Chapter 14

Present

Graham pulled his jacket collar up, blowing out a low fog of breath into the evening air. He looked out over the empty street and weighed his options.

It was inching toward seven in the evening, and it was chilly. While it was every bit possible that Henry had made his way to his castle, the beach would be even worse. The cold and stinging wind would not be sustainable for long, no matter how much of a safe space that area was to him. He thought it more likely that he'd hide somewhere sheltered.

He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. His stomach pulled with conviction: the library.

He headed down the sidewalk more purposefully, occasionally nodding to the townsfolk he passed.

The library wasn't a functioning library. Sometime, years ago (how many years?), it had lost its funding. Now it was a liminal space, dusty and quiet and waiting. Shelves still teamed with books, piles of newspapers and microfilm in the back. It was boarded up to prevent anyone going inside to loot or injure themselves, but a couple pieces had been pried up near the back entrance. The door now sat a couple inches off its hinges, just wide enough for a kid to sneak through.

Graham moved the door a little wider, and hunched his shoulders to fit in to the small entry. The smell of dust made him cough a little before his eyes adjusted to the dim. The lone, steady beam of a flashlight called him deeper.

Henry was in the center, far enough from the windows for the light not to be seen from outside. A small hill of books was at his side, one lone tome open on his lap though he was not engrossed in it as he would have expected. Instead, he was staring blankly at the wall opposite him, his eyes blank.

"Henry."

The boy looked up and his face darkened. "Are you gonna take me back?" he demanded.

Graham cocked his head to the side. "Depends. What are you doing here?"

He sighed and flicked through the open pages. The boy looked exhausted, more mentally than physically. The spark that had ignited in his eyes when he'd brought Emma to the mansion had faded back down. "I d'unno," he finally mumbled.

He swallowed, and moved to sit down next to him. He tapped the open book. "Okay, then. Anything good in there?"

Henry scowled. "I'm not coming up with another crazy theory, if that's what you're thinking," he said bitterly.

Graham pressed his lips together. He felt the worry again, that Henry blamed him. "I didn't say that," he said. "I know some things were said—"

"Which one told you?" he asked bluntly.

Graham shrugged and ran a hand over the pocket of his jacket, where a scrawled on gas receipt lay. "Emma."

Henry looked away sharply, but not before he caught a flash of hurt.

He knocked his knee against his. "She said that you overheard something your mom goaded her into, and then you ran away."

He said nothing, but sniffed loud in the quiet. His fingers dug grooves into the soft, ageing paper.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he pressed.

He shrugged and tossed his book toward the dusty shelves. Graham watched as it settled next to the others, its dark leather cover worn down to barely glimpse at a title, Almanac spooling in decaying gold text. "What's there to talk about?" he said bitterly.

"Henry—"

He folded his arms and cut him off. "Why do you even care? You're not my dad."

Graham swallowed thickly and turned slightly, surprised by the sharp pain accumulating between his ribs and in his throat. He said nothing a long moment, letting the boy's bitter words fall between them. "I—" His jaw tightened, and he stared at a spot on the wall across from them.

Graham let a moment beat. He didn't know why the words hit him so hard; he wasn't this child's parent, and he was never going to be. But that fizzle of feeling towards him – that mix of protectiveness and empathy and compassion – it wasn't nothing.

"You're right," he said finally, and finally chanced a look at the lad. "I'm not. And I know it's not my place, Henry."

Henry shifted and curled in on himself. So much of his face matched Emma in that moment, that line of stubborn anger that had set into the woman. But his eyes couldn't quite match the stony expression; they said too much that belied the stance, soft and sad and remorseful.

Henry opened his mouth, but at the same time the phone at his belt rang. Graham winced and grabbed it, and then frowned deeply when he saw the number. Of course. Graham locked eyes with him as he brought the cell to his ear.

"Sheriff."

The voice was callous, irritated. He blinked slowly, keeping his eyes on the green-blue of Henry's. The boy looked defeated more than anything else. "Madame Mayor," he answered simply.

"Henry has a seven o'clock appointment with Dr. Hopper. I expect my son to be there promptly."

