Note: Ursula gets mentioned in this. She sounds better than the Ursula in Little Mermaid, but I can't imagine her as being a goddess. Besides, a goddess wouldn't make a deal with Rumplestiltskin.

X

Rumplestiltskin was in a foul mood when they returned to the castle. The only satisfaction he had was that Belle looked like she'd spent a sleepless night as well, pale with dark circles under her eyes. But, she didn't want to talk to him anymore than he wanted to talk to her. Fortunately, Bae was tired and cranky—refusing to get up, refusing to get dressed, to eat, or get in the carriage, in that order. He left Belle to deal with the boy while he went and saw the horses (not that they were really horses) brought out and harnessed up.

Rumplestiltskin was tempted to transport them all back to the castle before they drove away from the inn, but he kept a rein on his temper. He'd had some vague thoughts on how to bring Bae back to the village, to eventually set things up so that the villagers would believe he lived only a short distance away (which he did, Rumplestiltskin just didn't want them knowing which Dark Castle Bae called home) and might accept seeing him every few days (with a snake-eyed servant quietly watching over him).

That plan, rough as it was, depended on Belle. She would have to play the role of rich widow living in seclusion, discouraging visitors without arousing suspicions—and, Rumplestiltskin supposed, receiving enough visitors to make them believe there was some place to visit. He could have created the illusion of a grand house somewhere nearby, somewhere with a very difficult road frequently cutoff by bad weather. He'd still been working out the details. Obviously, Bae couldn't be allowed out of the castle's protection without his father close by.

It still would have meant trusting Belle, relying on her to play her part to the villagers, to show him some trust in return as they guarded Bae. And, of course, to know Belle wouldn't do something stupid as soon as she was out of the castle like grab Bae and run—whether to the Marchlands or the nearest sea port, Rumplestiltskin didn't know or care. He wouldn't let either happen.

Belle had likely ruined that plan, but the Dark One never gave up without a fight. So, he waited till they were out of sight of the village before snapping his fingers and bringing them the rest of the way. His castle wasn't that far from the village, but it was much higher up in the mountains, where storms hit hard and suddenly. The village had only been a little overcast with a bit of a chill in the air. Here, it was snowing in earnest. Rumplestiltskin, from the feel of the wind, expected this would turn into a fierce blizzard soon enough.

He helped Bae out of the carriage. Belle shrank back, repulsed, when he tried to offer her a hand, so he turned his back on her. Bae, his eyes lit up with delight as he watched the falling snow, morning peevishness forgotten, didn't notice.

"Haven't you seen snow before?" Rumplestiltskin asked, amused.

"We had some last winter," Bae said. "We built snowmen and threw snowballs. It lasted a week."

Rumplestiltskin laughed. "It will last here for much longer. And this will turn into a blizzard soon enough. Don't try to go out. Not that the castle doors won't let you go anywhere dangerous, and this storm will turn very dangerous."

"Aww. . . ."

"We can build a snowman after it's stopped," Rumplestiltskin said.

Snowmen. He could remember building those. Usually, when he thought back on the days when he could still feel cold, he remembered fierce winters and the ache in his stomach as food ran low. The one blessing of the cold winters in the Frontlands was that they had stopped the Ogres. Once the snow closed the passes in the hills, they were sealed off and safe till the spring thaw (safe from the Ogres. Hunger and cold waged their own wars). It was one of the reasons why the Marchlands, even though they were farther from the Ogres' territory than the Frontlands, had fallen faster. There'd been nothing to stop them once they'd broken through. But, Morraine had also enjoyed building snowmen and making snow fairies in the newly fallen snow. Odd, how long it had been since he'd thought of that.

Belle got out of the carriage on her own. She was careful to stand on the other side of Bae as they walked back into the castle. Bae, still over his morning crankiness (Rumple knew what small children were like the day after a festival, and didn't doubt Belle would have her hands full soon enough), was giving an excited recitation of everything he'd done yesterday. He showed Rumplestiltskin the small treasures he'd acquired at some of the booths with the pennies Rumplestiltskin had given him to spend.

"I almost forgot!" Bae said. He pulled out a wooden hair comb. A pattern of flowers had burned into the end in a design that looked like Frontlands work (centuries of Rumplestiltskin in the neighborhood had quietly influenced the town). He handed it to Belle. "It's like the one Papa gave you, isn't it?"

Rumplestiltskin stopped mid-stride.

