Chapter 16
The ornamental egg is a beautiful thing, though perhaps a little too flashy for modern tastes, and he created it, not by transforming something else but by combining magic with thought. The former method would have been more economical—he could have easily transformed a pinecone or a stone into this egg-shaped case and doing so would have required less magic—but he wanted this container to be brand-new, a product of pure imagination, because it would shelter the greatest achievement wizardry had ever seen, would ever see; nothing he or any other sorcerer would do henceforth could compare with his production of the True Love Potion.
With a quick glance at Emma, who sets the jeweled container in his outstretched hands, and her father, who had unwittingly provided half the necessary ingredients for this potion, for just a second Gold wonders whether he could recreate the formula using samples from other True Lovers—himself and Belle, for instance. Would the magic produced from a different couple be different from the fuchsia-colored liquid now in the vial? Would it act different, smell different? Then the solid-gold egg is placed in his hands and he draws it to his chest, cradling it as he once cradled a precious infant for whom he'd sacrificed so much. His fingers stroke the raised patterns on the ornate case: fleurs de lis and interlocking diamonds. As a practitioner of magic, he is proud of his achievement and fully cognizant of the fact that this potion can grant him powers surpassing any ever known. Surrounding the egg with his arms, he can feel the vibration of the magic contained within; that's how powerful the potion is. Even with an inch of solid gold between him and the potion, the cells in his fingertips are dancing, pulling towards the power, and his mouth comes alive with the long-forgotten taste of magic, the flavors of treacle and brimstone and exotic spices. He hasn't even unleashed the magic yet, but his body remembers and yearns.
His imagination fires with thoughts of all the things he will be able to do with this great power: his magic might even be freed from the laws that have constrained it. What if he now has the ability to raise the dead or bring forth love where none exists? But Rumplestiltskin, while the most skilled and learned of all the Dark Ones, is, his predecessors would say, the least ambitious. Everything he's achieved in magic has been in service to one goal only—one disappointingly ordinary and very human goal.
"So what are you going to do with it?" David is asking.
"Huh?" Gold only half-hears the question.
"I figure we've got a right to know. After all, I risked my life twice to protect that thing."
"If this is a love potion," Emma begins.
But Gold interrupts her. "Not 'a love potion,' Ms. Swan. A True Love potion—the True Love potion. There is not and never has been another."
"I stand corrected," Emma concedes. "Since this is the True Love potion, what's it do? Does it make people fall in love?"
"It's my hope," Gold says, "that it will accomplish much more."
"Which would be?"
"Forgiveness."
"That sounds like the beginning of another story," Emma smiles. "The one you promised to tell me after I fulfilled this end of our bargain."
"Very soon, Ms. Swan," Gold assures her. He wants to get rid of David first; he intends to swear Emma to secrecy before he tells her the rest of the story. The fewer people who know about his role in the curse, the better; she will have to be told in order to take him to Bae, but no one else need know: certainly not her parents, who would probably promptly toss him in jail—with Regina, once she's caught, going into the adjacent cell—nor the townsfolk, who foolishly tend to hunt down monsters with their useless pitchforks and pickaxes. And certainly not Belle, who's got way too much to deal with as it is.
And certainly not Belle, who—if he's brutally honest with himself—is too new to loving him again to forgive him for the curse that fractured families and dumped them into false lives. . . the curse that gave her a lie in place of a baby. No, it's too soon for her to hear the full story. "This is a very precious object," he says of the egg. "We need to take it somewhere safe."
"Besides, we need to get cleaned up," David suggests, brushing ash from his denim jacket. "I've got dragon all over me. Let's go back—"
But a honking car horn breaks in and a Honda appears around the corner, coming to a stop just behind Gold's Caddy. Belle jumps out, leaving the engine running. "There you are!" she sounds exasperated. "I went to the grocery and Clark's—what are you doing here?" She peers past the trio and into the library, the doors of which stand open for the first time ever.
"We, uh, had an errand," Gold says, then spins the question around. "Why were you looking for me? Is something wrong?"
"You're late," Belle points up at the clock above the library. "And your cell phone's off so I couldn't call you. Ms. Crawford arrived at the house fifteen minutes ago. Mary—I mean, Snow—is keeping her occupied, but the next appointment will arrive at ten."
