like this. He befriended you, earned your trust, and won your affections. My fiancée finds the possibility of your being the thief, or his accomplice, all too plausible."

"And yourself, sir?" she whispers, on the brink of tears. "Do you believe I am guilty of such a heinous crime?"

He scrutinizes her for a long time. His eyes, as passive as the expression on his face, betray none of his feelings.

A sudden, horrible thought enters unbidden. What if Regina herself set up Neal and Emma? What if she stole her own necklace to ruin their happiness and cost them their employment? Petty revenge, pure malice — that harpy of a woman is capable of both.

"I do realize that the obvious contention between myself and Miss Mills puts me at a clear disadvantage. However, my deportment testifies in my defense. I have never been seen entering her chambers. I have behaved in a civil manner towards her at all times, especially as far as Henry is concerned. And I would never do anything to jeopardize my position here." Suppressing a desire to kneel on the floor, like a supplicant asking for a favor, she pleads, "Please believe me, Mr. Locksley. Please believe that I am sincere. I never have been and never will be dishonest toward you or anyone you consider your family."

"I do not deny that the evidence against you is weak, Miss Swan. And contrary to Miss Mills," he says with a small, sad smile, "I refuse to jump to conclusions and immediately lay the blame on you. I will be interrogating all the household and grounds servants, and all quarters will be inspected accordingly. In the meantime, we will conduct a search for Mr. Cassidy so he can exonerate himself. If we find the necklace, we find the thief."

Opening the door for her, he guides her through the hallway. "Please continue lessons with the children as usual. I do not want my entire household to be in a state of chaos over one incident."

"Yes, sir." Sighing in relief, she starts to walk down the stairs.

"Miss Emma?"

She turns.

He clasps his hands. "Personally, I think your character is impeccable. But I fear that Neal's absence—"

"I am certain there is a good explanation for that. I hope he returns in time to prove his character to you as well."

Even as she defends his honor, she too worries that the worst revelations are yet to come. Governesses can be dismissed for lesser offenses, and false accusations are no novelty in this line of work.

Robin is right to doubt Neal. His timing cannot be a coincidence.

Her heart thuds wildly.

She is about to lose everything. And it is all her fault.

The church is as crowded as during Sunday services. With no town hall to speak of, the townsfolk must gather in the only building that is solemn and large enough to accommodate so many families. However, no children are present tonight.

They would only be a distraction during such an important town council meeting.

Emma can barely breathe as she squeezes through couples, unable to find a empty seat. Her dress feels scratchy and uncomfortable, her palms are sweaty, and her limbs are twitching. Heads turn, eyes watch, and minds judge.

It is entirely possible that George Spencer has already been spreading lies about her and her teaching throughout the town, just out of spite. Or he could have a sinister plan in mind tonight. Whichever is the truth frightens her.

Then she thinks of the letter she received just that morning, safe and sound in her cottage. George may try to get even with her, but she has someone to run to. She can make a necessary sacrifice to save herself from complete ruin.

Her ambitions and her freedom, in exchange for security and safety.

Pushing the thought away, she finally settles on the piano bench, which seems to be the only available space. When she dares to look up, she notices that David and Mary Margaret are sitting in the last pew. They are holding hands, and the moment they see her staring at them, they both smile at her. Next to them are Ruth, who seems sad – and Killian.

Her heart pulls forward at the sight of him.

He meets her eyes directly, lingering, searching, questioning. For an instant, his guarded expression and calm indifference falls, and she sees him again. She relives the morning he confessed his feelings. Passionate and resilient, inviting and longing for her response. A response she has yet to give.

Instead, she ran away like a coward, unable to say anything. And he hates cowards.

Her throat suddenly feels full, choking her with too much air. She turns away and faces the incoming council members.

Pastor Hopper leads them, Bible in hand. They plod slowly in a line toward the table erected next to the podium, settling down on the bench behind it. She recognizes both from the schoolhouse.

Marco sits last, glancing over the crowd. He smiles at Emma, then August, who is at the edge of the first pew row. Unlike Killian, turbulent and brooding, the rascal smirks at her and dares to wink as well. If only her heaving stomach were as light and carefree.

George Spencer is marching toward the podium, Keith at his heels.

