I think this is the longest one yet... but I have to admit that I had a blast writing it. Okay, I think there will ACTUALLY be two chapters after this one now; this turned out way longer than I expected (I feel like that should be the new title of this story).

Thank you for continuing to read, favourite, follow, and review.

Also, a millions thanks go to Trish Tavor!

The Past - 1827

By the time Killian lost Milah, he was well-acquainted with the grieving process. He'd felt every conceivable emotion that went with loss and could probably recite them in order. Even so, experiencing death was one thing that never became easier with practice. It was as if Killian's mind forgot what loss felt like until it happened again, with the forgetting somehow making the each death more painful than the last.

It reminded Killian of the first time he'd been tortured. Lord Alasdair hadn't been there himself, but he'd sent a man that Killian privately dubbed "the pain expert", who did none of the work but gave all of the orders.

"The first rule of torture is to always keep the element of surprise," he'd said, whether to Killian or his tormentor, Killian had never been sure. "If the pain becomes too regular, too patterned, then the victim gets used to it, which means that he can numb his mind and protect himself. But, if he never knows when the pain will come, he'll forget the sensation, and it will be much worse with each blow: mental and physical torture."

This death was the lash that came when Killian thought that the torture was over: the final, horrible surprise that broke every part of him. And, of course, there were the little stabs of pain that remained when the source was removed, perhaps even worse than the moment the blow hit.

When a loved one dies, Killian had discovered, it was actually the little things that broke you.

It wasn't watching Milah's body thrown into the ocean and swallowed by the waves. That still hadn't felt real. No, it was the little things that made you realize once and for all that, despite any denial you may be harbouring, you would never see your loved one again.

At first, he at least had a blessed distraction. If Killian had found losing his hand painful, having the wound cauterized was a million times worse. However, it allowed him to reach the blessed state of unconsciousness-

The Present

Emma found herself tripping over the ground once again, too focused on trying to figure out if she'd ever heard the word 'cauterized' before. Killian automatically reached out a hand to steady her, and she flashed him a grateful smile.

"What's that? 'Cauterized'?"

Killian shook his head in exasperation. "Bloody hell. Didn't they teach you anything at all in school?"

An irritated huff escaped Emma's lips. Was he saying that she was stupid? "I don't see how ship things and... whatever 'cauterized' is are useful in the real world."

He shot her a smirk, clearly ignoring her irritation. "I'm not certain that you can truly call your world 'the real world', love. This world is just as real as yours."

That thought made Emma's head spin. There was magic here, not to mention evil queens, crazy imps, castles, knights, and balls. That wasn't normal. Then again, she could see his point. His world was probably 'the real world' in his head, and hers was some weird one with jello, cars, and electricity.

Hook chuckled when he saw her expression, clearly realizing that he'd won that round.

"What is it?" Emma repeated, irritated now.

"It's when a wound is burned to prevent blood-loss and infection. Highly unpleasant, but necessary if you don't want to bleed to death."

Emma found herself staring at his arm in horror. "They burned it?" She shuddered, feeling thankful, not for the first time, that she had grown up with decent medical care.

Adjusting the woman on his shoulder, Killian nodded.

The Past

Killian woke up to find his arm throbbing and feeling strangely heavy. Despair filled him at the thought of his lost hand. It felt like an itch that he couldn't quite scratch; he wanted to move his fingers, but there was nothing there to move. He was a cripple now, just like beggars on the street. The thought of all of the formerly simple tasks that he would now have to struggle through made him feel sick.

Then, of course, he remembered Milah. He remembered watching the light leave her eyes, the sensation of her going limp in his arms. The pain of a lost limb was nothing compared to a lost love. He had to learn to survive without his hand and to fight the despair so that he could see justice served to her murderer.

In the end, using the hook that had plunged into Rumplestiltskin's chest to replace his hand was an easy decision. Every time he looked at it, it would remind him to keep fighting.

It also reminded him of everything that he'd lost. Being in Neverland, the place where he'd lost his brother, didn't help.

The first few days were the hardest. As painful as his lack of hand was, it was nothing compared to the painful loneliness that came from Milah's loss.

There were reminders of her everywhere. Her sketchbook was still lying open on the table, a half-finished drawing of his own face looking back at him. Killian slammed it shut and shoved it into a cupboard.

