How long she sat there, Emma didn't know.
At some point, someone settled beside her and she shifted to bury her face in their shoulder, her body shaking with sobs.
Arms wrapped around her, hands stroking her hair and back rhythmically, letting her emotions spill out.
Her tears finally subsided and she sniffled. "It's not fair."
"I know," Neal murmured. "I'm so sorry, Em."
"We … We were …"
"I know," Neal said. "Not sure why you were hiding it, but you're not subtle, either of you."
Emma choked out a laugh. "I think August was worried about you thinking he'd stolen me."
"After ten years?" Neal asked. "Even without Tamara, I wouldn't be that paranoid."
Emma swallowed her immediate response. "You knew then?"
"He adored you," Neal said gently. "You don't need me to tell you that. It was obvious every time he looked at you. What's our next move?"
"Our?" Emma repeated.
"Henry's upset," Neal said simply.
"Oh God, Henry …" Emma buried her face in her hands again. "What kind of mother am I?!"
"One who lost her true love," Neal said, "and who knew he was safe. Regina's got him; it's okay. But Henry's upset; I'll give you whatever help you need to find whoever did this."
"You're not going to like it," Emma warned.
"Why?" Neal asked. "Let me guess, I'm a suspect?"
"No, but Tamara is," Emma said.
"Emma, Tamara wouldn't do something like this," Neal said firmly. "And you need to look at this logically."
"I am," Emma said, rummaging in her pockets for a tissue. "Benefits of a small town. There's only a few people who I would consider capable of murder. Regina was with me. Your father wouldn't do that to you, Henry, or Belle. And George and Hook are locked up."
"In the sheriff's station, where August was attacked," Neal pointed out, handing her a tissue from his own pocket.
"Under the hospital actually," Emma said, mopping at her eyes. "The holding cells aren't built for long-term. The mental health ward, unfortunately, is. That means there's either a killer loose in Storybrooke or it's an outsider. And there are only two outsiders - our mystery driver, Greg Mendel, who still hasn't left town, and Tamara. And," she added, before Neal could argue, "August said he recognised Tamara from somewhere. Maybe he remembered, came to find me at the station, called me to find out where I was and …"
"Emma," Neal interrupted. "I am not marrying a murderer. I know Tamara."
Emma bit back a sigh. "Neal, I promise I'm not going to do anything without evidence. But I also need you to trust that I can do my job."
"Fine," Neal agreed. "Tell you what; Tamara's staying with me at Granny's. I am hereby giving you my consent to search the room, okay?"
Emma nodded, burying her face back in his shoulder and letting the warmth of his embrace try to comfort her. "Thank you."
Neal pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I'm so sorry, Emma. I'm so, so sorry."
There was nothing in Neal and Tamara's room.
Nor was there anything in Greg Mendel's room (because in spite of August's insistence, the man was still sticking around after his release from hospital) - although Emma got the same uneasy feeling speaking to him as she did from Tamara, even though the man had been perfectly nice and cooperative.
Days passed, and still they had no leads on what had happened.
Pinocchio remained glued to Geppetto's side, the old man thrilled beyond belief to have his little boy back, and although Henry struck up a quick and easy friendship, Emma kept her distance.
It was better this way, she told herself - better that at least one of them got a second chance at a happy childhood, better that he live his life again, rather than be dead and beyond her reach.
But, oh, it hurt.
After a week of her floating through life in a daze, David told her - gently but firmly - that he was taking the deputy position and taking over the case.
She didn't argue, half-tempted to just hand her badge over altogether and curl up in her bed for the foreseeable future.
Snow didn't let her, of course, dragging her out for breakfast with Ruby and lunch with Henry and dinner with as many people as she could gather around them, all of them trying to wrap Emma up in a supportive wrap of love that Emma wished felt less suffocating than it did.
Regina seemed to be the only one who sort of understood - and of course she did; her true love had died in her arms as well, just like August, except Regina had had people to blame, rightly (Cora) or wrongly (Snow).
Emma just had questions, heartache, and unstructured anger.
The only good thing (if she could bring herself to look) was that Snow and David's feelings towards Henry's relationship with Regina had softened - apparently the way Regina had immediately shielded their son from the tragedy unfolding in front of them had reassured them that she wasn't a threat - to Henry, at the very least.
