Bae's been awfully quiet today, from the time he woke up (not unusual; he's slow to wake in the mornings) til now, as he's sitting across from his father and picking at his parsnips (the picking isn't unusual either; he hates parsnips). What is unusual is that it's suppertime and typically at this time of day it's a challenge as to which will occupy his mouth: his dinner or his reports of the day's adventures. Not even Midnight, who's winding in and out of Bae's feet, can change his mood.

"Not feeling well, son?" Rumple inquires.

Bae shakes his head and makes a valiant effort to finish those parsnips.

"Stomach ache?"

Bae shakes his head.

"Head ache?"

Bae shakes his head.

Then Rumple gets down to it. He knows his son too well not to recognize the symptoms. "Guilty conscience?"

Bae releases his spoon. "Yeah." He looks at his father sideways; that means whatever he's done, he's not sure how bad it is, but he's hopeful it's not punishment-worthy.

Rumple makes his voice gentle. "If you tell me now, it'll hurt less than if you let it grow."

"Yeah," Bae agrees reluctantly. "Maybe it's not wrong. Or maybe just a little wrong. Well, you know how the farmers buy stuff 'on tick'? It's kinda like that."

"They buy what they need in the spring against a promise to pay in the fall, after harvest," Rumple mulls it over, trying to suss out Bae's meaning. Then he gets it and his eyes widen. "You bought something on tick?"

"Kinda. I guess. Yeah." Bae reaches into the pouch he keeps tied to his tunic belt. Like most boys and men of his class, he keeps in this pouch the valuables he plans on using throughout the day. What he brings out, he conceals in his palm until at last he surrenders, opens the palm and lets the treasure slide out onto the table. It's a thin metal cylinder with an opening in one end and a hole at the top. It's a shiny and curious thing; Rumple doesn't fault him for wanting it.

"A whistle, is it?"

Bae places the opening in his mouth, puffs his cheeks and blows. Rumple can't hear a thing—but maybe that's because the cat is suddenly howling and rushing around in circles before she finally dives through her private door that leads her to freedom.

"What's wrong with her?" Rumple puzzles, then indicates the whistle. " It's broken."

"No, Papa, it works. Listen." He blows again, harder, and Lucas' dog Ruffian howls. "It's a special whistle that only dogs can hear. And I guess cats. Borin got it from the sheepdog trainer that came through yesterday, and I got it from him." He lays the whistle down and looks directly at his father, a little worried, a little hopeful. "I wanted to know if it would work on cats. I was just going to borrow it, but when I had it in my hand. . . ."

"I've bought a few things that way," Rumple admits. "What did you trade for it?"

"A cat."

Rumple's mouth falls open. "Not—?"

"No," Bae is insulted that his father would even think such a thing. "The pick of Midnight's next litter."

"But she's not even—Are you going to take the whistle back?"

Bae's voice shrinks. "I don't want to. Papa, it's an investment. Ruffian's going to have pups soon; me and Morraine can use this whistle to train 'em. Lucas might even pay us if we do good. And maybe I can train kittens with it, huh? Please let me keep it?"

Rumple picks up his mug and takes a thoughtful sip of tea. "Well, I guess we'd better take Midnight with us next time we go to Avonlea."

Bae grins and replaces the whistle in his pouch. "Thanks, Papa. Just think: this could make us rich!"

Years later, Rumple will recall that boast—and how, in a way he couldn't have imagined, Bae was proven right.

Three Years Later

It's been three years since Midnight moved in.

The villagers are used to seeing her now, prowling the empty roads in the moonlight, weaving her way through thick forest brush, or catching an afternoon nap in an empty cart. She's introduced herself to their children, and many of the adults have introduced themselves to her as she's come to their homes to do her work. Eighteen of her children are happily housed with families throughout the village.

She still earns some harsh stares; a few people cross the street to get away from her. Her sleek black coat and color-changing eyes have them convinced she's either a carrier of evil magic or the product of it. When Bae expresses his frustration, Rumple reminds him that these are the same folk who believe that if an unoccupied rocking chair moves, it's a sign that someone will die soon, or that a knife dropped to the floor signifies the arrival of an unexpected guest. "Some people have no place to employ their imagination," he concludes, "so they put it into these folk tales."

"They ought to learn how to read," Bae says stoutly.

"You're right. Perhaps when you grow up, you'll open a school and teach them."

