CHAPTER 4

Mr. Gold arrived home at six-thirty that evening to delicious smells wafting from the kitchen and a surprisingly pleasant alto voice wafting from the same direction. For a moment, he simply stood in the foyer admiring both. Finally, he made his way to the source of the appetizing aroma and sounds.

As he passed through the rooms on the way to the kitchen he noted that they were even more immaculate than they had been that morning. Every surface was spotless, every rug was vacuumed, every wood floor shone like glass, and the pleasant fragrance of lemon polish lingered in the air. His smile widened. The girl must have worked all day, no doubt trying to make up for being found at the diner seemingly lazing off. Not that he believed that had been the case. Of course Amy would want to assure her friends that she was all right first thing; that was simply the kind of young woman she was. And just because she was living in didn't mean she had to be on the clock 24/7. As long as she performed her duties to his satisfaction—and judging from what he'd come home to he had little doubt about that—she was entitled to some leisure time. If he could find a graceful way to bring the subject up this evening, he decided, he would let her know this.

He entered the kitchen to find Amy at the stove, her back toward him, apparently steaming something and singing her heart out; obviously she hadn't heard the front door. "Oh the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear, and he shows them, pearly white," she sang in that unexpected, slightly smoky voice. He thought fleetingly that she sounded like she could be onstage at some smoke-filled jazz club, then was slightly amused when he recognized the song. "Mack the Knife". An odd choice for one so young, but infinitely preferable to some Top 40 drivel.

She was wearing her hair down again, he saw. It hung to her shoulder blades in a soft cloud of near-black that, oddly, lacked any shine but was appealing nonetheless. Like dark fleece, it was, or the softest cotton. He found himself wondering what it would feel like under his fingers, if it was as downy as it looked. In his mind's eye he pictured himself reaching out to stroke it, but cut off the vision abruptly. No, that wouldn't do at all.

Amy, completely oblivious to his presence and his thoughts, continued the song and her activity at the stove. Just as he was about to make himself known she spun around for the big finale of the song, but still didn't see him; her eyes were closed, lost in her performance.

"I said now Jenny Diver, hey! Sukey Tawdry! Look out for Miss Lotte Lenya, and old Lucy Brown—" Without warning her eyes opened. When she saw him standing there she

gave a little shriek and took a step back, her hand fluttering to her throat. "Mr. Gold!" she gasped, trying to calm her wildly fluttering heart. "I didn't hear you come in."

"I'm sorry, dear," he said. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Her heart was finally slowing its frantic beating, but she could feel that damned red creeping up her neck and face again. She hoped he didn't notice, but knew he probably did. She understood already that very little escaped Mr. Gold.

Something flickered in his dark eyes—was it amusement? When he spoke again his voice was gentle, obviously trying to put her at her ease. "You have a very pleasant voice, dear. Tell me, where on earth did you learn that old song?"

She smiled shyly. "Granny—Mrs. Woods—used to sing it when I was little. I bet I have the whole Bobby Darin songbook in my head somewhere, thanks to her. 'Mack the Knife' was always my favorite, though."

Mr. Gold realized that he very much enjoyed the blush that spread from the roots of her hair to her delicate collarbone when she was embarrassed. The soft rose color looked very well indeed against that dark hair and those blue eyes. Amy really was a most attractive young woman. He wondered fleetingly if her child would be as lovely as she. Probably, he decided. Not that it really mattered; even the homeliest newborn would fetch top dollar as long as it was white and healthy.

He didn't care for that thought and banished it from his mind hastily. Damned if he knew why, but he didn't like to dwell upon the plans he had for Amy Miller and her baby. He still had every intention of "arranging the child's adoption", he just didn't care to think about it any more than he had to. He had never had this problem in the few other "adoptions" he'd set up. Perhaps it was because he knew the mother in this case. It had been easy in the cases where he didn't; it had been simple to dismiss the mothers as strumpets who were more than happy to rid themselves of an unwanted burden and make some money in the process. But he could tell already that was not the case here. Once again, he made a vow to himself that he would try to find the best home for the child, not just the wealthiest couple who would pay the highest price. He would also make sure that Amy received compensation enough to begin a new life for herself, the sort of life she deserved. And if he managed to line his own pockets a bit in the process, what was the harm in that?

