A/N: Episode reference: S1E18—The Stable Boy.

Ama Hemmah (1947–2010) was burned to death in Tema, Ghana on suspicion of witchcraft.

Back in Chapter 14, I had Henry catch his bus to Boston in Blue Harbor, Me. Blue Harbor is in Hancock County and Ellsworth is its county seat.

Chapter 49

Emma didn't fall asleep easily that night. Worry over Mary Margaret kept her awake. The two listening devices she'd intercepted were also worrisome. Her thoughts about the town being some sort of brainwashing or mind control experiment were easier to dismiss as paranoia and conspiracy theory idiocy in the clear light of day. In the darkness, though, she couldn't shake the nagging notion that it wasn't paranoia if they really were out to get you.

And weren't they? Since coming to this town, she'd been arrested. Her car had been sabotaged. Regina had implied that she had spies everywhere and now there were the two bugs she'd found. Were those the only ones? Or had she been meant to find them so that she could pat herself on the back for having done so and not go hunting for a dozen or so more that were better hidden.

She pressed her body down into the mattress and clenched the blanket in her fists, as she told herself firmly that she was not about to get up and start tearing the house apart at this hour!

She looked at Neal, sleeping soundly beside her, and wished that she could dismiss her worries so easily.

Sighing, she glanced at the red LED display on her alarm clock. It read 2:29. She screwed her eyes tightly shut and rolled over.

When Neal stretched, got up and headed for the bathroom, she pretended to be asleep, if only because she knew that they both had a busy day tomorrow, and having a conversation at this hour would do neither of them any good.

Neal braced his hands on the bathroom sink and stared down into the basin. He was glad that Emma was sleeping soundly. He wouldn't wish what was going on in his head tonight on her or on anyone. Well… maybe on Felix; damn but he still hated that smarmy bastard, even after all this time.

He couldn't believe he was thinking about this. He'd spent a couple of centuries hating his father and—once he'd learned that Papa had come to this land—avoiding him as much as possible, even as invisible cords seemed to be steadily reeling him in closer. Reeling him to the point where he was actually toying with the idea of cutting a deal with Papa in order to clear Mary Margaret's name. And yes, okay, to stick it to Regina while he was at it.

If he had to guess, he'd wager that Papa didn't really care about Mary Margaret's innocence or guilt; he was just sitting back and enjoying the show. That idea gave Neal hope, because if railroading Mary Margaret was all Regina's idea and Papa had no 'horse in the race,' then Papa might be open to a deal that would result in Mary Margaret's being cleared of all charges. If, on the other hand, Papa wanted Mary Margaret to suffer, then he wouldn't deal, and Neal would only have one card left to play.

Fortunately, that card happened to be an ace of spades.

Unfortunately, once played, things would never be the same again.

Then again, the same would hold true if Emma broke the Curse and, Neal realized, he wouldn't be upset if she did. No, he didn't want to deal with Papa, particularly not a Papa who knew who he was. Neal wanted to put off that conversation as long as possible.

But there were a few thousand people in this town who didn't deserve the sort of hazy half-life that they were living under the Curse. It had taken Neal a long time to figure out who he was. As long as the Curse was in effect, these people never would.

That wasn't fair. Worse. It wasn't right.

Neal swallowed hard. Somewhere in the middle of his reflections, he'd made a decision.

Tomorrow, Mary Margaret would face a dispositional conference—probably the final step before the trial date would be set. Unless Mary Margaret changed her plea to guilty, in which case the court would skip the trial and move straight on to sentencing. Neal didn't think she was likely to do so. And with Regina running the show or, as August had explained to him eleven long years ago, being the only person in town who could get a happy ending as long as the Curse was intact, there was only one way that hearing could go.

If it did, when it did, then Mary Margaret would be transferred out of Storybrooke to the county jail to await trial. And if there was even the slightest chance that Henry was right about the danger should anyone under the Curse leave town, then Neal knew he couldn't let that happen.

He'd reveal himself to Papa before it did.

Neal went back to bed to pretend to sleep until morning.

Neal's heart was pounding as he approached his father's shop. He was going to do this. He had to. He didn't even need to do all that much, really. He could just walk in, look Papa in the eye, and say it. I'm Baelfire. How hard could it even be?

