Wiping her hands on a towel, Esme steps out into the afternoon sun to relish a few moments of fresh air. It's a warm day, the castle windows are open and through them she can hear children reciting the alphabet in the classroom above. Out on the field, General Celvin is sharpening his swordfighting skills with General Darain. If she squints at the northern horizon, Esme can see curls of smoke rising from the chimneys of Ambassador Row. His Majesty and two advisors rode out there this morning to visit with the giants. Though their former enemy resides within easy striking distance, the castle is quiet and for most of its residents, the tension that hung over them during wartime has dissipated.

A familiar voice calls to her and she turns. Her mouth drops open in surprise, then forms a smile as the hunched figure limps into view. "Rumple!"

"Good day, Esme. Are you well?"

"I am. And you?" She shades her eyes, waiting for him; when he catches up to her, she takes his elbow and urges him inside. "You look tired. Come in for some buttermilk. I have a nice chicken on the spit. Are you hungry?"

"I am," he admits, permitting himself to be led into the kitchen. When he drops into a chair, he loses his grip on his cane and it clatters to the floor. She picks it up for him before fetching him a mug of buttermilk. "I'm growing too old, I fear, for such long walks, even on the newly paved roads His Majesty has built."

"You don't have your cart with you," she observes. "You didn't come to sell thread."

"No." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand after downing the mug's contents. She hurries to refill it as he explains, "I came because I'm worried. Esme, is Belle all right? Is she injured? Ill?"

"No." Esme raises her eyebrows, then points to the ceiling. "Here, listen." They go quiet for a moment, enabling them to hear faint singing. "That's her. Her and the kids."

He nods and sinks back into his chair in relief. "She's well, then. Has she been away?"

"No."

"One of her sisters has been visiting, I suppose."

"No." Esme sets a plate of chicken before him. "Eat, Rumple. You look half-starved. Why are you asking so many questions about her?"

He bows his head as he picks up the knife and stares at the succulent chicken breast. "Hope, I suppose. I hoped for a cause. . . other than the obvious one."

Esme plops down in a chair across from him. "What are you talking about?"

He lifts a shoulder reluctantly. "She. . . has she mentioned me, lately?"

"Well, no. But she has been rather preoccupied, I suppose, between the school and the giants. Rumple, are you telling me you think she's forgotten you?"

He pokes at the chicken. "It would be a wise decision, if she did. If she found someone suitable. A knight, a prince from another land. A young army officer, perhaps."

Esme shoves the plate at him. "Eat, Rumple, before you faint from hunger. For ages now, it's been no secret here that she's fixed her cap for you. We who have known her all her life also know her stubbornness. She's decided upon you and will have no other."

He lowers his voice. "She won't answer my letters any more."

"Oh." Esme folds her arms to think the problem through. "Well, if she was angry at you, you'd certainly hear about it. That means she's hurt, then. You've done something or said something—I'm sure unintentional. Find out what it is and apologize."

"How can I, when she won't answer?"

"You're here. Go upstairs and ask her. She'll have no choice but to answer."

"I can't." He shakes his head. "I just can't. To hear her say she doesn't care for me any more, I couldn't stand it. That she doesn't want to see me ever again, or hear my voice—or that she's been burning my letters—"

"Nonsense. She's hurt, not angry. She'd have told you if she wanted quit of you." Esme takes the knife from his hand, saws off a slice of meat and spears it, then spins the knife handle around to offer it to him. "Here. Eat. I'm not saying anything else until you do."

He gapes at her, but at last gives way. As he chews she reflects, "She's been running around a lot, so she hasn't been spending as much time down here with Helena and me. But Peyton says she's been unusually quiet at dinner, and when her plate comes back to us for washing, we've noticed she's barely touched her food. Yes," Esme decides, "she's hurt. So as soon as you've finished your chicken, go upstairs and apologize."

