DISCLAIMER: I do not dare claim any ownership for the fabulous characters, situations, plots and/or spins on old stories that ABC's geniuses have given us on Once Upon a Time.
This is a what-if story: The way I figure, something DID jog his memory that night in the pawn shop…but it wasn't the windmill…
In the shadow of the toll bridge
No More Happy Thoughts
Clancy wasn't sure if it was fate or just dumb luck that led him straight from the hospital to the edge of the square by the old library; then again, he'd never much cared about the whys and wherefores. As it was, he was thankful to see anyone on the street as he approached what were obviously the sheriff's and deputy's cars. Storybrooke seemed strangely quiet today. Not a soul out and about on the street, and though much of that could be attributed to the snow, he was surprised to find so much of the town so empty.
Of course, none of that mattered once he spotted Emma herself emerging from the abandoned library, rushing over to the trunk of her little yellow bug. "Swan!" he called out from his window and aimed his truck toward the parking spot directly behind hers.
Emma whirled around when she heard her name and openly gaped as the fireman's pickup headed towards her. What the hell was he doing here? "Clancy?" she yelled back as he parked the truck and hopped out, jogging towards her and holding the collar of his jacket over his mouth to cut through the violent winds of the snow storm.
"Emma, we need to talk," he started, but then stopped as he saw her reach for a pile of old sheets buried in her trunk. "What are you doing?"
"Now's not really a good time, Matt," she said, sniffling and coughing in the winter wind as she yanked and struggled with the tangle of linens from the car.
"Um," he leaned over and peaked inside. "Why do you need a bunch of old sheets?" he asked, now insanely curious.
"I told you it's not a good time," she huffed and continued to tug but the bundle wouldn't move. Matt wasn't surprised. It looked as if she'd tried to shove the entire contents of an average 2-bedroom apartment in there. He stared at her, leaned against the bumper and waited for a better answer.
Seeing he had no intention of moving, she sighed. "We need a makeshift rope ok? We…found someone."
Matt sprung to his feet once more. "Your son?" he asked, truly hopeful that the young deputy had found the boy whose absence had her so crazed this morning.
Having honestly forgotten he even knew about Henry, Emma's eyes widened in shock, and then she softened, genuinely touched. "No," she frowned and started tugging again. "Someone…else who's been, well…missing for a while now. Someone's been keeping him in the old library basement and there's no way out."
The bizarre nature of this story didn't at all seem to faze the fireman as he looked pitifully at the old sheets, thought for a minute, and snapped his fingers. "Hang on a sec," he said and then ran to his truck. Emma watched as he wrenched open the passenger door, pulled a black heavy-duty bag from the cab and returned to her car. "If you're gonna pull someone out of an old basement," he said, rummaging into the bag, "you're gonna need actual rope." Proudly (almost cute…if Emma was being totally honest with herself), Matt pulled a bundle of double-braided nylon rope from the sack.
"Why do you—" she started to ask, then snapped her mouth shut and rolled her eyes.
Clancy chuckled and struck a pose. "Fireman?"
The two of them headed back inside and were met by Sheriff Graham who was standing at the open doorway, shining his flashlight toward the door for Emma to find her way back. "Matt Clancy?" he asked as he spotted Emma's new friend.
"How you doin' Sheriff?"
Graham didn't respond, but instead shot Emma a wary look. The three of them had no time for pleasantries though and set their minds to the task of lifting Michael Tillman out of his basement prison.
"Oh God," were Tillman's first words upon finally touching ground on the upper level. He collapsed against the wall, massaging an obviously injured shin. Clancy fell to one knee beside him and started to do a partial workup while Emma crouched at his other side.
"Michael," she said, "what happened after—"
"John happened," he winced as Clancy performed a few tests for mobility.
"Honest John?"
"John Foulfellow?" said Emma and Graham together. Tillman glanced up at the sheriff. "Honest John, yeah," he said as if just remembering. "That's what he first called himself."
"What'd he say?"
"Nothing much before he beat the shit out of me," he growled.
"Easy man," said Clancy as he pulled a stethoscope out from his bag and motioned for him to sit forward.
Tillman leaned over, bracing his palms on the cold, damp floor. "H-he—" he coughed – "he told me he was—" another cough and then he shuddered – "that he was gonna take real good care of my kids." He spit the last words out as if distasteful. "Emma, where are they? Where're my kids?"
Emma's face fell which told Tillman all he needed to know but she replied anyway. "We don't know, Michael, but we're looking. My son—" she glanced over at Clancy whose gaze was now quite guarded, "my son is missing too."
Michael slammed his fist against the floor and started pushing himself up. "Come on," he said. "We gotta start looking. We—"
"Whoa, hold on a minute," she held her hand up to stop him and looked back to Clancy. "Is he all right?"
Matt nodded. "He's a bit bruised, but nothing broken. Still, I'd go to the hospital anyway just to be safe."
"To hell with that," said Michael, not about to waste any more time being poked and prodded when his children needed him. Children – for some reason the idea no longer seemed foreign to him. In fact, the two photographs Emma had shown him had somehow ended up in his back pocket, and they were all that had sustained him. He had kids – Ava and Nicholas. Loved ones who needed him now, and he wasn't about to let them down.
Emma had to admit, despite all that was dangerously in flux right now, seeing Michael Tillman alive and well and still in Storybrooke healed a bit of her soul. Though she no longer needed it, finding the lost mechanic was further proof that she'd been right about him too. He hadn't, after all, abandoned his kids. He'd fully intended to take them in upon her return last week (holy Christ, was that really just last week?), and now, recovered at last, was hell bent on finding them. Henry's strong little voice popped in her head: "You're the one who told me that you have a superpower. Did you use it?...On Michael Tillman. Did you use your superpower?...Well?...Was he lying? Did he really not want his kids?"— Emma gasped…her superpower!
"Michael," she started as they headed for the library exit. She pulled off one heavy leather glove and turned to stop him just as they reached the threshold. "Do you mind if I try something?" she asked as Graham, already halfway out the door, whirled around. Tillman and Clancy stood rather dimly on either side of her while the sheriff drew a sharp breath. Emma reached for Michael's hand, her own hand trembling. But Emma never got the chance to prompt a vision of Tillman's captor or more of Honest John. For at that moment, a gut-wrenching scream ripped towards the old library…and Graham Humbert fell to the icy pavement outside.
