Chapter 18

Emma had been fast asleep when the pale white witchlight fell over her, glowing under her closed eyelids and rousing her to the groggy surface of wakefulness. For a long moment she could not remember where she was or what was going on, until her eyes opened the rest of the way, and she found herself in the couch bed in Felix's room. It must be morning already. Fuck. It felt like she'd just gone under. She groped at the table where she'd thrown her stuff. Her phone didn't work in Britain, so Wendy had bought her one of those pay-as-you-go top-ups from Orange – like she'd really need one here, but it did serve as a clock and –

5:23 AM.

What? Hold on a hot second. In Oxford in winter, it definitely wasn't light at 5:30 in the morning. Maybe it was LED light – were Felix and Wendy enjoying a post-coital snuggle and movie, and opened their door for some reason? No, it remained dark, firmly closed and quiet. Streetlight? No, the window that overlooked Parks Road was curtained. Had the ghosts from the Bear followed her here and decided to spook the tourist when she wasn't expecting it, like the Spanish Inquisition? Didn't appear that way either. So what on fucking earth –

The window over the front quad. It was coming from there, fainter now but unmistakable, pulsing and twinkling like a star. There was something there. Tapping at the glass.

Emma's throat was dry. She wasn't quite sure, suddenly, if she was asleep or awake, or somewhere between, still dreaming. But she remembered what had happened at the Darling house, thinking there was something at the nursery window, and her own hope that it would come back. What if it had? What if for the first time in her life, someone had found her?

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and hurried across the floor, in her old T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, hair falling loose out of its braid. She pulled out the pin in the window and accordioned it open, into the cold night, then felt a brush as something rustled past. Was that it? Or was there –

A young boy's voice from behind her said, "Hello, Emma."

Scared out of her wits, Emma spun around, stumbling and crashing against the wall hard enough that she was certain the noise would wake Wendy and Felix. Pressing a hand to her chest, which her heart was apparently trying to leap out of, she inhaled a few hard, gusty breaths through her nose. She wanted to run into the bathroom and shut herself up, in fact, but reminded herself that she was the one who'd opened the window, who'd let it – him – in. She took a few more gasps, then turned around, trying very hard to keep her voice even. "Who are you?"

He was standing there, head cocked, hand on his hip, as if he'd been there all along. Perhaps he had. The shadow receded from him, revealing exactly the face of the kid she'd been dreaming about, the one with the lopsided smile and the freckles and the messy brown hair, a kid dressed in green rags and leaves, a set of pipes and a sword slung at his waist. He had a faint, eerie shine to him as if he was almost transparent, as if she could squint very hard and see through him to the other side. He made no sound as he stepped closer. "You know me, right?"

"I. . ." Her throat was still parched, her tongue useless. She almost thought she did – but that was impossible. She'd given him up, given him away, known she'd lost him, that he'd never lived. And now he was coming back like this, when he hadn't – it wasn't even possible –

"You," she whispered. "You're. . . Peter?"

"I guess." He shrugged. "My name's really Henry, but most people call me Pan. I've been looking for you, Emma. I want you to come with me."

Okay. She could deal with this. Fine. Lost son strolls back into your life from nowhere all gung-ho and wants you to go with him. Cool. Actually, fucking not. "Wait, I just – how are you real? You weren't even born, I mean, they all told me that if I ever even was pregnant, I – "

He grinned at her, Neal's sheepish hangdog grin to the life, almost making her heart stop. "I'm not real. Not here. Where do you think all the lost boys go, if not to Neverland? That's where I live. Time doesn't matter there, so it doesn't matter how long ago anyone was abandoned. Don't you want to come with me, Emma? You could be a mother. My mother."

"I. . .no. Hold on. Just hold on." As furiously tempted as she was, she held back. "No, I am the least qualified person on the planet for anything like that. My life is a complete mess, I can't. . ."

"Do you think I'd be here if not? Don't you see? It's horrible to grow up and live in this world, isn't it? In Neverland, I'm in control. Nobody can ever leave and go away and abandon us again. I won't let them."

