Baelfire had been at the castle several days, and Rumplestiltskin was beginning to relax. He'd been ready for his son to hate him or be terrified at the sight of him. He'd been afraid, when he finally broke through the spell into Maurice's castle, of finding Bae abused and neglected. It was something Rumplestiltskin had seen often enough in the bargains he'd made for unwanted children. A mother found a new lover who didn't want her spending time or money on the child of her last paramour.
Instead, after the initial terror of their meeting in the ballroom, Bae had warmed to him. He had an open heart, Rumplestiltskin thought, like his mother—or like Rumplestiltskin had once believed Belle had.
Maybe it hadn't been a lie. Maybe something had happened to change her. Or maybe her heart was too open and, with her husband gone to war, that smirking pirate had wormed his way into Rumplestiltskin's place.
But, she had cared for their son. Or she'd seen to it Maurice's servants did. Bae had been well-fed and well-clothed. He'd also been given the beginnings of an education. The boy was intelligent, though more excited to learn sword fighting than to study his books. Well, he was six. He'd been fascinated when Rumplestiltskin showed him how his spinning wheel worked and some of the basics of weaving, along with his other lessons. His natural curiosity had been nurtured and kept strong.
Things had been going well. Till this morning. Rumplestiltskin could see Bae was troubled. It was written all over him in the way he poked disconsolately at his boiled egg. Although, at age six, it could be anything from a bad night's sleep to a broken toy. Rumplestiltskin waited to see if Baelfire would tell him what was bothering him.
Abruptly, Bae said, "You can make medicine, can't you?" He looked up at Rumplestiltskin hopefully. "For sick people?"
Rumplestiltskin looked at Bae. There were no obvious signs of fever or other illness. But, he could see signs the he hadn't slept well, and the child looked worried. "Yes, I can. Do you feel unwell?"
"Not me," Bae said. "Mama. She cried a lot last night. She thought I was asleep, but I heard her. And her hands bled."
"What?" Rumplestiltskin felt a moment's shock, followed quickly by suspicion. Was Belle using her son to try and make him feel sorry for her? She'd probably known all along Bae he could hear her "crying."
As for the blood, it was probably nothing more than a paper cut—or stains from fruit in the kitchens.
"Bae, I'm sure she's all right. She probably just cut herself in the kitchen. It happens." And he should give her extra chores for her pathetic playacting—especially if she was trying to turn Bae against him.
"It wasn't," Bae said. "She wears gloves when she goes to bed, but the red soaked through. I could see it. Please, you have to help her."
Rumplestiltskin tried not to glare. As far as manipulation wend, she'd succeeded very neatly in backing him into a corner. He wasn't going to get out of this, not without convincing Baelfire he was a heartless monster (which he was, but there was no reason for Bae to know that). "Let's go find her, then," Rumplestiltskin said. "Even if it's only a blister, I can put an ointment on it." And let Baelfire see this was a great deal of pathetic fuss over nothing.
Their breakfast left behind, the two set off. Belle should be scrubbing the south hall today, Rumplestiltskin thought (he'd been careful to make it look as though a herd of pigs had come storming through, danced a few polkas, rolled around on the marble, and then taken care to shake off any mud that might have still been clinging to them before ambling on their way).
Belle was there, scrubbing at the stones, a large (heavy) bucket nearby. "Madam!" Rumplestiltskin said (he had no intention of using her name). "A word with you!"
Belle stood up hastily but couldn't disguise the weariness of her motions. Rumplestiltskin, glaring at her, had to admit she did look pale (though that might just be quite sensible fear at having him come hunting for her) and there were dark circles under her eyes. Perhaps she really was tired. Well, the tasks he'd given her had been meant to wear her down, to convince her to give up and go.
The skirt of her dress was damp and smelled of mildew. Velvet was hardly the right cloth for lugging buckets of water and scrubbing at marble floors. Why didn't she wear something else? But, he remembered the ball gowns he'd seen her in, light silks, plunging necklines, and corseted within an inch of her life. Were all her other clothes like that? Or (he glowered) was wearing a moldy dress just another way of manipulating Bae to feel sorry for her?
"Your son said you'd hurt your hands," he said brusquely. "Let me see them."
"It's—it's nothing, my lord," Belle said.
"I don't doubt it. Let me see them all the same."
Belle looked at Bae, who stood a little behind Rumplestiltskin, watching anxiously. Then, she stepped towards Rumplestiltskin, standing so he was between her and Bae.
The child wouldn't see her "injuries" this way. Didn't want the boy to know she'd been making a great deal out of nothing, did she? She held up her hands, which were covered in black, leather gloves. Awkwardly, she began to fiddle with one, trying to take it off. Rumplestiltskin rolled his eyes. She was laying it on thick, wasn't she? "Allow me."
