Belle leads him up three flights of stairs. She walks slowly, conscious of the struggle he's having with the steep steps, but she makes no comment; as beads of sweat break out on his forehead, she chatters on, pretending not to notice, but she slips her arm through his and shifts her weight slightly, taking some of his weight onto her. He doesn't need the scowls of the servants that pass by to inform him it's inappropriate to be touching a royal, but he worries that pulling away from her would only offend her, and that really would be a misstep.

They make a left turn into a comfortably appointed sitting room and she invites him to sit on a thickly padded chair as she flags down a maid to ask that the Chamberlain be sent to her. "And a big pot of tea, with four cups. And a small plate of Helena's chocolate cookies."

Rumple overhears the instruction and puzzles: how does Belle know that chocolate cookies are his favorite? Chocolate is so difficult to acquire in Ramsgate that presented in any form, it's a rare treat, and he favors it above all other delicacies. He may have mentioned it in passing in one of his letters to her, and she must have committed it to memory, for he recalls, somehow, learning somewhere along the way that she doesn't care for chocolate. Embarrassed, he folds his hands in his lap and stares at them: the future ruler of his nation remembers his favorite treat!

Or, another way to look at it: the woman he adores wants to make him happy. The tips of his elf-pointed ears turn red and he fights back a grin.

Belle returns from the hallway and seats herself on a couch across from his chair. She chatters on about Helena's cooking and the wonderful aromas she detected from the kitchen this afternoon; they will have fresh-baked bread glazed with butter, cooked carrots, parsnips, game fowl that Maurice and his entourage hunted down yesterday morning, and for dessert, apples from the orchard and imported cheeses. His stomach growls under the description and the red spreads from his ears into his cheeks. She just laughs, apparently delighted that her description is so effective.

That's something they admired about each other's correspondence, early on: each takes delight in the other's writing. Hers bubbles and pops with colorful imagery and alliteration; his reveals a deep understanding of human nature, the origin of which, he will someday tell her, is a lifetime of careful, fearful study of everyone he's ever met. Like a rabbit in the wild, he's attuned to every potential foe.

As she chatters, she slides forward on the couch to shorten the distance to him, and he finds himself doing the same, inappropriate though it may be. The sky blue of her eyes draws him forward. His free hand twitches, yearning to reach for one of her hands. He throws cold water on his warming urges, innocent thoug they are; yes, she's a woman and would welcome his touch, but she's a royal and dozens of people are rushing about in the hallway just three yards from the parlor's open doors. Do this the right way, they would; give Queen Colette no cause to revoke his standing invitation and King Maurice no cause to sic the dogs upon him.

Just as Belle is in mid-story, relating a tale of how Helena's cooking had won a marriage proposal from a visiting sultan, there appears in the doorway a tall, balding man with bright eyes that notice everything. "You called, Your Highness?"

"Oh yes, Aloys. Please ask my father and my mother to join us here, then have a bedchambers prepared for our guest, on the ground floor. The one that faces the training field." She remembered even that!

As he bows his ascent, Aloys examines Rumplestiltskin from the corner of his eye. He's good, Rumple has to hand that to him; subtle, unflappable, but cognizant of Belle's welfare. Rumple supposes they really should have a chaperone seated here with them, even though the doors are open. Belle concludes her story about Helena and launches into one about Ulrich the butler when a streak of black fur bounds into the room and tosses itself onto Rumple's lap. He's not startled—after years of sharing a home with a cat, he's used to these surprises; he adjusts the cat more comfortably onto his knees and peers into her amber eyes, recognizing the animal's lineage.

"Athena!" Belle reaches out to scratch the cat's ears. "Let me know if she bothers you. She can be kind of pushy when she wants attention. But Mother and I love her dearly, and I thank you for giving her to me."

"It was my pleasure."

And that launches a flurry of tales of two cats, and soon the Princess and her guest are laughing so hard it can be heard up and down the entire third floor. They don't even hear the King as he enters, sliding his military coat onto his arms; the Queen is right behind him, flicking spots of dust from the back of the jacket and clucking. "Really, Maurice, you should button your coat before you come into a room."

"Sorry, my dear." The King responds automatically, not really sorry at all. "You must forgive this old war horse for his crude manners." The latter is said with a glance in Rumple's direction. Rumple knows the King never fought in a war, but as much time as he spends elbow to elbow with the generals, bent over maps and reports, he's earned the right to identify himself as military.