And yet, with every step, his heart seemed to drop into his stomach, his hands felt colder, and his shirt clammy and clinging with perspiration. Or maybe he shouldn't have worn a jacket on this unseasonably warm morning.

This was ridiculous. Rumpelstiltskin might still be the Dark One, but he was also still Papa. And here in Storybrooke, sometimes, Neal could almost forget how… volatile Papa had become. Almost.

His eyes narrowed as he saw Moe French making his way down the street, leaning heavily on a pair of wooden crutches, a stiff cervical collar clearly visible about his beefy neck. Neal bit his lip. As cool and collected as Papa seemed here, he still had his temper and Neal knew he couldn't forget that.

All the same, he was momentarily relieved to find that the store wasn't open yet. He looked up at the town clock and his relief vanished. It was a quarter past nine. In the weeks since he'd come here, he'd never known the shop not to open promptly at nine on the dot. Had something happened to Papa?

He started to walk down the street in the direction of the pink mansion where he knew his father lived. He wasn't entirely sure what he'd do when he got there, particularly if Papa didn't answer the door when he knocked. If his father was lying inside injured… But if he wasn't, and Neal broke in and he came back… What the hell was he supposed to do?

So caught up in his musings was he that he never heard the step behind him until a strong hand closed on his elbow, another on his shoulder, and he found himself unceremoniously jerked into an alleyway.

Emma didn't want to enter the sheriff's station that morning. She stalled as long as she could at Granny's, but after Ruby refilled her coffee cup when she'd drunk down an inch of her java, she met the server's eyes with a guilty wince, laid down a bill and some coins for a tip and, leaving her car on the street, slowly trudged the three blocks.

As she came down the hall and into the main office, she forced herself to meet Mary Margaret's eyes and watch the spark of hope in them fade as they took in the look on her face and the slight shake of her head.

"I'm sorry," Emma mouthed miserably.

Mary Margaret turned her head to the wall, her shoulders slumping.

Emma reached through the bars to set a muffin and a sealed drink box of orange juice down on the edge of the cot.

Mary Margaret never turned around.

"I'm sorry," Emma whispered. Then she went into the glassed-in inner office and tried to busy herself with paperwork.

From time to time, she glanced up at the cell. Mary Margaret never moved. The breakfast Emma had set down remained untouched. Emma bit her lip and tried not to look as often. She failed miserably.

Neal twisted loose and settled into a fighting stance, even as his attacker stumbled, staggered back, and slapped his hand against the side of a building to steady himself. "What the hell…?" Neal gasped as he recognized his attacker.

August held up both hands palms out. "I just want to talk," he said, panting a bit.

"Yeah? Assaulting a guy and dragging him into an alley isn't exactly the best opener.

"Sorry about that," August said. "I didn't want anyone to see what I have to show you."

Neal groaned. "Not that damned typewriter again," he snapped.

August shook his head. And then he slowly rolled up the leg of his loose cargo pants.

Neal's eyes widened. "What the hell…?" he asked again, this time far less angrily.

August sighed. "I guess your dad must've told you a time or two that all magic comes with a price? Let's just call this Fate's way of handing me the bill."

"What?"

"Well, back when we met the first time, I told you who I was. Turns out my humanity came with a bit of a shelf life. See, when the Blue Fairy… uh… I think you know her as the Reul Ghorm? Anyway, when she turned me human, she told me that it would last so long as I stayed selfless, brave, and true." He paused for a beat. "I didn't."

Neal frowned. "Okay," he said slowly. "But why are you telling me this? I mean, I'm sorry it's happening. Seriously. But I couldn't begin to fix it and the Reul Ghorm…. Blue Fairy… whatever, I mean even if she could, it's not like she can remember how right now, right?" His frown deepened. "Or did the Curse not affect her?"

"It did," August sighed. "I've already gone to see her and she has no idea who I am or who she is." He shook his head. "I need you to talk to Emma. You have to help me get her to believe before it's too late."

Neal's eyebrows shot up. "It's not just your leg that's turned to wood, is it?"