He knew the comb Bae was talking about. Rumplestiltskin had met Belle at the fair in Longbourne. He'd already sold all his cloth at a good profit and had been looking through the booths and stalls with coins to spend. A friend had told him about a limner's apprentice, Milah, who was supposed to be good at sketching faces. They had decided to meet up with some others to see her work, though Rumplestiltskin didn't think he'd be talked into paying her to make a sketch of him. It wasn't as if he was a handsome man.

Instead, he'd bumped into Belle—quite literally. She'd had to jump out of the way of a gang of small boys, two or three years older than Bae was now, running to see the puppet show that was just starting. She'd been jostled against a booth and the wheel of a wagon before pulling free and falling, more or less, into Rumplestiltskin's arms. Curses were thrown after the boys by other market-goers, and the children found themselves rounded up with demands to know who their parents were.

Rumplestiltskin had ignored the ruckus, his gaze caught by the bluest eyes he'd ever seen. Then, he'd noticed the tear in Belle's skirt, a weaver and spinner by trade, he had a needle and thread in his satchel. He'd offered to help mend it. They'd been near the dancing square on the green. Somehow, he never did meet up with his friends that evening.

Belle's braid had come loose during the dancing. Embarrassed, she'd left the dancing square to try and fix it. Rumplestiltskin had spotted the woodcarver's booth nearby. His eyes lit on the comb. It was lying to the side, small and neglected. The flowers were carved at the end of it and painted blue, the same shade as Belle's eyes. Impulsively, he found himself buying it and offering it to Belle.

It was forward of him. They'd barely met, after all, and the Frontlands had strict rules on propriety (or they had before the chaos of the war swept them away). He'd flushed and become tongue-tied as he realized what he was doing. But, Belle had smiled (in his memory—if he could trust any of his memories of Belle at all—that smile had reached her eyes and warmed them). Perhaps, it would be all right, if her mother said so. She had led him over to the wagon where Elise was talking to a man Rumplestiltskin had taken for Belle's father—or grandfather (he wasn't. Belle called him Uncle Claude, but he was actually some kind of servant to Elise. Later, when Rumplestiltskin learned all of Elise's story, he found Claude was a man-at-arms who had served Elise's family and helped her when she ran away from Maurice's court). Elise had studied the comb as intently as if she expected to find poison hidden in it. Giving Rumplestiltskin a look that made him feel like he was one of the boys who had caused all the ruckus running for the puppet show, she informed Belle in arctic tones that she could keep the comb—if they made a fair trade. Would Goodman Rumplestiltskin care to join them for dinner in return for this gift?

Rumplestiltskin decided he had gone from troublemaking boy to grubby dog, the kind that found mouldering meat and dragged it into the house to eat. But, he had also been invited to eat with Belle's family. He smiled and accepted.

When he returned from the war, the comb had been lying on the floor near their bed, tossed aside. In the dark cottage, Rumplestiltskin hadn't seen it till was going to bed himself that night. He had stepped on it by accident, the teeth of the comb biting into the heel of the foot of his bad leg, before breaking under his weight. Rumplestiltskin, picking up the shattered pieces and remembering what Hordor had told him, imagined how the gift he'd given his wife had come to thrown away so carelessly, lying in the shadow of their bed.

He still had the pieces of it, kept in a box in the same room where he had Morraine's doll and other treasures.

There was pain in Belle's eyes as she took the comb from Bae and smiled. "You're right, Bae. It's just like it."

Bae looked very pleased with himself and continued talking about the festival.

Rumplestiltskin watched them, trying to understand what had just happened. She'd told Bae about the comb? Told Bae how he had given it to her, not some pirate or lord?

And Bae knew this story well enough that he bought his mother a comb—was proud of himself for buying her a comb—that reminded her of the one that she'd tossed aside with the rest of their marriage.

They had reached Bae's rooms. "Stay with the boy," he said roughly. "I have a great deal to do today. There will be a visitor later today," he added, almost as an afterthought. "He'll arrive in the midafternoon. Be there to greet him in the entryway and lead him to the great hall. And don't forget to fetch us some tea. He'll doubtless be cold on a day like today. Take your meals here or in the kitchen, but don't interrupt us." He was in no mood to share meals with them today—and it was time he started thinking of Belle as a servant again. And treating her as one. He needed to keep a safe, formal distance between them. So, she'd told Bae some fairy tale about the comb. It meant nothing. Trying to tell himself it did would just lead him into another snare, like the one he'd stepped into yesterday.

