Hello everyone! I hope you all enjoyed the holidays and are looking forward to a great New Year's Eve. It looks like no-one was very sympathetic towards Regina's cause, but unfortunately Belle doesn't know her like we do... As always, I would greatly appreciate feedback on where the story is going, and thank you for reading!

IX

The Master had kept his word: when Belle awoke early the next morning and opened her curtains, she realized instantly that the gardens around the Dark Castle were completely transformed. The only way she had ever known them was under the heady, warm stillness of summer, the trees green and motionless. But today, the crown of the tree under her bedroom window was a restless rustle of copper and deep red. She dressed hurriedly, impatiently searching through her wardrobe for a (hitherto unused) woolen dress and cape before practically running out of her room before the autumn vision could disappear.

"I told you," the Master said. "What better way to celebrate the end of a magical era than by indulging in a little time-manipulation? There's a certain poetry in it, isn't there – you'll get to see the Dark Castle in all its seasons one time before we come full circle and it all goes forever, leaving us to start anew."

He had materialized, dressed in a warm dark cloak and hat, just as Belle was prying open the large front doors. She had been startled to discern him in the dark and worried that a flush of guilt had shown on her face. But he had gallantly offered his arm – which she took – and they had sauntered out together, onto the winding garden path that meandered away among the trees and high grass. The air was cool and crisp, rustling the green-gold-red-brown canopies of the trees overhead, and rushing along clouds even higher up in a blue sky. The air smelled of damp earth, of smoke, of moss and the pale mushrooms that had sprung up in a single night in the moist crevices between tree roots. Most of all, the gardens seemed to have come alive more than they ever did under the heavy torpor of summer – which was all the more ironic considering that autumn signaled, after all, the beginning of wilting and decay. The garden was much like her numbered days here at the Dark Castle – on its final, irreversible decline. The only question was whether the Master would be left behind along with the Dark Castle; whether she could bring herself to take his heart and abandon the rest of him. It was a question she had asked herself many times since her gruesome discovery in the Master's study, but had not dared answer. She had returned to the Master's study several times the day before, just to ascertain time and again that she had really seen it, that it was really there – the pale hand, fingers slightly balled, the index finger a little extended as if pointing accusingly towards the middle of the room, the table where the Master worked…

There were several questions she needed answered before she made a decision – but not now.

"It's curious," she said, breaking their silence. "The first and last autumn here."
"Not to worry, dearie." His voice was full of confidence. "There will be many more in the place we're going."

If you're going with me. The dandelions in the grass by the garden path had become grey bolls of fluff, many seeds soaring off with the gusting wind . Belle, eager to change her train of thought, stooped down to pick one of the undamaged ones. "You know, you can make a wish if you can blow all the seeds off the flower in one breath," she said and realized, flushing, that she had started to raise the flower to the Master's face, offering it to him. Instead, she quickly brought it to her own lips. Let it not be true, she thought, when an unexpected gust of wind coming from the wrong direction blew it clear, almost tearing the stem out of her hands.

"That was you," she told the Master accusingly and, eyes bright with humour, he shrugged innocently.

Maybe it was the cool air, or the mad, fast wind, or the air of change and finality that had come over the Dark Castle and its gardens, but the Master was in a cheerful, reckless mood and Belle allowed it to transfer to her as if airborne. She broke into a run and he followed, dashing between the trees until they were out of breath, collecting pocketfuls of large, gleaming chestnuts and particularly colourful leaves, climbing trees like children – although Belle steered clear of the ash tree near the garden wall.

It was well into the afternoon when the chill got into their bones at last, and they returned to the Dark Castle, windswept and with icy fingertips and noses.

They upended their pockets of autumn finds onto the dining room table in a scattering of chestnuts and a rustle of leaves. At a single hand gesture of the Master flames roared up in the fireplace and died down again. "This is what I always used to do in autumn," he said, gathering all the chestnuts together in front of him and pulling out a small pen knife. He sliced the glossy shells quickly and expertly before carefully feeding them into the glowing embers. "Roasted chestnuts."

Belle watched the deft way he handled the pen knife and arranged the chestnuts in the smoldering ashes. She thought of Regina's story about the Master's wife and child; she thought of the disembodied hand in the Master's study; looking at his back, his head bowed attentively to his work with almost endearing concentration, she knew she had to find out if all of Regina's story was true, if he was as much of a monster as she said he was. She had put off asking him questions when they were in the garden, but the consequent period of rest would have to be the right time.

She waited until he had moved the chestnuts onto a platter and offered it to her, the blackened shells cracked open to reveal the fragrant, honey-coloured inside.

"It's hot," he warned, juggling two himself.

"You're very considerate."

"I wouldn't want you to do the dishes with burnt fingers."

She wisely ignored his comment, regarding him pensively. "You said you always used to roast chestnuts in the autumn," she said. "Did you mean by yourself?"

