Chapter 32
Storybrooke, West Side 4:00 pm
As they search the town for any sign of the fugitive, the Lost Boys are becoming reacquainted—and reunited. They talk a little about their lives in this world, their jobs, their families, their neighbors, their communities; they talk a lot about Neverland. They agree to a man that their present lives are often monotonous and burdensome, and they openly admit to a longing for adventure and battle. Then Slightly smiles slightly and asks what grade Nibs' daughter is in and whether Twin One's son is walking yet—and when the conversation lags, Slightly says, "Mortgages and boring jobs and taxes don't seem so bad to me, a price I'd be willing to pay for a loving family."
Twin Two begrudgingly admits, "Yeah, you got a point." And then he uses that as an excuse to flip open his cell phone and show off his wedding photos.
"So, fellas, who's up for going back to Neverland? Because it may be possible," Slightly asks. No one answers him. "Okay then. Well, you're going to get the chance for some battle anyway." He tells them about Pan the Fourteenth.
"He can't take Henry," Nibs objects. "That's against the rules. The Shadow can't take an unwilling kid."
Slightly shrugs. "Fourteen has never been a respecter of rules, they say. Rumor has it he's out to create a whole new order—moving his operation to this world is just the start."
"Magic won't allow that. No one's above the law. Magic will squash him like a peanut shell under an elephant's foot."
"That's why we're here," Slightly explains. "We're the elephant—us and Bae and everyone else from the Enchanted Forest."
"So we're, like, magic's law enforcement squad," Twin One grins. "I like that. Does that mean magic will grant us powers or privileges?"
"Just our native intelligence and resourcefulness. Magic has already given powers to the ones it intends to."
"Doesn't bode well," Curly speculates. "The only trained mage in the lot is the one most likely to switch sides: Regina. Emma's got power, all right, and the soul of a fighter, but with no training, what chance has she got against Fourteen's Lost Boys? Henry's just a kid and Blue's hands are practically tied by fairy law, and Rumple's a human now."
"Too bad you can't just put 'em all together into one," Twin One thinks. "Each one's, like, got what the others need."
"Precisely," Slightly says. "We got to make them believe they're the 1927 Yankees."
"Who skunked the Pirates and took the World Series," Nibs grins.
"Precisely." Slightly looks to the east, from where a cold wind is blowing. "The Pirates are coming, fellas, and this is the world series."
Storybrooke General Room 304, 4:00 pm
"Orders of the sheriff," Orderly One announces as Orderlies Two and Three wheel Regina's bed into Gold's hospital room.
"Now wait a minute," Gold protests. "I'm paying for a private room—"
Over his protest, Regina adds her own: "I'm not sharing a room with him."
"Quiet, both of you. We'll set up a screen," Orderly One interrupts. "And the Accounts office will adjust the rates accordingly. But in case you haven't noticed, there's a manhunt going on, and city resources are strained to the limit, something I'm sure you can appreciate, Mayor. So unless you want to conjure your own armed guard—"
"That's not a bad idea," Regina says, but before she can throw some magic around, a shotgun-bearing Granny ambles in and bellows, "No magic! You want police protection? Put that magic away or I'm walkin' out, gettin' me a bullhorn and climbin' to the clock tower and announce to the world, 'Regina's in room 304. Come get her!'"
Two and Three next wheel in a screen, which they place between the two beds. Then all three orderlies move on to other duties, leaving a cranky Granny planted outside the closed and locked door, and two cranky, injured mages less than two yards apart from each other.
Total silence. Each waits for the other to throw down the first insult.
Fifteen minutes pass. Regina conjures an emery board and polish to manicure her nails.
Twenty minutes pass. Gold is used to silence, but Regina, despite what she'd like think of herself, is a social being and must have interaction. Besides, she sees an opportunity for gloating here, so she begins the conversation. "So is it true you've lost your magic?"
He doesn't answer. With magic, she shoves the screen aside.
"That means I'm more powerful than you. I win!"
Gold won't make eye contact with her. She finds that disrespectful, and it robs her of some of the pleasure she feels in her victory. "Yes, Regina, you've won."
She rolls the words around in her mind, squeezing them for every ounce of satisfaction she can eke out, but she finds them dry. He is not whimpering, he is not cowering; in fact, he doesn't seem the least interested in his loss of this centuries-old fight.
