Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Enchanted Forest, about 40 years ago

Once upon a time, there was...

“A king!”, any young readers will say at once.

But they would be wrong. Once upon a time, in truth, there was a piece of wood.

Rumpelstiltskin had seen his fair share of kings during his abnormally long life, and even more pieces of wood, he wagered. The kings had brought him riches and fortunes, as had their numerous, bleating spouses and offspring, but they’d also brought him a conspicuous amount of irritation and headaches over the years; that didn’t tend to happen with the average log of firewood, in his experience. Wood was cheap and worth a copper a dozen, true enough, but it was also almost boringly reliable: it got chopped, thrown into a fireplace, and then puffed out of the chimney without so much as a word of protest, meekly and dependably, and that was that – no pleading, no bargaining, no forgetting its place in the world.

This particular log was, perhaps, a different story, but then again, it wouldn’t be Rumpelstiltskin’s problem for much longer. The humble house of one Master Antonio might have appeared a bleak starting point for any journey, but at least blending in wouldn’t be an issue – the man’s hut was filled to the brim with unfinished works and wood ready to be carved, mostly abandoned in a random spot during a drunken stupor. One more or one less, he’d never notice the difference...provided he was even able to count up to such a high number, of course. That was often not a risk, when dealing with lowlife.

And besides, the future didn’t lie. Rumpelstiltskin wasn’t privy to every detail of that damn log’s involvement in his life, but what little he’d been shown had spoken loud and clear – it would all work towards his prized goal, just as training pliable little Regina or plucking a small babe from his parents’ farm had done. Given that all he had to do was drop it off where it could be fashioned into a table leg or something equally trivial, it might even turn out to be one of the easiest tricks of his career, requiring little more effort than the magic needed to travel back and forth from his castle.

As such, as soon as he’d left the piece of wood in a prime spot among the rest, he snapped himself away, a satisfied grin creeping up his cheeks. Old Master Antonio was none the wiser, still sleeping off the latest bottle of wine even so late into the morning, and now Rumpelstiltskin could wash his hands of the whole matter, metaphorically and literally – he was free to lay back and watch the story he’d set into motion unfold, with minimal prodding if any at all, like a child sitting before a mummers’ spectacle.

And oh, what a show it would be to witness. He was sure of it, even lacking any knowledge about its eventual ending. He was very, very sure of it.

Storybrooke, present day

A figure stepped in front of the sun, castling a long shadow over Pinocchio’s book.

Pinocchio glanced up, squinting morosely at it. Despite his sunglasses and the muted mid-spring day, the sunlight was harsh enough that he couldn’t distinguish much about his disturber – only that they were tall, annoying, and sopping wet, as though they’d just stepped out of a body of water.

The figure knelt down, pulling Pinocchio in for a cheeky kiss. Lampwick’s lips were warm and salty against his own, and the boy had to admit he wasn’t too mad at his reading being interrupted, if it happened like this. “Put some clothes on,” he chastised when they broke apart, feeling himself melt into a smile. “It’s not summer yet. You’ll catch your death if you don’t dry yourself off.”

Lampwick snorted, his grin bright and peevish. “Pull yourself together, doll. You nag worse than an old lady.”

“I just don’t want to listen to you whine if you catch a cold, or if you get sunburned. It’s all very selfish, actually.”

“Sure, Pinoke.” He raised a hand to cup Pinocchio’s face, brushing his thumb along the other’s cheekbone. “Nice glasses, by the way. Whose are those?”

“Mine,” a third voice wriggled its way into the conversation, as a third hand, dark-skinned and equally as damp as Lampwick’s, snatched the sunglasses off Pinocchio’s nose. Within seconds, Pierrot had put them back on, crashing onto the towel beside them with his feet covered in powdery sand and wearing a look of exaggerated offense. “It’s not nice to take other people’s stuff, Pinou. Not very nice at all.”

Pinocchio scoffed at him, unperturbed. “Those are literally my flip-flops you’re wearing, you idiot- how’s that any different?”

“Duh. That’s my God given right as an older brother, to get on your nerves whenever I can.”

“You’re four months older than me, Pierrot.”

“And you should be grateful for the continued gift of my experience, youngster. You ought to treasure it before you forget everything.”

“Shut the fuck up, Pierrot,” Eugene called out, from his own towel just a few feet away – they had spread out their belongings as much as possible, taking advantage of the empty beach, and the shorter boy had built a mound of backpacks to lean onto, propping his homework against it as a makeshift table. “Come give me a hand, if you really can’t keep your mouth closed. Where’s Indochina, do you remember?”

“I mean, can’t be too far from India or China, can it?” Pierrot rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the notebook Eugene had thrown at him, and then picked it up and walked over to his friend to drop it off. “Alright, alright, don’t piss yourself, Gene- come on, show me that map. Maybe we can make a guess.”

Eugene’s grumbling subsided to a minimum after that, and Pinocchio leaned back with his eyes closed, satisfied, relishing in the feeling of the sun on his face and of Lampwick’s warm body laying down flush beside him. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore had unnerved him at first, but by now he’d made his peace with it, after hours of them droning on and on in the background – they were almost a form of white noise, at this point, lulling him into relaxing and not paying any further attention to the world at large.

They’d been lucky to get the beach all to themselves, really. Sure, it was shortly after spring break, so most people had probably already gotten their fill of stopping by the seaside for the time being, and they were too far north of the East Coast to be a prime spot for beachgoers, but still, it could have been worse. Not even the odd family out for a walk had come ruin their fun, and some of them had even made a valiant attempt at swimming – Pinocchio had refused to get any closer to the water than he already was, of course, and Eugene’d been too busy, but Lampwick, Pierrot, Ava and Twinkle had all jumped in, boasting that they hadn’t felt any cold at all despite the early season.

Right now the two girls were huddled together under Ava’s towel and looking at Twinkle’s phone, chatting about the video playing on it, while Nicholas, Ava’s twin brother, had wandered off to peer over Eugene and Pierrot’s shoulders, frowning in confusion at what was written on the page. “Why the hell are you doing this now, Gene?” He asked, scratching at the back of his head. “Have some fun, damn it. Get a tan. You look like death warmed over.”

“My mom said it was either finish this here or finish this at home and get grounded. Didn’t have much of a choice, now, did I?”

“Personally, I’d have preferred if you’d stayed at home, but that’s just my opinion.”

“Nobody asked you, Pierrot.”

A shuffling of footsteps in the sand made Pinocchio look up, turning his head to check who might be coming their way with a hint of displeasure. He’d jinxed it, and stupidly at that – he’d just thought about their utter luck, for God’s sake. Famous last words, as they said.

His unease only grew when he spotted the newcomers, stepping onto the beach with a colorful assortment of towels and cooler bags. The feeling, at least, appeared to be somewhat mutual – the four girls who’d just arrived stopped in their tracks when they noticed the group that was already there, and if many of them didn’t seem to be extraordinarily fazed by the sight, the tall, blonde teenager at the head of the crowd was wearing a sour expression, her fingers clenching tightly around the strap of her bag.

Grace and Pinocchio regarded each other tersely for a moment, the boy pressing his lips together in an effort not to say anything too unkind. The two of them had done a decent job at going separate ways in the near-ten years since they’d shared any orphanage space, but they were hardly thick as thieves nowadays despite of that – and still, there was no use in being unwarrantedly nasty and ruin everyone’s fun like that, was there? They could be civil, if they ever had to say more than two words to one another at all.

Then Mignon stepped forcefully around her best friend, dropping her backpack onto the ground in a spray of sand. “Well, you could have said there was a fucking party in here! I would’ve brought cake!”

“Now that’s some bullshit,” Lampwick snorted, shifting positions – Pinocchio felt the older boy brush against his back as he stood up, dusting himself off before going to greet her. “You’d have to get a gun to my head to make me eat anything you bring- one-way ticket to a bad trip, I bet.”

“Like I would waste edibles on the likes of you, Roméo. Brought chips, though.”

And just as that, the spell was broken. Grace turned her head to the side wordlessly, fidgeting with her bag some more before seemingly realizing her friends had already decided to stay and setting it down with a sigh, and Pinocchio did likewise, sitting up and looking behind his shoulder at the rest of his own group – he had an inkling that the additional company had changed the atmosphere in the span of only a few seconds, and a brief glance was enough to prove his suspicions right, especially where Pierrot and Eugene were concerned.

Thing was, Pinocchio was not overtly familiar with the other two girls that had just joined them on the beach. He and Grace had some history in common, unfortunately, and Mignon was fine, always sneaking off with Lampwick to smoke and badmouth people to their hearts’ content, but he was not so closely acquainted with the likes of Olympia and Coppelia Dawoud, aside from seeing them on and off at school. He knew them by fame, of course, and though they looked quite alike, he was pretty sure he could tell the difference between them just fine – Olympia was smiling, right now, her dark hair falling in soft waves on her shoulders, while Coppelia’s was bundled up in a brightly patterned scarf, the lens of her glasses doing nothing to hide her deep scowl – but that was about the extent of it, from where he stood.

He was plenty aware of the effect their arrival had had on his friends, though. Ava and Twinkle had clambered up eagerly, shaking off their towel to go chat with the other girls, and Nicholas had trotted after his sister with little interest, but such nonchalance was foreign to Pierrot and Eugene, it seemed. Not that Pierrot wasn’t putting the effort in, of course, but his acting wasn’t nearly as good as he believed it to be, though Pinocchio would never have told him thus in earnest – his version of a suave smile kept faltering whenever he met Olympia’s gaze, in fact, making his reaction almost as obvious as Eugene’s, who’d started stubbornly glaring at his notebook after one single glance at Coppelia, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks.

That was the problem with being a close-knit friend group in the middle of an already small town, honestly – this sort of gossip always spread as quickly and as dangerously as wildfire in summer, whether it was true or not. As Pierrot’s functionally-step-brother, Pinocchio had been privy of his crush on Olympia since the dawn of time, but even a blind man would have noticed it by now, in truth, even if they’d allegedly only started hanging out as “friends”; as for Coppelia, it wasn’t clear who’d insinuated that she was interested in Eugene, but the latter’s reaction to it could hardly go undetected, these days.

It was a good thing that Twinkle had yet to publicly include either of them in her personal relationship betting pool, at least. It would have likely been the final straw for Eugene’s already precarious patience, if she had.

“Screw cake, if I’d known there’d be a crowd, I’d have brought something fancier to play with.” Either the awkwardness in the air was only palpable to Pinocchio, or Mignon was willfully ignoring it altogether – the girl had started rummaging in her backpack with no small amount of glee as her friends settled down around her, a cigarette already perched at the corner of her mouth. “Gracie here’s got crosswords to do, but you can’t do those when there’s too many people around. Too stressful. Everyone’s always thinking they got the right answer.”

“Well, I think I have Uno cards somewhere,” Olympia interjected, her tone low and her lips curled into a timid smile, fidgeting with a strand of hair. “Maybe if someone wants to play...?”

“Shit, Pia, that’s the best thing you’ve said all week. Come on, what’re you waiting for? Get it out.”

Pinocchio could count at least a few people that didn’t look particularly thrilled at the idea, himself included, but it was hard to make a stand against the combined forces of some of the members of the small crowd around him, and again, he wasn’t planning to curb their enthusiasm by being a pain for no good reason. Plus, he had a hunch that even if he’d tried to count himself out, he would have never succeeded; not only had they all gathered in some approximation of a circle in the span of a couple minutes, but someone had seemingly called the shots regarding who should sit where – Pierrot was crouched on the sand next to Olympia, seemingly trying to cajole her into letting him shuffle the cards with a winning smile, while Eugene and Coppelia were sitting side by side, though they weren’t looking each other in the face, their eyes firmly fixed on two different directions.

Despite his reticence, Pinocchio found himself smiling, and then smiling some more when Lampwick took a seat next to him, leaning against his shoulder and playing distractedly with the hair on the back of his head. However awkward the situation might be, he had to admit it was a funny sight to behold, and he could endure just about anything while surrounded by his friends, with warm fingers kneading at the muscles of his neck and the sun shining overhead. He didn’t even have to join in the conversation if he didn’t want to, except maybe to say uno, so maybe he could avoid any sensitive topics altogether, just in case.

Still, the rest of the company didn’t have any such qualms, and soon after the cards had been dealt the chattering was picking up again, stilted at the beginning, then louder and louder, voices overlapping and cutting one another short. “Since we’re all here, anyone else going stag at prom?” Twinkle asked, rifling through what she’d been handed with a frown. “No one decent’s asked me yet. We could make it a group thing.”

Mignon snorted audibly, stretching over the game to pass her cigarette to Ava. “You begging for a chaperone? Thought you’d have them all lining up at your door.”

“Those guys? They can keep lining up if they want. I’m not in such a bad shape yet. Draw four.”

“Little shit,” Lampwick replied conversationally, reaching out for the deck to comply.

“You could do like that girl in- what was it? That British crap you made me watch last year. The kid that went to a dance with her grandpa.”

“It was Derry Girls, and they were in Ireland. And I don’t have a grandpa to begin with. Just about none of us do, remember?”

“She’s right,” Pierrot echoed her, grinning wickedly. “We’re all tragically gramp-less...Except this good Eugene fellow here, of course. He’s got a grandma that pinches his cheek and calls him sweetie, don’t you, Gene?”

“She pinches your cheeks too, when you come over,” Eugene muttered with a dark glower. “She pinches everyone’s cheeks. Don’t act like you can avoid it.”

“Alas, it is true. To enjoy the venerable Mrs. Smith’s cookies, one must suffer their cheeks to be pinched thoroughly. Worth it, but the cost is high.”

“Shut that pie-hole, Piero, we’re tryin’ to play here.” Mignon placed a glaring red seven on the pile, then turned back to look at Twinkle with a shrug. “And I can come with you if we don’t find anyone, alright? We can make them all shit themselves in envy.”

Far from being reduced to silence, Pierrot let out a loud whine, grandiosely throwing his hands up in the air. “But you said the same thing to me!”

“And to me,” Ava deadpanned. “You fucking double agent. You promised you’d save me from going to another formal thingy with this idiot here.”

“Excuse me? I’m your brother, you dumb-“

“Yeah, do I look like a damn Lannister, Nicky?”

“You’re all wrong,” Grace cut in, her voice full of dry humor but so quiet it almost went unnoticed. “Mignon is taking me to the dance. I was there first. Sorry to disappoint everyone.”

Pinocchio huffed quietly in laughter, but when the girl glanced in his direction he returned his gaze to the cards, even though his reaction was likely getting lost among his friends’ more riotous ones. One had to be careful, around Grace. You could never know what she might take as a personal offense.

It wasn’t that Pinocchio considered her a bad person, per se. Just because they weren’t friends it didn’t mean she had committed some heinous crime – most Storybrooke people around their age were relatively decent, after all, but only a few of them had ever approached his group without ulterior motives over the years, or without revealing themselves as bad-mouthers later on. No one could expect to be liked by everyone, and besides, Pinocchio and his companions were considered weird kids by half the town, by and large. Popularity tended to be an issue even when you lived in the middle of nowhere, Maine with a bunch of fairy tale refugees.

Still, a good chunk of said town hadn’t had the dubious luck to live in the same orphanage as him for upwards of 28 years. Grace had – well, dozens of kids had, of course, like Mignon and Pierrot, but where Pinocchio had managed to form a tentative brotherhood with Pierrot after the curse had been broken, and could only vaguely remember being put in time-out together with Mignon after some perceived mischief as kids, he and Grace had remained quite distant from one another. Or maybe distant wasn’t the right word, really; hostile might be more fitting, especially from the girl’s direction.

To this day, Pinocchio couldn’t understand why. It wasn’t like he’d ever done anything to Grace – they had hardly spoken in their convent days, in truth. Paige had been older, sweeter, the apple of the Mother Superior’s eye; she’d constantly been held up as an example of good behavior, and people had seemed genuinely sad to see her go, even if they were happy her father had come to get her. What had little Giuseppe been, in comparison? A pain in the ass, though the nuns would have been caught dead before using such rude words. An air-headed, willful boy, who couldn’t pay attention to what he was being told or do better in school. Their worlds had barely brushed past each other once or twice, if at all.

And yet, Grace kept acting like he had personally put spiders in her orphanage bed. She didn’t like him, she didn’t like Pierrot, she didn’t even like Lampwick, whom she just about never met – Pinocchio had schooled himself on giving people the benefit of the doubt, over time, but he was starting to get a little miffed by this animosity of hers, really. He didn’t mind that he couldn’t seem to earn her trust, and he had no problems with Twinkle and Ava hanging out with the girls, because he definitely wasn’t their boss or anything like that, and he couldn’t possibly believe he had the exclusive over their friendship...but he had stopped going out of his way to make amends, after a fashion. He couldn’t hope to fix something if the other person couldn’t deign to show him where the cracks were.

Luckily, the moment passed fast enough. Once they’d all stopped bickering and fondly roasting each other, the game resumed pretty seamlessly, the chattering picking up from where it had been left off. Pinocchio played a skip card, prompting some groaning from Nicholas at his left, and then found himself glancing to the other side when Lampwick’s nails scraped gently against his scalp, calling for his attention.

“You planning on going to this prom thing?” The older boy murmured, low enough for it to remain between the two of them. “’Cause I’m only taking you if you wanna go. We can skip if you don’t.”

Pinocchio stiffened, the cards in his hands suddenly very, very heavy. “I...Dunno. We’ll see.”

And he really didn’t know what his answer to that question could be, honest. Most of his friends were likely to go, in pairs or in groups, and they probably would have been happy if he joined them – Leona would be, too, like as not, to see him and Pierrot go out in fancy clothes like proper little men. He wasn’t very keen on disappointing them all, for one reason or the other.

But proms meant crowds. They meant dancing. They meant dozens and dozens of people cooped up in the same overpacked gym, and other kids trying to spike the punch bowl, and strangers wondering why he wouldn’t go out on the dance floor when his friends were very clearly enjoying themselves. The more Pinocchio rolled the image around in his head, the more nightmarish it felt, unease crawling up his arms and down his back like an impossibly cold snake.

Lampwick had to know all of this, too, at least up to a point – he huffed quietly in laughter, affectionally butting his head against the side of Pinocchio’s. “You can just say no, you know? I’m not gonna eat you for that.”

“I literally just said I don’t know, Lampwick.”

“Yeah, but is that an I actually don’t know dunno, or a stop talking or I’ll make you draw four dunno, is what I’m asking-“

“Wait, did you hear that?” Eugene abruptly said aloud, cutting their conversation short.

They all stilled, craning their heads back to listen, keeping silent save from some minor shuffling around. There didn’t seem to be any out-of-place noise around them – only the crashing waves and the odd seagull here and there, and the puttering of cars in the distance, coming from the street above them. Pinocchio was about to brush the other boy’s call to attention to a fluke, a simple mistake on his friend’s part and nothing more.

Then, he saw the figure.

They were stumbling along the shoreline, their feet only inches from where the water had previously been lapping at the sand. For a split second he thought it was merely someone out on a walk, enjoying the out-of-season warmth just as they’d been doing for a while now, but he shook that impression away immediately – theirs wasn’t a walk as much as a constant lurching forward and back, as though they could barely stand upright despite the ground below them being perfectly still. Their arms were hanging limply at their sides, not making even the slightest effort to keep their balance, and their head occasionally lolled onto their shoulder, as though it cost him to hold it upright.

The group watched them for a long, stunned moment, all but mesmerized by the strange apparition. Then the newcomer went stock still, swaying on their spot, and finally collapsed onto the sand, their legs buckling underneath them.

Pinocchio was scrambling to stand up in a heartbeat, tripping over himself to reach the stranger. He was dimly aware of his friends doing the same thing around him, game abandoned in a chorus of shocked gasps, but he didn’t spare them a single glance – there were alarm bells ringing urgently in his head, for some reason, so loudly he could barely focusing on anything except the figure sprawled on the ground several feet from them, now unmoving and unresponsive.

A tiny, surprisingly lucid part of him wondered idly why he was reacting with such fervor to the scene before him. It was probably a drunkard, or something of that sort; they still had those, even if Storybrooke had become a better place over time. Not a pleasant sight to behold, but nothing to panic about, either.

And still, something was frenzying at the back of his mind, inexplicably worried as he stumbled towards that mysterious person. He couldn’t explain why, but he couldn’t not follow that instinct, wherever it was coming from – and besides, even if it had merely been a drunkard, he couldn’t just sit there and do nothing to help. Maybe they were sick. Maybe they needed a doctor.

He knelt on the sand next to the stranger, faltering briefly, not knowing what to do first. It appeared to be a man, with long dark hair haloing around his head and a gaunt, pale face – he was so thin his cheekbones seemed about to jut right out of his skin, and there were huge bags under his eyes, of a black, almost bruised color. The eyes themselves were half-lidded and heavy, and he was breathing in a struggling, labored way, as though he couldn’t bring himself to do more than that.

“Sir?” Pinocchio called out, shaking him hesitantly, sirens blaring unbearably loud in his head. “Sir, are you alright?”

He caught a movement in the corner of his eye – Grace, crouching down on the man’s other side, as from around them came the sound of footsteps and of people saying they should call for help. The girl’s passive expression had been replaced by one of grim practicality, and she leaned forward to tap the stranger’s face with her fingers, softer than a proper slap but still resolute enough. “Sir? Can you hear us? Look at me if you can, please.”

