Aurora saw Professor Longneaux disappear.
She hadn't been spying. It was just that the path she'd pointed out to her was a bit steep and difficult in spots. Despite her apparent energy and health, the professor was an old woman. After sending her down there, Aurora thought that maybe she should have pointed out some of the rougher patches and made sure she made it to the bottom all right. Besides, she'd enjoyed chatting with her.
Still carrying little Philip, Aurora set off down the path. She was just catching up with the professor and about to call out to her when the professor's cell phone went off. Aurora saw her pull it out and read the message. The professor looked like she'd been hit. She stared blankly for a moment and began to breathe rapidly, as if she were fighting panic. Aurora was about to ask her if she was all right when the professor vanished in a cloud of purple smoke.
Aurora stood frozen, uncertain who—or what—or who she had been speaking with.
Maleficent, she thought.
No. Maleficent was dead. Emma had killed her. She had told Aurora how she had killed her with her father's sword and how Maleficent's body had been consumed by her own fire, turning her to ash.
Philip had heard Hook boasting one night at the bar, telling everyone how Maleficent, bound by a spell of Regina's to serve her even after death, had risen up to fight him, a ghost of ash and fire, when he had been sent on a mission into the tunnels beneath the town.
He'd been vague about the mission. It was probably something bad—if he weren't making it up entirely. A man in a bar telling tall tales to get others to buy him a drink, Aurora thought. It wasn't like that had never happened before in the history of the world.
She could ask Emma, she supposed. Aurora had avoided Emma since Zelena had cursed her, transforming her and Philip into flying beasts, forced to obey her every command. Since then, she'd been busy with little Philip, of course, and there were all the problems of learning to live in this new world. The dangers seemed far fewer. Ogres weren't trying to kill her, after all. But, there were so many little things to learn, like baby bottles and can openers. She was still glad for the way Ashley had taken her aside and explained things like disposable diapers and baby monitors.
But, Aurora had heard how Emma had killed some of the other people Zelena cursed, not that the sheriff had had much choice. As monsters, they'd flown in and attacked people, killing some, transforming others into creatures like themselves. Zelena had sent a small brigade of them to try and steal Henry, Emma's son. If someone had tried to do that to little Philip, Aurora wouldn't have cared if they were cursed or not, she'd have done whatever was necessary to protect her son.
But, it didn't change the feeling she had, knowing Emma had killed them despite knowing what they were—despite knowing any one of them could have been Aurora or some other mother with child. Perhaps one of them was—or several.
There hadn't been a choice. Hesitation would have handed Zelena victory and destroyed all of them. And it wouldn't have saved her son. Time had stopped for Aurora while she was under the curse. If she hadn't been changed back, little Philip would never have been born.
It was still a very strange feeling, knowing Emma would have killed her.
But, neither of those was the real reason. The real reason was that, whenever Aurora saw Emma, whether in town or tramping through the woods, she was with Hook. Even when Emma had seemed to be alone, he might suddenly appear, popping out of the shadows. Aurora felt waves of panic whenever she saw him, worse than when she thought of Zelena. Zelena had threatened them and given Aurora and Philip no reason to doubt she'd kill them (or kill little Philip before he ever saw the light of day).
But, she hadn't torn out Aurora's heart. She hadn't forced her to smile as she betrayed her hone and her comrades, to tell lies as she walked with them to their deaths. Zelena hadn't cut the ropes holding back the bars over the pit the fairies had dug to trap Rumplestiltskin. The Wicked Witch hadn't left them to starve in the darkness (Aurora remembered watching the one torch burning in the wall, calculating how long till the light died. She remembered seeing the moisture trickling down the stone walls and wondering if there would be enough to keep thirst from killing the before they died of hunger).
That's what Hook had done. Aurora still remembered the feeling of him reaching inside her. As his hand closed around her heart, it felt as if it were closing around her, as if she were trapped in the dark hollow of his hand. She was choking, unable to breathe.
Then he yanked his arm back; and she saw her heart, a great jewel, pulsing red, as it lay across his palm.