"Graham!" Emma cried, rushing to where the sheriff had stumbled near his car. He was writhing and twisting on the sidewalk, curling into a little ball with blood-curdling shrieks loud enough to wake the dead. "What, what is it?" she asked, her heartbeat racing as she tried to steady him, tried to prop him up against her. "Is it her? Is she—"
But all he could do was scream in misery as the other two men rushed to his side.
"Talk to me Graham," said Clancy, his face sheet white as he crouched down, honestly unable to recall the last person he saw in this much agony. "Where's the pain, your chest? Lungs?"
Graham could barely breathe, let alone speak. But he gripped his chest and then awkwardly flung his hand forward and covered Clancy's own heart.
"Your heart," Matt confirmed as tears started streaming down Emma's cheek.
"You're a medic! Do something!" she screamed, clutching at the soft, fleece collar of Graham's jacket.
"Run to the truck," said Clancy as he forced Graham to lie all the way back on the pavement, "Grab the red and yellow bag from the cab."
Graham started shaking his head, but Emma was already up and running. She flew to the passenger side, flung open the door and grabbed the bag, ready to turn and rush right back to the suffering sheriff. And that's when she saw it…right as she closed the door…an image – a picture of Regina. No, not a picture – a projection, peeking out of the passenger side mirror…crushing Graham's heart.
"Emma!" Matt shouted at her, "That's the defibrillator! Hurry!"
But Emma stood frozen in horror as she watched Regina slowly squeezing the life out of her victim. Then, almost in slow motion, she turned to see Graham…staring up at her. He was no longer screaming. His cries had ceased. He gazed at her instead with a weak but knowing gleam in his eye. He knows what is about to happen, she thought almost against her will. He's not afraid. And then…he reached out toward her.
"Emma! Come on!" Clancy now raced to the truck, hollering a few incoherent instructions to Tillman as he ran to her side. "Deputy!" he shouted, though his voice practically disappeared in the snowstorm. "Snap out of it!" he cried, plucking the bag from his grasp and starting to turn. Then he too froze as his gaze fell upon the side mirror. "What the f— is that—"
"What the hell is going on over there?" yelled Tillman, who was staring at the whole scene in horror. Emma meanwhile, slowly approached the sheriff, the world starting to spin and swirl like the snow before her. Tillman bolted over to Clancy to see what everyone was staring at while Emma knelt down at Graham's side, tears spilling down her face.
"Graham," she whispered, though somehow she knew he could hear her, "I'm…I'm so—"
The hunter reached out and grasped her hand, squeezing tightly. Emma held her breath, preparing herself for a new vision as he'd reached for the hand still ungloved. But nothing happened. No, not this time. This was her place now – in the present. With him.
"N-not your fault," he stammered, his body shaking violently, though his hand remained steady. He'd known since his awakening last night that his time here would be limited. As the queen's most frequently-abused lackey and, he knew now, the one who over the years had most threatened the fabric of the curse, Graham knew he would be the first to fall. This morning at Gold's – was a warning. This – this was destiny. His destiny. His time. There was just one thing left to be done. One duty he owed the princess of New Gaia. "N-not your fault," he whispered again, desperate to leave her with no guilt, not a trace of responsibility for a fate that had been decided the moment he'd spared the life of her mother. "F-follow the wolf," he said.
She shook her head, holding his hand to her heart.
"T-trust your gut," he nodded and managed a smile.
"What the hell is she doing?!" Clancy's cries pierced through Graham's parting words and Tillman's followed.
"Is that…is that a h-human heart?!"
But Emma did not respond. She didn't even have the strength to whip around and scream at them to shut up as Graham breathed his last breath. She merely watched through bleary eyes, brushing the falling snow out of his brown, moppy hair. "L-love…" he whispered, then hissed in pain as he felt the last bit of life drain out of him. "Love your family," he pleaded with her. Then his hand went limp. Graham was dead.
…
Henry, Rufio, Nibs, Ace, Hansel and Gretel were all huddled in the corner of the large dining room. They'd been very careful since lunch to cause as little trouble as possible as Hook had been pacing extra close to their group since Henry's arrival. Eventually though, the old sea captain grew bored and retired to his private dining area where magic allowed him to conjure a feast far finer than the sloppy oatmeal growing cold in front of the boys.
"I'm tellin' you, Henry," said Nibs, as soon as Hook was out of earshot. "There's no way outta here. We like to give Hook a good run for his money every now and then but—"
"Yeah, a few days ago, Tootles even made it out the window," said Rufio.
"Tootles?"
"Peter's very firstlost boy," said Ace. "Had just enough fairy dust left in him for a decent takeoff, but Hook and John were merciless. Shot him out of the sky like they was huntin' ducks!"
Henry's face turned a little green. "You mean he…he's—"
"He's not dead," Gretel placed a hand on his shoulder and shot Ace a disapproving look. Honestly, the kid loved to dramatize every situation. "They shot him with a spell, Henry, from Hook's hook. Not a gun," she finished, still glaring at Ace.
Henry frowned, peeking his head up over their little group and surveying the rest of the dining room. "Which one is Tootles?" he asked quietly.
Rufio sighed. "He ain't down here right now. Still laid up in bed. I mean, he's…all right I guess, but—"
"But the spell knocked the wind out've him," said Nibs. "When he is up and about, he's limpin' real bad and you can forget about happy thoughts."
"Happy thoughts?" asked Henry, though the concept sounded vaguely familiar.
"That's how we fly, Henry. Happy thoughts and fairy dust," explained Rufio. "Sounds simple enough, but when you've spent as much time here as we have…" he trailed off, looking back over to Nibs.
"You find that the fairy dust is actually easier to come by," said Nibs who, Henry had surmised, was easily the wisest of all the Lost Boys. In fact, Henry had a feeling that if Tootles had been Peter's firstLost Boy, Nibs had most likely been the second. The young prince looked at all the other equally young faces surrounding him and then glanced down to his shirt pocket. There Mick sat, still tucked safely inside and listening patiently as the childrens' stories unfolded.
"See what I mean, Pal?" the mouse's voice sounded in his head. "They need you."
Henry closed his eyes, nodding to the little rodent. Then another question occurred. "How'd he do it?" he said, picking his head up.
"Do what?" asked Ace as he took a swig of lukewarm water.
"Tootles. What was his happy thought?"
Rufio sighed and tucked one leg under the other. "A few months ago, Tootles was working late, cleaning in the kitchen. He always gave Hook a rough time with chores so he was always gettin' 'em done really late." Henry nodded, eager for the story to continue. "Well, Hook musta forgot he was there cuz Regina arrived that night and he never sent Tootles away."
