Henry skipped his usual offer to stop in at Granny's—perhaps it was the abundance of sugary, syrupy, jelly-filled substances overwhelming the loft. Or, more likely, they'd entered into an unspoken covenant: the sooner they arrived at Regina's, the better.
Beth bounded up the steps, not waiting for her brother, and entered through the front door without knocking, not encounter a single person until she reached the kitchen. Uncle Robin looked up from his morning coffee while Roland pretended not to be falling asleep in his scrambled eggs.
"Beth." Said Robin. "To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?"
"Where's Regina?"
"She's gone out, but you're welcome to help yourself to some breakfast—"
"Where?"
"Uh…her vault, I think, but—"
Before he could complete his thought, Beth was halfway to the exit, towing Henry by the arm.
—
Once arrived, they found Regina poring over a stack of leather-bound books written in a language Beth was positive she'd never grasp.
"Have you ever seen Spanish? It looks nothing like this. Although, I don't know why I'm surprised. Your mother was the same way."
"You taught my mom?"
"Taught isn't the word I'd assign to it, but yes. I did."
"What was she like?"
Regina paused with her thoughts, then smiled at the child presently under her tutelage. "Stubborn. Like someone else I know."
"Did you really drop her down a ravine?"
"I didn't—" Regina smoothed back her hair. "Some…students need stronger motivation than others. Now, where did we leave off yesterday?"
She didn't look up until Henry touched her shoulder. "Henry." She shook her head as though breaking from a trance. "What are you doing here?"
"Do I need an agenda to visit my mom?"
"Of course not," Regina smiled in the same unguarded manner she did with her husband and stepson, leaning in to kiss Henry's cheek, "How are you, sweetheart?"
Beth had read stories of the Evil Queen, had heard the unwritten tales from her dad and grandparents, and she knew them to be true. But much like knowing her dad was Captain Hook, she had difficulty aligning reality with the fairytale. Regina evil? Her father a villain? What was life like before she was born? Storybrooke must've been a dreadful place, to be sure.
"Something's wrong with Mom."
She hadn't noticed it straightaway. She should have done—gods, perhaps she had. But she'd written it off as stress. It was rather an eventful few weeks, wasn't it? But she didn't think trauma could erase marks from a person's body, ones they'd carried since birth. She hadn't meant for Beth to see, surely—why else wear nothing but turtlenecks? Beth had blamed it on the unseasonable cold until she'd caught a glimpse of Emma's neck. Perfectly unblemished.
"Wrong?" Said Henry, not as incredulously as she would have expected.
"She's…I don't know…defective, or something. When I go to hug her, she's…cold."
"She seemed pleasant enough when I talked with her." Said Regina.
"You don't understand, it's…" Beth bit her bottom lip, searching the contents of Regina's vault, that the oddly shaped bottles might aid her explanation, "…it's like what you said about Light and Dark magic, how they feel…different."
Henry regarded her carefully, wanting her to continue, but not wanting to be faulted for encouraging her—no doubt her dad's ire still played in his mind. "Em, what are you saying?"
"Whatever's inside Mom…it isn't Light."
"Is that possible?" Henry asked Regina.
"I'd say I'm proof that it is. If one can go from Dark to Light magic, it's safe to assume the reverse is also plausible."
"But Emma? She wouldn't…"
"We don't know anything for certain, yet."
"What if it's something else?" Said Beth. "Something worse?"
"Worse than Emma turning evil?" Said Henry.
"What if Mom isn't Mom?"
"Elizabeth," said Regina, "where is Emma now?"
"At home. With Dad."
—
She didn't wait for the others to gather their wits—as soon as the thought struck her that her dad might be in danger, that he might be alone with some evil sorceress disguised as her mom, without magic to defend himself, she was off.
The loft sounded as though it were being ripped apart from the inside out. The floorboards screamed from the strain of holding their form, windows shattered, shelves fell from the walls. But worst of all were the flurries of fire cutting through the air.
"I'll kill you first."
Beth sprinted in the direction of her father's voice, the temperature dropping a million degrees between the hallway and his room.
"It's sweet that you think so, Captain." This second voice sent a chill straight through her. It cackled like the walls in the sorceress' lair. She didn't look evil—she looked like the Emma Jones Beth had seen in photographs, except for the snarl curling her lips.
A shot rang in her ears, and then a second, a third, as her father emptied the clip of Grandpa David's gun into the wall behind his assailant, what surely would have been headshots had the witch not disappeared in a cloud of purple smoke, only to reappear moments later, crouched over him. Hand at his throat, appearing more like a claw than a human appendage, she pulled him to his feet.
It was then that his gaze locked on the door, where his daughter stood, dumbfounded and frozen.
"Beth…" he croaked as the witch's grip tightened, "…run."
She needed to act. Fast.
The witch whipped her head around, like the demon from a horror movie Henry wasn't supposed to let her watch, and seeing Beth, she laughed. A terrible sound. Deep and resonant and out of place amidst such delicate features. Would she ever be able to look at her mom again without terror closing its clutches around her soul?
"You should listen to Daddy, princess." The last word landed like the hiss of a snake, and she returned her attentions to the man slowly succumbing to the lack of oxygen.
Watching the pigment drain from his skin broke Beth of her stasis. She closed her eyes and focused on every good memory her dad had given her.
Sailing trips on Sundays, just the two of them and Henry. He'd tell them stories of Uncle Liam, and of Henry's dad. When night fell, he'd teach them to navigate using the stars.
Tales told at her bedside on nights she couldn't sleep for dreaming of a mother she'd never known.
Ice cream for breakfast and pancakes for dinner, to the chagrin of Grandma Snow.
Sitting through Peter Pan a thousand times without complaint. Well, with minimal complaint. She once heard him grumble that he was glad the "bloody demon" was dead.
Making a deal with Henry's grandpa for a portal to Arendelle, all so he could prove he had, in fact, met Anna and Elsa. Olaf was a separate matter, entirely. The look on his face when encountering a talking snowman would be imprinted on her mind for the better part of forever.
She never felt safer or more hopeful than when she was with him. He was the best person she knew, and it broke her heart that he didn't believe it. He didn't think she noticed the look that sometimes came over him, the one that questioned his capabilities as a single father. The same one that longed for reassurance from the one person who wasn't alive to give it.
"She would've loved you."
A surge of energy bounded forth, shattering the foundations of time and space, breaking the boundaries of all that was concrete. She was infinite and the world was wrought of matter, malleable and unsound. Created to be reformed.
Opening her eyes, she stared out into empty space. Gray sky and wind and falling ash.
"How the blazes did you do that?"
Turning to him, she remembered to breathe. "Daddy? What happened?"