Rumple stands and bows, to Colette first, then to Maurice. Then he gnaws on his lip: should he have done that the other way around? But the three royals ignore the blunder and Maurice invites him to be seated again as a servant slips into the room with a loaded tea tray. "Just in time," Colette says as the servant pours. The King's cup is prepared first—Rumple makes a mental note of that—then the Queen's, then Belle's, and finally Rumple's. In a voice so soft she doesn't intrude upon the conversion, the servant learns how Rumple likes his tea (with two lumps of sugar, another rare treat). She distributes napkins and offers the cookies around before vanishing into the hallway. Rumple suspects she's nearby, ready to be summoned again.

"I'm afraid I can't stay," Maurice says as he stuffs a cookie into his mouth. "A rider's just come in from one of the battlefields with a report."

Belle looks disappointed and excited at the same time. "Is it good news, Father?"

"Anytime there are losses, it's never good, but the Aureum Regiment chased the ogres out of Minoc Valley, using the Spinner's Whistle." The King nods gratefully at his guest. He finishes buttoning his coat and gulps his tea.

"Don't forget, dinner at seven. The Council of Nobles," Colette says gently, straightening her husband's collar.

"Those busybodies." The complaint isn't for Rumple's ears, but Rumple hears it anyway. Maurice gives his wife a peck on the cheek, then says a hasty goodbye to Belle and her guest.

After he's gone, Colette seats herself beside Belle and refills the tea cups. "I'm happy to meet you, Rumplestiltskin. What brings you to Avonlea?"

Rumple's knees shake; he clamps them together. "Well, I. . . wanted to. . . discuss something. . . with His Majesty." His voice grows fainter with each word. It's hard enough to speak to his beloved's father, but somehow, even harder to address her mother. Colette just seems so much more regal (and, he knows from Belle's letters, a bit judgmental).

"Oh." Colette smiles into her cup. "We have a dinner tonight, rather formal, but a monthly thing; it's necessary for His Majesty to keep the nobles informed."

"And they, him," Belle mutters.

"Now, darling."

"Mother, admit it: you don't like them any more than Father and I do."

"A necessary evil. We must attend them, to keep their loyalty." Colette's eyes sparkle with mischief. "We need their conscripts and their taxes."

"No more than they need us to protect them—from each other as well as the ogres." Belle grumbles.

"Yes, but don't tell them that. A little attention and a lot of flattery go a long way." Colette studies Rumple through her long eyelashes as she sips her tea. "Rumplestiltskin, perhaps you'd care to join us."

Belle's body stiffens. "Mother, I don't—is that a good idea?"

"There have been questions about the Whistle; some of the Council are curious to meet its inventor. It might do us all some good," Colette replies mildly. "Of course, you have had a long journey today, so I understand completely if you would prefer not to join us, but I think His Majesty and Belle would enjoy having a fresh face there. You're a guest, so we wish to do whatever will make your stay comfortable."

"Mother, can't I be excused this once?" Belle moans. "They don't listen to me anyway."

"All the more reason for you to be there, Belle. You must learn how to get them to listen. Besides, it's our duty."

Belle sighs heartily, then looks to Rumple for encouragement. His presence at the dinner will give her the patience to get through this interminable dinner.

He is thinking about the time he failed to do his duty; after Bae's birth, he'd sworn he'd never fail to live up to his responsibilities again, although, when it came to Milah, he had. He raises his chin, vowing to himself he'll never ignore Belle's needs the way he did Milah's—if, that is, Maurice permits the courting. "It's right that we do all that's required of us."

Belle sighs and Colette's smile relaxes. "That's so."

Already the coward in him wants to retreat. "Your Majesty, I'm ignorant in the ways of the court, so if I offend, please forgive me; it's not my intention. But if it wouldn't be a breach of etiquette for a commoner to attend, I'd like to be there. . . to support Belle." He swallows hard on the last phrase.

"That's how it is, is it?" Colette's smile is mysterious, both playful and testing at the same time.

Belle returns to the conversation. "Yes, Mother, it's what we want to talk to you and Father about."

"Thank you, Rumplestiltskin; we will be glad to have you with us. Unfortunately, amongst our dinner guests, rules of propriety are very old fashioned, so it will not be possible for the two of you to be seated together. Nor—" she frowns at Belle—"to leave the dinner together, supposing for example you each should discover a sudden need to step out for fresh air."

Belle winces; she's been caught out.

Rumple replies, "Thank you, ma'am, for the invitation and the instruction. The last thing I would want is for blame to come to Her Highness because of me."

"A fine sentiment, Rumplestiltskin. I dare say your native manners exceed the manners many of our noblemen have grown up with. Belle, dear, perhaps we should fill Rumplestiltskin in on what he should expect from our other dinner guests. They can be rather—"

"Gray," Belle finishes.

"I'm afraid we won't have much time to chat with you during the dinner, Rumplestiltskin, and we'll have to put you at the foot of the table. I'm sorry about that; the nobles are very particular about symbolic gestures concerning status, and His Majesty and I have learned to pick our battles with them. But we would be glad to have you join us, and after the dinner, we can return here to recover. The King will be free then, to talk with you."