"It's for the best." His voice drops even lower. "There is no future for us. I don't want to cause her unhappiness, but soon enough I'll fade from her memory."

"Don't be daft."

But before she can sway him, he clambers to his feet, using the table as a support as he fumbles for his cane. Indignant, she follows him to the yard. "What are you doing? Rumplestiltskin, come back here! What do you mean, you can't face her? That's coward talk! Come back here!"

"That's the problem, Esme," he throws back over his shoulder. "I'm a coward, and she deserves better."

The cook huffs as he limps through the yard toward the path to the main road. Throwing her hands into the air, she wheels about and runs up the back stairs.

"Rumplestiltskin!" she pants. "Rumplestiltskin, wait!"

"Belle!" He can't help himself; he seizes her waist as she throws herself at him. Her hair is flying in a dark cloud behind her and her eyes are wide with surprise and concern—and yes, hurt, but not anger. He holds her steady as she catches her breath. Before he can stop himself, his hand is smoothing the hair back from her face.

"You came—you came for me—"

"Why didn't you answer—"

"All this way. You walked all this way, because you thought I was sick—"

"My letters—you always answered, before, right away, but for the past two weeks, nothing—"

"I don't understand—"

"I don't understand."

Her face is red, with both exertion and embarrassment. "Another woman. You found someone else and it's serious, you intend to marry her, I thought—the book—"

"What? What book?"

"The plant book. The book about preventing. . . you know."

"Preventing? Another woman?" He stares in amazement.

"You must be planning on marrying, I thought, because you wanted the book—"

"No, there is no other woman. There could never be. It's you I love, I always will, only you. Another—?" As they catch their breath together, he's able to finally focus on her words. He begins to figure things out. "The book about plants—oh—about preventing pregnancy—I understand now—"

Belle is beginning to feel a little foolish, but her confusion is not clearing up. "Why else would you want such a book, if not-?"

"He asked me not to tell anyone else. Just—that's it's rather embarrassing to talk about, even between fathers and sons." He ducks his head, ashamed that he's broken Bae's confidence.

"Oooh." She steps back in his arms to peer up at him. "The book was for. . . not for you."

"No. I guess I should have explained it in my letter; it just didn't occur to me that you'd think I would—want it for myself. I love you, no one else. Even if we can't be together."

She wrenches from his arms, then punches him in the chest, then grabs him in a tight hug. "You made me miserable! You could have told me—you didn't have to name names—but you left me to think the worst. I was miserable all this time. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, I couldn't even read. And I couldn't bear to write to you to ask what was happening, because if you'd told me you were marrying someone else, my heart would have shattered."

"I'm sorry, Belle, I'm so sorry. If I'd known what you were thinking, I'd have told you right away the book was for someone else. Please, will you forgive me?"

She gnaws on her lip. "It's my own fault, really. I should have asked instead of assuming. Sometimes I read too much between the lines. The apology is mine. Rumple, will you forgive me for jumping to conclusions?"

"We were both wrong." He kisses her forehead. "It was stupid on both our parts. Let's put this behind us and promise to be clearer with each other in the future."

She smiles at him in amazement. "You walked all this way, just because you thought I must be sick. Were you going to cook some chicken soup for me?" She links her arm through his and turns him back toward the castle.

"I do have a knack with chicken soup. Sometimes Bae would pretend to have a cold just so I'd cook for him. He wiped out my savings more than once, with that game of his." Rumple allows himself, once again, to be led into the kitchen.

"You've come such a long way. You should at least stay long enough to have a real conversation with me. Let's start with a bite to eat, and I'll have your chambers prepared for you." When he starts to protest, she grips his arm tighter. "One night, Rumple. Stay just one night. You need to rest before you make that long walk back. And my father will never forgive you if you hurry off before he has a chance to see you. He has so much news to share about the giants."

