Question -
("Roland," Regina says. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing?" Roland squeaks, tilting back to smile at her with all bright-watted charm of guilt.
There're paint flecks on his lap, a stick in his hand, gouges in the paintwork of her gate, and she sighs, because Henry never did this, Henry – but they're letters, she realises, runic and painstaking, 'R' fractured in a bubble of paint and a Kindergartener learning to write his name in claim.
I miss my room!
Henry always knew his home was his.)
"Henry," Regina asks, carefully, "What would you say to Robin and Roland moving in… officially?"