But he didn't want to dwell on these kinds of thoughts for the time being. There were still months to go. Right now the important thing was to get Amy to like him, to trust him, so that when he offered his help in finding a family for the baby she wouldn't suspect his motives were anything other than altruistic. He changed the subject.

"Dinner smells absolutely wonderful," he said. "You said earlier you were making your favorite meal. So tell me, dear, what culinary delights do you have in store?"

She was on comfortable ground now. "Pork tenderloin," she announced. "In my secret marinade, with oven-roasted potatoes and steamed broccoli."

He was impressed. He knew she'd mentioned that she could cook, but he hadn't expected anything quite so ambitious. "Excellent," he said, flashing those dimples again. This time Amy blamed the flutter in her stomach on hunger and the heat of the kitchen.

He noticed there was only one place set at the kitchen table. "Have you eaten already, dear?"

"Oh, no," she said quickly. "I've set your place in the dining room. I know it isn't proper for the…household help…to eat with the master of the house."

He threw back his head and laughed, revealing those gold teeth. Instead of being revolted by them as she would have expected, Amy found them strangely charming. Like his cane, they seemed more of an elegant accessory than anything else.

"Dear, I don't stand on formality," he announced. "On the rare occasions I have guests for dinner, I will, of course, expect to eat in the dining room, and I'll expect you to serve. I'll provide a uniform for you to wear on those occasions. After all, I do have a reputation to uphold. But when it's just us, I'd much rather we ate together, here in the kitchen. It gets boring, eating alone; furthermore, I enjoy your company and I think we could have some fascinating conversations."

Amy pinkened again, this time with pleasure. Mr. Gold enjoyed her company? He wanted to converse with her? She couldn't help being flattered by that. She recalled her earlier thought of how nice it would be to have an intellectual conversation for a change. Undoubtedly, Mr. Gold could provide that. She ducked her head shyly and murmured, "Of course, if you'd like that, Mr. Gold. I'll set another place right away."

"I'm assuming it will be a few minutes yet before everything is finished," he said. At her nod of assent, he continued, "If you don't mind, dear, I'm going to have a glass of wine in the library while you finish everything. I have a few things I need to look over at my desk."

He did pour himself a glass of wine, and he did seat himself at his desk in the corner of the library. But he had a hard time concentrating on his work. He was rather keyed up tonight—at least, as keyed up as he ever got. He had had the most interesting conversation on the way home, and he couldn't seem to get it out of his head. When he finally managed to do so, his thoughts would inevitably stray to the girl in the kitchen. That cloudy black hair, those blue eyes, that smoky voice…He shook his head. Such thoughts would do him no good at all. There was no possible way Amy Miller could ever be interested in him. He was old enough to be the girl's father, for one thing; as a matter of fact, he thought he might be a couple of years older than her father. Then there was the fact that he was a far from handsome man, and a cripple. And what was more, he thought, it would probably be quite some time before Amy Miller became interested in any man again. From what he could gather, the boy who'd gotten her pregnant had been her first real love interest, and look at how that had turned out. She seemed to have moved on with remarkable swiftness, but he suspected that a girl of Amy's intelligence would be far more careful about opening her heart to any man again.

And for that matter, what was he doing having such thoughts about a girl who was still more child than woman, who was his employee, and whose child he was planning to sell? Gold had always prided himself on not becoming emotionally involved with anyone he did business with. He had made deals with many other young women, some as lovely as Amy, yet he had never been tempted by any of them. But then, most of those girls had been out to gain something for themselves, with little heed of the consequences that would occur. Amy Miller, however, seemed to think of everyone but herself. It was all most unsettling. For the first time, Gold began to seriously wonder if he had made a mistake.

But he didn't get very far into the thought before Amy appeared at the doorway, a slight, sweet smile on her lips that was still enough to render her utterly breathtaking. "Dinner is served, Mr. Gold," she said demurely.