There's something completely different on his mind. "Regina, I'm working on the Mendell problem and I need a book from my shop. Would you. . ." he can't bring himself to ask—to owe her a favor, however small.
"Transport it to you?" Her voice drips with poison. "Why should I do anything for you, after all the damage you've done to me and my mother?"
"Because you want to get rid of Mendell as much as I do," he snaps. "Because if we don't get rid of him, his entire damn 'Home Office' will have every one of us, including Henry, strapped down to examining tables. Because it's in your own best interests for you to help me solve this problem, Your Majesty."
He's said the magic word: Henry is as powerful as please used to be. "Title of the book?" The poison has dried up but an icy pride remains in her tone.
"Manipulation of Atoms and Ions. In the display cabinet on the east side of the store, second shelf." A moment later, the book appears in his lap. "Thank you." Gold opens the book and begins to study.
"I may have knocked over that Tiffany lamp as I was moving the book." She smiles in anticipation of his anger, but he denies her of even that pleasure.
"No matter."
Another fifteen minutes pass as he studies and Regina paints her toenails. Bored, she makes an offer that surprises them both: "Okay, what can I do to help?"
"Practice your defensive spells: shields, invisibility, cloaking. And bring In Historiam Magica Neverland et Aliis Locis Exoticis from my shop, study it. We need information about Pan the Fourteenth."
She summons the book. It's in Latin and her Latin is rusty, so she conjures an English translation. The book is more than 700 pages long and unindexed. "What do you want to know about him?"
"Anything we can use against him."
With a deep sigh she begins to skim the tome.
Sheriff's Office 4:00 pm
Emma is studying the evidence. There's a whole lot of technical information in the paper and thumb drive files. She still hasn't been able to hack into the laptop, but that U-Haul provided her a pretty clear picture of the extent of the operations behind Mendell and Tamara.
Emma wishes she could consult with the FBI: this "Home Office" is a worldwide deal with a lot of money and a lot of brainy people behind it. They claim to intend to eradicate magic, equating it to the Black Plague, but from what she ascertained, their equipment doesn't destroy magic; it extracts it from the mage and stores it. A call to Gold confirms her suspicion: one of the laws of magic is that it can't be created or destroyed, he claims. Of course people like Mendell and Tamara who've lived their lives in a land without magic wouldn't know that. They might actually think they're engaged in a holy war.
Thank the gods for David and Snow. They may not know a lot about laws and magic, but they believe in Emma. And what she's been telling them about the Home Office's power and plans—well, Emma's plenty worried, and so her parents are too.
Storybrooke General Room 304, 5 pm
Granny raises her shotgun at the approaching footsteps, then lowers it again as Belle rounds the corner, carrying a whicker basket on her arm and a garment bag and a cane in her other hand. As Granny unlocks the door, Belle presses her ear against it. "I don't hear anything. Did they kill each other?"
Granny shrugs. "Maybe she cast a silence spell on him? I haven't heard a peep in almost an hour."
"That would explain him, but why's she so quiet?" Belle pushes the door just enough to peek in, then with a puzzled frown reports back to Granny: "They've removed the screen!"
"Oh lords," Granny moans. "They did kill each other."
"No, they're. . . reading!"
Granny passes her shotgun to Belle so she can peek in. "Gods, you're right! Reading!" She takes the gun back. "You sure you want to go in there? There's got to be some sort of weird force at work in there."
"Maybe we need to have a talk with Whale. Perhaps he's over-sedated them." Belle adjusts the basket on her arm and steels her shoulders. "All right, then. Wish me luck." She pushes the door open and sails in.
"Belle!" Gold greets her, setting aside his book to take her face in his hands and kiss her soundly.
"I brought you some clothes and your cane. How do you feel, Rumple?" She sets the garment bag on a chair and perches on the bed beside him. The black-and-blue circles under his eyes worry her, though Whale has told her such bruising is normal with a concussion.
"Still got a headache and it's hard to concentrate, but this," he taps the book, "sufficiently distracts me. I'm trying to figure out how their gear works—and how to jam it."