And thank goodness, because Emma was not in much state to look after herself, much less be a mother.
Finally, after days of constant companionship, Emma was able to slip away for some time alone. Her feet carried her aimlessly, without due care or attention, until she realised that she was staring into the window of the pawn shop, no longer going anywhere.
Her parents would be furious.
August would be furious.
Emma brushed those concerns to the back of her mind and pushed open the door, wincing a little as the bell rang loudly.
"Ah, Sheriff Swan," Gold greeted from behind the counter. "What can I do for you this morning?"
Emma met his eyes with just the tiniest hint of apprehension. "I want to make a deal."
If Gold was surprised, he didn't show it. "Ah yes," he said softly. "Mr Booth. I was wondering if I'd see you." He lifted part of the counter to let her through. "Come to the back. I'll put the kettle on."
"Come into my parlour," Emma murmured, following him.
"Said the spider to the fly," Gold finished with a chuckle. "Ah, but I'm not luring you, dearie. You came to me. Have a seat."
The little kitchen was surprisingly homey for its size, and Emma could see Belle in little touches all the way through it - the floral pillows on the chairs, the knitted tea cosy, the cookies laid out on a little plate.
"So what do you want?" Emma asked bluntly.
"Ah, that's the wrong question, my dear," Gold said, pouring them both a cup of tea. "What you should be asking is 'can I help you'?"
"I've been told you'll do anything for the right price," Emma said, ignoring the cup he placed in front of her.
The look he gave her now was unexpectedly sympathetic.
"Emma," he said, sitting down opposite her, "I like to think I am a fair man, whatever others may think of me. The curse I carry gives me power, yes, but magic comes with a price, my dear. You know that. If people come to me for help, why should I pay the price for them?"
"I understand that," Emma said, "but …"
"I have never," Gold continued, cutting her off, "made a deal I couldn't keep. Not since … Not since Bae. I will do anything for the right price - so long as it is in my power to do so."
Emma felt her heart sink into her stomach. "You … You can't do anything? Regina says you're more powerful than the fairies."
Gold smirked. "I dare say I am. But it's a different kind of magic, dearie. I cannot easily reverse their magic, any more than they could easily reverse mine."
"Easily," Emma repeated. "That means you can do it."
"True," Gold said slowly. "I could reverse the magic given a lot of power and energy."
"And what would the price be?" Emma asked.
Gold gave her a sombre look. "His life."
Emma closed her eyes. "Why?"
"Because that was the price of the spell," Gold said. "Blue's spell saved his life. To undo that magic, would be to end it."
"You were lucky."
Emma sighed, leaning her head against the cool window of the pick-up truck. "I know."
"I can't believe you went to him."
"You've said that already."
"Emma …"
"Snow," David said. "Leave it."
"David …"
"Leave it," David repeated. "You ate a poisoned apple to make sure I survived. I made a deal with him to make sure you did. We both know what it's like to know that fear - the only difference is, we found each other again."
Snow softened at that. "I'm sorry, Emma. I'm just …"
"I know," Emma said, eyes closed. "I get it. Where are we going anyway?"
"It's not far," David said. "Are you alright?"
"I'm as alright as I have been," Emma answered.
She didn't see the concerned look that passed between her parents.
"What your … What David means is that you don't look too well," Snow said. "Have you been eating properly?"
"I'm fine," Emma said. "I'm just a little … I've been feeling a bit nauseas over the last few days, that's all. I think it's just … I dunno … grief manifesting itself or something."
"Well, this will hopefully cheer you up," Snow said as the truck came to a stop. "Come on."
Heaving herself out of the car with a groan, Emma looked around with a frown. "An empty field is going to cheer me up?"
"No." Snow and David took one of her hands each and tugged her forward. As they stepped off the road, light shimmered around them and the empty field turned into a cultured one, growing row after row of …
"What on earth?" Emma murmured.
"Emma!"
Her eyes finally focussed on the man jogging towards them; it took a second longer for her to realise that this wasn't a man, but the giant she had met in the Enchanted Forest.
"Anton?"
He embraced her in greeting and she automatically hugged him back.
"What are you … How are you …?"
"Cora," Snow answered. "He turned up while you were in New York."
"You had a busy time of it," Emma said.