Every year at this time, at the end of harvest, the village celebrates. The farmers contribute food—in fact, they compete with each other to see who will make the most impressive contribution—and the taverns contribute barrels of beer (watered down in a bad year, but this year it's the good stuff), and those who have a homemade lute or a guitar or a drum or pipes provide the music and the young unmarrieds provide the dancing while the women roast corn and a hog over a bonfire and their husbands carry out benches and tables from the taverns, then flop down at them. There are jokes and card games and mumblety peg and chess for the adults, spitting contests and wrestling matches and footraces and tug-of-war for the kids. Rumple knows all this because he'd gone to the harvest festival once, when he was courting Milah. Bae knows all this because he's seen it several times from the open window of his house. He's never actually attended. Rumple has watched him as he's looked on longingly on the games and the food, and most of all, the other kids. He has wanted to slide a comforting arm around Bae's shoulder, but he realizes Bae needs to be allowed to feel his envy in private. Bae has to wear a brave face too, just as his papa does. Perhaps next year or the year after, Rumple wants to assure him, Bae will be big enough to go to the festival alone. Big enough to go alone, brave enough to glare down the biting comments and sneers of those who swear that cowardice is hereditary.

This year, as always, at sundown the benches and barrels are dragged out, the musicians tune up, kids draw circles in the dirt to mark their playground, old men light their pipes and younger men light the bonfire. Fort's three sons arrive with a hog that they've had roasting on a spit at home for two days solid. It takes both Tarrin and Jarin to carry the hog. Their father strolls along behind, accepting his neighbors' admiration for his generous contribution to the party. There's no question of who will be acclaimed the greatest festival provider this year.

Bae watches from the open doorway and Rumple watches Bae from the spinning wheel, the cat at his feet. Then there's a deep voice speaking to Bae, greeting him, and Bae answering, "Good evening, sir." As the boy steps aside, a shadow falls across the threshold, and for just a moment Rumple shudders. But it's not a hostile face that appears in the candlelight, nor a friendly one for that matter; it's Leofrik, who's neither hostile nor friendly with anyone, even, it's said, his own wife. He's a rather flat-emotioned man; what he lacks in expression he makes up for in appetite, though he's skinny as a cat's whisker.

"'Evenin', Stiltskin." Leofrik stops on the threshold, neither inside nor outside. He hasn't taken his cap off, but then, he's not known for his manners.

"Evening, s-Leofrik." Rumple stumbles a little on his greeting. He isn't sure if he should use "sir," as he's always been expected to, ever since his return from war, with every man in town feeling himself to be The Runner's better. But they've done a bit of business together; they've traded as equals, so Rumple takes a chance on using the man's name.

He needn't have worried. Leofrik doesn't notice; he's got one eye and one ear trained on the party forming out in the middle of town. "Some of the fellas was askin' after ya. They told me to fetch ya."

"Me?" The word escapes before Rumple can consider the consequences of revealing surprise.

"Yeah, you and the boy." Leforik points at Rumple's feet. "And her."

Rumple's brow furrows as he points down. "Her? The cat?"

"Yeah. I know she don't like noise and crowds and all, so Rulf brung the cage that he carries his huntin' hawk in." He nods at the cat. "She'll fit. It's just 'til the prizes is given. Then you can carry her home and come back to the feast."

"To the feast," Rumple echoes, wondering if this is some sort of trap.

Bae's mouth has dropped open. "What do you want a cat at a feast for?"

Leofrik looks back and forth at the two Stiltskins as if they must have water in their ears. "Like I says, for the prizes."

"What prizes?" Then Bae recalls his manners and adds, "Sir."

"You know; the ones we give out every festival." Leofrik thinks for a moment as he realizes, "Or maybe you don't. You ain't been at the festival in a couple of years, have ya?" The Stiltskin men don't answer; a reply would require an explanation. Leofrik decides to elaborate. "Well, we do. Biggest pumpkin, biggest hog, biggest fish caught, biggest lie told, like that. Best prize is for Livestock of the Year. Usually the biggest hog wins that, but this year, the town had another idea." He points again. "Her."

"Midnight?" Bae rushes in and drops to his knees to pet the winner. Dawning hope and excitement lighting his eyes, he looks up at his father. "Can we. . . .?" He doesn't dare to finish the question, as if letting it hang in midair will prevent it from being answered negatively.

There's no way Rumple could have refused those big brown eyes, even if he had wanted to, and oh, he doesn't want to. He's every bit as anxiously hopeful that their lives have turned a corner, that all the trades they've made over the past three years have improved more than just their living standards. With his heart in his throat, Rumple nods, then instructs Bae, "Wash your face first, son, and change your shirt."