As he made his careful way back to the kitchen, Mr. Gold decided he hadn't made a mistake after all. It was perfectly natural, he reasoned, that he would feel some attraction to Amy. After all, she was a lovely young woman, on the inside as well as the outside. She was the first person in Storybrooke he could remember who treated him with kindness. It would only be wrong if he tried to act upon these feelings, which he was certain he'd never do. He was stronger than that. In the meantime, he would enjoy her company, and if he sometimes found himself distracted by her…physical charms, he was only a man, wasn't he? There was no harm in looking. As long as he kept it firmly in his mind that this was only a temporary situation, he told himself, everything would be fine.

Once they were seated and eating their meal (which was every bit as delicious as the aroma had promised) he cast about in his mind for an interesting topic of conversation. He decided the encounter he'd had on his way home that evening would suffice.

"I had the most interesting conversation on my way home tonight," he began.

She bit. "Oh, really? With whom?"

He took a sip of wine before he answered, drawing it out a bit. "With Madame Mayor," he announced finally, watching closely for her reaction.

Amy knit her dark eyebrows. "Madame Mayor," she repeated. "What did she have to say?"

"Apparently someone apprised her of our…arrangement," he said, "and she's not at all happy about it."

Her eyes narrowed with confusion. "Who told her?" she asked. "And what business is it of hers, anyway?"

"I'm not really sure who told her," Gold admitted. "Perhaps Sheriff Graham let it slip. Then again, it could have been Sidney, that reporter from the Daily Mirror. I've often suspected that he was her little spy. He could easily have heard something around town, and I'm sure he would have rushed to report to her first thing."

She nodded. "That makes sense," she conceded. "But again, why should she care about our…arrangement?"

He folded his hands on the table and looked intently at her. "She seems to think you should have approached her first about your situation."

Now Amy was definitely confused. "I don't know why she would think that," she said. "I barely know the woman. I babysat for Henry several times in high school, but I certainly never got at all close to her. She would have been the last person I turned to for help, even if you hadn't come along first."

Gold could read between the lines of that little speech easily enough. "You don't care for Madame Mayor, do you?" He phrased it as a question, but he was sure he already knew the answer.

"No," Amy said bluntly. "I don't."

He merely nodded. She saw no censure in his face, only interest. "I see," he said. "Do you mind telling me why?"

Amy hesitated, then decided to spill it. "I can't stand the way she treats her son," she said. "Like I said, I used to babysit for Henry. He's such a good little kid…so bright, so imaginative…but she acts like he's nothing more than a nuisance to her."

Something flashed in Gold's eyes. She wasn't sure what it was, only that it looked slightly dangerous. "You don't think she…mistreats him or anything, do you?" he said, his voice deceptively calm.

She shook her head quickly. "No, no, nothing like that. I don't think she beats him or anything like that. If I thought that I would have told someone, even if she is the almighty mayor and could probably have skated out from any kind of charges. I don't think she especially neglects him, either. She does all the right things. It's just that…" she trailed off.

Mr. Gold leaned forward. This was more intriguing than he had imagined. "Just that what, dear?"

She was silent so long that he briefly wondered if she was going to respond. Then, as if she could hold it in no longer, it came bursting out.

"She reminds me of my father," she blurted. "Everything she does for Henry is just for show. But I don't think…" She took a deep breath, and then she let the shoe drop. "I don't think she loves him, any more than my father loved me."

Mr. Gold was nonplussed, a rarity for him. How should he respond to this? Should he let her know that he had often suspected the same thing himself?

He chose his words carefully. "I'm afraid I can see how that would be," he acknowledged. "Regina is a very…cold woman. I've often thought she let her career take precedence over motherhood."

"The worst part is that Henry knows it," Amy said. "He was just little when I first started babysitting for him…maybe five…but even then he knew it." She felt tears start in her eyes, but quickly blinked them away. She had done enough blubbering in front of Mr. Gold already. "At first he kept trying to figure out what he'd done wrong. He kept trying to think of ways to be the kind of son she wanted so she would be able to love him. And then…when nothing worked, he just seemed to stop caring."

Mr. Gold knew she was telling the story of Henry Mills, but he suspected that she might be telling the tale of her own childhood as well. He wondered if she was aware of this, and decided she probably was on some level. "It's a shame," he said gravely. "I've met Henry a few times. He seems to be a nice little fellow."

