A/N: No, no, THIS is my favorite chapter. :) I hope you all enjoy reading as much as I did writing!

Chapter 6

When the alarm company first calls to tell him there's been a questionable entry at his home, Rumplestiltskin is bothered more by the inconvenience than any real nervousness. Everything important is kept at the shop (well, save for the chipped cup, but what thief would go straight for broken chinaware?), and Isabel should be safe at her bookstore.

Except…this is Saturday. And the bookstore doesn't open on Saturday.

Rumplestiltskin blows through every stop sign on the way home and would trade every item (save one) in the shop for the power to teleport as he used to do a dozen times a day in the old world.

The sight of the door wedged ajar has him out of his car and cursing his bad ankle. He retrieves the gun from where he keeps it in the hallway and does his best not to let his cane tap against the hardwood floors.

But then, as he comes around the corner, he sees her: Isabel, lying on the floor, her beautiful curls all in disarray, her outstretched hand too still. At the sight of her, all subtlety goes flying out the window.

"Isabel!" Rumplestiltskin falls to his knees at her side, the gun dropped as carelessly as his cane. Carefully, he turns her over, feels his blood transmogrify into acid steam when he sees the gash in her forehead. "Isabel? Oh, no, Isabel, are you okay?"

Her quiet groan leaves him shaking. She's alive. She's alive.

"Sweetheart?" she mumbles.

"Oh, my darling Isabel, it's okay. I'm here. I'm here."

At any other time, he'd hesitate to say such (careful not to frighten her with his presence). But this is his wife (for now, for a little while longer), and she smiles when she sees him, and sleeps beside him in bed with every indication of trust, and so he comforts her with his presence. With his touch. With his kiss, placed ever so lightly near that gash still oozing blood.

The sound of a footstep behind him has Rumplestiltskin whirling, still on his knees, his gun once more in hand, his own body between his wife and any danger.

Emma already has her own gun raised and pointed straight at him. The Savior. Arrived too late, as per usual.

"Neighbors reported a break-in," she says.

Rumplestiltskin drops the gun and supports Isabel as she tries to sit up. "Yes, as you can see, someone broke in and attacked my wife."

"Your…your wife?" Emma slowly lowers her own weapon, her expression flabbergasted. "I didn't even know you were married."

Rolling his eyes, Rumplestiltskin leans Isabel's head back against his shoulder when she shudders and flinches back from the light. "Shh, it's all right, darling," he murmurs just for her. "Go slow. Don't move too fast."

"So. Home intruder? You sure?"

It takes him longer than it should to realize that Emma suspects him of having done this to his wife, and cold rage threatens to undo him.

Except…what else would she think? He's a monster, even in this new land, and the curse has made every family in this town unhappy. Why wouldn't Sheriff Swan consider the possibility that he has struck his own wife?

"I was trying to make lunch," Isabel says suddenly, startling them both. She clasps his hand tightly in her own and fixes her eyes on his, but her voice is pitched loud enough to ensure the sheriff hears every word. "I was going to bring you a sandwich, sweetheart. But…I heard someone at the door, and by the time I came out of the kitchen, I saw a dark shape. I don't think he expected me to be here because he seemed startled. Then he rushed at me, and the next thing I know, you were helping me up."

Her voice is a bit slurred, and she leans heavily on him as she rises to her feet and moves to the nearby couch. Rumplestiltskin moves with her, sits when she does, loathe to break any contact with her. The way she's holding onto the lapels of his suit coat seems to be proof that she wants him close (and he will never deny her that).

"Did you get a good look at him?" Emma asks.

Rumplestiltskin can't help the glare he sends the sheriff's way. His wife is groggy and hurting, probably concussed; the last thing she needs is to be hounded by a stranger. Besides, if anyone's going to find the person who dared threaten his Isabel, it's not going to be the Savior, too good-hearted to do what must be done. (Rumplestiltskin isn't some weak spinner anymore; he knows how to fight for what is his.)

"Sorry," Emma says, a bit uncomfortably. Holstering her gun, she moves to sit in the chair near the couch and meets Isabel's eyes. "I'm Emma Swan, the sheriff. I really do want to find who did this to you."

"Isabel Gold," his wife introduces herself, so genteel and kind even while pain swims in her eyes.

Softly, Rumplestiltskin draws his hand over Isabel's hair, smoothing it down, his arm tightening around her back to help her stay upright. "Shh, it's okay. What do you need, sweetheart?"

Isabel's smile is strained, but just as sincere as always. "Just stay here with me," she murmurs, and tilts her head to rest on his shoulder (the bolt of warmth this tiny, overwhelming gesture of trust conveys is so painful he nearly gasps aloud).