Every time he opened the wardrobe, he saw her clothes. They still smelled like her. Sometimes, he would take them out and hold them, just to smell her familiar scent before it faded. He also slept on her pillow rather than his own. He'd hated her pillow before; it was far too soft. Now, he burrowed his head into it as he tried, and generally failed, to sleep, the cries of the lost boys in Neverland reflecting his own anguish. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Milah's pale face. His bed felt cold and empty without her. He even missed her thrashing about. He'd gone from being unable to sleep in the same bed as her to not being able to sleep without her kicking him.

Sometimes, when he couldn't sleep, he'd recite her poetry to himself, if only because it made him feel closer to her.

Some of her hairs were on his pillow or tucked into the sheets. There were some on the floor too. Killian had never noticed how much hair Milah lost until he felt a pang in his heart every time he saw one.

It was incredible how many things hurt him. He couldn't eat strawberries anymore because they'd been her favourite fruit, although he still served them onto her empty plate on the day that he forgot that he only needed to set the table for one, now.

He found some of her poems lying around near the windows. Her messy scrawl flew across the pages of finished or half-finished poems. He started to shake as he looked at them. Grief was quickly replaced by anger. Who did that woman think she was, begging him to let her run away with him and then leaving him alone? How was that a fair exchange? She'd wormed her way into his life and left him to pick up the pieces.

Before Killian knew what he was doing, he was ripping the pages up and watching the pieces flutter to the floor. Even that was difficult with one hand; he had to stab the pages with his hook and yank them apart. They fluttered to the ground like snow, broken words collecting at his feet. When every last bit of paper was on the floor, Killian looked at his shaking hand and felt tears sting his eyes.

Slowly, he dropped to his knees and sifted through the shreds of paper. It was stupid to be upset; he'd been the one to rip them up after all. Still, the satisfaction that came from destroying something was short-lived, and now he was left with the realization that he'd destroyed a part of Milah.

He tried to remind himself that he still had other poems by her, but they did little to stop his surge of emotion. Maybe he could sort through them, arrange them so that they were more or less back together, and be able to read them again. Even as the idea came into his head, he knew it was pointless.

Instead, Killian gathered the ripped pieces into his arms and sobbed.

Then, there was the day he saw his violin. He was throwing yet another object that reminded him of Milah into a cupboard, only for his violin to fall out. Killian caught it just in time, so that only the base of the instrument lightly hit the floor. A quick scan of the instrument revealed that it was undamaged, much to his relief.

It was at that point that he remembered that he couldn't play it anymore. There was really no point having it in good condition or even having it at all. It was just one more thing that had been taken from him.

Throughout everything that had happened in his life, one thing had been constant; Killian had always been able able to turn to music for relief. Even if he was too upset, he would always come back to his violin like a penitent lover and stroke her strings once again. Now, he couldn't even do that.

Killian would have snapped it in half in his anger, but, of course, he really needed two hands for that.

That realization had him leaning against his bed as he laughed hysterically. He couldn't even destroy a bloody instrument. Instead, he lifted his hook to chip away at it; that may be more satisfying anyway.

However, he paused just before he struck. The polished wood gleamed in the candlelight, and Killian found himself transported back to various times in his life: his mother's hand over his own as she tried to teach him to guide the bow more smoothly, the way Lyanna's eyes would flutter shut as he played a lullaby, sitting on a rooftop with Liam and listening to his own music soar through the night air, Milah's hair flying into her smiling face as she danced along to a lively fiddling tune.

He had dragged the damn instrument around from the top of the kingdom to the bottom. Was he really going to let Rumplestiltskin take one more thing from him?

He plucked at a string with his finger, listening to the instrument's familiar sound, his bottom lip quivering along with the string. He could feel his left hand itching for the bow, even if it was no longer there. If there was a way to play his violin again, he would find it.

He spoke to the pirate - a former blacksmith - who had created the brace for his hook.

That night, he hesitantly drew his attached bow across the strings. He knew that he would miss the ability to use his wrist, but this was far better than never playing again.

The song started out shakily for the first few minutes as Killian got used to this new way of playing. He knew that he wouldn't be able to play anything too virtuosic for a while. However, he didn't need to. Instead, he let his arm guide him through a heartfelt farewell that even hushed the cries of the lost boys. The music spread through the ship and out into the ocean, a lone spark in the Neverland night.

The Present

Killian had stopped speaking. For once, Emma couldn't quite figure out why. She couldn't see his face well with the noonday sun shining into her eyes, having momentarily reached the end of the forest for some farmlands.

In the end, she asked the first thing that she could think of. "Do you need a break?"

A pang of guilt went through Emma - she'd been having far too many of those lately, she thought ruefully - as she remembered that Killian had been monologuing throughout a long trek with the weight of an extra person on his back and a fairly recent injury.