The man let out a heavy exhale, his whole body shuddering, and then opened his eyes, blinking forcefully in the sunlight. He glanced around in blatant confusion, sweat beading on his forehead, but when his eyes fell on Pinocchio his whole demeanor changed – his face seemed to light up in recognition, despite the tension and exhaustion shadowing his expression, and he shifted slightly to the side, opening his mouth as though forcing himself to let words out.

That only served to puzzle the boy even more. That was the behavior of someone seeing a person they already knew, but he was just about certain he’d never met this guy before, so there had to have been a mistake. He was pretty sure he would have remembered someone with such an odd look to them – the gauntness was one thing, but the man was dressed strangely, too, not fitting the weather at all. His feet were bare and sticky with wet sand, yes, but the rest of him was covered head to toe in fabric, a long, faded coat and long pants and a baggy tunic, all in shades of brown and grey and dark green.

And still, Pinocchio couldn’t seem to break free from that frantic, feverish gaze, boring through him like a scalpel. He only dared look down when he felt something thump against his chest – the man’s hand, balled in a fist, clutching something in his shaking fingers. The boy glanced to the object, then back to its owner, but when the latter appeared to insist more he carefully pried the thing out and unraveled it, mindful of anything dangerous that might be concealed inside.

It was a ragged piece of parchment, torn and frayed at the edges, but still mostly legible. There were scribbles on it, too, symbols and lines – Pinocchio frowned in confusion trying to decipher them, but his attempt was cut short by the man’s now free hand grabbing at his sleeve, tugging insistingly until he lifted his head again. Grace, for her part, was looking at them in open astonishment, a thin worry line between her eyes and her hand still hovering above the stranger’s face, too shocked even to glare.

“No one,” the man wheezed, nearly inaudible. “No one must see. You can’t. Only them. Only them.”

Then the light went out of his eyes again, and they rolled back as his grip slackened, allowing him to collapse on the sand once more, completely unconscious.

Chapter Text

Hospitals were awful, awful places, Pinocchio had decided.

He’d only been there a handful of times before, for vaccines and check-ups and, in one memorable occasion, to get Lampwick’s hand patched up late at night, but they’d all been brief, goal-oriented endeavors, reasonably paced if not downright quick. He’d always had company, and had never been left alone with his thoughts for more than two minutes at a time – which had suited him perfectly, thank you very much.

But this- this endless, immeasurable waiting...Pinocchio was starting to lose his mind, honest to God. Nobody would tell him anything, and he had no idea who he should ask for information, besides. He’d been there for hours, it seemed, but it had felt more like months – he didn’t dare wander around in case someone came looking for him, or more likely, in case he got lost in the labyrinth of sprawling white hallways, but that hadn’t calmed his restlessness down, not in the slightest. His leg had been bouncing for so long now it was starting to ache, and yet he couldn’t will it to stop, no matter how hard he focused on it.

Plus, the environment was everything except welcoming, to him. All bright lights and loud noises, and people going back and forth without a single pause, and then the smell- Pinocchio hated being sick on principle, even in the comfort of his own home, and as such, being reminded of it while sitting uncomfortably on a cheap plastic chair could be nothing but a horrible experience. The cloying stink of disinfectant, medicine and illness filled the whole air, and it made his skin crawl even when he tried to turn his mind elsewhere.

He should have waited outside. He knew he should have. His friends had, after all; he’d been the only one who’d insisted on coming along when an ambulance had come to retrieve the stranger on the beach – he hadn’t woken up again, not even at the paramedics’ prodding, and so off they had gone, trying to keep the man stable while they figured out what was wrong with him, and Pinocchio had gone with them, which had landed him in this dingy corridor with his head on the verge of exploding.

And still, he hadn’t been able to help himself. Something about this guy had been bugging him relentlessly, a piercing, nagging voice at the back of his head that wouldn’t let him be, even if he couldn’t pin down what was so unsettling about it; and besides, it had seemed the nicest thing to do, sticking around in case the mysterious newcomer woke up. It couldn’t be easy, being sick in an unknown place surrounded by strangers – Pinocchio had been beyond frightened, at least, when it had happened to him. No reason to put anyone else through it in turn.

“Jesus, kid, why do we always meet when something like this happens?”

The boy’s head snapped up abruptly, but then he found himself relaxing ever so slightly, his stance unclenching as he spotted Emma’s mane of blonde hair coming towards him. The sheriff’s face was pinched with concern, but she smiled when she met his gaze, albeit a bit thinly, and once she had sat down next to him she wrapped an arm around Pinocchio’s shoulders, a warm, friendly gesture.

“Heard you’d been here since they brought him in,” she continued, patting him affectionately on the arm. “Good call.”

Pinocchio grinned back at her, though it felt somewhat forced and tense – he just hoped he wasn’t showing it too much, really. “I didn’t do anything. Twinkle called the emergency number, and Grace tried to keep him awake. I just thought I might help if I stuck around.”

“Yeah, and that’s more than lots of people would have done, so don’t sell yourself so short. No one’s ever seen this guy before, so I’m afraid it’s going to be a while before he gets any visit.”

“So you don’t know who he is?”

Emma shook her head, her mouth pressed into a grim line. “Maybe when he wakes up he can tell us his name and we can start looking, but the doctor pumped him full of drugs, so it’s not going to be today. I’m sorry, kid, you waited a lot for nothing.”

She leaned closer to him, then, her expression even more alert. “You were around when he was still conscious, though. Did he say something? Anything that could help us identify him?”

Pinocchio’s hands went to the pockets of his sweatshirt almost reflexively, the fingers of the right one curling around the crumpled piece of parchment stored in them. He had been fidgeting with the edges of it since he’d walked into the hospital, but he hadn’t dared pull it out and read it yet – the man had said not to show it to anyone, and the words had loomed above the boy’s head like a stormcloud all the while, dark and heavy. No one but them, he’d said, and he’d said it twice, drilling it into his audience’s heads firmly.

Alright, but who was them? It didn’t narrow the list down even slightly – Storybrooke alone housed thousands of people, and there was no telling whether the search ought to be limited to inside the town or not. Maybe Emma would have more of a clue than he might, or anyone used to dealing with strange messages, really. He could rattle off a dozen folks like that without even thinking much about it, right now.

“No, nothing.” The words were out of Pinocchio’s mouth before he’d even realized he was about to say them, catching him off guard and leaving him fumbling in a way he had to scramble to dissimulate. “I mean, he did say some stuff, but...it was nonsense. I didn’t understand a thing.”

Emma eyed him critically for a second, searching his face as though trying to see if that might be all – or maybe it was his paranoia that made him believe that, he couldn’t really tell. Then she sighed, shaking her head again, and ran a hand through her hair as she stood up, looking quite tired all of a sudden. “Alright. You did good, kid. You better get home now. This place is maddening, I’ll tell you that.”

Pinocchio imitated her, letting out a subtle, relieved exhale. “Will you tell me if you find out who he is? Please?”

“You took this thing to heart, haven’t you?”

“Well, it’s just...he looked really weird. I just want to know if he’s alright.”

“Of course you do.” The sheriff reached out to tussle his hair, but was interrupted by a buzzing sound coming from her jacket pocket – she retracted her hand, fishing out her cell phone, and her eyes narrowed as she looked at the screen, her lips pursing in thought.

“Sorry, I have to take this one. Go back to your friends, alright? They’re out in the parking lot waiting for you. You better pack it up before Nurse Ratched shoos you all away.”

She pressed the phone to her ear without waiting for his reply, gesturing for him to be off with a half-smile. Pinocchio hovered there for a moment, watching her duck away to answer the call, then turned on his heel and left, forcing himself to keep a steady pace and not sprint into a run despite the way his heart was hammering in his throat.

The fresh outside air hit him in the face like a slap, but he welcomed it all the same, breathing it in slowly and glancing around in search of the others. They were, unsurprisingly, quite easy to find; Emma hadn’t been lying – between their belongings all piled up together and the gaggle of teenagers loitering around, it was a miracle they hadn’t been kicked out of the premises already.

Maybe the sheriff had interceded for them, though. That was a nice thought, if one that made him feel even more of a worm, after the bullshit he’d just spewed.

Lampwick was the first to notice him walk out of the hospital – he sprang to his feet immediately, making a beeline for Pinocchio and taking him by the arms. “So?” He asked, a thin, only-noticeable-if-you-knew-him veneer of worry in his customary flippant tone. “You alright?

Pinocchio nodded gratefully, his shoulders sagging as he relaxed in his boyfriend’s hold. He liked Emma, he did, but very few people could make him feel as at ease with himself as Lampwick was able to. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Sure. You look like shit, Pinoke, d’you know? Any news about our mystery guy?”

“Nothing. He’s still out cold. Emma said she’ll let us know if anything comes up.”

“She better hurry up, then.” Pierrot had popped up from behind Lampwick’s shoulder, brandishing his phone exasperatedly.

“I hate this stupid town- everyone and their mom already seems to know there was a weird stranger on the beach and that some kids found him. Your dad’s been calling up a storm because you wouldn’t pick up your damn phone.”

“Uh.” That was news to him, though not extremely shocking. Rumors tended to travel quickly in small towns like theirs, and Storybrooke tended to be an exceptional case on that front, besides. “I’m sorry. My phone died while I was inside, I think.”

His stepbrother rolled his eyes, scoffing loudly. “Yeah, no shit, it’s always dead. I told Marco we’re fine and people were just blowing stuff out of proportion, so you’re welcome, by the way.”

He took a step back, then, eyebrows arched. “We are fine, right? You didn’t just make me lie for no good reason?”

Pinocchio hesitated, his hand fiddling with the contents of his pocket once more. Emma was one thing, but by now all of his friends had gathered around him, ready to be brought up to speed – he didn’t want to lie by omission to them, too, and he wasn’t feeling the same urge to do so that he’d before, either. Whatever this was about, he knew he could trust them to handle it quietly, or to cuff him over the head for acting like an idiot and not spilling the truth immediately, at the very least.

Before he could find the words, however, another voice preceded him, tart and resentful. “Did you show that thing to the sheriff?”

Grace had seemingly elbowed her way through the gaggle of puzzled teenagers, and was now standing before him with her arms crossed tightly against her chest and her brows knitted together, Mignon peering in from over one shoulder and Ava from the other. Pinocchio blinked a couple times, taken off guard, then conjured up as neutral an expression as he could muster, politely inclining his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. That guy gave you something, I saw him. Did you tell the sheriff about it?”

It was, by and large, a fair question; and yet, the way it had been posed irked Pinocchio immensely, if nothing else because of who had done it, and with that tone most of all. “If you were paying that much attention, you should have heard him say I wasn’t supposed to show it to anyone,” he replied, flatly. “And anyway, I’m not sure this is any of your business.”

The corner of Grace’s mouth pulled back in a blatant, angry sneer. “It becomes my business if you’re doing some stupid crap and it gets me in trouble as well, don’t you think?”

“Alright, I’m already tired of you two,” Twinkle cut in firmly. There was a look in her eyes that had once been reserved to bothersome boys trying to tug at her braids, a look that had often preceded her sinking her teeth in the intruder’s arm, but at present she merely stepped between them with one hand raised, turning a stern gaze from one quarreling friend to the other.

“Cut this shit out and explain, okay? From the beginning, if you please. No one’s getting a single thing you’re talking about, and I’ve still got sea salt in my hair. We can’t exactly stand here all day listening to you guys piss each other off.”

Grace seemed ready to come up with some sort of retort, but Pinocchio knew there was no winning against Twinkle once she had set her mind on something like this. Besides, he was starting to feel observed – there was no nurse shouting at them from one of the hospital’s upstairs windows yet, but there would likely be one soon, whatever the reason for it.

“Alright,” he conceded, though discomfort still clung to him like a slimy substance coating his skin. “But not here. Let’s find another spot.”

They repaired to an alleyway not too distant from there, as no one seemed particularly keen on hauling their beach luggage all the way across town or something of the like – it wasn’t a particularly private corner, either, but it was still a far sight better than an open parking lot, and beggars couldn’t be choosers even in Storybrooke. The odd appalled citizen might still huff and puff about them disturbing the peace, perhaps, but at least they could pretend to just be loitering or looking at someone’s phone, all huddled together against a wall.

Pinocchio spread out the bundle on the ground in the middle of that huddle, flattening the paper as much as possible and pinning some corners down with random objects his friends handed him. There were still marks of creases and tears cutting across the pages, but they were nonetheless somewhat legible, three leaves of parchment they could now see almost in full.

Or at least, they would have been legible, if he had known in what language they’d been written in. Beside the stains and crumpling, there were endless little lines scribbled in a disordered fashion throughout the whole length of each page, like the kind of doodles one could have made absent-mindedly while talking on the phone – Pinocchio gingerly lifted one of them to check on the back, and sure enough, there were ink marks scrawled there too, albeit more sparse and hurried. Not that he could do much to understand if they’d been written purposefully or not; there was no rhyme nor reason to the way they were spaced out, some clustered together tightly, others stretched and elongated as though drawn with one’s hand at an uncomfortable angle.

They took turns poring through the scribbles for what felt like an eternity, but no one seemed to recognize even part of them, even distantly. It was odd to say the least; between the lot of them, they probably had knowledge of about a dozen languages, from one world or the other – deciphering the whole scrawl was out of the question, but not to have any clue at all...that was a different matter entirely.

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Lampwick muttered after a while, leaning forward with his elbow propped up on Pinocchio’s curved back. “That guy asked you to- what, protect this nonsense with your life or something? Seems a bit excessive.”

“Yeah, looks like something my baby sister’d make,” Mignon concurred mockingly. “Unless it’s magic stuff, of course- there’s like, a non-zero chance of that happening here, right? Maybe those are spells, and you gotta be magic to read ‘em.”

Olympia gasped in surprise, a soft, breathless little oh. “I don’t like this,” she said, her voice barely above a hesitant whisper. “Maybe we really should tell the sheriff, if it’s magic. It could be bad for us, keeping it.”

“I agree.” This was Grace again, kneeling on the dirty pavement with no care for her fine trousers, fingers hovering a couple inches over the pages without ever touching them.

“Maybe it’s an alphabet we don’t know, or maybe it’s magic. Either way, we shouldn’t get involved, period. The sheriff might be still in the hospital- you could catch up with her, if you hurry up, and get rid of this stuff.”

“I don’t want to waste her time if this turns out to be just useless trash.” It wasn’t a lie, not properly – lies always weighed heavier on Pinocchio’s tongue, clogging and revolting, like chewing gums with a nauseating flavor – but it wasn’t the full truth, either. Of course he didn’t want to waste Emma’s time; of course he didn’t want to look her in the eyes as she tried to explain, awkwardly polite, that he’d just handed her something utterly dumb; but he wouldn’t have been honest if he’d tried to claim this was the only reason why he’d been reluctant to give up on the pages from the beginning, as a smarter person likely would have.

He wanted to discover what they meant, that was the truth. There was a thrill rushing through him, the same kind that would take over him whenever he’d look back to an almost finished drawing, or realize where the story he was writing was finally going – it was the pleasant buzz of being just a few steps from completion, just about to see results from all his hard work. It was as though the meaning of those nonsense scribbles were already on the tip of his tongue, and he just needed the right push to make it all click into place and read the text in its entirety.

But you don’t, a small, persistently reasonable voice at the back of his mind objected. It was not the Jiminy-voice he knew best, the one that he’d learned to conjure out of thin air once he’d stopped needing to cart around a physical conscience – it was the other, nastier one, which had sprouted out of nowhere one day in the convent and had refused to disappear entirely since. This is the first time you’ve seen this stuff. You don’t even know if it makes any sense, or if that man was just mad and rambling. Sure, he looked like he knew you, but do you know him? It’s not that important. Get over yourself.

Shut up, Pinocchio silently bit back, pressing his hand along the edge of one of the leaves of parchment and pinning it down onto the ground, even though no one had so much as hinted they wanted to pick it up. He didn’t know where this stubbornness was coming from, or what had prompted it, but now that it had stepped in it wouldn’t give up so easily. If any of his actual, real friends had objected to him keeping those things, perhaps he would have relented; but the disapproval had no leg to stand on, if it kept coming from Grace.

As though reading his mind, another, unimpressed voice stepped in, and Eugene pushed his way to the center of the circle, shaking his head. “This is dumb. We keep going in circles around the same thing. Unless it starts glowing or getting radioactive, we don’t need to decide what we’re doing with it right now- I say we find out what it is, and then we think about what to do with it.”

“Oh, really?” Grace said skeptically – she didn’t sound particularly convinced yet, but she had lost some of the morosity she had offered Pinocchio, all the same. She and Eugene weren’t on such bad terms to warrant that, after all; they’d even been in some after school club together, back before things had started to fall apart. “And how do you suppose we find out, hm?”

The short boy gave her a pointed glare. “I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t have an idea, don’t you think? I’m pretty sure I know someone who can help us- not the sheriff, so don’t start with that again. I don’t even need to bring these things to her- I can just take some pictures, and show them to her without saying exactly where I got them.”

He inched a little further forward, gesturing towards his phone as proof. “If it turns out to be dangerous, or magic, or whatever you want, then we can turn them in. No one is going to be mad at us for that, especially not the Savior- she likes Pinocchio, and Lampwick, so she’s not going to give us a hard time if we tell her one or both of them had doubts. If it’s just paper, then Pinocchio can toss them into the bin, or make origami out of them, I don’t care. Deal?”

Pinocchio hesitated for a moment, but he had to admit, the reasoning was sound. It was a fair compromise, one that kept the both of them satisfied and disappointed at the same time – wherever his reticence was coming from, it was no match for Eugene’s brand of logic, which was hard to shake even when it made no sense to anyone else. “Deal.”

Grace seemed dissatisfied, still, mulling over the proposal in complete silence, but then the clock tower chimed the hour somewhere above them, startling the whole group and shattering the quiet. Olympia checked her phone screen, wide-eyed, before shooting upright and gesturing for her sister to follow. “It’s getting late,” she said with a faint smile to Pierrot, who had mechanically stood up alongside her and was now looking quizzically in her direction. “We should be getting home.”

“The sky’s not going to fall on our head if we’re ten minutes late, you know,” Coppelia muttered darkly, remaining stubbornly seated on the ground.

“Elia. Please.”

The younger Dawoud sister turned her eyes skyward, letting out an annoyed sigh, then clambered up at last, dusting off her backside. “Fine. Bloody golden girl.”

Grace watched her friends gather their bags for a long moment before turning back to Pinocchio, a wary glare in her eyes. “Deal,” she spat out, finally. “But that’s just until we find out what’s going on, alright? Don’t get any smart ideas, Giuseppe.”

“Of course,” he replied, surprising himself at how cold his voice sounded. “I’d never try to disappoint you, Paige.”

 There was a beat where he thought the girl would lunge at him like a mountain cat, but then she simply stood up as well, breaking eye contact to rummage through her stuff. She didn’t bid him goodbye, which Pinocchio hadn’t really expected her to, in truth, but she did nod at Twinkle and Ava on her way out, while the sisters’ waves were broader, albeit somewhat hurried as well, and Mignon exchanged a meaningful look with Lampwick before departing, jogging after the others to catch up with her best friend.

“Well, that went down like a lead balloon,” Twinkle sighed, shaking her head, once the four girls had left. “Honestly, you guys should find a way to work this out, if you’re planning to have more than one conversation every two years.”

“I was hoping it wouldn’t become a common occurrence,” Pinocchio mumbled, detachedly flipping through the pages again. “Also, why are you more worried about me and Grace getting along than about this whole thing?”

She shrugged, pulling a face. “I like a good mystery. This is very Indiana Jones, you know? But you’re my friend, and so is Grace, and that matters more than finding any stupid clue. I’d rather you stop chewing each other out instead of solving a magic riddle or something.”

“Tell that to her, cherie,” Pierrot scoffed harshly, with a smirk that verged on a sneer. “We’re not the ones who started it- I’m not planning to let her off the hook until she does, sorry. Anyway, speaking of Indiana Jones- Care to share your secret source with us, Gene? Or are we supposed to believe it’s really Harrison Ford with a hat and a whip?”

“I’m not telling until I’ve tried,” Eugene replied, eyes fixed on his phone as he attempted to take clear pictures of the scribbles from above. “Especially not to you, Pierrot. I don’t want you to laugh at me before I’ve even started.”

“Nonsense. I have the utmost faith in you, my compact friend.”

“I do, too.” Pinocchio stood up, brushing grime off his knees. He felt light-headed for a second as he went, an ever so slight push off balance that prompted him to lean back against Lampwick’s proffered hand – he froze in alarm for a split second, his hackles rising at the thought of yet another inexplicable sensation, before he realized it was probably his blood sugar plummeting all of a sudden. He hadn’t had anything to eat in hours, except that handful of chips back at the beach, before the stranger even showed up.

That was a relief, at least. He would have likely found his unprompted panic amusing, too, if it hadn’t been for- well, literally everything else surrounding him at the moment. “I mean it, Eugene. Just...let us know if you find something, okay?”