"Of course. I'm not going anywhere, except to take you to the hospital as soon as we're done here." He moves his glare to Emma. "Which will be any moment now, I'm sure."

"Okay." Emma holds up her hands. "Just…anything you saw that can help me identify your attacker, or track down who might have done this…?"

"Isn't that your job?" Rumplestiltskin snaps.

"Sweetheart." Isabel lays her hand over his cheek, drawing his attention back to her. "I'm okay. Really. Just a little headache."

"You're bleeding," he says dully. And reminded of that, he pulls out his pocket square and presses it as gently as he knows how over the gash in her forehead.

"I didn't see much," Isabel tells Emma. "Just a form, really, backlit by the sun. He was tall, and very broad, but he was wearing a mask. I don't know how he got inside the house, though. It didn't sound like he broke the glass."

"He didn't," Rumplestiltskin confirms.

Emma looks between Rumplestiltskin and Isabel, eyes absurdly wide (the beast and the beauty together, and he doesn't blame Emma for her bewilderment, though he does hate her, a little, for it), before Rumplestiltskin's own haughty stare seems to recall her to her job. "Right. Well, I'll talk to the neighbors, see if anyone else saw something more specific. Was anything taken?"

"Does it look like I've had time to worry about baubles when my wife's been hurt?" Rumplestiltskin retorts. Another soft touch from Isabel has him gritting his teeth. "I'll look around after I get Isabel to the hospital and let you know then, is that good enough for you?"

"It'll do," Emma says with a scarcely hidden roll of her eyes. She refocuses on Isabel. "Seriously, though, if you think of anything else, let me know, okay?"

Isabel smiles politely at her, but Rumplestiltskin can see the strain along the edges of it. Though he hates to tear himself away from her side, he wastes no time in escorting the sheriff outside his home.

"She seems nice," Emma says (he ignores her surprise at this fact). "I'll do everything I can to find whoever did this."

"Yes, well, you'd better hurry if you want to catch him before—"

Emma narrows her eyes. "Before what?"

"Well, let's just say bad things tend to happen to bad people."

"Is that a threat?" she demands.

He smiles tightly. "Simple observation. Good luck, Sheriff Swan."

And he closes the door in her face.

It takes every bit of his self-control not to smash a single thing in the hallway. Instead, he hurries back to Isabel and finds her holding his handkerchief against her brow while she tries to pick up the vase of carnations that her attacker must have swept from the table.

"Let me do that." He swoops in and takes the broken stems and crushed pink flowers from her, setting them hurriedly aside so he can turn and cup her elbows in his hands. He means to look at her wound, but there's no time—she throws herself into his arms and buries her face in his neck. For the first time, he realizes she's trembling, minute shudders rippling down her spine.

Rumplestiltskin wraps his arms around her waist, lifts a hand to cup the back of her head against his shoulder, and croons reassuring nonsense. (This is so familiar that it rings like déjà vu: someone he loves, someone he's supposed to protect, hurt and afraid and seeking comfort from him as if it's not his fault that they're a target. Bae and Isabel, both so precious to him, both so much better than he's ever deserved.)

"It's all right," he whispers, over and over again. "I'm here. Nobody's going to hurt you ever again."

"I know who it was," she says through tears she can't stop. "How could he do this to me?"

A sudden frisson of tension turns Rumplestiltskin to steel. Slowly, as slowly as if he is moving through mud, Rumplestiltskin cups Isabel's cheek, draws her back until he can meet her eyes, and he hears himself say, as if from a thousand miles away, "Who did this to you, Isabel?"

Her face crumples. "It was my father. I'd recognize him anywhere. But how could he hurt me? I don't…I don't understand."

Of course she doesn't. She's good, and brave, and forgiving (enough so to find something in Rumplestiltskin worth her time), but the rest of the world…oh, that is cruel. Harsh. All too willing to snatch away whatever bits of happiness Rumplestiltskin finds.

And her father has never liked Mr. Gold.

"It's okay, sweetheart," he says, folding her back up into his embrace. "We'll figure this out."

"How could he do this?"

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, my darling. Here, come with me, we need to get you to the hospital."

She goes without protest, mark of how off-balance she must be. Rumplestiltskin doesn't let go of her hand the entire time, watching Dr. Whale like a hawk as he examines her before concluding that it's best if she stays in the hospital overnight for observation, just to be on the safe side.