She could see his smile fade instantly, the atmosphere of camaraderie dissipating, but forced herself to continue. "I've had a… a couple of years to look around, you know. And upstairs there's clothing – small – as if for a …child?" She thought of the intact boy's room she had found, the tunics and trousers nearly large enough to fit her.

The Master had gone very quiet, staring down at his plate of chestnuts. He volunteered no information, so Belle pressed further: "Was it yours, or was there a son?"

The silence stretched uncomfortably until he replied after all. "There was. There was a son. I lost him." A pause. "As I did his mother."

"Ehm…I'm sorry." Belle's heart tightened painfully in her chest even as she heard herself utter the generic platitude. Don't ask further, don't ask! part of her urged her. "Lost how?" she prompted, as gently as she could, but to her horror, the Master looked away at the question.

"My son is in another world and my wife is dead." The words rang out flat and indifferently – but she had already seen the expression on his face before he averted his face, the fierceness in his eyes, and she knew with complete and terrifying certainty that it was true. His son was in another world. His wife had died by his hands.

They picked over their chestnuts in silence, although neither of them was remotely hungry anymore. Belle's thoughts had taken a turn that was both somber and, for the first time, determined. Although painful, she had to accept that she was no longer a good judge of personality – isolated from the world, completely dependent on the Master as her only way to still feel alive and sane. Of course she was bound to close her eyes to a lot of his evils; and now that she was certain that Regina had told her the truth, the question remained if she still had enough morality left. If enough of the old Belle was left in her to do what was right.

…

"Regina." Belle's voice was an urgent whisper into the mirror. "Regina!"

It was an unusual hour – a little after four in the afternoon – and she had never spoken to Regina this early in the day before, and wasn't sure if her friend would appear. When she did, Belle had the impression she looked different: her hair was elaborately pinned up, making her look older, more sophisticated; there seemed to be an edging of silver to her black collar.

"Belle," she said. She didn't seem angry after their last encounter, merely relieved to see her. "I wasn't sure if I would be hearing from you at all, let alone this early."

"I need to talk to you. About that spell of yours, the one that brings happiness…"

"Yes?" Regina asked, her face brightening.

"How could I sacrifice his heart? Even if I did agree to do it," she added quickly. "He can't be killed, he showed me that himself – I have seen him stab himself in the chest with a spindle, and he was completely unscathed."

"There is one blade that can do it," Regina said. "A dagger, to be more precise – it is bound to be in the Dark Castle somewhere. He would keep it close because it is the only chink in his armour; but he has also kept it hidden away from windows I can see through – any mirrors, silver trays, all reflecting surfaces. That means you're the only one who could possibly find it."

"But how would I recognize it?" Belle wondered aloud, thinking of the Master's study full of jumbled artifacts, the many nooks and crannies of the Dark Castle.

"You'll know it," Regina said emphatically, "because it will have a name inscribed on the blade."

"Whose name?"

"Why, his name, Belle."

…

The Master's muttered "Good night" after a very quiet dinner the night before had, it seemed, been his goodbye; he had left on his business overnight, leaving a deserted Dark Castle in which Belle could commence some business of her own: finding the dagger.

She spent several fruitless hours rummaging through the Master's study, overturning his bedroom, meticulously studying his spinning wheel, and upending every item in the red dining room.

This isn't working, she told herself, taking a moment to sit down at the dining room table. Think, think. He keeps it hidden from Regina, who can only look through mirrors, she told herself, immerging herself as much as she could into the Master's mind, the way she had come to know him over the years. Where is the best place to hide something from a mirror? After a few moments of silent contemplation, it suddenly occurred to her. The best place to hide from a mirror is behind a mirror.

She went from mirror to mirror, looking behind each one, but was disappointed each time. In addition, she was beginning to get frustrated; her instincts told her that it was the right place to look, so why couldn't she find the dagger?

She returned wearily to the library and stared out the window, into the garden. It was then that she realized there was one mirror she had overlooked.

…

The surface of the pond was smooth and without a ripple that day, reflecting the pale white sky overhead and the completely bare tree branches. All the leaves had fallen overnight; where yesterday had been a windy, zesty autumn day, today was very still, not a breeze disturbing the thick layer of leaves on the ground. All was almost as if magically suspended in time again - the only movement was Belle, sending ripples out across the surface of the pond when she stepped into the water. It was cold, breathtakingly cold. She had taken off her shoes and cloak and, after a moment's consideration, her dress and laid them out neatly folded on the grass. The plain white slip she wore underneath offered little protection from the cold, the skirt floating out around her as the water crept to waist-level, goosebumps rising on her bare arms and her numb feet sliding in the soft mud underfoot. It took her all her will power to finally take a deep breath and immerge herself completely, holding her head under water and her eyes open for ten counts before coming up again gasping.

The pond was big and irregular-shaped, but Belle now knew that it was also much deeper than she had thought – more like a small lake than a pond. From the point where she stood, the ground only sloped steeper and steeper and she had seen nothing on the pond floor that looked out of the ordinary at first glance: just the same kind of soft, sandy mud that she had sunk into up to her ankles now and where a dagger could be concealed just as easily.