“If you charge your phone, yeah,” the other boy scoffed in dry amusement, but he nodded all the same, utterly bent to his task. It was comforting, in a way, to see him so focused on something that others would have probably already dubbed as ridiculous, to feel the thrill of discovery rush through all of their friends as though it were still one of their old games of make-believe; it had to mean this wasn’t merely a stupid hoax – it had to mean that there was stuff to discover, no matter what Grace said.

It had to mean...something. Pinocchio wasn’t exactly sure what, yet, but he had a hunch he would soon find out, one way or the other.

“Alright. Thanks, Gene.”

“You said there was an emergency,” Emma ventured aloud, as soon as she walked into the sheriff’s station, “but I was just at the hospital, so it can’t be that kind of emergency, right?”

David smiled in response, though it was a tight little thing, barely there at all. “I don’t think so, no. No one’s dead, no one’s dying, and no one’s been cursed that I know of.”

“That’d be a first, but...great, thanks.”

Of course, her father didn’t know much about the guy she’d just left passed out in the hospital, except what Emma had told him over the phone, but not even she knew what the hell was wrong with that one, or if he had been cursed at all at any point lately. She would have stuck around to find out more, had she been able to, at least until the foreigner woke up, but then the call had come and she’d had to rush back to the station, because things in Storybrooke never started going wrong one at a time – they would always come in clusters, like handfuls of grapes.

She hoped the kids hadn’t gotten too shaken up by the inconvenience, if nothing else. The group she’d caught outside the building had been calm if a bit subdued, though Emma’d had to threaten to confiscate their cigarettes if they didn’t try to be a little more subtle, but Pinocchio had looked tense and unnerved during their entire conversation – not a good look on him, she had to admit. He was a nice, big-hearted kind of boy, that one, and the sheriff was still fond of him, even ten years into her role. She hadn’t liked seeing him that troubled; it had itched at the back of her mind something fierce, bothersome and nagging.

Never mind him, however. She could check up on both Pinocchio and the unnamed fainter later, after she’d sorted...whatever this business was out. Emma took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and followed David to the main office – he had been expecting her right at the entrance, like a nervous teenager waiting for his date, fidgeting with his deputy badge while he stole glances over his shoulder.

The reason was clear enough, by the time they went through the door. Emma’s mother was sitting in front of one of the desks, which would have been surprising enough, but she wasn’t alone, either – when she stood up at the sight of her daughter, the two men in her company did likewise, though with a clattering of steel that spoke of chainmail under their tunics, or at the very least of swords strapped at their hips.

Emma stumbled to a halt, her eyes going wide in disbelief. “Sir Lancelot?” She breathed out, stunned. “Lord Bertilak?”

The older knight offered her a tense smile under his thick beard, now more spotted with grey than the last time she’d seen him, and bent slightly at the waist, a hand pressed to his chest. “Well met, my lady Savior. I am glad to see you again, though I wish it were in happier circumstances.”

“The same goes for me,” Lancelot echoed him, nodding to her in acknowledgement – he had aged, too, though not as evidently as his companion, but there was a tense, restless air to him that reminded her vaguely of an antsy child forced to sit down. “We aren’t here for our leisure, I’m afraid.”

“But- When did you get here, exactly? And how? I thought...” Actually, she hadn’t been thinking about them much at all, if she had to be honest with herself. It had been a good half-decade since she’d last seen her mother’s old friend and Lady Ardena’s husband, and though she didn’t bear them any ill will, they hadn’t exactly been at the forefront of her mind, either. There usually was enough on her plate without bringing past encounters in the mixture as well.

“Lancelot came to ask for our help, Emma,” Snow White cut in, her fingers twisting stiffly in the fabric of her skirt. “Your help, mostly.”

That was a bad sign. No one came to her for help with mundane stuff like pancake recipes or speeding tickets, nowadays, and that had to be especially true for two Camelot natives wearing tidbits of armor, who’d likely had to cross into a completely different realm just to speak with her family. “Why? What happened?”

Lancelot hesitated, opening and closing his mouth a few times before he seemed to have finally gathered his words. “Do you remember the child Guinevere had before she left? The babe, Enid?”

“Of course. She must be what, five now?”

“She just turned six, actually, but- she...she disappeared, a couple days ago. Taken from her chambers in the dead of night.”

“What?” Emma glanced at her mother, who was pale as a sheet. “How does that even happen? And why- what exactly does that have to do with us? I mean, we’re going to help, obviously, but...”

“It gets worse,” Snow White muttered with a grimace. Though not nearly as shaken as Lancelot, she looked positively ill at ease with the situation, as if it pained her personally.

“Whoever took the princess gave us the means to make our journey as well,” Bertilak said, laying a steadying hand on his companion’s shoulder. “We will show you how, though I’m not sure the passage will still be there- you must remember how unpredictable the path to our kingdom was, for you all.”

“Yeah, it rings a bell.” More than a bell, in fact. She could still feel the ground shaking under her feet, if she concentrated hard enough, the grotto caving in before her eyes and the multiple headaches that very lord had caused her when he’d still been green.

“We were led to believe the quest would take us to where the little lady was, too. There were...clear implications. But alas, they left something else to give us a hint of her whereabouts.”

“The person who stole my- who stole Enid, they didn’t leave her bed empty,” Lancelot continued somberly. His dark skin had taken a positively greyish hue now, as though the topic had sapped some lifeblood out of him. “There was a fox laying on it, when we entered. A fox mother, to be exact, nursing a handful of cubs.”

Emma reared back in shock with a sharp intake of breath. A picture flashed before her eyes – a child bounding after a runaway fox, deep into the woods of Camelot. “A fox? But that means...”

“Yes.” There was a grim tone to the knight’s voice, a tone that seemed to be barely suppressing a boiling, steaming fury – it was akin to watch a pot on the verge of overflowing, the lid sliding off the bubbling, red-hot water that was starting to drip down the sides.

“We think it was Morgana’s signature. We think she has returned, and taken Arthur’s daughter away from us.”

Chapter Text

The Enchanted Forest, about 40 years ago

If anyone had asked Geppetto in his younger days what word he expected to hear the most from his future children’s mouths, his honest answer would have been something related to food.

Oh, Pinocchio asked for food plenty, that wasn’t up for debate. For a boy that didn’t appear to grow and get worn out, he sure seemed to have been built with a bottomless stomach, for all that Geppetto was sure he had done no such thing, but the little puppet didn’t need to demand food, for the most part. His father gave him to the best of his abilities – it still didn’t feel enough, at times, since theirs was a poor house that had until recently been required to feed only one, but they would hold strong all the same, there was no question about it.

No, the words that Pinocchio seemed to favor the most at the moment were, instead, what and why.

“Papa?” The boy was standing on the windowsill, pressed against the shutters to peer outside. “What’s that?”

“That’s a duck, my boy.” Instinctively, Geppetto held out a hand, ready to catch his son in case the latter lost his precarious balance and stumbled to the floor. It wouldn’t have been a big deal in any case, like as not – Antonio had attested to the sturdiness of the log, and they hadn’t been able to prove him wrong yet – but one could never be too safe, with a child like Pinocchio around. He’d already managed to run off through the village and then burn his feet to a crisp by dozing off near the fire, somehow, all within hours of coming to life; there was no telling what he might do, if left unsupervised again. “It must have come from the river, looking for food.”

“Duck.” Pinocchio paused, appearing to be rolling the new word around in his mouth, like he often did when parroting what other people said. “Why is it walking all funny?”

“It’s just the way all ducks walk. Geese do it, too.”

“Why?”

And there they went again. “I don’t know. It must be because they have flat feet.”

The puppet furrowed his brow, frowning down at his own feet as if wondering what the grand difference between him and a duck could even be. Then, as soon as it had come, the puzzled look vanished off his face, and he giggled, clamping a hand over his mouth. “Farmer Thompson walks just like that- does he have flat feet, too?”

Geppetto had to press his lips together in an effort not to burst out laughing as well, trying to show some stern disapproval instead. “That’s not a very nice thing to say, Pinocchio.”

“But it’s true!”

“Maybe so, but Farmer Thompson would not be happy to hear you say it, alright?”

Pinocchio huffed in dismay and slid down to sit on the windowsill, his little wooden feet tapping rhythmically against the wall as he kicked his legs back and forth. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

He was a curious boy, this one, that much was already abundantly clear. Even now that he’d learned to maneuver all his limbs correctly, his mind was still always running leagues ahead of his body, rushing to poke and prod at things until he could understand how they worked; if he wasn’t rummaging through tools that would have injured less solid children or trying to peek under the lid of a bubbling pot, he was asking question after question, at such rapid-fire speed his father could hardly hope to keep up.

He would need to go to school, soon, to be around other kids and learn everything he might need in the future. Geppetto dreaded the prospect of sending his son out into the world like that – he knew firsthand how cruel children could be to those they deemed outliers, fatherless or motherless or bearing some sort of defect – but it couldn’t be avoided, really. It wouldn’t have been healthy nor fair to keep any young boy as a recluse, especially one as inquisitive as Pinocchio; already he’d gotten into the workshop’s paints and drawn endless wobbly lines across the floorboards, a mess that had been worth the look of absolute fascination on his face.

True, he’d most definitely been more enchanted by the bright reds and sparkly clean whites than focused on imitating anything he’d seen, but that didn’t change anything. He’d need to learn how to read and write soon, like any other child his age, and start to be brought into line a little bit before he got himself into some serious trouble.

That could still wait a few days longer, though. For now, Geppetto limited himself to picking the boy up from under the armpits, a smile creeping up his face as the boy shrieked in delighted surprise, squirming in his father’s hold less because he wanted to be put down and more because he relished in the chance to turn it into a game. It didn’t matter how aged the log might have been – the puppet that had come out of it was still a small child, young enough to enjoy being carted around and spending time within the safe walls of their house.

“Come along, now. If you’re good while I prepare dinner, I’ll teach you how to carve a little duck for yourself, so you can play with it without bothering the ones in the lake.”

Storybrooke, present day

The light in the kitchen was on when Pinocchio finally returned home, a little past sundown.

He leaned back against the door for a moment, pushing it closed with a soft click and exhaling slowly. He was glad to be able to relax for good, at long last, but there was still one conversation he had to get through before he could reach his goal, and it was imperative that he didn’t look too out of it in this instance – Emma hadn’t looked too closely and Pinocchio couldn’t hope to fool his friends, but right there in the other room was the very last person he wanted to worry with some nonsense.

Only when he felt somewhat stable did he call out, his voice ringing in the otherwise silent house: “Papa?”

The reaction was immediate. He heard the screeching of a chair being pushed across the kitchen floor and the sound of hurried footsteps, and then the entrance light turned on as well, revealing his father approaching him with a puzzled look on his face. “There you are,” he said, blatantly relieved. “I didn’t hear you come in, my boy.”

He moved to cup Pinocchio’s face in his calloused hands, and the boy couldn’t help but lean into the touch, even if he had to remain alert to Geppetto’s troubled expression. “What happened? I heard rumors-“

“We found a man while we were at the beach.” That was the truth, at least, albeit only the bare bones of it – his father didn’t need to know all the additional details just yet, did he? “I think he was hurt- we went to the hospital with him, that’s all. I’m sorry I didn’t answer your calls, I didn’t see them- my phone battery died, and I didn’t have a charger with me.”

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it. Pierrot explained everything to me, and I told Leona, so she would know as well. I’m just glad you’re alright.” The man patted him affectionately on the cheek, a warm smile spreading on his face. “I’m very proud of you. I would have done the same thing, to help that man.”

Pinocchio smiled back, but it was tense and twitching, as if sparked by a faulty electric wire. He doubted Geppetto would have been so proud if he’d known the whole story, what his son was keeping mum about and how pettily he’d handled the conversation with Grace – it made him feel dirty, that knowledge, and the bundle of parchment weighing down his pocket wasn’t helping matters at all. The papers seemed to have gotten scalding hot while he’d been speaking, though he knew it was only a trick of his guilty brain on him, and they pricked at his skin through the fabric of his shirt, poking and prodding and leaving him fidgety and restless.

Mercifully, though, his father didn’t appear to notice his unease, or if he had, he was too polite to bring it up. He simply patted Pinocchio once more, this time on the back, and continued: “Have you eaten? I kept something warm for you. You look too pale, even if you were in the sun all day.”

By all logic and reason, the answer should have been a strong yes. Pinocchio had definitely not eaten enough throughout the day, owing to the multiple inconveniences – he should have forced himself to put at least something in his stomach, if only to sweep some of that dizzying fogginess away from his brain.

But his stomach lurched unpleasantly at the sole mention of food, and as such he heard himself say, almost distantly: “Actually, I’m beat. It- It’s been a weird day. I was thinking about showering and just going to bed, is that okay?”

“Of course it is.” Geppetto’s smile softened, and he stepped to the side, gesturing for his son to move forward. “Go rest, my boy. Tomorrow is Sunday- you can sleep in as much as you need, I won’t wake you.”

That was wishful thinking if Pinocchio had ever seen it, but he wasn’t so mad as to mention that, so he simply nodded in thanks and made a beeline for his room, his pulse throbbing at his wrists and neck.

He plugged his phone in before going off to shower, and though he soon lost track of the time he was spending spaced out under a lukewarm spray of water, it must have been quite a while, for when he returned the device had turned on again and the screen was blinking with unread messages – he curled on his side onto the bed, mindless of his still damp hair, and scrolled through them distractedly, looking for something new underneath his father’s missed calls. Eugene hadn’t yet said anything about his mysterious source, but that wasn’t very surprising; knowing him, he’d only speak up once he was sure of his results, and he was more likely to do so in person, anyway, where he could accurately gauge the reactions he was getting.

The rest of his friends had reached out multiple times to see how he was doing, though, both when he’d been MIA in the hospital and after they’d parted ways. The last message had only come in a few minutes earlier – Pinocchio tapped on it instinctively, even if the others should have taken precedence, as it was the only one he had the energy to tackle at the moment.

Lampwick 💕 : you got home alive?

The boy felt himself break into a slight grin, far more genuine than any he’d offered his father, and shifted his position to text a response back. Exhausted, but yeah. You should know, since you walked me there.

He half-expected Lampwick to throw some sarcastic quip at him, albeit maybe tinged with sincere worry. Instead, not two seconds later his phone was vibrating in his hand, his boyfriend’s caller ID filling the whole screen.

“Wow, I didn’t expect you to actually pick up,” were Lampwick’s first words, as soon as Pinocchio had accepted the call and pressed the device to his ear. “Go to sleep, you damn idiot. This whole thing looked like it had sucked blood out of you.”

To his surprise, Pinocchio snorted quietly in laughter, despite the whirlwind of thoughts in his head. “Why are you up? Thought Leroy had already gotten on your case for, uh, how did he put it? Being disgusting when other people are trying to sleep?”

“He’s snoring loud enough to bring the whole building down on my head, he ain’t even gonna notice me talking. ‘Sides, nothing can keep me from hearing your sweet, sweet voice, doll.” A pause, and then the mocking tone slipped away, leaving behind a quieter, more serious prodding.

“Listen, this shit doesn’t sit right with me, okay? You had something on your mind today. Care to tell me what it was, now that Miss Wonderland is out of the way?”

“I don’t know, honestly.” It wasn’t posturing; there had been none of that hesitation, with Lampwick, no sudden urge to reassure the other and conceal the truth. If anything, the words were stumbling right out of his mouth, as if they’d only been waiting for an excuse to press forward despite his worries.

Unbidden, his fingers reached out to look for the pages. He’s stuffed them under his mattress before going off to shower, but now Pinocchio felt the need to pull them out again, clutching them to his chest as he continued, the stained parchment tickling at his palms. “That guy- seeing him put stuff in my head. Weird stuff. I don’t know where it’s coming from, but- he was talking like he knew me, but I didn’t know him, I swear. It was very strange.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“I’m not sure.” Pinocchio closed his eyes, trying to rearrange his confusing perception into something he could explain with actual words.

“Do you remember that book they made us read in like, seventh grade? The dystopian one about the boy that had to remember how the world was before?”

A dry chuckle on the other end of the line. “I’ve never even opened anything they tried to make me read in school, but go on.”

“Well, there was this community where they’d sanitized everything, and only the healthy children were kept, and stuff like that and- they didn’t have colors, in that place. It was all grey. But this kid- sometimes he’d see random flashes of colors, but he didn’t know what it was until they explained to him. He thought he was just seeing everyday stuff, and it got weird for a second or two before it went back to normal.” He swallowed thickly, his mouth suddenly dry. “That’s how looking at that- those scribbles made me feel. Like I’m seeing colors that aren’t there and no one’s telling me what their names are.”

He waited for a response for what felt like ages, counting heartbeats, but he was only met with silence. Panic reared its head inside him almost instantly at that – maybe Lampwick thought he was losing it, too. It would make sense. This wasn’t how normal people reacted to unexpected events, now, was it- “Lampwick?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” Finally, the other boy’s voice filtered back in, though there was no sarcasm at all in it, now.

“Sorry, Pinoke, didn’t mean to disappear on you. It’s just- that stuff you said about colors, it gave me the strangest deja-vu, you know? It just slapped me in the face and I didn’t know where it was coming from.”

Pinocchio sat up abruptly, his eyes flying open in shock. “What?”

“Yeah. Seems that sick guy isn’t the only one recognizing stuff he shouldn’t. Pretty crazy, uh?”

“Jesus.” That settled it, then. If it had been just him with the odd feelings, then it would have been easier to chalk it up as a mere trick of his stupid brain, but the two of them...They’d gotten into plenty of trouble when in the other’s company before, but they’d rarely been delusional about something together, if ever. “So you think there’s something weird about...all this, too, right?”

Lampwick sighed heavily; Pinocchio could almost picture him in that very moment, perched on the arm of Leroy’s couch in some ungainly position, the phone nestled close to his ear and his free hand running distractedly through his ever-too-long hair. The image was so vivid it made his chest clench, tight and painful like a pair of pliers – it made him want to see Lampwick again, even though it was a dumb thing to wish for, seeing as they’d been together up until a couple hours earlier.

“I don’t know what to think, honest. I just think this whole thing stinks- it reeks of bullshit, okay? Don’t want to get any of it stuck under my shoes, if you get what I mean.”

“You reckon I should have listened to Grace?”

“Shit, doll, is that what this is about? I didn’t say any of that. What I’m actually saying is that whatever we do, we’re always gonna get caught in some weird stuff- wouldn’t be surprised if there’s something fishy about that guy, really, just a bit pissed he fell right on our fucking laps like that. It’s got nothing to do with you, or that little hatter girl.”

“No, you’re right.” Pinocchio collapsed back onto the pillow again, stiffly rubbing at his burning eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry, that was dumb. Been stuck in that hospital too long, I think it got to my head.”

“Would never have guessed.” The warmth had seeped back into Lampwick’s words, a kind of peevish fondness that the younger boy was more than a little familiar with. “Go get your beauty sleep, Pinoke. If you’re lucky, I’ll come kiss you awake before Pierrot gets the same idea.”

That did make laughter bubble up Pinocchio’s throat, tired though it was. “God forbid. Thanks, Lampwick. Say good night to Nova for me.”

“I’ll pass on the message. Take care, dumbass. Don’t think too much.”

The call disconnected, and immediately the room felt all the more silent and stifling for it, but it couldn’t be helped, really. Pinocchio was not a little kid anymore – he couldn’t always have company around to chase away the monsters from under his bed, especially if it was his own mind that kept adding worries to the roaster for no good reason at all, building up his fears until they seemed thrice as tall as him.

So he simply dropped his phone back onto the nightstand and curled on himself once more, the pages clutched to his chest and his eyes closed, wishfully hoping to fall asleep sooner rather than later.

?????

The young princess was so still in her sleep, she almost appeared to be dead.

That couldn’t be, of course. Morgana had not woven her plot with such care, picking each thread with painstakingly slow attention, only to watch it come undone by failing to keep the girl alive – she had not given the little lady Enid the same affection and warmth she’d once given to her very own babe, for that would have felt like a betrayal, but she did still possess the same magical touch that had lulled Mordred every night for years. She’d needed the princess to be quiet and compliant, and quiet and compliant the princess had been, all the way down.

That had made the contrast between her and Mordred even starker, however. Before forcefully dozing off, the girl had been quivering and meowling like a weak kitten in her grasp, unused at being manhandled by a stranger; meanwhile, Morgana only had fond memories of her precious son resting in her arms, his fair hair and ruddy cheeks and soft, rhythmical breathing. Enid had Arthur’s eyes, eyes that kept staring accusingly up at the sorceress, but Mordred had been all hers, up until he had been torn from her, leaving a gap in her soul that would never be filled.

Besides, Mordred had never had to be taken Below kicking and screaming, forced against his wishes. He’d come willingly, his blood thrumming alongside his mother’s in a world that was his by right.

Never mind that, now. The boy was sleeping as well. That was good – he would need his strength, in the times to come. She would need his strength, if she wanted her threads to hold their shape. Better he regained energy while he could, rather than be summoned before he was ready to handle it.

They would come for her, Morgana knew. How could they not? She’d given them map and key and compass to find her, like an expert mariner letting his crew take the helm, left out all the breadcrumbs that would lead them right where she wanted them to be. They would come, but hopefully the boy would come first – he was a quick one, she’d seen it with her own eyes. Quick in both mind and legs, a credit to his bloodline and to who had molded him, and to those would mold him even further in the future.

Yes, he would be there first. She was sure of it. Now to prepare the finish line for his run, before the time was up.