Stepped into? No, he'd charged into that, like a blind bull bit by a swarm of hornets.

Why? He wondered, stalking back to the great hall. What was he that, no matter what form he took, no matter what century he met her in, Belle turned from him in disgust?

He was ugly. He knew he was ugly. He had cast spells to make sure he was ugly—uglier even than he'd been before the curse. Disguising himself as a man for All Souls, he had chosen a bland face, not a handsome one. Why create a lie so obviously false?

But, Belle had enjoyed his company. More than that, he would have sworn she'd felt safe with him—in a way she hadn't around the many strangers at the festival. He closed his eyes, remembering their walk back to the inn, Bae falling asleep in his arms and Belle taking the little boy from him, getting his snoring to stop.

For a moment, it had been as if all the bitter centuries between them had vanished, as if they were the simple husband and wife they might have been if the Ogre Wars and his cowardice had never happened, walking home to their cottage after spending All Souls among friends and neighbors, dancing on the green. Belle had laughed at a joke he'd made. Together, they'd tucked their son into bed. As she leaned forward, he caught the scent of her hair, all autumn leaves and wood smoke from her day outside.

He'd imagined moments like this as he lay in the healers tent, determined to live, telling himself he would get home and find Belle—find her alive—alive and well and with their son. For a moment, all the anger, all the pain, had fallen away. He wasn't the Dark One, anymore. He was nothing but a simple spinner standing by the woman he loved, the woman whose smiles and kind touch he had ached for when he told himself he had to live.

Rumplestiltskin had taken her hand and looked in her eyes. He'd seen her look up at him, startled, uncertain, as if seeing him for the first time. His fingers brushed her face, the way they used to. The words were already bubbling up in his mouth, Belle, it's me.

His wits deserted him whenever he was with her, he thought bitterly. The Dark One, master of deceit and guile. More like the blathering master of drooling and idiocy. The only reason he had stopped in time was because Belle had had enough of him.

He saw the change in her eyes, saw the disgust as she pushed him away.

She despised him. She always despised him, whether it was this century or another. Belle couldn't even muster up a false smile, like the ones he'd seen her give Gaston, the ones that never reached her eyes. He wasn't even worth the trouble of lying to. Furious with her, with himself, he took her old lover's form.

She was shocked. Of course, she was shocked. People were always shocked the first time they realized how forms could lie. Anyone but a fool would have realized that and given her time to recover.

Instead, seeing her recoil, he'd become even angrier, taking the form of the man she'd left him for.

She had recovered, Rumplestiltskin thought. Shock gave way to revulsion. He might as well have been an Ogre, complete with bits of corpse stuck between his teeth. She knew it was just a lying trick. He'd seen how she'd been sickened at the sight of him.

He sat at his wheel, spinning and trying to order his thoughts, to calm them, trying not to ask why Belle loathed him—even when she didn't know it was him.

And he tried not to think about the comb Bae had given her or why, despite the pain he saw, her smile had reached her eyes when she had taken it.

X

Bae was cranky. Yesterday had been too exciting and he had stayed up too late, then been up too early. Belle finally got him to lie down after lunch—not to take a nap. Bae had informed her (quite peevishly) that he was too big for naps. However, after much persuasion, Belle convinced him to lie down while she read him a story. Despite his insistence that it wasn't a nap, Bae made sure to have his small blanket. He also held onto a small top he had bought at the festival. It was a cleverly made top, rounded instead of pointed. If spun just right, it flipped over as it spun and twirled on the little knob. At least for today, he seemed to think it was more wonderful than any of the toys the Dark One had given him.

Belle rubbed her head. There had been times Jones had given her gifts, and it was always important she be suitably grateful. She remembered the time he'd been angry because she'd been "too grateful" to the cabin boy who'd bought needles and thread for her when he was in port—more grateful, he'd decided, than she was for the new dress he'd given her. Gaston could be a little like that, too, easily put out if she didn't make a fuss over his presents. Though, he'd never turned cruel, and she could usually cheer him out of it.

Was the Dark One like that? Would he be angry when he found Bae making such a fuss over such a tiny, inexpensive toy? Would he sulk, the way Gaston had—or turn violent, like Jones? Not that he ever called it violence. . . .

If you're too good for the officers, you can bed down with the crew.