And he is grinning maniacally at her like a snake about to strike its prey.

Keith proceeds to two chairs set aside the table, but George stops right in front of her. "Miss Swan, I cannot tell you how glad I am that you are able to participate in tonight's meeting." His voice is as smooth as oil, fatuous and false. "I so despise secondhand accounts of important decisions."

She clasps her hands tightly so he will not see her fingers shake. "Of course, Mr. Spencer. As a resident, what concerns the town concerns me as well. It would be remiss of me to not attend. After all, this is my future, too."

Expecting a sharp retort, she is surprised to see his smile widen all the more. Chin upturned, he proceeds without another word to his designated seat. Her upset and disquiet continue to grow, strangling her inside.

It is hard to believe that weeks have passed since Neal left. Yet her dying hopes remind her well of what has happened. Lengthy searches and inquiries lead to one conclusion: Neal took the necklace, and he is not coming back.

Emma fights against it. She desperately wants him to reappear like a dashing hero and prove them wrong, prove her wrong — that she was right to trust him, to love him so deeply.

Not that he let her take the fall for his crime and shattered her fragile heart.

If Regina did orchestrate the theft, it was at the cost of the entire household. These days, with a thick cloud of suspicion and distrust hanging over their heads, the servants are ghosts in the corridors. The necklace has not been found, and no one has come forward.

Likewise, Henry and Roland are suffering. They rarely smile, and they do not laugh. As days became weeks, they have noticed Emma's sorrowful disposition. She cannot pretend to be content or calm for them, though she cares for them a great deal. Their mother may hate her, but it is doubtful that this woman would be cruel to her own sons.

Or Emma could be misjudging her, like she misjudged Neal. Her head aches from thinking often about this fiasco.

"Miss Swan. I would like to have a private word with you." The dark, shadowy form of the woman herself is in the doorway of the empty study room.

Shuffling the books in her hands, Emma gently places them in a neat stack on the table before facing Regina.

"What can I do for you, Miss Mills?" She clears her throat, then continues hurriedly. "The boys are making fine progress. True, Henry struggles with figures and calculations, but it is all a matter of practice. Roland, on the other hand—"

"I am not here to discuss my sons' education with you."

The strict, calm tone of her voice flusters Emma.

"I would like to address the theft that has disrupted my life this past month."

Not again. "I did explain to Mr. Locksley that I had nothing to do with that."

"I know you did not."

The admittance startles her more than Regina's emotionless expression. "You know?"

"Yes. I know. We may have our differences – and I admit that I do not like you myself – but that is irrelevant in this case. My mother, as you have no doubt heard, has all the means and sources to discover information. That is why she is one of the leading socialites. She has always been a hawk, with her sights set on me at every moment. No peace to breathe or even sweat."

She pauses. Downturned eyes and complete stillness follow. That hesitation makes Emma reconsider her own conclusion about the woman's lack of feelings.

"My mother is thorough. I'll give her that, for all her faults." Now Regina is facing the only window of the room. "She dug deeper until she found out more about your precious Neal Cassidy—"

"He's not mine."

"And I feel that given his role, both in this household and your life, you deserve to know the truth."

Without a word, she turns around and hands Emma a few papers and what appears to be newspaper clippings.

She first glances at her nemesis, scrutinizing her crossed arms and stiff posture, before inspecting the documents.

The first is a church baptism, naming a "Baelfire Neal" as the offspring of one Robert Gold. It is dated twenty years ago. Similarly, a faded newspaper article announces the birth of an heir to a railroad tycoon, the same Robert Gold. Another is an advertisement, stating that the same boy went missing seven years ago and any information about his whereabouts would be appreciated by his father.

The last is a portrait.

Of Neal.

True, he looks younger and less weary in the lines of the simple drawing, but the boy in front of her has his smile, his eyes…

The name inscribed at the bottom by the artist is "Baelfire Neal Gold."

Regina sighs, restless and impatient. "The truth is, Miss Swan, that Neal never was who he claimed to be. He is nothing but a thief, a liar, and a runaway. Every time his father was close to discovering his whereabouts, he would run again. And he made sure he had sufficient funds before doing so. From what I've heard, he has embarked on a ship and is crossing oceans and continents as we speak. I doubt I will see my necklace again."