He pulled the glove off, a scathing comment already on his lips. Then, he saw the knit glove Belle was wearing underneath. It was made from white wool. Or what had been white wool. Now, they were stained, red in some places, urine-shaded yellow in others, with reddish brown mixes of both. The yarn was damp with pus and blood. Belle had gone several shades paler from the pain when he'd yanked the black one off, though she bit her lip and kept silent.
Carefully this time, Rumplestiltskin removed the glove the second glove. It was wet to his touch, even though the hand beneath it was bandaged, swathed in linen. As he began to unwrap the bandages, Belle gasped in pain. She bit her lip again, holding back any other self-betrayals. He studied her face, seeing how she was trying to keep still and calm—and quiet. She was fighting not to let out the smallest whimper. But, he could see the pain in the lines around her eyes and in the way her shoulders tensed, anticipating the next blow. As gently as he could, Rumplestiltskin went back to unwrapping it.
The pus was from the blisters. Some had burst, some merely seeped around the edges. Blisters provided some of the blood blisters too, oozing the red-browns stains he'd seen. Mostly, it came from the thin, razor slices on her hand.
He stared at it, not understanding. He'd expected blisters on the first day. But, those should have begun to heal by now, especially with if she were protecting her hands with layers of linen and gloves.
Except he'd given her the wasp nettles to deal with, and their sap would irritate the hurts and keep them fresh. The strands would sting her hands, making cuts in the skin.
But, not like this. He remembered Belle's hands, calloused and thick-skinned from all the work she did on their small holding. Yes, the tasks he'd given her should have been enough to work through that, to irritate the skin. It should have beenlike a small rash or a touch of sunburn. And a few, thin cuts. Enough pain, enough exhaustion to drive her back to her soft life.
Soft life. There'd been a night at Lord Maurice's, when Rumplestiltskin was still cautiously examining the curse and its people, when he'd disguised himself with magic and entered the ballroom (the courtier whose place he'd taken had slept that night in a closet). In a complex dance, as the people passed from partner to partner, he'd briefly held her hands for the few steps they'd been joined together. They'd been so soft. Like silk, like petals. They weren't the hands of a poor weaver's wife any more.
He'd known this. It had registered clearly in his mind. He'd been angry at the feel of them—this was what she'd left him for, soft hands and silk dresses. He'd glowered at her till she stumbled in her steps before he tossed her aside to her next partner, despising the soft feel of her skin.
He'd known. And he'd done this to her anyway.
Rumplestiltskin didn't bother with the stairs. He snapped his fingers, bringing the three of them to his workroom in a cloud of mauve smoke. He pulled out clean linen from the supplies he kept on hand—life-threatening injuries were common in people desperate enough to call on him and he liked to be to be prepared—and quickly rewrapped Belle's hand. With a wave of his claws, a small bench moved over to the wall. Rumplestiltskin led her over to it. "Sit there," he ordered, letting her lean back and rest. He went over to the tea set (if Bae noticed it was the same tea set that had been in the great hall while they had breakfast, he didn't ask how it had brought itself up here) and poured a hot cup, adding a pinch of crumpled herbs from a certain jar. Then, he breathed on it. He'd been called a dragon, but dragons were ice as well as fire. The tea cooled to lukewarm.
He handed it to Bae. "Hold that for your mother to drink. She shouldn't touch it, not with her hands." He remembered how even mild pressure could hurt a wound like that. And the warmth of the cup could be agonizing against raw skin.
Bae nodded, tight-lipped, and brought it over to Belle. Belle, however, was not quite as trusting. "What is it?" she asked.
"Tea," Rumplestiltskin said. "Mostly. And something for the pain. It may make you a little tired, nothing more." His voice turned rougher, almost angry. "When you bleed like that, your body needs water."
"Please, Mama," Bae said, pressing the cup towards her. He was frightened, more frightened than he'd been when he'd told Rumplestiltskin about this. Because the adults were taking it seriously. They were just as afraid as he was. But, being able to do something would make him feel less helpless.
Belle seemed to understand that, too. She managed a smile (more sincere than the ones Rumplestiltskin had seen her giving her paramour as she played up to him. This one actually reached her eyes). "Of course, Bae. If you'll help me?"
While they were busy, Rumplestiltskin quickly measured herbs and certain powders into a mortar and pounded them together. He put them in a small pot and added oil pressed from a very rare plant. He stirred it with a silver spoon and, with a flick of his hand, conjured a small flame under it.
Then, he got out a crystal bowl. It was cut and faceted so it glittered like a diamond. He filled it with water. After that, he fetched a small vial and added just a pinch of dried, crushed ice flowers to it. When the water took on a very slight glow of its own, cold and clear, he nodded.