Leofrik, not the most socially sensitive of men, half-turns toward the door. "I got a turkey drumstick back there waitin' to be eaten. See ya in a bit."

"In a bit," Rumple agrees, permitting his assigned escort to return to the party. He sorts through the clothes cupboard for clean tunics for himself and Bae. He doesn't have to inspect the garments: he knows every stain by heart. But he also knows nothing in this cupboard is frayed or ripped: he's always made sure of that. It wouldn't do for a spinner's son to walk about in torn clothes, nor would he give his only child less than the best he can afford. Clean shirts set aside, he pours a kettle of hot water into the wash tub along with the bucket of well water that Bae has hauled in, and the two of them strip down and wash thoroughly with their special-occasion olive oil soap that they'd once bartered a cat loan for. It takes extra time, but they wash their hair too, and scrub their teeth with rosemary ash. Bae bites back a complaint (he is, after all, ten years old and deserving of an adult's dignity) as Rumple inspects him behind the ears.

Rumple doesn't know how much time they'll spend at the festival—they may discover they aren't welcome after all and immediately come home—but if they are accepted, or at least left alone, they will at least be clean.

"All right then." As Bae collects Midnight in her traveling basket, Rumple gathers his walking stick (hand-carved by Bae last Yuletide and given with great pride as a gift) and squares his shoulders and opens the front door. He nods and Bae steps out, forgetfully moving too fast for Rumple to keep up, but Borin and some of the other guys have already drawn a circle in the dirt and are kneeling along its rim, ready to start a game of marbles.

Rumple lets him go. He hesitates on the fringes of the party, pretending to be taking in the music, the laughter, the scents, but in truth he's studying the faces, many of them now familiar, a few of them belonging to people he's welcome to socialize with, as long as they're alone—how these people will react to him in public could be another matter. His stomach growls in response to the aroma of pork turning on a spit, and his eyes stray longingly to the platters of roasted corn, pickled beets, grilled asparagus, buttered parnips, fresh-made bread, wheels of cheese, pots of honey and butter, and pies. Too late, Rumple realizes he should have brought something to contribute.

He wavers. He should go back home and get something. Or just go back home.

"Get a whiff of that hog, huh?" An arm drops heavily over his shoulder as a deep voice rumbles in his ear. "Queenie. Jarrin hand-raised her. Five hundred pounds." Fort shakes with laughter. "Wouldn't be surprised if we have to take leftovers home!"

Rumple notices Fort has a tankard in each hand and the tankard that's in the hand perched on Rumple's shoulder is tilted, spilling suds on Rumple's tunic. From the breath wafting from Fort's mouth into Rumple's face, the spinner realizes the farmer's first stop upon arriving to set up the spit was the bank of barrels contributed by the Hog's Head Tavern. But Fort isn't drunk, just pleasantly tipsy, so when Fort pushes him toward the bonfire for a closer look at the pig, Rumple allows himself to be guided. As they approach, various hands are thrust toward Rumple, along with "glad you could make it" and "good to see ya" greetings.

Rumple jerks back from the first hand reaching for him. But after blinking, he realizes it's only Lucas, so he shakes the hand. Then it's Jarrin and Rulf and Rowntree and Falk, until Rumple feels downright welcome and he comes closer to draw in the aroma of roasting pork and warm himself in the glow of the fire and friendship. They're chatting—Rumple has never been one for chitchat but he knows many of these men well enough to ask after their families and their trades—and quaffing and chewing on hunks of bread they've managed to swipe behind their wives' backs. Rumple even finds his good foot tapping to the music and in his peripheral vision he watches the young couples dance. Someday Bae will be out there with them, he thinks, and then he realizes it's the most confident notion he's had in years.

Rulf nudges Lucas and winks at the other men. "How's the fishin' been, Luc?"

It's an invitation Lucas can't resist. He plunges in to a string of fish stories, each subsequent fish bigger than its predecessors. The men are soon roaring with laughter, and Rumple at first feels uncomfortable for his neighbor, but Lucas isn't humiliated at all for being caught in his lies. In fact, Rumple figures out, none of these men consider Lucas' fish stories to be lies; they are folk tales that compete with the fish stories of previous years, just as the farmers compete to have the biggest pig at the festival. These stories are Lucas' contribution to the festival, as entertaining to the men as the dancing and the music are. Lucas is the poor man's jester.