He bit his lip, hesitating. "Not really. The sooner we get there, the better."

Emma shot him a skeptical look, seeing through the half-lie instantly.

He relented with a sheepish smile. "...Although I wouldn't mind if you passed me my flask. We can drink while we walk."

After a moment, Emma determined that he was, in fact, thirsty, and not just looking for an excuse to get her hands... well...

Now that they were out of the forest and into open fields where they could see anyone coming easily, Emma had finally convinced Killian to shift the woman to his other shoulder. She had taken the victory cheerfully, but that meant that she couldn't tell him to get his damn flask himself, now. She had also seen the way he winced when he moved his load, which made Emma suspect that his cut was bothering him and had maybe even reopened. The stupid pirate had still refused to let Emma carry their captive, and she didn't want to play tug-of-war with an unconscious woman, so she'd had to accept it.

All the same, she pulled the flask off his belt very quickly.

"Thanks, love." He flashed her a smile, not even tossing an innuendo her way. She was impressed and also concerned; he must really be tired. She caught herself watching him drink and looked away, only looking at him again when she realized that he was offering the flask to her.

She hadn't realized just how thirsty she was until she drank. It was with great difficulty that she stopped after a few gulps, but it was necessary. Emma didn't really want to stagger into Rumplestiltskin's castle.

"What happened to Owen?" She asked, wiping her mouth. "Did he die in Neverland? Or did you demote him?"

Hook's eyes were suddenly drawn to his feet. "He left."

Emma's surprise must have shown on her face, because Killian was quick to offer an explanation.

"No, Swan, I didn't kill him. Perhaps I should have, but I did have some honour. I had locked him up for nothing, which meant that I owed him a debt."

Shaking her head, Emma quickly clarified, "I wasn't surprised about that, actually. I was surprised that he left at all." In truth, she hadn't even thought of the possibility of Killian killing Owen. It was probably naive of her, but she supposed that she had been letting her views of Killian now cloud her views of Killian in the past.

"He claimed that I'd changed beyond recognition, that Killian Jones no longer existed underneath Captain Hook." He shook his head, adding quietly. "He was probably right.

"Revenge wasn't for Owen; I always thought that he was far too soft-hearted to be a pirate. In hindsight, I'm surprised that he stayed as long as he did. The man was too loyal for his own good."

Despite the blow this must have been, Killian still spoke of his friend with a wistful fondness. She wondered how long it had been since he'd forgiven his friend; she had some difficulty imagining the man she had originally met feeling the way he felt now. Once again, she felt a surge of pride on his behalf.

"And your niece? You said that you met her later."

The pirate's eyes suddenly sparkled with laughter. "Aye."

The Past - 1943

Killian couldn't help the sigh of relief that escaped when he saw the Adler residence. Despite being in the city, it had a large fence and gate around a beautiful stone house. The grounds were well-maintained, complete with flowers and cherry trees. He could easily imagine a child playing in that garden, weaving flower crowns or climbing trees. The fact that his niece hadn't grown up in a hovel already comforted him.

The servant at the gate let him in with a small bow of respect. For a moment, Killian panicked. What was he supposed to do? Bless the man?

"Thank you, child," he said, offering what he hoped was a kind, fatherly smile. "The Lord blesses you for your service."

Fortunately, the servant didn't seem to notice anything amiss. So far, so good. Killian had to remind himself not to fidget in his ill-fitting disguise. It didn't help that the robe was almost like a dress; as someone accustomed to pants, Killian felt very uncomfortable. Why on earth would someone who was supposed to be celibate wear a dress, anyway? Wouldn't it be that much easier to not be celibate?

The servant led him into the house, which was as beautiful inside as it was outside. Killian could hear a woman singing, a mezzo-soprano with a voice like melted dark chocolate, a delicacy with an unforgettable taste and texture that Killian had enjoyed once on his travels. A chill ran through him as he wondered whether the singer was his niece. Likely not; she sounded far too cheerful. It must be a traveling minstrel there to comfort the family.

He was led into a sitting room with a crystal chandelier. The sun streaming through the lace curtains made rainbows bounce off of the walls, giving the room an almost ethereal look. Killian was just about to sink into a very comfortable-looking chair to wait when a woman swept into the room.