He glanced at Belle. She'd finished the tea and was talking to Bae, still smiling. But, he could see how weary she was. All the same, the boy's fear had eased considerably. Rumplestiltskin sighed inwardly. It would be an act of petty malice to force Belle to stand over here for the time the next step would take. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but. . . .
He flicked his fingers, and another, small table appeared. "Make way, dearies," he said. Belle and Bae looked up and saw the table. Rumple waved it over, and it scurried towards them. Rumplestiltskin brought over the glittering bowl and placed it in front of her. "Bae, there's a hat down in the great hall, blue with stars and moons on it. I need you to fetch it for me, will you?" Bae nodded and scampered off. Rumplestiltskin began to unwrap the fresh linen he'd just put on Belle's hand. It was already damp, showing yellow in some spots and red in others, but it had served its purpose, hiding her injuries from the boy.
"Thank you," Belle said. "For doing this. And for not letting Bae see."
Rumplestiltskin lip twitched. She understood why he'd sent the boy off. That was Belle, always a clever one. "I should be thanking you. Or did you really not see what a perfect chance you wasted to make me look bad in front of the boy?" He finished with the bandage. "Here, put your hand in the water."
Belle put it in and gasped at the icy coldness, then let out a breath as the pain drained away. Rumplestiltskin began to remove the black glove from her other hand. Abruptly, he said, "I hadn't meant this." He glared at her, daring her to take his words for weakness. Or sympathy for her. "You know what I think of you, but . . . I hadn't meant this." He hesitated. But, enemy or not—and she was an enemy. Or, at the very least, a threat to everything he was trying to do with Bae, and a woman who would betray those closest to her without a second thought—he was the Dealmaker. He knew when he owed a debt. And when it had to be paid. He forced the words out. "I'm sorry."
Belle didn't seem to realize how momentous those words were from him. He might as well have commented on the weather. "I agreed to your terms," she said simply. She gritted her teeth as the black glove came off and he started on the white one beneath. "You have nothing to apologize for."
Rumplestiltskin snorted. "Crippling you wasn't part of the deal. You're a servant, not a sacrifice." Both the gloves were off. He began working on the bandages. "How often have you been changing these?"
"The last two days, every couple of hours or so. Whenever I finish scrubbing and come back to the kitchen."
And they'd still nearly soaked through in that time. "How have you been treating them? Have you used any herbs or medicines?"
"I clean them with soap and water when I change the bandages. I found dried herbs in the kitchen to make a poultice, and I soaked them in cold water every night before bed. I think that helped." She sounded exhausted as she said it. It wasn't just the tea. Her hands must have burned with pain at night. Wounds like that could make it impossible to sleep, as Rumplestiltskin well knew. Then, if she finally did get some rest, the slightest movement—anything that touched her hands—would have been like being seared with a branding iron.
The last of the bandages came loose. He turned her hand up to look at her palm. "You scrubbed the floors with these?" he asked incredulously before lowering it into the water.
Belle gasped again, and seemed to shrink back. Rumplestiltskin wasn't sure if it was fear—or pretended fear—or just the cold shock of the water. "It—it was what you ordered," she said.
"Orders be cursed, how did you stay conscious?" Rumplestiltskin remembered the pain in his leg when he'd crushed it—and the burning agony whenever it was struck afterwards until it healed. He remembered learning that what the storytellers and healers called red waves of pain was a literal phrase. The whole world could turn into a bright, blood colored haze.
Belle shrugged. "The gloves helped."
He glared at her, not sure if she was mocking him. "Well, you proved your point. It will take more than pain to drive you out, won't it?"
The blood drained from her face. "More?" she asked.
He frowned at her. He was letting himself get distracted, getting careless with words, something he almost never did. Rumplestiltskin remembered Cora and the way she'd tricked him. But, even then, he'd kept track of how he'd altered their deal. He just hadn't expected how she would play it against him. "More than I'm willing to do, dearie. For now. Round one to you. You realize this only means I'll come out fighting on round two."
She nodded very somberly. He sighed inwardly. This wasn't like Belle. Whether she'd agreed with him or not, she'd always at least understood his jokes. What was wrong with her? Other than pain and lack of sleep and being carried off by a fiend to his enchanted castle?
Just then, Bae came rushing in, gripping the wizard's hat. "I've got it!"
Rumplestiltskin forced his attention away from Belle and smiled at the boy (careful not to show his teeth). "Back already? Come here and let me show you what I'm going to do. . . ."