"Well, every lawyer I've ever known has always been late to appointments," Emma supplies. "It makes them seem more valuable, you know? Plus they get paid by the hour."
Gold frowns at her. "Thank you, Ms. Swan, I think."
Belle yanks at his sleeve. "Come on, Rumple, we need to get you back. Poor Ms. Crawford's scared to death she's going to lose custody of Little Tom."
"Come on, Emma, let's go home," David says. "See ya, Gold. Thanks for the waffles and Old Dragon Cutter." He pats the sword riding on his hip.
"I'll be by tonight, Gold," Emma informs him. "You're not getting off that easy."
"I never break a bargain, Ms. Swan," he assures her as he opens the driver's side door of the Caddy.
"Hey, what is that?" Belle asks, indicating the ornamental egg.
"A relic of the past," he answers, laying it carefully on the passenger seat before climbing behind the steering wheel. "And a hope for the future. I'll meet you back at the house shortly, sweetheart."
He enters the house through the basement and hides the egg in his tool cabinet. It's an unworthy storage for such a precious potion, but his safe is in his den, where Snow and Ms. Crawford are sipping tea. No one comes into the basement. Besides Belle, no one knows his house even has a basement because he's never had visitors. . .because he's never had friends other than the Doves. Ever. With Belle living under his roof now, he feels the prick of loneliness at that realization. He's lived with the lack of companionship for centuries now, stretching back far before he became the Dark One: no one wants the company of a child whose father rejected him, nor that of an army deserter whose wife flaunted her infidelity.
Just as well, he used to tell himself; the Dark One may keep his secrets safe then. And then Belle came along with her curiosity and her caring.
He'll have to tell her about the potion, soon. And eventually, the curse and Milah and Hordor and Hook and Pan and the entire cast of characters from his sordid life. She needs to know what she's getting into. When she took her vow to go with him forever, she was naïve and uninformed. Just as Zoso had done to Rumplestiltskin, Rumple had done to her, withholding information that could have caused her to refuse the deal he offered her. She deserves full disclosure; she's earned it, right enough, after all she's been dragged through for his sake.
He brushes off his jacket, straightens his tie and climbs the stairs that lead into the kitchen. He washes his face at the sink, buying a few seconds to collect himself before he enters the den in long, confident strides. "Ms. Crawford, Ms. Blanchard, sorry to keep you waiting. Now," he picks up his Mont Blanc fountain pen. "Suppose you tell me your situation, Ms. Crawford."
Snow discreetly excuses herself.
As the eleven o'clock client leaves, Belle enters, bearing a tray of sandwiches—but, with Belinda's culinary skills fresh in her mind, it's not cold cuts she's bringing, but real, substantial food: French dip roast beef with a Caesar salad.
"Thank you," he sighs, reaching for the sandwich, but she slaps his hand away.
"Huh uh." She opens a cloth napkin and tucks it into his shirt. "Don't want to drip on that three-hundred dollar tie." She sits across the desk from him and asks about the cases he's accepted so far. "You haven't turned anyone away, have you?"
"No," he admits, and she beams. "But, Belle, it's going to be a tremendous amount of work. Some of these people will probably end up fixing their own problems, but some will have to go to court. It could take months. Why should I be taking care of strangers when you need me?"
She abandons her salad, folding her hands in her lap and leaning back in the leather chair. "I do need you, especially now. I'm still feeling. . . unsettled. I'm still in mourning. And I'm angry–it's so damn unfair! But Rumple, I need something to occupy my mind, productive and positive work to do, and I think this—" she sweeps her hand in the air, indicating the shelves full of law books behind his desk—"will be good for us. Working together will bring us together." She sips her tea. "I called Archie for an appointment. I'm seeing him tomorrow afternoon."
He nods. "What time?"
"Rumple. . . he wants to see me and Jo first."
He chews slowly, thinking. "Not you and Jo and me?"
"Not yet. He says Jo and I need to close the door on our marriage first before we move on."
Gold falls silent, his chewing becoming angry.
"Rumple, it's you I love. It's always been you."
