On the second day of her residency, Rumple cuts a small exit for the cat into the house's door while Bae plants her in front of the cupboard that shelters their meager food supply: onions, potatoes, nuts, ground wheat, dried apples and plums. The cat is still too much a kitten to stay focused for long; she squirms out of his grip and runs off to jump upon Rumple's spinning bench, where she stretches her tiny body to its full length so she can bat at the thread on the spindle. Bae is not the patient sort: he's a boy full of energy and imagination and a longing for adventure. But he bears in mind his father's speech about the cat's destiny, so with a growl he scoops her up and plants her in front of the cupboard again. The cat sees this as a game; he has to chase her multiple times. But then a movement or a noise at the back of the cupboard attracts her attention and she fixes her penetrating gaze on something Bae can't see; she lowers her head; the tip of her tail twitches; that's her only movement until suddenly she springs and disappears into the cupboard. There's a scuffle, bags of food are knocked over, banging into the sides of the cupboard, then all sound ceases. Bae is worried as long minutes pass and the cat has not reappeared. "Papa?" He gestures to the cupboard.

"Don't worry, son. She'll come out when she's ready." He continues to work on the cat door.

Bae sits back on his haunches and sighs, but at last his impatience overtakes him and he pulls sacks from the cupboard until he discovers her. "Papa!" he crows. "She did it! Eew. She's eating it."

"Leave her be. If you distract her now she'll forget about her work. Come here and help me with this door."

Bae is pleasantly surprised that he has to show her her exit only once; after that she goes out and returns as she pleases. Unlike the neighborhood pups he's met, Midnight doesn't need to be house-trained. Bae throws that up in their faces when the boys whose fathers own sheepdogs brag about their pups' intelligence. It's not much, but it's something.

In front of the sandwich board Rumple hesitates, using the excuse of shifting his heavy knapsack from one shoulder to the other. The sign bears no writing, since almost no one in this village can read, but to identify the establishment it's promoting, someone has painted in garish colors a hog's face, presumably smiling but to Rumple the expression appears to be a grimace, as if the hog has a belly ache from drinking here, in the Hog's Head Tavern.

Rumple goes in here as seldom as possible, only for business and only for as short a time as necessary. He never drinks here. Not that he's adverse to an occasional ale or mead—most of his neighbors take a little light refreshment with their meals, since the water from the community well tastes sour, even when boiled for tea. Since returning from war, he never drinks alcohol any more. He has many good reasons to abstain: there's Bae to set an example for and stay alert for; there's the cost, money better spent on food or books; and there's the reason that's making him cringe right now: the reception he'll receive from the other customers, no matter how quiet and small he makes himself.

But if he's going to make a sale today—if Bae's to have meat in his stew tonight—he has to go in. He shifts his pack once more and enters the dank little business with its stained tables and broad-seated chairs (the proprietor has bought sturdy, cushioned chairs in the belief that comfortable customers will stay longer and drink more). It's a steamy afternoon so the shutters are open, and as a result the noises and smells from the road spill in and swarms of flies get drunk on the circles of beer that are left behind when a customer finishes his mug. Immediately upon stepping in, Rumple moves off to the side, leaving the entrance clear: he's been through this often enough that he knows what will call the barkeeper's wrath down. When his eyes adjust to the dim light, he glances at the barkeep, then, assured the big man hasn't noticed him yet and therefore won't throw him out (or worse, egg the customers on to tease him), Rumple scans the bodies in the room. Their backs are to him and for the most of them, their heads are bent over tankards or mugs, so he's safe for the moment. He recognizes most of the customers by their clothes—most of the villagers own only two or three pairs of trousers and an equal number of tunics. A quick survey of the room and he's spotted his buyer. He sighs deeply—his rumbling stomach urges him on—and approaches the bar where Orlander leans, head bent. Not a good sign: if he were flush with money, he'd be at a table with a turkey leg and some female companionship (for as long as his money held out). Nor does Rumple want to attract the notice of the barkeep, but there's no choice really. A growing boy's got to eat.