The way she placed her words with the clipped, acerbic tone made his fist clench in irritation. She wouldn't even ask after him? Would even see if he was okay after running off? He felt his grip tighten until a small hand rested on his forearm. He looked up at Henry's resigned, concerned gaze and finally gave a short nod. "I can get him there, Madame Mayor."

"Good."

The phone clicked, and Graham dropped the phone back into his pocket.

"I'm sorry, Graham."

He looked up, surprised. He offered him a smile. "You don't need to apologize, Henry."

Henry's brow furrowed, distressed. He kicked his feet out and stared at the toes of his shoes. "No, it's not right. I know you care. I … I'm glad you care."

"But it's not enough," he finished softly.

His face crumpled before quickly evening, big eyes watering at the edges. "Maybe I am crazy," he ventured brokenly.

Something inside him seized and he shook his head rapidly. "Henry, no one said you were crazy. The fairy tales … it's hard to understand, is all," he said. He pieced through his fogged memories and closed his eyes tight. "I can't promise I believe in it all. But you're right about some things. Maybe it's just the theory that needs work."

Henry frowned deeply. "No, it makes sense." He hesitated, and his brows crinkled in. "Or it did, at least," he grumbled.

He took a deep breath in, and remembered the sound of a wolf's howl when his skin touched Emma's. He couldn't pretend that he believed that Emma was a princess and that they were all from a magical land with their memories swiped clean … but there was definitely something that made him pause. Maybe not a princess, but maybe something more rural, wild. Maybe he could see that blonde hair mussed and tangled and shrouded under grey furs, falling in loose tresses against his shoulder, pale hand at his cheek and red lips warm and sweet and close ….

He shook away the fantasy. He had never felt so off-kilter as he had since Henry brought her to their town. His mind had been overarching through these strange imaginings that felt more real than anything else he could recall in the past ten plus years.

He finally rose up and shook his head clear. "Maybe you just need to get all the facts straight, and then we can all figure it out," he said finally.

Henry looked up at him curiously. "You got lost again," he commented.

"What?"

He shrugged. "You do that sometimes. Everyone does. If I ask about something from before, or if I say something that doesn't fit. You just get … lost. Even Emma sometimes."

He was quiet a moment, taking that in. "Is that why it makes sense to you?"

Henry looked unsure of himself a beat, but finally nodded. "Yeah. It fits."

He rubbed the back of his neck, but smiled at the boy. "Well, that's what matters. We can figure out the rest later, yeah?"

"Okay," he mumbled, and then pushed to his feet. He pressed his lips together, and looked up with soft eyes. "I really am sorry, Graham. I didn't mean it like that."

"It's okay, Henry," he answered, even as the stone climbed back up his throat. He offered a stiff smile. "It's not like it's not true. But you know that I'm here for you, regardless, right?"

Henry ducked his head but nodded. "Yeah."

He nudged him, and waited until he looked up. "Let's get to Dr. Hopper's, and then tomorrow maybe I'll see if I can get you something from Granny's. Your mom will be busy trying to figure out the new policies, so I might be able to sneak away from the office for a bit after school lets out. Maybe a hot chocolate?"

Henry half smiled. "Maybe."

He grinned. "Maybe we can even see if Emma wants to talk about Operation Cobra a little more, huh?"

Henry's face fell, and he looked away sharply. Graham tightened, realizing he must have said the wrong thing. Emma's distress from earlier caught, and he placed a hand on the top of Henry's head. His bottom lip quivered and he sniffed. "She's gonna leave."

Graham shook his head. "She said a week."

"That was before," he said miserably.

Graham hesitated on another protest, realizing that it was Emma that would have to comfort the boy on this. He sighed. "Let's just get out of here for now," he said softly. "We'll get you to your appointment. C'mon. It's too cramped in here, anyway."

Henry nodded once and collected his backpack, which swung emptily as he hoisted it to his shoulders. Graham's face firmed. The boy always took at least a few books with him; the void only spoke to how broken up he was about this situation.