Rumple glances at Belle, who's biting her lip. Belle's not happy about the invitation, but Rumple worries how much damage he'd do to his relationship with her parents if he declines. Nor does he have the excuse of not having proper attire; he's wearing his best clothes and has packed his second-best in his sack. "I, ah—thank you, Your Majesty. I am honored."

Belle smiles at him encouragingly. He can imagine what she's thinking: it's too soon in their relationship for such a big challenge, but she's proud of him for accepting it and she believes he will acquit himself well. Let's get this over with, her smile says. Then there will time for us.

Rumple suspects, though, that when the women are alone, there will be some forceful words expressed.

Colette stands and smooths her skirts. "Well then, dinner is at seven. We have time to change and rest before then. Ulrich will send Aalot to assist your in your ablutions. Til this evening, Rumplestiltskin." Over her shoulder she adds, "Don't be too long, Belle."

"Yes, Mother." Belle sets her tea cup down and sighs as soon as Her Majesty has gone. "I'm sorry, Rumple. I didn't guess she'd do that. You don't really have to attend the dinner if you don't want to. I wouldn't put you through that."

He shrugs. "I would rather have your mother on my side, even if it means suffering the gray men for one night."

She dares to add, "I suppose you'll have to meet them sooner or later, if. . . ."

He nods. "If my conversation with your father goes well."

"I think it will. Mother's the one we need to win over." Belle dimples. "Father's already won over." She stands and he follows suit. "We have the rest of the afternoon. Would you like a tour of the castle?" Then she glances hastily at his cane. "I'd love to show you the school; it's on the second floor."

"I'd like to see it. From your letters, it sounds like a most forward-thinking enterprise."

She grins broadly as she takes his arm. "I'd like to think so, even if it's immodest of me to say so. I had a lot of help designing it, including input from your son." Which launches a whole new conversation as they stroll into the hallway. "It was his idea to create little workstations for the children, one for reading, one for writing, one for languages—" He already knows all this, from her letters and from Bae, but nothing she says can bore him, so he listens intently and asks a great many questions as she provides the tour. Along the walls of the hallways are portraits, but only a few, as Belle identifies them, are of her family; most are of historical figures from Aramore's past. "Father and I agree, it's important that children grow up with an understanding of their nation's history." She frowns a little as they pause in front of a portrait of a black-bearded royal. "Even the less admirable parts. Him, for instance. Four kings back, he led a short but bloody rule. I'm ashamed to say that his violence doubled the size of the kingdom." She sighs regretfully. "But then, my own grandfather took the throne in a coup, too. I hope we do things in a more civilized manner now."

"I once read of a queen from a faraway land called Monmouth; her birth name was Gidrun but she is remembered as Ailia, which means 'the Enlightened.' She's known as the Queen of the Enlightened, because she brought literacy to her people." He casts a shy glance at her. "I think you'll be Aramore's Ailia."

Her voice cracks. "Oh thank you, Rumple. Your praise means more to me than any nobleman's flattery, because I know you mean it."

He blurts, "Belle, I—" Then he stops himself; as full as his heart is, he must let his head rule him. He can't speak his heart until he's gained Maurice and Colette's ascent.

"I know," she says softly, squeezing his hand. "I do too."

"Is it too soon? Too fast?" he frets.

She shakes her head. "I think we know each other better than most. Your letters showed me who you are."

He nods. "That's how I feel too. As if years of long conversation and walks in the woods have passed between us." His feet shift of their own accord, bringing him closer than he should; his head bends toward her and she lifts on tiptoes, but fortunately, a servant scurrying past interrupts and he draws away from her.

He clears his throat. "Will you show me your library?"

It's the one request capable of making her forget her need to kiss him. "The library! Yes, of course. In the west wing. If you aren't too tired?"

He shakes his head.

"This way, then." She directs him with a gentle hand on his arm. "And if you see anything you'd like to read, feel free to take it. In fact, we can crate up some books for you and send them, and you, back to Ramsgate by carriage."

"That's very generous." He's genuinely touched but not surprised.

"In all honesty, it's just looking out for our interests," she confesses. "The kingdom has grown so fast since Father took the throne, he and his legal advisers can't keep up. We know there's a need for legal counsel in every village. Father knows you've been serving in that capacity for Ramsgate; in fact, he's been thinking of inviting you and several others from around the kingdom to come here and study under the legal scholars, after the war is over."

He opens and closes his mouth. "That is—so much more than my little contract writing merits. I don't know what to say."