"Good day, sir," Rumple says softly, eyes averted, once he's reached Orlander's side. Orlander doesn't reply: another bad sign. Either a deal's gone sour for him or his wife's kicked him out of the house again. Or maybe he just doesn't have enough coin to get drunk. Rumple licks his dry lips and hopes it's not the latter.

"I don't suppose you want to buy something for a change," the bartender growls from the other end of the bar. A few heads turn, as the bartender intended, and someone murmurs, "Oh look. It's The Runner."

"Wanna see how fast he can run?" Someone else sniggers. "Anybody got a rock?" But no one moves—it's too hot and still a day for unnecessary motion, even for pranks.

Rumple shakes his head at the bartender, who grunts and resumes a conversation with the customers at his end of the bar. Rumple relaxes a little. "I have yarn to sell, the strongest and softest in the county. Brown, black and red." He and Bae had spent an entire day picking berries for the dye. Rumple flashes back to that day: they'd laughed and sang songs as they worked. He believes he'll remember that day long after Bae's grown.

Orlander challenges him loud enough for the other customers to hear—after all, he has a reputation to uphold and the price of that is Rumple's humiliation. There's no risk: Rumple won't turn away. He can't. "You think I want to deal with the likes of you?" Normally he makes a joke, but it's too hot to be clever today.

Rumple knows the routine; they've played this game for years. He sets his pack on the bar, slides it just a little toward Orlander, with the flap pulled back so the weaver can see the contents. "Please, for my boy. He's hungry." Bae would hate it if he heard his name being invoked in an attempt at begging. He wouldn't understand that neither man is sincere and the begging and the resistance are just part of the show that enables Orlander to save face while at the same time buying the finest quality yarn in the kingdom (for a pittance, of course). While most of the villagers think Rumple deserves to starve, the morality that they wish to uphold goes gray when Bae's name comes up. Not very many men can harden their hearts against a seven-year-old, especially Milah's son (for it hasn't been so long that she's been gone that they've forgotten her gray eyes and luxurious black hair).

They still talk about her; no one blames her for leaving, only for staying as long as she did (their wives, however, complain that she should have taken the boy, because what kind of man will he grow to be with a father like that? If he grows at all, poor half-starved thing). And the menfolk and womenfolk alike can't figure how a lovely, healthy young thing like her, who could have had her pick, married herself off to a scrawny, penniless outsider like him. The best they can figure, he must've conned her (everyone knows dishonesty's in the blood and blood will tell). What a loss, what a tragedy for the whole village when one of their loveliest married the likes of him. What a shame that it was her that ran off, not him. She'd have had her pick of replacements; some suitors wouldn't have been put off by the boy.

Orlander is not one who talks about her. He's not one to live in the past when there's no profit in it. That's why he'll buy from Rumple—once he's put on the show for his neighbors. After all, he's got to make a living too. Casually he peeks inside the bag, then empties its contents into his own pouch and nonchalantly flips a copper in the air so that Rumple will have to work for it (all the better for the show if it falls and he has to kneel on that bum ankle to pick it up from the floor). Rumple catches it though: spinning has given him heightened fine motor skills. He scowls, Orlander shrugs and slides a half copper across the sticky counter. There should be, by rights, yet another two coppers coming; for any other spinner there would be. But Rumple knows this is all so he tucks the money in his boot, gathers his empty bag and hurries back into the afternoon. The game is over for today.

A howl, a thump and a skittering of claws over wood make Rumple spin, knocking over his walking stick, which in turn knocks over one of the mugs that he placed on the table.

Tea spills across the table and into the slices of bread; the mug rolls onto the dirt floor and cracks. Rumple examines it forlornly. They're down to two mugs now: what will Morraine drink from when visits? A growl of "Bad cat! Bad!" Brings his attention to Bae, who's seated cross legged at the foot of the spinning wheel—worse, he's dangling the cat by the scuff.

"Bae! Put her down."

"But Papa, she was scratching your wheel."