"Oh, he is," Amy agreed. "He was the sweetest little boy, and like I said, so bright and creative. We used to have so much fun when I went over to watch him. I used to think—" she smiled a bit sheepishly—"I used to think it would be great if our parents got together. Then even if our parents didn't care about us, at least Henry and I would have each other. I knew it would never happen, though. Madame Mayor had even less interest in dating than she did in Henry. If she ever were to date someone or get married, it wouldn't be for love; it would be a power alliance of some kind. And what kind of power could she gain from an insurance salesman?"

He thought about telling her she was wrong about Madame Mayor having no interest in dating. He was aware of a certain arrangement she had with Sheriff Graham, as were certain others of the town, such as Granny, who ran the B&B where the two had their "Saturday council meetings". But he decided there was no need to bring that up right now. That wasn't really dating, after all, so much as satisfying certain bodily needs. And that was not a subject he thought it wise to get into with this particular girl.

"That's the one thing that gives me pause about giving my baby up for adoption," she said.

That definitely got his attention. "The one thing that gives you pause?" he queried, trying to sound calm.

He must have succeeded, for Amy continued. "What if my baby were to end up with someone like Madame Mayor?" she clarified. "I always thought people who adopted did so because they wanted a child so badly. I thought surely anyone who wanted a child so much would be certain to love it with all their heart. But that doesn't seem to be the case with Madame Mayor. I mean, my father didn't really have a choice; he was pretty much stuck with me. But why would someone choose to adopt a child they weren't capable of loving? At least with me my baby would have love, even if it didn't have much of anything else."

At that moment Gold decided to do whatever he had to to keep Amy Miller from finding out that one of the "adoptions" he'd brokered had been that of Henry Mills. If she found out he'd been responsible for acquiring Henry for Madame Mayor, she would never trust him to help her place her baby for adoption. In all probability she would want nothing more to do with him, period. She would leave, and he would lose the child and the one person in Storybrooke who seemed to like him somewhat. He must be very careful now.

"There are different kinds of adoptions," he finally said. "I understand that the mayor's adoption of Henry was a closed one. The birth mother had no idea who was going to adopt her child. It doesn't have to be that way for you. Nowadays, it's expected that the birth mother play a role in choosing the adoptive parents. Why, in some cases the adoptive parents remain in contact with the birth mother, sending them pictures of the child and such. In a few cases the birth mother is even allowed to see the child from time to time."

She shook her head. "I don't think I could do that," she said. "That would be torture for me, to see the baby every once in a while knowing I could never really be its mother. I'm not even sure I could handle getting pictures and updates. If I do give the baby up, it will have to be a closed adoption. But I would feel better knowing the sort of family my baby was going to."

He nodded solemnly. "I can understand that," he said gently. "That could be arranged, too—for you to choose the baby's parents, and then have a closed adoption. Of course, in that case you probably wouldn't be able to meet the parents, but there are ways to make sure you choose the right parents for your child even under conditions of anonymity."

"If that's possible," Amy said, "I think that would be the best option for me. Like I said, any contact would be…too painful. But as long as I knew she was going to the best home there was…I could live with it."

Mr. Gold lifted his eyebrows. "'She'?" he asked with a small smile.

There was that becoming flush again. "I think it's a girl," she confessed. "Ever since I found out I was pregnant, I've just been sure it's a girl. Don't ask me why. It's still way too early to know, of course. But I just have a feeling."

His smile widened a little, but it was slightly sad. "You may be right, at that. You know what they say about mother's intuition."

Amy dropped her eyes briefly. When she looked up, there was a sheen of tears in them.

"I always wanted to have a little girl," she said softly. "Ever since I was just a little girl myself. I always wanted to have a daughter and name her Grace, after my mother."

A wave of sympathy washed over him. This time he didn't try to fight it. He reached across the table and took her hand.

"You will, dear," he said comfortingly. "Maybe it won't be this baby. But I told you yesterday that someday you'll get to be a mother on your terms. You'll have your little Grace one day."

