There is a swing in the back garden of Regina's home, hung from an old oak tree. The tree itself is old – ancient, practically – and the leaves form a thick green canopy overhead. The light that does pierce through the leaves is just enough to make the backyard feel welcoming and safe, and Regina pushes her heels off the ground, rocking the swing gently.

"He kissed you?" Mary-Margaret asks, and Regina can hear the smile that is clearly spreading across her cousin's face. "What was it like?"

"Surely you've been kissed by David before," Regina tells her cousin with an eye roll, and Mary-Margaret blushes furiously. She kicks off the ground a little aggressively.

"Well yes, but…David's a boy," she remarks. "Robin Locksley is very much a man." The way that she points this out makes Regina remember the kiss all over again – it was very much the kiss of a man who knew what he was doing, and Regina feels her face flush at the thought.

"What do I do?" she asks, more to herself than anyone else. She's already told Mary-Margaret about the Jones' invitation, and is not at all surprised to find out that the family has already reached out to contact her cousin and Belle.

"What do you want to do?" Mary-Margaret replies, and Regina is surprised to realize she doesn't know. She wants to see what happens with Robin, but she is very wary of putting all of her eggs in one basket. The invitation to New York is not something that promises future employment, but it does offer her some respite from life in Storybrooke, especially if whatever is happening between her and Robin fades sooner rather than later.

"I don't want to be alone," she responds, the words exiting out of her mouth before she can catch herself. "I don't want to stay here and be Regina Mills, old maid. I'm tired of being put up on my shelf, and would very much like to come down from it once and for all."

The words resonate so deeply that she stands up, walks away from the swing, arms crossed over her chest. She steps out from the shade and into the sun, angling her head up until the warmth floods her face (she is so very cold the more that she thinks about her current predicament). She does not want to be alone: with Robin, she would have the promise of finally having someone care for her heart; with the Jones family, she would be able to care for someone else in a way that might prove to be a welcome respite.

Regina hears Mary-Margaret's footsteps, but it surprised to feel her cousin's arms come around her, holding her tightly.

"Make the arrangements for New York for next month," Mary-Margaret suggests. "Meet with Robin in the meantime. You can come to our house – the gazebo is secluded, and you can tell Aunt Cora that you're helping me with the wedding. If nothing happens after a month, then you'll know what you should do."

Her cousin's actions and words make Regina feel more at ease than she's felt in a long time, and with a shaky hand she reaches up, rests her own over Mary-Margaret's, which are joined above her waist. She says nothing, just nods. It is not the best plan, but it is one that will suffice.

Every day, Regina walks to Mary-Margaret's house at noon (she dines with Zelena and her monkeys each morning first, going through the polite motions, counting down the hours until she can flee). Her mother is quite pleased that she is helping Mary-Margaret, because this wedding will be the society event of the year and being family of the bride means a place of honor in the church and at the dinner that will follow. She pries details out of Regina the moment she returns home each day but Regina, with the way that her afternoons have been, does not mind supplying them.

She spends her time chatting with Mary-Margaret and Aunt Ava, and looking at numerous magazines and meeting with dressmakers and tasting so many confections that Mary-Margaret swears her teeth hurt. And then, around two, as Aunt Ava leaves to make her afternoon social calls, Regina heads to the garden, and the gazebo surrounded by magnolias.

He is always waiting for her.

Her heart always lurches when she finds him there, leaning against the white wood, hat placed on the railing. He smiles at her, his hand reaching for her, and she returns to his embrace easily, eager to be reacquainted with his touch, with his lips, with the feel of his solid form pressed against her own.

When she first suggested the location of their dalliance, she was afraid that he would think it childish or, at worst, presumptuous, to escape to a secluded location where they would not be seen and where they could kiss and talk to their heart's content, but he readily agreed.

"Much like a fairy tale," he tells her one afternoon, brushing a stray hair behind her ear, his fingertips tracing the line of her jaw, the contours of her neck. "I feel as if I am a prince, stealing away to meet his princess."

"Don't princes usually meet their princesses under cover of night?" Regina teases, cheeks burning because that sort of thing is not what proper ladies say, and if his eyes darken and he swallows obviously at her words, she tries not to notice, only leaning forward to kiss him again.

They do more than kiss – they talk, about the same things they wrote about in their letters. He reminds her, often and with great sincerity, how fascinating he finds her, how beautiful she is, and she is always uncomfortable with his praise (it has been too long since anyone save her cousin said something nice about her that she is wary and cautious and frightened all at once).

One day, she asks about the rumor that he is a widower. "I don't mean to pry," she says as her way of apologizing, and Robin laughs (she loves his laugh, the richness of it, the way that it reverberates through her entire being, filling her with his joy).

"I hardly think it inappropriate, given the current nature of our relationship, for me to disclose that sort of information," he tells her, pressing a kiss to her forehead before stepping back. "Her name was Marian, and she died five years ago."

He tells her about his wife – how she was always ill, how he loved her, but how he was grateful that her death took her away from her suffering. When he is done, she tells him about Daniel.