Reluctantly, Isabel agrees. Rumplestiltskin stays to settle her into a hospital room—the best the place has to offer—before making his excuses of stopping home to pick up some necessities and check if anything was stolen. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he says. Drowsy as she is, Isabel smiles at him and asks him to hurry. He's pretty sure she's asleep by the time he kisses her cheek and slips from the room.

It is more Rumplestiltskin than Mr. Gold that prowls through the streets toward the flower store, but it is the cold steel of Mr. Gold's voice that calls for Moe French (both of him, both sets of memories, are willing and eager to rend and destroy whatever dares to touch Isabel). It's Valentine's Day and the store should be bustling with last minute shoppers desperate to snatch up the last wilted roses, but the close aisles are dark, empty, the shelves full of vases with flowers spilling their petals out onto the floor.

And when Rumplestiltskin shoulders into the backroom to find Moe huddling in the dark, he knows that the man is all too aware of what a mistake he has made.

But too late.

"I didn't know she'd be home," the failure of a father blusters immediately. "You have to believe me, I never expected anyone to be there. She surprised me! I didn't mean to!"

Things go a little blurry there for a while. Rumplestiltskin knows that he lifts his cane like a bludgeon. He remembers feeling infinite satisfaction when the heavyset man falls like a mountain to the floor. He finds blood on the hem of his trousers later, so he's sure there must have been quite a few solid blows landed. Later, his jaw will ache, and he will think that he must have been gritting his teeth to keep from screaming.

But in the moment…in the moment, he's only aware of just how much bigger this oaf is than his wee Isabel. He's only thinking that this man is her father, a father, and no father should ever hurt their child, toss them aside, leave them hurting and alone. He is rage incarnate (regret personified) and his throat is hoarse from whatever he snarls at him, but no blow can ever take away the blood from Isabel's brow, those tremors from her bones, that uncomprehending sadness (the betrayal) in her eyes.

"You are her father!" he screams.

"Well, well, well."

He recognizes that voice.

It stills the fury. Caps the rage. (Intensifies the regret.)

He should have known. Moe French would never have thought of such a scheme on his own. And he certainly wouldn't have been able to unlock Mr. Gold's front door without a skeleton key.

When Rumplestiltskin swivels in place on his good foot, cane still lifted in his hand, he sees the mayor behind him. She's locked the door to the front and flipped the sign to closed, and there is a smile of smug satisfaction playing over her mouth.

This is why Rumplestiltskin prefers the long game. Distant fortresses. Covered windows. Dark corners. Control is power is success is illusion. Strip all that away, and he is left at a disadvantage.

Like now.

"I think the sheriff should be made aware of what a public menace you are, Mr. Gold," Regina says as she surveys the whimpering remains of Moe French. "After your…explosive tricks…to get her elected, she'll be more than happy to see you locked up for a good long while for this."

"Regina." The name is a curse on his lips. Slowly, he sets his cane back to the floor, leans his weight on it, turns his attention from the blubbering excuse of a father, weeping obliviously at his feet, to this older, more dangerous opponent. "You set this up, did you?"

"We know each other so well, you and I. Don't you think it's time we had an honest conversation?"

"There's not much to say," Mr. Gold says. He holds his hand out, palm-up. "You drove a man to attack an innocent woman. Do you realize that Mrs. Gold was hurt today? Do you even care?"

Regina laughs at him. "Don't pretend you care about that. If you are who I think you are, then you know that nothing is innocent."

It's his lesson, thrown back in his face like an insult. Rumplestiltskin steels himself and refuses to flinch.

"So. It seems you have a decision to make." Regina pulls one of her hands out of her pocket—in it, she holds a phone, a 9 and a 1 already dialed. "If Ms. Swan sees what…monstrosities…you're capable of…even you might have trouble seeing the outside of a cell anytime soon."

Well, all good plays have to end eventually.

Rumplestiltskin tilts his head. "What do you want?"

"What do I want?" she taunts, and laughs again.

He remembers when this woman was a young girl who loved to ride horses above anything, who would have chosen a humble home over a cold palace, who balked at controlling a mere unicorn. The villain standing in front of him is unrecognizable as that young woman—and she didn't even have a dark curse to scale her skin and wither her heart prematurely.

"When there are two interested parties," he says in a lecturing tone (notes the way her eyes tighten along the corners; he's been her teacher far longer than her adversary), "an agreement can always be reached. I want you to ensure that no one sees fit to touch anything that belongs to me ever again, and you want…" He frowns speculatively. "Well, what is it you want, again?"

Her mouth purses. "I want your name."

He lets out a mirthless chuckle. "Well, that's easy. It's Mr. Gold."