The words were self-serving in a way. He wanted to keep clear in her mind that adoption was her best decision—her only decision, really. But on another level he hoped his words were true. He hoped that someday Amy would get the daughter she longed for. He was surprised to find these feelings in him, but perhaps it wasn't so surprising after all. Perhaps her kindness towards him was calling out his own long-dormant kindness.

But Mr. Gold was, first and foremost, a businessman. He felt sorry for the girl, but he wasn't going to let that sway him from his ultimate plan. After all he had invested in her, he was going to reap some sort of benefit. And in the end, the money he received for the child would outweigh the money he had spent on the mother.

Yes, he was going to be able to do this. He wasn't going to let his feelings for Amy get in the way of his plans. And if Regina made any more threats about telling the girl exactly how she had come to have Henry, well…there were ways to silence Regina. Money, most likely, would do the trick. If not, there were still other ways. Not murder, certainly; that was one thing he hadn't yet stooped to. But it was very foolish to attempt to blackmail someone who had plenty of dirt on you. He would remind her of this if necessary.

He leaned back in his chair and smiled at Amy. "That was a delicious dinner, dear," he said. She was glad to hear him say so, though she had suspected he enjoyed it. He had cleaned his plate and gone back for seconds, after all. "And by any chance is that dessert I smell in the kitchen?"

They had eaten their apple dumplings with vanilla ice cream (if she kept feeding him like this, Mr. Gold informed her gravely, but with a twinkle in his eye, he would have to have his suits let out) and she was just finishing cleaning up the kitchen when Sheriff Graham arrived with her belongings.

"Amy, dear, Sheriff Graham is here with your things," Mr. Gold informed her. "I'll have him take everything to your quarters. As soon as you're finished in here, you can go unpack. You're off duty for the rest of the night."

Amy smiled and thanked him. Hurriedly, she finished what little she had left to do. When she left the kitchen, Sheriff Graham was still there. He and Mr. Gold were standing in the foyer, having a whispered conference. Before Amy could get close enough to get the gist of the conversation, however, the men spotted her and abruptly stopped speaking. They turned to her with smiles that—just for a split second—looked pasted on. Then, almost in unison, their faces relaxed and the smiles became genuine.

"Am I interrupting anything?" she asked lightly.

"Not at all, dear," Mr. Gold assured her, perhaps a bit too hastily. "Sheriff Graham and I were just…discussing some town business."

"Hello, Amy," Sheriff Graham said in his Irish brogue that was almost—but not quite—as charming as Mr. Gold's Scottish lilt. "How are you doing?"

"Just fine," she replied, smiling at the handsome young sheriff who had been the crush object of nearly every girl in Storybrooke at one time, herself included. "Thank you for bringing my things, Sheriff Graham. I hope it didn't put you to too much trouble."

"Not at all," he said. "Your father—" He hesitated, seemingly trying to find the right words. "He wasn't very pleased, of course, but I had a warrant to retrieve your belongings. He didn't give me any trouble. " Nor had Joe Miller helped him in any way. Once the man realized there was nothing he could do to prevent his daughter's things being taken, he had stormed off, and the sheriff hadn't seen hide nor hair of him the rest of the time he was in the house. Sheriff Graham had had to pack the items from Amy's former room himself. He hoped he'd gotten everything, but was pretty sure he had. The furniture had to be left behind, of course, but he had cleared the room of everything else.

He hoped, too, Amy wouldn't inquire further about her father. He didn't want to have to tell her that the man hadn't asked about her, hadn't so much as mentioned her name. Whatever the falling out had been between Joe Miller and his daughter, it must have been major. Or maybe not. Graham had had the uncomfortable feeling from time to time that Joe Miller really didn't care much for his only child. Why, he wasn't sure. Amy seemed to be a sweet girl, and she was certainly a lovely one. But then, it really wasn't his business, was it? At least the girl seemed to be in a safe place for the time being (though he couldn't help wondering exactly how safe it could be under Mr. Gold's protection).

She didn't ask anything further. Probably she already knew what his answers would have been. "Well, thank you again, Sheriff Graham," she said. She turned to her employer. "Mr. Gold, I finished cleaning the kitchen. What time would you like to have your breakfast in the morning?"