"You won't, huh?" Emma said faintly. God, how she wanted to believe it, to think that it could in fact be so terrifyingly easy. Wasn't that what Neverland was – the place where children could just steal away in the dark of night and never be seen again? Something was happening to her, seducing her, whispering, begging her to put out her hand to his and lift off, but if there was anything her life had taught her, it was to be suspicious of easy answers and instant panaceas. But to sink away, to leave the past behind. . . to never be afraid again. . .

"I don't know," she hedged. "Can I think about it?"

"What's there to think about?" The boy swept a dismissive hand at the dark room. "Why do you even like them, Emma? They don't like you, they don't want you. There's nobody in this world who cares for you. Come with me. Come on. Please?"

"Look, if I go, I'm not going in my pajamas." She made a self-deprecating gesture at her current outfit. "I know that's the tradition, right? But I'm not really one for that. At least let me change."

"Okay," he said, and smiled. "Hurry. We'll go at dawn."

Emma hadn't noticed, exactly, how long it had been since he'd come in, or how much time had passed, as if she'd entered into that liminal space with him where such things simply didn't matter. But she ducked into the bathroom and began fumbling for the clothes she'd shed earlier in the night. What could it really hurt, right? At worst, this was all some fucked-up dream and she'd wake up eating bark off the trees in Hyde Park, the kind of harmless eccentric who would probably be removed from the streets but not thrown in a straitjacket in a padded cell. She didn't feel crazy, but everyone in her life had been telling her not to trust herself, that she couldn't be believed, that everything she knew was a lie. Even Jack, even Wendy, who purportedly had her best interests at heart, were still telling her that she still had to cross her fingers and wait for her imaginary parents to come back, and Emma Swan was sick of lies. Sick of being hunted. Sick of being a scared, abandoned child. Sick of everything.

So. . . why not?

Neverland was the place where the lost boys – and girls – went. Maybe what he had said was true. A place for people like her. Maybe she just wanted the freedom to choose her own fate, to do something that was for her and no one else. Run away, as far and as fast as she could, and never be frightened again. She would, she'd go, she'd –

She opened the bathroom door, and stopped.

The window was still open, curtains drifting gently in the cold breeze. Etchings of grey dawn were lighting the room, scattering on the floor, but where the boy had stood, there was nothing, no whisper, not even a fallen leaf. Either it had only been some kind of sick, sick dream, or he, like everyone else, had left her too. After promising – after promising –

"Henry?" Her voice was thin and frightened. A child's voice herself. "Henry. . .?"

Glancing around, she saw what looked like a faint tracing of footsteps leading to the door. She ran across the floor, following them, and down the steps out into the quad. The least she could do was wake up if she was going to, but she didn't. So she edged down the path, to the steps that led into the college chapel, and ducked through the corridor into the garden beyond.

Her breath steamed in the chill rosy air. She hesitated, thinking she spotted a shadow in the trees at the far end, and hurried down to it, footsteps echoing. But there was still no one there, and she shook her head and pinched herself hard. Wake up, Emma. Wake up. Yeah. Like it was even possible to fly off to freakin' Neverland, to just drop everything and vanish forever. She had learned time and time again that there were no fairy godmothers and no happy endings, no magic, no pixie dust. Nothing but a lie. But she wanted it, she wanted. . . "Henry? Henry, where are you? Henry, don't leave. . . please, I want to go with you, please – "

She felt rather than heard someone at her back, something rustling amid the bare branches, and whirled toward it, holding both hands out. "Henry? Come back, it's me, I want – "

Yes, it was him. She was sure of it. The shadow. Receding away quick as the tide on the beach, but still him, dawn not yet passed, her chance still here.

She lunged. Grabbed for it. With everything she had.

And just then, from behind, someone grabbed her.