Mistress Adler's face was blotchy and red as her hair, which created a stark contrast to her black velvet dress and pearls. While she appeared to be middle-aged, she was wearing ridiculously high heels and a corset that was at least several sizes too small, showing her wrinkled breasts in a way that left very little to the imagination. Brightly coloured make-up had been applied to her face in excess, but half of it had dripped down her face from tears. If anything, Killian imagined that it was an improvement from a freshly done face, which he imagined would make her look as though she was a minstrel herself. In short, she had the appearance of a woman who had been beautiful in her youth and never quite figured out how to adjust her appearance to suit her age.

The second she saw Killian, she started bawling and wringing her hands. To his surprise, she dropped to kneel at his feet. Killian had to forcibly remind himself not to back away.

"Oh, father, I'm so glad that you're here," she sniffed.

Killian nodded seriously, offering a hand to help her to her feet. "Of course, daughter. God would not wish me to abandon a faithful family in their time of need."

The Present

Emma could no longer hold in her laughter.

"A priest? You?"

Killian smirked. "I'll have you know that I made an excellent priest. Only one person ever caught on, and I used that disguise more than once."

The Past

"Mycroft's death has been hard enough, and now this! I'm certain that Irene-"

The Present

Emma was so surprised that she stopped walking. "Wait. Hold on. Irene Adler is your niece?!"

Few happy memories came to mind when Emma thought of her childhood, but she did fondly remember hours spent reading Conan Doyle's stories about Sherlock Holmes.

Her surprise was mirrored by Killian. "You've heard of her? How?"

If she didn't know better, Emma would have said that he sounded somewhat hopeful.

"She's kind of famous for being the only person to outsmart Sherlock Holmes," Emma explained, wondering if Killian had known him too.

He looked at her strangely, so taken aback that it was almost comical.

"What?" She asked, starting to walk again.

Killian followed her with a grin. "All in good time, love."

The Past

"...I'm certain that Irene is possessed by a demon. You must cast it out!"

Rather than getting up, Mistress Adler was now tugging at his robe, which Killian was worried might rip. The man he had stolen it from that morning had been considerably smaller. He barely resisted the urge to yank the robe away, instead taking her hand gently in his own and forcibly pulling her to feet this time.

"My dear lady, there is no need for your distress. God will provide a solution to your problem if it is His will, and I shall happily be the vessel. What are the symptoms of this possession?"

Killian was quite proud of this speech. He thought it sounded quite convincing considering he knew next to nothing about religion, and, evidently, so did Mistress Adler.

She ran a hand through her hair, making it even messier. "She told me to my face that she's happy that Mycroft is dead. She refuses to obey me and scares away all of her suitors. Twenty-one and still unmarried! She keeps demanding to go to university. A young woman! Can you imagine? Where did she get these ideas?"

Schooling his expression into one of sympathy, Killian secretly rejoiced. His niece sounded like a formidable woman with a mind of her own. Certainly, parts of this description were disturbing, but Killian prayed-

The Present

Emma snorted.

The Past

-that Mistress Adler had been exaggerating.

After some more complaining, Killian led the woman through a prayer that he made up on the spot like everything else.

When he finished, Mistress Adler was looking at him oddly.

"Is there something troubling you, daughter?" Killian felt some worry bubble up. Perhaps he could knock out the blasted woman and make it to Irene. He could pretend that she fainted-

"I've never heard a prayer start with 'greetings, God"," Mistress Adler said, blushing slightly.

The Present

"Come on. Even I know not to do that, and I've never been to church in my life!" Emma teased.

Killian shrugged. "I covered it up well. In my defence, I was praying under pressure."

The Past

Killian looked severely at the poor woman, shaking his head. "It is not for you to question a man of God, daughter. God Himself came to me in a vision and instructed me to pray this way."

The Present

By this point, Emma was almost choking with laughter. "And she bought that?"

"Let us say that intelligence was not one of her assets," Killian said.

The Past

After listening to the woman apologize profusely for some time, Killian raised a hand to stop her, growing annoyed once again with her blubbering. "Enough, child. God forgives you."

Finally, Killian was able to get Mistress Adler to take him to his niece. His heart was pounding as they approached a large wooden door. The singing was much louder here, and Mistress Adler only seemed distressed by this.

"Do you hear that, father? She's singing a frivolous song about promiscuity when her brother is dead," the woman sniffed.

Killian recognized the aria, in fact. His mother had sung the soprano role in that particular opera more than once.

"...Se nel tuo petto ei suedem

S'egli ti becca quì,

Fa tutto quel ch'ei chiede

Che anch'io farò così."*

Killian was impressed, but the song also generated a stab of sadness. His mother would be so proud. Liam would be so proud.