"The other one's getting stiffer," August said. "I think it's going to go next. Then, probably an arm…" His voice was dull, but Neal could hear the undercurrent of fear as he kept talking. "If I revert to wood completely in this world, that'll be it for me. In a world with no magic, I'll go back to what I was when my father carved me—just an inanimate wooden puppet."

"Again," Neal said slowly, "I'm sorry. That sucks. But why are you coming to me?"

"Because Emma breaking the Curse is my only chance. She does that, I think we all end up back in the Enchanted Forest and then, whether I live out my life with a wooden limb or two, or as a magically-animated puppet again, I'll still be better off than I am now. But she can't break the Curse until she believes in the magic and until she believes in herself. I thought I could get her there, but from what I've seen so far, there isn't enough time unless…"

"Unless?" Neal prompted when August was silent for too long.

"Unless you help me."

Gold arrived at the station barely ten minutes after Emma had sequestered herself in the inner office. At his request, Emma unlocked Mary Margaret's cell and led the two of them to an interrogation room. "I… uh… need to lock the door behind you," she said apologetically.

Perhaps, she only imagined the flash of panic in Gold's eyes and perhaps, it was only in her own mind that Gold replied just a bit too quickly, "Yes, yes, of course, dearie."

She indicated the bench just outside the door. "I'll be right here," she said. "Knock when you're ready. Oh, and… uh… you can pull the shades," she indicated the cheap Venetian-style blind over the door's thick window. "If you want more privacy."

"This room is soundproof?" Gold demanded.

Emma nodded. "Yeah. And there's no one-way mirror in there either," she added. "I checked."

Gold sniffed. "And if there were, dearie, I doubt you'd be foolish enough to be in the room beyond listening in," he said. "Why that would likely result in a summary dismissal of the case against Ms. Blanchard."

Emma hesitated for a beat. "You guys sure you don't want to talk in the holding cell?" she asked straight-faced.

Humor glinted in Gold's eyes and he snorted as he shot her a quick smile. "This will suffice," he assured her. "If you've reading material you'd care to peruse while you wait, try to find something that won't prove so absorbing you miss my knock."

Neal was frowning by the time August was finished talking. "I won't deny I've been thinking about it a lot since… well, even since before I got here," he said. "As soon as Emma told me that Henry had turned up and where he'd come from… I mean, a town called Storybrooke?"

August chuckled. "Yeah, kind of a giveaway if you know what you're looking for. Or not," he continued. "I mean, there's a tourist attraction up in Canada in the BC Interior called the Enchanted Forest, but that's an amusement park." At the look Neal gave him, he shrugged. "I've done a bit of travelling. Partly for the adventure of it and partly because I was curious about whether you were the first person to open a portal into this realm. If someone else had made it here in the past, or a bunch of someones, like a… I don't know, some kind of exploring or colonizing mission, it wouldn't exactly be weird to name your new settlement after the place you'd left. Or what are New York and New Jersey and London, Ontario even doing in North America?" he asked, spreading his arms slightly apart in a shrug. "And there are places in Scotland like Glen Shee—that's 'Fairy Hill' in Scots Gaelic, but the people up there are pretty normal, even if they sound like your Dad. Maybe some of them are a tiny bit likelier to believe in magic, but I mean, you can find a few people like that anywhere. As far as I can tell, though," he continued seriously, "if anyone else did cross over, there's no way to tell now. They've likely been here for centuries and considering that just last year, a woman in Ghana was burned for witchcraft… Knowing how much more common those accusations were a couple hundred years back, I'd say it was a safe bet that telling people that they came here from another realm probably wasn't an idea anyone would have entertained."

Neal shook his head. "Yeah, I hear that. I mean, I turned up in Victorian England and maybe they weren't executing witches there, but if I'd gone around insisting that magic was real, I could've ended up in a place like… Bedlam." He suppressed a shudder when August didn't even pretend to deny it.

"Anyway," he went on, "I go back and forth on it, but I guess I'm not totally opposed to Emma doing what she has to. Thing is, I don't know how to convince her that Henry knows what he's talking about without telling her about me. Emma doesn't trust many people," he continued seriously. "I'm probably at the top of her list. And no matter how I spin it when I talk to her, all she's going to hear is that I've been lying to her about who I am and where I'm from since the day we met."