"Regina came here?" Henry pointed down, glancing around the table.
"Yeah," Nibs chimed in, leaning forward. "And Regina usually doesn't come 'less it's really important. She's got John for all the small stuff."
"John Foulfellow," Henry muttered, shuddering again at the memory of seeing his adoptive mother's lackey carrying poor Lucy's little body away.
"Right," said Nibs. "So anyway Tootles presses his ear up real tight against the door and listens to their conversation. Bout an hour later, he runs upstairs and says that Regina told Hook that the clock in Storybrooke started ticking again."
Henry straightened up in his seat, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead. "The clock?!" he cried, glancing over at Hansel and Gretel. "That's when my mom showed up," he said, excitedly. "That's when Emma came to Storybrooke!"
Gretel nodded. "Right," she confirmed. "That's what we told 'em."
Rufio rolled his eyes. "We know, we know—"
"I'm just sayin'—" she teased.
"Cool it, you two," said Nibs, thrusting his hands out into the middle of the table and making a splitting-motion with his palms.
Henry shook his head, now thoroughly confused. "What? 'Just sayin'' what?"
Ace smirked and snorted into his drink. "Eh, Rufio's just sore he got proved wrong by a girl."
Rufio smacked him on the head. "Can it, Ace!"
"Both of you shut up or we ain't gonna finish the story b'for Hook comes back!" Nibs hissed. In Henry's head, he could hear Mick chuckling. "See Henry, Tootles has always had a kind of – er – active imagination. And the clock, well," he glanced around at the others. "It's kinduv a sore spot for all of us."
"Whadya mean?" Henry asked, folding his arms across each other on the table top.
"He means the clock is partly what ended us up here in the first place," said Rufio. "We weren't always trapped here you know. We came through with the curse like everyone else: fake memories, different names, every day pretty much the same."
"Right, 'till you started asking questions," Henry said with a proud grin, happy to suddenly be in-the-know.
Rufio drew back. "Uh…right. How do you know about that?"
He glanced down at Mick who he swore gave Henry a thumbs up with his tiny little paw. "One story at a time, Rufio," Henry chuckled, pulling back and crossing his hands behind his head. Ace followed it up with a jeering 'Ooooooooo' of his own before someone smacked him on the head again. Henry laughed, but then gestured for Rufio to continue. "So what about the clock?"
Still eyeing the kid warily, though – oddly – with a bit more respect now, Rufio pressed on: "The clock was one of the first things we noticed. Every day, every minute – stuck on 8:14. It never moved. And nobody else ever wondered why."
"I used to ask Ms. Blanchard every day why the clock never changed," added Ace, "and she never had a real answer."
"You were in Ms. Blanchard's class?!" Henry exclaimed so loud, his outburst earned him a collective shushing.
"Yeah," Ace scoffed, "'till I asked about the clock one too many times. Then they moved me into DeVil's class and 'ventually got kicked out altogether!"
"Soon we started askin' other questions too and then," said Nibs, sharing a sorrowful look with the rest of them, "we started wakin' up. So Regina moved us here and put Hook here to guard us."
Henry frowned and it suddenly struck him that the passage of time here must have felt far less hazy to these boys than it did to the adults living in town. Why, they'd truly felt every single, painstakingly dull day for 28 years. "So when Tootles told you guys the clock was working again—"
"We didn't really believe it," Rufio said, his voice regretful. "We thought sure Tootles heard wrong. I mean, it was just too good to be true. Besides, we hadn't really believed in anything for years. Not after…" he trailed off, and Gretel actually reached forward and covered his hand with hers.
"After Peter grew up," she finished for him. Rufio glanced up, startled but grateful.
"It was enough for Tootles though," Nibs continued, drawing himself up from his bench and rounding the table over to Henry. "He knew he'd heard right. The clock was ticking again – his first happy thought in decades. And the more he held onto it, the stronger it grew. Started affecting all of us really. First time any of us 'ad smiled in years. And eventually, it grew so strong he learned to fly again, and he made it all the way outside before Hook and John stopped 'im."
There was a collective pause at the table as all the kids, including Hansel and Gretel seemed to be reliving the moment in their minds as they saw their friend struck down by the villainous rogues. "We were all real proud of 'im," Ace assured Henry as he sensed the rest of the group succumbing to remorse, "but Hook and John made it clear that if anyone else tried to escape, they'd not only get killed but—"
"But so would anyone else left behind," said Nibs.
"So it's gotta be all of us together or none at all," said Rufio.
"And since Peter's all chained up—"
"Andthe locks are controlled by magic—"
"And Hook's the only one's got magic—"
It was Hansel who finished, and said with a sigh, "No more happy thoughts."
Henry gulped, feeling his entire corner of the room heaving with regret. The other boys near them had quieted too, and he suddenly felt as if a dozen eyes were all on him, looking for answers. Answers he didn't have…or did he?
"Fairy dust," he murmured quietly.
Nibs' head shot up. "What?"
Henry shot a look to Mick who was now beaming up from his pocket. "My thoughts exactly, Pal."
Henry nodded. "Fairy dust," he said, more confidently as Gretel and the boys tuned in. "Fairy dust is magic. Good magic."
"Yeah so?" scoffed Rufio. "You didn't happen ta bring any extra didja?" he crossed his arms, brow creased in doubt.
"Don't need to. You said it yourself – Tootles had just enough fairy dust in 'im for takeoff right?"
Nibs nodded. "Right?"
"Well? Don'tcha see? You all have a little bit a fairy dust left in you. That's why you're immune to the curse in the first place. It's why you noticed the clock. Why you figured out no one aged."
Nibs looked over to Rufio who shrugged. "Kid's got a point. It is the only thing that's different 'bout us from other kids."
"It's true," added Gretel. "I mean, look at us. We've lived in Storybrooke this whole time without askin' questions," she gestured to her brother who nodded in assent.
"Exactly," said Henry, "and if you've all got fairy dust, you've all still got magic. And with it, we can free Peter, and all bust outta here!"
"Whoa, wait a minute now Hank," said Ace, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Can I call ya Hank? Listen, there's a big difference between usin' fairy dust to fly and usin' it to amass some cock-eyed escape."
"He's right," said Nibs. "Flyin's all we ever used fairy dust for. What makes you think we can actually…do magic."