"I should warn you. She'll likely be very resistant to your attempts to help," Mistress Adler said. "I just wasn't sure what else to do."

She wrung her hands again, turning to Killian with fresh tears in hers. "You will be able to help, won't you?"

Killian's response was automatic. "Aye."

As soon as the word was out of his mouth, he panicked. "Men! Amen! Yes, I shall!" He held out his arms for emphasis.

Mistress Adler looked taken aback for a moment, but then she offered him a timid smile. Killian wished she would just get on with it and let him finally see Liam's child. His heart was pounding at the prospect of finally meeting his one remaining family member. He didn't care if she insulted him for the entire time that he was there so long as he could meet her.

The singing stopped as soon as the door opened. A young woman turned towards them, eyes narrowed. They surveyed him from top to bottom in a way that was startling and not entirely socially appropriate. What was really shocking, though, was the fact that she did it so coldly. If not for the entire lack of emotion in her eyes, Killian might have thought that she was checking him out.

The Present

His use of the modern phrase took Emma aback. "Checking you out? Where did you hear that?"

Killian considered. "Hmm. I believe I heard that wench who worked at the diner use it. It wasn't a great leap to figure out what it meant given the context."

Once again, Emma was impressed. Based on Killian's pleased expression, he could tell.

The Past

For his part, Killian could only stare at Irene in awe. How she was unmarried by the age of twenty-one, Killian had no idea. She wasn't conventionally beautiful by any means, but there was something about her that was undeniably alluring. She had a long neck, high cheekbones, and a sharp nose that was reminiscent of a bird of prey's beak, but it was her intelligent eyes under heavy-set brows that first grabbed Killian's attention. Tall, lithe, and dressed in delicate red silk, she appeared regal and imposing. It wasn't difficult to believe that she was a descendant of royalty.

"Irene, this is-"

Irene turned to Mistress Adler, eyes cold. "You needn't have bothered. Nothing could possibly entice me to regret Mycroft's death. Frankly, I'm appalled that you're this upset when his impending death was foreseeable to anyone with an ounce of logic. He was arrogant beyond belief and had a terrible temper. It was inevitable that he'd duel with someone, and his duelling skills were abysmal."

Face crumpling, Mistress Adler turned to Killian. "You understand now? This is clearly beyond mortal help. I'm at my wits end!"

Irene dropped onto the couch, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes. "Impossible. To be at your wits end, you would need to have wits in the first place."

Killian flinched, fully expecting Mistress Adler to start grabbing at him in her hysterics again. He wasn't sure that his priestly garments could survive another assault. Just to do something that would make him look busy, Killian crossed himself again.

"Devilry," he said solemnly. "Fortunately, the Lord makes me certain that I can help."

"Thank you," Mistress Adler said, crying more noisily, moving towards him.

"God tells me that you must leave us alone now, if you wish to achieve the best divine results," Killian said as quickly as he could while retaining his priestly dignity.

Mistress Adler nodded and fled the room.

Irene didn't speak until Mistress Adler's footsteps had faded away down the hall, but she did stare at Killian with her startlingly blue eyes, much like his own, face unreadable. Eventually, she leaned back on the couch again, a smirk on her face. Killian opened his mouth to speak, but Irene interrupted him before he could make a sound.

"Oh, please. Don't bother. You're clearly not a priest. Brother or uncle?"

Whatever Killian had expected her to say, it certainly wasn't that. For a moment, he was too shocked to respond. He felt as though he'd somehow missed a part of the conversation, as though he'd blinked and somehow traveled into the future.

Much to his confusion, Irene showed no fear or anger, much less any inclination to start shouting for help. She just continued to stare at him unblinkingly, head cocked to the side.

When he didn't respond, she sighed dramatically.

"Your face is tanned, and we haven't had much sun here, so you spend a lot of time abroad and in the sun, not in a church. Your hand is covered by a glove, likely to hide calluses from using a sword or tan lines from rings-"

Killian raised an eyebrow when his brain finally caught up. "Hand?"

Irene shot him an irritated look. "Your left hand is too stiff to be real, and eyeliner is hard to wash off. You also have a hole in your ear for an earring. What sort of priest wears eyeliner or earrings? A reformed one who doesn't wash, perhaps, but it's unlikely that all of this would occur in combination, especially with the tattoo and ill-fitting robe."

She spoke so quickly that Killian was barely able to process what she was saying. However, at the word tattoo, Killian glanced at his right wrist nervously. This only confused him further; his wrist was clearly covered by his robe.

