"Okay—" Emma snapped off the rubber gloves, tossing them over her shoulder with a sigh. She looked around the apartment, eyes narrowed critically as she double-checked for any lingering Hook-ness.

She'd pulled farmers' hours, going so far as to demand a hearty pancakes-eggs-toast-and-bacon breakfast from David; Henry had glared at her murderously over the orange juice with red-rimmed eyes, spitting out threats in between all the yawning, but Emma reacted with a mere shrug and a, "Hand me the syrup?"

Four hours later, they had not only cleared out every single possession and scrap of clothing Hook owned (an inexplicable amount of black leather; it was like he'd bought the same outfit seven times), but also managed to scrub the whole place down with liberal quantities of bleach. Now, Emma stood in the center of the room, hands on hips, with Henry slumped in the corner, half-asleep. She quirked a small smile, finding the apartment to her satisfaction.

"Beautiful," she said. "I think we're ready to start moving my stuff in."

"No…" Henry groaned, throwing his head back. "I'm tired. I want to sleep."

"Oh, come on, Henry," Emma said, going over to nudge him with her boot. "It shouldn't take too long."

"Shouldn't take too long?" Henry repeated incredulously. "Mom, do you know how much shit you've got in the loft? It's going to take all day!"

"It'll be worth it," she wheedled. "Just think—once we move everything down here, I'll be moved in. And then, you can move all your stuff in. So, your stuff and my stuff will be here, with Neal's stuff." She grinned, a little shyly, putting her hands in her back pockets. "We're going to be a real family."

It was meant to be a heartwarming sentiment; inspiring, even. And perhaps, it would have been, had Henry been younger and more innocent. But all she got out of him was a scoff and, "Yeah, I've already got, like, three of those."

"Fucking teenagers," Emma muttered, dropping her hands. "All right, get up, smart-ass. I've got a lot of boxes waiting in the hallway upstairs."

"You should just make Grandpa help you," Henry frowned, closing his eyes. "He's got, like, muscles and shit."

"You made a deal with me, kid," she reminded him. "You do this, I owe you a favor. I'm not gonna owe you shit, if you don't get up and start helping me."

"Ugh!" Henry frustratedly threw up his hands, and stood up. "Fine!"

"That's my boy," Emma smiled, running a hand over his hair. Henry immediately swatted her away, and shunted off, muttering extremely rude suggestions for where she could keep all her boxes.

Yep. That was her boy.

Oh, well, she sighed. Henry could be miserable, if he wanted, but that wasn't going to spoil this for her. Things were finally going the way way they were supposed to. This move—this was sixteen years in the making. Sixteen years, she'd been waiting to have this with Neal.

A home.

"Just close your eyes, and point," Neal said, tossing the map on the bed. "Whatever spot you pick…that's our home."

Emma smiled, closing her eyes. She pointed her finger, twirling it around indecisively before bending to rest it on… "Tallahassee," she read, opening her eyes.

"We got a winner."

Tallahassee. She dropped her arms around his neck, holding him closer."So…is it near a beach?" she asked.

"Yeah, it's Florida," Neal grinned."Everything's near a beach."

"Okay, then," she smiled. "Tallahassee, it is."

"Tallahassee, it is."

Her smile faded, a wave of uncertainty turning her nerves. It was a familiar feeling, at this point: even after all this time, everything that knit them together, it still baffled her that Neal was still here: still with her. Everyone left her, at one point or another; no one had ever wanted to keep her, no one had ever cared about her like this. Neal was the first person, in her entire life, who'd ever made her feel like she belonged somewhere.

And yet, there was still that part of her that…couldn't quite believe that.

"Are you sure you want this?" Emma said, knitting her brow."Is this…what you really want?"

Neal looked at her steadily, reading every thought in her eyes. "What I really want, is you."

"Mom?"