Belle unpacks the basket. "Are there any other books I can bring you? Or any objects to help?" She pulls the overbed tray forward and sets it up with the meal she's brought. "Cream of mushroom soup and spiced applesauce," she announces. "Doctor says you can't have solid food yet. But that doesn't mean you can't have"—she produces a parfait cup with a flourish—"chocolate mousse."
"Thank you, Belle." Gold tucks into the meal. "I think I have some additional books about Neverland and the Pans. If you'll bring those in from the shop? And if you can find anything online about jihads against magic, or about Tamara or Greg or this 'Home Office' of theirs."
"I've been searching," she nods, her eyes bright. She's in her element: information gathering. "I've given Emma what little I found. I'll keep looking. So far, nothing promising. Even on the World Wide Web, where it's common knowledge that aliens from outer space have infiltrated the White House and human babies have been raised by packs of wild wolves, no one seems to believe that magic exists, and therefore, there is no 'Home Office.'"
As Gold sips his soup, Belle feels dark eyes upon her. She glances across the room to find Regina, a book lying open on her lap, staring at them. "Hello, Lacey. You cleaned up rather nicely, I see. Pity that it's Sunday and the bars are closed."
Gold starts to butt in, but he finds he doesn't need to. "My name is Belle. But of course you know, I'm sure, that my true memories have returned and your curse failed once again."
"One small correction, dear: it's Rumple's curse as much as it is mine."
"One of these days, Your Majesty, you and I will encounter each other again at a time when neither of us is in hospital. When that time comes, I'll be paying you back for what you've done to me—and after I've balanced the score card, I'll forgive you."
"I'd look forward to that little encounter, Ms. French. I would indeed. It's been ages since I last punched out a whore."
"Regina, so help me—" Gold starts a threat, but Belle pats his arm, assuring him she can handle her own fights.
Regina continues, "But I'm sorry to say I'll have to forgo that opportunity; I have bigger plans, and you, my dear, are so insignificant to me that I wouldn't delay those plans for the three minutes it would take me to slap you silly. As for your 'forgiveness,' you overrate yourself if you think I troubled myself to create a spell solely to attack you. The punishment for crossing the town line, it was just your own dumb luck that you fell victim to it. I intended it to keep people like those blabbermouth dwarves from announcing our presence to the magicless world out there. You see, Rumple? I really am more cautious and farsighted than you give me credit for. I also created a fail safe, just in case the outside world should ever intrude upon us: a way we can instantaneously pull the plug and leave not a trace of our presence behind."
She now has her audience's complete attention. "How?" Belle asks, and Gold adds, "Where is it?"
She defies them with throaty laugh. "Whatever would make you think I'd share that information with you? It's going to be my great pleasure, my deepest satisfaction, to watch your face crumble, Gold, when you realize I'm getting away scot-free while you and your little whore—oh, and yes, your son and all his pals—die slow, agonizing deaths, with you not even having enough magic in your fingers to conjure a bottle of aspirin." She fluffs her pillows and lies back upon them contentedly. "Of course, I'll be taking my son—your grandson—with me."
"We'll see," Gold answers between clenched teeth.
She hasn't worked out yet how she's going to watch her former townsfolk suffer yet prevent Henry from doing the same—she doesn't want the child scarred for life by images of his grandparents, his mother and his father, and all his friends, teachers and neighbors screaming and writhing in pain. Oh, well, that's one of the many advantages to magic: she can always wipe Henry's memory clean of those horrific images or force his mind to think he doesn't see what's going on before him.
Belle is asking Rumple, "Is it possible? What she's saying, can it be true?"
Gold thinks for a moment, then replies, "Technically, yes. Whether Regina was clever enough—and patient enough—to develop a fail safe, it seems doubtful."
He reaches for his phone and dials. "Let's hope that for once she's not lying, because if it's true, she may have accidentally created the way to keep this world away from Peter Pan." He sets the phone to his ear and speaks. "Ms. Swan? I'm sorry if I disturbed your dinner, but I wonder if you and your parents could come to the hospital right away. There's an urgent matter we must discuss and I'd rather not do it over the phone. . . .Yes. Thank you."
He sets the phone aside. "Well, Your Majesty! It would seem this town—this world—owes you a debt of gratitude. Assuming that you're not lying and that you didn't screw up the fail safe."