Following his gaze, Irene paused for breath and then continued at the same pace, a manic glint in her eyes. "I saw it when you crossed yourself. I didn't see what it looked like, but I saw enough to see that it was a tattoo. A monk may not have clothes that fit well, since no one cares about them, but everyone knows that priests are corrupt and vain - and usually from the nobility, who are more or less the same - which would mean that you would never accept a robe that looked like that. Then there's the scar on your cheek."

Irene tilted her head, eyebrows furrowed. "Actually, your whole face. First, the scar-"

"Lots of people have scars," he countered.

She continued as though he hadn't said a word. "It could be a scar from childhood or some traumatic event, especially since it's an old scar, but it more likely points to a violent lifestyle in combination with the other facts.

"You're also attractive. Most people wouldn't give a good-looking child to the church, and most good-looking men wouldn't swear to be abstinent unless they had no hope of marriage or intercourse; paying for such things is hardly good for the ego, which a priest would have in abundance."

Her description of the church and its personnel amused Killian, having never been particularly religious himself unless it suited him.

Irene leaned forward, lips quirking to the side as she thought. "In fact, I'm not even sure they'd let you into a church at all; you're devilishly handsome. They'd think you sold your soul."

The Present

Emma turned to Killian in amazement. "Hold on. You got that phrase from your niece?"

Killian shot her a smile that could only be described as sinful, as if to prove the 'devilishly handsome' description true. "She certainly knew how to observe, didn't she, love?"

Her lips quirked.

The Past

As interesting as this was, Killian wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to admit his identity. It wasn't too late for Irene to call for help, after all.

"Perhaps I'm a reformed, devout man," Killian suggested, casually leaning against the intricately painted, expensive-looking wall.

Irene shot him a look that could have peeled that paint off of the walls. "No. Who would choose a priest's lifestyle willingly? No one would live in semi-squalor and abstinence if he had the choice."

Killian had to bite his tongue to keep from agreeing with her.

"Anyhow, a reformed pirate who is so reformed that he becomes a priest - and a priest devoid of vanity - is extremely unlikely, but the corrupt system of appointment in which a former criminal could never rise past monk makes it impossible. That means that you're a pirate dressing up as priest. So, are you my brother or my uncle?"

His niece turned to him expectantly, pale face slightly flushed now.

Again, Killian felt as though he'd missed something important. "What makes you think we're related?"

Irene drummed her fingers forcefully against the arm of the sofa, a scowl fixed onto her face.

The longer Killian was with her, the more mixed his feelings became. This was Liam's daughter and his niece, yes, but he was finding it difficult to find anything in Irene that remotely reminded him of Liam. Perhaps her stubbornness and all-knowing air were characteristics that Liam had at points, but, overall, her emotionless observations and generally frigid demeanour reminded him uncomfortably of Giselle. He could easily picture Irene plotting the deaths of various people for her own advantage. The only difference was that he doubted that his niece would feel any remorse at all.

"I had hoped that a relative of mine would be able to keep up with my genius," Irene muttered, looking up at her uncle with some resentment. "It's self-evident that we're related. I considered the fact that you might be a pirate trying to kidnap me for ransom, but you knew that a priest had been sent for, which means that you knew some information about me before you came. You've probably been watching us for some time."

She leapt off of the couch and began to pace, practically vibrating with energy.

"If so, you likely know that my parents-" she said the word so disdainfully that Killian began to wonder if she knew that he was adopted, "-would be unlikely to pay a ransom for me."

Once again, Killian was shocked by the utter lack of emotion Irene showed as she said this. Wasn't it normal to be torn up by the knowledge that your parents, even adopted ones, didn't love you enough to save you? He felt a surge of anger towards the Adlers.

Oblivious, Irene was still speaking. "Besides, there are much better people to target, and, as a pirate - even a disguised one - you're taking a risk by being in the capital. I'm sure there's a price on your head, so there must be an important reason that you're here. My first thought was father, but I doubt it. My mother spoke fondly of my father, so he wouldn't have killed her."

Killian's blood froze, and he was suddenly very thankful that he was leaning against the wall. "Killed her?" He swallowed hard. "But your mother was just here."

Irene fixed Killian with a stern look that made him feel considerably younger than he'd felt since childhood. "I already know everything important about you, so there's no reason to lie. There has to be a reason that you didn't come see me before-"

Guilt surged through Killian. It was an emotion that he hadn't felt for a while, and it surprised him with its intensity. If Irene noticed a change in his countenance, she didn't mention it. Based on her attitude so far, Killian wondered if it even bothered her. Perhaps he shouldn't feel guilty at all.

