"Bae!"

"Papa!"

"Bae!"

From his seat beside the driver, Aalot snorts in derision as his charge throws open the carriage door. The ignorant, ill-mannered man doesn't wait, as would be proper, for the footman to lower the iron step and assist him down; instead, he plants his cane on the ground and uses it as a prop so that he can jump the two feet from the carriage body to the grass. Aalot climbs down gracefully—no need to rush, now—and unloads the passenger's luggage (the sad little backpack and that smelly hairball in the wicker basket). He stands proud, hoping the other servants passing by won't see what he's carrying, while he waits for the peasant and his offspring to finish their greetings. Peasants indeed: the noise they're making, and all that hugging, it's as if they think they're meeting up in a tavern instead of on the King's homeland.

"We're going to have dinner with the King and the war council!" Bae gushes.

"I know!"

"They want to hear all about the whistle. They're calling it the Spinner's Whistle. The King has ordered every tinker in Avonlea to stop what they're doing and start producing these whistles. He wants one for every soldier by the end of the month—that's ten thousand whistles, Papa! They're making ten thousand whistles on your design." Bae links his arm in his father's and leads him toward the barracks. He's an inch taller now than Rumple, and that would have been the beginning of a change in their relationship, but they're both too flabbergasted to notice. "We're going to meet the generals, Papa! All twenty of them!"

"Twenty!" Rumple nervously licks his lips. As they stroll through the yard, men and women in all styles of dress, from threadbare dresses and faded aprons to patched and stained uniforms, pass by, and most of them nod or speak a friendly greeting to the newcomer. It's because of Bae, Rumple is sure; Bae is so outgoing and bold, surely everyone knows and likes him. "The King asked me to explain how the whistle works, but to talk in front of twenty generals. . . .I've never talked in front of a group before, let alone important men. How can I—"

"I'll be there, Papa. I have a seat near the end of the table, next to Fendral. And your seat will be across from me."

"Oh, Bae, how—"

"Don't worry, Papa. The King will be sitting beside you. That shows he believes in you. Or your whistle, anyway. He'll believe in you after he meets you."

"Sir," Aalot is struggling to keep up (how can a lame man walk so fast?) and keep the cat stuffed inside the basket. "Sirs. A moment, please."

Rumple and Bae stop and turn, both having forgotten Aalot's presence.

"Sir," the footman pants. "You're going the wrong way. A room has been prepared for you in the castle." He glances meaningfully at the cane. "On the fifth floor. . . but I shall speak to the Butler about relocating you to the first floor."

"But I want to show him the barracks, where I sleep," Bae protests. He tilts his head in that direction. "It's not far, Papa."

"Very well," Aalot huffs. He sets the luggage down and whistles at a passing servant. "Here, boy. Take these to the Butler and ask him to prepare a ground-floor bedchamber for our guest. Hurry, now." The lad bows slightly and runs off with the bag and basket. Aalot gestures to the barracks. "Proceed, then, Squire." He groans under his breath. "I shall follow."

As Aalot stands awkwardly to the side, trying not to get dirty or get bumped into by entering or existing soldiers, Bae throws himself upon his bunk and invites his father to be seated next to him. "This is where I sleep." He points to the bunk above. "Up there is Will, he's Lieutenant Lief's squire." He points to other bunks. "And Squires Favian, Tristan and Janshai. Our masters sleep in the bigger barracks behind this one. All us guardsmen eat together, with the soldiers, one hundred of us, at a big table in the army cookhall." Bae flops onto his back, his arms behind his head. "It's a good life. A lot of marching and stuff, though."

Rumple is looking around. The barracks is clean and warm, but more utilitarian than comfortable. "So you're happy, then?"

"I am, Papa. I'm helping." Bae raises up on his elbows. "And so are you! Papa, the guys can't stop talking about your invention. They don't get how it works, but they're awfully glad it does. Now if the fairies will just help with our bows, we'll wrap this war up before the end of the year, Fendral says."

"That long?" Rumple frowns. "Belle—Her Highness, I mean, and I thought it would go much faster."

"Ogres are stubborn as mules and not much smarter, Fendral says. I've seen 'em and I believe it. It'll take a while before the word gets around from one herd of 'em to the others and they realize they can't win against the Spinner's Whistle and the Magic Bows. We're gonna win this, Papa, and a big reason why is you."