"We will have to make her something to scratch. We talked about this. She's just a baby; she has to be taught."

"She's not even sorry. Look." Bae turns the cat around so his father can see its face, and he's right: the kitten appears neither ashamed nor fearful. In fact, she seems utterly uninterested in her owners' reactions to her conduct. Her amber eyes are fixed on the cupboard, and the pupils are growing wider.

"Ruffian hangs her head and whines when Morraine punishes her. Midnight acts like she doesn't even care," Bae complains.

"I don't think it's that she doesn't care. Maybe cats are different than dogs," Rumple shrugs. "Anyway, we discussed this last night. No hitting or yelling. What do you do when you want to make a goat stop doing something?"

"You can't make a goat stop doing what it wants to do," Bae scoffs.

"Correct. So you distract it. Look." Rumple nods at the cupboard-fixated cat. "She's already found something else to interest her. Put her down, Bae."

The boy obeys and the cat slinks over to the cupboard, her head lowered, her feet silent. She freezes when she reaches the cupboard, then suddenly she's a whirlwind of action, her paw prodding the cupboard door open, then her narrow body streaking through the opening. A brief scuffle ensues and Bae checks out the result. He rocks back on his heels to report, "She has another one. Papa, I don't know whether to be proud of her or mad at her."

Rumple smiles knowingly. "Now you have an inkling of how it feels to be a parent. Help me clean up this mess, son."

Every morning of his life—with the exception of the day after his wedding—Rumple has risen a half-hour before sunrise, to allow himself time to wash, dress and cook breakfast before beginning his work day. After Milah left, he could have changed his routine: he had only himself to answer to; Bae would have been happy to sleep in too. But remembering his own upbringing, he did his best to stick to routine, so Bae wouldn't feel as Little Rumple had, that the world had turned upside down.

Rumple wonders sometimes whether it was wrong of him not to encourage Bae to remember his mother fondly; after all, it's certain Milah will not be coming back, so why not give the child a fond, if false, memory? But he avoids the subject of Milah altogether—late at night, when Bae's asleep and Rumple allows himself to let down the brave face he puts on in the daytime, Rumple sometimes admits to himself that while he is lonely, it's probably not for Milah, but for the image she projected for him when they first courted. Sometimes he tries to remember the real Milah, the one that sweated and swore as she washed their clothes, the one that would pretend she didn't see the mountain of dirty dishes in the tub because she would rather sketch than do housework, the one that complained about everything they lacked, from white bread to the respect of the community. When he remembers that Milah, he supposes he should feel ashamed that she left him—and that he let her leave. But he doesn't—he feels relieved instead—and then he really does feel ashamed that he's not the man he ought to be.

In the dawn he puts on his clothes and the brave face. He leans against the table for balance as he lifts a foot to draw on his boot, and there's a sudden shriek and he feels a strike against his bum ankle, followed by a burning sensation. The skin around his ankle is so thick with scars that he hardly feels the sharp claws that sink in, but the cat's howl startles him and he drops the boot and a black shadow leaps from it even before it hits the floor.

Bae shoots up from his pallet and asks in a daze, "What? What?"

"Never mind, son. Go back to sleep."

"What was that racket?" But Bae settles back beneath his blanket.

"I accidentally stepped on the cat. Don't worry, she's fine." He doesn't know that—the cat door is swinging, a sign that she's vacated the house—but he won't worry the boy needlessly.

Bae just grunts. Still a little shaken, Rumple sits down at the table for a moment. First Milah, now Midnight, running out on him. Maybe it's his fault after all, he thinks; maybe he really is thick-skulled when it comes to women.

As the dawn leaks through the cracks in the wattle, Rumple hauls himself to his bare feet and heats up the last of the oatmeal. He's stirring and wondering just what it is that he keeps doing wrong when he feels silk brushing against his good ankle. He steps back from the hearth and bends, and the ball of black fur leaps onto his shoulder. She's purring. "You forgive me?" he whispers. She blinks her yellow eyes.