"We need you to be part of the Enlightenment." She steers him into a room larger than the Great Hall, with a ceiling so high above he can't see the top, and ladders reaching up to the tall shelves, each of which is filled with books or scrolls. "The library," she says proudly, watching him as his wide eyes travel slowly across the west wing. It's far more than he can take in. "Ohhh."

"The first thing I'd like to show you, though, isn't a book; it's this." She leads him to the northwest corner of the room, where a Saxony wheel and a basket of roving await. "A birthday gift from my parents. I requested it. I want to experience that dreamlike state you've written about, when you spin, but so far," she shrugs, "all I get is dizzy with frustration."

"How many lessons have you had?"

"Two."

He chuckles. "Patience, Belle. It's complicated, but the skill will come eventually."

"And now my pride and joy." She waves a hand at the shelves. "Books in every written language. The Bloody King actually started this; with each land he conquered, he looted their castles for books as well as gold. He liked to bring visiting kings here; he said it kept them in line to see how well read and smart he was. Truth was, he couldn't read or even write his name. His Chamberlain did all his paperwork. And then my grandfather continued the tradition of raiding conquered libraries, and my parents have bought and bartered for books, with an eye towards building schools in every town. When visitors want to impress us, they bring us books." She pursed her lips. "But as much as I love every book I've been given, the best gift I've ever received was a kitten. She's completely disinterested in my status. She loves me just as I am, and she comforts me when I'm lonely."

"I'm glad," he says softly.

It's her turn to clear her throat to chase away the temptation for inappropriate touch. She pulls on his hand, drawing him towards the westernmost wall. "Any citizen is welcome to come here, any time, and borrow books. Though, since the war started, we do post guards here while the borrowers browse. We have discovered a few spies among the citizenry—not spies for the ogres, of course, since we can't even communicate with them, but from those warlords and kings who would take advantage of our distraction to steal our kingdom out from under us. There have even been two assassination attempts from people posing as library borrowers." She sneers the last; he knows she considers this abuse of books an act of treason in itself.

"Your father is a good man and a good king," he assures her. "He has more loyalty among his subjects than any other living king."

She nods. "I hope to live up to his example." She runs her fingertips along a row of leather-bound books. "Father recommended we send some of these books back to Ramsgate with you. Modern practical law." She touches the row above those books. "And these are modern legal theory." She walks along the rows, pointing out their contents. "Historical law. General history. Military history. Military theory. Philosophy. Religion. Magic. Medicine. Botany. Animal husbandry." And so on; he loses track of all the subjects. Then they come to her favorites: fiction and poetry. And back around again to the law books, which he peruses. "If it's all right?"

She nods. "Take any you like."

He helps himself to a book about land deeds; another about inheritance law; and a third about contracts. Then his hand hovers over one before finally taking it down to add to his collection.

She peeks past his shoulder at the title: Laws of Marriage. Her breath catches. "Well. I'll leave you to it. I need to dress for dinner." But she takes a second peek at the page he's opened to: "Laws of Divorcement." Her voice shakes a little; she knows about Milah. "When you're ready to go to your room, just pull this cord. It'll ring the servant's bell for Aalot."

Rumple snorts. "I'm sure he'll have a hot bath and a change of clothes waiting for me."

She giggles. "He does fancy himself a fashion expert." She starts to leave, but abruptly pauses and presses a quick kiss to his cheek. She rushes away before he can respond—except to drop his cane.

He's sitting in a wingback chair beside a tall window—he imagines Belle sitting here, a stack of books at her feet, the cat on her lap—when Aalot comes looking for him. He doesn't hear the soft-footed servant (Aalot learned long ago that he can acquire some useful information by tiptoeing up on people) approach, so absorbed is he in the Laws of Marriage. He suddenly hoots and Aalot squeals and jumps backward, startling Rumple, who drops the book.

"Sorry, sir," Aalot recovers first and reaches for the book, but alas, it fell closed, so he can't see what Rumple was reading. He does, however, take note of the title on the cover. "It's time to dress for dinner."

Rumple gathers his borrowed books in one arm and his cane in his other. "Lead on."

"Allow me to carry those for you, sir." When Rumple hesitates, his pride bruised, the servant explains, "His Majesty instructed me to crate any books you wish to take with you when you go. There will be a carriage at your disposal when you're ready to return to Ramsgate."

With a curt nod, Rumple surrenders his prizes. "I suppose you have a bath ready?"

"Of course, sir. But I'll wait in the hall as you bathe. You can call for me if you need assistance getting in or out of the tub."

Rumple grunts and clutches his cane tightly. "I won't." Then he reminds himself this man works for His Majesty and therefore deserves courtesy. "Thank you just the same." As they make their way downstairs, he surreptitiously rubs his leg. All this climbing. . . a hot bath will be welcome. And olive oil soap, imported. It's almost worth putting up with Aalot for.