"Her Highness is really the one—"

Bae grins. "She's smart, isn't she? And nice. Everybody here loves her."

"She'll be a wonderful queen," Rumple agrees.

Aalot clears his throat, but Rumple and Bae ignore him and go on talking. Rumple wants to know the minutiae of his son's everyday life, though he's heard it all before; now he's here to see it for himself. He's reassured that Bae has a comfortable place to sleep and plenty to eat, and more importantly, prospects for a future that will afford him a home and a family. Bae is taken care of. Rumple's heart swells: it was touch and go there for a while, but he managed to raise a healthy, happy boy to young manhood. And now it's time to let him go, and to start thinking about his own future.

There's a secret not even Bae knows: Rumple really isn't a loner by nature. He hasn't had friends until recently, but he's always had someone he could lean on: the spinster sisters, then the master spinner he apprenticed with, then Milah, and finally Bae. Now he has friends, yes, and that's a comfort, but as he lies here on the bunk staring up at the mattress above, he regrets that tomorrow he will go home alone. At least he has a cat waiting at the hearth.

"Sir." Aalot speaks up. "Pardon the interruption, but dinner will be served in one hour. You'll want to bathe and shave before then, of course." He wrinkles his nose. "We have a new suit of clothes waiting in your room."

"Of course." Rumple leans on his cane to slide off the bunk. "All right, Bae. I'll see you in an hour, then."

Aalot walks a half-step behind Rumple as he escorts the spinner to the castle. The distance is close enough to direct Rumple's steps but far enough away to be respectful—Aalot's had plenty of experience in minding guests. He's also aware that the other servants will be observing his behavior with Rumple (they have it in for him, he's sure of it; they grumble and gossip about him behind his back, calling him "snooty" and "uppity"). Never mind the fact that the spinner is uncouth and uneducated and smells of sheep and lanolin—hardly deserving of an audience with a general, let alone an invitation to dinner with the King.

They pass through the kitchen first and are stopped by the cooks and the maids, who greet Rumple warmly and make a fuss, offering a warm drink and a snack after his long journey. Aalot waves away the cooks' offerings, reminding Rumple that dinner will be served in only an hour. The cooks natter on anyway (though keeping their hands busy with the finishing touches to the six-course meal), praising Bae, praising Rumple for his parenting, praising his thread (one of the maids spins around in her dress to model it: "I've had this dress for three years and it looks good as new, thanks to your thread."). But above all, they praise his whistle, which will surely bring the war to a swift end. One of the cooks even hugs him tight to her amble bosom and plants a kiss on his cheek. "My son is the Biot Regiment. May your whistle bring him home soon."

Rumple opens and closes his mouth helplessly. Ironically, it's Aalot who rescues him, pulling him by the arm toward the servants' stairwell. "We've got you a room on the second floor. It's a small flight of stairs. A hot bath and shaving gear await."

The room Rumple is led to overlooks the yard where the Avonlea Regiment and the Home Guard train. That is of such importance to Rumple that he barely notices that the room is small but clean and decorated with vases of flowers and wall tapestries depicting forest scenes. In one corner is a changing screen; in another is a small table holding a tray with a hairbrush and shaving gear. In the center of the room is a steaming tub, on the lip of which is hooked a scrub brush. A bar of soap sits on a fluffy towel on a nearby chair. Rumple stands at the window, watching riders put their horses through their paces on the training field. Aalot coughs politely and when Rumple turns around, the servant's fingers fly to the ties of Rumple's tunic.

"What are you doing?" Rumple squeaks, jumping backwards.

Aalot jerks back too, then a supercilious smile takes over his features. "Ah, of course. It's the function of a footman to assist guests in dressing for dinner. That includes shaving the guest, preparing him for his bath—"

Annoyed, Rumple waves his hand at the tub. "Does that include washing him too?"

"Certainly." The smile becomes smug.

"No it doesn't. Not with this guest, it doesn't." Rumple points to the door. "Come back when it's time to go down to dinner. I'll be bathed and shaved and dressed. Thank you just the same."

The door closes firmly in Aalot's face.

Rumple is sitting on the bed, and true to his word, he's washed, shaved and dressed, when Aalot returns to escort him downstairs to the Great Hall. "I shall leave you here," the footman says in the entranceway to the dining hall. "The butler will announce you and the dining staff will seat you. I'll return for you at 10 o'clock, which is when the King will say goodnight and depart for his private chambers. Good evening, sir."