Smiling to herself, Morgana resumed rocking the child Enid in her dazed state, back and forth, back and forth, humming an undecipherable lullaby she hadn’t uttered since decades prior.

Chapter Text

Storybrooke, present day

“I give up,” Emma snapped, throwing her hands up in frustration. “This doesn’t make any damn sense.”

“And you only gathered that now?” Regina scoffed, eyes still fixed on the enchantment book she was flipping through. “If I hadn’t guessed it the moment I got your call, the tracking spell would have been my first clue.”

The Savior leaned back in her chair, massaging the bridge of her nose with a heavy sigh. They were still in the main room of the sheriff’s station – she’d spent most of her night in it, truth be told, even after calling in some reinforcements, but she was getting quite sick of those grey walls and uncomfortable seating options by now, really. “How the hell didn’t that work? I thought it was supposed to be infallible.”

“It is, unless someone’s running interference. Which means- either Morgana is messing with us, or the girl isn’t here. Simple as that.”

“The former sounds more likely to me, if I may,” Bertilak muttered, his expression dark and pensive. “Otherwise, why would Lady Morgana bide us to come to your land? She is cruel in her games, but I do not believe she would send us running in circles just for her own enjoyment.”

“Well, I do,” Regina replied tartly, raising an eyebrow. “She seemed to be having fun while she was driving Arthur mad, and the kid’s his daughter. You think she’s done getting revenge?”

“I must hope so, for my queen’s sake and Sir Lancelot’s. He loves the child as he would one of his own body. I do not want to think of what he might do, if our mission were unsuccessful.”

Emma couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment, though she hadn’t been around to see the knight raise little Enid for herself. Lancelot had allowed Snow to take him home to rest and talk through the events of the previous days once more in private, but that had only happened after a lot of insisting and cajoling – he’d been quite desperate in his research, especially if compared with the level-headed, fearless fighter most of them remembered. He’d only conceded after being promised he would be kept updated on every new discovery, no matter how little.

Still, nothing of that sort had come up yet, big or little that it might be. David had been gone for a while now as well, out to get coffee after seeing his daughter hover at the edge of a nervous breakdown, and the three of them were still parsing through what objects the two men had brought over from Camelot, both coming from Morgana’s hands and the queen’s – Guinevere had entrusted them a fretful message, pleading their “old friends from Storybrooke” for help in rescuing the princess, as well as a small bonnet belonging to Enid herself, so that they might sniff her out like hunting dogs.

Well, that ship had already sunk, unfortunately. Regina had bent to the task of brewing a locator spell as soon as she’d been brought up to speed, but instead of leading them to the child, the bonnet had only wavered in the air for a handful of seconds before falling back down, sinking sadly onto the desk they’d placed it on – the sight had shocked them all, but no one had been more bewildered than Lancelot, who’d reacted with such despair and rage Emma had been afraid he’d break the first thing he could get his hands on.

Her office chairs were safe from his wrath for now, at least, but the thought didn’t make her feel that much better, really. She’d rather he’d gotten his kid back and put a hole through the wall, instead of being deluded again. “Okay, let’s go back to the beginning again. I feel like I’m missing something obvious.”

“Hours of sleep, that’s what we’re missing, Emma.” Regina groaned quietly, then straightened up in her seat, setting down the book and rifling through the other objects on the desk. “Alright. It’s nighttime. Kid is in her bed, with a guard posted at the door. Am I getting this right?”

Bertilak nodded tiredly. “I questioned the man myself. He said no one had come in or out of the room until the maid came to wake the princess for the day, and I am certain he can be trusted.”

“So kidnapping through magical means is still in the cards. Wonderful. Maid walks in, the girl is gone, in her place there is a fox with a bunch of babies- and this.”

The mayor held up the necklace, allowing it to dangle from her fingers so that the other two could see it from all sides. It had been fashioned crudely from twine, and from it hung a wickerwork pendant, roughly made to resemble a little latchbox – it had been open when Emma had looked at it first, from where the knights had said to have retrieved a message, but now it was closed again, looking deceptively innocuous in Regina’s grasp.

“Aye, my lady. There was some parchment inside, like a lover’s note. Lancelot has it, I think, but I remember what it said- it was very brief, you see. The message read something akin to the invitation is open, but what it means is beyond me.” The man shrugged, scratching pensively at his beard. “We would have guessed Morgana’s hand was involved anyway, for the fox bade us follow her to the passage that brough us here and would not let us be until we reached it, but my companion recognized that trinket- it was the same one he gave to Princess Emma’s mother years ago, on behalf of the witch herself.”

“Yeah, and I hoped we’d never have to see it again,” Emma grumbled, not even bothering to hide her displeasure. “Mom said it sicked some bloodthirsty creatures on Arthur’s knights. I’m surprised she didn’t pull the same trick on you, honestly.”

“We feared as much, but Queen Guinevere was beyond herself with grief. We couldn’t let any clue go unchecked, even if it meant putting ourselves in danger.”

Regina pulled a face, one that dripped with skepticism. “Well, at least the message couldn’t be any clear. That sorceress invites you to something- we don’t know what it is, but I bet we’ll find out soon enough, and I say we because the lot of us are definitely involved. If you being dragged off to Storybrooke wasn’t enough, this damn necklace does it for me, sorry.”

“Fair enough, but how? How are we involved?” Emma’s gaze went from Regina’s face to Bertilak’s, hoping against hope that at least one of them would give her a straight answer. “What does she want from us, exactly?”

“Beats me. The good thing is that there wasn’t exactly a crowd of us when we went to Camelot, so there’s a limit to the people we’ll have to ask for help in sorting this thing out. If we don’t know what’s going on, and your parents  don’t either...”

“Who’s left, though? Robin? The kids?”

Lord Bertilak appeared to perk up some, a delighted spark filling his eyes. “Of course,” he said, the barest hint of a smile on his face. “The children. How are they? They must be grown by now, aye?”

“Not nearly as grown as they think they are,” Regina snorted, some fondness filtering through her words. “Roland is at my house with his father. Hopefully he’s still asleep, even if I had to tell Robin what was going on.”

“And the other two? How about them?”

“They’re still the bane of my existence.” Emma made to roll her eyes, hoping to convey at least part of her exhaustion. “Listen, just yesterday I had to jump in because-“

She trailed off, suddenly speechless. Wait. Wait. It had been stupid of her not to consider this earlier- it seemed so obvious now that she was putting two and two together, but...it could be a simple coincidence, couldn’t it? “Hold on,” she began again, tensely. “Lord Bertilak, how likely is it that someone got through the passage with you guys?”

The knight seemed surprised at the abrupt change of pace, but to his credit, he recovered quickly enough to answer in a timely fashion. “Not very likely, my lady Savior. It was a hidden cave, just like the one you traversed, and we made sure we weren’t being followed by anyone. Why? Have you had any trouble?”

“I don’t know yet, but...the kids, they found some nameless man down at the beach yesterday. It slipped my mind in all this mess, but it can’t have happened that much sooner than your arrival. I was asking Pinocchio about it when my dad called me- the guy should still be out cold, at this point.”

Regina narrowed her eyes, leaning closer in suspicion. “I heard people talking about it, but I thought they were just blowing stuff out of proportion as usual. You’re telling me it could have something to do with...this?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But it’s weird that two unrelated events would go down at the same time like that, right?”

“I must agree with you,” Bertilak interjected gloomily. “I believe in things happening by chance, but this does not seem the case at all. Even less so if, as you say, those boys are involved- can we speak with them? You have ways to do that in this world, that I recall.”

“Yeah, we do, but I doubt we’d get any coherent explanation at-“ Emma cut herself off as she checked the screen of her phone, cringing at the too-sharp light, “-barely six AM on a Sunday from a bunch of teenagers. We’d be better off waiting a bit. Besides, I doubt that they know any more than what they’ve already told me. I would have known, if they’d been keeping stuff from me. Our best bet is to keep working on what Morgana left us, at least until that guy wakes up from whatever funk he’s in. The doctors have my number, so we’ll know as soon as it happens.”

“You are right. I would speak with him posthaste, if you’ll allow it- Lancelot as well once he learns of it, I wager. If he is involved in the princess’ disappearance, mayhaps we’ll be able to recognize him.”

Emma fervently, desperately wished that would be the case. She had yet to give up on the hope that, for once, multiple things going amiss around the town could mean something other than a bigger, harsher brand of trouble falling onto their heads, but if by any chance talking to the weird unconscious man could speed up the process of finding the kid, then she would drag him to the station herself, mark her words. Storybrooke didn’t see much of that particular kind of crime, but she’d seen enough TV shows to know the drill – after 48 hours, the opportunities of finding a missing child dropped significantly in number, and she didn’t want to discover how the kidnapper being a magic user could skew the results, honestly.

Even if she was starting to feel a wave of suffocating dread creeping up on her, already.

The Enchanted Forest, about 39 years ago

Pinocchio almost burst out crying in relief, when he finally spotted the rickety house in the distance.

He didn’t, ultimately, because he didn’t want to waste any breath sobbing when it could make him run faster instead, but he did wipe roughly at his eyes, just in case he was having hallucinations again. When he lifted his hand again, however, the house was still there, so he let out a stuttering, relieved exhale and quickened his pace, despite how tired his legs and arms already felt. Just a little further. He was almost home safe.

Of course, it wasn’t really home – his home was very far from where he was, and there wouldn’t be any point in returning there, right now, not when his father was still missing. The Blue Fairy had said Pinocchio would only see him again after becoming a better boy, and it seemed he was still a long way from that at the moment, especially after what had happened at the beach earlier in the day. Home was not somewhere he could just reach, even if it made him almost start crying again to think about it.

Still, the Blue Fairy had also shown him a place where he could stay while he learned to be good, and that was where Pinocchio was heading, looking over his shoulders for any passing knight on patrol duty. He doubted the guards that had tried to blame him for Eugene’s injury actually cared enough about either of them to hunt him down, but he had to be safe anyway – the Fairy only rarely showed up to check on him, too busy with all her other duties, but there were others in the house, strange creatures that were nonetheless supposed to look after him. Adults. They were adults, and adults were meant to keep children safe, even if they were talking dogs or bird doctors.

Pinocchio hoped the right adults had come to help Eugene, too. He’d only caught glimpses of the other boy being carried off to safety as the guards had dragged him away, his friend cradled gently in a passing fisherman’s arms, but they hadn’t said Eugene had been dead, right? He’d been nasty and angry during their fight at the beach, but that didn’t mean he deserved to die in such a stupid way. There was still hope. There had to be.

Maybe Pinocchio could go to Eugene’s house, instead of this one. Maybe then he’d be able to know how his schoolmate was doing, and get some peace of mind. But...no, he shouldn’t. It was dark out in the street. The Blue Fairy’s helpers were probably already wondering where he’d gone. He needed to show them he was still alive and whole, and perhaps dry off a bit and eat something, and then, maybe, he could go see Eugene in the morning once they were both no longer in trouble. Maybe.

Besides, he really wanted someone to comfort him, right now. Jiminy, maybe, unless he was too cross at Pinocchio for being so late. The housemaid was a snail, so she could never be as warm and welcoming as his father might, but she would still be kind to him, sometimes, when he was sad, and though he wasn’t really sad at the moment, he was most definitely upset. The other boys convincing him to play hooky- the book hitting Eugene in the head- escaping through the sea- the big green fisherman- with all that had happened, it seemed as though he’d walked out to go to school ages prior, truly. It was hard to believe it had only been that morning. He couldn’t wait to bury his head under his blankets and end that day for good.

As such, he put all his energy into pulling the front door open, too eager to get in to be quiet, and was caught entirely off guard when it refused to budge, no matter how hard he tugged.

Pinocchio frowned at it, dumbfounded, before trying again and again. Nothing. It was locked – that was odd, from what he could remember. It was never locked when he came back from school, usually. It seemed strange with the Queen’s knights still doing their rounds, but perhaps the Fairy wasn’t afraid of them breaking in, what with her magic and her valet Medoro being able to chase them away barking.

It was very late, though. He’d never gotten home this late before. Well, too bad – he resorted to knocking instead, politely at first, then hammering at the wood with his fists when he got no response.

After what felt like hours and hours, but likely was only about ten minutes, a light finally turned on in one of the rooms on the highest floor, and then the window opened, painstakingly slowly, revealing the bulging eyes of the snail maid and her puzzled, slimy face. “Yes?” She asked in a creaky drawl. “Who is it? Who is making such a racket at this hour?”

“It’s me!” Thank the gods. Pinocchio was all but hopping from one foot to the other by now, restlessly waiting for the warmth and familiarity of his bed. “Pinocchio! Can you open the door, please?”

“Pinocchio?” The snail frowned – or at least, she did something that resembled a frown enough, for someone who didn’t have any eyebrows. “It is very late for you to come home, child. Where have you been?”

“It’s a long story, and- and it’s really cold out here, please. If you can’t come let me in, can you ask Medoro to do it?”

A long, tense pause. Then: “I’ll come. Wait for me, I’ll be as fast as I can. But before you come in, you must know that the good fairy came to check on you, today.”

Pinocchio felt himself freeze on the spot, in a way that had nothing to do with the terrible breeze that was hitting his still damp wooden body. “She did? What- What did she say?”

“She was very disappointed not to see you. Very, very disappointed. But you are here now, so perhaps that’s what matters. Wait there, it’ll only be a moment.”

The window closed again. The boy was left staring at it helplessly, his stomach sinking even lower.

Stupid, he mentally berated himself, resisting the urge to slap at his own head. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Did he have to let those boys cajole him into so much trouble right on the day where his fairy godmother had decided to swing by? There was no telling what she would say to him, once they finally got face to face. He’d been doing so well up until yesterday – now he’d have to explain what had happened, and it would sound like an excuse, and he’d have to start from the beginning again. Stupid, empty wooden head that he was.

Still, not much he could do at this point, right? Whatever happened to him, at least it would happen away from this horrible wind – he just had to wait some more, that was all, so he sat down on the doorstep, huddling as close to the wall as he could, and waited.

And waited. And waited. He was feeling more than a few hunger cramps now, which made sense, considering he hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast, but he had no way of solving the problem, either; he got up and started walking in circles instead, for lack of anything better to do, and then finally resorted to hammering onto the door again, this time a lot more desperately than the first.

Another light came on from inside the house, a floor below the first. When the snail peeked out of the window once more, she appeared even more disgruntled than she’d had before. “What is it?” She grumbled, peering judgmentally down at him. “Be patient- I heard you the first time, you know.”

“Can you please hurry up? I’m cold, and I’m very hungry now. Please.”

“Always in such a hurry- I’m doing my best, child. No need to rush me, no.”

The blinders were pulled close, and Pinocchio was left alone with his thoughts again, though now he was starting to get irritated as well. Was she doing this on purpose? There was no way she was being this slow on her own, or that there was no other creature in the house that could come downstairs in her place. The dog Medoro, Jiminy, all the birds that would flit in and out carrying messages – surely, there had to be someone faster than this one around.

I should leave before she gets here, the boy thought mulishly, giving the door a frustrated kick. Make her come all the way downstairs for nothing. That’ll teach her.

But of course, he couldn’t do anything like that, could he? He was likely already in enough trouble as it was – disappearing again would only make it worse for him, that was pretty much a given. Besides, where could he go, if not here? Most of the boys in his class only talked to him when it was convenient, or when they wanted to make fun of him. Eugene was hurt, maybe dead, maybe even thinking it was Pinocchio’s fault that he’d gotten hit in the first place. And Lampwick...

Gods, it would have been so much better to have Lampwick around, at a time like this. Lampwick was older than Pinocchio, and probably smarter, too, even if he only showed up at school when they forced him to. He would have known what to do, right now, how to sneak into the house or where to find another dry spot to spend the night in – most of all, he would have kept Pinocchio company, which would have been the best thing of all. It was so lonely down there in the street, where it was mostly dark and sea water was still dripping from the puppet’s clothes.

Still, Lampwick wasn’t there. He probably wasn’t at home, either – he often made himself scarce when he could, meaning that Pinocchio would never be able to find him unless he got very, very lucky. Plus, Lampwick’s house was hardly safer than this one; his parents and older brother were always pushing him around, and the only nice family member he had, his baby sister, had gotten sick again recently, so she couldn’t really be of much company. Going there would have made everything even worse, for sure.

Another kick to the door, angrier this time, more focused. Pinocchio had gotten so loud that he was probably at risk of waking the whole neighborhood, by now, but he didn’t care much about it, in truth. He was angry, he was hungry, he was cold. He was worried sick for Eugene’s head, and for what the Fairy must have said about him, and for Lampwick’s little Renata, too, now that he’d thought about her and about how ill she might get in this weather. Hitting a slab of wood was not helpful at all, but it was better than hitting someone else, or himself. It helped him blow off some steam, and pass the time, and maybe there was even a small, nasty thought at the back of his head as he did so, saying that it would serve them all right, if he made a nuisance of himself. They should have let him in earlier, if they hadn’t wanted him to.

And yet, the door wouldn’t budge, and the snail maid wasn’t showing her face any longer, not even from a window. Nearly on the verge of tears again, Pinocchio kept kicking and kicking, to the point where it had become almost a mechanical motion for him – he was doing it so furiously and so mindlessly that he barely heard the deafening crack of the wood splitting, and he let out a startled yelp as he lost his balance, wobbling on a single leg.

His right foot had borne a hole through the door in its anger, wedging itself into the wood halfway up the shin. Pinocchio stared at it for a few second, stunned, then began attempting to pull it out, but to no avail; no matter how hard he tugged, or wrenched, or braced himself against the wall, his leg refused to move a single inch, firmly embedded where it was.

And still the door remained shut, and still he was left out on the street, with no one answering his calls for help.

Storybrooke, present day

Eugene came to knock at Pinocchio’s door early into the afternoon of Sunday.

Despite all the joking warnings of the night prior, Lampwick hadn’t showed up yet, which Pinocchio was grateful for, surprising even himself. His boyfriend and Eugene were constantly butting heads over petty matters even on good days, and this was not shaping up to be a good weekend – if there was a chance to avoid at least some bickering, then Pinocchio would gladly take it, thank you very much.

The two boys sat down on the outside step leading to the backdoor of the house, away from any curious ears save those of the local street cats, who had gotten so used to Lampwick sneakily feeding them that they had no qualms coming to rub against anyone’s knees, meowing plaintively. Pinocchio’s father hadn’t pried much yet, that had to be said, but he had been hovering over his son all morning, as though expecting the latter to crumble to dust any moment now – the mystery guy story had done the rounds enough times to gain some gruesome, unrealistic details, it seemed, and it was worrying Geppetto, that was plain to see.

Pinocchio could have easily disproved it all, of course, but he hadn’t exactly woken up in the mood for idle conversation, though he’d done his best to try and hide it. He’d had a terrible night, the kind of restless sleep he’d get in his childhood, where he’d wake up in heart-pounding panic every other day, except he couldn’t remember what he’d been dreaming of, at present; just that he’d shot up gasping for breath, clawing at his throat, already halfway out of the bed by the time he’d remembered where he was.

All in all, he was grateful that the day didn’t appear to be as bright as the previous one, since his tired eyes probably wouldn’t have taken it well; and even so, he still found himself shielding them from the sun as he peered at what his friend was balancing on his knees, squinting in discomfort. “Found anything?”

“Sort of.” Eugene leafed through the book he was holding, pulling out a few pieces of what looked like notepad paper. “I got Ava to drop me off at the library, after we left yesterday.”

Pinocchio blinked, stunned. “You went to the library on your own?”

The other boy shot him a flat, undecipherable glance, eyebrows raised. “It’s a public place,” he remarked evenly. “I don’t need anyone’s permission to enter.”

“No, but- I meant- Never mind. Sorry, it was a dumb question. Why the library, though?”

“I thought, if there’s someone who knows a lot of stuff and won’t rat me out when I leave, that must be Miss Belle, right? So I asked her, and she said there wasn’t anything in the library that could help me, but that one of her books might, so I went back this morning and she’d brought it over to show me.”

He passed the torn pages to Pinocchio, his movements slow and cautious. “It’s not really a translation, Miss Belle said- more like a transcription, since a lot of stuff couldn’t be translated in English, but she lent me the book so we can check again if we need to. But we’ve got to be careful with it, alright? She trusts me to bring it back just as it was before.”

“Of course.” The notes had clearly been taken by two different people, there was no mistaking it. Eugene’s neat, stiff handwriting was recognizable even at first glance, though there were additions here and there with a more rounded flair to them that had to be Belle’s; most of the paper was occupied by the transcribed words, stacked methodically in columns, but in a few cases the original scribbles had been copied down just below – probably the ones scrawled crookedly across the original pages, which must have required the most deciphering.

And yet, none of that made the texts in Pinocchio’s hands make more sense, really. They didn’t appear to be full sentences, but rather strings of words made of odd-looking syllables, often by twos or threes, more rarely a single, lengthy term on its own, like a dictionary entry in a foreign language. “Far-a-mach ceòb,” he spelled out, his tongue stumbling repeatedly on the unfamiliar sounds. Good thing Eugene didn’t know any better than him, right now, otherwise he would have been mocked for his uncertainty for decades. “Nodha òr-fhalt. Iontach liùgair- what is this stuff?”