"You seem to forget, Rumple, that you're just a powerless, lame old man now, and it's the most powerful mage in the land that you're insulting. I'll let this one slide by, but don't press your luck. I'm hardly known for mercy." She winks at Rumple. "As much as I enjoy winning, I could almost feel sorry for you. The legendary Dark One, brought down to this." She waves her hand at his lime-green hospital gown. "Bet your 'visions' didn't show you you'd end up like this, did they? For old times' sake, you have my pity. Did he tell you, Ms. French, that he was my first—although hardly my only? Magic teacher, that is." She chuckles suggestively. "Oh, surely you didn't think I meant my first lover, did you? He's halfway presentable now, but in those days. . . ." She mock-shudders. "I'd rather have taken a warthog to my bed."
Now her face blackens and she bares her teeth at him. "My mother was just as repulsed as I am, though that didn't stop him from throwing her to the floor of one of his dungeons—possibly the same dungeon he kept you in; wouldn't that be a delicious irony, Ms. French? She came to him, sick and hungry and begging for a crust, and instead of granting her the hospitality of his castle, as honor and decency dictate, he dragged her into his dungeon, threw her to the stones and molested her—using his magic to prevent her from protecting herself. Molested her repeatedly, over nearly a year, and made a scullery maid of her—as he did you, did he not, Duchess? And when he grew bored with her, he threw her out, without a penny or even a warm cloak—sound familiar, Ms. French? Makes you wonder, doesn't it, how many other young women have been subjected to the exact same torture?"
"Shut up, Regina, or I'm going to ignore that you're a hospital patient and I'm going to tear that wig off your head and stuff it down your lying throat." Belle is on her feet now.
"I've never worn a wig in my life," Regina snaps back. "And everything I've said is fact. Reflect upon your own time as the Dark One's whore and you'll know I'm telling the truth."
"Is that what Cora told you or did you come to that conclusion on your own?" Gold pushes his dinner tray aside, "If it's the truth you want, if it's really the truth you want, you can have it. I can show it to you. But be prepared to be disillusioned, Regina."
"What—have you got a time machine in your little shop of horrors?"
Gold clicks his tongue. "For shame, Regina. You who are the master of mirror magic, you should know you can access my memories if I permit it. And you know what? I may be the village villain—hell, I may be the darkest Dark One to ever darken a doorway—but I'd like to get at least one lie about me off the table. So yeah, use your mirror magic and access my memories as they regard your mother."
Regina conjures a mirror and hesitates; she can't think of the spell. She realizes she's never tried this before; never stopped to investigate the truth before, just barreled ahead, acting upon assumption, innuendo, deception, lies and guesswork. He recites the spell and she enchants the mirror, carrying it to him and drawing up a chair beside his bed.
He watches her for a moment, thinking how much smaller she seems in a hospital gown and slippers, how vulnerable. He wonders if the truth will break her, if it wouldn't be wiser to let her cling to the lie Cora gave her. But he needs to clear his name for Belle's sake; though Belle still holds faith in him, there were enough grains of truth in the lie that they could someday take root. So he lays his hand on the mirror, closes his eyes and runs though memories until he gets to the right set. When the first—a bedraggled and wet young Cora standing at the Dark Castle's gate—shimmers and steadies into focus, he hands the mirror back to Regina, and Belle moves to stand behind her and watch.
There had been a severe thunderstorm the night before, washing out roads and bridges, uprooting trees, so Nature herself when she visited at the castle windows appeared bedraggled and worn from lack of sleep. When Rumplestiltskin strolled his grounds to survey the damage, his ears, always sensitive to the siren call of a deal in the offing, were assaulted by the cry of a wet cat. The lord of the manor strode to his gate and tore it open—with magic of course: the Dark One must not be seen performing manual labor—to discover not a cat at all, but an infant, a red-faced, kicking thing that stank of milk, stale spit-up and. . . the stuff often found in the britches of an infant.
This infant was not alone. It was cradled in the thin arms of a storm-bedraggled young woman.
He confronted her with a growl. "The Dark One gives no alms to the poor! Begone now, find a church door for your begging."
The woman's chin thrust up. "I am no beggar, sir! I am a woman of magic. I have been informed that you are in need of an apprentice and I have come to offer my services."