"Your real name." She strides closer, the phone in her hand (though he knows she will never press that final 1).

"Every minute I've spent on this earth, that's been my name."

But she knows his tricks too well for that.

"What about moments spent elsewhere?" she demands.

He forms a confused expression but lends it no real feeling. It's a shallow façade made more out of habit than anything as he readies a powerful word on his tongue.

"Tell me. Your. Name."

His lips curve up. He feels himself straighten. There is blood on his hands. A bully made helpless on the floor before him. And all his pieces are coming into play precisely where he needs them.

"Rumplestiltskin," he says.

And lets the façade fall away.

He sees it, the instant Regina recognizes him. She might have had suspicions, but she hoped she was wrong. Now, she sees him for who he truly is (someone who wins).

"How do you remember?" she demands.

"You know, I think our little deal's concluded. I do hope you've enjoyed your moment of triumph, your majesty, because lest we both forget: I'm the one with the power around here."

"Oh, really?" Regina's brows lift high. "Because from what I've been hearing, the terrible Rumplestiltskin is wrapped around the little finger of his wife. Custom-made bookcases, a bouquet of flowers three times a week—tell me, Rumple, just what sins are you trying to buy forgiveness for?"

There's a dark subtext to her question, one that makes Rumplestiltskin's vision haze with fury.

"Yes, by all means," he purrs, "let's talk about the wife you gave me."

Her smile slips away. "You asked for a good life," she says, her bravado all too clearly forced. "One with all the amenities. I was simply upholding my end of the bargain."

"Who is she?" he asks flatly. "Why did you saddle me with her?"

With her eyes narrowed, Regina leans forward, studying Rumplestiltskin intently in the dim light. "Don't tell me she's actually caught your attention? Aren't you a little old for her?"

Rumplestiltskin swings his cane up so suddenly that Regina falls back several paces. Then, as if it is all he meant to do, he uses the cane to support him as he steps out of the mess of glass and blood sprayed out from around the still-sobbing Moe.

"You gave her to me," he says conversationally. "Which means she's mine. And you're not going to touch anything of mine—not you, not any of your lackeys, not anyone you can find to do your dirty work for you. My house, my shop, her store…all are off-limits to you."

"Why would I—"

"Please."

And if he were still an imp, he'd laugh outright at her pinched face.

"Oh, don't worry, your majesty." He leans into her personal space, mere inches from her face. "I won't forget you. Not one…little…thing…about you." He straightens, cleans his hands on a rag from the nearby counter, then tosses it over his shoulder. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a wife to see to. She'll be expecting me home. You know how it goes. Or do you?"

And he can't help but laugh (well, he could, but he chooses not to) at her grimace and the hurt she so ineptly hides.

As he walks past her toward the door, he calls back, "Do clean up this mess for me, won't you, dearie? Please and thank you."

Isabel's father still lives. Regina now knows that his memories are intact. But all of that fades into the background the instant he steps into Isabel's hospital room (hands full with a bag of clothes, books, and teabags to tide her over for the night) and she smiles up at him. The gash is hidden behind a tiny bandage, her eyes are bright and clear, and she reaches her hand out toward him as if it's an instinctive reaction.

"You're back!" she says, happily, and Rumplestiltskin drops the bag in favor of her hand.

"I'm back," he says.

He still doesn't know who she is. He's still not sure why Regina lumped her in with him. But he doesn't care.

"I'm here," he promises his wife. "And I'm not going anywhere."

In the days following her father's attack, Isabel can't help but notice that her husband is exponentially more solicitous than before. She was all too eager to go home from the hospital, to get back to work (to pretend away any and all knowledge that her father attacked her, then confessed to it with the excuse that he wanted to 'save' her from Mr. Gold, and is now in prison and facing, at the least, community service), but her husband seems to think she should be staying at home, in bed, spoiled and pampered twenty-four hours a day.

I'm fine becomes her new favorite phrase at about the same time as he grows deaf to that particular word combination.

Even after she convinces him that she really is perfectly all right to go back to work, he brings her breakfast in bed, drives her to her bookstore, shows up with lunch, picks her up in the evening, cooks them dinners every night, insists she sit while he brings the tea in. In short, he's driving her crazy—but doing so in such an endearing way that she can't help but smile and shake her head and let him get away with far too much of his nonsense.

She's vaguely aware that there's some drama about a public affair occurring in the town, but Isabel's always done her best to stay away from the rumor mill (and she well knows what it is to be the beleaguered victim of it, after her unexpected marriage to Mr. Gold) so it takes her completely aback to realize that it's Miner's Day. In fact, she's so surprised by how time seems to be flying these days that she only stares mutely at the two people she opened her door to. (She's brave, and nothing proves it these days more than simply answering the front door, which strikes her as too pathetic to ever admit.)