“I told you, I have no clue. It could be random letters in a row for all that I know.” Eugene ran a distracted finger along the spine of the book, up and down, up and down, as though the motion were helping him concentrate better. “I mean, I’m not even sure what alphabet that is- this is a book about languages in a very specific area, so there’s quite a few of them. I doubt it’s like, Elvish, though. That would be stupid, and I don’t want to have to explain to my mom that we’re all in Middle Earth right now, so- Are you even listening to me?”

Pinocchio had been listening, at the beginning, he could have sworn on it. He’d registered Eugene’s first few sentences just fine, absentmindedly scanning the transcriptions without any order or logic – it would have been rude to do otherwise, and besides, Eugene was one of the smartest people in his friend group. He was the one to pay attention to when you needed to solve a problem, usually. Ignoring him tended to go to anyone’s detriment, as Pierrot had often proved them all.

But then he’d stumbled upon a phrase, low at the bottom of the second page, and his ears had tuned out everything else altogether, ringing and ringing like the world’s loudest and most sudden bout of tinnitus.

“Pinocchio?” That was Eugene again, less confused and more alarmed this time, nudging him sharply in the shoulder. “Is it...the usual stuff? Should I go get your dad?”

Pinocchio shook his head mechanically. It was the only part of his body that was still deigning to move, it seemed; his mouth was dry and cottony, and his fingers had gone stock still around the pages, so cold it was a wonder the sun wasn’t melting them into a puddle. It was more than shock, really – it was the mindless, panicked freezing of a deer caught under a pair of headlights, when the forest would have been much safer and only a couple of jumps away.

Finally, with a great effort, he managed to grit out, sounding distant even to himself: “This- I don’t think it’s just words. I think these are names. At least some of ‘em.”

“Names? And how would you know?”

In response, he simply lifted the incriminated piece of paper, the index of his free hand tapping at what he’d seen. He’d hoped he’d just mistaken it for something else, that he’d been distracted by the light or the conversation or his own exhaustion, but of course, that would have been too easy. Pinocchio wasn’t lucky like that, not ever. He had been an idiot for thinking he could get a damn break.

It had been foolish to hope he hadn’t just seen the words reul ghorm penned down on that page by Eugene’s clueless hand.

“Because I know this one.”

Chapter Text

“Pierrot, please sit down, you’re driving me insane,” Twinkle pleaded, her gaze following her best friend as he paced back and forth in front of her.

The dark-skinned boy didn’t seem to hear her, and instead continued his endless prowling through Pinocchio’s room in stiff, furious strides. “Unbelievable. Five years- five fucking years I’ve been out of that woman’s clutches, and she still pops up from every corner when we stop paying attention. Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah, well, try knowing her since the damn Enchanted Forest,” Lampwick sneered, though it was a low, unamused sound, and he seemed more preoccupied with laying all over Pinocchio’s back like a very boney cloak, besides. “Worse than the black plague, she was. You couldn’t take a step without a bloody fairy jumping out of a bush back then.”

In the hopes of finding some support in the middle of that madness, Twinkle turned to Eugene, but it was to no avail. The boy was apparently tuning out of most of the conversation, sitting on the floor with the translation book and copying Belle’s suggestions in a neater hand onto a notebook he’d snatched from Pinocchio’s crowded desk; to a clueless observer it would have looked like he didn’t care about anything that was being said around him, but Twinkle knew better than that. She could see the nervous signs in him as she’d seen them a thousand times before, the way he wouldn’t lift his eyes from the page even when addressed directly, the death grip he had on the pen – Eugene wasn’t disinterested, but overwhelmed, and likely grounding himself as well as he could without leaving the room, for once putting words and pages in order rather than sorting out a random bookshelf as he often did when he was in that state.

It was admirable, in a way; if Twinkle had to guess, she’d have said he was doing it because he didn’t want to leave Pinocchio alone, stubbornly sticking by his friend’s side even when Pierrot’s frenetic pacing had to be putting him on edge. It was a shame Pinocchio was too out of it to notice, really.

Well, of course Pinocchio was there with them. Physically, at least. The room was his, after all, and he’d been the one to ask them to come over, with a text in their group chat that had sounded curt enough to be unnerving; Twinkle had taken one look at it and sprang out of her room without a moment’s hesitation, and thank God that Igor wasn’t the kind of parent to object to impromptu changes of plans – he’d let her leave without any complaint, though she had caught him watching her go with a look of increasing concern, even as she’d been running past the window outside.

So, Pinocchio’s body was right there with them, yes, sitting on his bed with Lampwick draped over him like a weighted blanket. His mind, however...

Twinkle watched him as the other boys’ discussion went on, watched him carefully, chewing on a strand of blonde hair to keep herself calm. Pinocchio’s eyes were fixed on the ground before him, glassy and distant – he wasn’t actually seeing any of them at the moment, that much was certain. He never did, on days where he got stuck in his mind like this; he would always be numb and quiet and somewhere else, only pulled out of his stupor after the dark thoughts had broken out of his thick skull.

It had been easier to fix this kind of moods, when they’d been younger. They’d all known the drill. Pinocchio would be led to his father or to Dr. Hopper, or held tight until he felt a little less detached from reality, and that would work just fine, and then they’d be able to go back to their games. No one had ever faulted him for that, not once. Every single one of them had their own skeletons in the closet, and with each of them came a simple solution, to fix the symptoms if not the actual problem.

But they’d all grown a bit too much for that method to work, Twinkle feared. This didn’t look like the kind of funk that would go away with a simple hug, right now.

“This doesn’t have to mean anything,” she said, snapping her fingers forcefully enough to make Pierrot and Lampwick stop their blabbering and listen.

“Just because the Mother Superior’s name is on a stupid piece of paper, it doesn’t have to mean she’s involved with this stuff. She definitely doesn’t know we know, for one, otherwise she’d have already come look for us. She’s got wings, and she’s rude as hell. I doubt she’d have any problem showing up here uninvited.”

“Okay, if we were talking about someone else, I’d say you were right,” Pierrot replied gloomily. “But it’s us, Twinkle. You know our record. You’re telling me a random asshole showed up looking like moldy bread and just...gave us a coded message that just so happened to have the Mother Superior’s name on it? Scratch that- that he gave it to Pinocchio of all people? What are the chances?”

“I’m saying we can’t stress ourselves out until we know for sure what’s going on! How is it that I have to be the voice of reason here?”

“Well, Pinocchio’s out of commission, and so’s Eugene, and I don’t really want to be reasonable right now, so if you’ve got any better ideas, please, tell me. Help us, Twinkle, you’re our only ho, or something.”

“I can help, too, if you all stop yelling,” came Eugene’s subdued whisper, still directed mostly at the notes before him.

“I wasn’t yelling,” Pierrot retorted childishly, but he lowered his voice all the same, sagging like a deflating balloon in the meantime. Good. At least the worst of his panic seemed to have passed. He’d been as on edge as Pinocchio was to begin with, if not more, though as usually he’d put a more dramatic flair in showing it.

“But I’m losing my mind here, Gene. I don’t- I don’t know what to think anymore. I just want somebody to explain to me what the fuck is going on.”

That was something Twinkle could relate to, at least. The world at large might have thought they were overreacting, freaking out like that at the sight of two little words scribbled on scrap paper, but if there was one person in Storybrooke capable of making her friends lose her shit, that was the Blue Fairy – or, according to the paper itself, Reul Ghorm, a name that sounded as ominous as it looked made up. She was losing her shit just watching them lose theirs, honestly, as no doubt was Eugene, even if her way of coping with it was more of the “jumping headfirst into action” kind than his.

Point was, Twinkle wouldn’t have had any issue with the Mother Superior on her own. Sure, she’d gotten some unpleasant remark from the odd nun here and there when she’d been a little girl coming to play with Pierrot on convent grounds, but they hadn’t been any different from what a lot of people in town would say, that never-quiet-enough brand of whisper that inevitably followed the pretty kid with questionable parents who spent most of her time hanging out with boys. It had been nasty, but she would have survived, just as she’d survived worse than some veiled hags.

And yet, what was done to her friends was done to her, and Twinkle could see the results staring her in the face in that very moment. The whole business of being handed a note by a sickly man would have been creepy enough, but its contents had led them where they were now – with Pierrot lashing out in a frenzy, Pinocchio shrinking on himself like a shirt left in the wrong laundry load, and Lampwick curled around his boyfriend as though meaning to shield him from the whole universe at large, glaring daggers at the (albeit innocent) people in his proximity.

It was Lampwick who spoke next, a dangerous glint in his eyes that nevertheless didn’t frighten Twinkle in the slightest. It was an angry look, yes, but that anger wasn’t directed at her – it was a look that called for punching-kicking-breaking alright, but only for someone else’s sake, the same look he’d worn when he’d helped her slash the tires of her childhood creep. She felt safe under that look, and hopefully they’d both grown enough to pull some smarter vandalism stunts this time around, if the need were to arise. “We can still pretend we didn’t see shit. No one’s got to know. I can go to the docks and toss all that stuff in the water first thing tomorrow, and then we can forget this ever happen.”

“We can’t do that.” Pinocchio’s voice sounded as though it were coming from some tunnel deep underground, but Twinkle breathed a sigh of relief at the sound all the same. If he was speaking, it meant he was slowly coming back to his senses, even if his face was pale and washed out when he turned to Lampwick. “That wouldn’t be right.”

“Yes we can, doll. There’s like, four other people that already know, aside from present company? Five? And they have nothing on us. I don’t know why that fairy’d be involved in this bullshit, but wherever she goes, bad stuff happens, mostly to you or me or any of us. It’s like that lady from- from whatsitsname, Murder She Wrote.”

“It still wouldn’t be right.” Pinocchio ran a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. “Look, maybe Twinkle’s right. Maybe we’re just overthinking this, and there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation. It doesn’t have to mean anything, and I was stupid to freak out like that. And- and maybe we don’t even need to show it to the Mother Superior ourselves-“

“Damn right we aren’t- I’m not getting a foot closer to that woman unless it’s an emergency, and neither are you-“

“Pierrot, please.” Another shaky exhale, longer this time, more prolonged. “I’m just saying, Eugene said it the first time around. Emma trusts us. If we explain everything to her, she can be our buffer. Or something. I don’t know.”

Now, Twinkle liked being told she was right like any girl with sense, but her friend’s sudden resignation left an acrid taste on her mouth, even despite that. Of course she wanted him to be safe- of course she wanted all of them to be safe, that wasn’t the issue. She was a Scalawag. Scalawags didn’t sit by and idly watch their loved ones get hurt without doing anything.

But – and there lay the catch – she didn’t think passively accepting every dumb piece of news that got thrown at their head would be the safest course of action. Nevermind Pinocchio, who always looked like he wanted to puke whenever he caught a glimpse of the Blue Fairy; nevermind Pierrot, with the jagged wound on his hand that her father had had to patch because the boy had been too afraid to go to the nuns for it. Even excluding them, there were countless other kids who’d come out of that convent full of trouble up to their heads, Grace that smiled prettily and vacuously until she felt safe enough, Mignon setting out to destroy things whenever she got the chance to, and the former orphans Twinkle didn’t know so well too, like Ariadne, who’d had a boy put a baby in her belly and then disappear and still looked like she thought it was her fault, swollen stomach and all.

No, the way she saw it was – if the Mother Superior wasn’t involved at all, then they’d all get to first base safe, and Twinkle could go ask Dr. Hopper why exactly Pinocchio was still a wreck after ten fucking years; but if the Mother Superior was involved...well, going belly-up would only put them in more danger, unless they did like cats did, and waited for someone to scratch their tummy only to chew on the person’s hand. “Pinocchio.”

Damn it, but it was terribly hard to give him anymore unpleasant news, when he was fixing that blue-eyed, kicked-puppy gaze on her. “Yeah?”

“This is all well and good, but I think there’s someone else you need to tell, before the Sheriff.”

“What?” Pinocchio stared at her for a long moment, puzzled, but then his eyes widened in sudden realization. “Shit.”

“What are you talking about?” Eugene frowned at her, finally looking up from his studious work.

“I’m talking about Grace, dummy. You’re the one who thought to make a deal with her. We owe it to her to show her what we found out.”

Pierrot let out an annoyed, exaggeratedly pitiful whine, grating and yet endlessly reassuring for how normal it sounded at long last. “Do we really have to? I can handle the Mother Superior or Grace, cherie. I can’t do both.”

Twinkle was undeterred, mostly because she’d spent too long with those boys to let any of their senseless complaints get under her skin. “Well, you can’t skip out on Grace, so you should try and convince her that the Mother Superior is better handled from a distance while you’re at it. I know for a fact that Mignon has a Nerf gun- I bet she’d be more than happy to use it, honestly.”

“Twinkle-“

“Pierrot. It’s only fair. You know it is. Otherwise, I swear to God, I’m telling your mom you’re going back on your word to someone.”

It was a low blow, and Twinkle could see it immediately on her best friend’s face, but she was- she was tired, dammit. This feud had been draining her for years, and she didn’t want things to escalate just because they were all too keyed up to have a proper conversation. She was willing to go put a stink bomb under the Mother Superior’s bed herself before she allowed that to happen.

And Pinocchio agreed with her, it seemed. He stood up, brushing off both Lampwick’s arm and Lampwick’s protests, and said, evenly: “She’s right. I’m not going to lie to Grace about this thing, even if she doesn’t like me. That would just make things worse.”

“Thank you.” She reached out for his hand, and once he’d pulled her up from where she was sitting on the floor the girl pressed herself flush against his side, tugging Pierrot into the embrace as well. “Whatever this stuff means, we’ll figure it out, I promise. No fairy’s a match for me, remember.”

Pinocchio’s smile was small and wavery, but it was there, so Twinkle was counting that as a victory, herself. “I know.”

“Calm down, spitfire,” Pierrot scoffed, and yet he wrapped an arm around her shoulders all the same, seeking a closeness that she was more than happy to give him and that he seemingly needed, now more than ever.

“If anyone has to throw any punch, that’s going to be me. I won’t let you steal my thunder, mon coeur.”

Marco hadn’t been expecting any visitors, so late into the afternoon.

Granted, he hadn’t been expecting the visitors he already had, either, but he’d long since gotten used to those, honestly. Those kids would flit in and out of each other’s houses to their heart’s delight more often than not, and it was very hard to fault them for it – they were polite and never overstayed their welcome, and tended to be quite attentive to cleaning up after themselves for a bunch of teenagers. Model guests, all of them; Marco had barely taken notice of their presence for the past few hours, really.

He had, however, glimpsed a suspiciously packed bag slung over Pierrot’s shoulders as the boy had bounded over to Pinocchio’s room, which meant he’d likely beg to stay over for the night and get a ride to school on his step-brother’s scooter in the morning, but that was just the way things were, for a near-family split between two houses. They would have to make do for a while, until he and Leona finally managed to move in together.

Still, all of those kids were plenty old enough to get home by themselves by now, especially before dark, so the doorbell ringing again startled him more than a little bit, in truth. Of course, there was a chance of it being a parent come to pick up an unruly son or daughter anyway, but it was a very slight chance, Marco thought, even as he went to open the door to check for himself.

He shouldn’t have worried so much, though. On his doorstep he didn’t find Leona, Sylvester or Eugene’s ever elusive parents – what he found instead was Emma, wearing a nervous look and flanked by two strangers in oddly-fashioned clothes, a black man about her age and a much older, white one.

“Hi, Marco,” the Savior said, smiling thinly. “Sorry, I know it’s kind of late. Is it a bad time?”

He shook his head, though he hardly tried to hide his surprise. “No, not at all. Can I help you?”

“Actually, I wanted to speak with Pinocchio, if he’s home. My friends here need to ask him a couple questions about what happened yesterday at the beach. It’ll be quick, I promise. It’s just to clarify a few things.”

Of course. The stranger. For an event his son had quickly dismissed as something of little importance, it sure seemed to be causing a lot of involvement, and for a lot of people as well. “I see. Yes, he’s home- come in, come in, he’ll be here in a minute.” And then, raising his voice as he stepped aside to allow the three of them in: “Pinocchio! Come here, there’s someone who wants to see you!”

“Coming,” was the feeble, distant response, and only afterwards did Marco turn back to his guests, unable to keep himself from sizing them up a little, somewhat puzzled.

“Can I offer you anything? Coffee?”

“No, thank you. We’ll only be here a minute, hopefully.” Emma rubbed tiredly at her forehead, looking surprisingly worn out. “Oh, God, I haven’t even made any introductions yet- Marco, these are Sir Lancelot and Lord Bertilak. They are...visiting, from Camelot. Sers, this is Marco. Pinocchio is his son.”

The so-called Sir Lancelot inclined his head politely, a grave look on his round face, but the other man continued to stare wonderingly at their host, wide-eyed and all but gaping in marvel. “You’re Pinocchio’s father?” He asked, almost bizarrely reverential.

Of all the questions Marco had expected, this was definitely not one of them. “Well, yes, I am. Do you know him?”

That, at least, should have gotten him a simple answer; instead, he found himself watching Lord Bertilak bow deeply, an arm tucked behind his back and an entirely serious expression writ all over his features. “Then I’m honored to make your acquaintance,” he said heartily when he straightened up again. “I met your son when he came to our land, years ago, and he was a brave, clever lad then. You must be very proud of him.”

“Thank...thank you.” That was the sort of praise every father craved to hear about his son, obviously, but this was not the point in his life where he’d have expected to hear it in, at the entrance of his house from a man he’d never spoken to up until a minute before – a man from Camelot nonetheless, which his boy had only visited in passing and without warning. Marco was getting more confused by the second, honestly. “That’s very kind of you. It’s all news to me, I must admit. Pinocchio...He doesn’t talk much about his time in Camelot, you see.”

The lord visibly winced, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grimace for a brief moment. “I- I confess I do understand why he wouldn’t. However, this is not an exaggeration on my part. Young Pinocchio’s presence helped my family a great deal, back then. Ask Princess Emma, if you do not believe me.”

Emma made to open her mouth as if to confirm his version, or maybe to explain at long last why these fellows from a distant kingdom were in Storybrooke of all places, but before she was able to say anything they were interrupted by the sound of a door opening and of multiple pairs of feet coming their way, distracting them altogether – Pinocchio had finally emerged from his room, flanked by all of his friends like the head of a flock of birds.

“Hello?” He ventured, frowning – he was still as pale as he’d been the day before, which was starting to make Marco wonder whether he might be incubating some spring flu or the other, or worse, that he and the rest of them had been fighting with each other in some way. The man had heard them briefly raise their voices, throughout the afternoon, but now they were all showing that kind of unthinking clinginess that was so common in their group, Twinkle holding onto Lampwick’s skinny arm, Pierrot leaning casually against a disgruntled Eugene, so it must have been nothing, really. “Emma?”

The sheriff’s smile widened, if only by a smidge. “Hey, kid. How are you feeling?”

“Good, I guess? What- did you see that man again? Is he awake?”

“No, sorry. No news on that front. But I wanted to have a chat with you about that, actually. It’s good that you’ve got some company already- it will make things easier for us, since we won’t have to go knock at their doors as well.” She gestured to the two men behind her, her voice rising with forced levity. “Brought some friends along, too. Hope you don’t mind.”

Pinocchio stared at them all with his brows knitted together, clearly confused, then something abrupt flickered in his eyes and his expression slackened, leaving space to blatant shock. “Sir Lancelot?” He stammered, his gaze flitting between the two strangers. “Lord Bertilak?”

The older knight broke into a smile – a true smile, one that made his eyes crinkle deeply at the corners. “Hello, lad- by the gods, you have grown so much. You’re almost a man now.”

“Wait.” Lampwick stepped forward, hovering at Pinocchio’s shoulder like a very puzzled bird of prey. “Wait. I remember you. You’re the guy that cut off that King Arthur’s head, right?”

“What?” Marco blurted out, but he found his stunned voice being drowned by a chorus of younger ones, every kid seemingly sharing his consternation.

Twinkle, for one, was all but gaping, albeit looking more thrilled than horrified. “He did what? That’s sick!”

“Yeah, no, that’s making me sick,” Pierrot interjected, making a show of covering his eyes with one hand. “Like, fuck the monarchy, sure, but ew- no wait, Marco, don’t tell Mom I said that. She agrees with the monarchy part, but not the word choice.”

To be quite honest, Marco was more preoccupied with all the information he lacked than with tattling on his stepson to Leona, but before he could voice those concerns aloud Emma raised her arms, trying to disband all the ruckus at once by sheer force of will.

“Okay, okay, calm down, everybody,” she said, sternly. “Yes, Lampwick’s right, even if he could have chosen a better time to say that. Lord Bertilak did behead King Arthur years ago, but King Arthur wasn’t a hero- he was a very dangerous person, and he left behind a lot of trouble for us to fix. And Marco, I swear I’m going to run everything by you again, but you’ve got to believe me for a second, okay? I’d never bring someone who’s a threat to me, or you, or- or the kids to your house. You know that.”

He did know that, or at least, being reminded of it managed to soothe his outrage a bit, but he still disagreed strongly with the notion of anyone beheading anyone within earshot of his son, or his son’s boyfriend, for that matter; and yet, it was Pinocchio’s very reaction that gave Marco pause – or lack thereof, that was. The boy was still looking intently at Lord Bertilak, his head cocked to the side as it always was when he was trying to puzzle something out, his arms crossed tightly against his chest and his fingers digging into his sides; his gaze, too, was curiously distant, somewhat vacant despite all of his apparent focus.