Then again, perhaps this should make him feel worse. Maybe if she'd had a parental figure who loved her, then she would be a different person entirely.

Killian knew in his heart that he couldn't have come sooner, not really. He was a pirate who also happened to be the enemy of the most evil creature in any world. Even if he disregarded that, misfortune had changed him into someone truly unfit to care for a young child. A grieving, vengeful pirate couldn't take in a little girl. He'd already tried to take in Baelfire; if that experience had taught him anything, it was that being a father was not in the cards for him. Besides, Peter Pan and his followers had hardly increased his fondness for children.

As if sensing that he was no longer listening, Irene was walking directly towards him, glaring. "As far as I know, the only people who knew the identity of my real parents were my mother and my adopted family. Of course I figured out my mother's identity. She didn't seem like a particularly warm person and, while she and my adopted mother were clearly friends, they were also clearly distant ones. Whenever my mother came, she barely talked to Mistress Adler. Her fixation on me when she clearly had little patience for children and people in general, the safety risks she took coming out in public as the king's advisor, a few physical similarities... obvious."

By this point, she was only a few feet away. From this distance, Killian could see that she was an inch or so taller than him. He tried not to let the realization hurt his pride, but it was difficult, especially with her deconstructing him in such a way.

"Then, of course, she was murdered in a jail identifying a criminal," Irene continued. Killian was shocked that she hadn't collapsed from lack of breath yet. "You, I presume, since you're a pirate. It seems unlikely that you're my father. If you were my father and knew about me, you would have visited just like my mother, or else still be together with her. My adopted mother would gossip about some officer my real mother loved, and if she loved him, she would have told him that I existed. No, he was likely dead."

Irene looked at him closely, gauging his reaction. "Definitely dead," she concluded.

Her nonchalance about the matter hurt, as much as Killian would like to pretend that it didn't. He wanted to tell Irene about Liam. It wasn't fair to be angry with her when she didn't realize what she had lost. That, Killian thought, was the real tragedy. She had never met Liam; she didn't know that he would have been the best father that she could hope for. She couldn't know the grief that tore Killian apart whenever he thought of his brother. Then again, he was afraid that he would tell her and she wouldn't care.

"Also, if you were my father and you killed my mother over keeping me a secret, then you would have come to find me sooner. You're not my father then. Which, based on your age, leaves me with a young uncle or older brother. Clearly a relative; we have the same eyes and nose. It could be chance, but I don't believe in chance."

Killian shook his head in amazement. She'd had, what, thirty seconds to figure all of this out?

Irene nodded. "And you're looking impressed. If you weren't a relative, you would be angry or scared, but you're proud. Clearly close with one of my parents, presumably my father if you killed my mother. Why? If you're my brother, perhaps for abandoning you and then identifying you in prison. Identifying you, presumably for execution, could be motivation for an uncle too."

Opening his mouth, Killian was silenced once again by a glare.

"No, don't tell me," she ordered, before continuing, eyes darting about in thought. "As an uncle, you and my mother must not have gotten along, so she may have kept me a secret, providing you with a reason to kill her. That may not have been enough, though. Maybe she wronged you in some other way. Perhaps you blame her for my father's death.

"Regardless, your piracy and guilt likely kept you away from me. I would say that you were definitely my uncle, but I assume that's quite an age gap. Perhaps you're older than you look-"

You have no idea, Killian thought to himself.

"-why would my mother identify you as my brother, though? Perhaps you had a falling out, or perhaps they figured out your identity..."

Killian shook his head. "My identity?"

"Yes, the most important part." She bounced a little on her feet, looking like a child on her birthday. "Why didn't my mother claim me as hers? Possibly because she was unmarried when she was pregnant, but she clearly cared for me, which makes me think that she might have kept me if possible-"

That idea had never occurred to Killian before. Then again, he'd never wanted to look very deeply at Giselle and her motives; it was easier to just think of her as evil.

"-which makes me think that my father may have been killed for a reason, and you may be targeted by the king for a reason beyond piracy. You can't always have been a pirate, if you were close with my father. A naval officer and pirate, close? It's a conflict of interest: not possible. So, what fits with all of these facts? Our family is a threat to the crown on my father's side somehow. So... brother or uncle?"

By this point, Irene was slightly breathless, but her eyes were flashing triumphantly. Just then, Killian became aware of his open mouth and promptly closed it.

"Bloody hell. That was impressive."

