Rumplestiltskin stood outside his son's bedroom, uncertain whether he should go in or not. He might still be sleeping. Or he might be sitting awake in bed, terrified at the changes that had attacked his life yesterday. He hadn't wanted to frighten him. Belle. He'd wanted to frighten Belle, to terrify her so she would be more than ready to let him take the boy.

But, with her or without her, the request had to be made in open court, the terms and reasons explained. Lord Maurice's court was waking up to a world three centuries removed from the one they knew. The nobleman had felt some explanation was in order. It hadn't seemed an unreasonable request when Rumplestiltskin agreed to it, not until he saw the guards dragging a small boy into the room, his eyes full of fear.

Rumplestiltskin looked at the door. He decided to compromise. Taking a deep breath, he knocked. There, that was done.

He could imagine Bae waking up. He would look around the room in confusion, not remembering where he was or how he had gotten there. Then, he would remember what had happened yesterday. He would look around and see—

"Mama?" Bae's voice called out, sounding small and lost. "Mama, where are you?"

Memory came flooding back to Rumplestiltskin. He had come as close to running as his ruined leg would allow since he saw the village over the rise that morning. The places where his bones had been broken felt as if knives were stabbing through them while the muscles around them were on fire, but he didn't care. He didn't see the faces staring at him as he made his hobbling race through the village, not till he reached the door of his home and threw it open only to see—

Dust. He remembered not understanding. Belle was a careful housekeeper. She never allowed dust to pile up, the way it had on the table in the center of the room and on his spinning wheel—and on the small cradle carefully placed beside their bed.

He'd seen, but he hadn't understood.

"Belle?" Rumplestiltskin called. "Belle, where are you?"

"She's gone." Rumplestiltskin would never forget the gloating sound in Hordor's voice. "She's left you, Rumplestiltskin. Women don't like to be married to cowards. . . ."

Rumplestiltskin swallowed, banishing the memory. Cautiously, he opened the door a few inches and looked in. There was Bae, sitting up in bed, a small blanket tightly clenched in his hands (Belle's work, Rumplestiltskin thought, then shoved it aside. He didn't need to think about Belle). Bae looked at his father in fear.

"Your mama's already up," Rumplestiltskin told him, trying to sound bright and pleasant. "She's fixed us breakfast and laid it in the great hall. Would you like to come and eat? Before it gets cold?"

Bae nodded uncertainly. Rumplestiltskin entered the room. Bae, he thought, was like a frightened sheep. When a frightened sheep had half decided you were a wolf getting ready to grab it in you jaws, the last thing you wanted to do was convince it all the way and send it running. Instead of coming straight at Bae, he walked to the side of the room, giving the child plenty of room if wanted to jump and flee. It wasn't that Rumplestiltskin expected him to jump and flee. But, whether he understood it or not, Bae wouldn't feel cornered and trapped.

He found the bathrobe and slippers he'd given Bae last night. He picked them up and put them on the corner end of the bed before backing away again—but not looking as though he were backing away. That would make it too obvious he was trying not to frighten the boy, which would either let the boy think he was in charge (always a headache for an adult) or unnerve him because the grownup was the one acting frightened. Centuries of negotiations had given Rumplestiltskin a razor-edged appreciation for nuance.

"There you go," he said, smiling in the reassuring way of a grownup who understands all the reasons a child might have to be afraid but who knows everything is all right—really all right. He also kept his voice pleasant and gentle.

Bae, still skittish, grabbed the robe and slippers, keeping his eyes on Rumplestiltskin the whole time. But, he followed him into the hallway and, after a moment, let Rumplestiltskin take his hand.

Belle had done what he'd ordered. Two places were neatly set, even though there was only one chair (chagrined, Rumplestiltskin quickly conjured another). It smelled delicious. Rumplestiltskin doubted Belle had had to cook a meal for herself since leaving him. He'd half-expected to find burnt porridge and the charcoaled remains of toast, but this looked wonderful. But, that wasn't what had caught his attention.

Belle had made eggs in the basket. His favorite.

She couldn't know who he was, he told himself. And, if she did, she'd hardly choose this way to tell him. The curse had altered him, given him scales and lizard eyes. His teeth were brown fangs and his hands had matching claws. Before making his deal with Maurice, he'd altered his appearance even more, turning his scales as rough and pebbly as a crocodile's, distorting his face and voice. When he didn't sound like a mad imp, his voice was rougher and deeper than the one Belle would remember. She couldn't have known him . . . could she?

But, Bae answered the question as his eyes lit up. "Eggs in the basket! My favorite!"

The fear—if it had been fear—melted away. Bae's favorite. Of course. Like father, like son.

But, Rumplestiltskin felt uneasy all the same. As Bae wolfed down his food in the way only a growing boy could, he looked down at his food. For the first time in three hundred years, he no longer knew what he was getting into.

X

Tying linen bandages around her own hands wasn't an easy task, but Belle managed it. She was exhausted by the time she made her way back up the stairs to the rooms the Dark One had given them. Her hands burned and ached. They were blistered from scrubbing stones and hauling water—the buckets in for the Dark One's well were three times the size of the ones Belle remembered from back home, and it had been years since she had had to do anything that would raise a callus on her hands.

Now, besides the blisters, she also had dozens of small cuts from pounding and separating the strands of wasp nettles. The fibers had a tendency to snap loose and slash back, like a violin string pulled too tight. If violin strings were coated with sap that made your hand burn and swell.

Well, the Dark One had made it clear he was trying to drive her out. She just wouldn't let him. He was cruel but, really, they were such petty cruelties. So far.