To enjoy the afternoon sunshine, Rumple is sitting in a chair just outside his home, a shirt that he is mending lying in his lap and the cat lying at his feet. He nods off himself as he watches her doze, but they awaken simultaneously to the sounds of footfalls and whispers. He thinks the cat will run away from the approaching strangers, but she merely stares with her amber eyes. He wonders what she's thinking.

"Is that her?"

"Yeah. Her name is Midnight." Bae kneels beside the cat, stroking her from head to tail; she stretches her long body under his touch. "Hey, Papa, sorry we waked you. This is Isolde and that's Borin. They never saw a cat before, so I'm showing them ours."

Rumple figures he'll have to have a chat tonight about the difference between showing and showing off, because Bae's just crossed that line. Still, as he greets the children, he is pleased that Bae seems to have made new friends.

"What does it do?" Borin folds his arms. "It looks like it's too small to herd sheep or fight wolves."

"She catches mice. She caught one yesterday. It was getting into our flour," Bae says.

"What did she do with it?"

Borin's arms unfold as Bae tells him. "She ate it."

Isolde shudders, but when she recovers from her disgust, she kneels too. "Can I pet her? Will she bite?"

"Nah, go ahead." Bae invites her to sit in the grass, and he carries the cat to her lap. She squeals in joy as the cat turns around three times, then flops onto her side and goes to sleep. "She's so soft!"

"She's a baby still. We think she's three or four months old."

Rumple rises and setting his sewing onto the chair, offers to bring out an apple for each child. He wants to encourage them to stay and play, but he knows better than to interfere: Bae must develop friendships on his own.

The children remain less than an hour before getting bored with an animal that does nothing but sleep. Rumple's heart sinks as they decide to go see the new baby at Alyis' house. They start to run off, and Bae stands watching, shoulders slumped, but then Borin folds his arms again. "Ain't you coming, 'Fire?"

Suddenly Bae's entire body comes alive. "Yeah!" Then he remembers to ask permission. Rumple grants it. He watches the children stir dust as they scamper down the road. It's a start, he hopes. He bends to scratch under the cat's chin. "Thank you."

The cat yawns.

Bae repeats his lessons for the cat every morning while Rumple prepares breakfast. In the beginning, it's a struggle to keep the kitten focused, but after a couple of days, hunger drives her to work. When the cupboard seems to be cleaned of vermin, Bae carries her to the storage shed, where Rumple keeps fleece as well as his tools, and he puts her to work there.

Only twice has Rumple had to chastise Bae about feeding the cat tidbits from the table (though, if they could have had meat more often, he suspects the disobedience would have been more frequent).

As days pass, the cat grows longer and taller, and Bae's bragging gains weight as he keeps score of Midnight's kills (as many as he's discovered, anyway). One night she wakes him rudely by pouncing on his back. He opens his eyes, bats at her to chase her away, but she meows until at last he sits up. She leaps from his back to his pillow and sits there regally, her tail wrapped around her. He can't see what's she on about; the house has just one window and its shutter is closed to keep out the mosquitos. With a groan he rolls over and goes back to sleep.

In the morning he wakes to the sound of his father cooking oatmeal. He rolls over; the cat is curled up behind him.

Lying beside her on the pillow, just inches from his nose, is what she wanted him to see in darkness: a dead mouse. He shoots up from his pallet with a yelp, waking the cat, who scampers out her door. Rumple looks into the commotion and chuckles. "Don't punish her, Bae."

"But Papa," he whines, picking up the mouse by the tail.

"She meant it as a gift. It means she thinks of you as her family and she wants to provide for you."

"Huh." But Bae peers outside, making sure the cat is out of sight before he tosses the mouse into the road.

"Wash your hands, Bae."

"Huh uh," Morraine argues.

"Uh huh," Bae insists. "See?" He shows her a row of nicks he's cut into the oak tree behind his house.

Her fingers drag across the cuts as she counts them. Then she whistles in admiration. "All that in two months? What a hunter!"

