It's dark when he arrives home. Allowing his knapsack to tumble to the floor, he sinks into his rocking chair. He's too tired to build a fire, though he's hungry and craves a cup of tea. Resting his forehead against his hand, he blocks out his hunger—and his guilty conscience—though he's not sure if he's really guilty of anything. He's disappointed Belle, but better to disappoint her now than to allow their relationship to bloom and end up failing her and Aramore. He breaks away from the confusion by focusing on his surroundings. Compared to what it was ten years ago, he now lives in a proper home, one he can welcome guests into. Thanks to the bargains he's made over the years, he's now prepared for overnight guests, like Bae and Morraine: he can offer them privacy, in a bedroom separate from his own and the kitchen. He can offer them an actual bed. When the time comes that grandchildren arrive for a visit, they can sleep on Bae's old pallet.

Tomorrow he'll invite Lucas and Gretchen over for tea, proper tea, with honey, and rolls from the bakery. He can afford that, now. And he has an excuse: Morraine is returning for a few days, to celebrate her parents' anniversary. Bae won't be with her—there's still far too much work that must be completed in Maelyss before the fall comes—but a chance to visit with his daughter-in-law is almost as good.

Ten years ago, he never would have imagined he'd someday live in a comfortable house, one that a few of his fellow Ramsgaters envy. His life is so vastly different, now. And it all started with the cat that's rubbing her cheek against his pants leg. He pats his knee in invitation and she leaps, a bit more heavily than in her younger days, but still graceful. She kneads his knee, her claws pricking through the cloth to his skin, before dropping, just as tiredly as he had, into his lap. He strokes her ears. She's purring, welcoming him home, distracting him from his worries. Old friends, they are, with the emphasis right now on old.

He can't see much in the dim light, but gradually he becomes aware of a wet spot expanding on his trousers, beneath her chin, which rests on his knee. He supposes she's had a recent drink from the rain barrel. Bae used to find it so amusing to watch her leap onto the rim of the barrel, dig her claws into the wood and lean in precariously to reach the water—or during times of drought, whine about the barrel's emptiness. In her kitten days, she would bite at the water, but as a mature cat, she'd developed better manners. That's what she must have been doing, playing in the rain barrel, to cause her to drip onto his knee.

Except she's always wiped her whiskers dry after drinking.

He runs his hand down her spine toward her tail. It's her favorite way to be petted; she'll purr louder and arch her back into his hand to signal her approval. Except tonight she doesn't. Maybe she's tired. And she must have been crawling around in the bushes, because her fur is matted at the top of her back. As she's gotten older, she just hasn't been able to twist herself the way she used to, to wash with her tongue. He wonders if he tries to give her a bath, how strenuously will she object? She's never bit him, but then, he's never violated her rules for engagement.

He scratches under her chin, only to find that she's drooling.

Worried now, he lifts her—she's lost weight—from his lap, rises, turns around and sets her gently in the rocking chair. Then he makes his way in the dark to the table, where he lights a candle, then he takes advantage of the lit taper to start a fire in the hearth. He fills the kettle from the rain barrel and hooks it on the crane and gathers his tea things. These small tasks give him an excuse not to inspect the cat, but with light filling the room, he can't put it off any longer. With a sense of dread rising from the pit of his stomach, he lifts the half-asleep cat to his eye level and tips her back so he can see her chin, then returns her to the rocking chair. He watches her as she dozes off.

He's breathing a little harder now. His dread had foresight: there's a wet, dark patch under her jaw and drool leaking over her lips.

He paces his hovel as he waits for the water to boil, then he almost forgets about his tea until the kettle whistles. He wishes he had a book about cat health, or a neighbor with more experience than he has in the subject. He swings the crane away from the fire and retrieves his kettle.

His hand trembles as he pours the water into his teapot.

He paces again, wondering what he should do for her tonight. Is she in pain? But she's purring as she sleeps peacefully. Was she injured? Bitten by a snake, perhaps? He fetches a bit of cloth and lifts her chin to wash the dark patch. She yanks her head away in annoyance and goes back to sleep.

His tea forgotten, he scrounges up a bit of pork and cuts it into knife-thin slices. He watches her, expecting her to rouse herself at the odor of meat, but she doesn't stir. He sets the pork aside for later. He doesn't know what's causing the drooling, but protruding ribs, he understands. He remembers the days when nothing separated his own ribs from his skin. Maybe she's cleaned out the neighborhood of mice and needs a supplement.