"Because," Henry folded his arms over his chest. He shot Mick one last look for support which Mick wholeheartedly returned. In fact, Henry could once again feel the mouse's ear-to-ear grin. "I'm magic too."
…
When James finally woke, he had a splitting headache and was staring up at the crusty, yellow, moldy ceiling of a very familiar looking cell. Blinking his eyes open, he turned his head slowly, wincing at the pain that seared down his spine as his body reminded him of the nasty bump Abigail's shovel had wrought. "Regina!" he shouted as he picked himself off the ground and grunted himself upright. "Reginaaaaaaaaaaaa!" he yelled again, letting his anger dwarf his pain.
Livid, he pounded his fist against the iron bars that lined two walls of his tiny cell, one set lining the front and the other adjacent to another cell. He rubbed the back of his neck, hissing through the pain as he assessed the second blow to his head in less than a week. He knew better this time though, thank the gods. Abigail may have struck him down, but this was Regina through and through. He only hoped that wherever Abigail was now, she could find a way to stay safe and out of the queen's range.
Just then, what sounded like a heavy iron door wrenched open somewhere above him and he heard clunky footfalls descending a staircase that obviously led closer to the cell block. He drew in a sharp breath, clutching the bars and gritting his teeth against the incoherent but very obvious verbal duel going on between catch and captor.
When the two people finally rounded the corner, James wasn't sure what surprised him more – seeing Belle struggling against the ties behind her back…or Gaston shoving her roughly inside the cell next to his own.
"I'll have you for my wife, Belle," Gaston spat at the floor as Belle stumbled inside. "Make no mistake about that!" And without so much as a glance in James's direction, the clearly frustrated brute-turned-bartender stalked back down the corridor and out of sight.
James stared helplessly at his good friend, crumpled up in a heap in the cell beside him. She was still dressed in the scrubs she'd borrowed for last night's hospital escape and had a worn parka thrown hastily over her shoulders. But none of that could hide the red marks and bruises around her neck and along her cheeks. Gently, James crouched down, fearing the worst. For this was Belle and Gaston. And history from their world…tended to repeat itself in Storybrooke. "Are you…ok?"
"I'm fine," she muttered, brushing the grime and dirt from her arms that had already gathered on her coat. Then she slipped it off, flipped it inside out and spread the coat out on the floor.
"Belle…" James tried again, but she wasn't looking up. She busied herself instead with arranging her coat into a makeshift mattress, clearly working through some pent up frustration as she tore roughly at one sleeve that hadn't fully flipped. "Belle look at me," he said a little louder. And finally, she glanced up, her eyes dark and grim. "Did he—"
"He tried," she said curtly, looking away, folding her arms over her chest.
He reached through the bars, covering his hand over her wrist. "What happened?"
Belle was silent for a few moments, going through the whole painful ordeal in her head: leaving Adam with the promise of telling him the awful truth about Jack Hunter only to be abducted by the very brute that was to be the cause of her husband's torment. The whole situation was so ironic it might be laughable…that is if she wasn't so angry. Still, she thought as her lips curled into a small smile, there had been some highlights. "Same thing that happened the last time he tried something like this," she answered James, finally looking up, "– I kicked him."
In spite of everything, James snorted.
"He's gonna be a little sore for a while," she added with a satisfied nod.
James swallowed hard, hesitant to confirm what was already quite clear. "He called you Belle. I take it he's—"
"Awake, yes."
His shoulders dropped with a sigh as he withdrew his hand from hers. "How?"
"He was waiting for me," she said, shaking her head at the ceiling. "At my father's house. I was starting to get worried about what may happen to him if Regina worked out that I was awake, so I went to bring him back to the cottage. And there he was waiting for me, standing over my father's bed with a knife at his throat."
"Oh Belle," James said softly.
"Fully awake, fully Gaston," she glanced down at James. "Adam has taught me a lot about defending myself, but I wasn't about to risk my father's life so…I let him take me."
"And he brought you here?"
"No," she shook her head. "We went to his – well, 'Jack Hunter's' house first. That's where he…where he tried—"
"It's all right," James waved her off. She didn't need to elaborate on yet another of Gaston's attempts to force himself on her. The only thing that mattered was that he'd failed. "Then what?"
Belle sighed and sat back on her small coat-turned rug. She drew her knees up to her chin and closed her eyes. "Then he made me watch that…horrifying projection of Regina."
James's blood went ice cold. "What?" he said through gritted teeth, feeling nearly every muscle in his body clench. "What projection of Regina?"
Belle's head snapped up at his tone, her eyes wide with horror. "In the mirror," she rushed the explanation, "Y-you…you didn't see?"
"There aren't any mirrors down here, Belle," he said, trying to keep his voice calm (and failing miserably). "What. Happened."
Belle stood and went to the bars to meet her friend. She had a feeling this was about to get ugly. "Regina projected herself into every mirror in town – at least that's what I'm assuming since Gaston and I passed several very frightened neighbors on the way out of his house all talking to each other about it."
"Every mirror?"
Belle nodded.
"What did she say?" James practically growled.
"It was a message for us, James. A warning," she said quietly, clenching her own hands around the bars just below his. "She said we were fools for thinking she wouldn't have been prepared for us to awaken."
"Goddammit!" James flung himself back from her and crossed his tiny cell to the opposite wall, pounding his fist against the rough rock. "I knew it," he muttered more to himself than to Belle. "I knew she'd have something up her sleeve."
"She's woken up her own allies in retaliation. Gaston is probably just the beginning," Belle said hurriedly, knowing the worst was yet to come for her friend. "And she's vowed to hunt down and capture anyone she even suspects of having anything to do with those of us who are free from the curse."
James was shaking his head as if in denial, glaring at the floor and still muttering. "We've gotta get outta here. Gotta warn Snow and the others. We have to find—"
"James there's something else," Belle called out to him, her voice insistent, intent on being heard. He glanced back at her, one hand braced on the stone wall and the other on his hip. Belle took a deep breath, stealing herself against the inevitable. "She wants Emma."
His arms went limp and hung loosely at his sides, his face turning deathly pale. "Wh-what?" he managed, his mouth quickly drying up.
"Sh-she wants Emma, James. Demanded that she hand herself over or…o-or…"
"Or what?!" he barked, suddenly before her again and gripping the cell bars so tight she thought it certain they would snap off.