Emma looked up, quickly wiping away the tears that had gathered in her eyes. "Henry, hey," she sniffed, trying to pretend she hadn't just been tearing up like a complete sap. She put her hands on her hips, clearing her throat. "What's up?"

Henry raised an eyebrow over the pile of boxes in his hands. "You all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, I'm just…" She shook her head, giving her hand a little wave. "I was just thinking about some stuff."

Henry nodded slowly, setting down the boxes. "Are those…allergy tears, then?" he said, keeping his eyes down as he nudged them straight with his foot.

"They're happy tears," she said, hearing the concern layered carefully beneath apathy. "I was just thinking about the day your dad gave me this."

Henry looked at the pendant, a slight frown etched on his face. "It's just a keychain, isn't it?"

"Well…yeah." She wandered over to the couch, her fingers lightly touching the aging metal. "It's got a lot of sentimental value."

"Oh." Henry lost interest; he turned back to the hallway, sighing something about "old people" and "just a keychain, for the love of God."

It was not just a keychain.

It had survived everything: eleven years' worth of separation and heartbreak, Neverland, (supposed) death. Even when she thought she could never forgive him, it survived; even when he thought he'd lost her for good, it survived.

She remembered the day she found him in New York; she remembered the bar.

"Why, uh…why do you wear the keychain I got you?"

Numbly, she stared at him. Her eyes ran over the achingly familiar features: the eyes that simultaneously held a spark of mischief and a world of hurt; the crooked smile that quivered with heartbreak.

No. He didn't get to be heartbroken. Not after what he did.

She reached up, grasping the swan pendant that had hung from her neck for eleven years, and tugged. It broke away from her neck—too easily, it seemed; she dropped it in his hand, holding back the swell of emotion in her throat. "To remind myself never to trust someone again."

It had survived everything. Even that.

Emma closed her hand around the pendant a little more tightly, as if to protect it from the memories. She suddenly felt restless, nervous—like her throat was closing up. She shoved her hands in her pockets, fumbling for her phone. For some reason, she just really needed to talk to Neal right now: reassure herself that he was still there; that even though he'd left, he hadn't left.

She bit her lip, pressing the phone to her ear; her heart pounding in her chest. She couldn't breathe. Her lungs were going to burst, her chest was too tight—

"Hello?"

Relief flooded at the sound of his voice, spreading a wave of calm over her. "N-Neal?" she breathed, putting a hand over her still rapidly beating.

"Hey, what's up?"

"Nothing, nothing, I just…" Emma cleared her throat. "I just wanted to see how you were doing."

There was silence over the line for a minute. "You okay, Em?" Neal asked uncertainly. She could hear the concern in his voice, and pictured his face all crinkled up in that worried frown of his.

"Fine," she said, fingers traveling back to her necklace. "I just miss you, is all." She leaned against the couch, settling against the cushions with a small sigh as she ran her thumb along the tarnished swan. "How long are you going to be gone, again?"

"Just a few more days—" There was the sound of a door opening in the background; someone walking in, footsteps echoing loudly while a man's voice called out something vague. Emma grimaced, recognizing the accented drawl even through the incoherent words.

"That'll be Hook," she said.

"Found his way back to the motel, after all," Neal sighed. "I was hoping he'd get lost, and some family would take him in."

She could just see Hook giving Neal an exasperated look, especially as she caught the end of his grumbling: "…literally hate you sometimes—and whoever you're talking to right now. Who is that?"

"Emma—hey, hey, hey!"

A kerfuffle, some muffled argument, and then Hook's voice obnoxiously blaring into the phone, "What do you want, Swan?"

Emma made a face, letting out an ugh of disgust. "Stop breathing into the phone, you Neanderthal! And put Neal back on, I don't want to talk to you."

"I don't care," Hook said petulantly. "You're intruding on my time with Neal. This trip was supposed to be about the two of us, bonding over my emotional problems and figuring out how to find me happiness."

"Give me the phone, you escaped mental patient!" Neal yelled in the background.

"Neal—!"