To survive at sea, a ship needs discipline. It's the captain who makes exceptions is the cruel man, sacrificing the good of the ship, not the one who keeps the rules. . . .

Lord Maurice had agreed. Gaston had nodded wisely.

The Dark One might not call it violence either when he punished Bae.

Or when he punished her.

Belle's stomach should be in knots, but she only felt numb, emptied. She tried to act as if everything were normal in front of Bae. He noticed something was wrong but seemed to believe her when she told him she was only a little tired. It was true. She hadn't slept at all last night except, near morning, when she'd nodded off for a few minutes only to wake up, heart pounding from nightmares.

Nightmares. Memories.

She'd turned down Hordor, and he'd had her whipped and sold to the highest bidder. She'd tried to turn down Jones, and he'd nodded calmly and thrown her into the arms of the crew.

To think, she'd tried to fight Smee when he took Bae from her. She'd still been weak and feverish from her whipping, but two men had had to hold her while Smee forced her son out of her arms. He'd been apologizing all the while, telling her she'd thank him later.

He'd known.

When she first saw him, he'd been bringing a small nanny goat onboard. It was just as Hordor's men were bringing her to the ship. She remembered Smee leading it up the gangway as Jones signed off on some papers, accepting delivery. Smee had known how things would go, what Jones would do. But, Smee made sure there would be milk for Bae while she was learning her first lesson about obeying Jones' commands. She owed him for that.

Once she'd learned it, Jones, reminding her he was a gentleman, had made the crew troop by her, dropping the coins in front of her he said they should have paid.

She'd sat there, unable to feel or understand. It was like staring at writing in a dream. She could see it, know it had meaning, know she should understand that meaning—but unable to grasp it.

Except for a part of her. Belle could feel it in the back of her mind, already understanding and screaming inside her, wanting to run, to escape, to jump over the side of the ship and drown, wanting to seize a weapon and kill them all—or let them kill her.

It must have shown in her eyes. Or maybe it was only that Smee had seen it all before. She remembered when the crew was done, staring at the coins, something building up in her. She was ready to throw them all into the sea and maybe go in after. He came up last, holding Bae.

He was the only crewman who hadn't taken advantage of what the captain offered. Belle never knew if it was compassion or pragmatism. "Keep it," he said, nodding at the coins as he put Bae into her arms. "You think the captain will buy the things your son needs? You'll need it."

Smee made the purchases for her when they were in port, since Jones almost never let her off the ship—and never without crewmen watching over her. When she ran out of coins, he found other ways for her to pay him back. She was able to read Jones letters and the orders he received, passing on secrets to Smee. He might have been a spy. Or he might have been a very practical man who knew how to take advantage of anything that came his way. She never knew which and found it very hard to care.

Bae fell asleep as she read to him.

There was a knock at the door. Belle opened it and found the Dark One. She'd thought she was numb, but she shrank back, wondering if this was where her punishment would begin. But, he only looked her over disparagingly. "Make yourself presentable," he told her. "My guest will be here soon. I'd like him to get the wrong impression of you."

Belle ignored the jibe, nodding. "Of course, my lord. Is there anything else? Anything I should know about your guest?"

The Dark One shrugged. "He's nothing important, the sheriff of a town called Nottingham. But, he has information I want."

Belle blinked. Nottingham was a major center of trade. The town probably saw more money in a season than all the Marchlands in a year. Its sheriff had more power than some lords.

Or he had three hundred years ago. Perhaps that had changed as well.

Three hundred years. . . .

"How did you know?" she blurted out.

The Dark One turned and fixed a harsh stare on her. "Know what?"

"Jones. You—you knew what he looked like. How? Or was it just a trick?" Could he take the image out of her mind? Or make her see something only she remembered?

He grinned, making a point of showing his fangs. "Oh, no trick, dearie. I'm much older than I seem, didn't you know?

"You may remember an amulet your captain had? I expect he never took it off."

Belle shivered, memories of metal digging into her skin. She nodded.

The Dark One said, "It was made with the voice and heart of a certain mermaid—"

"The what?" She had to have heard that wrong. The Dark One looked at her witheringly. Belle looked down, as became a proper servant. "I'm sorry, my lord. I just don't understand."

"Oh, don't you, dearie? It's not that complicated. With magic, I could take out any part of you I pleased. I could hold your heart in my hand and let you scream every time I gave it a squeeze. I could take those pretty eyes of yours and dangle them on a chain. Your captain convinced a little mermaid to hand her heart and voice over to him—incredibly stupid of her, but I understand he could be quite charming when he put his mind to it. I expect you would know more about that than I would."