He wishes he had someone to talk to about this.

Warmth spreads across his chest as he reflects that he does; he has two good friends, in fact, who won't belittle him for showing concern for a small, aged animal. If it weren't so late, he could visit either of them and they'd sympathize. He decides that first thing in the morning, he'll take the cat to Fort. The farmer has no experience with cats, but what he knows about dogs and livestock might provide some insight.

There's another good friend who'd sympathize, though she's rightfully annoyed with him now. She'll put her anger aside and offer whatever encouragement and support she can, when she learns of Midnight's illness. He finds a sheet of paper and sits down to write to Belle.

He wakes to find the cat asleep on his chest. She opens her eyes at the same time he does and stares at him; what she's thinking, he can't tell, never could. But she must be feeling better because she hops down from him and, tail raised, saunters off to the little door that he and Bae created for her, so many years ago. When she returns, he'll offer her the chopped pork and inspect her wound. But she must be feeling better; he's hopeful of it; perhaps they won't need Fort after all.

He sits up, swings his legs out of the bed and reaches for his cane. Through his window the sun is shining; from next door, he can smell eggs frying. He puts the kettle on and slices some bread for his breakfast, and as he sits as his table, waiting for the cat to return, he deliberates. All the signs indicate that she's feeling better, but through Bae, he's had enough experience with sickness to know that an apparent recovery is often followed by a relapse. The bread has no flavor in his mouth; he swallows because he knows he'll be useless if he has no energy.

If she were whining, like an injured dog would. . . if she were hiding in the woods, like a wounded deer would. . . if she were snapping and snarling, like a sick wolf would. . . but when she returns through her personal door, her tail is high and her ears are perked and she leaps gracefully onto the kitchen table—where she knows she's not allowed to be; she's acting naughty to get him to play with her. She sniffs at his bread and bends under his hand as he strokes her ears, and she's purring, damn it. How can she jump and play and purr like a kitten if she's so sick? Then she does something she's never done before: she presses her nose against his.

He's more confused than ever. He offers her a tiny slice of pork and she takes it between her teeth, delicately so that she doesn't accidentally bite him, and she sets it on the table and paws at it, as if she wants it to run away so she can give chase. She lifts her paw to her tongue and licks. Apparently deciding that the pork is digestible, she lowers her head and takes the slice into her mouth. He breathes more easily: if she eats, she must be feeling well.

She cocks her head to the side and attempts to chew on one side of her mouth. She swallows and he offers another piece, and she tries—valiantly she tries—but the pork falls out of her mouth before she can chew and her neck is damp with the drool leaking from her lips. She sniffs at the pork, she sniffs at his fingers, she wants to eat, she knows she needs to, but something in her mouth is causing her such pain that she can't bear to chew. Distressed, she paws at the pork, but she gives up too soon, hops down from the table and paws herself into the clothes cupboard.

It's clear now what he has to do. He steps out into the morning and sends word up through the neighbor network: he gives a message to Luke—"Tell Fort I need him to come"; Luke is on his way to the cobbler's, and the cobbler tells his wife, who's on her way to the tinker's, who in turn tells the blacksmith, who tells the freighter—and eventually word is carried all the way out to Fort's farm. But word comes back around again from Beryl: Fort has gone to Bogamir to see Rulf and won't be back for three days.

Leaning in his doorway, Rumple asks Luke miserably, "You know a bit about dogs. Would you mind taking a look at my sick cat?"

Rumple sits in his rocking chair (acquired in a deal with a furniture maker) before a crackling fire. Outside rain is falling, but his house is tight and warm. A kettle is heating on the brand-new stove in the new extension he's had built on his house. There's a proper bed in that extension, so Bae has a comfortable place to sleep when he comes to visit, and a curtained bed in the corner of this part of the house. It's replaced the pallet that Rumple slept on most of his life, and it's done wonders for his damaged ankle.

The rain doesn't bother him. He welcomes it; his garden is thriving, planted with some exotic foods, the seeds for which Bae carried back from King Maurice's castle. When he harvests, he will trade most of his produce to his neighbors in exchange for their more ordinary vegetables, potatoes and parsnips and the like. He eats pretty well (though not as well as the nobles do); he has a pair of solid boots, a heavy cloak, three unstained tunics and three hole-free pairs of trousers; he has nine books and a fishing pole and all the tools he needs to maintain his house. When the kettle boils he will have four canisters of tea to choose from, along with a slice of white bread. He has a seventeen-year-old son who's already making a good living in the King's Home Guard, and a daughter-in-law who's visiting next door today, and he has three friends he can count on, one of whom has just left.