Aurora remembered the look on Emma's face as she told her Hook had freed her because he still had feelings for her. Aurora had smiled like a stupid, naïve, little girl who could actually believe Hook would feel that—as if Hook had been sweet and kind, and Emma had wronged him.
Aurora remembered the small refuge and the survivors living there. She'd only spent a short time living among them, but they'd been kind to her. They comforted her over Philip's death, sharing her grief and telling stories of things Philip had done, the lives he'd saved along with the smaller kindnesses that made such a difference in that ruined land. She'd seen their courage and their strength.
She'd seen them dead, days later, slaughtered by Cora because they were no more use to her—and because their corpses made a good place to plant the sole "survivor." Hook had lived among them, too, claiming to befriend them just as he later claimed to befriend Emma and the rest of their small company.
Cora had put those lying words into Aurora's mouth, but Hook had been nearby. Aurora had felt his laughter as Cora whispered what she should say. When Aurora's heart was returned to her, she'd wanted to vomit, to spit out the memories of what she'd done. If she'd ever met Hook again, she'd meant to take her father's battleax to his lying mouth.
But, Queen Snow and Prince James had given him his life in return for helping to save their grandson. They wouldn't see the pirate harmed. For Henry's sake, even Rumplestiltskin had agreed to a truce. But, Emma went farther than that. It was as if Hook had never tried to kill them. It was as if she remembered what Aurora had said about sweet, kind, brokenhearted Hook and forgotten that every word of it had been a lie forced out of Aurora with black magic.
Maleficent and Regina were hardly the only witches in Storybrooke, Aurora told herself. There had to be others who ccould vanish in a puff of smoke. Even Emma, a woman who'd mocked the idea of Ogres till they were attacking her, was learning it. The professor had said she'd been an herbalist in the old world. That took at least a little understanding of spells, and some learned more than a little. That might be all this was.
She should call the sheriff and tell her . . . what? Someone in Storybrooke had magic? An herb woman might also be a witch? And perhaps she should throw in that water was wet and the sun was bright at midday while she was at it.
What she was afraid of wasn't possible. Unless Hook had been telling the truth, not just lying to rustle up drinks. Unless some magic had gathered ashes and dust into something that could walk by the light of day.
Aurora had seen the dead walking. Cora had used her magic on the men and women she'd killed, sending their corpses to capture Aurora. She remembered the cold hands closing around her and seeing the dead, twisted faces of people who wept with her over Philip only days before. The professor hadn't been like that. Her eyes had sparkled with life. Her words had been peppered with dry humor. When she took little Philip, Aurora had felt living warmth in her hands. She wasn't some dead thing returned to life.
Was she?
If Aurora called the sheriff and told her Maleficent was back, Emma would want to speak with her face to face. If that happened, odds were Hook would come with her, especially if Emma knew he claimed to have fought Maleficent since she'd "died."
Emma hadn't even noticed Aurora wanted nothing to do with him. According to the rumors she'd heard, Emma didn't understand why Rumplestiltskin had turned on Hook, though everyone knew Hook had tried to kill him—and Belle—in the past.
Aurora couldn't bring herself to go to Emma, not if it meant risking a meeting with Hook, not when all she had were suspicions that might be nothing more than her own fears. But, that left Aurora and her family on their own against the professor. If the professor was anything to be afraid of and not just an old woman gathering thorns.
What was it Mulan called impossible choices? Between a dragon's den and a tiger's lair.
There'd been something else Mulan had said. They'd been discussing Maleficent, and Mulan had said something in her own language. Embarrassed, Mulan had explained some of it—but just some of it. Aurora was pretty sure Mulan left out the swear words. There'd been a phrase. Mulan said it was something her people called the "Lady Dragon." Aurora had almost forgotten it. But, it had been—it had been—
A chill ran down Aurora's spine. No, she had to be remembering that wrong. She had to be. She'd barely been able to learn more than a few words and phrases of Mulan's language, if you could call her mangled pronunciations that. Mulan had been sent on a mission to her homeland before the second curse fell. As far as Aurora had been able to find out, she hadn't been swept up when they were brought here.