He waved his hand. "Don't worry about that dear. You worked very hard today, and you've some unpacking to do. Sleep in tomorrow. Ashley will be here about ten, so you'll probably want to be up and about by then, but sleep as long as you like."

"Well…thank you," Amy said. Mr. Gold certainly wasn't treating her much like a maid, at least not yet. More like a…companion, maybe? He hadn't said a word about finding her at the diner with her friends that morning. Instead he had praised the housework she'd gotten done, raved over her cooking, and given her the rest of the night off. She hadn't imagined he would be this easy to work for. Then again, she had busted her butt all day once she'd left the diner. Maybe, as long as she got her work completed, he was prepared to be lenient.

"And thank you again, Sheriff," she said to Sheriff Graham. "Now if you'll excuse me, Mr. Gold was right. I have some unpacking to do."

As she left the foyer and headed in the direction of her little apartment, she heard the two men whispering again. Briefly she wondered what they were talking about, but quickly dismissed it from her mind. She could stay and try to figure it out, she supposed, but she didn't want to be caught eavesdropping. And anyway, it was probably just some boring town business, just as Mr. Gold had said.

In a way, it was. "Don't forget to tell Madame Mayor what I said," Mr. Gold warned as soon as he was sure the girl was out of earshot. "If she keeps quiet about…certain things, she could come out ahead in this. But if she persists in this blackmail, tell her she would do well to remember she has a few skeletons in her closet that I'm sure she wouldn't want to come out."

All Graham wanted was to get the hell out of there and head to the diner for a drink and some darts (at night, Granny's Diner doubled as the local watering hole). "I'll tell her, Mr. Gold," he promised.

Gold's smile was more of a smirk. "Thank you, Sheriff," he said silkily. "I'm sue you can persuade Regina to see reason. You two have such a…intimate relationship." It was all he could do not to laugh out loud when the young sheriff blanched. Gold laid a hand on the doorknob, indicating the meeting was over. "Good evening, Sheriff."

A couple of hours later, Gold was sitting in the library sipping a Scotch and soda and reading that day's issue of the Daily Mirror when he heard the strangest sound. It was a keening sort of sound, almost a wail, really, animal-like.

He frowned. That was odd. He would have dismissed the sound as a wolf or a coyote, but as far as he knew Storybrooke had neither. He cocked his head, listening for the sound again.

It came again momentarily. This time, though, it sounded much less like an animal and far more like a human in distress. He grew alarmed when he realized it was coming from the lower west wing.

He made for the rooms where Amy was staying with surprising haste for a man of his infirmity. When he reached the door to her quarters he debated for a split second whether to knock or not. Another wail from within decided him. He thrust open the door, certain he was going to find Amy on the floor in the throes of a miscarriage.

Relief coursed through him when he saw that she appeared to be all right…physically. Emotionally, however, he wasn't sure. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the combination bedroom and sitting area; the contents of the boxes Graham had brought over lay strewn all around her. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought the place had been ransacked by an intruder. Alarm bells rang in his head again. Was it possible the girl was suffering from some sort of nervous breakdown?

Then she lifted her face to him, and he was relieved to see it was relatively sane, though even more red and tear-streaked than it had been the previous day. "They're not here," she sobbed. "I've gone through every single one of these boxes, and they're not here."

Carefully he lowered himself to the floor beside her. "What, dear?" he asked in as mild a tone as he could manage (not easy considering his heart was going like a jackhammer). "What isn't there? Did Sheriff Graham forget something?"

"My m-mother's necklace," she hiccupped, "and my mother's ring. They were in my jewelry box. The jewelry box is here…the rest of my jewelry is in it…but my mother's things are gone. He must have taken them out."

Gold knew that the "he" she was referring to had to be her father. His disgust for the man reached a whole new level. It hadn't been enough to strike the girl, to fling the vilest words at her, to throw her out of the house. Apparently he had been spiteful enough to take the girl's only legacy of her mother, too. If Joe Miller had been before him at that moment, Gold would cheerfully have throttled the man.