It wasn’t exactly a reassuring sight for a father, and even more so for a father accustomed to what tended to come after his son’s more somber moods, all in all. “My boy, are you alright?”

“What?” Pinocchio startled, blinking as though he’d just been roused awake, then shook his head vigorously, his expression relaxing some. “Sorry, it- it’s been a weird weekend. But Emma’s right, Papa. They’re fine. They were good to us in Camelot, really.”

“Thanks for the vote of faith, kid.” Emma sighed, shaking her head. “I’m afraid I’m actually here to make it even weirder, sorry. Are you sure that beach guy didn’t give you any clue about who he was? Or what he was doing here?”

Something rippled across the group of teenagers, an unspoken tension that seemed to infect each of them in turn. It was Eugene who broke the silence first, addressing Emma with that piercing glare of his that tended to accompany him even when he was having fun. “Why? You said he didn’t wake up. What’s changed?”

“We think he might be involved in a plan of Lady Morgana,” Sir Lancelot said gravely, speaking up for the first time and catching them all off guard. “Do you remember her, boys? The sorceress?”

It was but the spur of a moment, a blink-and-you-miss-it kind of gesture, but as Marco was watching the children more than he was watching his unexpected visitors, he saw it unfold perfectly – he saw, for a second, Lampwick’s hand clench where earlier it had been laying leisurely against Pinocchio’s shirt, and he saw the boy briefly glance at in instinctive surprise, too, as if he hadn’t planned to move at all. “I guess?” He ventured when he looked back at Emma, raising an eyebrow. “Kinda rings a bell, I don’t know. Should we?”

“I think not, lad.” Lord Bertilak raised a reassuring hand, a hint of the smile from before dancing on his lips. “But we have gone to see this stranger, and we have not recognized him, so we thought that by asking you some questions, we might, ah- put two and two together, perhaps?”

“What he said,” Emma continued, waving a hand in the man’s direction. “Can we borrow your living room for a bit, Marco? Five minutes tops, I swear- unless any of you kids is in a hurry to get home?”

“Not if I’m lucky,” Pierrot replied all too loudly, as was his custom, amid a bunch of hesitant, stiff head shakes. “Please, Marco, can I stay for the night? Like, you can’t say no to me if you say yes to these folks, right? I swear I’ve got all my school stuff for tomorrow, and Mom said I could only if you were alright with it. Come on, please?”

Marco had resigned himself to that fate from the moment the boy had opened his mouth, honestly, and as such, he could do nothing but admit his defeat and nod along; and besides, he didn’t think he had it in himself to find a way to refuse, right now. Even as he urged Emma and the rest into the next room over, his eyes were glued on the back of Pinocchio’s head, dreading to see any more signs that something was wrong and yet waiting for it almost expectantly.

For his son’s sake, and every other kid’s, he hoped that they were all just very tired, or acting up for some inexplicable reason; but they’d been too tense, and all too quick to jump in front of each other and deflect the adults’ attention, as well, even for their standards. It reeked of something wrong, even for a man as pitifully unobservant as him.

For the first time in many, many years, Marco was starting to pray that he’d gotten Pinocchio’s mood all wrong, just this once.

Chapter Text

The Enchanted Forest, about 38 years ago

It was easier to make sense of stuff at night, sometimes.

Of course, Pinocchio wasn’t supposed to be up and thinking about things at night, but that was beside the point – it wasn’t like he was doing it on purpose, after all. He was trying to be good, promise. He went to bed when he was asked to and he ate all that was put on his plate and he never, ever left the house without permission, because any of that would only serve to get him in trouble. He was sure of it, now.

And still, when he couldn’t get himself to sleep, he really couldn’t help it, either. He’d close his eyes, pull his blankets up to his nose, and yet his head would refuse to shut up, going round and round in circles like a millstone, and it was loud, too. Louder than a group of trumpeters, it was, but not in a way that could be stopped by putting one’s hands over his ears, so there were nights were all Pinocchio could do was keep thinking and thinking, often until he was exhausted enough to doze off.

On other nights, though, he’d creep down the stairs to his father’s workshop, thanking the stars that his feet were now so quiet he wasn’t waking anyone up, and sit down onto one of the benches, Geppetto’s other creations keeping him company.

Well. To be honest, they weren’t much in the way of company – they couldn’t move, they couldn’t talk, and if the window had been left open, their wooden limbs would clack obnoxiously against one another in the breeze, reminding Pinocchio of himself when he’d first come to life – but it was better than being alone in his room for hours, at least. If he kept his voice low, he could talk to them, and say all the things he suspected his father or Jiminy didn’t really want to hear, and maybe when he was done he’d relaxed enough to be able to head back to bed for good, this time.

Every now and then he’d find himself poking at this doll’s feet or that wooden knight’s sword anyway, however, wishing they were alive too. He’d chase the thought away as soon as he realized – he’d been an exception, an oddity, and he’d put in lots of work to become real, which he didn’t want anyone else to have to do, in truth – and still it would come back, over and over again. His father was old, and he’d made Pinocchio because he’d never had a child in the first place; there would never be a space for siblings, in their family, but Pinocchio had seen how nice having siblings could be. He’d seen it with Lampwick and Renata, and with Eugene’s brother and sister, Fabian and Daria, and he’d wanted it. He’d wanted something like that for himself. He’d been so envious of their easy bond, and of the fact they’d always have company no matter what.

That wasn’t a good thought, either. He wasn’t supposed to be jealous of what other people had. It was wrong. He should have known better.

And besides, if the people he was having conversations with kept being wooden, all the better. It meant they’d never tell anyone his secrets, nor would they interrupt him, and Pinocchio needed to be able to speak uninterrupted, otherwise his thoughts would remain scrambled and foolish. He needed the time and space to put them all in order, line them up like toy soldiers pulled out of their box together.

His father and Jiminy didn’t often ask about what had happened to him, but it wasn’t hard to guess that they still wanted to know about it – they skirted around the worst parts the way you did with lose floorboards in the house, knowing they were there but trying very hard not to stumble on them, and Pinocchio wasn’t that stupid anymore, now. He’d have liked to answer all their questions, even those they weren’t saying aloud, but there were days where he could hardly make sense of what he remembered, honestly. There were gaps all over, and things he’d have sworn had been true but that the Blue Fairy hadn’t wanted to talk about, so maybe he’d gotten things mixed up again. He couldn’t be trusted with knowing right from wrong, not until recently, anyway. He was un-re-li-a-ble, that was the word.

Still, there was a difference between, say, what he remembered of the circus and of the Fire-Eater’s theater and his memories of the last couple days of his puppet life. Older stuff sometimes didn’t feel right, too vivid or too dim, too loud or too silent, so he knew for sure that he was missing some bits, but that made sense, at least. He’d been a whole other person, then. At some points he hadn’t even been a person – donkeys had eyes on the sides of their heads, so it stood to reason that some parts of Pleasure Island would make him nauseous, as if the place were still swallowing him whole, or that its colors looked a bit wrong in his nightmares. As for the puppet theater, the stage and the cage and the threat of a cooking fire, well...Pinocchio had been very new, back then. You couldn’t remember everything, when you were new. He supposed that trying to be accurate about anything from that moment would be as useful as asking baby Fabian to do multiplications.

The sea, though. That hadn’t happened that long ago. Pinocchio didn’t have any excuse for not remembering, really.

Except that he just couldn’t. He knew, somewhere in his heart, that that was the part Geppetto wanted to ask about, that gap between jumping off the raft and waking up a real boy, but Pinocchio didn’t have the words for most of it, he could swear it on his very new heart. He remembered the cold water slamming against him and filling his nose and mouth, the space around him growing darker and darker until he’d stopped seeing anything at all- and then a whole load of nothing, up until he’d come to with new skin that itched all over and sand clinging to his face.

His father said Pinocchio had died, in that sea, but Pinocchio didn’t know what it had felt like. He was still learning what real boys saw and did at all times, but he was willing to bet even they didn’t know what it meant to be dead – to him, for one, it had been like falling asleep, slowly at first, then abruptly snuffing out all the lights. Perhaps that was why he got so scared at night, sometimes, and still needed someone to stay in the room with him until he dozed off, like a small child; Jiminy would sit on his nightstand if he asked, and his father would hold him and tell him stories, but it couldn’t go on for much longer, really, if Pinocchio was supposed to grow up and be brave.

Perhaps that was why it felt easier to rest when he was down in the workshop, with his head growing heavy on the table among sawdust and bright paints, rather than alone in his bed where it still looked like he was plummeting into the waves, the blue and green of the water fading into pitch black.

Storybrooke, present day

Pierrot woke to a rustling that seemed to come from right under his ass.

Since he doubted that his lower back was capable of producing the same noise as a paper recycling plant, and he knew he hadn’t gone to sleep in the middle of a rats’ nest, he was left with no other choice than the one he dreaded the most – open his eyes and actually investigate, perhaps making sure to smack Pinocchio awake in the process. It was unpleasant enough to have one’s sleep interrupted; the least he could do was make sure his beloved brother was equally as annoyed as him.

However, when he finally managed to roll over to the other side of the bed, rubbing grumpily at his eyes, he was made acutely aware of the fact that Pinocchio wasn’t on said bed at all. That was odd: they’d dozed off squashed together on the same twin size mattress, like they’d done every so often as younger kids, clinging to each other like sweaty grapevines – they’d both needed it, after the sort of Sunday they’d had, and Pierrot was the only one of the group who had a conceivable excuse to spend the night without making Marco overtly suspicious. Lampwick was probably jealous as all hells that he wasn’t the one providing his boyfriend with the pressure he needed, but that was the privilege of being a brother, wasn’t it?

And besides, Lampwick might have had a shit life as well, but he didn’t need a reminder that he wasn’t being raised catholic anymore when he startled awake at night. He had Nova for that, the lucky bastard. Pierrot only had a handful of places that didn’t make him wake up in a panic, as did Pinocchio, provided he hadn’t already fallen off the bed in this instance.

But if Pinocchio had, indeed, fallen, he seemed to have made a speedy recovery, for when Pierrot peered over the edge of the bed he found the other boy halfway hidden underneath it, doing God knew what and being without a single shred of doubt the source of the rustling.

“Pinou?” He ventured, and immediately regretted it when he saw his brother’s lower half startle in surprise. “You alright down there?”

Pinocchio seemed to hesitate for a moment, then, slowly, he pushed himself out, looking up at Pierrot uncertainly – he was holding his phone in one hand, torchlight turned on, but even in the faint light it was clear he wasn’t exactly having a good time, his hair tussled and his stance too stiff. “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

“What the fuck are you doing, then? We’ve got to get up in, like, four hours, and you look like shit. You should sleep.”

The torch light trembled minutely as Pinocchio’s grip over the phone tightened, ever so slightly. “Sure. Go back to sleep, I’ll be there in a moment.”

Now, Pierrot didn’t particularly enjoy criticizing other people’s performances, but for the umpteenth time in his life, he was made painfully aware of what a horrible actor his brother would have made. “Pinou,” he whispered, his tone shifting into something softer, less you-woke-me-up-you-dumb-fuck and more we-can-go-have-a-snack-if-you’re-scared. “Can I turn on the light? Just the small one here, so your dad doesn’t notice.”

Another brief hesitation, then Pinocchio nodded haltingly, his guarded expression falling. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Thanks.” The lamp on the bedside table had a warmer glow to it, not as harsh as the light coming from a cellphone, and Pierrot was grateful for it as he clambered out of the bed and huddled on the floor beside the other boy, close enough to bump against his shoulder. He didn’t appreciate feeling as if he was in an operating room, all in all. “Now can you tell me what you’re really doing at this ridiculous hour?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” Pinocchio reached out under the bed again, pulling out what looked like a battered cardboard box with a clumsy movement. “I felt like I had to find something, and I couldn’t get it out of my head, but I didn’t want to wake you, too. Sorry about that.”

Pierrot looked at the box with a puzzled frown, gingerly pulling the flaps apart to peer inside. It was already open, but he couldn’t make sense of what was in it, aside from a bunch of random junk. “You’re fine. But...what’s all this stuff?”

His brother shrugged distractedly, starting to rummage through the discarded objects again. “Just stuff I wanted to keep safe. Old drawings. Things I brought from the convent. It wasn’t supposed to be a big secret, really, but...you know how it is.”

He did, in fact, know how it was. Privacy still felt like a novelty, sometimes, even after five-going-on-six years of freedom at his back. He would never begrudge Pinocchio the desire to keep things to himself for once.

He was also, however, terribly curious on principle, so all it took was a gesture of assent from his friend to feel free to pull something out as well – it turned out to be a bunch of torn pieces of paper stapled together, covered in scribbles and drawings made by someone who couldn’t have been older than seven or eight. “What the- is this a book? That’s so cool, Pinou, you were a goddamn genius- wait, why are there leaves inside?”

It was hard to be sure in the half-darkness, but some color seemed to have risen to Pinocchio’s cheek, which had been ghastly pale since the afternoon of Saturday. “It used to be a crown, it just  crumbled up a bit over time. Lampwick gave it to me when- never mind.”

Pierrot smirked, but he refrained from making any more jokes, even if it meant going against several years of bothersome instincts. There was a time and a place for prying, too, and the sheriff had already done enough on that front, earlier in the evening.

She hadn’t done much, to be fair. She’d just asked some questions, the same questions she’d already asked when she’d ambushed them all at the hospital, where Pierrot had been torn between worry for the whole situation and fascination for the way Olympia Dawoud had hovered nervously over Coppelia, as though it were her younger sibling standing vigil inside, and not Pierrot’s. The only thing the sheriff had added at the end of the story was some business about a little girl, somewhat related to the two weird guys looming at her back and looking a bit too hulking in the middle of Marco’s small but pristine living room.

Pierrot had lost track of the little girl part at some point, ashamed as he was to admit it, but in his defense, he’d been too busy keeping an eye over his friends by then. He wasn’t as good as Eugene was at remembering all the relevant little details in other people’s lives, but Eugene had been scowling his heart out at the sheriff during the entire conversation, propped up against the couch while he undoubtedly registered every word said like the world’s angriest tape recorder, and Pierrot was good enough, besides. He could manage a little bit of people watching. He people watched all the time on his own – it was how he worked out how to become someone else on stage, or how to pretend he was happy when deep inside he’d have liked to scream.

There hadn’t been a lot to see, this time around, but there had been...something. A good deal of hemming and awing, and a distinct lack of Mother Superior mentions, thank whatever deity they’d carried over from the Enchanted Forest. Pinocchio had done most of the talking, which shouldn’t have been surprising, really, but surprising it had been nevertheless – that wasn’t how things tended to go for them, most of the time. Pierrot tried to be the face man, usually, at least when there were adults around, and Twinkle could bare poisonous fangs like an extremely well-groomed wolf spider if she wanted, scaring off anyone who got too close, but that was about it. No more, no less.

And yet all of them had said little and less, for once, and Pinocchio had held court like the best of them, hesitant but not saying anything too compromising. It made sense, perhaps, considering the sheriff knew him better than she did the rest, save maybe Lampwick, and even those Camelot folks had sounded weirdly chummy when they’d talked to him – the old guy, at least, with his wiry beard and his deep voice. The other one hadn’t spoken much, save for going rigid like a lamppost when they’d mentioned the missing kid, his hand moving towards the sword at his hip in an aborted reflex.

None of them had liked that, to be honest. Not Lampwick, not Twinkle, and definitely not Pierrot. No doubt his mom would be outraged, too, once he told her – bringing a weapon in Marco’s house, unprompted! Not even leaving it at the entrance, as had been Misthaven custom! Oh, she would have a field day with those news, as sure as the night was dark.

Beside him, Pinocchio went stock still, pulling him back to reality. His hand plunged inside all of a sudden, then froze, with the startled jolt of someone who’d just gotten stung by a bee out of nowhere. “Wait, I think this might be it...”

Pierrot waited with bated breath, expecting to see something wondrous after all that ruckus, but he couldn’t help the disappointment that soured his tongue when his brother finally brought out what looked like a crumpled piece of green fabric. He leaned forward with his brows knitted together, trying to see whether there was a different object wrapped in it, but Pinocchio preceded him, unfurling it open altogether – it was little more than a soft strip of thin, almost translucent cloth, flimsy like the scarves his mom wore on fancy occasions but less than half their width.

It was a bit hard to understand what could make it so special, especially when Pinocchio held it up in front of the light; not only were there creases running unevenly throughout its entire surface, probably from being balled up in a box for heaven knew how long, but it seemed dirty, as well, a handful of smudges staining it a faded, rusty color near one of the ends.

“I don’t get it,” Pierrot said eventually, once it was clear that nothing else was going to come out of it. “This is the thing that kept you up so long? Mom’s got sewing cabbage plenty, if you need some, and it’s all clean. Where does this crap even come from?”

“I don’t know,” Pinocchio replied, his voice an almost inaudible whisper as he lowered the fabric down again, his gaze still glued to it. “I remember putting it back there when I got home from Camelot, but I don’t- Papa asked where I’d got it, and I couldn’t tell him. I didn’t remember, but it didn’t even feel important to remember, I guess.”

“Wait, Camelot? Like, that winter break where you met those guys the sheriff brought over Camelot? That Camelot?”

“Yeah. I know it sounds crazy, but there’s...something. I don’t know what it is. It’s on the tip of my tongue, and I can’t get it out for the life of me.”

He’d started fidgeting with the palm of his hand, now, even as he held on tight to the cloth all the while. It took a long moment for Pierrot to realize he was absentmindedly tracing over an old, faded scar slicing through his skin, an incessant back and forth with the pad of his thumb.

The gesture unnerved Pierrot a little, though he found himself unable to explain why. It wasn’t like scars could make him squeamish – almost all of them sported some, anyway, so he would have had to spend most of his life retching if that had been the case. Lampwick was crisscrossed all over like the doors to the boys’ toilets at school, for one, and Twinkle had the thin white traces of the common servant’s lashings on her shoulders, now pale and wrinkled after a decade of rest; even Mignon, who had never been too shy to change costumes in the crowded backstage of the youth theater, still had marks high up her thighs, old punishments from the troupe leader that had owned her as a child. Pierrot himself had had his hand sliced by a broken bottle at the playground, after which Igor Scalawag had patched him up, given him a candied date and checked that he’d received all his tetanus shots before sending him back to the convent.

As such, he was, theoretically, the last person in the world who could be made uneasy by an old, pinkish scab that hadn’t even hurt him in the first place; and yet, lo and behold, there he was, and Pinocchio’s prolonged quietness was starting to make it even worse. Pierrot was good at coming up with bullshit to fill silence with, usually, but tonight his improv skills were failing him spectacularly, every word dying in his throat. All he could do was watch, hypnotized despite himself.

He was watching, still, when Pinocchio’s fingers suddenly gripped the green fabric even tighter, pinning it against his injured palm. He watched as his brother slowly, methodically wrapped it around the offending hand, loop after loop until there wasn’t any more left, and then balled his fist over it, as though trying to make the material sink into his skin as the seconds ticked by.

He watched, ultimately, when Pinocchio looked up at long last, inhaling sharply, his eyes filling with startling clarity. “Fuck.”

“What?” Pierrot hurried to ask, feeling his stomach sinking inexplicably. He wasn’t any less lost than he’d been before, but he couldn’t deny the vague nausea now welling at the back of his throat. This doesn’t look good, no siree. Actually, this looks horrible. The hell is going on? “What is it? Are you hurt?”

“I think I remember,” Pinocchio said, and the tone of his voice had changed so abruptly it sent his brother rearing back in shock. He didn’t sound dubious anymore, or even sheepish at being caught red-handed in his silly little act; each word fell from his lips with a heavy, hollow sureness, as if they’d been pulled out of his mouth by force like a bad tooth.

He sounded overwhelmed, though nothing had seemingly changed in the room since five minutes prior. He sounded- dammit all- he sounded scared, and it was not a good thing to hear, at 2AM on a school night.

“I know what this is. I- fuck, Pierrot. I think I know what Emma was talking about last night.”

Chapter Text

Of all the people Lampwick had expected to find waiting for him outside the apartment complex, Pinocchio was definitely not one of them.

It wasn’t a bad surprise, obviously. He’d have had to be fucked in the head not to be happy to see Pinocchio. But still, it was a surprise, so Lampwick’s first instinct was to check his phone to see what day and time it was even as he approached his boyfriend, just to ensure he hadn’t lost his marbles for good. “Hey, doll. Ain’t you supposed to be in school at this hour?”

He was done with that torture, himself, and he thanked any passing deity every day for it, honestly. A waste of his time and resources, it had been – Lampwick would take the odd jobs Leroy kept finding for him at the docks over a single hour more of dumb literature analysis, even if said jobs sometimes meant going home with his hands reeking of fish and Nova half-mockingly chasing him into the shower. Pinocchio could be the brains for them both if he wanted, as he’d always done.