The shock was so great that it almost froze her solid. She'd been so fixated on the shadow that an entire drum-and-trumpet company could have come marching into the quiet Wadham gardens and she wouldn't have noticed, but this was only one. One man, arms locked around her waist, pulling her back, shouting in her ear. "No, Emma! No, get away from it, it'll – "

"Let go of me!" She struggled violently. "Let go, how can you possibly – just – just – "

The harder she fought him, however, the harder he held on, and a dawning, horrible recognition began to crash over her. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a familiar face, the very one she'd run into at the covered market and subsequently stalked away from. What the actual fuck – she'd known he taught here, but to stumble upon him in the damn garden, at the ass-crack of dawn, when she was no longer sure if she'd been dreaming, if a boy or a shadow or anything had really come to visit, if she was simply losing her mind altogether or on the verge of finding it again – he whirled her around, pulling her solidly against him, leaving her nowhere to go and barely any room to breathe.

"Emma," he said in her ear, low and urgently. "Emma, lass. Look at me. Look at me."

Slowly, unwillingly, she canted her chin back. It felt like an electric shock when she met his eyes, unblinking, dark as sapphires, intent and imploring. She bit her lip, hackles going up. "What the hell do you know about that? About anything?"

"Enough." He didn't loosen his grip. "It was a shadow, wasn't it? That came to you?"

"Maybe." To fuck with this. She still didn't owe him anything. "Who are you?"

"Killian Jones," he said calmly, "just as I've told you. I don't know what it's been doing with you, what you thought it was. . . but that thing is a bloody murderer. If it takes you, it will never let you go, do you hear me? You will belong to it, it will own you, and unless I quite miss my guess, that's the last thing you want. You want your freedom, you think by fleeing there you'll find it. . . but you won't, Emma. Neverland is a prison. A beautiful, seducing, alluring prison. . . but a prison nonetheless. And you shouldn't be caged again."

A frisson of freezing shock shot down her spine. "The hell you. . . Neverland?" As if it hadn't before, but this was seriously taking a turn for the fucking weird. There was no way he could know about that, much less that that was exactly where the shadow had been offering to take her. She struggled, but quite a bit less vehemently than before. "You're insane."

"Am I?" His hot breath on her ear, his face very close to hers. "Or am I the only one at all making any sense right now?"

That stumped her. She didn't have an answer – or rather she did, but it was one she much preferred not to give. It was a good thing it was still so early, that the college remained asleep; this must look quite a bit like a secret, passionate tryst. He didn't need to hold her so close, and she didn't need to let him, but somehow she couldn't summon up the willpower to break away altogether. He was strong, and extremely stubborn, and leaning her head against his chest despite all her intentions to the contrary, she could hear his heart thumping steadily beneath her ear. It was odd that just yesterday, she'd instructed him in no uncertain terms to get lost, but somehow he'd already found his way back to her. His interference might not be welcome, but it was a revelation to her that anyone would care enough to interfere at all. That even when she'd shoved him away, he'd returned, he'd. . .

Despite herself, she could feel the defiance draining out of her. His body was warm and comforting and solid, his arms still tight around her, and she felt anchored, harbored, safe, for the first time since she wasn't even going to attempt to think of when. Yes, he was an infuriating son of a bitch who didn't know when to quit, yes, he was almost certainly up to something, and yes, he had very recently been her professor before fleeing BC in all kinds of shady circumstances, but. . . after the pain of losing Henry, if he'd ever been real, if she hadn't dreamed him, if. . .

Slowly, shyly, scared, Emma moved closer. She could feel a fine tremor run through Killian as their noses touched, as their breath mingled in the cold, as his hand slid up her back to the nape of her neck, cradling her head beneath the tangled fall of hair. After all the preceding lunacy, she was completely out of excuses not to do anything. As if they were mesmerized, as if it mattered, as if it was the only real thing in the world, they closed the last few breaths of space between them and met halfway, his stubble scratching her face, but his mouth so desperately sweet.