The footman disappears and for a moment Rumple is peacefully alone. Then another servant, dressed fancier, Rumple thinks, than Aalot, appears at his side and bows slightly. "You are Rumplestiltskin of Ramsgate, sir? I am Ulrich, the butler. Welcome to Ravershire Keep. I shall announce you; Peyton will seat you. Should you require anything, simply signal Peyton. Enjoy your dinner, sir." He doesn't wait for a response. He steps inside the entranceway and booms, "Rumplestiltskin of Ramsgate."

The servant Rumple presumes to be Peyton comes to his side. "This way, sir." He escorts Rumple to a chair placed near the end of the dining table, where a group of uniformed soldiers are already seated. Rumple is relieved to see a freshly scrubbed Bae seated among them, to the right of Fendral. From their youth and the amount of braid on their shoulders, Rumple judges them to be low-ranking officers. Bae is grinning from ear to ear but he restrains his enthusiasm as Fendral introduces Rumple around. That he is Bae's father is enough to recommend him to the soldiers, and after a few polite questions about his journey, one of them resumes a battle story he was telling before the introductions.

Peyton pours Rumple a goblet of wine and fades back. Rumple welcomes the chance to catch his breath.

The timing of guest arrivals is all carefully planned out, Rumple figures out; it's according to rank, with the generals coming in last and taking seats at the top of the table. A few of them glance at him curiously over their goblets. He's the only civilian here, and despite his new clothes, he clearly doesn't belong. Nobody frowns at him, however; they're merely curious.

That is, until one young man, announced as "Major Gaston of Marlton," enters. He's late and he's loud, slapping the younger soldiers on the back and greeting them as his footman leads him to his seat at the fringe edge of the generals' section. The lieutenant seated to Rumple's left leans over to whisper, "His father's a lord, the richest in Aramore. Bought his rank."

The lieutenant to Rumple's right adds, "He expects to be a prince in the near future."

The left-side lieutenant snorts. "Her Highness will never have him. She's already told him so."

"Rumor has it there's another she's fixed her cap for." The right-side lieutenant jerks his head toward one of the tall windows behind them. "No one in this county."

"Is his name known?" Rumple dares.

"Nah. But considering how much pressure Gaston's been putting on her, I reckon it won't be long till an engagement is announced, and then we'll all have a look at him."

"Shh, we're starting."

Ulrich bellows, "His Majesty, King Maurice."

Everyone stands and Rumple has to clutch his cane. It's already been a long day and his ankle is aching. He lowers his gaze to avoid appearing rude, but he sneaks peeks. After all, he's never seen a king before—and even more enticing is the fact that this is Belle's father. He wonders if she looks anything like him—and he hopes not, for Maurice is tall and broad as a bull. His nose is bulbous, his face heavily lined, and his ears poke out a bit from under his leather crown. He's wearing a gold-embroidered tunic that Rumple notices is just a little faded and frayed; this is to be expected in a time of war. Maurice shakes hands with the generals, then seats himself at the head of the table, signaling the other diners to be seated.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Maurice shakes out his napkin and spreads it across his lap; everyone else follows suit. Rumple thinks maybe this meal won't go too badly, if all he has to do is imitate the King's movements. Maurice raises his goblet as soon as Ulrich fills it. "We owe thanks tonight to Lieutenants Fendral and Borivoi for the quail on our table; their hunt yesterday was, as you can see, very successful." A throat is cleared loudly, and Maurice adds hastily, "And to Major Gaston, whose family provided the wine. Our thanks to you all. And now, let's eat."

Despite the presence of servants and dressy uniforms, the atmosphere is rather informal. When the King's plate has been filled and he's taken his first bite, everyone else digs in, scarfing down boiled eggs, roast quail, fried onions, frenched beans, pickled beets, and lots of bread. Around mouthfuls Maurice talks to the generals seated on either side of him, and they talk back freely; the only difference between the generals and the King, as far as their conduct goes, is that the former occasionally remember to refer to Maurice as "sire." They're soldiers, not visiting royals, Bae explains to his papa later; they've worked hard for their meal and place priority on it, over manners and chit-chat. But when the plates are removed and clean plates bearing cheese and sliced pears are carried in, Maurice stands, taps his knife on his goblet and calls out, "Gentlemen."

The men set down their knives and goblets and sit up straight. The Great Hall falls silent.