It has been some time since she has spoken with anyone about her betrothed – everyone in Storybrooke already knows the story, and no one asks anymore because it's been far too long. She was but a child when she met Daniel compared to how she is now, and for the first time, standing in front of Robin, she realizes that she is no longer sad. He is not what defines her life any longer; she is.

The thought is a powerful one indeed.

It is a Thursday afternoon, and they have been sitting, exchanging kisses and stories, for some time. Regina feels drunk on his kisses, on the way that his hands skim her shoulders and neck, never dipping lower, on the way that he seems to purr when her fingers twist in the hair at the nape of his neck.

He breaks their kiss, rests his forehead against her own, struggling to catch his breath.

"I have to go back to Philadelphia," he tells her, "just for a few days."

Regina nods, noticing the way that he studies her – like he's trying to commit her face to memory – and a small seed of doubt is planted in her heart.

They have been meeting for nearly three weeks, trading kisses and stories and sighs, but she has not said anything about New York or the Jones family, nor has she demanded any sort of promise from him. She has waited for him to mention anything like future plans, but he has not, and so she cannot help but assume that this is merely a distraction for him (she knows she has no evidence to support this, knows that he looks at her in such a way that makes her feel alive like she never has before, but old habits die hard, and old insecurities never die, not in the face of such uncertainty).

When they part, she makes a decision.

Her father is in his study when she comes home, and Regina knocks on the door twice before entering. His eyes light up when he sees her (she has always been the apple of his eye) and she hates what she is about to tell him, but knows that it is necessary.

"I'm going to New York next week, Daddy," she says, hands gripping the back of the leather chair that sits in front of his desk. "I have an interview to be a governess with a wealthy family who plans to travel to the continent."

The look that crosses her father's face is one of sadness and resignation, and in that moment he looks so very old (they are all, she supposes). He nods, as if he understands her predicament, and she thinks that he might, more than her mother or her sister or cousin, more than anyone else in this town.

"You do what you think is best, my darling," he tells her. "I have done my best to make you happy, to make this life a comfortable one for you, but I think I've always known that you needed more than I could give you." He smiles, and she rushes to his side, dropping her knees, placing her hands on the armrest of his chair. He reaches down to stroke her forehead like he always has, gentle and careful, and Regina has never loved her father more than she does right now.

"Go discover what life has in store for you," he urges her, "and leave your mother to me."

"Thank you, Daddy," she says, standing. She presses a kiss to his forehead before racing up the stairs (she has to pack for New York, after all).

Regina leaves for the train station before dawn on Tuesday.

She has not told her mother about her plans, but it does not surprise her to find the other woman waiting at the foot of the stair, hands folding in front of her, calmly gazing at her younger daughter while she arranges for her trunks to be loaded into the carriage and taken to the train station.

"You look quite fetching in that dress," her mother says, and Regina's breath catches in her throat as she waits for the other shoe to drop (Cora Mills does not believe in half measures). "I hope that you have a safe journey."

"That's it?" Regina asks bluntly, and her mother looks startled by her words. "That's all you have to say to me?"

"Well my darling," her mother says, "it's quite obvious that there is no future for you in Storybrooke. I had thought, for a time, that perhaps one of the wealthy Northern bankers would take an interest in you – that Mr. Locksley has stolen far too many glances than appropriate – but I can see that you appeal to none of them." Cora leans forward, brushes her lips against Regina's cheek. "Perhaps life as a governess would suit you better."

"I will be back on Friday, just in time for the engagement party," Regina says, clenching her left hand into a fist, trying to stop the rage that boils inside of her. It takes all of her energy to not lash out, to not point out that perhaps Mr. Locksley found her appealing, but she realizes that she doesn't know that for sure. There is nothing about their dalliance that speaks to a future, and she's not even sure that he will return from Philadelphia anyway (the seeds of doubt have been growing, nurtured by her own fears, tendrils of apprehension spreading throughout her heart, throughout her soul). "I will see you then, Mother."

Regina brushes past her on her way out of the house. She takes her seat in the carriage, closes her eyes, and tries very hard to breath in and out, to focus on the sound of the horses as they head towards the station – anything to calm the storm that is raging inside of her, the tempest created by her mother's words and her own fear that what if her mother is right?

The train station is quite busy that morning – there is a train arriving just as Regina steps out of the carriage, telling the servants where to take her luggage. She grips her handbag tightly, and then turns when she hears a familiar laugh.

Disembarking from the arriving train is Robin, and he is staring at the doorway, arms outstretched. Regina watches as a small boy jumps into his arms, and her mouth opens in surprise.

Robin has a son.

Robin has brought his son to Storybrooke from Philadelphia.

She is rooted in place, watching the two of them – Robin with his fair hair, the young boy with his dark curls –and she cannot help but stare at the appealing picture that they make, focused only on each other, Robin listening as his son tells him something about the train, gesturing wildly with his tiny hands and arms as his father listens intently.