Emma took in a sharp breath through her nose and turned her head, drawing him closer, her hand fisting in his dark hair; the green stone of the ring sparkled in the cold winter dawn. They kissed for a long and transcendent moment, in which time once more seemed to stand still. Her lips opened for his tongue, their mouths mused and met again, small gasps, sensations, and –

It ripped through her like steel, like a scream.

Memories.

Nothing complete, nothing whole, only partial, only piecemeal, jagged as broken glass, unbearable. She saw – she saw him – black leather jacket and cutting leer, saw him holding a sword on someone, a fucking sword – stealing her, kidnapping her – a blade, sharp lance of pain – that time late at night, running – a horrible knowledge of danger and darkness, of vengeance and violence and blood, a shadow receding from her, a man walking away from a girl in a hospital bed, that light she'd chased forever in her darkness only for it to go out –

Emma broke the kiss with something close to a shriek, shoving him away with both hands. "What are you – Jesus, what did you – get away from me!"

Killian stared at her, still stupefied and trying desperately to surface. "Emma – what – ?"

"I remember," she breathed. "Not all of it. But enough. You. You hurt me. You left me."

He flinched as if she'd struck him. "Look – I didn't – I wouldn't – "

"You're lying to me!" There could be no doubt. Her superpower was blazing in her chest at full roar, and she felt as if she could open her mouth and breathe fire, a dragon to burn all else away. "Don't you dare stand there and lie to my face! Don't you dare!"

Killian Jones reached for her desperately. "Lass – there's no excuse for it, but listen – I'm not proud of it, I won't go back, I can't – I was trying to protect – "

"I've heard that one a lot." She threw back her head and laughed, high and savagely. "A whole-fucking-lot. Get away from me. Get. Away."

He stood motionless, as stunned as if she'd swung a sandbag into him. She stumbled further away, not sure if he was going to attack her, hot tears scorching up her eyes, flooding into her throat. She turned her back on him and – like the original mother, like Eve, banished by her own sin, by the terrible fruit of knowledge – fled from the garden, never to return.

The rest of the Thanksgiving break passed in an utter blur. Emma and Wendy spent another day in Oxford, but Emma didn't remember a thing about where they went or who they saw. They took the train back to London and went shopping at Harrod's, whereupon Wendy wanted to buy her something, but Emma had no idea what that was either. She did not ask the Darling family about anything, speak a word about what had happened to her. She was out of tears. Out of breath. Out of caring.

They flew back to Boston on Saturday afternoon, so they could have Sunday to readjust and acclimate before starting classes again on Monday. That, at least, was the plan, but Emma found that here, as with everywhere else, her tolerance had hit its limit. She was done with this game. She needed to make a break.

When Jack called later that week, trying to reschedule the meeting with Tamara, Emma told her flatly that she wasn't interested. She wasn't going. She'd learned once and for all that chasing after the phantoms of her family was just a delusional waste of time, and she was sick of it. The lawyer protested, tried to persuade her, to get her to change her mind, but Emma Swan could be as stubborn as anybody when she applied herself to it. No. That was it. Case closed. Finito.

With this decision made, Emma knew it was time for another. She'd missed the deadline to start in January, but there was still plenty of time to put together a transfer application to Boston University and move there for the fall semester. Also, forget this whole useless idea of majoring in history. There was a criminal justice program at BU, and she intended to enroll. She wasn't sure how many of her credits would apply, but that didn't matter either. She needed to get off this godforsaken campus, she needed to get somewhere that nobody knew her, and start again. Clean slate. Yes please.

Wendy was not at all happy to hear of this plan. "Emma," she begged. "Please, just think about it. You can still repair your life here. You don't have to leave. I promise, things will start to get better. If you let people help you – "

"Who?" Emma removed a dart from the corkboard and threw it. "You? Yeah, I've done this song and dance before. I'm not going to be the charity-case poor kid. I'm just not. And maybe I'm sick of trying to fix things. BU is just across town, it's not like I'm going to Mongolia. You can visit me if you really have to. But there's pretty much no way I can stay here without going completely crazy, and I'd appreciate it if you would respect that. I don't need you anymore."