And he has a cat. A ten-year-old black cat that sits in his lap each evening. They're two friends growing old together as their children are out changing the world, Rumple likes to muse with his friend Fort. The cat sleeps most of the time these days. He allows it; she's more than earned it.

He pets her in a single stroke from head to tail. That's how he's always rewarded her, never with table scraps. Never, because she had a job to do, clearing out the mice in the neighborhood. Never, until three weeks ago.

And now he would gladly get down on his knees with a slice of his best mutton between his fingers, if he could get her to eat that way. He'd do it gladly and has, but to no avail. Not that she won't try. She'll cock her head and stare at the tidbit, she'll take a hesitant step forward, but then she sits down again and makes a little cry. She seems to think she's disappointing him.

In the beginning of her illness, she retreated to the clothes cupboard where she had birthed her babies, five litters over her long lifetime. She'd sleep in the dark space for hours on end. He thought nothing of it: she was just aging, like he was.

After a few days he noticed she never went out hunting any more, and that alarmed him. Midnight was the acknowledged Artemis of the Frontlands, the hunting queen of cats. She'd starve if she didn't hunt, and Bae would never forgive him if that happened. He'd never forgive himself. So he knelt at the cupboard and coaxed her out with chunks of mutton, fish or chicken. She crept out, studied the first chunk, then when her confusion faded she accepted it and crept back into the cupboard to eat. She seemed embarrassed. He chopped up more raw meat and left it in a bowl in the cupboard. When he came back in the morning, he counted the chunks: she'd taken only one more.

So he chopped the meat finer and cooked it, and another day passed with a full bowl. On the third day he sat on the floor, lifted her out of the cupboard, and cuddled her on his lap while he held a bite of chicken within reach of her mouth. Perhaps she was blind and that was why she hadn't gone hunting. Perhaps she couldn't smell any more and that was why she hadn't taken from the bowl. So he held the tidbit to her mouth. She tried, cocking her head and sniffing. Then she lowered her head with a throaty meow. He laid the meat aside and petted her as she lowered her head to his knee and fell asleep. Hours later, he paid for the privilege of sitting on the floor when he tried to stand up again and his ankle gave out.

They continued on this way, him feeding and watering her by hand, her taking an occasional bite just to please him. She'd toss her head as she chewed, and that led him to wonder if she had a tooth problem. He called in Fort, a farmer who knew more about "dosin'" animals than anyone in the village. While the cat whimpered on Rumple's lap, Fort pried her mouth open and peered inside, with Morraine holding a candle high to give him light.

Fort's inspection took a long time. When he withdrew and Morraine blew out the candle, Rumple asked, "A tooth?"

Fort shook his head. "She's lost a tooth, but that ain't the problem." He glanced at Morraine. "Maybe this ain't for young gals to hear."

"I love this cat," Morraine said stubbornly.

"She stays. What is it, Fort?"

"It's her tongue. I seen this before on one of my goats. The tongue's rotten."

"What does that mean?"

"It means she's dyin'. You been noticin' the droolin'? It hurts when she swallows."

"We'll cut it out. Get a sharp knife and cut out the part of the tongue that's rotten." But even as he suggested it, Rumple knew it was an awful idea.

"Rum. . . .the rot's spreading through her mouth. Won't be much longer now. Only thing is, starvin' and thirst will take her down before the rot will." Though a big man, Fort has a soft heart that he seldom lets others see. He showed it now, and not just because he sympathized with Rumple. He reached out and scratched the cat's ears. He stood up, wiping his hands on his trousers. "She did her work, Rum. Let her go."

"Not yet." Rumple shook his head fiercely. "Not yet."

Fort clasped a hand to Rumple's shoulder. "When you're ready." He walked slowly out into the morning. Morraine remained long enough to prepare a cup of tea and a plate of bread and cheese for Rumple, then she bade him a soft goodbye.

He's been sitting in his rocking chair ever since. His tea's gone cold and the bread is stale, but it doesn't seem right to eat when his old friend can't.

The sicker she gets, the more she purrs. He's learned that's a false hope. Or maybe it's her thank you.

There are other cats in the village, now. He could go out tomorrow and for a copper purchase one of her descendants, a black one or a white one or a yellow one. Or Bae could bring one home from the castle on his next visit. There are other cats, but none like Midnight.