Before he could slam the gate in her face, she plowed on, laying out a deal. Did she know of the compulsion that forced the Dark One to consider all serious proposals of deals? "In return for lessons of a minimum of three hours per day, along with room and board, I will serve as your lab assistant, your cook, your housekeeper and your messenger. This arrangement will begin with a one-month trial, and if we both are satisfied, it will continue indefinitely until one or both of us find it no longer beneficial."
"I am not in the market for an apprentice, madam. You may go." He turned on his heel, but she grasped his coattail.
"Was I misinformed then? You have a pupil already?"
"No. I'm simply not interested." He removed her fingers from his clothing. "Nor is my castle a nursery for mewling fatherless infants."
"She is far from fatherless, sir." The woman pushed her body within breathing distance of his, glared up into his face. "I'll have you know this is the daughter of King Leopold the Third of the Frontlands."
Rumplestiltskin sniggered as he made the infant a mock bow. "Oh pardon me, Princess. I didn't recognize you in your royal robes." Then he twisted his head to peer at the woman sideways, for he knew that King Leopold had wed, no more than a month ago, the daughter of the King of the West Mountains. He smirked. "Then that would make you Queen Eva, wouldn't it?"
Had the woman lied to him or reddened in embarrassment, he would have sent her away without another word, but instead she flashed her teeth at him. "If you think that, you're a fool and unworthy of teaching me. Never mind my present title: the only title I wish for the moment is 'Apprentice to Rumplestiltskin.' You heard my terms. Do you wish to make a counteroffer?"
He wrinkled his nose; the infant had just added to the contents of her nappy. "I wish for you to be gone, and to take that odiferous object with you." He shut the gate and turned to walk away.
"Wait!" she shouted. "I'll sweeten my offer."
He muttered, his hands working as if he were spinning thread. "Clearly you have nothing more to offer, madam—or is it 'miss'?"
"My body!"
He stopped in his tracks.
"Rumplestiltskin, did you hear me? I said, I will offer my body along with my housekeeping services."
His feet inched sideways, but he resisted the urge to walk back to the gate.
"It must be very lonely, being the Dark One!"
Now he was angry. He wheeled around and yanked the gate open, profanity flowing from his lips like water from a fountain.
She ignored his cursing. "It's said no woman has ever come to this castle. It's said the Dark One has never walked with a woman on his arm, nor frequented a brothel. My services in your kitchen, your laboratory and your bed in exchange for lessons. One week's trial."
"Though I'm sure your experience has given you skills in all three parts of a house, I remain uninterested, miss."
Shifting the infant to one arm, she seized him to drive her point home—seized him not by the head or the hair, but by a part of his anatomy that only Milah had touched. "Remove your hand, woman." But it came out sounding like a question instead of the demand of a sorcerer.
"I won't leave. You may as well let me in, because I'll remain here, driving away any new business that may come your way and sullying your reputation."
He chuckled. "My reputation can get no darker, dearie. And you'd be doing me a favor if you drive my gate-mongers away." He looked down at his trousers. "Your hand, miss? Remove it, please, before I cut it off."
In reply she squeezed. Damn it, it did feel pretty good. But he needed no half-starved infant and borderline harlot under foot. She dropped her hand and he slammed the gate.
"I'm not leaving," she shouted after him. "We're not leaving."
Two days later, he let her in.
Cora learns quickly and works hard. In the beginning he thinks she will be the one to cast the Final Curse for him; she has the talent, and she certainly has the temperament. He soon finds, however, she's too cold-blooded to be controlled.
Cora keeps up her end of the bargain, for she understands the laws of magic and realizes her own powers can be stripped if she fails to pay her debt. She is an adequate housekeeper and a tolerable cook. Cora works hard at the lovemaking too, and accepts instruction in that regard, but to her it is no more meaningful or entertaining than scubbing the pots and pans, and so, gradually, it becomes just another job to him too, a task that must be done to fulfill the terms of the contract.