But now Pinocchio was leaning against his scooter with an unreadable expression on his face, his helmet in his hands and the spare one laying on the seat, and though he was still wearing the Storybrooke High uniform under his jacket, he was decidedly not in class, instead sticking out like a sore thumb on the empty sidewalk. He attempted a smile when Lampwick got nearer, but it trembled and fell immediately, which was arguably even more concerning. “I didn’t go. Pierrot wanted to skip, too, but it was too risky. He’ll try and cover for me as much as he can, though, tell people I’m sick or something.”

Pinocchio playing hooky and dragging others into trouble with him? Had the world gone upside down while Lampwick slept or something? “You sure you aren’t sick? That’s the kinda plan they’d rather expect from me, not you, Mr. Perfect Attendance.”

“I know. If they check with my father- I’ll cross that bridge when I get there, I guess. But I needed to see you.”

His hands were shaking as he put the helmet down next to its companion and went to rummage in his pocket, avoiding his boyfriend’s gaze as if it had been the plague. Lampwick felt the stab of worry dig even deeper into his chest, sharp and precise like a butcher’s knife, and he found himself reaching out to take Pinocchio by the wrist, gently but firmly, the way you did with scared dogs to keep them from running away.

“What’s going on, Pinoke?” He asked, his voice steady and careful. “Did you do something? Whatever it is, I’ll help you fix it, but I can’t if you don’t tell me what’s happening here.”

“I’m not sure I actually did anything,” Pinocchio replied with a shaky, nearly hysterical chuckle, and his other hand came out of the pocket clutched tightly around something Lampwick was struggling to identify.

“It’s just- you know those knights from Camelot Emma brought over last night? And how they kept asking if we remembered this thing or that, but we never remembered all of it?”

“Course I do.” It had been the darndest thing – every person or place the sheriff and her friends had mentioned in passing had tugged at the back of his brain, but distantly and only partially, as though talking about events happened in a different life. Lampwick remembered that King Arthur was dead, and that his wife had had a baby just before they left, and there had been this annoying ass of a lady called Morgana snooping around, but anything beyond that was foggy and shapeless, a mixture of faces and rooms all morphing together in a hazy blur.

It had been like trying to remember the names of his childhood teachers from the Enchanted Forest, honestly, except there was a curse and a few decades between him and that, not six years as a person perfectly sound of mind, so the confusion had felt weird as fuck, all in all. “What about ‘em?”

Pinocchio nodded to himself, though it hardly looked as if he was answering the question. “I was just as lost as you when they were talking, but- I think I figured it out. Part of it, at least.”

He opened his head to reveal the crumpled, flimsy green object inside. Lampwick frowned as he pinched it between two fingers and lifted it up against the light – it looked like a belt, or a scarf, thin and delicate and impractical, not to mentioned stained to hell and back. It brought a familiar twinge to his gut, just as that guy Bertilak’s bearded, terse face had done, but nothing more than that, really. “I remember this thing. You had it on you when we got back from that place. Why’d you keep it? ‘S not like it’s your style.”

“You’re right. It’s not mine. It belonged to Lady Ardena, and then Sir Gawain, before Lord Bertilak gave it to me.”

An image flashed before Lampwick’s eyes, blurred and flickering as though projected on a cheap TV set. He knew who Gawain was, at least vaguely, but that memory went beyond that – the man was looming before him in a shapeless room, and his hand was wrapped around the hilt of a knife, Roland, still chubby-cheeked and frightened, squished between his back and the wall. The picture came and went in a heartbeat, but the dread it was filled with lingered afterwards, like a chill hitting him straight in the chest. “Now wait a second here-“

But if Pinocchio had heard that plead, he didn’t give any sign of it. “He gave it to me at the chapel in the woods,” he continued undeterred, his blue eyes hard as steel. “Do you remember that, Lampwick? The green knight’s chapel, with all the green statues and- He had an axe, Lampwick. We thought he’d killed Gawain with it, but that was just my blood they used. You remember it, right? Please, tell me you remember too.”

“Doll, I have no clue what you’re talking about.” But already Lampwick was starting to doubt his own words, even if he had no way of explaining why and how. There were more scenes buzzing through his brain now, lightning-bright and just as quick to leave, but more than that it was Pinocchio’s voice that did him in, the way the younger boy almost seemed to beg to be believed, as if he wasn’t sure of what he was saying, either. He sounded so desperate it almost felt out of place, like there should have been someone armed just around the corner, waiting to slice through them with a sword, rather than the common, dull quietness that was Storybrooke on a school day.

Half the work was already done; as such, when Pinocchio pulled out of his grasp to take his face in his hands, the green fabric rubbing unpleasantly against Lampwick’s cheek, and brought their foreheads close together like he did every so often in much more pleasant situations, there was no way to keep the dam from breaking for good.

Suddenly, there was so much stuff in Lampwick’s head, he nearly felt like he was drowning. Yes, he remembered just fine, now; he remembered the cave-in that had swallowed them all, he remembered King Arthur’s cold, cold blue eyes, he remembered the sheriff stepping in and going neck to neck with the same guy to save their asses, accompanied by a handful of walking statues and a giant green figure that wore Sir Gawain’s face.

He remembered Pinocchio, mostly. Pinocchio pushing his best friend out of the chapel and then coming back with vacant eyes and a bleeding hand, Pinocchio talking in his sleep in a strangely luxurious bed, Pinocchio putting himself between a statue and Queen Guinevere because it was the right thing to do – there was a lot of Pinocchio taking up space, all in all.

Fuck, there was a lot of green in those memories, too.

“Shit.” Unbidden, Lampwick’s hands came up on their own to lay on Pinocchio’s again, almost as if checking whether the skin was as still ice-cold as it had been in that blasted castle in the middle of winter. “What the- where’s this coming from? Are you- did you start seeing things again, Pinoke? The colors, you- is stuff still going green? Or red?”

Pinocchio shook his head, though he didn’t move away an inch, his breath tepid on Lampwick’s cheeks. “Everything’s fine. It’s just- when Emma came over last night, I thought I was missing something, and then I found this thing and it all just...came back. I barely remembered who we’d met in Camelot, before yesterday.”

“Yeah, well, same here.” Lampwick inhaled deeply, if shakily, before he spoke again, trying to force his mind to calm down. Everything made sense now, and yet, at the same time, nothing did, and he didn’t like it, honestly. He didn’t like it one bit.

“So why did we forget, anyway? I mean, Roland never asked me about this kinda stuff, but the sheriff must know, right? Her, and the mayor, and Robin Hood, so how- how does this work, exactly? What the fuck’s going on here?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the chapel did something to us- I know it did something to me, so it’s not that stupid an idea. Maybe it was the mayor. But I- that’s not what I’m worried about, right now.”

It was hard to come up with something worse than an additional blast of amnesia they hadn’t even known about, but the universe had a way of surprising them both, usually, so they couldn’t exclude anything. “Then what?”

Pinocchio opened his mouth as if to answer, then it shut again with a click, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed thickly before making another attempt. He barely even looked desperate, now – terrified was a better word for it, in truth, albeit not a very pleasant one.

Oh, but Lampwick was going to track down that Bertilak and bury his own axe in his back, if it turned out he’d been to one to reduce Pinocchio to this state.

“You know what Emma said last night,” the boy reprised, a low, strained whisper. “Morgana took the little princess and sent the others here just when we found that man on the beach, so they think the two things might be connected. But the man- he gave us those papers, right? The ones with the Mother Superior’s name on them. So if they’re connected, it means both the Mother Superior and Lady Morgana have something to do with- with whatever is happening. And what’s the only thing those two, and the guy, have in common that we know of right now?”

It took Lampwick a shamefully long moment to understand where the conversation was heading, but when he did he could barely resist the urge to swear out loud instead of answering. “That...that’d be you.”

Pinocchio nodded, a thin, rueful, unamused smile spreading across his face, as if trying to make light of a situation that was looking more dire by the second. “Me. Just my luck, right? I don’t know why I’m even surprised.”

“Oh, hell no.” He’d regained his voice in full swing, finally, and he wasn’t afraid to use it as he saw fit, resentful and pissed and furious – he pried himself away from his boyfriend even before speaking, taking Pinocchio by the shoulders and keeping him still.

“Fuck that noise. I’m tired of this kind of stuff always happening to us. If those folks have issues, they’re gonna have to solve them on their own. You don’t have to get involved. You’re not getting involved, period.”

“But I am involved already, Lampwick.” Pinocchio didn’t try to escape his grasp, thankfully, but that wasn’t as much a relief as it should have been, in truth. Really, he already sounded defeated, even if nothing had actually happened just yet – nothing they could have immediately dubbed as shit luck, at least.

“Doesn’t matter what I do now, it’s going to look bad anyway. The stuff I did in Camelot- nobody would care if it had stayed in Camelot, but now Lord Bertilak is here and the first thing Emma did was come talk to me. That’s got to mean something, right? And those pages- if I show them to the Mother Superior now, she’ll be upset because I didn’t give them up straightaway, but if I don’t, it’ll look worse when it comes out anyway, ‘cause everyone’ll think I hid them on purpose. You know that’s how it’s going to go. It always does.”

He was starting to hyperventilate now, which somehow managed to make Lampwick feel even worse, honestly. “Whoa, alright there,” he replied, as reassuring as someone like him could muster, giving Pinocchio’s shoulders a squeeze that he hoped was more comforting than stressful. “Breathe, Pinoke. I’m still here. I swear, if either of those ladies tries to come for you again, I’m gonna snap their necks, I don’t care if they’ve got magic. I told you, I can help you fix this.”

“I don’t know if it’s something we can fix. I just- I wanted to see if you remembered too, or if I was just going crazy. And since it turns out this is real...I think I need your help. I’m sorry, I know you probably wanted to stay out of all this, but-“

“Shut up. Don’t even think about that, doll. What is it?”

Another deep breath, another hesitation. And then, those goddamned big, tired blue eyes again, the kind of look that used to get Lampwick into so much trouble, the kind of look Pinocchio had in Camelot after the chapel, as though no amount of sleep could ever make him feel actually well-rested.

“I need you to get in touch with Mignon. We may be involved, but since that man decided to come for us on a damn public beach, so is Grace, and I just know we’re both going to freak out, if I try to reach out to her on my own.”

The sound of knuckles rapping against her car window snapped Emma out of drowsiness, prompting her to straighten up abruptly.

Hell, was she that close to dozing off? Not a good sign, considering it wasn’t even noon yet and she still had plenty of work to do. She’d hoped some decent sleep could patch up at least some of the damage done by the knights-induced all-nighter, but it seemed she’d slept even worse than she’d thought – if anything, there had been a lot more staring at the ceiling than there had been any rest, from what she could remember.

Still, she couldn’t do much about it now, so she limited herself to rolling the window down, squinting against the morning light in an effort to make out Regina’s face. “Hi.”

The other woman scoffed half-heartedly, holding out a paper cup for her to take. “Is that what the town pays its sheriff for? Sleeping on the job?”

“I bet they’d like to know I’m not falling asleep while driving, Madam Mayor,” Emma muttered, taking a reinvigorating sip of coffee as her friend went around the car to claim the passenger seat. “Thanks, by the way. I was about to call you, but you beat me to it.”

“Well, I actually needed to talk to you, too, but you were looking pretty miserable when I found your car. I thought coffee would be a better first step.” Regina exhaled slowly, leaning back and cupping her own drink in both hands before continuing.  “How did your chat with the kids go?”

Not exactly a pleasant topic to start the conversation on, but needs must, it seemed. “Honestly, I’m not sure.”

“Now what the hell does that mean?”

“I don’t know.” Emma pulled a face, massaging the bridge of her nose as she tried to find the words for the thousands of thoughts swirling through her mind.

“It’s just...You know my superpower? The lie detector thing?”

The mayor snorted under her breath, shaking her head with a faint grin. “As if I could ever forget about that. What, did it go off as soon as Pinocchio opened his mouth? I thought he was done with that sort of thing, but I could be wrong.”

“He is. That’s the problem. He’s one of the nicest of the bunch, and when we were talking last night it didn’t ring any bells, but I- I kept thinking it should have. He was white as a sheet while he was speaking, and all of his friends were acting...weird, you know? Too defensive. If I’d had to go with my detective instincts alone I would have said they were all lying, but I felt nothing. No superpower, no alarms going off. Nothing.”

And hadn’t it troubled her, that gaping hole where her innate sixth sense should have been, helping her find out what in God’s name that gaggle of teenagers was thinking. Its lack of reaction had haunted her for the rest of the evening, all the way out of Pinocchio’s house and to her own, even as she’d had to reassure Marco that no, she hadn’t brought an axe murderer to his doorstep gratuitously, and yes, Sir Lancelot was actually a pretty pleasant man when no princess had gone missing under his care. Rather, the feeling had clung to her like a fishing hook embedded in her back, stinging and nagging and impossible to pull away.

She risked a glance to the side again. Regina’s lips were pursed in thought, now, her hands turning the coffee cup around over and over again. “Well, either they were just nervous about the whole thing, or your power is malfunctioning. Could it be? Is that something that can happen?”

“You’re the magical expert, you tell me.” Emma slumped in her seat, her brain running in circles again, now extra stimulated by the influx of caffeine. “But if that’s what happening, then I don’t like it, Regina. Between this and the locator spell not working...I don’t know, everything’s going upside down. It’s like Camelot all over again, and that’s not something I want to see again, especially if Morgana is behind all this too. Even her memory spell is working better than whatever we’re trying to find the princess – the boys remembered Bertilak, but not much beyond that, from what I saw.”

“Small mercies.” The mayor took another thoughtful sip, her brow furrowed. “But that’s why I was looking for you, actually. I made another attempt with that thing.”

“What, wiping their memories?”

“No, the locator spell. I thought that maybe I hadn’t brewed it properly, or that Camelot magic was running interference, I don’t know, so I tried a few variations. They’re less effective, usually, but it couldn’t hurt to have another go at it- and what do you know, I got some results.”

The sheriff felt intensely more awake all of a sudden, sitting up and staring wide-eyed at her, coffee all but forgotten. “What?”

“Relax, I didn’t find the girl. I’m not so cruel to keep Lancelot from her a minute longer than needed, these days. What I did get was...weird, though.”

“What do you mean?”

Regina made a vague gesture, waving her hand in the air as though tracing a wonky path. “I mean that that little hat thing took off just as it was supposed to, for a start. I had to follow it for a couple miles towards the woods before it plunked right back to the ground- like it did the first time, just in a different spot.”

Emma looked at her skeptically, her brows knitted together in confusion. “But that doesn’t make any sense. I mean, unless you did find something in the forest, but...”

“Nothing. Not a sign that the girl was ever there. Which doesn’t leave us with a lot of options, honestly, and I’m willing to bet you’re not going to like any of those.”

“Please don’t tell me you think the princess is dead. I’m not considering that unless we have proof.”

“No, I don’t.” Regina’s lips twitched into a humorless smile, barely concealing the tension lingering underneath. She might not have been Lancelot’s biggest fan, in the beginning, but Emma trusted her to do all that was needed to find Enid – Emma trusted her full stop, now, really. What she was about to say might be unpleasant, but there would be no subterfuge in it, no secret plot hiding between the lines.

“But right now I don’t see much else we can do. Either Morgana is making us run ourselves ragged trying to find Arthur’s kid, and in that case I don’t know what kind of magic could break through whatever spell she’s using yet, or the kid is here, and that woman just hid her in plain sight somehow.”

She shook her head, then, and when her gaze returned to Emma it had grown even more somber, a thin worry line running down her forehead. Even as she shrugged the discomfort didn’t seem to leave her, no matter how hard she tried to be nonchalant about it.

“That, or Princess Enid is slithering like a worm underneath Storybrooke, and my locator spells were right all along- not impossible, considering what used to be underground in this place, but I don’t want Lancelot to take my head off if I suggest it, so I guess I should exclude it straightaway before he hears of it.

“So. Now you’ve got your expert’s opinion. What are we doing, then, Savior? What’s our next move?”

Chapter Text

They found the two Camelot knights sitting at one of Granny’s tables, both wearing a stormy expression.

Emma’s phone rang nearly as soon as they’d stepped past the outside fence – the hospital, apparently, and therefore not a call that could be postponed, and which left the mayor to enter the diner alone and try to make sense of the scene before her. Lancelot’s tension was, well, slightly easier to puzzle out, but the reason for Bertilak’s only became clear when he spotted Regina and he rose to acknowledge their arrival, brow furrowed. “Your innkeeper is very helpful, but not when it’s needed,” he said, briefly bowing his head to the two women. “She would not agree to serve me ale, this morning.”

If Regina’s eyebrows had gone up any higher, they would have likely touched her hairline. “It’s not even noon. Why the hell would you need ale?”

“Well, to break my fast, of course! I do not understand her outrage- I asked for light ale, not red wine. What do you drink with your meals, in this land?”

“Coffee, mostly.” The mayor sat down with a heavy sigh, sliding over on the bench to leave some space for Emma, for when the latter would finally be able to come in.

“So. Any news?”

Lancelot shook his head, looking grimmer by the second. “Nothing. No one has seen her- no one as even noticed a lost child, with Enid’s looks or not. I don’t understand Morgana’s game- why lure us here, if she intends to keep the princess out of reach? What if it was all a trick, to rid Guinevere of our protection and attack Camelot while we’re stuck here?”

His fist was clenching and unclenching repeatedly as he spoke, as if he were trying to hold tight onto his patience. Bertilak, for his part, reached out to pat him on the shoulder, his voice taking on a reassuring note.

“Fear not, my friend. I am sure we will find a sense for everything, and you will take the girl back to her mother in no time. Besides, the ladies came to find us because they learned something new, did they not?”

The last question had sounded more like a heavy hint that he needed help – in fact, the older knight turned to direct it at Regina, who nodded reluctantly, mouth pressed into a displeased line. Learned was perhaps a little too optimistic as a choice of word, right now. “Kind of.”

She repeated her locator spell discoveries just as she’d described them to Emma, save for the caustic explanations she’d offered at the end, and by the time she was finished, it was as though the two men had swapped places and emotions, their expressions having changed drastically. Some, if not all, of Lancelot’s frustration had dissipated, and his shoulders slumped minutely as he let out a great poof of air, as if he’d been holding his breath for hours on end. “She is alive, then, at least. Thank the gods.”

Bertilak, however, looked a lot less relieved, a deep, thoughtful frown marring his face. “Aye, that she is,” he commented, darkly. “Still, I am not so certain that this is good news, my lady.”

The mayor blinked in shock, clearly taken aback by the reaction they’d gotten. “Why not?”

“You said that the spell pointed to a place where the girl was nowhere to be seen, am I correct?”

“Yes.” Regina made a brusque gesture towards the nearest window, where the rest of Storybrooke kept going on with their daily life, blissfully unaware of everyone else. “But that could mean anything. It could just be another mistake-“

“Nay, that is not what I fear.” The man sighed, roughly massaging the bridge of his nose – there was a hint of something different in his eyes now, a haunted, darkening look that for a split second made him appear even older than he actually was.

“You both spoke to Morgana, before you left Camelot. You must remember her talking about the place me and Gawain bid our time until she commanded us to act- you had a glimpse of it, and the boy, too. That was no mere hall I had to take him to.”

“You mean the chapel?”

“There was nothing holy about that hovel, lady Regina. We were- she called it a place in between, where the rules of our land hardly mattered. It wasn’t Camelot, but it wasn’t another world entirely, either. Something halfway through, like a crossroads.”

Regina felt her mouth go suddenly dry, as her brain finally deigned to connect the dots of what he was saying. “You think Morgana took the princess back there.”

That hadn’t been a question, either, not really, but Bertilak still shook his head gloomily in reply. “Not quite there, no, but...something of the same ilk, perhaps. An in between. Begging your pardon, but your magic has no jurisdiction, in a place like that. Never will. It would make sense for the princess to be near but not quite, and for your spell to never show us the right direction.”

He cleared his throat, as if he were getting choked up, and a picture flashed before Regina’s eyes, lightning-fast: the same man, slightly younger, maybe, but bigger and broader and greener, hiding the same amount of raw emotion behind his visor as he challenged King Arthur with a giant axe – she had never seen him like that, not in real life, but for some reason she could conjure up that image frighteningly well, at the moment.

“It taints you, that place,” the lord continued, hollowly. “It is like a sick house – it does not matter what you do, or where you go, you will always be infected and carry some of it out with you. I still dream of it, and so does Gawain, and we were men grown- I cannot fathom what it might do to a child, or what it might already have done.

“If Princess Enid is dwelling there, then Morgana might truly give her back sometime soon, but by the gods, I hope that sorceress wipes her memory, too, afterwards. I know many of you were worried about the children not remembering, but it was a blessing, especially if they- if that boy has seen even a glimpse of what I saw. I cannot fathom what it would do to his mind, if he did remember.”

Grace’s house was hidden so deep into the woods, Pinocchio kept doubting he’d been given the right address until he glimpsed it among the trees.

They had never seen it before, despite their countless forest escapades. His scooter didn’t struggle its way up the uneven path, exactly, but neither was it made for that kind of terrain – he couldn’t deny a twinge of relief when he could finally turn the key and let it rest, parked a little away from the front door.

Lampwick whistled in appreciation as he dismounted, eyes scanning the outside of the mansion. “Well, I’ll be stuffed,” he commented, taking off the spare helmet and tucking it under his arm. “This isn’t a house, it’s a whole condo. You sure we’re not about to find all of Wonderland hidden in there?”