"Hello, sister?" Leroy waves his hand in front of her face. "What about it? You need some candles? Show 'em to her, sister," he says with a nudge to the woman at his side.

Belatedly, Isabel recognizes her as Mary Margaret Blanchard, the schoolteacher.

Wasn't she the one who woke the coma patient by reading a story to him? Yes, Emma Swan's roommate. Her husband's mentioned her in passing a few times.

"Oh. Sorry." Isabel forces a nervous laugh. "I…I guess I zoned out there. Is it really Miner's Day already?"

Mary Margaret is holding out a candle with such a pitiful expression on her face that Isabel can't help reaching out and taking it from her. She doesn't really see anything special about the small item (it's not carved with pretty patterns, and when she sniffs it, it smells of dust and the mines), but just her looking at it makes both Leroy and Mary Margaret brighten.

"It is," Mary Margaret says, a bit too enthusiastically. "There are going to be events and celebrations all day at the city park. I think they've already started with a few of them."

"What about it?" Leroy interrupts with a jab of his chin toward the candle Isabel holds. "How many of those you want?"

"Oh." Isabel blinks. In all truthfulness, she doesn't need or want the candle and would rather just hand it back, but somehow, she gets the feeling that might be cruel. "Just the one, I think."

"Just one?" Sagging, Leroy gives her a look as if he's never been so disappointed by a person before. "Really? You know, living with someone as dark as your husband, you need all the light you can get. Why don't you take a whole box?"

"Leroy!" Mary Margaret hisses, none too subtly jabbing his side with her elbow. She smiles brightly at Isabel. "One is great. That'll be ten dollars."

"Fifteen," Leroy says over her. "Fifteen dollars."

"Fifteen dollars." Isabel tries not to sound too short, but there are flickers of anger crawling up the back of her throat. "For a candle."

"Ten," Mary Margaret says quickly. "It's just ten."

"He can afford it!" Leroy hisses to his partner, as if Isabel isn't standing a foot away.

Isabel stares down at the candle to allow Leroy and the schoolteacher to hold the rest of their whispered conversation that she could easily overhear (but she doesn't want to). "You know," she says, "I don't think I need one after all."

"What?" As he pulls back on Mary Margaret's arm to keep her from accepting the candle, Leroy stares at Isabel. "But it's for a good cause! Don't you want to help?"

"It's for the nuns, isn't it?" she asks bluntly as she thrusts the candle against Leroy's chest, giving him no option but to take it from her. "And I think you must know how my husband feels about them."

"But…" Mary Margaret gives her a pleading look. "Surely just a single candle…"

"Well." Isabel looks back to Leroy. "You know, living with someone as 'dark' as my husband, I've grown accustomed to the shadows. Thanks for stopping by, though, good luck with the rest of them."

As the door closes, she hears Mary Margaret hiss, "Great going, Leroy."

Isabel stands there for a long moment, mostly trying to convince her heart to stop racing. She thinks of herself as a fairly easygoing person—she tries to be kind as much as possible—and this is hardly the first time she's overheard, or been told pointblank, just how much everyone hates her husband.

But for the first time…it bothers her. If they're this disdainful toward him in front of her, she hates to think how they treat him to his face.

Determinedly, Isabel grabs her coat and a scarf and swings them on. Pausing only to make certain that the oddly matched door-to-door salesmen have moved on, she hurries outside. Despite the crowds occasionally milling into the streets for the festivities, it doesn't take her long to reach Mr. Gold's shop.

A bell tinkles over the door as she pushes her way in. Isabel doesn't remember noticing the lovely little sound the night she came in to find him bloody and unsteady on his feet. Smiling up at it, she huffs a laugh at his Open sign. Every other business along the street is closed for the festivities, but of course her husband remains stubbornly open for business.

"Hey," he says when he comes through the curtain to the front and catches sight of her.

Isabel watches him—the way he stares, the tiny smile he doesn't seem to realize is sitting crooked on his lips—and feels her heart swell inside her chest until it's nearly uncomfortable. "Hey," she replies.

"I didn't expect to see you here." His smile disappears in favor of worry lines as he rounds the counter to approach her. "Are you okay? Did something happen—"

"I'm fine," she says, and laughs at hearing herself repeat that familiar phrase yet again. Once he's close enough, she reaches out and straightens his tie (it doesn't need straightening, but he doesn't know that). "I actually came to invite you out with me."