"You freak, this isn't about you! Give me that!"

Hook let out a strangled noise as once again, the sounds of a struggle crackled over the phone. Emma raised her eyebrows when Neal returned, slightly out of breath.

"Hey," he said, a door shutting in the background. "Sorry, I had to go out in the hall."

"It's okay," Emma shrugged. "Not your fault he's crazy."

"Guess not." Neal sighed, sounding rather exhausted. "I swear, it's like having another kid, dealing with him." He stopped, his voice taking on a panic. "Oh, my God—that's not why you were calling, is it?"

"What? No! No, no, no, I'm not—" Emma shook her head, even though he couldn't see her. "I'm not."

"I mean, it's not like I wouldn't be totally psyched if you were," Neal said quickly. "But there could be better timing, you know?"

"I'm not," Emma repeated, frowning. "And what do you mean, totally psyched if I was? What does that mean?"

"I was just trying to be supportive," Neal said. "Whatever the situation was."

"Oh."

"Incidentally, what is the situation?" he said, the worry creeping back into his voice. "You didn't greet me with a 'Hey, loser' or 'S'up, dude?', and that usually means something's up."

"Everything's fine. Really. I was just thinking about stuff, and…I don't know." Emma looked at the pendant, rolling it between her fingers. "I just missed you."

"And…what stuff were you thinking about?" Neal asked cautiously.

"Keychain." For some reason, it was impossible to say more than that.

It didn't matter: he knew what she was talking about. "The day I gave it to you, or the day you gave it back?"

"Both. Mostly the day you gave it to me." Emma waited for him to speak, but he didn't say anything. "Neal?"

"I'm here." His voice was tight, holding tension and undefinable emotion.

"I wasn't trying to—I didn't mean—"

"I know."

"I was remembering good stuff."

"But that always makes the other stuff come up," he said quietly.

"Neal…" she sighed."Everything's fine, okay? If I wanted to talk about other stuff, I would."

"So—you're okay, then?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," she smiled. She twisted the chain around her finger, dangling the pendant to watch it catch the light. "Hey, you remember the day we found the dreamcatcher?"

"Flypaper for nightmares."

"Flypaper for nightmares," she agreed.

"Yeah, I remember." He paused, then continued in a somewhat warmer tone, "That was the day you picked out Tallahassee."

"Mmm-hmm."

"That was going to be our home."

"Yeah," Emma mused. "You know, I ended up there a few years later."

"Oh, yeah?" Neal's voice was carefully light. "How was it?"

"Boring and full of old people."

He snorted, genuinely amused. "Was it at least near a beach?" he asked. "I know you wanted a beach."

"Close enough." Emma blew out a breath. "What about you? How was Canada?"

"Cold. Lonely." Neal was quiet for a minute. "That wasn't the plan, you know. I wanted Tallahassee."

"I know."

"I wanted…you know, I wanted you. Us. I…" Neal exhaled, frustrated by the difficulty of expressing whatever he was trying to say. "It wasn't supposed to turn out like that."

"Everything's on track now," she reminded him gently.

"Pretty long detour, though."

"Yeah," Emma sighed. "I could have shaved off two years after Neverland."

"I could have shaved off twelve, if I hadn't listened to August."

"Well, there was the whole curse thing that needed taking care of," she pointed out. "So, that was kind of unavoidable." She shrugged, considering. "Still, it was a lot to get past, so maybe the two years after Neverland was unavoidable, too."

"Mmm," Neal murmured in agreement. "Listen, Em—"

Emma jumped as the door burst open, and Henry strolled in, music blaring from his headphones as he dropped a few boxes with a heavy thud! in the corner.

"What the hell was that?" Neal asked, startled.

"Henry," Emma said, both as a scolding and an explanation. She walked over to him, hissing his name like a curse:"Henry Mills, you scared the shit out of me! Hey!"

Henry looked up with raised eyebrows, pulling off one headphone (something angry-sounding blasted through). "What?"