"Lying? Or just not being open?"

"There's a reason why in court you have to swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Lies of omission are still a form of dishonesty and…" And too much like something Papa would do without a second's hesitation. I'm not him.

"But you'll help?" August persisted.

"I want to," Neal admitted. "I was actually on my way into the shop to talk to my father about it." He saw a flash of panic in August's eyes and shook his head. "If there's a way to get his advice without telling him who I am—"

"He'll drag it out of you, you know," August said.

Neal sighed. "If that's what it comes down to, so be it, but I hope not."

"Well, he's not at the shop now," August said. "I saw him heading to the sheriff's station half an hour ago."

Neal groaned. "Right. The trial. He's Mary Margaret's lawyer." He brought his hand to his forehead and massaged it. "Well, I can't confront him there, not when he's helping her." He stopped. Was Papa really helping Mary Margaret? He wondered. "And not where Emma might overhear," he added more confidently. "I'll have to try later."

"Or…" August said slowly, "maybe I can convince her and you won't have to blow your cover."

"You think?"

"Look," August said, "I'm betting you've told her not to trust me, and I don't blame you for it if you have," he smiled at Neal's quick nod, "but maybe tell her that we've talked and you're convinced I'm not such a bad guy?"

"I'm not convinced," Neal warned.

"Give me time," August said, still smiling, but with a wheedling note of desperation in his voice. "It's not like I've got a lot of it left."

"Oh, are those really necessary?" Emma demanded. She was leading Gold and Mary Margaret back in the direction of the holding cell and was brought up short by the two grim-faced men with county bailiff badges on their uniform shirts who were waiting in the outer office. Or, more to the point, she was brought up short by the long steel chains that were neatly laid out on her desk. "Look at her," she snapped. "Do you seriously think she's going to make a break for it?"

Gold spoke up. "I do believe, gentlemen, that the sheriff has a point," he said quietly. "You may dispense with the leg irons and belly chain; standard handcuffs should more than suffice for restraint."

"When a prisoner is being transported from jail to a court hearing—" one bailiff started to say.

Gold cut him off. "Yes, that makes a certain amount of sense when the prisoner is being driven a fair distance. In this case, the courthouse is a scant three blocks away."

The second bailiff nudged his fellow. "We're running late as it is; she's got to be there in twenty minutes."

The first bailiff sighed. "All right," he said, picking up the cuffs. To Mary Margaret, he said only, "Hands."

White-faced and round-eyed, Mary Margaret obeyed.

"It's chilly out," the second bailiff said. "She got a coat?"

Gold was taking his overcoat down from the hook on the wall where he'd hung it earlier. Now, he draped it over the schoolteacher's shoulders. She blinked in surprise before lowering her head once more. Then, her eyes found Emma's.

"Could you…? I-I can't go," she swallowed hard, "out of town with Mr. Gold's coat. Would you bring me mine from my apartment? Please?" Her face fell again. "I don't know where my key is. Do you have it?"

"I…" Emma frowned. She'd taken Mary Margaret's purse and everything in her pockets after arresting her, hadn't she? "I should," she said slowly.

"Fret not, Sheriff Swan," Gold said. "As Ms Blanchard's landlord, I can allow you onto her premises at your convenience."

"Thanks," Emma said.

"Will you be coming to the proceedings?" Gold asked.

Emma nodded. "Yeah. I have to."

She didn't, not really, but Gold only ducked his head once in acknowledgment. "Well, then. As trials don't happen every day in this town, and as one might expect attendance to be high and parking at a premium, perhaps you'll allow me to drive you?"

She'd been meaning to walk, actually—it would have given her a little time to think—but something in Gold's voice made her paste a tight smile on her face. "Okay," she said. And then for the second time in as many minutes, she thanked him.

