The house had a great hall of its own. The wall facing the gardens was circular with plenty of windows and large, diamond-paned doors going out onto the grounds. Whatever they were set with, it wasn't glass. The Dark One had mentioned in passing that those doors were strong enough to keep out an army of Ogres.

The library was built over the hall. It also had plenty of windows and a beautiful view of the grounds. Something about them reminded Belle a little of her garden back in the Frontlands. Of course, it had just been a kitchen garden, with plenty of vegetables and herbs. The few flowers she'd been able to grow all had practical uses, but she had tried to make it beautiful.

Her mother had nursed a rosebush through the harsh, Frontlands winters. She'd given Belle a cutting from it that had grown well that first summer but died in the winter. Instead, Rumplestiltskin and she had had a wild rose bush. The flowers were plainer than her mother's roses, but it gave smelled as sweet and gave them berries to get through the cold season. Belle had used some of the flowers from it in her wedding wreathe. Like any good, Frontlands woman, she'd dried it and saved that wreathe. When Rumplestiltskin went to war, she'd cut a rosebud from it and bound it with a lock of her hair. She'd put both in a small sachet strung with ribbon that she gave to Rumplestiltskin to wear close to his heart. For luck. And for remembrance.

She supposed all the Frontlands women—mothers, daughters, sisters, sweethearts, and wives—had done as much. Their small luck wishing hadn't been enough to hold back the Ogres, but the remembrance (she clutched her locket) had been strong. She'd kept a lock of Rumplestiltskin's hair in a sachet of her own. Jones didn't know the Frontlands custom or she was sure he would have made her get rid of it. As it was, she'd had to hide it in her things disguised as an ordinary sachet, with dried lavender and rose leaves.

Outside in the garden, Bae was playing with Crystal and Bianca, her servants' children.

Servants. It felt strange to have servants again. Or for the first time. Gaston had given her maids. They fixed her hair, prepared her clothes, cleaned her rooms—and shared any secrets they learned with Gaston, not that she'd had many.

Though he'd chosen them, the Dark One swore her servants worked for her and her alone. Wisely or unwisely, Belle thought she believed him.

Their name was Dove, Goodman Dove and Goodwife Dove. The goodwife was a fair-skinned woman of middle years, small and round. She wore a white cap over her brown-black curls and had eyes as dark as her namesake's. Her husband was a giant of a man—Belle would have believed someone telling her he was part Ogre—who enjoyed tending the garden and caring for all the birds in his dovecote. Goodman Dove spoke very little, but she'd watched him showing the children how to lure the birds to their hands with a bit of seed.

Belle, standing in the shadows as she watched the children play in the sun, saw Bae's happy, smiling face. She could spend her days up here, she thought, quiet and alone, watching everything from a distance.

Did Bae even need her anymore?

"Do you like it?"

Belle turned around and saw the Dark One watching her, as anxious as a puppy hoping to be praised and afraid of being kicked. She wasn't sure how an evil sorcerer managed that. "I was just watching Bae," she said. "He seems so happy. It's strange. To see him be safe. To . . . not need to protect him from anything."

He came and stood near her—he was careful, not coming too close—and watched Bae and the girls. "There were other children at Maurice's castle. Didn't he play with them?"

"Sometimes," Belle said. "But . . . the court was always difficult. Dangerous. Rank and birth meant everything. And some people—some people saw him as a threat."

"Because you're Lord Maurice's daughter," he said. "And Baelfire is your son."

He said the words so flatly and calmly. It was what she had promised never to ask, never to admit suspecting. When there were whispers all around her, she refused to hear them, refused to even think of them. She looked away from him. "I didn't say that."

In return for her promise, Maurice had agreed to give them a home and his protection—for her and for Bae.

He'd kept that promise for over two years. Or three hundred. He'd sold Bae, but it wasn't into danger. She didn't know if he'd known that, but . . . Bae was safe. And he'd traded her son for all their lives, the lives of everyone in the Marchlands.

Had Maurice broken his promise? Did she still owe him her silence?

The Dark One had no such qualms. "It's true, isn't it?" he asked. "Maurice's sons are dead, and Gaston is only a distant cousin. Your mother was a noblewoman of a great family. Your claim—"

"Is illegitimate," Belle said evenly, not arguing but not admitting anything. "As am I. And the laws of the Marchlands are clear. Sons inherit. Or sons-in-law." Or grandsons. But, words like that could get Bae killed. Even here. "If Maurice acknowledged a . . . a daughter like me, the husband would have a claim." Or our child. "But, Gaston's already the heir. He gains nothing through—through such a wife."

