Chapter 6

"Hey, Mr. G., who'd have a key for the library?" Josiah asks as he prepares to take out the trash.

"The library?" Gold glances up from the stack of bills he's paying. "You don't want to go in there, Josiah. It's unsafe." Because in the basement there's evidence of a kidnapping, not to mention a drugged dragon that Emma hasn't got around to killing yet.

"Well, Belinda wanted a book." Dove yanks the drawstring tight, closing the trash bag. "Mary Margaret found an injured bird during that wild storm we had in March, and now Belinda's curious."

"About what?"

"Well, Doc Thatcher told Mary Margaret if the bird didn't reunite with its flock, it wouldn't live long. It'll mourn for its lost mate. See, it's a dove, and they mate for life."

"And did Ms. Blanchard succeed in getting the dove back to its flock?"

"She did. Close call, though. So now Belinda wants to read up on doves. She thinks it's a good sign. For our family, you know, because of the coincidence of our name."

"The mating for life thing," Gold murmurs. "I see. Well, I can vouch for what Thatcher said. In my younger years, I spent a little time with doves. I got to know a mating pair quite well; they built a nest on my estate. It's true: they bond for life. Courage, that was what I called the male; and his mate was Faith. When Faith passed away, Courage stopped eating. I had to feed him with an eyedropper. He was depressed for weeks, but he finally regained his strength, and I suppose, his hope." Gold looks closely into Josiah's eyes for a flash of recognition, any sign of awakening. If a glass mobile could spark a memory in Charming, surely hearing his own name and his mate's spoken could do something for Dove.

Josiah frowns, tilting his head upward and to the right—an indicator that he's reaching for a memory. But it flies away—driven away by the curse—and he sighs in annoyance.

"I have a key for the library. I'll go over at lunchtime and find a book for you."

"Thanks." Josiah picks up the trash bag. "Hey, Mr. G.? What happened to Courage?"

Gold studies his "I Love New York" coffee mug. It's one of a set he bought just after Emma came to town. There's one for London, one for Rome, one for Paris—twelve altogether. Whenever Madame Mayor has interrupted his lunch or his coffee break, she's found him drinking from one of these mugs. They are a promise for the future—to himself, that he will search for Bae; and to Belle, that as soon as they're reunited, he'll take her around the world, as she used to dream of. It's also his little private joke on Regina—his reminder that the curse will be broken—but a joke she's never caught onto.

"He grew strong again," Gold answers Dove's question. "Found work to do, friends, a place to be needed."

"Did he find another mate?"

Gold is slow in replying. "I believe he will. He has such a big heart, it would be a shame not to share it."

Josiah grins, satisfied with the answer. He takes the trash bag out to the alley, closing the door gently behind him.

"A man may love for life too," Gold murmurs to himself. "I was a friend to you once, Josiah. I hope I will be again." He raises the New York mug above his head, brings it crashing down, smashes it against the worktable. A ceramic shard punctures the side of his hand, burying itself there until drops of blood wash it away. He watches the blood drip onto a half-written check (Josiah's pay, as it happens); he needs the distraction. He needs the physical pain, to take his mind off the emotional. But most of all, he needs to punish himself; it's a down-payment for the pain he will soon cost a pair of idealists who believe they've married for life.

"You broke our deal!"

Those are fighting words with Rumplestiltskin, but Regina doesn't care. He has no magic, so what harm can he do to her?

Then again, what harm can she do to him?

"I've broken one deal in my life, dear, and it certainly wasn't this one."

"Kathryn was to die and Mary Margaret was to get the blame." He would accuse her of possessing unmitigated gall, but he knows that behind her anger is hurt: despite all she's done to him, she still depends upon him as a mentor and confidant. She's still, in many ways, a child, and now that she's hung Sidney out to dry, Gold is the only potential ally she has left.

"Murder seems so much worse here, doesn't it? You can't just turn someone into a snail and then step on them. You didn't say 'kill her,'" Gold reminds her. "We agreed that something tragic should happen to her. Now, abduction is tragic."

"You made sure this would lead back to me, didn't you? You bastard." Regina finally broaches the unapproachable subject. "This is about getting even with me for Belle, isn't it?"

His lips curl. "Oh, it's about many things, but yes, let's start with Belle and your little joke on us."

"Think about it: I did you a favor."

If he hadn't had three centuries of practice in schooling his expressions, Gold's mouth would drop open right now. As it is, he can't keep from raising an eyebrow.