Emma's eyes water in an instant. They are an unbearable flood threatening to break down the dam of her eyelids. Her chest aches from how hard she has to force back her quaking, shuddering heart.

It is over. All her hopes and dreams, strangled and crushed. Her love, broken into dust.

The only truth of her life is this: if she has a path to follow, she must walk alone.

She can trust no one.

"As the town council leader, I call this meeting to order." Pastor's Hopper firm, calm command echoes, and the assembled crowd falls silent. "Good evening, everyone. We need to address several issues that concern our town – and quickly, so all you folks can go home to bed." An underlying rumble of laughter ensues. "Our magistrate, Mr. George Spencer, has asked to propose his item first."

For the first time, Emma realizes how tall Spencer is, as thick-muscled and bulky as a bull. His presence at the podium is overpowering, a large and intimidating shadow swallowing all figures around it.

"My fellow town council members, ladies, gentlemen, children, all of Storybrooke – good evening. As you know, I will always fund the town's needs when they are necessary. When the docks at the harbor were about to collapse, I ensured they were repaired immediately. When the church roof and walls were in disrepair, I sent quality materials and labor. And when you wanted your children educated, we established a schoolhouse and found a qualified schoolteacher – together." His eyes, a hawk's gaze, scan the entire room but purposefully avoid her. "I know I spend much time away from here, but we still share a common bond. Like you, this is my hometown. I will always invest in this town's future."

Keith is bouncing on the balls of his feet, squirming in his chair, ready to spring up and stand at attention like a dutiful soldier. Or guard dog, Emma silently scoffs to herself.

"That is why it has been brought to my attention that we need to have a reputable jail, to keep troublemakers in check – and with that, a town constable."

A rise of murmurs hums in the air like the drone of bees. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the council members conferring between themselves.

"This individual would be responsible for your safety and security. Drunken displays, public disputes, brawls… None of this will happen anymore." How strange. She has not heard of any fights or conflicts during her stay so far. "Any citizen who threatens you will find himself – or herself – answering to the law. Immediately. Keith Garrison here," he points at the man himself, "is highly qualified to carry out this position. From humble beginnings as a prison guard, he rose in rank, higher and higher until he became the sheriff of a prominent and well-to-do city for many years. No one can better carry out justice and honor."

This pronouncement helps the crowd to settle down. Some people are nodding their heads, a sense of calm in their faces. The other council members are arguing while Marco and Pastor Hopper debate between themselves. If George Spencer says we need a sheriff, we must need one. He cannot be wrong.

Their blind trust in his judgment sickens her. What chance does she have against Spencer if the majority of the town believes in his sincerity?

She wants to speak out, but she does not know what to say. She cannot tell the parents of her students that they do not have the right to feel safe and secure. Most towns do have a constable to keep the peace. Her concern is that Keith is nothing but a despicable cockroach who will kneel at Spencer's feet and heed his every command.

One by one, the council members resume their stiff postures. The noise of the crowd dies until only silence remains.

One by one, they vote in favor of the new constable.

She can hardly believe what she is seeing, but the sight of Spencer's slick, smug smirk is a slap to the face. When his eyes light on her and that sick grin widens, she knows he is out for blood.

Her blood, because she can wager all her earnings that she is the next item on his list.

"Splendid," he drawls, patting Keith on the shoulder. "I promise none of you will be disappointed. We now have ourselves a fine constable."

Keith smiles for all he is worth, trying to look friendly and forbidding at the same time. Instead, he appears to be drunk.

Spencer stares at a paper in his hand. "Since that is settled, let us proceed to the next item."

Her breath is somewhere in her throat, caught between her nose and her mouth.

"The schoolteacher."

Her stomach drops to her knees.

Puzzled, the council members glance at each other. Pastor Hopper finally says, "Mr. Spencer, we already have a schoolteacher. You approved our choice of Miss Swan, who is joining us tonight?"

He points at Emma, and heads instantly turn in her direction.

"You are absolutely right, Reverend. I am aware of Miss Swan. I apologize for my clumsy choice of words." He sighs. "What I meant was that I wish to discharge her and find a replacement."