Maleficent had to know that tongue. When she'd cursed Philip, changing him into a beast from Mulan's legends, it had suited the dark fairy's humor to leave him only able to understand or write (he couldn't talk) in that language. At the beginning, when his human memories were easier to hold onto, he had recalled the trading outpost near the border of the Marchlands, the same village where Mulan had been stationed by her emperor. Philip had gone there, hoping to find someone who could understand him. But, his humanity had eroded under the curse. When the people fled or attacked him as the monster he seemed to be, he had responded in fury. It was only when he was wounded and close to dying that the man inside him was able to plead for help, scrawling words in the ground.
He hadn't expected the woman before him to understand. Reddish-brown curls and blue eyes, she was a Marchlander. He told Aurora he didn't know why he tried. Except that he was dying when he needed to live to save Aurora. Except that the beast wanted to lie down and die, but the man looked at the woman and knew—or hoped—there was still a chance. She would give him mercy. He hadn't known the woman was the daughter of the lord of the Marchlands and had been taught the tongues of the traders who passed through their lands since infancy.
That woman was still in Storybrooke. She would be to tell her this much. Once she knew, Aurora could decide whether or not to face her fears and talk to Emma.
She picked up her phone. It still took a moment to run through the steps of how to use it and make sure she was doing it right. Then she tapped in the number and called Belle Gold.
X
Rumplestiltskin smiled as he strode towards Jones. "I've been causing trouble for you, mate?" he said, Will's accent rolled off his tongue. His mask was different than Maleficent's. Hers had been made from scholars' texts, bits of earth, and leaves. His was made with three drops of Will Scarlet's heart's blood. It had let him find the shadows of Will's life and match them to his own. He'd still managed not to lie. Not that he expected Belle to see it that way. Truth—real truth—was what mattered to her. Twisting words that weren't actually false till they said whatever he wanted them to didn't count with her.
It mattered to him—it mattered immensely. True words were on of the walls he'd built to hold the darkness inside him in check. So, he had talked about the wife he loved and then said something about Will's Ana. It didn't matter if the person listening—even if the person was Belle—thought he was speaking about the same woman. He knew hadn't said anything that wasn't true. He could feel the separation between himself and his curse.
And there was so much in the Knave's life that had been easy to match against his own. There'd been a time when Will had known his true love was dead, just as Rumplestiltskin once had. A girl he cared for, Lizard, died just like Bae, because she used magic without understanding its price. The Knave had seen his sister fall through the ice and slip through his fingers, like Bae falling into another world. Even his time as a genie, given great power and enslaved by it, had been so easy to match up against the Dark One's curse.
Rumplestiltskin looked at the man standing just a few feet away from him. Here was another point in common: they both hated Jones.
The Knave didn't hate him as much as Rumplestiltskin did. That kind of rage was reserved for a man named Jafar, a man who'd tortured Ana till she did as he commanded. Then he'd murdered her in front of the Knave's eyes. But, he hadn't left it there. Jafar had broken the laws of magic, ignoring the consequences. He had brought Anastasia back to life so he could cast a spell forcing her into his arms while the Knave could only watch.
But, Jones was just a thug in Will's eyes, no different from the Caterpillar or the sheriff of Nottingham's guards, who beat up those who were weaker than them because they could. Drunk as he'd been, Will remembered the pirate beating him outside the library, then threatening to kill him if he told Emma. Will would have had no more trouble than Rumplestiltskin did understanding why Jones was angry. "This is about Snotty, ain't it?" Rumplestiltskin said, still using the Knave's voice. "You put him up to it, going after Belle, didn't you? He's too stupid sober to use the right side of the loo. Waiting to jump a woman till she locked up shop would be too hard for his brain to think of."
"Gold's pet had her fun, playing hard to get. But, enough is enough. I merely suggested that strong men take what they need."
"You're new in town, mate, and about three hundred years behind the times. Around here, guys who do what Snotty tried get to rot in jail. It's not—what do you call it?—good form. Not that you'd know what that is."