"Gentlemen, you know that Her Majesty and Her Highness are even now working with the fairies to discover the magic that enchants Sir Robin's longbow. You've also heard Fendral's reports from the field about the Spinner's Whistle. We believe, gentlemen, that these two innovations could turn the tide in this war."

A cheer goes up and Maurice sips his wine to allow the noise to fill the room. When the men are quiet again, he proceeds, "Tonight we extend our thanks to the two people who made these discoveries. It was my own daughter, I'm proud to say, who came up with the idea of copying Locksley's bow"—

One of the younger generals stands and raises his goblet in salute. "To Her Highness, Princess Belle!"

Men clamber to their feet and toast their beloved princess as her father grins broadly. He has to tap on his goblet again to summon silence—but not until a half-dozen toasts have been made to the princess' health, her cleverness, her beauty and her happiness. "Gentlemen, please. The other innovator whom we thank tonight is the father of one of our own, Squire Baelfire." All heads to turn Baelfire, who ducks his head modestly. "A very clever spinner from the village of Ramsgate, Rumplestiltskin. Stand up, Rumplestiltskin, and receive our thanks."

Rumple leans on his cane as he rises slowly to the applause of all these brave warriors. He has to blink back tears, overwhelmed by the attention, and especially the admiration of his son and the other young men at the table. He stares down at his plate and hopes the fuss will soon be over.

Again, the clink of a knife against glass summons silence. "Rumplestiltskin, this isn't just a celebration I've asked you to; it's an instruction." Maurice nods at Fendral, who reaches into his pouch for a Spinner's Whistle and lays it on Rumple's plate. "We know it works, enough so that I've ordered that every tinker in Avonlea to put aside their own projects and develop a Spinner's Whistle for every soldier in our armies. It works, but would you please explain how?"

Rumple is neither a scientist nor a public speaker, but he does his best to describe why the ogres are affected by the whistle, when humans aren't, and how he made his discovery (although he avoids mentioning Bae's failed business venture). He speaks slowly, careful about his accent, his grammar, and the accuracy of the details of his story. When he finishes, he doesn't know how to indicate he's come to the end of his story, so he raises and lowers his shoulders. "And that's all, sire." He remains standing, his legs shaking, waiting for permission to be seated.

Questions fly from the generals; he answers what he can, shakes his head in embarrassment when he doesn't know the answer. He admits his ignorance rather than attempt to cover it up, and he casts a glance at Bae, worrying that the boy will be ashamed as his father's lack of education is exposed. But Bae is beaming, and whatever questions Rumple can't answer, some of the science-minded among the diners tackle with their own theories and hunches.

The conversation moves from the whistle itself to plans for how best to employ it. Plates are cleared away, maps are hauled in, Fendral and his squad are ushered forward to show on the maps where they'd encountered the ogres upon which they'd experimented.

Over all the excitement, a skeptical voice rises. "Gentlemen, wait a minute, wait a minute. I want to know what education this man has, that he should be instructing us? Has he ever set foot in a school? Can he even read?"

Fendral raises his voice too. "Before he answers that question, I got one for you, Major. All due respect, but you've had years of education. So how come he was the one to come up with this idea and not you?"

"Are you gentlemen aware of this man's background?" Gaston sneers. "I've made some inquiries. Before we risk our lives following this spinner's cockeyed notion, don't you want to know about his military history?"

Rumple lowers his head. He can't face any of them, least of all Bae.

"Major Gaston—" Maurice attempts to interrupt.

"Oh yes," Gaston continues. "He's a veteran, all right, a veteran of the First Ogre War. Ask him how he got that busted ankle. Ask him."

"Major Gaston!" Maurice shouts. "This man is a guest of the crown. You will shut up and sit down or I'll have you removed."

Gaston pales and starts to protest, but Ulrich suddenly appears at his elbow and that's signal enough that Maurice means business. The major drops down into his seat and gulps mouthful after mouthful of wine.

Maurice slowly moves his gaze from one general to the next. "I am aware of Rumplestiltskin's history. Of course I made inquiries. I would not have risked your lives or my people's hard-earned money on a notion without investigating its originator first. I tell you now, his past is irrelevant to our discussion. He's invented a device that can save lives; that's what is relevant; and my daughter and I trust him. If any of you must say otherwise, I will accept your resignation." He waits, shifting his gaze to the junior officers. He ends with a firm nod for Rumplestiltskin. "I apologize, Rumplestiltskin, for the rudeness of some of my soldiers. I reiterate, you have my thanks for your invention. Ulrich! More wine."