But Belle didn't even jump as Emma's father stood practically seething before her. In her eyes was only sadness. "For every day that Emma doesn't turn herself in…she'll crush one of her captive hearts."
James let out an agonizing cry. "She's bluffing!" he insisted, blinking back hot, stinging tears. "She can't do that—"
"It's no bluff, James." This time it was Belle who reached through the bars and clasped his wrists down by his side. "She's already started."
"What?!"
"In the mirror, we watched. We watched her crush a heart."
The prince of New Gaia sank to his knees. "No," he whispered, repeating the word over and over again as Belle sank down beside him, still holding tightly to his hands.
"I'm sorry James," was all she could offer.
But he was already shaking his head. "Abigail," he groaned.
Belle started. "Abigail?"
He nodded. "She killed Abigail, I just know it."
"Princess Abigail?" Belle said in alarm. "As in Midas's daughter?" Again, he nodded. "Why do you say that?"
"Because Abigail is the reason I'm here," he said quietly, the venom and rage quickly deflating into guilt and mortification. "Regina had control of her. Usedher to capture me. And now, she'll just…she'll be…" he trailed off as Belle gave his hand another squeeze. "Regina'll just see her as a loose end. And once you're of no more use to Regina…so long happy ending."
Belle was silent for a long while, utterly lost for words. And really, what could be said? It might not be Abigail? If it wasn't, then Regina had killed someone else just as innocent. There was simply no way around the pain this evil witch had, for reasons that still escaped the clever bookworm, decided they all must endure. "James," she whispered at last, clutching to his arms and shaking him.
"She wants Emma," he rasped. "She won't stop…she'll never stop until my whole family is dead—"
"James!" she tried again and this time at least got him to look up. "If that's the case, then we have to work together to make sure that doesn't happen all right?" He glared up at her through creased eyebrows, full of doubt, but Belle was adamant. "Come on, what is it you're always saying? Good can't lose?"
James almost laughed at his absurdly optimistic mantra. He just wasn't up for this anymore. How much more must his family be tested? How were they even to be of any use to Emma trapped in Regina's old cell blocks –
He paused and jerked his head up, glancing around at the cells to his right and across from him. Six in all. Only six…why only six?
"What? What is it?" asked Belle, looking around but finding nothing of interest in what James suddenly found so fascinating.
"She is bluffing," James muttered, grabbing hold of the bars again and hoisting himself up.
Belle shook her head. "She's not," she said painfully. "We saw her do it James. She crushed—"
"No, not about that," he waved her off, "look." He pointed across from them at the far corner cell. Inside, James gulped, was a basinet.
Belle shuddered, wrapping her arms instinctively around her middle. "Is that what I think it is?"
"It's a cradle, yes," he said, glancing again between the cells. "No loose ends."
"What?"
"Regina doesn't leave any loose ends," he turned to her. "Like I said. If we were of no more use to her then—"
"She would've just killed us too," Belle realized, finishing for him.
"She's not rounding up absolutely everyone she suspects of being awake. There are only six cells here. Six."
Belle nodded. "She's capturing specific people."
"Very specific people by the look of it," he pointed again at the basinet. "I'll bet that's for Thomas's daughter."
"Or my son," she cringed, hugging herself even tighter, "depending on how long she thinks we'll be here."
James shook his head, certain he was right, but he didn't argue with her. "We're here for a reason."
"But why? What could she possibly need with me, you and a baby?"
"I don't know but that's what we have to figure out before—"
He was cut off by the sound of the heavy cell block door opening. Both prince and princess braced themselves as heavy footfalls descended the stone staircase and unmistakable sounds of a girl struggling and tugging against her captor echoed through the chamber.
When they rounded the corner, James fully expected it to be Regina, but a devastatingly beautiful woman appeared instead and he heard Belle shriek in terror as her full form was revealed.
"Circe!" she cried, lunging toward the front bars of her cell.
James gasped. He'd never seen the infamous sorceress but all the realms knew the name of the witch who had laid her deadly creature curse upon the heir of Ebonshire. "What do you want from us?"
But Circe merely flashed them a cruel smile as she drew forth her covered captive and yanked open another cell door. "Absolutely nothing dears," she said in the most soothing, siren-like voice. And without another word, she yanked the brown sack off of her prisoner's head and flung her inside the bars.
The girl tumbled into the chamber as Circe glided away and slammed the heavy door shut. She was disoriented, frightened, practically hyperventilating, and Belle and James glanced at each other as the girl's disheveled hair still covered her face. But when she swept aside her curls, looking up at them with doe-eyed fright, her identity was clear.
"Dawn?" Belle gasped, recognizing the nurse from the hospital.
James shook her head and said quietly, "Aurora."
…
Lucas was not surprised upon arrival to find Rosebriar in a seemingly perfect state of excitement and good cheer. Though the official announcement would not take place until early evening the following day, the servants were already happily bustling about the palace, cooking, cleaning and decorating for what had to be the kingdom's most hastily organized engagement announcement and banquet in its history. The palace staff seemed simply ecstatic for their princess as were (also unsurprisingly) King Stefan and Queen Leah.
No, Lucas was not at all surprised to find the castle in full swing as he handed Wellington off to the stables and was announced to the royal family at table as they finished their breakfast. And he wasn't surprised to find Aurora and Philip, seated across from each other as a newly betrothed pair should be, enjoying what seemed to be a perfectly amicable conversation. Nor was he surprised when she turned toward him, perfectly composed and amiable as his name was announced and Stefan began chattering wildly about how exciting it was to have Philip's "right-hand-man" here so the festivities could truly begin…nor was he surprised when not a half hour later, a page was sent to his guest chambers informing him that his presence was required immediately in the princess's parlor.
A few years ago, following a rather comical debate between her and Philip about a princess's rightful place in the monarchy, Aurora commissioned a sort of junior throne room so that she, like her father, could hold audiences and address grievances for those of her subjects she knew would feel more comfortable coming to her rather than the king. These were women mostly, young girls who perhaps felt threatened or insulted by some of the rougher gentry. Stefan, ever an advocate for his daughter, agreed to convert one of the unused wings of the library into a private parlor where such meetings could take place…of course, typically Aurora's private guard would always be on hand to ensure the princess's safety when meeting with frustrated, often irate commoners. Today, well…Lucas was most definitely not surprised as he entered the parlor that her security had been dismissed.
"Your Highness," he bowed immediately, knowing his formal greeting was about to be summarily dismissed as it echoed through the empty chamber. Still, he observed the proper rules of decorum. If anything, bowing delayed his having to actually look her in the eye.