"Yes," Belle whispered. "He could be charming. When he tried." He was charming when he spoke in Maurice's court, apologizing for his treatment of Belle (but, really, how was he to know? It was an innocent mistake). He'd been charming when a judge in one port town had asked pointed questions about a dueling death (the man he'd killed was over sixty years old and had tried to take back his granddaughter when some of the crewmen lured her aboard. Jones had killed him before he picked up the sword the captain threw at his feet. But, the judge agreed, it was an honorable duel. And the girl had only gotten what she'd asked for. Even if she was only fifteen).

The Dark One went on with his tale. "The Sea Witch, Ursula, took exception. I think the mermaid in question was her niece or some such. Unfortunately, the amulet Jones made once he was done with the girl protected him from most perils of the sea, including the Sea Witch. So, she approached me. She didn't know his name or the name of his ship. It seemed everything he told his mermaid victim was a lie. They had a nickname for him: Hook. Because he was like a baited hook, offering sweet things before dragging his prey out of the sea.

"But, Ursula was able to set me on the trail of a man who had once served under Jones, Smee. Smee was . . . remarkably reasonable once he knew what he was dealing with." Smee. Yes. He would be. She'd heard he'd left Jones' ship after she was gone. Jones had been quite angry to lose her, no matter what he'd told Maurice—and Smee was the one who'd delivered the ring and her message begging for help. "From there, it was a simple matter to track down the soldier turned pirate.

"I got his amulet from him, replacing it with one that was . . . less effective, shall we say. He never noticed. Till the mermaids sank his boat. The sailors, I believe, were eaten by sharks—the mermaids brought several with them—but Jones they took alive. And kept alive for much longer than I would have expected, all things considered. But, I won't trouble you with the gruesome details. I believe you said revenge was impious."

"He's—he's dead?" Belle said. She felt as if she was back on Jones ship, coins being given to her. She didn't understand what was happening or what it meant.

"Oh, quite dead. And probably wanted to be long before it actually happened, poor lad."

He was saying this to wound her, she realized. He thought—he must think she'd loved Jones. Or cared for him. Enough that hearing how he'd abused the sea girl and how her people had taken their revenge, all this should shock her, hurt her. But, she couldn't even pretend. "He's dead? He—all of them—they're all dead?"

There was a gloating look in his eyes. "I believe that's what I said, dearie. Now, if there's nothing else? I have work to do."

"I—no—thank you—I—thank you. For telling me. I'll—I'll get things ready. For your guest."

Belle went to the kitchen, putting together a plate of scones and fruit tarts. She filled a kettle up with water, ready to heat once the sheriff was here.

He was dead. Gruesomely dead. Horribly dead.

Belle had been horrified at the joy she felt when she knew Jones had been publically humiliated, that he had turned pirate and renegade. This was worse. Better. Both.

He was dead and never coming back. He was gone. Forever.

Belle hoped the mermaids had fed him to sharks by inches. She hoped he had screamed every day—every moment before he died.

No—no—she wasn't like this. She wasn't like Jones, to take so much happiness in another person's suffering.

Except she did. She felt something bubbling up inside of her as she imagined Jones' terrible end and the deaths of all his crew—falling into the sea, terrified, drowning, being eaten alive. Like that poor girl, just fifteen, when the crewmen were done with her and she learned what had happened to her grandfather. She'd thrown herself into the waves. And Belle had envied her, aching to do the same.

Instead, she'd held Bae tight against her, reminding herself why she couldn't follow.

The bubbling reached her mouth. It felt like laughter but sounded more like a sob as it broke out of her. Tears were running down her face.

He's dead, she told herself again. Dead. No matter what the Dark One does to me, I never have to be afraid of Jones again.

When the sobs subsided, she went and washed her face with cold water to erase the signs of crying. The Dark One had told her to be presentable when met his guest. Belle knew better than to disobey. The water was ice cold. She could hear the storm raging outside, the blizzard the Dark One had predicted. There. So long as the sheriff didn't freeze to death on his way here or get blown off the mountain, she was ready to meet him.

Belle smoothed her hair and tidied her dress. Then, she went to the entry room to await the Dark One's guest.

She didn't see the Dark One, his face troubled as he stepped out of the shadows where he had watched her as she wept over the captain's death.