He opened the door for Henry, careful to check for any loose nails that might snag on his clothes or skin. Once he was sure it was clear, he pressed him forward between his shoulder blades and followed him out. "What are you going to talk to Dr. Hopper about today?" he asked, more to keep the conversation than to hear the answer.

Henry shrugged, and his mood darkened even further. "I don't want to talk to him today," he said.

"I get that," he ventured, and carefully placed his hand on his shoulder as he guided them down the street. "And I think that's okay sometimes. Nobody will make you talk about it if you don't want to."

"Do you think she wants me to think I'm crazy?" Henry asked softly, so lightly that Graham almost didn't catch it.

Graham startled. "Who, Emma? Of course not."

He shook his head and peered up at him thoughtfully. "No, not Emma. I meant my mom."

Graham grit his teeth and looked down the empty streets instead of answer immediately. "I don't think it's as simple as that," he said.

Henry looked up solemnly with eyes that knew too much. "You're right. I think she wants everyone to think they're crazy," he said.

Graham didn't know what to say to that, but Henry leaned in and buried his face into his side, hugging him close as they walked down the path. Graham realized that he needed to commiserate rather than be comforted at this time. He sighed once more and wrapped his arm around him, thankful that at least Emma's presence has allowed Henry to be more willing to seek out others for comfort. Even if the affection was in part a way to be defiant of his mother.

"I want you to remember, Graham," he said, muffled into his jacket. He looked up at him again, green eyes bright in the streetlamps. "Then maybe you can get your happy ending, too."

He felt another flash, sharp and sudden and gone before he could grasp it. He nodded forward to the doorway a few paces off. "Don't you worry about me, Henry. I'm fine."

Henry frowned. "But what if she doesn't stay?"

"Henry."

They both looked up, watching as the redhead stepped from his office, an unsteady smile under his bespectacled gaze. He glanced between the two, seeming surprised.

"Oh, Sheriff. If you're here to follow up on the call earlier—"

"No, no, Dr. Hopper," he said, raising a hand. He didn't need another reminder that he'd arrested Emma just that morning, especially in front of the boy. Archie already called to drop the charges, anyway. "Just making sure Henry got to his session okay."

He seemed even more confused at that, and Graham couldn't exactly blame him. It would be much the same as Henry's teacher dropping him off: strange. Shouldn't the parent being dropping off the child at therapy, or at least someone closer to him?

"Well, then," Archie shuffled uncomfortably and then stood to the side. "Come on in, Henry. I got the fire going, so it's nice and warm inside."

Henry glared up at Archie a long moment, but finally slumped forward and trudged to the entrance. "Thanks anyway, Graham," he called, and then slipped inside before he could get a word to answer.

His chest heaved tiredly, and he locked gazes with the therapist.

Archie gave a tight smile and adjusted his glasses. "He's a strong boy, Sheriff," the man said by way of comfort, and then turned to follow him inside.

Graham watched as the door shut, left on the outside, and rocked back on his heels. If only that were enough to get Henry through this.

Eleven Years Ago

The cottage was indeed tiny, he surmised. He had only been inside a few homes in his life, but the three bedroom was small in comparison to the drawing rooms he'd practiced in. The living areas were compact, furniture almost on top of each other, no space to stretch out. The fireplace acted as hearth, only a large handcrafted table separating the kitchen area from the couch and weaving areas. The doorways were narrow, and he didn't expect the rooms to be much bigger than a closet. It seemed even the sheep outside had more room in their shelter.

"Now, I'm sorry for the state of this place. I'm afraid we don't get much company. I do have some extra things if you'd wish to dry off, some clothes of mine and my son's."

Emma shivered beside him. "Yes, please." He shot her a look, and she pursed her lips. "I don't think he wants anything, though."

Ruth tsked. "Now, now, I think you're just the same size as my David. There is plenty to spare, and you don't want to catch your death. I'll let you start the fire while I get some pieces."

She rushed away before he could protest, and he sighed heavily. Emma was trailing her hands across the knots on the table, surveying the space. "She's just being nice," she admonished absently. "Besides, we're paying her."