She didn't reply, merely sat on her throne and glared at him. He felt her gaze prickling the back of his neck and he knew she was not about to make this easy for him. Truthfully, he didn't blame her. Not one bit. After all, he was the one who had broken her heart. Dutifully, he picked himself off the floor and finally met her broken, devastating gaze.
"How could you?" she rasped, barely above a whisper as she slowly rose from her chair.
Lucas had no words. He didn't trust himself to speak.
"Answer me," she said, a bit louder, though he could hear her voice crack under the strain of having spent the past day and a half putting on the most extraordinary charade of bridal bliss for literally every person she encountered.
Her icy, commanding tone sent shivers down his spine. Hades and the Underworld be damned – this was hell. "Your Highness, I—"
"Don't address me as if I'm your queen, Lucas," she scolded him, advancing across the cold marble tiles of the parlor. "You at least owe me that."
Lucas's breath caught in his throat as she drew nearer. He might have been able to do this if she stayed across the room, a healthy distance between himself and the woman for whom he would fall on his sword (and indeed, he wished someone would run him through right now rather than allow him to continue hurting her as he had in remaining silent). She came to stand in front of him and he could see now the puffiness under her eyes, the strain etched in creases across her brow. "Aurora—" he said at last, but she wasn't ready to hear any explanation.
"He told you he was coming to propose!" she cried, throwing her arms in the air. "You stood there while he told you this ludicrous plan of his to make his father proud and you said nothing!"
"Aurora please—" against his better judgment he reached for her, but she snatched her wrist back.
"And now here you are," she said, her bitter tone agony to her lover's ear, but he would stand and take it. He deserved it tenfold, "ready to be Braemar's liason. Ready to help my mother coordinate a wedding that you and I promised would never happen!" She threw her arms up again in a frenzy, stalking off toward the small veranda along the east wall of her parlor, the sun streaming through the blue velvet curtains that Lucas himself had helped her drape.
She stopped in the small pool of light peeking through and it was all Lucas could do not to rush over to her and pull her into his arms as she stood there shimmering like an angel. She wrapped her arms around her middle, and he could see the anger ebb away, turning to sorrow…which was infinitely worse. "I came so close, Aurora," he said softly, starting towards her. "So close," he shook his head, "to telling him everything."
"Why didn't you?" she rasped, unable to turn back and face him, though she could feel him approaching. "If Philip knew about us…i-if he knew what we meant to each other, he would never—"
"He would never have proposed," said Lucas, wanting so desperately to comfort her, to console her and support her as he had done for years, long before they'd ever fallen in love. He paused just behind her, painfully aware of how easy it would be right now to throw all good sense and caution to the wind. Good sense that had been hard enough to come by back in Braemar when Philip asked for his advice and support. "I couldn't betray him," he said at last, offering what he was sure she would feel was the most inadequate of explanations. "With everything his family has done for— I c-can't betray Philip or Hubert or your father for that matter—"
"Just me then," she said coldly, and it drove the knife deeper into his gut. "I see."
"No, you don't," he said, unable to help himself this time. He grabbed her arm and turned her around. "You couldn't possibly, and that's my fault too. Trust me, Aurora. If things were different. I-if my circumstances were different, I would…I would never," he struggled in vain. How could he ever make her understand? "I never meant for any of this to get this far—"
"Any of what?" she pulled out of his grip. "Philip's proposal?...Or yours."
Lucas dropped her gaze, shaking his head and loathing himself all over again. "I-I…never actually…p-proposed…" he said, pathetically.
Aurora could feel what little color she had left draining from her face. "No," she cried, her heart breaking into even smaller pieces. "No, I suppose not. You just held me under a blanket of stars in my grandmother's garden and told me you couldn't live without me."
He winced, hearing the echoes of words once spoken in such love now used against him…as she had every right to do. How could he have been so reckless? How could he have promised the world to a woman bound to the very family that had saved his life? How could he have let himself betray so many people to whom he owed his very soul? "I-I'm so…I'm so sorry—"
But she wasn't finished. "You told me you loved me," she said and then reached for his hand, forcing him towards the window that overlooked the very courtyard she'd spoken of. "You stood under that tree," she pointed at their willow, "and promised me one day we'd tell the world." She finished in a whisper, wearing him down…and he knew it too.
"Aurora," he begged her, "don't…"
"Tell me it isn't true," she said, turning him to face her, though he was doing his best to keep his eyes glued to the floor. Gently, she reached out to cradle his face in her hands, but his own hands shot up and clasped her wrists, holding her back. "Look at me," she pleaded, and slid her palms up to frame his cheeks anyway, despite his hold on her. He shook his head, but she was relentless, and at last he was forced to meet her gaze. "Tell me," she said again. "If you really want me to marry Philip—" the very idea of it made him queasy— "then tell me you don't love me."
"Please," he rasped, but her eyes were brimming, her gaze drowning him in the same love he couldn't deny if he tried. And though duty and honor screamed for him to resist, he found he couldn't bring himself to move a muscle as she stepped up into him and brushed her lips against his.
His grip on her wrists tightened as she kissed him, and he tried desperately not to kiss back. But he knew he was fighting a losing battle even before he'd entered the room, and he surrendered completely as she coaxed his lips apart and deepened the kiss, straining up on her tip toes just to get a little closer. "Aurora," he moaned, his breath mingling with hers as he pulled her arms up around his neck before settling his own at her waist. He crushed her to him, lifting her delicate form from the ground as he straightened up to his full height and leaned her back into his chest. Hungrily, he tilted her head to the side and fastened his mouth more fully over hers, sipping from her lips like a man starved as he locked one arm securely around her waist and caressed his other palm up her back.
"Lucas," she whimpered as hot tears spilled down her cheeks and her whole body started to tremble with want, need… sorrow. Gradually, Lucas set her down once more, her slippers touching the ground beneath shaking knees that were hard to keep stable without his support. He held her tightly as the kiss finally ended, and rested his forehead against hers while he brushed her tears away with the pad of his thumb. "How can you not want this?" she whispered, reaching up to cup his face once more. "Why can't we fight for this?"
Lucas squeezed his eyes shut, willing his own tears not to fall as he shook his head against hers. If she only knew. "It's…it's just not that simple," he said at last, letting his palm graze down her cheek until his hand reached hers and clasped it tightly. "It wouldn't be right—"
She pulled back from him. "How is it not right to be with the one you love?" she challenged.