"I said, you scared the shit out of me! Don't just go throwing my stuff around—"

"Are you talking to Dad?" Henry interrupted, pointing at the phone.

"Yeah, but I was saying—"

"Can I talk to him?" Henry asked impatiently.

Emma exhaled in frustration: in one ear and out the other, it seemed. "All right, just give me a second." She raised the phone back to her ear, swatting away Henry's reaching hand with her free one. "Hey, Neal, Henry wants to talk to you."

"Oh. Okay, put him on."

"'Kay."

"Wait, Emma?" Neal said quickly, just as she was about to pass the phone over. She raised her eyebrows, surprised.

"Yeah?"

There was brief pause before he said with an uncharacteristic gentleness, "I love you."

Tears sprang to her eyes, a warmth spreading through her chest and wrapping around her. I love you. It wasn't that she didn't know: it was just, he so rarely said it out loud. It was a silent understanding between them, an unspoken agreement; neither of them were particularly verbose, when it came to feelings, and under normal circumstances, she'd've taken the mickey out of him for it. But today was…different.

"I know," she said finally. "I love you, too."

Henry let out an exasperated breath."Yeah, okay, we all love each other—can I talk, please?" He made a grabbing motion with his hand.

"You better put him on," Neal said, amusement in his voice. "Talk to you later?"

"Yeah," Emma smiled. "I'll call you."

"Mom," Henry said through his teeth.

"Yes, I hear you, Henry," she said exasperatedly, dropping the smile as she thrust the phone at him. Henry took it immediately, pressing it to his ear only half a second before he started jabbering: "Dude, Grandpa keeps spamming my phone with texts. You gotta tell him to leave me alone, or I swear, I'm going to strangle him with that stupid cravat…"

It wasn't Tallahassee, Emma thought, looking around the apartment as Henry wandered upstairs. It wasn't really what she'd hoped for. Or remotely imagined.

It was in an apartment complex owned by the eccentric Rumplestiltskin; with Snow White the Town Yenta and Prince Charming The Cop-Slash-Caterer living upstairs. Slutty Red Riding Hood served coffee at the local diner, and she was sharing her teenage, necromancer son with the hormonal Evil Queen—who mayored the kingdom/ small town in her spare time. She was frenemies with Captain Hook; coworkers wth the Huntsman, who had an interesting, possibly sexual relationship, with the Mad Hatter or Dr. Frankenstein (she wasn't really sure); and girlfriend to the son of Rumplestiltskin, who was—by some miracle—the most normal person in this town.

No, it really wasn't what she'd hoped for. And no, it wasn't like anything she'd imagined.

But it was better than nothing. Because in some weird, twisted way, that only Fate or Destiny could have been responsible for, it was exactly what she wanted.

It was home.

Henry trudged through the snow, grimacing as the cold seeped further and further into his bones. He was going to be completely numb by the time he reached the well, goddamn it. Stupid fucking Maine, he grumbled, stepping clumsily over a fallen log. God, why couldn't we all have found Tallahassee?

It was a reference he still didn't quite understand: from what he gathered, Emma and Neal had made plans to move to Tallahassee when they were still silly young things, and it was a big deal and sentimental, and had something to do with dreamcatchers and her keychain. Henry hadn't asked for the full story: he might have, once upon a time, when he was still green around the ears and desperate to hear anything about his father. But now that he was a regular part of his daily life, Henry was content to let Neal keep a few mysteries to himself.

Plus, Emma had already gotten dangerously teary the other day, and he certainly didn't want to go through that again.

He grimaced again, but this time, it wasn't from the cold, so much as the guilt that threatened to flood him. Clearly, this necklace—the one currently gripped in his gloved, probably-frostbitten hand—was important to Emma. It was rare that he saw her get so emotional over something, and here he was, one his way to basically destroy it in the well to resurrect a woman no one particularly cared for.