She considered for several moments, teeth chattering. Her instincts told her that the Master would have hidden the dagger here; but the lake was so deep and large that there was no way she could search the bottom properly, coming up for air taking so long that she would only be able to search for seconds at a time or risk losing consciousness on her way to the surface. She imagined coming to float face-down and drowning, the Master finding her cold white body when he returned home… and then it occurred to her: I can't die. She had survived for hundreds of years because her deal with the Master still stood, he had told her so himself. She couldn't die.

It was quite another thing to put this theory to the test, however. Belle had swam out towards the middle of the pond to where she couldn't stand; but the first few times she spread her arms and legs and let herself float on the water with her face down, her instincts had prevailed when her lungs shrieked for oxygen and she had turned her face sideways, slurping air. Come on, she thought, losing patience with herself, you need to know, you need to do something… and she pressed her face down into the cold water again, and persisted.

It was painful, more so than she had expected; she couldn't stop her body from going through the motions of breathing, and with each excruciating breath she let air bubbles – fewer and fewer each time – out and cold water into her lungs. This is what drowning feels like. She squeezed her eyes tightly closed, almost resenting her own body's resilience because it prolonged the pain until, finally, it was over. I have drowned myself, she thought. I should be dead. The pain was gone and her lungs full of water, and slowly and heavily she began to sink down into the quiet, cool green gloom of the pond. She cracked open her eyes, alert for any water creatures – fish, plants – but there were none; the pond was like a great, still, empty chamber with a shimmering light ceiling. The floor of the pond was slowly approaching, and she decided to start swimming before she ended up with her face in the sand. Slowly and effortfully at first as if having to rouse a body that was asleep independently of her mind, she began to move her arms and legs. Movement came with greater ease as she fell into the familiar motions of swimming, low over the pond floor. The problem of finding the dagger remained, she realized; the pond was still vast, the floor generally smooth and sandy, with the occasional jutting rocks. She would have to search every inch of it.

But then, drifting a little forlornly for several minutes in the hopes of some clue, she saw something that she had initially missed in the semi-dark: close to the middle of the pond, where it was deepest, was what seemed like a formation of pale, uneven rocks. By lack of a better place to start looking Belle swam towards it, only realizing when she was almost upon it that, half-buried in the sand, there were the skeletal remains of what had been an enormous animal. Belle saw a long tail, the vertebrae scattered in an uneven line… a crooked back leg… a massive rib cage half-sunken into the ground…when she reached the head she finally realized that she was looking at the skull of a crocodile, grinning a mouthful of crooked razor teeth and dark, empty eye sockets. The Master's guard dog, dead for a long time; no wonder there were no fish or ducks in this pond.

Belle knew where she had to look first, and with great trepidation she grabbed hold of the creature's upper jaw with both hands. The behemoth had been so large that she could actually fit her hands between his teeth, and the bone was hard and smooth to the touch. With difficulty, she then wrenched it up, setting her feet on the lower jaw to give her leverage. The skull alone was as long as Belle was tall, and it was a feat she would never have been able to perform on dry land. Propping the upper jaw heavily on her shoulder, she reached inside the behemoth's mouth. As she did, she was overcome by a sudden fear that the crocodile would be roused by this first intrusion after years of complete quiet, and would come suddenly to life and clamp down on the shoulder she had so helpfully wedged inside his mouth. To make matters worse, Belle had kicked up a lot of loose sand on the bottom which came up in a cloud that stung her eyes and made it hard to see. She groped around, fingers scrabbling inside the bony cavity where, as it turned out, a considerable number of objects had been gathered over the years. Belle pulled one out at random – squinting in the poor light, she could make out a tin alarm clock, of all things – which she discarded, reaching inside again and praying she wouldn't pull out a human skull next. Then, just when she was about to give up and search elsewhere, she felt something sleek and metallic, flat and sharp; it almost slid from her fingers again before she had realized what she felt, but she managed to clench her fist around it tightly. Withdrawing her arm she let the crocodile's mouth fall shut again and, eyes closed against the cloud of churning mud, she kicked off from the creature's flat head, back to the surface.

…

Bursting onto the bank, water pouring off her, she heaved up more water than she had thought human lungs could contain before she could draw her first breaths, even as water continued to trickle down her chin. Her lungs tingled painfully with each breath, but she breathed again – her deal with the Master had some benefits, after all. And with the Master in mind, she at last turned to the object she had dropped on the grass beside her.

It was, as she had thought, a dagger: a slender and deadly object of cold steel with a waved blade that was brightly stained on one side where she had sliced the palm of her hand open when she grabbed it. Letters had been engraved on one side of the blade and, soaked and kneeling on the grass, she carefully turned it sideways to read the strange name they spelled out: Rumpelstiltskin.