"Out?" He raises an eyebrow. "I'm afraid most places are closed, Isabel."

"I know. I thought we could walk around the park." She bites her lip to try to hide her smile. "Maybe sightsee a bit."

"Hmm." Her husband slides just that bit closer to her, and Isabel does her best not to let her breath audibly catch in her throat. "And the fact that it just so happens to be Miner's Day out there?"

"Well, we could wander the booths and very pointedly not buy anything from them," she teases. "That'll show the nuns."

He laughs (he doesn't do that nearly often enough).

"Please, sweetheart," she murmurs, sliding her hands from his tie to his shoulders. "You can see me in action and finally realize that I'm perfectly recovered."

"You know." She wonders if he knows that his whole body inclines toward her in moments like this, as if she is the magnetic pole to his lodestone. "I turned down a five-thousand-dollar sale just to avoid this festival."

"Well, who wouldn't?" she mocks him with a smile, and takes that last half-step necessary to drape her arms over his shoulders, her fingers automatically moving to play with the ends of his hair. "This is no day for spending money. It's a day for making a statement, don't you think?"

The humor fades from his face, turning his smile wistful as he lifts a hand to brush the back of his knuckles over her cheek (the touch tickles and Isabel never wants it to end). "And you'd be okay with that?" he asks quietly. "Making a statement can be hard when the town doesn't exactly welcome you."

"I'm not going for the town," she replies. "I thought it could be a nice evening for us. We'll turn up our noses at their hot cocoa and drink tea at home."

"Well, in that case…" He laughs (two laughs in one conversation!) and tucks her arm through his elbow.

They stroll in perfect synchronicity through the crowds. Easy to do when everyone draws back from them, but Isabel doesn't let it bother her. She keeps her attention fixed on her husband and allows everything else to fade into the background. For his part, her husband amuses her with whispered asides about the booths they pass (he seems to know exactly which wares are handmade and which have been 'imported' from outside the town).

"What about the candles?" she asks, and then blinks because in that exact moment, all the lights go out.

Her husband tugs his elbow free of her hold (she sucks in a sharp breath) and wraps his arm around her shoulders to keep her close (she breathes a relieved sigh and tucks herself closer to him, grateful for both his warmth and his solid presence in the darkness).

"Well," he finally says as tiny pinpricks of light start appearing all around them, most held at waist- or chest-level. "I'd say the candles are about to be the most popular item here."

"Isn't that interesting," she murmurs with a spare thought to exactly how desperate Leroy might have been before she decides she doesn't care. "They don't smell the greatest," she adds with a confiding air.

"I wouldn't think so," he sniffs. "They're made with dust from the mines. I'm sure the health department would be thrilled."

Isabel laughs, but keeps her hands on his coat lest he decide to follow through on that implied threat. She kind of likes the conspiratorial air they've conjured around them (two rebels in the midst of a crowd that can't kick them out), but she doesn't want to go too far.

"Should we leave?" she asks him.

"No," he says. She can feel him looking down at her. "I don't need a candle when I have you."

The words sound smoother than his delivery does (he's flustered, she thinks, even nervous). Nonetheless, they float straight to her heart as if carried on balloons. She slides her hand into his and squeezes, hoping he can read her delight in that tiny gesture.

With so many people around them carrying candles, not to mention the police lights swirling from a cruiser that pulls up a few moments later, Isabel and her husband are able to maneuver quite easily through the crowds.

"Why don't you like the nuns?" she asks when there's no one too near them.

"Why should I like them?" he retorts, something bitter shadowing the edges of his voice. "They hold a veneer of respectability, but almost anyone can do that. It's what's lurking underneath that gives the lie away."

"And you've seen that? What lies beneath?"

"It's in the actions," he says. His hand loosens in hers, as if he expects her to pull away. "Evil is in what one does, not what one intends."

The nuns hurt him, somehow, Isabel realizes. She wonders if they know they did, or if they even meant to. But now is not the time to bring it up. Truthfully, he's already told her more than she expected, so Isabel simply hums and squeezes his hand tighter in hers.

Eventually, she can't hide from him how cold her hands are, and he insists on heading home. She doesn't put up much of a fight. It was fun to walk with him, to find things to laugh at together (to feel all the instances where he bent toward her, or she leaned into him, and to wonder, to hope, where those might lead), but she loves their quiet evenings at home and isn't eager to miss any of those.

"You know," he says into his teacup (he insists on always using that chipped one, for reasons Isabel doesn't understand, though it makes her smile to see him cradling it so carefully) once they're home and settled into their library. "I haven't used any of those coupons you gave me yet."