"I'm surprised Lord Maurice didn't want someone of his line to inherit."

Belle closed her eyes, wanting to say it. Yes, that's what he wanted. He wanted my child to rule after him. Just so long as that child wasn't Bae. But, the words stuck in her throat.

"He—he gave me—to Gaston," she whispered. She could say this so long as she didn't say the reason. "He promised me, if—if I—if we—had a child, he'd see to it Gaston married me. But, we never did." She'd curled her arms around herself. As if she hurt. Why? These were just the simple truths of her life. Being beaten hurt. Being whipped or flogged hurt. Truths didn't. Or they shouldn't.

"But. . . ." Now, it was the Dark One's turn to choose words carefully. "You already had a son."

Belle laughed bitterly. "A peasant's son. Maurice would have been happier if Bae had no father at all. He—he might have acknowledged a bastard daughter if—if—But he would never give a peasant's child a claim to the Marchlands. Never."

"Would he have . . . hurt your son?" The Dark One's voice was mild, but Belle heard the danger in it.

Hurt. He meant kill. Would someone drown Bae like an unwanted kitten? Belle closed her eyes, trying to shut out too many fears and memories. Gaston had never threatened Bae. Maurice had tried to get her to send him away, but he'd never forced the issue.

Jones—the Dark One was asking about Maurice and the court, but she remembered Jones. He'd let her keep Bae. It gave him another threat to hold over her. When she hesitated to do what he wanted. When the pain and humiliation was too much. He reminded her that her life wasn't the only one he held in his hand.

And there had been other times, times when he was simply irritated that there was a small, mewling creature Belle had to care for living on his ship. This pink, naked, squirming little larva that wanted to eat your dreams alive and never stop!

It hadn't been Jones who said that but she could imagine the words in his mouth.

But, Jones had understood on some level Belle wouldn't last long if Bae was gone. So long as she still amused him, so long as he wanted her and didn't forget himself in one of his cold fits of temper, Bae was safe.

But, what would Maurice have done if he'd decided Bae was a threat?

"I . . . don't know. It—it was always when he was feeling kindlytowards Bae that he spoke of letting him do—do dangerous things. Like train to be a knight." And he had felt kindly. He had seemed to care about the boy who may have reminded him of his own sons. Sometimes.

He'd loved Rosamonde. That hadn't stopped him from doing what he had to for the Marchlands.

No, she wouldn't think of these things. Knights. Bae. "That's how Lord Maurice began, you know. He was just a knight. But, he saved the king's life in battle. I—I think he may have imagined Bae following in his steps. Sometimes." Just so long as it didn't endanger the succession or put a peasant's son in his place.

"Gaston, he. . . ." she could say this. Gaston wasn't here. She didn't need to please him or keep his good will. "Maybe he saw Bae as a—a rival. But, it was only a small one. Bae would have been no danger at all if—if I'd had a child by Gaston, a son, but. . . ." Belle shrugged. She was barren. For whatever reason, Bae was the only child she would ever have. "Gaston would have had Bae trained as clerk. If Bae had become a priest or cleric when he was grown, Gaston would have been overjoyed. And—" Belle hesitated, feeling as though she were betraying Bae by admitting this, "—and I would have been happy. That he wasn't a soldier. I didn't want him to die." She reached for her locket. Like his father.

"Clerics died, too, when the Ogres came," the Dark One said. "And soldiers. And peasants. And weavers."

Belle flushed. "I'm sorry. I know I'm foolish. I know you—you saw what the Ogres did. But, Bae's my son. I dreamt of some safe life for him. Behind high, thick walls where danger could never come. I. . . ." she looked uncertainly at the garden below. "I seem to have found it. I wasn't expecting to feel like this when it happened."

"Why? How do you feel?"

"Lost," she said. "Empty." She saw Bae down below, running through the gardens, happy and laughing. "Unneeded," she whispered.

"He needs you," the Dark One said softly. "You didn't see him when we found you in the snow. He was terrified. He couldn't bear it if he lost you."

After a moment, Belle nodded. "I know." She did know. Didn't she? "It's so strange to watch him like this. No dangers, no threats. Just children. Playing." She shook her head. "Just a pleasant day."

"Share it with him," the Dark One said. "Come with me and take a walk around the garden. Enjoy the sunlight, the flowers. See how you feel, then."

X

They walked outside. Rumplestiltskin pointed out things of no great importance—nothing fearful or dangerous. He told her the history of the cherry tree, how he had been given the cutting he had grown into this tree by an emperor far to the east, along with other treasures. It had been in return for weaving a cloth not everyone could see (Belle laughed as he told her how that had turned out). He told her details about the small brook that cut along the edge of the garden and the golden fish that swam in it. Like Dove's birds, the fish would come swarming if you offered them breadcrumbs. Rumplestiltskin produced a small bag for her and watched as some of the bleakness began to fade out of Belle's eyes.