"I know." Irene ran a hand absently through her chestnut hair.

Killian raised an eyebrow. "Not very modest, are we?"

That observation was met with a disdainful snort. "I have nothing to be modest about. I'm about a hundred times more clever than every person I know."

Not entirely knowing how to respond to such a statement, Killian quickly changed the subject. "If you knew I was a pirate, why didn't you give me away?"

Irene collapsed back on the couch with a groan. "Because you were no danger to me, and you were interesting. You still haven't answered my question! I also want to know why the crown hates us."

Killian launched into a quick explanation that left Irene totally unruffled, as though she had expected every word. She would nod occasionally or cut in to finish his sentence in an obnoxious way that would annoy Killian if this wasn't Liam's daughter. He even told her about Neverland, which caused some annoyance in his niece ("I can't believe I didn't consider that. But it hardly seems fair, does it? It's not a usual solution; most would call it impossible.").

Once he finished, Irene nodded once and flapped her hand towards the door. "Thank you for the diversion. I'm done with you; you can leave now."

Clearly, she expected to be obeyed. She had adjusted herself so that she was sprawled over the entirety of the couch, already lost in thought.

Surprised, Killian felt his temper flare. He was a pirate captain, and one who had gone to enormous trouble to find her. He wasn't someone to be dismissed like a servant. "No. Now, I have some questions."

Irene opened her eyes to shoot him a glare, unperturbed by his slightly menacing tone. "Make it quick. I have an experiment upstairs that could potentially cause some damage if left unattended. And I'll only respond if they're interesting."

After a moment of consideration, Killian decided that he didn't want to know about that experiment, although he was now slightly concerned that the house might collapse on his head.

Taking a deep breath, Killian prepared to ask the most difficult question: "Are you angry at me for killing your mother?"

Killian hadn't gotten the sense that she was, but he found his niece to be a difficult person to read. However, in this case, it seemed as though he had succeeded.

"No. She was clearly stupid if she allowed you to kill her. In fact, I should probably thank you; her death gave me more time to read and experiment. Next question."

Killian couldn't help but feel slightly disturbed by this revelation, even if it worked out well for him.

He took a deep breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose, reconsidering this next question for the millionth time in the past hour. He couldn't believe he was actually asking this.

"Would you like to come live with-"

Her response was so quick that it cut him off mid-question. "No. Dull."

Killian blinked, reminding himself that it was probably for the best. Still, part of him couldn't help but be a bit miffed. Although Killian didn't pray to God, he did take that opportunity to pray to Liam for the strength to resist the urge to wring Irene's neck.

"Well, I'd like to help you in some way," he said.

"Don't try to buy my affection. It won't work." She glanced at him. "It's nothing personal; I don't like anyone."

This is Liam's daughter, Killian reminded himself to keep from losing his temper. She's half Liam. "I hear you're interested in university."

Irene rolled her eyes. "They don't let girls in. They won't make an exception for me, even though I snuck in and proved I was smarter than the whole lot of them."

Killian could imagine how well that went.

"I'm dressed as a priest-"

"Terrible disguise, by the way. I'm shocked that you're not in prison. You're fortunate that everyone else is as unintelligent as you."

Gritting his teeth, Killian took a few deep breaths to delve even more deeply into his admittedly drained well of patience. "That can work to your advantage, too. You're a mezzo-soprano and a good one. I have trouble believing that you haven't performed before."

"Well done. You've observed something so obvious that it could be written across my face-"

"You must have done pants roles before."

Irene's eyes flickered with interest as she realized where he was going with this. "Yes, of course. But they won't let me in without some proof of identity, no matter how convincing I am as a man."

It was exciting to be a step ahead of his niece for once. Killian couldn't help the grin that slowly spread across his face. "It's lucky for you, then, that I know some wonderful forgers. All you have to do is pick a name."

For the first time, Irene looked happy. Before she had looked happy in a manic way, but this looked genuine. For a moment, she looked almost normal.

"Holmes was my grandmother's maiden name-"

Killian almost interrupted to correct her. Then he realized that she was talking about her other grandmother, someone who Killian had never given any thought to before.

"-and I always thought that if I reproduced-"

He only barely succeeded at hiding his laugh with a cough.

"-that I would name my son Sherlock."

The Present

"No way," Emma muttered.

*English: "If in your breast he [love] settles,

if he pecks you here

Do all that he commands,

as also I will do thus."

- Translation by Sally Mouzon. The aria is "È amore ladroncello" from Mozart's Così fan Tutte.