"Not yet," he says to her. "Stay until Bae can come home and say goodbye."

But a pool of saliva has formed on his knee and he can feel only bones beneath her fur, which is matted. She used to take such pride in keeping herself clean. She's starving, yet her eyes are bright and she purrs and sometimes she gets bursts of energy that enable her to leap onto chairs, like the old days. And she's trying so hard, fighting the illness just as fiercely as she's battled mice all her life, and she deserves to live.

He doesn't know the right thing to do.

His body jerks, nearly lifting from his rocking chair, and he gasps as a hand grasps his shoulder. The cat, sleeping open-mouthed on his lap, jerks awake too and leaps down with a protest. She slinks around his chair to plant her butt firmly on the floor and stare up at the new arrival. Rumple shifts in his seat, then clambers to his feet, forgetting he needs his cane, and as soon as his right foot hits the floor, the pain shooting up his ankle makes him lose his balance. He stumbles but Belle catches and steadies him, then offers his cane.

"Belle! What are you doing here?" Then, realizing that sounds rude, he corrects himself. "I mean, why have—"

"Never mind, Rumple, I know what you meant." She looks him up and down, frankly assessing his health; from the slight crease that forms between her eyebrows, he realizes he hasn't passed muster. He supposes his age is showing. . .and it has been several days since he washed his hair. He winces an apology.

She, on the other hand, looks delightfully messy. Her hair, also unwashed, hangs loose on one side while the other is pinned up. Her clothes—the same dress she borrowed for Morraine and Bae's wedding; he suspects that means she's traveling incognito and therefore has come by public transport—are wrinkled and there's a small stain on the collar. The hem has come apart—probably her heel caught in it at some point; he will mend that for her, later. Maybe he'll take the opportunity to teach her to sew; it will be an excuse for them to sit close, his hands on hers.

He shakes the image from his mind. He's getting way ahead of himself. "Please." He takes her elbows, finally realizing she's carrying a portmanteau; he takes the case from her. "Be seated." He nods at the rocking chair. "Let me make you some tea. Are you hungry?" He sets the suitcase down near the front door. It's quite heavy; where is she traveling to, that she needs so much? Then again, she's a royal; she's used to changing her clothes several times a day. He grabs the kettle with the intention of taking it out to the rain barrel to fill, but he loses his train of thought as her eyes catch his. All he can do is stare.

"I've come to help," she says quietly, then she sinks to her knees on the floor and lifts the cat's chin to examine the wound. He now understands what it is she's come to help with.

She offers her open palm and Midnight rubs her head into it. After scratching the cat's ears a moment, Belle rocks back on her knees and sighs. "She's very sick, Rumple."

He stares down at the cat, who's staring at Belle. "But she's not in pain. . . I don't think. . . ." Belle doesn't argue, but her frown disagrees with his assessment. "She jumps around like she always has, she purrs—" His voice catches.

Belle reaches out to take his hand.

He shudders as he admits, "She's skin and bones. I have to. . . ."

"Yes." Belle carries the cat to Rumple's bed and eases her onto a pillow. "You said your friend could give her something to. . . ."

"Yes. It would be gentle."

"When you're ready, then, we should. . ." She glances over her shoulder. "It's daylight."

He nods miserably. Then, realizing he's still holding the kettle, he stutters, "I should make you some tea—"

She shakes her head and comes into his arms. "Let me help."

He fights against the tightening of his chest and the burning in his eyes. "It's not just the cat—" He doesn't want her to lose respect for him. Losses have been stacking up against him; he's not sure he can handle one more, especially if it's Belle.

"I know," she says, pressing her cheek to his chest.

"But it is," he admits. "She's been—family."

"How far you've come, since that first day you took her in." Belle has heard the story, in bits and pieces, over the years of their correspondence.

"I owe her." He looks around at his home, remembering what it was on that first day, and remembering all that came after. So much of what he has and what he's become would not have happened if Midnight hadn't adopted him. He looks over at the cat and when she blinks back at him, he accepts the debt he owes her. "We need to go now."

"Yes."

From the mantle he takes down the traveling basket that he and Bae used to carry Midnight in, when they loaned her to the neighbors, so long ago. It's stuffed with Belle's letters now; he carefully sets those aside, then sets the basket on the table and lifts the cat into it. She meows a complaint but after sniffing at the cloth lining, remembers the basket and settles into it. Her head is too heavy for her to hold up; she rests it on her paws, her tail wrapped neatly around her fragile body. He strokes her, head to tail, and the bones jutting out from her skin reveal to him that there is no more time.