He remembered when he'd told her she would have to leave. This house had seemed like a good idea, then—it had seemed like a necessary idea.

He'd told her as he'd tucked blankets around her and silently ordered the fire to burn a little warmer, "You need a safe place, a place where you can be with Bae and shut the world out—shut me out and keep me out, so I have no choice but to obey—if you decide to. I'd give you the castle, if you wanted." Never mind that he'd have to scour over it inch by inch to make sure he didn't leave any unpleasant magic behind. He could do that. "But, I'd have to camp out by the front door to make sure people—" or things that couldn't really be called people, "—didn't bother you. But, I was thinking a house of your own. With servants. You wouldn't have to do anything but sit in the sun or read in the library—it will have a library—all day, if you want. . . ."

Belle had been tired and more unnerved by his offer than excited. He wasn't sure if she even remembered it the next day or put it down to some dream. Of course, she was also had plenty to distract her that day. Bae had been bouncing up and down from the moment Rumplestiltskin told him his mother was awake till the moment he'd dragged the excited boy off so Belle could get some more rest, only to go through it all again when she woke up.

Belle had recovered quickly, though, the medicine Rumplestiltskin gave her doing its work. It wasn't long till she cornered him and asked what he'd been talking about. In a way, he supposed he'd been hoping she'd forgotten. He could ignore the burst of conscience that made him promise that safe place to her. Instead, they could try to go back to how they were before his terrible stupidity on All Soul's. They could pretend it never happened, and he could pretend not to see the fear in her eyes.

Rumplestiltskin had been in his workroom, carding gold and nettles, when Belle climbed all the way up the stairs—she was still too weak for that, he knew. She would have had to stop every few steps to catch her breath. He remembered how, tired and distracted, she'd forgotten what she meant to say, staring at his work instead. Some parts of it were grass green, some glittering gold. Some were transforming into a blue only a few shades darker than Belle's eyes. "What are you making?" she asked.

"Thread," he said. "Eventually. See? It's the nettles you beat down for me." He held up the green fibers, hoping it was a good thing to show her there'd been a use for them other than just torturing her. "I'm mixing it with gold to make yarn." He pointed to his wheel where he had already spun some into sky colored thread.

"But. . . ." Belle hesitated. She was always careful before contradicting him. Or asking a question he might take as a contradiction. Still, in the end, she wasn't afraid to say it. That was something. ". . . .that's blue."

"So it is. You know how, if you mix blue and yellow, you get green?" It wasn't actually common knowledge in this world. Most people, when they dyed their cloth, followed recipes that had been handed down and wouldn't have dreamed of mixing a dye made with blue flowers with a dye made from yellow ones. Apart from dying, how often did people mix colors? It wasn't as if they could just pluck the colors out of daffodils and leaves and throw them together. But, Belle had been married to a weaver and learned quite a few secrets of his trade—even adding some of her own innovations.

"Yes," Belle said.

"Well, the yellow in the gold covers the yellow in the green, leaving only the blue."

"That doesn't make sense."

He smiled, pleased. That contradiction had just burst out of her without a touch of fear. Even if it was only her weariness speaking, it was something. "Oh, it makes perfect sense, dearie, just not the kind most people are used to. Magic works that way. Here, maybe this will make you feel better." He brought out a cloak he'd made. It was a mottled combination, green and yellow. "I made this from gold and nettles, too, but I kept them separate. "I. . . ." It was his turn to hesitate, turning shy. "I thought you might like it. The nettles have protective powers, to shield you from curses. And other things." It wasn't mourner's black, but he could change that. Although, she wouldn't be in mourning forever. Would she? Rumplestiltskin wasn't sure if he wanted that or not. After all, he was the one she mourned.

Belle ran a hand uncertainly over the cloak, as if she expected it to sting her and was surprised when it didn't. "Is this what you meant to use the nettles for when you had me beat them?"