But she had Neal now: surely she could live without the keychain?

It would have been selfish, Henry decided, had he not snitched it from her dresser when she went in for a shower. Allowing his mother to hold onto something that pulsed with—he tried not to feel nauseated for thinking this—True Love magic, and not use it for anything? Especially when she was the product of True Love, therefore capable of extreme amounts of power (used for Good, he reminded himself quickly—goddamn it, he really had to keep an eye on that psychopathy that kept creeping up!), and still refused to learn magic? No, she had to contribute. She was the Savior, and she barely did any saving at all.

Henry was doing his part: being the responsible young man he was, he was taking full advantage of his product-of-True-Love-status, and developing his power to basically conquer Death. And that was really very nice of him, he thought, using his magic to bring back someone else's loved ones.

Henry had plans, see. Once he got Cora back and figured out the mechanics of resurrection, he was going to open for business: anyone who'd suffered the pain of loss could essentially buy back their beloved's life, for the right price (necromancy was a tricky business, it was only fair they should compensate him for upsetting the balance of Life and Death). It was basically like being a doctor, except instead of depending on science and prayer to save someone's life, he was just going to undo the whole death situation.

But first, he had to figure out Cora.

Thank God for Rumple and his (overly) enthusiastic feelings toward Henry and necromancy, or he never would have had the courage to attempt something like this. Breaking the dam in the portal sounded simple on paper, but once the winds started whooshing and sparks started flying, magic got…intimidating, was a good word for it. He still remembered using the well the first time, and how nerve-wracking that'd been. It would be nice to have an expert close by this time around.

Speak of the devil, Henry thought wryly, as he neared the well and found Rumple already there, fully garbed in his fur-lined winter coat and Russian-style hat. Why he had one of those hats, Henry didn't know, but he was definitely going to mock him for it later.

Rumple turned at the sound of Henry boots crunching closer, and beamed. "Henry, m'boy!" he called, holding his arms out. "There you are!"

"S'up, Grandpa?" Henry exhaled, brushing a fist on Rumple's shoulder instead of the hug he'd clearly been offering. Rumple flicked his eyes in annoyance, but he was far too used to the unaffectionate natures of his son and grandson to be truly bothered by it.

"Got the keychain, boy?" he asked, rubbing his hands together. Henry nodded, and dug into his pocket to retrieve the swan pendant. Rumple grinned at it dangling from Henry's fingers, and clapped excitedly.

"Yes! Finally! Oh, now we can get some work done!"

Henry's eyebrows jumped as he snatched the chain from him, but didn't protest; he shoved his hands in his pockets and trudged after Rumple to the edge of the well. The wind blew an icy gust, stirring up the ends of his hair and turning his fingers to slender blocks of ice; he cursed, stamping his feet to keep warm.

"Hey, this isn't going to take long, is it?" he asked through chattering teeth. "Last time I was out here all night, it was October, and it was still normal human temperatures."

"Quiet, boy," Rumple frowned, his eyes closed in concentration. "I'm working."

"I'm just asking—"

"No, seriously, shut up."

"…'Kay."

Rumple held out his hands, dangling them and the keychain over the dark chasm of the well. There was a quiet rumbling from deep within, vibrating through the stones and rattling the wooden planks. He felt in his bones, echoing through hollow of his throat and burrowing through the tips of his fingers; the ground shook, and something let out a deep-throated growl…

"It's waking up," Rumple murmured, opening his eyes a fraction. He held up the keychain, allowing the moonlight to glint off the curve of the pendant, and looked into the depths of the well. His eyes narrowed, and he gripped the chain a little more tightly. "Step back, Henry," he said.

Henry blinked, and obeyed him without argument: he stepped back, watching with wide eyes as Rumple lowered the chain into the well. He was only holding onto it by the edge of his fingers, the metal flickering light as the wind gently swung and rattled it. Rumple clenched his jaw, taking a deep breath.