As the moon rises, Jarrin plunges his knife deep into the pig, then withdraws it and tastes the slice of meat he's carved off. He blows on his burnt fingers, then raises his knife into the air and declares, "Let the feast begin!" The crowd has been waiting for this announcement—as the provider of the sow, it's Jarrin's right and responsibility to make it—and with shouts they rush at the food tables. They sit according to their gender, men at one table, women at another, boys at a third, and girls at the fourth. Once the meal is underway, the courting couples will find excuses to come together for stolen moments, until, at the meal's end, they can find each other again for dancing.

Jarrin remains at the spit, carving, while his brothers hurry back and forth carrying pork-laden platters to the diners. Midway through the meal, Fort rises from the table, patting his full belly, and carries a filled tankard to his thirsty son. He takes Jarrin's place at the bonfire, the two men laughing because although Jarrin's been carving for more than an hour, there's still a lot of meat left on the hog. "Go on and eat," Fort instructs. "You earned it, boy."

Jarrin slides onto the bench between Rumple and Lucas. He's sweating from the heat of the bonfire, but those seated around him don't mind: he smells wonderful, of spices and wood smoke.

Rumple eats to busting, and drinks (though he's careful not to exceed two tankards; he has a son to serve as an example for) and laughs until his throat is sore. Seated across from him and at either end are men who frown and grumble whenever they make eye contact with him; he will never win them over. He has to accept that as a fact of his life, just as he has to accept the fact that he has friends, and he needs to place his confidence in that and trust these few men to stand beside him if trouble develops. Not that he expects it will: his enemies' bellies are full too, and the music and the fish stories distract them from their righteous indignation at sharing a meal with The Runner.

His friends' loyalty is put to a slight test when Rumple reaches across the table for a turkey leg and bumps into a catchpole, who stabs at his hand—unsuccessfully; Rumple snatches his hand away in time. "Mind yer minners, ya damn deserter."

Rowntree, who's seated beside the catchpole, shoves him and the punk falls backward off the bench. "Mind yer 'minners,' ya chicken catcher."

Hauling himself to his feet, the catchpole sways but manages to point in Rumple's direction. "Who does he think he is, that son of a witch, thinkin' he's better than us, with his readin' and writin'—"

Rulf rises and dumps a pitcher of water over the man's head, then shoves him toward the well. "Go soak yer head in the well and sober up, Chicken Catcher, 'fore I dump you in it."

A second man appears to lead the offender away. Then Lucas steps in with more tall tales and pretty soon nobody remembers the incident, except Rumple, who looks at Rulf and Rowntree with new eyes.

They eat, they drink, they laugh, they stand and stretch and return to the bonfire for more stories and more beer. Some of the women wander over and draw their men away to dance. In the shadows Rumple spots some couples—not all of them young—kissing. This night competes with his wedding reception as the most entertaining party of his life, Rumple decides. That opinion is about to change.

The music stops in mid-song and everyone goes quiet. Even the shadow kissers stop what they're doing to watch a white carriage drawn by two white horses stop in the road. A footman hops off the driver's bench, pulls out a stepstool, opens the carriage door and hands out three people, all of them finely dressed. Rulf identifies the crest on the carriage door: "It's the Duke!"

"Then one of them ducks mus' be the Duchess," Fort surmises. "Wonder which one?" In firelight the ladies' gowns appear to glow and the women themselves appear to float as they approach the head of the first table. Everyone rises, even the kids and the elderly, for these are nobles.

The sheriff comes forward and bows. "Your Graces, welcome to our harvest festival." He snaps his fingers and two men scramble to fill tankards with ale for the visitors.

The Duke raises his tankard to the air and addresses the crowd. "Good evening, gentlefolk. I apologize for our late arrival, but I had news from the warfront that required my attention before we could depart. The Duchess and I"—he holds out his hand and the older of the two women steps forward to take it—"congratulate you on another profitable harvest, and we wish you many more to come. And now, if we are not too late, we will make the awards?" He raises his eyebrow at the sheriff, who nods and snaps his fingers, and another man brings forth a wooden box. The sheriff opens it to reveal a half-dozen gold coins pierced through with blue ribbons.

"I've brought a special treat," the Duke declares, holding out his left hand. The younger woman steps forward to accept his hand, though she remains apart from him, as if he smells bad or she fears he might bite her. A murmur rolls through the crowd as the Duke introduces her, "Her Highness the Princess Belle, who's come all the way from Avonlea just to share in this moment."