"Because," Lucas sighed. Having her in his arms again made it even more difficult to voice any sort of legitimate argument, but he knew he had to make her understand. For these stolen moments were just those: moments. And he knew, in the end, they couldn't be allowed to last. "We can't just think about ourselves, Aurora. You have to know that."
"Who says we have to?" she cried, the euphoria of their kiss already slipping away as she again grew frustrated and retreated from his embrace. "You're the queen's nephew, Lucas. You're still part of the royal family of Braemar. Surely if we were to marry, your uncle and my father could still—"
"It wouldn't be the same," he cut her off and the sudden curtness of his tone startled her. "You don't get it, I'm not really—"
"Lucas," she rushed back to him, grasping his hands and leveling her gaze. "Do. You. Love me?"
He couldn't deny her. "You know I do," he said quietly. "But—"
"Do you want to marry me?"
"Aurora, please. It's not that simple—"
"Ah!" she held up her hand, cutting him off. "Just answer the question. If there was some way. Some way for us to be together. To marry without you having to…to—" she waved her hand flightily in the air— "betray your uncle or Philip or whoever's honor you think you're bound to. Would you?"
He pulled his hands from her grasp and settled them on her shoulders, determined this time to hold her at bay, "You know I would," he said quietly, "in a heartbeat."
"Then let's do it," she pleaded, closing her hands around his wrists. "Let's find a way. There must be something you could tell Hubert that—"
"There's nothing," he insisted, shaking his head, trying hard to be strong for both of them. "It's not possible—"
"Anything is possible," she cried, the look in her eyes beyond reason. "We can…we can—" an idea suddenly occurred, and a frenzied smile split her face. "We can go to my Aunt Effie. We can tell her what's happened. She'll—"
"Your Aunt Effie!" Lucas practically bellowed, reeling back from her so abruptly that she was left standing with her arms still outstretched towards him. "Are you mad?!"
Aurora closed her eyes. Perhaps she was a little mad; she was desperate. But the more she considered the idea, the more convinced she became that not only was it their best shot…it was brilliant. "She can help us, Lucas. I know she can."
"Aurora, you can't be serious," he stalked back to her. "Think what you're saying!" he gripped her arms and shook her, but she seemed to be looking past him. Through him. As if the plan she was now concocting in her head were as elaborate and fool proof as those they'd often acted out as children, grand adventures and tales of romance and heroes that always had happy endings. "Darling," he tried again, and this time he got her to meet his gaze. "She's a witch. A sorceress," he said steadily, emphasizing each word in the hopes they might inspire some sense of reason.
"Which makes her powerful—"
"Which makes her dangerous!"
"She loves me," she said, her voice growing steadier and more confident while Lucas grew more and more panicked.
"She threatened you at your cradle blessing!"
But Aurora shrugged it off. "That was almost eighteen years ago, and she had a right to be upset. My father should have invited her—"
"My gods!" he cried, sliding his palms up his forehead and then clutching at his hair. "Do you hear yourself right now?"
"You don't know her like I do—"
"I still can't believe you know her at all!" he yelled, hating himself for being angry with her, when he knew deep down she was the only one who had a right to be angry today. But he could neither help nor control his mounting fear. When she'd told him two summers ago that not only had she met her fugitive aunt but had actually developed a relationship with her, he'd reacted much the same way and went so far as to threaten to tell Philip and the king. But she was adamant, and insisted that 'Effie' had shown her nothing but kindness and regret for her abhorrent behavior early on. Then, when the stable hand's daughter grew ill, and all hope seemed to be lost, she'd begged Lucas to come with her in the dead of night and see for himself how the infamous witch had changed her ways. Since there was no stopping her, Lucas had agreed to accompany Aurora to the old bastion that stood at the edge of the shores of Rosebriar where the woman had apparently been hiding. 'Effie' gave them a potion that she promised would cure the girl which Lucas of course begged Aurora not to use, but since the child was close to death, they had little choice but to try. To this day old Caleb still had no idea that his daughter's miraculous recovery was the result of witchcraft.
"You saw with your own eyes Lucas. You know that she's good. That she would never betray—"
"I know no such thing," he cut her off again. "What I saw was a powerful sorceress who cured a child to curry favor with the crown. Now listen," he took her hands in his once more, squeezing tightly. "I've kept your secret, Aurora. I've told no one about our encounter with your aunt and I don't intend to. But I'm begging you, do not involve her in this."
"But—"
"Please, my love" he implored her, and the urgency in his voice rendered her silent. "You know that I would die for you." He cupped her face in his palm as tears began sliding down her cheeks again. "You know that I will live," his voice broke, "the rest of my life loving only you—"
"Lucas, please—" she wept, shaking her head.
And he kissed her again. A searing, swooning kiss meant to last a thousand lifetimes. His hands caressed up and down her back, tunneling through her long blonde curls while she wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him. Again and again he kissed her, pouring his heart and soul into what he knew would be their very last embrace until finally he pulled back, kissed away the tears now drenching her cheeks, then pressed his forehead against hers. "But I'm begging you," he rasped again, both of them still panting, aching, dying inside. "If you love me, let me go. Do not go to Maleficent."
Aurora sobbed and sank against his chest, coming apart at the seams as she collapsed into his hug and whispered, "I promise."
It would be the only promise she made to him that she would ever break…
Maeve's cold and clammy hands smacked lightly about his face as Trent stirred awake. The first thing he became aware of was the overly bright florescent light beating down into his face which forced his eyes shut almost the instant he was able to open them again. Good god, was this how patients felt when they were wheeled in here on gurneys? Utterly blind? "Davis," he heard Maeve's abrasive, brassy voice. "Hey, Davis, come on now, wake up."
Gradually, Trent crossed over the tenuous space between sleep and awake, trying to sort the jumble of images in his head. Already the strange dream he'd had seemed to be slipping away and he was left with only faint traces of a girl who looked very much like Dawn, but even those visions were muddled together with the much more vivid (though no less confusing) recollections of Nurse Charles being…dragged by someone? Kicking and screaming? "W-what happened?" Trent muttered as he pushed himself up to a sitting position and was finally able to focus on the robust Head Nurse still shaking him into consciousness.
"Jesus, Davis, you don't remember?" Maeve snapped. "Psychotic she-devil came in and ripped the place apart? Amped up on who knows how many drugs, settin' things on fire?"