He wants to stay angry; he wants to wallow in jealousy because if he punishes himself hard enough, maybe she won't have to. But she's sitting across the antique desk looking as unguarded and giving as she did the day she sat on the dining table in the Great Hall and asked to be allowed to get to know him. He starts to smile in spite of himself and a drop of the French dip slides down his lip. His tongue darts out to catch it. She smiles then: "You look just like a little boy sometimes."
"Only you could overlook the gray hair and wrinkles." He smiles back at her. "Yes. Working together will be good for us." He holds back a sigh of frustration when he thinks about that potion waiting for him in the basement—and that son, waiting for him somewhere out there. "Perhaps this afternoon you could begin the research we'll need for these cases. Along with studying custody and marriage laws, we'll look for precedents." Then he shakes his head. "Although, dollars to donuts, we won't find any previous cases that involve the custody of children taken from their families by a curse."
"Well, our life has never been simple. Why should that change now?"
The doorbell rings and he protests when she swipes his unfinished sandwich, gathering the dishes onto the tray. "You don't want to keep another client waiting, do you?"
"When it's your cooking, I do," he grumbles, snatching the sandwich back. "Give him a sandwich and then he won't complain about the wait."
She laughs over her shoulder as she leaves to answer the door.
They're sitting on the back porch swing, watching the sun go down hand in hand like an old married couple as the dishwasher swishes in the background. They've worked hard today; they both had lessons to learn. They sway in blissful silence.
He wonders if there's a swing on the back porch at the ranch house.
Oh, but it's he, not Dove, that Belle is snuggled up to tonight, and he's going to do his damnedest to keep it that way. Gold feels a little guilty, but he assures himself that what Josiah must be feeling for Belle now is the loss of companionship, not the loss of love. It's Belinda that Josiah loved, and Belinda and the man Josiah was when under the curse no longer exist. Soon, what Josiah feels when he thinks back on that marriage will be a vague fondness and a dimming nostalgia. Or so Gold hopes.
And then Gold wonders if fondness and nostalgia are what Bae feels when he thinks about his father. Or is it hurt, anger—or worse, nothing at all?
The doorbell rings.
Belle moans and sits up, rubbing her eyes. "I was nearly asleep," she complains.
"Leave it," he urges. "Let them go away. They can come back tomorrow."
She stands slowly. "It might be important."
He hauls himself up with his cane and urges her to sit back down. "Rest. I'll get rid of them."
"Be nice, Rumple," she warns, but she lies down on the swing.
The sheriff in her red leather jacket is standing at his front door. "I'm back, like I said."
"So you did. So you are." But he blocks the doorway. "Don't you ever get tired, Ms. Swan?"
"A savior's work is never done," she quips. "Especially not when your mom's Snow White and your dad's Prince Charming."
"Point taken. Speaking of which?" He peers past her into the darkness.
"Oh, they're at home, getting some quality time with their grandson." Emma shakes her head in disbelief. "I have no idea how we'll explain this to other people when we leave here."
"You'll think of something." He allows her to hear the weariness in his voice. "It's nine o'clock. What did you come for that can't wait until tomorrow?"
"You promised me a story, remember?" Emma pushes her way into the foyer. "Bedtime's the perfect time for it."
"Oh. Yes. Well—"
"I'd like to hear a story too. Hi, Emma."
Caught, Gold grips the handle of his cane and forces a smile as he turns to face Belle.
"Hey, Lin. Thanks for breakfast this morning, by the way."
Gold surrenders, closing the door. "Won't you come in, Ms. Swan?"
"Let's go into the kitchen," Belle suggests. "I'll put on the kettle. I have some fresh cookies."
Gold trails after the women. He's trapped now. He starts planning how to edit the story, to leave out the parts that might cause Belle to give up on him. He's still editing when, cups of tea and plates of cookies distributed all around, the women finish their polite chatter and stare at him. Waiting for the truth in its entirety.
He pleads with Belle with his eyes.
"I've just come from a marriage based on falsehood," she reminds him softly.
He nods, understanding her implication; and she's right: she can't tolerate more deception. Nor can he. He stirs his tea, watching the cloud of milk dissipate. Then he sets his spoon down and looks at her nakedly. As he speaks, his voice is neither Gold's slow, solemn one nor Rumplestiltskin's high-pitched, fast-talking one. "All right. This is the story of an unwanted, abandoned child and a very much wanted but abandoned child. Once upon a time. . . ."