Maurice hunches over the maps and points at some landmark, calling his generals' attention to it. A breath later and the war talk resumes. "Your Majesty, Bogamir Province is called 'the Land of a Thousand Canyons.' Suppose we use a pincer movement in the south and push the ogres into Bogamir—"

With a sigh Rumple lowers himself to his seat and takes a swallow of wine. He's shaking. He has to know, so he raises his eyes to Bae. "Son?" That one word carries a hundred questions.

Bae reaches across the table to squeeze his hand. "Great job, Papa."

"Thanks, Bae."

One of the generals calls across the hall for Rumplestiltskin. "We have a question, sir, about the distance over which the whistle is effective."

"And if weather conditions may make a difference," another inquires.

Rumple isn't sure what's proper here, so he glances at Ulrich, but the butler is busy filling the King's cup. The footman Peyton solves the dilemma by picking up Rumple's cane and offering it to him. "May I assist you, sir, in going up front?"

"Th-thank you." His knees knock as he rises, even though Peyton holds both his elbow and his chair steady. Bae reassures him by whispering across the table, "The generals need you, Papa! The generals!" The boy's face shines with pride, and that gives Rumple the strength he needs to rise, follow Peyton on the long walk down to the front, and present himself to the general who first called for him. "Yes, sir. Well, yes, according my experiments, effective distance varies and is affected by such factors as wind and landscape—"

A calloused hand, much like his own, drops onto his left shoulder and urges him into the center of the crowd. Its owner, General Darain, asks him to use the maps to illustrate what he's talking about. These men are coarse, hardened by experience; they have much more in common with Fort and the other farmers back home than with the courtiers Rumple expected to meet after reading Belle's letters. Briefly he wonders where the gray men are; he supposes they're hovering in the background, as Belle so often has described them. Never mind; this is a military meeting and they have no place here, and His Majesty has made sure of that. Rumple feels his gratitude toward the King swell.

As he traces his finger along the symbols of a topographical map, he almost forgets that he doesn't belong here. The generals question him, debate with him—but they do that with each other, and it's never about whom they're talking to but what they're talking about. Absorbed in the conversation, Rumple finds himself talking freely even with Maurice, until at last Darain announces to the others, "Well, gentlemen, I think we have a direction."

Ulrich takes this as an opening to murmur in His Majesty's ear, and Maurice reluctantly allows himself to be drawn back to the life of the court, though it's clear he'd much rather continue to hammer out battle plans. "What? Oh, yeah, thank you, Ulrich. Gentlemen, it's time we retired for the evening. I want to see a detailed plan tomorrow. We'll meet again at seven tomorrow night." Ulrich whispers something and Maurice snaps, "Let the Lord Chamberlain dine with them. And—" he waves his hand dismissively—"give them my apologies and tell them I'll breakfast with them."

Ulrich bows slightly and fades away, as the generals shake hands with other and the King and make their way to the exit. Aalot has appeared at Rumple's elbow and offers to escort him to his room, but Rumple begs, "Please, I see my son is waiting in the hall. May I walk him back to his barracks to say goodnight?"

Maurice, still bent over maps, overheads and huffs, "Of course you can, Rumplestiltskin. You're a guest here; we want you to feel at ease. Besides, Belle would rip my ear off if I denied you anything." He clasps Rumple's back. "Thank you for coming. I know it was a long, bumpy ride—I plan to work on rebuilding roads as soon as this war is over. We appreciate your input. Just sorry Belle couldn't be here. Believe me, she fussed when I asked her to go to Firefly Valley, but she's a favorite of the fairies—they bestowed blessings upon her on her naming day."

He watches closely as Rumple answers, "I would have liked to meet her, too, but of course anything that shortens the war must take precedence."

Maurice's body language and tone grow quiet now. "That's right. I'll convey your regrets to her." He offers his hand. "Go ahead now and say goodnight to your child. I wish I could do the same for mine, but perhaps now we're not so far off from the day when all of Aramore's papas can have that luxury, eh?"

"I hope so, sire."

"Good night, Rumplestiltskin."

"Good night, Your Majesty."