The basket in one hand and the cane in the other, he is unable to take Belle's hand, but she hooks it through his elbow and steps out into the road beside him. The walk to Fort's farm is too long and not long enough. Neither of them speaks as they walk, and the cat doesn't stir in her basket, but periodically Belle rubs her hand against his arm and rests her head against his shoulder.

"Rumplestiltskin." Beryl greets them at her kitchen door, props it open with a foot to allow them to enter. She nods at Belle, recognizing her from the wedding—or so she thinks. "Annabelle, mornin'."

"Actually, it's just Belle. My name is Belle." She murmurs.

"As in—Princess Belle?"

"I hope you'll forgive the lie. I didn't want to cause a stir at the wedding."

"'Course not." Beryl's matter-of-fact tone makes it clear that subject is closed. She glances into the basket, then tightens her mouth. "I'll get Fort. You folks sit down."

The kitchen is big, with a stone floor and proper stove and copper pots hanging on the wall. The pots are covered with a layer of dust; Beryl doesn't need them any more, now that it's just herself and Fort to feed. Rumple stares at those pots and thinks about the progress of a man's life, years and years of building up, and then so quickly to find, with his children gone and his own needs diminishing, what he's built now just collects dust. But perhaps that will change, too; perhaps someday, through Rulf, children will fill these rooms again and Beryl will need those pots.

Life is a wheel, with individual men and women merely riding it for a few short years. But their love, he believes, lives on after they're gone. If he closes his eyes, he believes he can feel the love lingering in these walls, just waiting to be called upon. He scratches the cat's ears, wondering if she knows that out there, her progeny wander the town, protecting it, and keeping something of her alive.

"Mornin', Rum. Miss Annabelle." Fort fills the kitchen with his bulk. He's bald and stoop-shouldered now, but he still walks big and his voice is as commanding as ever. He sets a basket of his own on the kitchen table. It contains a single small bottle filled with a brown fluid. His eyes blink as he faces Rumple, and Rumple realizes this is hard on him too. "If you want, I'll take her. If you want to wait here—"

"I should do it." But there's a question in Rumple's voice; he really wants to be talked out of this task. His hand trembles as he reaches into the basket to pet the cat one last time. He's listening for any of them—Fort, Belle, Beryl—to insist he should be exempt from the pain of this duty. And indeed, Belle makes a small sound in her throat, but suddenly something tightens in Rumple's chest and his hand stops shaking. "So she won't be afraid. I'll do it."

Fort nods. "Try to get her to take half this. It'll go easier, the more she can get down." He uncorks the bottle.

Rumple glances at Belle. "Maybe you'd rather wait in the sitting room."

She clutches his arm in answer. Tears have started down her cheeks.

"All right." He lifts the cat from the basket, settles her comfortably on his lap. He pets her, setting her at ease; she closes her eyes. But when he presses his fingers into her mouth to open it, she opens her eyes and watches him with a strange calmness. "Thank you," he whispers, "for all these years." She allows him to open her mouth. She doesn't struggle when he pushes the neck of the bottle past her teeth and tilts it up. She's still watching him as he pours the liquid over her shredded tongue and rubs her throat to cause her to swallow. She blinks once, then closes her eyes as he lowers her head to his lap. She's purring as he pets her. It's several minutes before he realizes she's stopped.

Belle cries into her hands.

"Thank you," he tells Fort. He lifts the cat back into her basket, then stands.

"I have a place," Fort jerks his head toward the back door. "Under a apple tree. Where I buried Pup. She's welcome there."

Rumple picks up the basket. "Thanks." He offers the crook of his arm to Belle. "Midnight would like that. She loved to tease dogs."

They bury the cat in a piece of blanket that Beryl provides; Fort digs the hole, since it's difficult for Rumple to control a shovel. Belle lays a wildflower over the mound. After a few moments of stillness, Beryl offers, "I'll make us some tea," but Rumple shakes his head. "We should go back. Belle must be tired, after coming such a long way, and I need to write to Bae."

"I could hitch up the wagon—"

Belle shakes her head. "Thank you, Fort, but I think the walk back will do us both some good."

Rumple holds out his hand and she takes it. They're both tired, but even more than rest, they need—he needs—privacy now in which to mourn. Slowly they make their way back to town.