"Oh, my dear," he said soothingly. "I'm so sorry. Are you absolutely sure? Could they maybe have slipped down in your jewelry box somehow and you just haven't seen them?"

She shook her head. "I thought about that. I dug around in every little drawer, every little pocket. Then I took the rest of my jewelry out and turned it upside down and shook it. They're not in there."

"Well, could they be somewhere else?" he pressed gently, trying vainly to calm her down.

"No," she wailed. "I always kept them in my jewelry box. I only ever wore them on special occasions. Oh, God, I almost put them on yesterday…but things happened so fast I didn't have a chance…and now they're gone! They're the only things I had of my mother's and they're gone!" She buried her face in her hands and wept.

He didn't think; he just acted. He slipped an arm around the girl's shaking shoulders and murmured "Hush, dear. It's all right. Everything is going to be all right." He barely registered the fact that the girl was clad only in a pair of thin white baby-doll pajamas with blue ribbon trim. Any other time, being in such close proximity to this girl while she was wearing so little…well, it would have put his determination not to cross any lines with her to the test, to say the least. But she was in such anguish that he felt only the desire to comfort her, to stop those awful wrenching sobs (and, yes, to keep her from getting so worked up she might put herself in danger of losing the baby).

"Amy, dear, you need to calm down," he said gently, rocking her a bit. "I know you're upset, and you've every right to be. But this isn't good for you or the baby, dear. You need to try to calm down."

She did try. She took several deep breaths; the sobs slowed. She lifted tear-filled eyes to him.

"Mr. Gold, why would he do such a thing?" she whispered. "The necklace and the ring…they're precious to me, but they're not of any real value. Why would he take them from me? Does he really hate me that much, that he could take the only things I had of my mother away from me?"

"Darling, I don't know," he said, smoothing her damp hair away from her forehead. "The only thing I can think is that your father has something deeply wrong with him. But that's just it, Amy; the problem is in him, not you. You're a dear girl, and you don't deserve any of the things that have happened to you recently. I'm sorry your father has hurt you so much, even now, when you're away from him. But I promise you this, Amy: as long as you're under my roof, your father will never hurt you again."

Her face was buried in his shoulder, so she didn't see the hard, cold expression in his dark eyes. If she had, she would have understood why Mr. Gold was a man people feared. But all she knew was that his words were kind, his voice was soft, and his arm around her felt infinitely soothing. Her sobs finally stopped completely, and soon gave way to the gentle, even breathing of sleep.

With some effort he managed to rouse her enough to get her to her bed. As he draped a light blanket over her, he made a point of not noticing the lean, almost boyish body barely covered by the scanty pajamas, the long, slender arms and legs. Her pregnancy was not at all apparent yet; he wondered fleetingly how her body would change as the months passed before clamping the thought off surgically. He wasn't going to think about such things. Nor was he going to recall the way she had felt resting against his shoulder.

Before he could not have any more of these thoughts he pulled the blanket up to her chin. There. Now she looked like nothing more than an exhausted child who had cried herself to sleep. Which, of course, was exactly what she was. And he wasn't going to let himself forget that.

Nor, he promised himself grimly as he left the room, was he going to forget the source of the girl's tears. Her father. He didn't know when or how just yet, but he was going to make the man pay for everything he'd ever done to that girl in there.

"Yes, I promise you, dear," he whispered, his elegant hands clenching and unclenching as he spoke. "He's never going to hurt you again."

So there's Chapter 4. I promised Mr. Gold would be onstage during most of it, and by my count he was in every scene! Now if only the writers of OUAT would get the same idea…

So there are definitely some feelings between my OC and the nefarious pawnbroker. How it will go, though, I'm not exactly sure yet. I have two possible endings in mind, one dark, one fairly happy. Right now I'm leaning towards the fairly happy ending, but who knows? I am going to try to finish this story before OUAT comes back on, since Rumpel's actual backstory likely won't fit with what I've dreamed up. Speaking of which, I know it's kind of odd the whole story has been set in Storybrooke so far, but never fear, there will be an interlude set in Fairytale before it's all over.

Once again, I own only my OC. And once again, mad love to my readers and reviewers.