Esme is grinning at both of them as she sets another plate at the table. Belle continues, looking down at the floor, "And the laws—we really need to talk about the laws for inheritance and business ownership. I'm so ashamed that I acted so childish, letting my feelings get in the way of doing what I should. But I did show your letter to my parents and Father has been talking to his counselors, and now we'll all have the opportunity to talk it over." She leans over the table to pour a cup of buttermilk for Rumple. "One of the law scholars and I have been doing some research. Did you know, for example, that by law, the children are considered to belong to their father alone? The mother has no legal rights to them. If the father chooses, he can throw his wife out of the house with not a penny to her name and she will have no right to see her children. We need to talk about this."

"We will talk. I can stay a day or two, and we'll talk." Rumple digs into the chicken.

She follows him to the main road. In his pack are treats from Esme and Helena, as well as a book from Colette. Maurice offered to call for a carriage to drive him home, but Rumple found that unnecessary (and embarrassing, to ride into Ramsgate in a royal carriage); he will walk to the edge of town, where he will catch a ride with the freighter. The royal gardeners pause in their labors to wave as the Princess and the former Guardsman pass by, but the wave goes unseen, as Belle and Rumple stare at the clouds of dust their feet are kicking up.

"I don't know why you can't stay," she's mumbling. "At least, think about moving to Avonlea."

They've been through this argument time and again. It never changes, so he just doesn't answer.

"If it's because of what Dalibor said. . . ."

Rumple again refrains from answering.

"We didn't know he was coming. He certainly wasn't invited. He considers himself some sort of legal scholar, even though Father's never included him in any of the counseling sessions. Someone at the castle must've tipped him off that we talking about rewriting the inheritance laws—"

"I have responsibilities in Ramsgate. There's Enndolyn's situation, and the reading class, and I have friends there." The excuses sound lame even to him. "It's not Dalibor."

"You are just as qualified as anyone else. You proved that last night. You're just as well read any of the legal advisors, and certainly just as insightful and thoughtful and farsighted. Josef said so. And what you contributed to the discussion was just as important."

"It's not what Dalibor said, though nothing he said was untrue." He stops in the road and takes her hands in his, but he stares at her nose; he can't bear to look into her eyes. "It's what I didn't say. And I had no answer for him because I can't. I can't stand up for myself. I just can't." He draws in a deep breath to keep tears at bay. "When I was a child and my father boxed my ears and told me I was too stupid to learn his con games, and I wasn't worth the money it cost to feed me, all I could do was cower under the table. When the other kids pushed me into the dirt and pulled my hair and shoved mud in my mouth, all I could do was crawl away. When I got older, and taller, and stronger, even then, when the town scruffs would yank me into an alley and shove me down to steal whatever I had, and kick my ribs until I cried, all I could do was throw my arms over my head and try to hide under them. When I was drafted and the other soldiers schemed to throw me headfirst at the ogres, because all I was good for was ogre feed, all I could do was hang my head and tremble. And when I came home from the battlefield and Milah saw the result of my cowardice and informed me that she wished I had died rather than limp home a deserter, all I could do was let her run off to the arms of a pirate. So when Dalibor or the other nobles remind your father and your mother and you what I really am, it's just the truth, that's all, and I can't stand up to it. No amount of war medals, no praise from King's counselors—" He forces himself to look into her eyes. "Not even the love of the bravest, smartest woman in the world can change that. I am what I am, Belle. Even if you can accept that, even if you could be happy with me as I am, Aramore can't. This kingdom needs a prince who's strong enough to defend their queen against her hidden and overt enemies. Peace is too fragile to be left in the care of a coward."

"Rumple. . . ." They've come to the end of their words. All she can do is cry on his chest, and all he can do is let her.

"I'm your friend and your lover, always," he whispers into her hair before pulling away. "But I can't be your prince." He takes a step back. "Goodbye, Belle. I'll write to you as soon as get back to Ramsgate."

She wipes at her face with the back of her hand. "You'd better."

She's still standing there—hoping he'll change his mind?—when he's crested the hill.