She's a lousy mother. She leaves the baby unattended in the east wing while she's cleaning the west wing. She loses herself in the books he loans to her for study and she forgets to feed the baby. She practices her lessons into the wee hours of the morning and forgets to change diapers. When she's so absorbed, she doesn't hear the baby cry. Rumple has to storm down the winding staircase from his tower lab—he has two labs, and this one she's not allowed in, because it's where he works on the Final Curse. Complaining with every step, he runs to the baby's rescue. As the days flow into weeks, he seems to be spending as much time tending the baby as he does working on the curse, and he threatens to evict Cora. She apologizes, she takes him to bed in an effort to change his mood, but her mothering shows no improvement.
"Throw her out, that's what I'll do," he coos, jiggling the baby on his knee. "That'll teach her. Then she'll start taking care of you, poor little wee one." But none of that is true: she won't change and he won't throw her out—because that would mean throwing the baby out. Damn his eyes, he likes the brat.
Regina.
Cora calls her that because when Cora has come into her full power, she will make a queen of her daughter, but Rumple calls her "Apple Cheeks." Regina smiles when he does that, but she never laughs.
"Tending your child was never part of the bargain, dearie."
"I'm sorry, master. I don't mean for her to burden you. It's just that I'm working so hard."
"Yes, yes," he snaps. "And you have no interest in her."
He expects a denial of his accusation, but Cora shrugs.
"Then give her to me," he decides on an impulse.
"But I have plans, a great future for her—"
"Give her to me then until her eighteenth birthday, and then you can marry her to a blue blood." When Cora hesitates, he adds, "Give her to me and I will teach you a skill only I know."
And a new bargain is struck.
Cora, swirling like a ballerina in her billowing dressing gown, lovely Cora, so fresh and fair, a hundred years younger than the monster she's just bedded, but a hundred years ahead of him in darkness. He is his own master, but she owns him, has bought him for the price of a few flattering words, a flirtatious toss of her luxurious hair, which she allows him to sink his ugly claws into. When he kisses her, she betrays no suggestion of revulsion; worse, she opens her mouth to him. When he lays her on his bed, she moans for him and he's caught. When he takes her the first time the spinner in him believes he's stealing her innocence, though the Dark One knows better: her hands know just where to go, her hips know just how to move, her mouth is far too wise in the ways of lovemaking. Still, he feels a twinge of guilt, which she milks; so many ways of manipulation there are, and she has mastered them all.
Only later, as he lies ensnared in her arms, his heart pounding with hope, does he remember the warning: True Love's kiss will break the dark curse. He glances at the woman whose smooth white cheek lies against his scaly chest, whose fingers entwine with his claws, and his heart breaks because yes, she's changed him, but only on the inside. The maid in his arms has taught him the ways of her world and he will never forget the lesson: love is weakness.
In the third year of her apprenticeship, Cora cons her way into the bed of a minor prince, one so far removed by blood and temperament from any throne that he will never rule. Which is just as well for his people, Rumple thinks; the prince is a milquetoast, and from what Cora reports—for she doesn't mind sharing the details of her affair; she feels nothing for her master and assumes he feels nothing for her—his talents in bed are equally lacking.
But the affair provides an opportunity Cora has longed for: through this prince she can introduce Regina to court. Cora's lowly status (she passes herself off the widow of a duke of a distant realm) should exclude her as a candidate for wife, but she secures her position with a classic con: she (mis)informs the prince that she's pregnant with his child. A quick and quiet wedding is arranged.
She announces this to Rumple as though she expects him to be happy for her. Truthfully, he doesn't care; he's grown tired of her services anyway, and it's time to seek a new apprentice, someone who can cast his curse. But then she walks out with Regina.
His magic tosses her into his dungeon. "We had a deal!" he shouts at her. "Regina is mine!"
"The prince can give her the one thing you can't: a pedigree. For her sake, let her go," Cora reasons. It's a logical argument, delivered bloodlessly, but neither he nor the laws of magic will allow it to stand.
"The debt must be paid!"
Cora places her hands on her hips. "What then? What will you take for Regina?"
The ungrateful child is crying and clutching at her mother's skirts, and he realizes he's already lost. But Cora will pay dearly, and for the rest of her life. Before she can blink Rumplestiltskin thrusts his hand into her breast and yanks out her heart. As he watches her lift Regina into the prince's carriage, he gives the heart a squeeze. Anyone else would scream in pain: Cora just climbs into the carriage and rides away.
He locks the heart into a jewelry box and keeps it as a souvenir.