"When you threw her out of your Dark Castle and her father rejected her, I took her in, gave her a home. Really, Rumple, you should be thanking me. And then I brought her along here. Well, you know how the curse works: no True Loves could be matched here. If I'd given her to you as a lover, the curse would have forced you apart. Perhaps it would have made you her philandering husband or her a drug addict. The only way you could be close to her is if she was safely paired off with someone else, someone who was fool enough not to notice when you started sleeping with his wife." Regina is gloating now. She's lost her ally, her curse is breaking and her town will turn against her, but at least she'll win this battle.

His fingers dig into the handle of his cane. "We're through here."

But she leans in and adjusts his tie just to show she dares to touch him. "Poor dumb Dove. Has he figured it out yet, what you're really paying his wife to do?"

"Get out."

She backs away as his hand brings his cane up, even with his chest. "Really, Rumple! Threatening the one person who was thoughtful enough to bring along your little plaything." She turns on her heel and moves to the exit, but she blows him a kiss as she opens the door. "By the way, I see congratulations are in order." Then she makes a small frown. "Or could it possibly be Dove's hatchling? Oh well. Aren't we lucky to live in the age of DNA tests?"

She slams the door.

In the purchases Josiah made at yesterday's auction there is a box of beech wood, seven boards four feet in length, unblemished. Gold is no woodworker; he normally would offer this treasure to Marco. But as his fingertips trail over the perfect wood, he sees in his mind a detailed image of what this material must become. It won't be difficult, nor long in the making, and it will fill in his alone nights as he listens to Allegri and Schubert. As he sketches the design on brown wrapping paper, he knows where this cradle will go: at the foot of the bay window, the one that looks out onto the garden, in the largest of his spare bedrooms. He will paint the walls, now maroon, yellow, to invite in the sunlight; he will add a row of cutout animals along the baseboards, and he will build low shelves for toys and books.

Belle's tossing a salad as he walks into the kitchen and peeks into the crockpot. "Good old American Yankee pot roast tonight," she announces. "I thought it was time for some local cuisine."

"The perfect accompaniment for the Boston Ballet's Don Quixote," Gold says. "Cooked by an Aussie and served to a Scotsman."

"Are we worldly or what?" She says smugly. "You know, I always did want to travel to exotic places and come home world weary and jaded."

"Someday, I'm sure you will." After Emma gets a move on and breaks the curse.

"Do you ever think about going back to Scotland?"

"No." He's tempted to mention that he's never actually seen Scotland, that nothing about his "past" or hers is real. He wonders if, once she's awakened, she'll want to stay here, living as Belle French-Gold, daughter of a florist, wife of a pawnbroker, or go back to the Dark Castle. Or perhaps they'll start again someplace else. He thinks he'd like Connecticut, but he'll leave the decision to her.

She begins to set the table; he pours glasses of iced tea. They could take supper at the mahogany table in the dining room, but they eat in the kitchen instead, at his suggestion. The table is smaller, the chairs closer together.

"Mr. Gold?"

"Yes?"

"This is going to sound funny, but–did you ever have curly hair?"

He hesitates. He could–should–sidestep the question, but his heart's pounding with the possibility that she. . . .He has to test it. "As a matter of fact, I did, when I lived in a. . .more humid environment. Whatever caused you to ask that, Belinda?"

"I dunno, I–well, I had a weird dream last night. You were in it, and you were talking in a funny voice, and you were sitting in a tall chair, like a throne, except instead of ermine you were wearing–you're gonna laugh–leather pants and a crocodile-skin jacket. You looked like a medieval Jim Morrison."

Sparkly, scaly skin, serpentine eyes, rotten teeth, and what she remembers of his appearance in those days were the hair and the pants? He chuckles. And then he laughs aloud, because that's Belle, his stubborn, strong Belle, pushing and shoving her way through the curse's haze. Now that she's cracked the facade, she'll strike even harder. This is just the beginning: Belle may beat Emma to the finish line.

"Hey, don't laugh," Belle/Belinda protests. "You rocked those pants, dude."

"My dear, it's safe to say that's the first time I've ever been referenced in the same sentence as the word 'rocked.' A compliment, I presume?"

"No kiddin'. You ought to try that look sometime, the pants at least."

He chuckles again. "You'd never believe it to look at me now, but I did own a pair or two of leather trousers in my younger years."

"I knew it! See, I've always suspected there was a wild side to you, buried under all those stuffy suits."

He looks at her closely, and she cocks her head, a small frown forming as she's concentrating. He pushes just a little farther: "Under the civilized layers, alas, I'm a bit of a beast, dearie."