The hat wasn't really necessary. All magic came with a price. What he was doing now had very little magic in it. The water had cooled and soothed Belle's hands, easing the swelling. If it did it more quickly and more thoroughly than normal water, well, that was a small thing. The same with the ointment he had brewed. Without the whisper of enchantment in it, it would still fight off any infection and help her torn flesh (Rumplestiltskin felt a stab of guilt. Even work roughened, Belle had always had the most beautiful hands) knit back together. The slight touch that had been added to it would make her wounds heal faster and see that any infection lost the fight before it began. That was all.
He could have healed her with a touch. He'd healed far worse easily enough, and yet. . . .
He had not meant to bring Belle here or give her any foothold in his life. Yet, here she was, and he didn't know what would come of it. Normally, when he offered magic, he saw the price clearly and set the terms to see it paid. Something told him anything with Belle was likely to be . . . tangled. Quickly.
Besides, he knew enough in simple terms to understand what he was doing was paying the right price. He might not care about Belle personally—there might have been times over the centuries when he would have gladly pulled out her heart and laughed as he crushed it in front of her—but Bae loved her. She might be more worthless and treacherous than Rumplestiltskin's own father, but he was beginning to believe she genuinely returned her child's love. As much as she loved anything.
He had been careless. He had done more harm than he meant—harm that could have driven the boy from him—because he couldn't bother to pay attention. It was right, then, that he pay for it now—with time, with care, with hard won supplies that would take more time and care to replace.
So, he held up the hat, pointed end down, and blew across the rim just as he'd blown across the tea cup. The flame went out and the boiling ointment cooled and congealed, the hat erasing any slight taint of dark magic from the brew. He took the pot and placed it beside the crystal bowl. After that, he fetched more linen and a towel. He lifted out Belle's hand, the one that had soaked the longest. The swelling was gone and the blisters had all receded. They looked far less serious than they had only moments ago, as though they'd been popped a day or two before and were beginning to heal. The cuts were closed, just thin, red lines. Bae still gasped at the sight of them. "Mama! Does it hurt?"
Belle gave him a smile. Rumplestiltskin graded it as tired but sincere. "No, the pain's gone away. They're fine now."
Rumplestiltskin snorted. "They are not fine. Not yet. But, they will be. Bae, watch closely. I want you to learn how this is done. . . ." He dried her hand then spread thick dollops of ointment over it. "Don't try to be stingy," he cautioned. "Using too much won't hurt. Using too little will." He spread it between her fingers and made sure to press carefully around her nails—the space between the fingertip and the nail was easy to miss, but it was one of the most sensitive, especially if the injuries festered.
He showed Bae how to wrap the bandages, doing each finger individually, and how to tie them off. Then, he started to work on Belle's second hand. Soon, both were wrapped, her injuries hidden from view—Bae's or anyone else's.
"You should go back to your room and rest," he said brusquely. He glared at her again. "Obviously, I need to change your chores. I'll need time to think up the new list. You might as well catch up on your beauty rest." He would have added a sneering you need it, just to keep her in her place, but he could see Bae listening to every word. He reined in his irritation. "I'll send down more tea. Drink some before you go to sleep. Bae, you're to help her with that. And with the buttons on her dress. Leave the thing out for me, and I'll see if I can't get rid of that smell."
"I—I don't have any other work clothes," Belle said.
She meant nothing she could get into without five maids tying a rib crushing corset onto her. Why did the nobles bother with such monstrosities? Belle was slender enough. Why risk breaking bones and bruising organs to make her look like a half-starved stick? "I'll provide you some. Is there any color you'd prefer?" He remembered a blue dress Belle had worn in the old days and her rose red of her ball gown.
"Black," Belle said. "Please. If—if it's all right."
"Black." He stared at her blankly. "Why?"
She bit her lip. Then, her eyes fell as if she were ashamed. "I—I am in mourning."
He stared, not understanding. "Mourn—" then, it hit him, and he sneered. "Oh, yes. Three hundred years. Your husband must be good and dead by now. Did you finally figure that out? Or are do you mean Lady Rosamonde? She's been dead even longer, hasn't she?"
"Yes—No—Please. If—if it's no trouble to you—"
"Oh, no trouble at all." He leaned in close so he could hiss without Baelfire hearing the words. "I always enjoy hypocracy."
He took himself away in a puff of smoke, back to the great hall. The food had gotten cold. He glared at the boiled egg (boiled. Instead of fried or made into eggs in a blanket. Because her hands couldn't manage anything more). There was an island he remembered on the other side of the world, hundreds of leagues beyond Agrabah. He remembered a food stall beneath a large tree in one of its more crowded towns that did tolerable meals. It was also as far away from here as he could get.
But, before he left, he made sure to send the tea to Bae's room along with some bread and fruit. Bae hadn't eaten breakfast, after all. And he would stop back on his way for some warm clothes. In black.