"The dwarves have taken him under their wing," Snow said.
"They call me Tiny now," Anton - no, Tiny - said with a proud smile of a person who had finally found somewhere to belong.
Emma managed a smile. "I'm glad. But this doesn't look like a mine."
"Nope," Tiny said cheerfully. "Magic beans."
"Magic beans," Emma repeated. "You're trying to get back to the Enchanted Forest."
"A few more weeks and we should be good to go," David said.
"Has everyone been consulted about this?" Emma asked.
"What do you mean?" Snow asked. "Everyone wants to go home."
"Do they?" Emma asked. "I mean, it's alright for you two, and Thomas and Ella - you're going back to castles. What about the people going back to abject poverty? How do they feel about it?"
"You think we shouldn't go?" Snow asked, deflating a little.
"I think you should give people a choice," Emma said, "rather than just making it for them."
"What would yours be?" David asked quietly.
Emma hesitated. "Henry," she said finally. "My choice would be Henry. If he wants to stay … I'm staying."
The more Emma thought about it, the more she did not want to return to the Enchanted Forest.
Yes, it was where her parents grew up, and part of her wanted to see that in circumstances that weren't as fraught as her last trip.
Yes, Henry was probably chomping at the bit to go, and she would stay by his side.
Yes, there was more magic there; maybe there was something or someone there that could help August.
But she couldn't help remembering the primitive first aid they had had to rely on; remembered Snow's passing remarks of fatal fevers, deaths from illnesses that Emma was certain they had cures for in this realm.
And, as the days went past, that became a more and more pressing thought, as her nausea failed to subside, and instead only got worse, along with her energy levels - and her appetite.
She had been through this once before.
This time, she had not needed a prison warden to go to the store for her.
Ironically, that would have been easier - trying to buy something like this in a small town without anyone - even her parents (especially her parents) - finding out was not easy.
Thankfully, the pharmacy was run by Tom Clarke, Sneezy in the Enchanted Forest, and he happened to be the unlucky former dwarf to test the town line, which meant that he was completely bewildered by the whole town, and would think nothing of a customer buying a pregnancy test along with her other purchases.
Still, as he rung her through, she gave him a smile and a, "I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this to anyone."
"Lips are sealed, Sheriff," he said kindly. "Your business is your own."
Once she got home, thankfully finding the loft empty for once - David was at the station, Snow was helping at the school, and Henry was at school - Emma locked herself in the bathroom.
While she waited for the test, she munched on one of the candy bars she'd treated herself to, her heart racing.
Maybe she was imagining it.
Maybe it was grief causing her symptoms.
Her phone buzzed, her time up, and she swallowed, chocolate turning to ash in her throat.
Positive.
She was pregnant.
For a few moments, she was eighteen again, curled up alone in a prison cell.
But this prison cell was not physical, just emotional.
How on earth was she ever supposed to explain to her child that their father was now only seven years older than them?
Should she even try to explain it at all?
The door to the loft clicked.
"Emma, I'm back! Are you here?"
Emma drew in a deep breath, hoping that her voice would be steady when she responded. "I'm fine. I'll be out in a second."
"Take your time, sweetheart," Snow said, bustling about in the kitchen. "I was going to bake cookies; do you want to help?"
Emma wrapped the test in wad of tissues and buried it in her bag so she could throw it away later. She would have to tell her at some point, but for now, she wanted to keep this just between them - between her and the tiny bubble of hope in her midsection.
It was, after all, all she had left of her true love.
So she washed her hands, downed a couple of pregnancy-safe anti-nausea pills, and stepped out of the bathroom with a smile. "That depends; do you want me to burn down the kitchen?"
Snow turned to her with a teasing smile. "I seem to recall you helping Mary Margaret from time to time."
"Your memory's going," Emma said. "I think you'll find Mary Margaret did the cooking, and I licked the spoon."
"Well, then," Snow said, "time to add to the tradition."
"Oh?" Emma asked.
"My grandmother taught my mother to make these cookies," Snow said. "My mother taught me, and now I'm going to teach you. They're not quite the same as the ones back home, the ingredients are different, but …" she hesitated. "It's just as good, right?"
Emma tucked her arms around her mother in a rare hug. "It sounds perfect. Just don't expect them to be edible."