Her eyes widen.

He spreads his napkin across his knee. "Your dream was actually very perceptive. Hit the nail on the head, so to speak; rang the right bell."

Her face twists–confusion, frustration, a hint of alarm. He's immediately sorry for provoking her. He kicks himself mentally: he must bear in mind the overwhelming mix of memories and emotions he experienced in the first few hours of his awakening–and he had the advantage of having prepared himself for it. Belle is in a delicate condition; she must be nurtured through the awakening, not prodded into it. "Are you all right, Belinda?"

"Yes, I. . . just the hormones, I guess."

He dishes up a salad for her. "You'll feel better after you've eaten."

"Yes, that's what it is. I was in a bit of a rush and only had a cup of soup for lunch."

"You mustn't let that happen again." He spreads her napkin across her lap and loads her dinner plate with pot roast, potatoes and carrots.

"No, Mr. Gold, I should be serving you. That's what you pay me for. You shouldn't be fussing over me."

"And you've lived up to your end of the bargain." He pats his stomach meaningfully. "Let me take care of the clean up tonight." He sits down, filling his own plate. "This will be only the second birth in Storybrooke. It merits a fussing over."

"Hmmph! I hadn't realized that. Well, I always have been a bit beyond the norm."

"Unique." He raises his glass of tea in a salute. "And perhaps a trendsetter."

"Really?" She forks up a bite of carrot. "I guess it's like when you buy a new car, all the neighbors want one too."

"I have no doubt Adelena will be an inspiration for a whole new generation of Storybrookers." And some of them ours, Belle? he wants to ask. I'll love Adelena as if she were of my blood, I promise you, but we have room in this house and in our lives for two or three more, perhaps?

"Thank you. That's kind of you to say."

"Plain prognostication. Kindness and I are strangers, dearie."

"No. You're just a bit beyond the norm too."

It's a Monday, as his stomach reminds him, but for the first time since Storybrooke was created, he doesn't hurry home after work. There's only one reason he'd forgo three precious hours with Belle, and that's the reason he's here at all: Baelfire.

His heart pounds as he follows the stranger's motorcycle to the outskirts of town. That motorcycle and Gold's Caddy are the only two vehicles on the seldom-traveled highway leading to the West Woods. Surely the rider—he's been introducing himself around town as "August Wayne Booth"—realizes he's being followed, yet he ignores his pursuer. Booth wants to be followed, Gold concludes, so he makes no effort to hide. Gold's heart pounds all the harder. So many indicators have led to this pursuit: Booth's snooping around the pawnshop, his seeking the Blue Fairy out (Blue! The exact same fairy he turned to, back in the Enchanted Forest), the fairy's remarks about Booth seeking a reunion with his long lost father after "a hard parting," but most of all, unmistakable, is the drawing Gold found when he sneaked into the room Booth rented: a very precise drawing of the Dark dagger.

Rumplestiltskin has dreamt a thousand times of the moment that's about to come. He's changed the setting, changed the timing, changed the dialog like a movie director tinkering with a script. He's imagined finding Bae again in a thousand different ways, but never did he dream that Bae would find him. It means one of two things, two mutually exclusive things: either Bae loves and forgives him, or Bae wants to protect this world from the Dark One. Which could mean Bae's come to kill Rumplestiltskin.

Everything Rumple has done for three hundred years has been to facilitate this moment. He's scared, but his need to see Bae—and his hope that Bae needs him too—has enabled Rumple to throw his fear in the back seat, climb into the Caddy and follow the motorcycle out onto this empty highway. Every moment of Rumple's life comes down to this.

Booth turns off the highway and onto a private dirt road. This road leads to Gold's cabin. "It's him!" Rumple gasps. It has to be: how else would Booth know to turn here? He's done his homework: he knows this is Gold's cabin and he's leading Rumple here, away from the cursed town, so they can talk in private.

Or so he can kill Rumple and not get caught.

As Gold shuts off the engine and slides out from the car, Booth is waiting, looking around. Looking for something.

Gold's heart stops; his tongue is a leaden weight in his desert-dry mouth. "I know who you are. And I know what you're looking for."

Booth stares at him. Something's wrong, something's wrong, but Gold can't see what it is: he's blinded by hope. "Well, then, I guess all the lying can stop, Papa."

It's only after Booth has taken the dagger and turned it on him—turned on him—that Gold realizes what was wrong: Bae's eyes were brown, large and brown like his father's, but Booth's eyes are blue.

Is this the price that Rumplestiltskin must pay for creating the curse?