"Well, that is a shame," she says, making sure he hears the smile in her voice. She's so happy that he seems pleased with the silly idea, but privately, she still feels a bit ashamed that she couldn't think of anything else to get him. "You could have gotten out of attending Miner's Day if you'd thought to use one."

Though she wishes he hadn't, her husband sat in his chair tonight (she loves the evenings he feels most confident around her, because that's when he lies beside her and rests his head in her lap as if he wholly trusts her), so there's a bit of space between them, filled with that tiny end-table and the tray of tea things. Peering across it, she sees the flush that darkens her husband's cheeks, despite the way he bends his head to try to hide behind his hair.

"I wouldn't have used one today," he murmurs.

Isabel grins, then hides it behind her own teacup.

"Perhaps…" he tries again a moment later. "We could use one this weekend?"

"That eager to be rid of me?"

He rolls his eyes at her, and Isabel feels absurdly delighted that he automatically assumes she's teasing (that's an assumption he wouldn't have made even just a month or so ago). "I thought we could spend an evening together," he says outright.

"I'd love that," she exclaims (it's fun to tease him, but she's learned to be careful not to discourage him from these overtures; she loves each one he makes too much to risk them stopping). "What will we do?"

"What would you like?"

"Ah, ah." She wags a finger at him. "They're for you, sweetheart. You get to decide what you want us to do."

"It's a little cold for a picnic," he says after a moment of thought that she's careful not to interrupt. (She's utterly fascinated to discover what Mr. Gold likes to do, wants to invite her to, how he will choose to spend time with her.) "But…we could have another makeshift one? Like we did during that storm?"

"In the pawnshop?"

He hesitates. "Maybe…at the bookstore. You've set up all those lovely couches, but I've never seen anyone in them. They deserve to be appreciated by someone."

Isabel barely remembers to set down her teacup before she launches herself at him, bending to hug him and landing a sloppy kiss on his cheek. "I'd love that!" she says.

He pats her back, but seems more startled than anything by the time she pulls back from him. She flushes and straightens her skirt, avoiding his eyes. If she could explain why she'd thrown herself at him like that, she might have been a bit more confident. But all she knows is that he's too far away and she couldn't stay all the way on the other side of the room (or what feels like it anyway) for another second.

"I'll bring brownies," she declares. "I don't know of a way to keep ice cream cold at the store, but we'll see what we can do."

And they do. That Friday evening, he shows up at the bookstore with ice cream nestled in ice within a bag hanging from his wrist, and for all the tentativeness with which he enters, he smiles eagerly when she skips forward to greet him. She's already set up blankets between the couches and comfy chairs arranged in a loose circle, and she's drawn the blinds against the night outside and it's the work of moments to turn on a few lamps set up at strategic points and flip off the overhead lights after locking the door.

"For you," he says as he pulls one of her homemade coupons from his breast pocket, presenting it with a flourish that captivates her even as it makes her giggle.

"Why, thank you." Imitating a curtsy, she takes the coupon—and the rose that comes with it (she likes this progression from her treasured collection of dried carnations hanging over the kitchen window).

This time, her husband lowers himself to the floor, his back against one of the couches, and he lets her open the picnic basket and make him a plate of sandwiches and potato salad and pickle slices (she cut extra of those, knowing how fond he is of them). Isabel can hardly recognize herself in the way she scoots close to her husband, sitting facing him but with her knees pressed up against the couch so that they're more parallel than mirrored.

Just a few months ago, she couldn't have imagined wanting anything more than their nightly teatimes. She'd have been awkward to be this close, would have second-guessed every move she made, would have wondered at his reasons behind anything and everything. Guilt would have motivated her, not this delight and this giddy hope that turns her effervescent as champagne.

But now…now, she can't get close enough, finds infinite reasons to brush her hands over him (his hands, his cheek, his chest, his arms, anywhere), and laughs with him rather than analyzes him. Her eyes trace the curves of his face, the shadows that linger in the hollows of his eyes, the lines of his throat, and the golden gleam that softens his dark eyes. When she rallies boldness enough to offer him bites of her strawberries, she finds herself caught by the way he eats them straight from her fingers. Her cheeks feel hot, her hands tingle, there is a restlessness that keeps her moving, shifting, scooting nearer and nearer him.

And she doesn't think she's the only one affected.

Her husband's eyes rarely leave her. He leans into every one of her touches. His smile is slow, and crooked, and wondering, and his expression is so open as he stares at her (as if he thinks she might be a dream he's imagined up). None of the walls that she's so used to running up against whenever she draws too close seem to be in evidence tonight.