Jone's brow furrowed. Good, Rumplestiltskin wanted him angry. Angry men made more mistakes. "Keith told me you had a fast mouth. What were you, Hood's jester?"
"It beats being the fool. That's your job, ain't it?"
The pirate gritted his teeth. "I'm here to make you an object lesson. People need to learn what happens when you pick the wrong side in a fight," Jones said. Then he came at him with his hook
Good. This wouldn't be nearly as much fun if he came at him with his hand.
Jones had been a good fighter even before he made the (colossally stupid) mistake of running to Neverland for safety. Three centuries of surviving Rumplestiltskin's father's deadly games hadn't slowed his reflexes (or sharpened his wits). In a fair fight (not that either of them were big on those), Rumplestiltskin would have bet on Jones to beat the Knave.
Rumplestiltskin wasn't Will. He was strong enough to twist Jones' arm off if he'd wanted. Instead, he caught him by the wrist, stepping back out of the hook's way as he brought it down, using the pirate's momentum to twist him around. He continued to bring Jones' arm around behind the pirate's back, as if it were a hand on a clock, letting it bend at the elbow instead of breaking it (tempting as that was). With his other hand, Rumplestiltskin twisted off the hook and had it at Jones' throat before he'd figured out that he lost.
Rumplestiltskin looked at Jones' friends. "What do you think, Captain?" he said. "Should I make you into an object lesson and show your pals what happens when they pick the wrong fight?"
"You've lost," Jones whispered.
"Oh, yeah? How's that? Getting your hook caught in your throat was all part of your master plan, was it?"
Jones was worried but he hadn't lost his wits. There was something calculating going on in his head. Jones with a plan. The gods themselves must be quaking in terror.
"You're so smart, you figure it out," Jones said. He sounded much too smug for a man a hair away from death. "Here's a hint: what's missing?"
Missing? Rumplestiltskin looked over the pirate, but there was nothing out of place about him. He looked at Jones' friends. They were about what you'd expect from a pack of dock rats whose idea of fun was seeing who would have the worst hangover in the morning. The faces had changed, but they might as well be the same crew who had stood around grinning while Jones had his fun robbing beggars and beating them up. They—
Wait, the faces.
Rumplestiltskin looked them over. Some had been here during the first curse. Others were new. A few weren't even human. He recognized two who had been Trolls in the old world and one who had been an Ogre.
His grip on Jones tightened. "Where's Snotty?"
He could feel Jones' grin. "Where do you think?"
Maybe Jones had made bail for his "pal." Maybe Emma had let him go once he'd sobered up. But, wherever he was, he wasn't in a jail cell anymore—and Belle had no one to guard her.
X
Belle sat curled up on the couch, feeling dull and empty, trying to think of all the things she should be doing tonight. Tonight. . . . She was too tired to plan, tonight. Tomorrow. She would try to plan tomorrow.
No, she would get to work on leaving tomorrow. There, she'd said it. She couldn't stay in Storybrooke, not any longer. There was no place here for Rumplestiltskin's child.
So many things needed to be done, though. Like money. She'd have to get everything she could out of the banks. If it was possible to access the accounts across the town line, surely she'd have seen some evidence by now that Rumple was doing that? Unless he was trying to stay hidden from her. His cuff links would have brought a good price if he pawned them.
His wedding ring would fetch a good price, too. It might have been less painful to part with than the cufflinks.
A mugger might have thought the same thing. For all she knew, her husband was lying unconscious in a hospital somewhere or wandering the streets after a blow to the head, everything lost and forgotten. He could have lost his wits and started telling people exactly who he was and where he came from. Maybe he was locked up in an asylum being fed dugs for an illness he didn't have while therapists drove him insane, telling him to believe his entire life was a lie.
No, she couldn't think these things. Whatever happened, wherever he was, she knew he was alive. He wasn't lying in some ditch, bleeding away the last of his life, unseen, any cry for help unheard. His name would be fading from the dagger if his life was in danger. But, she'd seen the letters, clear and black, before leaving the shop. He was alive.