"Once I drop this," he said quietly. "That's it, there's no going back. This portal is going to open, and it's not going to close unless the universe swallows itself whole."

"Yeah, but…" Henry swallowed. "That's okay, right? It's just bringing magic into Storybrooke again, isn't it?"

"No," Rumple frowned. "It's bringing my realm's magic into Storybrooke. That's an enormous difference, Henry. We're in the process of creating what could be the biggest shitstorm of disaster in the history of the universe. Inviting magic into a non-magic realm, contained only by a town that doesn't really exist? This is a big fucking deal." He gave him a wry smile, adding almost mockingly, "And remember all magic comes with a price."

Henry lifted an eyebrow. There had been a time when that might have worked; might have scared him off. Magic, as everyone incessantly reminded him, was not to be trifled with. It was unpredictable and wild and dangerous, and no one ever had any true control over it.

But Henry had the word of the Dark One, himself: there had never been a necromancer so young or skilled as him. Without trying; without knowing what the hell he was doing; without being remotely aware he was using magic at all, Henry had managed to resurrect Graham. The greatest sorcerers and sorceresses had been trying for centuries to accomplish what he'd just tripped into by accident, untrained and blind. If he could manage all that, without exerting any effort whatsoever, with no education or guidance to steer him properly, he was more than confident he could handle this.

"Yeah," he said to Rumple's dubious expression. "Magic comes with a price. But that's just good business, isn't it?" He nodded at the keychain, tossing half a smile at him. "Go on, now."

Something close to pride flickered across Rumple's face. "As you wish."

He dropped the chain.

It fell through the darkness, catching the moonlight as it turned over and over, the glint of light getting smaller as fell…fell…fell…

Another rumble, this one much louder than before. It came from deep within the earth, like something ancient had stirred awake, sleepily lifting its head and letting out a quiet growl. There was a pull in Henry's stomach: he felt the magic ripping apart the pendant, drinking in the power that emanated from it, swallowing every broken pice and breathing it in. Energy pulsed through the stones, reaching through with sly, cunning fingers and wrapping them around his lungs. There was a burst of light from deep within the chasm, dimmed from the distance of the explosion, but there was no mistaking the aurora borealis of light wavering below.

It was magic.

The well was awake, the portal was open, and magic was slowly seeping through.

He could feel it in every inch of his body, feel it pervade the air. It was like everything was being reawakened: his vision was suddenly brighter, colors more vivid; sounds were sharper, the air crisper. Everything was alive, crawling with energy, drinking in the power that was steadily dripping through…

"You feel that, Henry?" Rumple exhaled with relish.

Henry nodded, still not quite capable of speaking.

"This is how magic-wielders are supposed to live," Rumple hummed, spreading his arms. "Such bullshit, keeping us pent up in this pale excuse for a town. We should be living and breathing magic, every day—just like this."

"Grandpa," Henry murmured.

"So rejuvenating," Rumple went on. "That acai berry diet Belle had me on last June—"

"Oh, my God. You are not ruining this for me, this is supposed to be the most epic moment of my life."

"Hmm." Rumple dropped his arms, heaving a sigh. "Okay, let's get this show on the road."

Henry looked on with raised eyebrows as Rumple opened his jacket, pulling out a tightly sealed jar of white ash. "Is that Cora?" he asked dryly.

"Mmm-hmm," Rumple said, not looking up from fiddling with the lid. "We had the old girl cremated, but I couldn't remember which vase I'd been keeping the ashes in. Lucky for me, Belle's a compulsive organizer." He gave Henry a sarcastic smile. "Found them in a jar labelled Old Slut."

Henry snorted. "No love lost there."

"Yeah, she gets a bit jealous, my Belle," Rumple sighed, unscrewing the lid. "Her face gets all pinchy whenever anyone mentions Milah or Cora or Veronica—"

"Who?"

Rumple winked at him. "I did all right with the ladies."

"Wow. Thanks. Didn't need to know that, but thanks."