"I'll make the fire," he grumbled, and moved to the hearth.

He saw her roll her eyes out of the corner of his own. "Sure, continue being grumpy when we actually got shelter."

"I don't do well with people," he reminded.

"Well that's an understatement," she said bluntly, but there was something in her voice he recognized as playful.

He made quick work of the fire and looked up at her again. Just as the woman predicted, it wasn't until they found their way there that the storm really picked up. But it was just enough rain to soak Emma through, and her blonde hair was sticking to her pale face. Her lips were purple, but he only really noticed now. His brow furrowed and he pulled her down to the floor in front of the hearth. "C'mere."

She complied easily, and he pulled a blanket off the threadbare couch to strew around her shoulders. He rubbed them and pulled her close, sharing his heat as best he could. She shivered and curled closer. "Why are you always so warm?" she asked, teeth chattering.

He shrugged and pulled a strand of hair behind her ear. "Couldn't tell you," he said, and pressed his cheek to her cold one. She hesitated a moment, and then wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging him to her.

"Here you go, kids. I have some towels for your hair, too, honey."

Emma's head popped up and she nodded. "Thank you, Mrs.—"

"It's still Ruth, sweetheart, I do insist. And it's no inconvenience. What're your names?"

He stiffened and could see that Emma noticed. She was the one to answer for them both. "I'm Emma, and this is my friend."

She left it at that, and he relaxed slightly. Ruth seemed to take her answer in stride. "I'm going to start prepping for dinner. David's finishing with the sheep, so he'll be in in just a bit. Here, Emma, I'll show you the room so you can get changed."

He stopped himself from jumping up, suddenly frightened at the idea of her leaving his sight. But Ruth exited just as quickly as she whisked Emma away, and started busying herself in the kitchen. He watched her with a keen eye, plucking the strands of hay from the blanket with deft fingers.

"Once your friend is finished, I'll show you where you can change. Then you could help, if you wish. You know how to break down lamb?"

He hesitated and then nodded.

"Good, I can use an extra hand. Come," she said.

I can use an extra hand. Ruth's words echoed back to him in Fionn's voice. He vacillated, the memory of the words unwelcome. But then Emma came out in fresh if plain clothing, looking refreshed and, better still, safe. He felt weak with relief. He nodded. "Okay," he said.

Her eyes widened, but then she smiled brightly. "He speaks! Good. Let's get you into some dry clothes first."

A plain shift and rough pants were laid out on the wool-covered bed. He brushed his hand over the carefully constructed blanket, ignoring the clothes at first. It was stitched better than the clothing he'd been provided, and its intricate loops were interesting. He'd never bothered with fancy stitching, but he was suddenly wondering if he could copy the pattern. Emma would like it, he thought.

He shook off the sentiment and then undressed and redressed quickly, barely bothering to rub the towel over his hair. By the time he came back out into the main area, there was another person in the kitchen. He surmised quickly that it was Ruth's son. His hair was blond and windswept, and he had a smile almost exactly like his mother's. He was placing his coat to dry on a rack, listening to Ruth explain their presence.

He had a friendly face, but he couldn't help feeling distrustful of him.

Emma seemed to notice his reaction, because she crossed the room to his side as mother and son spoke, curling her hand in his. "This is Ruth's son, David," she explained, her voice just loud enough for them to hear. "I was just telling him how we're paying for a room for the night."

"Pleased to meet you," David said. His voice was just as warm as his mother's, but it didn't set him at ease. He only glared in response until Emma's tug on his hand made him drop his gaze.

"Come, you're supposed to be helping with the food. David, would you tidy up a bit? I can have Emma help with the table later."

He sent Emma a small smirk at the fact that Ruth seemed to unconsciously know not to put her in charge of the cooking. She only rolled her eyes and sat on the stool, warming her hands over the fire.

A cleaver was placed on the counter beside him, and he looked down at the cut of meat Ruth had begun preparing. Quietly, he bowed his head, wordlessly thanking the animal, before beginning to break down the meat.