"Who are you?" he whispers when their words have tapered off and the food is nearly gone. His hand lifts, so close to her cheek she feels the warmth of it, but he doesn't quite touch her.

"Isabel Gold," she says. "Your wife."

He looks dazed. She waits, breathless, hoping.

But he doesn't move. Doesn't lean in. (Not yet. But soon. It will be soon. Where else is this headed besides a change from their chaste sleep routine?)

"The brownies!" she exclaims. "I hope the ice cream hasn't melted yet."

"I knew you'd find a way to use my weaknesses against me," he says. She thinks he's teasing, but when she hands him a bowl of brownies topped by soft ice cream, she finds him looking pensive. Almost melancholy.

"I only use my powers for good," she says in an attempt at reclaiming their lightheartedness.

He offers her a pale smile that turns real when he takes his first bite. Isabel eats a few bites of her own dessert before setting it aside. It's not chocolate or sugar that she's hungry for.

"Sweetheart," she says, her voice so thin that it's nearly unrecognizable to herself. He's changed her, somehow. She never saw it coming, never even felt it happening, but she's so glad she married him. She's so happy that (even if for the wrong reasons) she did everything right to land her here, sitting with her knee and thigh pressed against his, her hands cold from holding the bowl of ice cream, vanilla and chocolate mingling on her tongue.

Her husband looks up from the empty bowl he's set down, and she sees it: the moment he recognizes in her whatever her face is showing (she thinks it might be love).

"Isabel."

Her name falls from his lips like air itself.

Isabel scoots two inches forward, until her chest is nearly even with his. Though her hand trembles when she lifts it to run back through his hair, she isn't afraid.

She's never been less afraid in her life.

"You don't want this," he whispers. She feels the caress of that breath-shaped sentence, but knows it for the meaningless untruth it is.

"I do," she tells him. And she tilts her head up.

He holds himself absolutely still for a second that stretches into eternity (she feels as if time is standing still, as if it's stood still for years and years and now goes back to that stasis). Then, with a tiny sigh, he inclines to her.

Impatient, Isabel curls her palm along the slope of his neck and lifts her face to his.

Their lips meet, pass, part.

Both of them breathe, shared sips of air as everything but this disappears.

"Sweetheart," she says again (she might, possibly, be begging), and her husband melts.

His mouth presses against hers at the same time as his hand spans her back and his arm sweeps her closer, and she's nearly in his lap and his tongue is in her mouth and Isabel would laugh out loud with joy if she weren't so preoccupied finding traces of vanilla on his lips.

She's never been this happy. She didn't even know it was possible to be this happy.

I love you, she thinks, but words escape her, and rather than saying aloud this truth she doubts her husband will believe, she shows him (intent is meaningless, in his mind, after all, and action everything).

She slides one hand into his hair and with the other pulls him closer to her by his tie. His heart beats like thunder against her chest, and she feels the reverberations of it in her thumb, lying against the pulse point in his throat. He tilts his head, and she gasps as his mouth opens that much more to her, and this time, she's the one pressing forward, discovering and learning and tasting until she can't imagine her dreams will be filled with anything else but this.

His hand presses tighter against her spine, pulling her flush with him, and when she sharply inhales, he rips his mouth from hers and presses hot, molten kisses across her cheek, down the side of her neck, into the hollow of her throat, making her gasp again and clench her hands over his shoulders to keep him from (impossibly, how could she even think it an option) pulling away from her.

"Isabel," he says, over and over again, each utterance of her name accompanied by the brand of his lips over a different part of her flushed skin. "My darling Isabel."

"Sweet—" she tries to say but gets nowhere, her eager hands pulling his face back up to hers and her mouth sealing once more across his lips.

I love you, she thinks again (and thinks that he is thinking the same, proving it through his own intensifying kiss).

And then, abruptly, he freezes. His hands are still on her, but they are flat. Lifeless. His mouth is a hair's breadth from her own. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut.

He looks as if he is in pain, struck by some arrow or pang she can't see.

"Sweetheart?" she asks. Her skin is burning with the restless urge to move, to hold, to caress, to pull close, but his eyes flutter open, and there is no gold in them. Instead, they are black and dead.

"Oh, Isabel," he says. Gone is the impassioned repetition of her name. Now, his voice is pained and tight. "Who are you?"

"I told you," she says. "You know who I am."

"But you don't know who I am," he says.

And he pulls away. He sets a distance between them. He avoids her gaze.

And Isabel can think only one thing (the same thing she's thought before but forgot because she wanted to forget).

He knows.