Robin places his son on the ground, grabs his hand as he tells the porters where to take his bags, and that is when his eyes find Regina's. A shock goes through her entire body at the way that he smiles at her, gripping his son's hand tighter and approaching her quickly

In the background, the conductor announces that the train to New York will be leaving in ten minutes.

"Miss Mills," Robin says with a wide grin, "I am quite surprised to see that I have a welcoming committee. Surely you have not been waiting long."

She opens her mouth to respond but the little boy is pulling on his father's hand and so Robin turns back to her. "May I introduce my son, Roland Locksley. Roland, this is Miss Mills."

Regina smiles, holds out her hand for Roland to take (he is quite shy but with his father's insistence he shakes her hand, bowing slightly, and it is adorable). "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mister Roland."

"My pleasure, Miss Mills," Roland responds, and Regina's heart melts at the sweet tone of the young boy, the way that he looks at her with big brown eyes.

"You have a son," she says to Robin, who nods.

"I thought to collect him and bring him here for you to meet," he tells her, and Regina looks away, uncertain of how to react. This is all news to her, and she is to board a train for New York (how can he be telling her this now?) "Is something wrong, Miss Mills?"

Robin looks worried, and Regina takes a deep breath. "I'm traveling to New York," she says. "I am interviewing with a family for a position as governess." Her words sound hollow in her ears as she speaks them.

"This is news," Robin says, and there is tension in his shoulders as he speaks, a stricken look on his face, and Regina can't help but point out, "so is your son."

"I'm sorry," he begins, as the conductor tells them that the train will leave in five minutes. Regina takes a step back, a step away from him and his precious boy. There are too many thoughts in her head, each threatening to crowd the other out, and she cannot – will not – fall to pieces in front of him. "I should have told you sooner – "

"What purpose would that serve?" she asks brusquely. "You have not entirely been clear with your intentions, Mr. Locksley, and I am tired of living my life in such a state." Regina feels tears prick at the corner of her eyes, feels her soul swell as she tells this to him. She is tired of living her life as it is, and she wants more, and she will claim it if she can.

She takes a step towards, the train, smiling at Roland, not looking at Robin. He calls out, "Regina!" once, as her foot touches the metal step, her fingers gripping the rail.

"I return on Friday, Mr. Locksley," she tells him, offering him the information, having him decide what to do with it (as for her, she's not entirely sure what she will do with the knowledge that she will return to him and his son, to Mary-Margaret and her David, to parties and celebrations of love).

She finds her seat in the first class cabin, rests her head against the cool velvet, and closes her eyes. In the days since he left for Philadelphia, she has tried hard not to think about him but his kiss lingers in her veins and so she dreams of him. She does not dream of a life with him, or a future, because dreaming of that never did her any good, and yet, seeing him with his son, she wonders what it would be like – to be a mother.

She has not thought about it since Daniel's death, but once she desired it, craved a child of her own, wondered what it would be like to hold an infant in her arms, to see her loving husband gaze upon them. This would not be the same – this is not a child of her body, but rather of his wife's, and suddenly she's not even sure if this has been about her, or about finding the boy a new mother. The thoughts come rapidly, one after the other, the storm continuing to rage, feeding that small growth of apprehension in her heart, in her soul.

She cannot do this, allow herself to unravel at the loss of one good thing when another is still ahead of her, still waiting for her in New York. She takes a deep breath, and stares out the window at the passing countryside, vowing to not think of Robin or his son until she returns.

(She fails.)

(Her failure is not her own fault.)

She is to be met at the train station in New York by Captain Jones himself, and so, when she steps onto the platform and spies the handsome man with dark hair and bright blue eyes in military dress, she smiles at him.

"It is good to meet you, Miss Mills," he says, the slightest hint of an accent in his words as he escorts her to his carriage. "Henry has been very excited since he learned you were coming."

"I'm glad to hear that," Regina admits, adding, "Thank you for your generosity in handling the details of this trip."

"Thank you, for being willing to come and meet us in person before making your decision," Captain Jones tells her, and she is surprised that it is her decision, not theirs.

As they ride through the city, he points out the landmarks but mostly Regina watches the people. There are so many of them, each wandering the street, fulfilling their own destiny, and she thinks of what it might be like to be one of many here – not Regina Mills, but just another face in the crowd. She finds it immensely appealing, to be able to start a new life so easily.

The carriage stops in front of a neat brownstone, and Captain Jones helps her out, escorting her up the stairs and into the front hall, where a maid takes her hat and gloves and a servant fetches her luggage. Before she can get situated, there is a mad commotion on the stairs and she is greeted, for the second time today, with a young man - older than Roland Locksley, with brown hair and brown eyes and a wide grin, and she thinks of the young boy and his father that she left behind her in Storybrooke.

"You must be Miss Mills!" he says in greeting, and she smiles, forcing away all thoughts of Storybrooke, thinking only of the present.

"You must be Henry," she says, stretching out her hand, and instead of a child's shy handshakes, she gets one that bears some semblance of a young man (or, at least, the young man the boy wants to be – he is only ten years old, after all). "I am so very glad that I am here to meet you."