Rumplestiltskin turned evasive, avoiding a direct lie. "I hadn't decided what use I'd put it to." He'd meant to make the clothes for Bae and keep some of the rest of the thread for later, but he hadn't decided. "But, you more than earned it." He ran a finger along the cloth. "I learned how to make it from a witch's daughter, centuries ago. She had seven half-brothers her mother had turned into swans—her mother wanted her daughter to inherit everything. The girl made nettle shirts to turn her brothers back." Making the shirts was nearly as painful as making the thread, Rumplestiltskin recalled—or it was to someone without thick scales on his hands. "Her mother had a tracking spell on her that would find her the moment she spoke, so she kept silent the whole time she was working on them. People thought she was a witch herself. She was nearly burned for her troubles. But, her brothers flew to the rescue at the last moment. She threw the shirts on them—they were going to burn the shirts with her—and her brothers were changed back, all except the youngest. She hadn't had time to finish the sleeve. He was only partly changed. That's why she came to me, to turn his wing back into an arm." Was he babbling or being charming? He wasn't sure.

Belle put the cloak down. "You—you said I'd have to leave," she said. "When I was better. Well, I'm better."

"You're out of breath just from walking up the stairs to my workroom." He studied her intently. "In fact, I'm surprised you didn't pass out. You should sit down."

It was Belle's turn to glare. She couldn't help herself, though she looked away quickly when she realized what she was doing. "I'm sorry. I—I don't mean to be ungrateful. Not after all you've done."

All he'd done. Abandon her. Believe lies told by her enemies. Accuse her of betraying him. Torture her. Terrify her. Try to steal her son. Let her think he was going to let another man pay for the privilege of raping her. 'Ungrateful' was better than he deserved. "You're not. I don't want you to think I'm abandoning you." He looked at her hopefully. "I'll come every day, if only to keep up with Bae's lessons. I'll haunt the house till you're sick of me and throw me out, if you allow it." Wait. He'd been trying to reassure her. Haunting the house till she kicked him out wasn't reassuring.

But, his babble surprised a laugh out of Belle. She covered her mouth quickly, and he saw the fear in her eyes as she realized what she'd done and watched to see if he was angry. He pretended not to have noticed, trying only to look anxious to please (should he have done something more? He wanted to hold her safely in his arms, protected from every danger, even knowing that would make him the danger she most feared).

Still, he was encouraged. Rumplestiltskin told her his plan, a house near the village (he didn't mention he could raise it up by magic in no time and, with a bit more effort, make sure the weather around it was always mild. No more blizzards if Belle wanted to stroll the gardens. That would be a surprise), servants who would be loyal to her and do all the work (the Doves, he thought. They were almost painfully straightforward and loyal, had daughters close to Bae's age, and he had saved their lives, more or less. He could trust them. And there was that dwarf and his ex-fairy wife. He'd helped her break free from the winged sisterhood and marry her short lover, even if he had charged them for the privilege. Perhaps he could make a deal with them), and anything else Belle could think of.

Belle had smiled—at him—and looked encouraged.

The Doves were persuaded. He hadn't spoken to Nova and the dwarf, not sure if he wanted them around. The fairy was all right, but her husband could find a cloud around any silver lining. Rumplestiltskin didn't think Belle needed that. The dwarf would probably be busy in his boat, anyway. The house was built, despite the snows (what else was magic for?), and a small pocket of gentle summer reigned over it.

It was made of warm colored woods, polished till they shone like honey, not cold stone like his castle. The plastered walls were painted in soft colors, off-whites and pastels. Rumplestiltskin hung tapestries he had seen Belle admiring in the castle. The floors were covered with thick carpets, jewel-like pieces from Agrabah and comforting, soft wools from the Frontlands.

Packed away in a small room in the castle, Rumplestiltskin still had the few bits of furniture he and Belle had kept in their home. He'd tried to think of some excuse that would let him put those in Belle's house, but he couldn't come up with any that sounded believable.

And, now, they were here, and he wasn't sure if he'd done the right thing or not. He'd tried to listen to the things Belle said—and the things she hadn't said. He wasn't sure there had been a moment in the past six years that Belle hadn't been thinking about whether a choice would protect Bae or endanger him. Even her own safety and survival, he'd come to realize, only mattered to her because Bae needed her to protect him and keep him alive.

He'd been frightened by the hint of emptiness he'd seen in Belle's eyes as she began to believe Bae was really, truly safe. He needed her to know it would destroy their son if something happened to the mother he loved so much. The boy needed her—Rumplestiltskin needed her.

Belle began to brighten as they walked in the gardens. He saw her simple pleasure at the cherry blossoms and the fish in the stream. When Bae came running to her, his face beaming, she glowed. Rumplestiltskin found his fears easing a little. There had been so much that had gone wrong, he told himself, he was seeing dangers where there were none.

All the same, he still worked a small charm before he left. He shaped it into a ring and handed it to Dove. "This will begin to warm if your lady is in danger. It will burn if her life is threatened," he told the giant. "Wear it always, and don't let her come to harm."