She needed to hold onto that and to make a plan. Money, she would have to get money. Other things she should take with her, things in the shop, his clothes, anything that had been Bae's. . . .
How could she pack up everything without people knowing what she was doing? Without having the hear them fight and argue about whether she had a right to leave them?
No one decides my fate but me.
Maybe so, but there were a lot of people who could decide to whether to rent her a trailer or get in her way while she loaded it.
Loading it. There was another problem. Belle put her hand over her stomach. She knew about women who had pushed themselves too hard when they were expecting, and it had cost them their children. She'd been pushing herself so much already. What would loading a truck with every memory of Rumplestiltskin's very long life do to her child?
The thought of the small life inside her pushed her up off the couch. She needed to eat. The idea of food still made her feel ill, but her child needed nourishment. Belle went to the small kitchen and looked through what she had. Soup and bread seemed safest. And warm milk. Mothers in the Marchlands swore by warm milk.
As started to search through her cupboards, putting together the simple meal, she thought about other things she should take care of. There was the library. Maybe she should just leave the keys at Granny's and let them figure it out. She wished she could pack up all the books in the library and take them with her. At least, that way, she would know they were being read. There were calls she should make. Who could she get trailer from? And was there any way she could hire people to load it for her without them realizing why she wanted everything Gold owned packed up? Tell them it was for storage?
Belle pulled out her phone. It had been off since she made the necessary calls about the library not opening this morning. Plenty of messages had piled up, most of them from Jones. Not feeling up to the long list of angry accusations and demands, Belle ignored them. She ignored several others on the same principle, but one caught her attention. Princess Aurora had been trying to get in touch with her. Belle had met her, but they were only nodding acquaintances. Aurora, though, was on the short list of people who had never told Belle it was a good thing Rumplestiltskin was gone. She also hadn't asked (or demanded) magic from Belle since waking up in Storybrooke. Curious, Belle played her message.
"Hello, Belle?" The princess sounded nervous and uncertain. "I don't know if you remember me. This is Aurora, Philip's wife—the Philip you saved when he was turned into a yaoguai." As if Belle were in danger of confusing them with all the other Auroras and Philips in town. "I need . . . I was hoping you could help me with a translation. Mulan—you remember Mulan? You met her when you met Philip—told me the words for 'dragon woman' in her language." There was a pause, the sort of pause Belle knew. It was the kind that meant you were hesitating before giving a very long explanation—the kind of explanation that told people what your problems were and burdened them with trying to figure out whether they should do something or continue ignoring them. Usually, Belle decided not to bother with the explanation. Aurora seemed to decide the same thing. All she said was, "Mulan said you knew her language. I—I was hoping you could tell me what they are." Another pause, another decision. "It's important. Please, call me back if you get the chance."
Important. Everyone said everything was important. A magic potion for a cough was important when Tom Clark sold medicine that worked just as well. Hook feeling bored was important. Everyone and their hangnail was important.
But, Aurora hadn't been one of the people making Belle's life a misery. Even before she played it, Belle knew the princess at least thought her call was important. Once she'd played it, Belle knew it was.
It had crossed her mind earlier but just as a joke, like knowing Lauren could be read in Mulan's language as lau ren, old person. If Aurora was calling her and asking this . . . then it wasn't a joke. It was real.
Belle hit the button to call back. "Aurora? This is Belle." She was too tired for niceties or beating around the bush. "You asked how to say 'dragon woman.'" She thought but didn't say, you're asking because you met her. Or you're afraid you did. "Lóngnǚ," Belle said. "The correct way to say it is lóngnǚ." Or Longneaux, that was how the professor had spelled her name.
She paused. It wasn't her problem. None of the things happening in Storybrooke were her problem.
Everyone was somebody's Anastasia.
"If you're afraid—if you think you have something to be afraid of, can you meet me at Granny's? It's safer there, with all the people around. And Granny has her crossbow." Belle paused as Aurora answered.
"Right," she said, grabbing her purse. "I'll meet you there, and we'll decide what to do." Belle locked the apartment door and ran out of the library.