He felt the heat of a gaze as he worked. He looked up, finding Ruth's soft blue eyes on him. She nodded. "You've got a good technique," she said simply, but he could hear the question within. He ignored it.

"Here, I can help," Emma said and jumped to assist the boy. He was shuttering the windows against the wind howling outside. She worked beside him, latching the locks and shivering in the wind.

"Thank you, miss. It's been a long time since we've had such weather," he said with an easy smile.

Emma peered curiously at David as they worked, and he felt a wash of something unnamed filter through his stomach. She looked confused by him, and he studied the boy again.

He was their age, maybe an inch or two taller than himself and similarly built. He had a naivety to him at face value, but his blue eyes flashed at times with an undercurrent of wisdom. Something in either his face or posture or expression was almost familiar, he could admit. It wasn't just the clear similarity to Ruth; it was disconcerting.

He watched as he sliced, seeing them work in tandem to place the beams over the wooden shutters. They worked seamlessly and easily, barely bothering to speak a word between them. But it wasn't like Emma usually was in speaking so little; it was as if they already were attuned to each other and just had no need for extra phrases.

He couldn't shake the gnawing feel in his gut, and continued to flick his eyes up from the lamb.

"Once you're both done there, if you'd please help in wiping down the plates and mugs," Ruth called out as she stirred her now-boiling pot. "Usually I'd have a stew for this kind of weather, but that needs to cook for hours. I think I can whip us up something a little quicker. Thank goodness we had the Spring lamb this time. Usually all we have is mutton."

Emma nodded distractedly, and carefully crossed to grab the items and a rag. His whole body slackened at her nearness, as well as the new distance between her and David.

He couldn't help staring during his rote act of dicing. In the plain, rough, ill-fitting dress she still didn't look like she belonged there. Her hair was drying, messy curls in her face and shining all the same. He swallowed thickly, reminded of how the strands felt tangled in his hands. She finished quickly and sat on the stool, eyes meeting his quickly before a flush rose in her cheeks and she looked away. Her lips were red once more in the heat of the room, and for a moment he forgot about the rocking of the blade in the memory of tasting her. He shook off the feeling, and looked back down at the meat.

"If there are split greens, I can prepare those as well," he muttered to Ruth, wiping his blade off on the rag Emma left on the table.

"You've good instincts, there, son. Yes, I think split greens would do nicely. I have some purple potatoes and carrots to add to the meal as well."

Emma looked up to catch his eye again and then glanced away just as quick. He swallowed and tried to stop his eyes from flicking up to her face as he worked on the food. The firelight and the pattering of rain and her … it was something both foreign and familiar – comforting.

She licked her lips and set the mugs to the side. She sighed, and turned away from him sharply to look back at the boy. "David, I'm sorry, can I help?" she asked.

He looked up sharply at David, something irritated itching through him as he did so. David was struggling with shaking out a rug, but he paused at her voice. He turned to Emma with that warm smile. Something in him that was not mere protectiveness wanted to bash it off his face. "I'm okay, thank you."

Absently, she began wiping the table, brow barely furrowed but clearly thoughtful.

Ruth chopped aromatics to go into the broth along with his greens, her movements quick and precise. She barely glanced up as she spoke. "You've seen the spare room. It's not much, only the one bed. You can stay with my David while Emma takes it. He's got a small couch in his room, or plenty of space by the fire, or if you wish to share –"

The flash of fear struck him even before he felt the denial. "No."

She looked up. "No?"

He shook his head firmly. "She stays with me."

She looked like she wanted to protest, something warring behind her eyes. Emma had paused in wiping the table, watching them expectantly. The air felt heavy, and even David had turned to watch them with piqued interest.

"Certainly," Ruth finally said, reluctantly. "It's not my place."

Emma's face flushed and she turned away, but a small smile appeared on her lips.

He didn't want to think about the benefits of sharing the room, only the convenience of it. "I won't be separate from her," he said gruffly.

Ruth's eyes flicked back and forth between them, carefully studying them. Finally, she nodded. "That's fine," she said soothingly. "I'll make sure you have enough bedding."