As he made his way over to Marco's workshop, Neal found himself wondering whether he'd given in to August's proposal too easily. No, Papa hadn't been at the shop. No, Neal wasn't sure he wanted to approach him to ask for help. Not when the ask would, at the very least, end with Neal parting with something he wouldn't want to. What it would be, he couldn't say, but even before Papa had become the Dark One, he'd had an art for intuiting just what it was a person prized. That talent had resulted in a young Baelfire always getting a birthday gift that had been truly special Even when money had been scarce, there had been woven scarves, new fleece linings for his boots, or a toy boat of the finest wicker, waterproofed with lanolin and every bit as good as the one the peddler had asked eight copper for. Once Papa had become the Dark One, though, he'd used his knack to determine just what it would hurt some hapless soul most to lose and then demand that as the price for his aid.

Neal wasn't sure himself what price Papa might demand from him, but he knew that whatever it was, it would still be a bargain compared to the cost if Papa were to learn who he truly was. It was that factor more than any other that had prevailed on him to take a step back and let August try to handle things.

That, and August had promised him to keep the truth about his background from Emma, at least for now. Soon, sooner than Neal liked, he knew that that truth would have to come out, but not now.

Still, as Neal pushed the workshop door open, he couldn't help but ask himself whether he was only entangling himself more tightly in the web of deception that he'd been weaving for himself over the last dozen years or so.

She shouldn't have gone. Emma knew it the minute the trial started. It wasn't just the flashbacks she was having to her own court appearances—it was the knowledge that much of the prosecution's case against her best friend was bolstered by the evidence that Emma herself had supplied.

There was still no word on the fingernail. She couldn't figure that out. The crime lab had taken less than seventy-two hours to confirm that the heart in the jewelry box had been Kathryn's—something that had shocked Emma, since the same results in Boston might easily have taken over a month. At the time, she'd assumed that big city crime labs had more of a backlog, but now she found herself wondering whether someone—like Regina—had somehow pushed the lab to prioritize getting results on the heart, jewelry box, and hunting knife. There was nothing wrong with that, of course. Storybrooke probably didn't see too many murders and Emma could understand the need to find the guilty party sooner rather than later, so long as they were looking for the guilty party, and not merely a guilty party.

Emma didn't want to think that someone was deliberately slowing down the results on evidence that might establish Mary Margaret's innocence. She'd been surprised that Gold hadn't seemed overly concerned when she'd mentioned her frustrations to him on the short drive over.

"Don't fret yourself, Dearie," he'd told her. "I think you'll find that in the end, the items you discovered will have next to no bearing on Ms. Blanchard's case."

"What do you mean?" Emma demanded. "Someone cut Kathryn's heart out of her chest with a knife found in Mary Margaret's heating vent and then went and planted that heart in her jewelry box."

"Well, I grant you that it appears to make a strong case," Gold allowed, "but it's still circumstantial."

"Yeah? Well contrary to what you hear on TV, 'circumstantial' isn't a synonym for 'flimsy'."

Gold had chuckled at that. "Worry not, Sheriff," he assured her. "It's been my experience that Good has a way of triumphing in the end."

He'd sounded so self-assured that Emma had believed him. And so, she'd sat in that courtroom on an uncomfortable wooden bench in the public gallery, waiting for him to pull a rabbit out of his hat. And until the jury returned to the courtroom to announce that they had voted to indict and the judge banged down her gavel and declared that Mary Margaret Blanchard would be transported to the county seat in Ellsworth, there to stand charged with first degree murder, she'd half-believed he would.

When Mary Margaret was led out of the courtroom, her wounded green eyes cast about and locked on Emma's looking for some sign of hope or reassurance. Emma could only shake her head sadly in response and kick herself for having trusted Gold.

"Was this the coat you wanted?" Emma asked softly, holding up the blue wool garment. "You… uh… forgot it at the animal shelter."

Mary Margaret looked up. "Thanks," she mumbled.

"Is it the one you wanted?" Emma asked again. "There's still time for me to go to your apartment to grab another one if—"

"They're probably going to take it away once I get to county, right?" Mary Margaret asked, her tone dull. "I'd better enjoy this while it lasts, because after today, I don't think I'll be wearing anything that isn't a bright orange jumpsuit."

"I think those are just for transport," Emma said, trying to sound upbeat. At the look Mary Margaret gave her, she apologized.

Mary Margaret shook her head. "I wish they'd just take me already," she said. "Why do they have to wait till a quarter past five?"