Belle remembered some of the punishments Jones had meted out to her and his crew. She remembered the bloodied remains of a man Jones had keelhauled. He'd lived for two days. She wondered what a wizard could do to someone who displeased him. Things worse than keelhauling, she supposed.

Belle reminded him of someone he hated. She understood that. She even understood why. A woman who sold herself, who went from one lover to the next, she deserved to be loathed even by the men who used her (as Jones had pointed out often enough). A choice had been given her—not much of a choice, but a choice all the same—and she'd taken it.

Belle remembered a part of her had hoped, when Lord Maurice had taken her from Jones' ship, that the lord of the Marchlands would go a step farther and punish the captain for what he'd done. Maurice let her know how petty and vain that was. Jones was a captain in good standing in the king's navy. He had done nothing dishonorable except in not recognizing Belle was better born than she appeared—and he could hardly be blamed for that, could he? Not when Belle herself acted like nothing more than a commoner. She had even (it was the horror Maurice could never get past) bedded down with a dirt poor peasant, smelling of dung, and born his brat.

And preferred that peasant to an officer and a gentleman, like Jones, and even to a great lord, like Gaston. He was the one she dreamt of and wished could hold her at night.

Maurice had reminded her, when she'd told her tale, she'd chosen Jones. There had been honorable alternatives. But, to save a beggar's brat (Rumplestiltskin hadn't been a beggar, but Belle didn't correct Lord Maurice) she'd chosen to sell herself and share a man's bed. She wasn't to compound her sins by blaming an innocent man for her own crimes.

Jones, so Belle later heard, had been one of two officers trusted with a desperate mission when the tide of the Ogre Wars was already turning against them. He and his brother were to fetch a magic herb that could be used to stop them. But, something had gone terribly wrong. They'd failed to get the herb, Jones' brother had died, and the magical sail that was the only way to get more of the herb had been destroyed. Rather than face his shame (and his king), Jones had fled, turning pirate.

Belle had been glad. She hated herself for it, but she had been so happy to know Jones was gone from her life for good. Even if he showed up at Maurice's door promising to save Belle's name by marrying her (something Maurice had suggested at the beginning he might make Jones do. Thank the gods, Lady Rosamonde had refused to consider it).

And Jones' brother. She should not feel this way knowing a man was dead—a man who was known as a hero, who had died helping to drive back the Ogres—but she remembered the times the brothers had met in port and Jones had ordered Belle to entertain the pair of them.

People would die because of the brothers' failure. Innocent people, killed by Ogres. She had no right to feel relieved, to feel happy at what had happened. But, she did. She was worse than Jones, gloating over another's pain.

The Dark One was right to loathe her. They said wizards could see your heart. Hers must be a blackened, rotting thing, like fruit caught in an early freeze.

And, whether the Dark One knew it or not, he was kind. Her muscles might ache and her hands might throb, but she'd seen the way he looked at her. He didn't want her in the same room, much less the same bed. If this was all he asked of her, she could endure and be grateful—grateful as she'd never managed to be for Gaston and Maurice, much as she knew she should be.

She made her way up the stairs. Her dress was cold and damp. It sometimes seemed, as she'd slogged up and down stairs with the buckets, that more water went into her skirt than onto the stones. She hoped, if she hung it near the fire, it would dry out before morning. Not that it would stay dry for long. Tomorrow, there would be more of the same.

Bae was already in bed when she reached their room. She moved quietly so as not to wake him, finding a heavy flannel nightgown (Gaston didn't always want her company, and nights could be cold in the Marchlands). She found a pair of simple, knit gloves as well and pulled them over her hands. Bae didn't need to see her bandages.

Wearily, she made her way to the bed, reaching beneath it for the small trundle bed beneath. She winced at the pain in her hands as she pulled it out.

"Mama?"

Bae was looking down at her over the edge of the bed.

"Bae, you're supposed to be asleep."

"Can't sleep. What did you do today?"

Belle forced her voice to be light. "Oh, lots of things. I helped clean the castle and pound up plants." She leaned in close and added in a conspiratorial whisper, "I think the wizard must use them for magic. What did you do today?"

That got Bae going. He launched into an excited litany. The Dark One had shown him all over the castle (not all of it, Belle thought, he hadn't seen the kitchens. Or any place she'd been scrubbing). He'd asked Bae about the things he'd studied and shown him how to use a sword ("Just wooden ones," Bae said sadly) and read to him and shown him where he did his magic and asked if Bae could name the herbs hanging from the ceiling and taught him a funny game with cards with fish painted on them and let Bae teach him how to play kick-the-ball.

Bae babbled openly and happily. There was no hidden shame or fear that Belle could see. Perhaps the Dark One was telling the truth about why he wanted Bae.

"Did you make breakfast, Mama? The Dark One said you did."

"Did he? Yes, I made it. Did you like it?" It had been years since Belle cooked, but the kitchen had been full of so much food, bacon, eggs, flour, everything Belle could want. It was Bae's first meal in a strange place. Food, she knew, brought comfort in hard times.

"It's my favorite," Bae said. "But, why didn't you eat with us?"

Belle tried to smile. "Well, I had a great deal to do today." She mussed Bae's hair. "I couldn't wait for you slug-a-beds, could I?"

"Tell me a story, Mama?"

"Just one. You need to sleep."

Bae nodded eagerly, lying down. "I'll go to sleep, Mama. I promise. But, you have to tell a story."

"All right, then. This happened in the Borderlands, far away from here. . . ."

Belle kept yawning. Bae did too. She wasn't sure which one of them fell asleep first. But, in the morning, she was lying beside Bae. He had his hand wrapped around her bandaged fingers. She'd been so tired, the pain of his grip hadn't woken her.