"It shouldn't hardly be a surprise to you, Henry," Rumple scoffed, stowing the lid away in his pocket. "The Stiltskin men are known for their charm. You know many girls tried to chat me up after Milah left?"

"Veronica among them, I take it?"

"Yep." Rumple shook his head. "But that's a story for a different time—"

"And a different audience," Henry added.

"And a different audience, all right. Anyway—" Rumple abruptly shoved the jar in his hands, and jerked his head toward the well—"get on with it."

Henry blinked, and looked down at the jar in his hands. "So, just like…what, dump them in there?"

"Whatever you did last time," Rumple shrugged. "This is all you now."

Last time, he'd tripped and knocked the ashes into the well. Just dump them in there seemed a viable option.

"Okay," he exhaled, and before he could lose his nerve, not allowing himself to think about the fact that HOLY SHIT, I'M ACTUALLY RESURRECTING CORA RIGHT NOW, upended the contents of the jar into the well.

He stepped back almost immediately, heart pounding furiously in his chest, hard enough to make his bones rattle. Oh. my God, oh, my God, oh, my God.

"Now what happens?" Rumple asked, licking his lips nervously. "Should I be expecting an explosion or anything?"

"No," Henry said, thankful for his chattering teeth to hide his shaking voice. "Last time, it was pretty straight forward. I just dropped the stuff, and a minute later—"

"Well, how long has it been?" Rumple interrupted.

"I don't know, ten seconds? I don't—"

"Did you time it?"

"Did I time it?" Henry repeated incredulously. "No, I didn't time it! Why the hell would I time it?"

"I don't know!"

"Then what are you asking me for?"

"I don't know! God, Henry!"

"Me? You're the one acting—"

"There's nothing wrong with how I'm acting!"

"—crazy old man—"

"You're the one who's crazy—"

"—did I time it, like that's something a normal person would be doing—"

"—little psychopath, probably only necromancing to hide the murders—"

"—dressed like a fucking Russian, who even leaves the house like that—"

"—can't even ask a fucking question—"

"Boys, boys, boys!" a distinctly feminine voice admonished. "Stop bickering! There's a damsel in distress, and she's feeling very ignored!"

Henry choked, his heart clenching in his chest. Rumple's eyes widened; he raced to the edge of the well, bracing his hands along the side as he leaned over. "Cora?" he quaked.

"Oh, no, Rumple, don't look at me, I'm a mess!" the woman tutted, her voice echoing in the well. Her footsteps moved around and stopped abruptly several times. "I seem to be in a hole in the ground."

"Yes—yes, you're in the well!" Rumple called down. "In Storybrooke!"

"Am I really?" Cora said, sounding amused. "How odd."

"Don't try to magic yourself out!" Rumple shouted. "You're in a very reactive portal right now! Henry and I will call David, he'll know what to do!"

"Henry?" she repeated, confused. "My husband, Henry?"

"No—my grandson! Emma and Neal's boy!" Rumple paused thoughtfully. "And kind of Regina's boy, too, but that involves legal technicalities that it's just too cold to get into right now."

"And David, who's David?" Cora asked. "You're not talking about the prince, I hope? He and I don't really get on."

"It's fine," Rumple assured her. "The only time David's going to hurt you is if you insult his quiche Loraine."

"No, Rumple, please," Cora insisted. "I'd feel much more comfortable with Regina. Call Regina."

"No, I don't want her out in this weather, in her condition," Rumple frowned. "Bad for the baby."

There was a long pause before Cora said, in a slightly higher voice, "What?"

"What?" Rumple echoed.

"Bad for the what?"

"Nothing."

"No, you said—"

"I really should call David!" Rumple said loudly. "Back in a mo, Cora! We'll get you out in no time!"

He pushed away from the edge, staring with wide eyes into the depths. "Fat Christ, Henry, you actually did it," he murmured in disbelief. "The bitch is back."