That afternoon, Gretchen drops in on Rumple. He grabs his walking stick and hauls himself painfully to his feet; his ankle is swollen after sitting for hours at the wheel. He needs to stand to stretch his muscles, but more importantly, he needs to show respect for his guest, even though they've lived side by side for years.

She's brought him a loaf of bread. His nose informs him it's fresh-baked. "I had extra. I thought you'd like some."

He puts the kettle on the fire. "Tea?" It's only nettle tea, which they drink every day, but he has an unopened jar of honey, bought at market only yesterday, and he's proud he has something nice to offer in return for the bread.

She sits at the table and accepts the tea, but waves away his offer to slice the bread. She smiles as she drizzles honey into her tea; she's admitted often enough that honey is her favorite treat. "Morraine was telling me about your cat." She and Lucas met Midnight soon after her arrival in the village, as had several other neighbors; most had never seen a cat before and were curious. Some had heard the old superstition and refused to come near Rumple's house, lest the witch's familiar cause them harm. ("Pay no heed," Rumple advises the children, and Morraine says stubbornly, "Well, I think she's beautiful, all sleek and shiny.")

"About her hunting skills, I mean," Gretchen adds.

Rumple grins as he stirs his tea. "She is quite the huntress. I no longer find droppings in my wool baskets, or gnawed holes in my food stores. I do believe she's driven off every mouse from the house."

"In that case, maybe she needs to expand her territory," Gretchen suggests. As he begins to catch on, she makes her request: "Could I borrow her for a week or two? I think all your mice have moved into my house."

Rumple's eyes widen, but he agrees readily. "Yes, of course. Come to think of it, she does seem to be growing thin from lack of game. I'll have Bae bring her over this evening. He'll show her where to hunt. And when she's finished her work at your house, she can come home."

"Thanks, Rumple." Gretchen sips her tea in gratitude.

It's been a long day and the Stiltskin men have tucked themselves into their pallets right after supper, leaving the dirty dishes for morning. Even the cat seems tired: as soon as Bae draws his blanket up to his chin, the cat appears—so quietly that it startles Bae—at his bedside and hops onto his hip and flops onto her belly to sleep.

Bae groans in annoyance. This has become a routine for the cat: she'll sleep on his hip until the moon has risen to its zenith, then she'll hop down and go hunting until sunrise. As long as she's sleeping on him, Bae doesn't dare to roll over, for fear of crushing her. Rumple has assured him that won't happen; the cat will jump away as soon as Bae stirs; but Bae doesn't want to chance it, so he keeps himself half-awake so he can remain still. Of course he fails every night. He's not even aware when he falls asleep until Rumple nudges him for breakfast. Then he sits bolt upright and in a panic searches his blankets for the crushed cat. He's only slightly relieved when he finds no broken body, but his search ends the same way every morning: before he can climb out of his pallet, the cat dashes in through her special door and in a single leap lands on top of him.

Tonight, however, just as Rumple feels sleep crawling over his sore body, Bae hisses, "Papa! Look!"

Rumple sits up. "What? What's wrong?"

"Look." Bae is pointing to the cat, which is perched on his hip, as always, and is washing her paw. A beam of moonlight streaming in through the open window gives her dark form a ghostly shape. "Her eyes."

Rumple squints. His own eyes are struggling. It's another symptom of growing old. "What?"

"Her eyes. They're green."

Rumple nods and is ready to roll over and go back to sleep, but Bae presses, "Papa! Her eyes changed color! They were yellow before."

"Oh. . . yeah, so they did. . . ."

"How did that happen?"

Rumple thinks a moment, but no answer comes. "We'll figure it out in the morning."

"Papa, is it true? Is she a witch?"

Rumple snorts. "Not likely."

"How do you know?"

"Think about it. If she had magic, would she have to chase mice? She'd just. . .do a spell or something and the mice would come to her."

It's Bae's turn to snort. "Maybe she likes hunting."

"She's not a witch, Bae. Go to sleep."

"I think she's magic," Bae mumbles. Then a new thought occurs to him: "But I'm not going to tell anyone else."