Rumple will one day learn that's not true: Belle had actually traveled from Avonlea to the Duke's castle in Faysea for the purpose of discussing the ogre problem. The Duke, not trusting a woman's intelligence in matters of war, filled his gullet while she talked, then spent most of last evening speaking to the guardsman who had accompanied her. In the Duke's view, the princess' value lay not in her trained mind (for, without a son to inherit the kingdom, Maurice had prepared his daughter to assume the throne) but in her pretty face and, more importantly, her title, which he would show off at various festivals around his duchy for the duration of her visit. She'd allowed herself to be shuttled from town to town only because she hoped that in the confines of a carriage, Cedric would finally listen to her.

At the Duke's words, "a treat," Belle frowns (Rumple will one day learn that that term made her feel like a creampuff or an éclair). But as the villagers bow to her, she inclines her head and murmurs, "Good evening. From my father the King, I bring you greetings and congratulations on these, the bountiful fruits of your labors." She spreads her hands over the heavily laden platters remaining on the tables. The crowd applauds and someone crudely whistles, which causes the Duchess to elevate her nose, but the Princess grins.

"And now, on to the awards." She then clears her throat and looks at the sheriff expectantly; the sheriff hands her a list (written out by Morraine, since the sheriff can't write). "For biggest vegetable crop. . . ."

Rumple barely hears her. He's too busy staring at her, thinking how glorious she is, how graceful, how her eyes sparkle in the firelight and her smile is genuine as she bestows it and the award on the winner. She's just as glorious and graceful and genuine now as in the moment he first saw her, on the balcony of her castle, three years ago. He may be lame and gray, but he feels like a prince just to stand in her presence. Bae is uncharacteristically silent as he rushes up to stand behind Rumple with the cat basket under his arm.

"For biggest hog, Jarrin." The big lad blushes as the princess drapes his prize medallion around his neck. When he returns to his brothers, they nudge him and ruffle his hair.

The ribbon granting becomes a song in her musical voice. Rumple memorizes not the words, but the tones, so he can remember her voice always. It isn't just her royalty or her beauty or her perfect manners or her youth, he realizes later when he goes to bed and stares up at the ceiling; it's a compassion he sees in her eyes—she sincerely likes these people, though they're common as dirt. And it's a passion that gives her head a certain tilt and her spine a strength. He can imagine himself fighting alongside her against ogres and other villains—alongside her, not in front of her, for she, brave girl, would be wielding a fighting staff as he attacked with sword and dagger. And as her hands rest a moment on Fort's shoulders after placing a ribbon around his neck, Rumple imagines those hands stroking his own hair away from his face.

Then he shakes his head and quaffs his beer to clear away the daydream. She continues with the awards, speaking quiet words to each winner, giving them a moment they will remember long after the pride of their accomplishment has dissipated.

"And the final award: for Livestock of the Year, Midnight." She's looking up and around, apparently expecting a bull or ram.

"You go, Bae. Midnight's yours," Rumple bends to whisper.

In a flash Bae and his basket stand beside the princess. "Here, Your Gr—Your Maj—here, Princess!" Bae might not know the proper form of address, but he knows without a doubt which animal deserves this award. He holds the basket up with pride. Midnight's black fur blends into the night, but her eyes, appearing green in the firelight, are open wide and she sits up straight in her basket.

"May I?" the princess asks, and Bae nods. Carefully Belle lifts the cat from the basket and cradles her just a moment, then sets her back in the basket and eases the prize ribbon around the cat's neck. Midnight smacks the coin with one paw, then the other, and it soon becomes a toy for her to bat between her paws. The Duke and Duchess scowl at this lack of respect for royalty, but Belle and Bae chuckle together. Then Belle whispers congratulations to the boy and squeezes his shoulder before he returns to his papa.

"She smells like flowers," Bae gushes. "And she likes our cat." He's half in love.

He's not the only one.

The princess and her entourage are gone moments later, declining to stay for the food and the music (though the driver snatches a pair of apples for the horses). The village slowly resumes the festivities, but some of the men, including Rumple, fill their tankards and sit down again, not to talk or eat but to stare at the now empty road.

"Never seen nothin' so beauteous," someone breathes.

"Pretty as a newborn lamb."

"Eyes as bright as these gold coins." Jarrin shows his prize off.

"Tiny little thing, though."

"Yeah, but when she's talkin' she looks tall. Y'know what I mean?"

"That was somethin'."

"Yeah. That was somethin'."

All up and down the table, the villagers sigh.