Trent did remember and immediately started darting his head around, trying to get a grip on the situation. Oh yes, he remembered now. He'd been just about to leave for his shift at the station. He'd failed miserably in his one and only attempt at actually asking Dawn out for a date when Clancy showed up, raved for a few minutes about Emma Swan, hit on Dawn, and then left just as a dark-haired woman came strolling into the ER and started raising hell. Security guards were flung backwards, seemingly without her even touching them (though Trent convinced himself he must have missed something). Computer monitors were blown to smithereens, chairs were hurled across the room at anyone who tried to get close, and windows were shattered.
Everywhere he turned now, doctors and nurses were tending to wounds, assessing damage, putting out a few small fires with hand-held extinguishers. "Dawn," he said suddenly, and finally the whole episode put itself fully together in his mind. "Where is she? Where's Dawn?"
"Shhh," said Maeve, though Trent couldn't for the life of him figure out why the hell he needed to be quiet. The panicky noises of shocked hospital patients and staff were practically deafening. Meave, meanwhile, was dabbing a cold cloth at the back of his neck and only then did he become aware of the sharp pain there.
"Ow!" he snapped, but her strong arms yanked him down to her level (for she was a short, stout little thing) so she could finish.
"Get a grip, all right? I need to patch this up before it gets worse," she mumbled, reaching for some gauze and medical tape.
"Where is she? What happened," he demanded again, though he supposed he wasn't very intimidating to her with his whole torso cocked awkwardly to one side while she dressed the wound.
Finally, she smoothed the last bit of tape along his neck and nudged him upright. "Kidnapped, remember?" she said matter-of-factly and then started toward the employee break room.
"Kidnapped?!" he cried and dozens of faces turned toward them as they passed various clumps of people assessing the battered ER.
"Shhhh!" said Maeve again as she pushed open the swinging door and he followed her into the empty break room. "Yes," she retorted as she turned back to him. "Kidnapped, by that crazy woman who destroyed this place. Now listen," she said, ignoring the way Trent Davis's mouth hung open like it was wired to the floor. She opened her locker and started rummaging through what had to be the bulkiest, crappiest looking purse Trent had ever seen. "Whoever wanted her sure as hell wasn't worried about you. That woman swatted you down like a fly and never gave you a second thought which means she obviously didn't know who you were. We need to keep it that way if you're going to get Dawn back."
Trent stared at her as if she was speaking Chinese, but his obvious confusion didn't seem to concern her much. "Maeve, what are you—"
"Here," she said, having at last found what she was searching for and thrust an odd, white, sort of egg-shaped stone in his hand. It was speckled with blue and silver flecks, and at first glance looked rough, but in his hand it was smooth as glass, heavy too, like a paperweight. "Keep this in your pocket and don't take it out until you or someone else figures out how to use it." She wasted no time arguing as she pulled Trent's leather jacket, which was still hanging on the break room coat stand. She shrugged him into it, zipping the stone safely into his breast pocket.
"Hey!" he protested, yanking himself back out of her grip. "You mind telling me what the hell you're—"
"Look Davis," she fisted her hand tightly to the lapel of his coat and dragged him back out into the hallway down another corridor away from the crime scene. "You're not supposed to understand any of this right now, and frankly I don't think you want to." She adjusted her grip so she now had both hands at his shoulders, pushing him along the corridor that eventually spilled into the back exit near the spare ambulance bay. "All you need to know is that nurse, the one you've been crazy about for almost 30 years, is in trouble, and she needs your help."
"Th-thiry years?" he spluttered, though he was already zipping up his jacket against the onslaught of snow that greeted them as they spilled into the bay. "What are you—"
"Follow the path out toward the toll bridge," she pointed towards the woods which lined the back of the hospital (the same path toward which she'd steered a delirious 'David Nolan' all those months ago). "You'll run into some friends along the way. You get lost? Follow the birds."
"Maeve!—"
"Go Trent!" she barked at him. "Dawn's counting on you," she added and then shoved him towards the forest. Trent stumbled out into the snow, catching his breath and his balance while instinctively clutching at the strange weight now in his breast pocket. Relieved to find it still there, though wondering suddenly why he even cared, he turned back to the exit…and Maeve was gone.
…
***First off, let us all observe a moment of silence for our beloved Sheriff Graham. I know a lot of you out there were enjoying this fic because I kept Graham alive, but let's face it - the guy has always had an expiration date. Dude simply knows too much. It was a rough one to write, I gotta say, but I hope you will enjoy where Emma's journey eventually leads her.
A bit of a shorter chapter here, I know, but pretty packed. Plus I NEEDED to get this one out so I can finally focus on the end of "Mermaid's Tail" by sgcycle which is (to quote the slinky in that Geico commercial) aaaawesome!
Shout out to The Pris as always (way to go on your exams, girl!) and to the actual show, Once Upon a Time, which finally made Regina evil again! Yay.
Wanted to clear up a few things for newer readers, or perhaps very old readers who may have forgotten some details along the way. I've been getting questions about certain characters who, if you blinked, it's possible you might have missed their very first introductions:
Lucas and Trent Davis are the same person.
Philip and Matt Clancy are the same person.
Aurora and Dawn Charles…same person.
And now for Honest John...
Honest John is NOT some other fairytale character I haven't revealed yet. He's Honest John – J. W. Foulfellow from Pinocchio. If you don't know Pinocchio real well, I can certainly understand the confusion. In the 1940 Disney movie I think he was a fox. In other versions, he's just a smarmy con man. A couple people messaged me asking if he was Hook.
Hook and Honest John…NOT the same person ;)
I know the last three chapters here have been real dark; this was not my intention, but I found the more setup I had to do for the final battle and Emma's breaking of the curse, the more characters and set pieces I had to establish so all the players are in the right positions. Trust me, it does get better from here on out because our heroes are about to piece together the final bit of Regina's plan. If you were paying REAL close attention to Gold's explanations about Guardians and the captives each rogue was sent to find, you might be piecing it together yourself already (one person out there already has…yeah, you know who you are!)
Tomorrow I'm headed to Disney World…that's right folks – DISNEY WORLD! If I don't come back with some serious inspiration for the finale of "Toll Bridge" then the magic has left the building…and we all know THAT hasn't happened. I'll be thinking of you all while I'm at Gaston's tavern enjoying their version of Butterbeer.
Happy Easter if you celebrate, Happy Spring if you don't!
-Nikstlitslepmur***