They're both worn out, but as they walk across the lawn to the noisy barracks, Bae is chattering like a bluejay. Rumple soaks up his praise—Bae's never been stingy in that regard, but neither has he had a lot of cause for pride in his father. Under the sliver of moon, they have to feel their way through the dark, but Bae's traveled this path many times before. Absorbed as they are in conversation, they aren't aware that another has planted himself in their path until they've nearly bumped into him.

"You're the one, aren't you?" The voice is husky with anger and slurred with drink.

"Huh?" Rumple is too startled to find words.

"The one she fancies. The one she wants to bed." The voice's owner sticks his face in Rumple's, eyes him up and down with a sneer, flicks his finger against the embroidery on Rumple's tunic. "You! What the hell? You, puny, short, smelly—"

"You're the one who smells right now, Major." Bae waves a hand to fend off the alcohol fumes issuing from Gaston's mouth. He tugs at Rumple's sleeve. "Come on, Papa, pay him no mind. He's drunk, like usual."

"—uneducated, unmannered peasant. My father is rich. I had a governess and private tutors. My mother is the niece of a baron. We own an entire county. Who the hell are you, spinner?"

Bae is leading Rumple away, but Gaston turns to trail behind. "Who's your father? Do you even own the hovel you live in, or are you a squatter? What business do you have, dining with the King like you're somebody? Why didn't you tell 'em, spinner, what you really are? How you got that?" He kicks at Rumple's cane. Rumple stops and turns around, and that pleases Gaston, so he kicks harder at the cane, sending it flying. Without it Rumple wavers, so Bae bends and searches for it in the dark grass.

"Leave us alone, Major." Rumple flattens his voice.

"You ran! You didn't even last through one battle, did you? You ran the night before. No." Gaston circles Rumple, like a cat entrapping a mouse. "No, that's wrong, you didn't run—you couldn't run!" He laughs harshly. "You busted your own leg so they'd send you home. Didn't you?" With a single finger, he pushes against Rumple's thin chest, knocking the spinner off balance. "I want you to go back in there and tell him the truth. Be a man. Tell him the truth. And then he'll make sure she chooses a real man, not a stinking peasant mouse."

"Get out of the way." There's a growl in Rumple's tone as he attempts to walk past, but Gaston clutches a fistful of Rumple's tunic.

"No. Not until you go back in there and tell him."

"Let go."

"That's my future in there. My wife. My father-in-law. My throne. It belongs to me. I earned it, with my blood on the battlefield, with my sweat, every time I had to kiss that old man's arse when my father could buy and sell ten of him. She's been mine from the day she was born. Did you know that, spinner? That old man promised her to my family. Why the hell do you think we've been shoveling money into his war? 'cause this is my kingdom, that's why. Promised to my father, the day she was born."

As Bae runs up bearing his cane, Rumple finds a strange strength in having his balance back. He slaps his hand around Gaston's wrist and digs his nails into the veins. "Let go." He gives Gaston a moment to comply.

"What are you gonna do, spinner?" the knight pokes Rumple in the chest again, but this time, Rumple stands like a rock. Annoyed, Gaston pokes again; Rumple doesn't budge. Frustrated, Gaston flattens his hand and shoves; Rumple stumbles but doesn't fall.

"Out of my way, Gaston."

Bae hovers in the background. "Papa, let's go."

Rumple glances over his shoulder and nods at his son, then steps around Gaston, but the knight kicks at his bad ankle. A flash of bright light behind his eyes fills Rumple with memories of every sneer, every insult, every slap and kick and punch he's ever suffered. He remembers every detail of every incident and a single thought consumes him: No more. It's a stupid move, but he jabs his cane into Gaston's belly, then cracks it on his neck when Gaston doubles over.

"Are we done?" He tries to sound bored, but he's shaking as he steps past his assaulter.

Bae grabs Rumple's arm and steers him toward the castle. "Come on, Papa, we gotta get out of here before he straightens up. I need to get you inside—"

"What happened here?" General Darain's voice cuts through the night. He's shoeless, shirtless and fastening his trousers as he emerges from the darkness.

"Aw, hell, we woke him up," Bae hisses. "We're in deep trouble now."

Rumple stands straight, his hands folded atop his cane, as Bae frets behind him. Gaston, moaning, has sunk to his knees. As the general approaches, Rumple remains silent, letting the scene speak for him.