"You don't mean that," Wendy said softly. "Of course you do. I want – "

Emma whirled on her. "I don't care what you want, all right? I don't care what anybody wants. This is about the only reasonable thing I have available to do with my life, and I'm making this decision for me. I'm transferring to BU and that's the end of the story. Capisce?"

Wendy was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "You can still come with me to London for Christmas. We'd be happy to have you. You can – "

Emma laughed. "No. Definitely not. Definitely, definitely not. Thanks for everything, Wendy. Really. You've done your best, and that's a lot more than most people have done. But this is goodbye. So. . . goodbye."

Silence. Stretching between them. Huge and mountainous. She still had time to retreat, to cross this bridge, to apologize. But she didn't. She only walked on.

She could not look back.

Emma finished the winter semester at Boston College. She managed to ace her finals, a commendation for her transfer application, and got in touch with the academic advisors at Boston University to see if there was anything more she needed to do. Instead of going with Wendy to London, she spent Christmas break by herself, renting a room in a youth hostel downtown and sneaking into holiday parties at the big fancy hotels to steal food. She wandered the shopping district and the riverfront, looking at the lights and decorations. Once or twice, she got a kind-hearted individual to buy her a hot chocolate or a warm meal, people moved by the giving spirit and all that shit. It wasn't that bad. It was much better to be on her own rather than with people who knew nothing about you. She had always been good at it.

In fact, Emma decided, she couldn't face the prospect of actually going back to BC, when she had so thoroughly shut that door in her head. There was still the opportunity of finishing out the spring semester there before starting at BU in the fall, but she didn't think she would. Take some time off. Work. Maybe make a little money. Anything, at this point. She wasn't picky.

Emma spent New Year's Eve cleaning out her dorm room at BC, loading her worldly possessions into her crappy yellow Bug and making plans, once the holidays were over, to go reapply for her important papers – Social Security, driver's license, passport, ID card – in her real name. She figured she probably couldn't get away with a fake address and fake name much longer, and that way when she started at BU, there would be no more confusion about Emma Nolan, no more people who knew her as anything other than Emma Swan. If only she knew what the address would be. She'd been trolling the Roommates Wanted section on the Boston Craigslist, but hadn't found anything that was both in her price range and sounded like a place she could actually live – if they weren't wanting to her to put up with "occasional loud parties!" then they were slyly remarking that "there are other ways for u to pay ur rent. . .. Serious Inquiries Only." Yeah. No.

Guess it'll be the youth hostel for now. A Subway restaurant by the Prudential Center was hiring; she'd seen it on one of her long, rambling walks through downtown. If she could slash her expenses, keep on stealing food when she could, she could probably live on minimum wage until school started again. If not, she'd learned Boston pretty well by now, could find a warm place to crash a few nights, move on. In the back of the Bug if need be, so she definitely wouldn't freeze.

To her surprise, Emma was downright happy as she swept out her half of the room, took one last look around it, and shut the door, heading down to turn in her keys at the Student Housing office. The shadow hadn't visited her in her dreams again, she was shot of any painful and futile attempts to find her nonexistent parents, she'd get a new start at a new school with a new degree program, and no longer have to deal with people constantly mistaking her for someone she wasn't. That was how lost girls lived in this world. Not in Neverland. She was an idiot to have put any stock into that idea, that impossible dream, at all.

Now real life started. Now she woke up.

It was starting to sleet as Emma trotted down the steps, and she pulled her hood up and tightened her scarf, the car keys jingling in her mittened hand. She made for the parking lot, unlocked the Bug, and swung behind the wheel, turning the defrosters to high and setting the wipers to scrub at the already-accumulating layer of ice on the windshield. They'd set off fireworks as soon as it got dark, out over the Charles River. Happy new year to me.

She turned on her headlights, and reversed out. All her stuff in the backseat in boxes. Guess this was it, then. So it was over. She pulled through the Boston College campus gates, double-shifted into gear, and drove away, down the road to her new life. She did not once look back.