"I don't know," Emma admitted. "Maybe the bailiffs normally work nine to five and they have to handle transportation after hours?"

"Until today, I didn't even know that this town had bailiffs," Mary Margaret sighed. She turned her face away. "I… don't feel like talking anymore right now," she said.

Emma nodded. "I understand," she said. "I… uh… I'll just head into the inner office and try to get some paperwork done. If you change your mind, just shout."

Mary Margaret didn't reply.

The time dragged on uncomfortably as Emma pretended to work. It felt like five-fifteen would never get there. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead in her hands as she wondered how things were going this far south this quickly. Less than two weeks ago, Mary Margaret had been taking her morning coffee at Granny's and accidentally-on-purpose running into David. It felt like a lifetime ago. And now…

"Sheriff?"

Emma started and looked up guiltily at the soft inquiry. Gold was standing in the doorway to her office and the clock read ten minutes past five. She must have dozed off. And Gold had caught her. And why the hell did that bother her?

"I'm afraid the bailiffs have returned," Gold said gently. "You'll need to unlock the holding cell."

If she refused to do it, Emma thought wildly, then they wouldn't be able to take Mary Margaret away. But the delay would be temporary. Eventually, they'd just call in a locksmith to get the cell open and cart her off and Emma's defiance would have accomplished nothing besides, maybe, losing her job as sheriff and ending the day in a holding cell herself. Hating herself, she reached for the keys and went to assist the bailiffs.

Mary Margaret had her coat on and Emma forced herself not to look away as her friend was handcuffed again. "Mary Margaret…" she began, but Mary Margaret only bit her lip and didn't turn toward her. And then the bailiffs led her away and Emma turned furious eyes on Gold.

"You told me you could fix this," she snarled. "That's why I came to you. So that you could make sure Regina didn't win."

Gold raised his eyebrows. "She hasn't yet," he replied.

The calmness in his voice only stoked Emma's anger. "Well, she's going to. And now, my friend is going to pay for me trusting you."

Gold sighed. "Look, Sheriff," he said a bit condescendingly, "I know this is emotional, but it's also not over. You must have faith. There's still time."

"Time for what?"

Gold smiled. "For me to work a little magic," he said.

"What?"

"Sheriff, I realize that you've been under a great deal of pressure. I doubt you've slept well in the last three days." He sighed. "Come."

Emma tilted her head. "Excuse me?"

"I couldn't help noticing that your coffee carafe is empty. Allow me to treat you to a cup at the diner."

"I can make a new batch," Emma said.

"The fresh air will do you a world of good. Or would you prefer to pretend to deal with administrative tasks, while eyeing an empty holding cell?"

When he put it that way, Emma took her jacket off the hook. "Good point," she said. "Whose car?"

"You know, Sheriff, it's a sad thing to realize that on any given day," he leaned pointedly on his cane, "despite everything, I likely walk more than you do. We can be at the diner in less than ten minutes."

Emma's eyes narrowed, but she fell into step behind Gold and started out down the five short blocks to Granny's. As they neared the diner's parking lot, she sucked in her breath. "The corrections van," she said. "It's here."

"No doubt, the driver wished to fortify himself before the journey ahead," Gold remarked, just as a loud scream pierced the air.

Emma took off in its direction at a run. Rounding the diner, she found a trembling Ruby, her green eyes wide in a far too pale face. "Ruby!" she exclaimed. "What's going on?"

Ruby pointed a shaking finger toward the narrow lane between the diner and the high wooden fence about the lot. "She… she's in the alley," she managed.

"Who?" Emma asked. "Ruby, what's happened?"

Gold reached them. "Miss Lucas?" he asked, concerned. Ruby didn't answer. Her breath came in rapid gasps, as her trembling grew worse.

"Stay with her," Emma ordered, already moving toward the alley.

Her breath caught, as she saw a body lying face-down on the pavement. Looks about five-eight… filthy clothes… Can't tell if it's a man or woman from here… She bent down and, with no small measure of trepidation, took hold of the figure's shoulder to roll them over.

She stifled a scream of her own as the body turned far too easily. Frightened blue eyes in a white, dirt-streaked face framed by long blonde hair that was stringy and unkempt—

Kathryn!