The general sizes him up. "Oh. Sultskin." He pokes his bare foot into Gaston's ribs, and Gaston replies by vomiting in the grass. "Major. Of course," Darain grumbles. "If we weren't down to a draft. . . "

"My father is a personal friend of His Majesty."

"Uh huh." Darain is unimpressed.

"I'm engaged to the Princess."

"Uh huh." Darain clears his throat. "Pack your sack, Gaston. I have a new assignment for you. You're assuming supervision of the Nangarth Outpost, effective immediately. Ride out tomorrow."

"But Nangarth is in the desert! There's no action there!" Gaston struggles to sit up.

"Right."

"There's no one for me to command—it's a one-man post!"

"Right."

"You can't send me there. I need to be here. I'm engaged to the Princess."

Gaston grabs the general's ankle; whether it's meant as a threat or a plea, the general finds the gesture distasteful enough that he borrows Rumple's cane and whacks Gaston. "Release me, Captain."

"I'm not a captain—"

"You are now. Want to try for lieutenant?" The general extracts his foot from Gaston's grip. "Report to the brig. You'll spend the night there. Try to dry out, Gaston; you have a long ride tomorrow. Squire, help the lieutenant find his way to the brig."

"Yes, sir." Bae bows and hauls Gaston to his feet. They lumber off as Darain apologizes. "Sorry, Sultskin. A guest of the King should expect better from His Majesty's soldiers."

He's tempted to mumble an apology of his own, an I deserved it or I'm just a peasant, like he says. But Darain's hand is out, waiting to be shaken, and Rumple remembers what the Princess wrote: You are our welcome guest. He shakes the hand silently.

"I'm not sure about your whistle, but you gave us something we haven't had in months: a new idea. You've got my respect, Sultskin."

"Thank you, General." Rumple doesn't bother to correct Darain's mistake in his name.

As always, Rumple awakens at the crack of dawn with a cat walking on his chest. He carefully lifts the kitten down to the stone floor before making use of the chamber pot and the wash basin. His stomach growling like the cat's, he shaves, combs his hair and scrubs his teeth with ash, then straightens the blanket on the bed he slep in so comfortably last night. The cat wraps herself around his legs and yeowls to inform him of her hunger. He isn't sure what the polite thing to do would be, but he can't let Belle's birthday gift starve, so he tucks her into his tunic and as lightly as he can, under the burden of the cat and the cane, he makes his way down the dark stairs to the kitchen.

One of the cooks is stoking the fire. He greets her; she welcomes him again, for he's no longer just Bae's father; he's now a contributor to the war effort. Rumors spread fast even among a large staff.

"It'll be an hour until breakfast," she says sympathetically, "but if you don't mind sitting with us—I mean, I know you're a guest of His Majesty. . . ."

"I would be pleased to." He slides into the proffered chair.

"Esme will be down in a minute, and the maids. I'm getting some oatmeal on for us, soon as the boy fetches the water in." She sets a teakettle onto the fire.

"I wonder if I might have a little slice of raw meat or cheese." He removes the kitten from his tunic but holds her firmly in his lap; people will be dashing in and out of the kitchen, and he doesn't want her underfoot. "For her. She's a gift for the Princess."

The cook crouches to scratch the cat behind its ears. "She's pretty."

"Do you think B—Her Highness will like her?"

"I'm certain she will."

The cook gasps and scrambles to her feet. She bows deeply as she stumbles backward. "Y-Your Majesty!" Her hands twist in her apron as she remains in her bow, awaiting orders.

The King comes down the servants' stairs, as Rumple had. Of course he can go wherever he likes—it's his castle—but the gray men will certainly have something to say about this infraction of the rules. The servants too—there are certain spaces that they consider their own, where they talk freely and don't have to worry about a smudge on their cheeks or a lock of hair out of place. Their quarters, their stairs and the kitchen are among those places, as Rumple knows from Belle's and Bae's letters. Belle has always been allowed into those spaces, because she was such a curious, democratic-minded child; the rest of her family has never set foot in any of those spaces.

Until, obviously, now.

Rumple clambers to his feet too, as the cook inquires, "M-may I get something for you, sire? A cup of tea? Breakfast isn't ready yet, but—"

Maurice seats himself across from Rumple and with a gesture, indicates that Rumple should be seated too. "A cup of tea would work wonders, thanks, Helena. I don't mean to upset the usual order of things. I just couldn't sleep, my wife being gone, and I heard voices, so. . ." He shrugs as the cook rushes to prepare a cup of tea, adding two drops of honey and a teaspoon of milk. She knows, of course, every detail of the Royal Family's dining preferences. Belle complains that the desire to please the family robs them of any culinary surprises, so that's one of the reasons she likes to eat with the cooks.

As Rumple receives his cup with thanks, he realizes he knows a whole lot about a woman he's never actually met. And now he's drinking tea with her father.

"Something to eat, sire?" Helena hovers over the table.

The King nods toward the ball of fur yeowling on Rumple's lap. "After her. Belle would never forgive us if we let her kitten go hungry."

Helena dashes about, plating a slice of raw pork, then she cuts it into small bites and sets it before the cat. Rumple tries to keep her on his lap, but she leaps onto the table so she can reach the plate easily. She paws at a piece of meat, sniffs, then chews.

"Belle will have fun with her. Thank you, Rumplestiltskin. She'll bring laughs into a household that much needs it."

"I was afraid, sire, that with so many cats in the barns, such a commonplace gift would be unacceptable."

"A gift is never unacceptable, man. I've taught my daughters better manners than that."

"It's just that, this cat is the granddaughter of my own, and Belle's heard so many stories about her."

The King stirs his tea, then blows on it to cool it. "Did Belle tell you about Hunter?"

Rumple nods. "Her dog."

"She grew up with that dog. Found him as a stray pup, wandering in the marketplace when she was only ten. We didn't want him here; he was dirty and flea-bitten. But she argued day and night until we relented, on a trial basis. Clean the animal up, keep him outside, train him how to behave around all the horses and strangers that come and go here. She scrubbed him with lye, though he was twice as big as her, and she built a house for him in the barnyard. He followed her everywhere, sat at her feet while she read, trotted along behind her when she walked through the woods. That dog—" Maurice shook his head and blinked. "That dog ended up saving her life last year. She and her mother were en route to visit her sister. That old dog ran alongside the carriage. Three days going, three days back. I don't know how he kept up, but I thank the gods he did, because highwaymen waylaid the carriage. Who knows what they would have done to the women, if the dog hadn't fought them, bought the footman and the driver enough time to unsheathe their daggers. The dog died protecting them."

Even the cook paused in her work to bend her head in tribute to the brave animal. Rumple had read this story and understood that Belle missed her old friend terribly; it had been a factor in his decision to gift her with the cat. He wonders now if he should have tried to buy a dog.

But Maurice sets his mind to ease by reaching across the table and scooping up the cat. He drags the plate across the table to allow the kitten to continue to eat while he pets her. "Belle will be delighted. On her behalf, I thank you."

Helena has put the oatmeal on to boil and sliced a loaf of bread, which she plates for her unexpected guests. A small boy splashes in through the backdoor with a bucket of water; he gapes at the unfamiliar men seated at the table, but he doesn't recognize the King, so he just trots out again, on to another chore. Footfalls on the servants' stairs bring the men out of their reverie. Maurice rises, still holding the kitten; the tiny thing is hidden in his big hand. "Well," he clears his throat. "Guess it's time for the household to start the day. I have a state breakfast," he winces, "that I must prepare for." He nods at the kitten. "I'll take her upstairs with me."

Rumple rises and Helena stops what she's doing to bow again.

Maurice offers his hand. "Good journey, Rumplestiltskin."

"Thank you, sire."

Maurice pauses at the doorway that leads to the Great Hall. "And thanks for Gaston. You got him out of my hair. Belle's too." He seems to want to say more as he studies Rumple, but whatever he's thinking, he holds in. He settles for, "I'm sure Belle will keep you apprised of what happens with the whistles."

Bae is there, holding the horses, when Aalot, carrying Rumple's bag, and Rumple come down to the barnyard to the waiting carriage. As Aalot loads the bag and the driver extends the step, Bae gives his father a quick hug. A puzzled look lingers in his eyes as he bids Rumple goodbye and promises to return home in three weeks. Before climbing into the carriage, Rumple smiles back at his son. He understands why Bae's puzzled; he's still surprised at himself for his actions of the night before. He can't explain why he struck Gaston. It was a foolish thing to do, could have put Bae in danger, or perhaps got him thrown out of the Home Guard. Could have earned Rumple a second broken ankle.

Still, Rumple's glad he acted like a fool for once in his life.