“Only one way to find out,” Pinocchio replied tersely, and he headed towards the door before he could get cold feet about it, though each move felt stiff and forced, as though he were pushed from behind at every step.

Grace appeared after the very first knock, as if she’d been waiting around the corner for their arrival. On her face was an undecipherable, completely flat expression, and Mignon was peering over her shoulder, looking less annoyed if much, much more perplexed.

“You guys were quick,” Grace said, raising an eyebrow. “Most people get lost on the way here.”

“It’s not nice to leave ladies waiting, is it?” Lampwick countered, his grin tight and sharp and warning. “Does your dad know you two are having boys over, Gracie?”

“That’s none of your business. Besides, he’s not home right now, and I hope this thing won’t take long. No point in wasting his time.”

She stepped aside to let them in, ignoring Mignon’s blatant eyeroll, and Pinocchio set foot into that house with the curious sensation of being swallowed by a huge beast again, though this time without the reek of fish or a crucifix hanging above the door.

Lampwick had been right; it was enormous, by their standards, which were those of boys who had spent their early childhood poorer than dirt and who’d only seen better days because Storybrooke was a more charitable place than the Enchanted Forest, after a fashion. There seemed to be rooms opening up in every corner, and even the furniture had the refined air of something that had been used rarely, despite the people clearly living in the house itself – it was a common rumor that the queen’s curse had given all of this to Grace’s father on purpose to make him rich, and looking at the pristine wallpaper and gaudy decorations, it wasn’t all that hard to believe in such comments, really.

Their hostess made them sit down in the living room, like the world’s most miserable group of old ladies having a tea party, but despite her pretense of hurry she didn’t speak immediately, instead letting seconds tick by with her eyes narrowed and her mouth pressed together in a thin line. She looked as though she was going to wait forever for them to talk first, if they dared, but Mignon beat her to the punch with a huff, leaning lazily against the couch’s armrest. “So? What’s the big ordeal?”

Pinocchio glanced back at Lampwick, who shrugged noncommittally, which meant he had to find the words for that part alone – it made sense, of course, but knowing  that didn’t make the whole situation any more pleasant. “It’s about the stuff we got on the beach. I...Eugene cracked it. Some of it, at least.”

Something sudden and suspicious flashed in Grace’s eyes, and she straightened her back, crossing her arms tightly against her chest. “Let me guess,” she said, tartly, “it’s bad, isn’t it?”

The boy balked at the abrupt shift in tone, a jolt of irritation rushing through him. “I haven’t even said anything yet.”

“Yeah, but it must be bad if you came all the way here to tell us. If it hadn’t been anything, you could have just texted me, or something.”

“Sorry, it’s not like you ever gave me your number- why do you think we reached out through Mignon? To play a game of telephone for fun?”

“No, it’s ‘cause I’m awesome and everyone wants to talk to me,” Mignon interjected monotonously, the joke a jarring contrast with her wary expression. “But fine, spit it out. And Grace, for fuck’s sake, let him speak. You’re supposed to be the polite one between us two.”

Grace pulled a face, though she kept her mouth shut. For his part, Pinocchio was grateful for Mignon’s intervention, and yet his stomach was still twisting itself into painful knots, the nausea and taste of copper that had filled his mouth when he’d unearthed Lady Ardena’s scarf returning with a vengeance that almost made him puke on the Mad Hatter’s shiny floors.

Calm down, the voice in his brain, the one that had long since stopped sounding like Jiminy and now resembled Eugene to a shocking degree, told him, as he tried to breathe only through his nose. You just have to get through the next couple minutes. She’ll be pissed whatever you say- you don’t have to make her like you. It’s not gonna happen anyway.

“It looks like someone wrote a list of names on those pages,” he finally said aloud, once he was sure he’d swallowed down the thickness in his throat. “We- no one knows what language it is, or recognized any of the names, except...there was one I knew.”

“Which is?” Grace’s voice, albeit controlled, had an edge to it that was almost unbearable to hear, grating at his nerves.

Breathe. Breathe, idiot. “The Mother Superior. Her name was on that thing.”

The effect was immediate, even more so than it had been when Pinocchio had revealed the same information to his friends in his room. Mignon sat bolt upright, a muffled curse leaving her mouth, but Grace remained stock still, frozen in shock where she was, her eyes wide and stunned – her lips moved silently, forming words that nevertheless didn’t come out until her best friend broke the silence for her once again.

“Wait, what the hell does it mean? What are the fucking odds?”

“I was wondering the same thing,” Grace murmured, barely audible. She didn’t wait for an answer, or even to see if they were offering one – she seemed to shake herself out of her paralysis, and then stood up rigidly, beginning to pace around the room without meeting anyone’s gaze.

Lampwick snorted with no trace of amusement, his hand coming to lay on Pinocchio’s knee as a comforting, grounding weight. “Believe me, so did I,” he said, his eyes following the older girl as she went. “But- I don’t think you guys have anything to worry about, honest. Pinoke insisted you needed to know first thing, and Eugene made you all swear on his head or something, but whatever it is, no one’s gonna look at you twice.”

“Please tell me you ain’t joking,” Mignon replied, sounding out of breath. She was twitchy and jittery, now, her hands smoothing down the front of her oversized shirt over and over like a nervous tic. “Please tell me there’s something else and we can laugh at it, Roméo, ‘cause I’m this close to going to that convent and setting it on fire. Just, like, preemptively. Please.”

“Listen, I’d love to see that happenin’, but the thing is- the sheriff told us, something else is going on around town, and she thinks the two things might be related. Except it’s something that happened to the two of us ages ago, and it’s got nothing to do with fairies or orphans or shit like that, so if this stuff blows over, you lot are out of the line of fire. You’re not getting involved. We’re the ones wading in shit up to our knees.”

“I very much doubt it.”

Pinocchio’s head whipped around automatically, looking at Grace again. The girl still wasn’t even glancing at them, her arms still wrapped around her chest, her eyes seemingly fixated on the pattern on the walls, but now her expression had melted into something harder and angrier, as though she were trying to glare a hole through the wood and plaster.

“What?” He asked, even if he was already feeling something bubbling under his skin, dreading the kind of answer he knew he was about to get. “What are you doubting, Grace?”

“That you two are the only ones in the crosshairs here.” Finally, she turned her scowl in his direction, looking inches away from snarling at him like an animal even as she spoke. “You never are. That’s how it works, right?”

“Grace-“ Mignon began, warningly, but Lampwick held out a hand, stopping her before she could say more.

“No, wait, let’s hear this one.” He stood up, the thin, knife-like smile still dancing on his lips – it would have been clear to any observer as knowledgeable as Pinocchio was that he wasn’t trying to look particularly imposing, not on purpose, at least, but there wasn’t much you could do to avoid it when you’d grown past the six feet mark before the age of seventeen.

“I just told you you’ve got nothing to worry about. You’re literally the first person after me and, like, Pierrot that found out about this bullshit Pinocchio’s got going on. What’s crawled up your ass now, wonder girl?”

To her credit, Grace held his gaze steadily, even though she had to crane her head back to do so. “I don’t trust your judgement. Most importantly, I don’t trust his judgement, especially where that blue bitch is involved.”

“Now listen here, you-“

“Oh my God,” Mignon hissed, clambering up to stand between the two parties. “Grace, Häschen, we talked about this. Roméo, fucking hell, sit back down. I can’t believe I have to keep you both in check.”

Her friend shot her a burning look, her jaw clenched. “Whose side are you on?”

“I’ve been telling you for ages, this ain’t a baseball match, there’s no fucking sides-“

“Actually, for once I’ve got to agree with blondie here. I don’t know what sides we’ve got here, but if she keeps antagonizing me like that, she’s gonna end up on the wrong one real quick-“

“Roméo, you’re not helping-“

“He doesn’t want to help, Mignon, unless it’s to get in other people’s way. That’s all he’s good for, isn’t it-“

“Grace.”

The quarreling died out within seconds, all three heads turning towards the boy who had spoken last.  For his part, Pinocchio only realized he’d been the one to pronounce that name once it had already been said, loud but firm, and now it hung echoing in the air above them all, like a Damocles’ sword.

“Can we talk?” He continued, when the silence was finally complete, and then, after a beat: “Alone?”

If he’d been sensible, he could have looked to Lampwick for support, because he would have likely given it without question, or to Mignon, who astonishingly seemed the most coolheaded person in the room at the moment. Instead, his eyes remained fixed on the other girl, watching multiple expressions flash across her face as she wordlessly considered his question – surprise, disdain, anger, exhaustion, many and more he could barely name, all without saying a word.

Still, he could see Mignon stop in her tracks in his peripheral vision, as if seriously pondering it. “You sure about that?” She asked, sounding suspicious. “This isn’t a trick so I leave the room and you two can claw each other’s eyes out?”

“Yeah,” Lampwick followed her, looking back at him with a frown. “You sure about this, Pinoke?”

“Yes, I am. And no, it’s not a trick. I just think we’d be able to talk better if there were just two of us.”

Mignon seemed to weigh the response in her mind, then turned once again to Grace. “What d’you say, Häschen?”

There was no answer, only prolonged glaring, and then a curt nod. The German girl sighed, squaring her shoulders. “Right. Fuck me, I guess.”

She reached out to grab Lampwick by the arm, an action that would have had serious repercussions had it been made by anyone outside a very restricted group of people but that was met with little to no reaction, and used her free hand to point first at Pinocchio’s face, then at her best friend’s, her dark eyebrows determinedly furrowed.

“Fine. One-on-one time sounds great, actually- us folks, we’re gonna have a chat, and a smoke. A long one. But we’re gonna be just outside, you guys hear me? And when we come back I don’t wanna hear any more bitching. Sort it out quick, or I will.”

She waited until she’d received twin, if distracted, gestures of approval, then turned on her heel and started dragging Lampwick out- he put up some resistance, at first, mostly out of pure bewilderment, but Pinocchio broke out of his staring contest to nod at him in what he hoped was a reassuring fashion, and after that his boyfriend relaxed minutely and let himself be pulled out, albeit looking over his shoulder at every turn.

The door closed behind them with a dull thud. Once that had petered out, leaving only a thick, uncomfortable silence in its wake, Pinocchio dared glance at Grace again, waiting to see who would make the first move this time around.

It was baffling to see how little had changed, even after ten years of mutually enforced distance. Of course, they had seen each other after the curse had been broken, but it had been awkward, fleeting little moments, not the long hours they’d had to spend cooped up in the same convent with no other choice on hand – this was probably the first time in ages they occupied one room without immediately rushing out of it, and though it felt strange, the strangeness was less than one would have thought. They’d lost the baby fat and big, wondering eyes along the way, but in spirit they were still the same children that had lived along the whims of nuns. A little boy and a little girl. Giuseppe and Paige.

Or maybe not. Pinocchio couldn’t speak objectively of himself, that much he knew, but he remembered the other teen as a child even too well. Paige had been the orphanage’s darling, always on time, always well-behaved, always soft-spoken and polite and bright, even in the most maddening of days, when all the babies seemed to be screaming and someone, most likely him, had broken something of value. Picturing Grace in that situation felt almost ludicrous, a dangerous idea one should hardly think of suggesting, like handing Anakin Skywalker a lightsaber and setting him loose in a nursery.

Paige had been perfect, especially if compared to the likes of him or Pierrot. This girl looked like a fresh wound, oozing and ready to infect anyone that upset her – it made the nausea in Pinocchio’s gut rear its ugly head again, rolling and rolling at the pace of a washing machine drum, which was why all the diplomatic sentences he was trying to come up with died on the tip of his tongue, leaving him to blurt out: “Why do you keep acting like I’m out to get you on purpose?”

For a beat Grace seemed genuinely taken aback by the question, but her fire returned immediately after, made even worse if nothing else. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

“Yeah, I am. I- you’ve been pissed at the lot of us for ten years, Grace. We weren’t even friends before that. What did we do that still makes you so angry? What did I do?”

Seconds trickled by painfully slowly, then, to his great surprise, the girl burst out in a bitter laugh, covering her eyes with her hand for a brief moment. “Oh my God,” she said, in between snickers. “You don’t have a clue. Of course. That checks out.”

Pinocchio balked, an anger that he’d thought would stay buried deep enough flaring up in his chest, but before he could react Grace marched over to him and jabbed him in the ribs with a pointy finger, looming over him like a glaring bird of prey.

“It doesn’t matter what you do, or what you don’t do. There’s always something going on with you- you don’t get in trouble, you are trouble. Pierrot is trouble, that- that guy you just brought to my house is trouble, and I’m done getting infected by your crap. I couldn’t avoid it when we were in that hellhole together, but now I’m done. Find someone else to hurt while you’re fucking around.”

Pinocchio stood up. He hadn’t planned to do that – he hadn’t wanted to get into a fight, only to have a peaceful conversation, to sort things out before they escalated – but some old instinct had kicked his muscles into gear, reacting to Grace’s words by pulling him upright.

No. Not her words. Her voice. She could have simply recited her shopping list to him and he would have had the same reaction, for it was the resigned, spiteful vitriol in her tone that had hit him where it hurt the most – he’d heard the Mother Superior in Grace’s voice, even if the Mother Superior never shouted or swore, only spoke calmly and sweetly as she explained how many things you’d gotten wrong.

It was that picture his body had reacted to, because he couldn’t bear the thought of feeling that small again, not after such a long time.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He spat out, a distant part of his brain almost surprised at how uncharacteristically bitter he sounded. “You didn’t even- Jesus, you were one of the favorites all along. How could I ever get you involved in my- my trouble? You never even did anything wrong. Doesn’t matter what you did, you always did it perfectly.”

“And why do you think that happened?” Another derisive scoff, more choked up this time. “We couldn’t all be like you, making messes left and right. Someone had to behave. I had to keep well away from whatever it was that you did to make that fairy so mad. Do you think I wanted to be her- her perfect little princess? Uh?”

“Don’t act like it didn’t do you any favors-“

“Favors? Are you fucking daft or what?” Grace threw her hands up in the air, as if she couldn’t believe his supposed gall.

“What favors do you think I got? I had to be on point all the time. For all the guys like you that ruined stuff there were people like me who had to keep it together, because if I misstepped, that was worse, since I was her favorite. Favors? Please. Wake up, Giuseppe. We couldn’t all be pains in the arse like you were. That wouldn’t be realistic.”

“Stop making it sound like I planned to do that!”

“Well, if you didn’t, then you had a curse all of your own, because that was a real weird coincidence- everywhere you went she was getting mad at you, it’s hard to believe you didn’t notice-“

“And you think that was new?”

Pinocchio hadn’t planned to shout, either. That wasn’t him, usually – raising his voice beyond playful bickering was something he’d squashed down very early on, like swearing where an adult could hear him, or letting his grades go below a certain point again.

And still, the words had tumbled out of his mouth as though having a life of their own, so loud it had set his very ears ringing, and now he was left standing there, panting, watching Grace stare at him in ill-concealed shock. Worse yet, there was more of that stuff coming from inside him, lower and more reined in, but just as hard to keep from blurting out, if not more.

“That wasn’t something that started with the orphanage, Grace,” he insisted, balling his hands in the fabric of his shirt to try and stop them from shaking – he was starting to see red at the edge of his vision, probably because of his blood pumping so fast it pounded in his ears, like a raging bull ready to charge. “I was- She thinks I’ve been doing everything wrong since I was made. I’ve been trying to fix it for decades, and it’s. Not. Working.”

“I don’t need to hear your fucking excuses-“

He raised a hand to stop her, too caught up into his own rage to let himself be interrupted. “It’s not an excuse. Jesus, I wish it was an excuse. We’d both be a lot happier if you were right.”

“Then what is it? What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t know! I- You’re right, it’s built into me, or- or maybe the Mother Superior put it into me with her magic, but I didn’t have a choice about it, okay? I’m sorry if you think it hurt you too, or Mignon, or whoever it was that you were friends with in the convent, but I swear, I never wanted to hurt anyone. Never. The curse made us do things, and- and you were good at it, and I was terrible, but it didn’t start there. The Mother Superior’s still upset when I don’t do what she says, and I’m not even her responsibility anymore. I think she just enjoyed knowing I’d never-”

He finally managed to clamp his mouth shut against that rambling torrent, then, his eyes widening in horror. His brain had short-circuited halfway through the quarrel, refusing to acknowledge anything he was saying or doing, but now it had returned with a vengeance, stunned at the words still echoing impossibly loudly in his ears.

He was- there was a limit you weren’t supposed to go past, if you wanted to keep yourself safe. It wasn’t unlike the little, bizarre rules Eugene clung to every day for his peace of mind, except these weren’t orders Pinocchio had given himself, really. He’d just...assimilated them, over the years, all those flimsy invisible borders that nobody else saw but that he knew were there to prevent him from making the same mistakes over and over again -  do well in school but not too well or it could start another fight like the one on the beach, be friendly with adults but never presume too much from them, if you can’t sleep at night that’s your own mistakes biting back at you, and so on and so forth.

And above them all, the golden rule – you must tell the truth, but there are some truths you keep behind your teeth and never speak aloud ever, because you’ve probably made them up anyway, lying boy. Reckless boy. Ungrateful boy.

Pinocchio had gone- no, leaped way past that limit just now, and had barely stopped himself from saying something even more dangerous, like the idiot he was. Worse still, he had done it in front of the one person in his age group who would likely enjoy throwing him to the lions, given what she’d told him earlier. Maybe she’d use it to ingratiate herself to the Blue Fairy even further, to keep herself above water – he couldn’t blame her for that, if she did. That was just how things worked, where they’d been raised.

But Grace wasn’t laughing in his face anymore. In fact, she was completely silent, staring at him with her mouth half-open, as if she expected him to burst like a paper bomb in front of her very eyes. They remained like that for what felt like hours, glaring at each other, breathing raggedly with exertion, before the girl inhaled sharply and closed her eyes for a moment, as if to collect herself again.

“That thing your boyfriend said,” she said, so low the contrast with her previous yells was almost jarring. “About something else going on that only involves the two of you. What is it? What does it have to do with all of...this?”

Pinocchio faltered at the sudden shift in topic, but then took a deep breath of his own, feeling himself deflate minutely – not enough to chase away the panic over what he’d just said, but it was something, at least. He hadn’t liked the way that anger had filled him whole, like a carnival balloon with air blown into each of its limbs. It had been terrifying, even more so for himself than for his counterpart, he suspected.

“I’m not sure,” he replied, equally as quiet. “I just- Do you remember when we disappeared on a Christmas? Me and Lampwick and the mayor and Snow White and all those other people?”

“Of course. No one could talk about anything else. Figures, you were the main topic everywhere.”

“Yeah, well, when that happened- we ended up in another realm, and- and a lot of wacky things happened to us. Mostly to me, actually. Magic things. Some of the people we met in that place showed up in here because they’re in trouble, and I don’t know if it’s connected with this stuff about the Mother Superior, but if it’s a coincidence, it’s a big one- but again, it’s not about you. You don’t have anything to do with magic, except what your dad used to do ages ago. Do you believe me, now?”

“I don’t know yet,” Grace muttered, eyes still narrowed. “Why would you try to justify yourself like that, if you really think it’s got nothing to do with me?”

Despite everything, Pinocchio found himself raising both eyebrows in disbelief. “Because I knew you’d blame me for anything that happened? I mean, on principle. You just said that’s what you thought.”

“Damn right I did.” She let out a slow, exasperated sigh, pushing some strands of hair off her face and behind her ears with both hands. “Okay. Point taken. Say I believe you, and everything is just as you said it is. What now? Any plans, Giuseppe?”

I don’t know, Pinocchio wanted to shoot back at her, but the words got stuck along the way, clogging up his throat. He’d already said it too much, today, and it gnawed at him, after the way Grace had addressed him.

Giuseppe had been a stupid little kid, a kid who hadn’t known shit about anything that was going on with his life. He was supposed to have grown past that. He was supposed to have learned to be better than that. Why didn’t he have any answers? Not a single, blasted one?

Before he could conjure up another response, however, he heard the door slam open again behind his back – he turned around, feeling guiltily grateful for the interruption, and found Mignon and Lampwick stumbling back in, looking somewhat troubled.

Mignon quickly glanced from Pinocchio to her friend and back, her expression unreadable, as if trying to assess the situation. “Oh, so you’re both still alive,” she commented, sarcastic but a tad more relaxed, once Grace had given her another imperceptible nod. “Good. We got some news.”

Lampwick had his phone out, which didn’t bode well for the quality of said news, in Pinocchio’s experience. “What is it?”

“Sheriff called.” The older boy closed the distance between them and spared Grace a skeptical look, all too casually draping an arm across Pinocchio’s shoulders. “She said she’d been trying to reach you first- told her you were probably in class, but anyway, your phone’s dead again. Does it need a new battery? Or an exorcism?”

“Very funny. What did Emma say?”

“That our mystery guy is awake. She says they already grilled him and he had nothing to say, so you can go see him tomorrow, if you wanna. Maybe he’ll talk to you, the Sheriff said, since he told them he can’t even remember his name. So? D’you know what the visiting hours are?”

Pinocchio gaped at him for a moment, speechless, trying to take in the new information in something approaching a sensible fashion, but then, before he could think better of it, he whipped around once more, a sudden idea flashing across his brain. “You should come with me,” he said, meeting Grace’s gaze. “Hear what he has to say.”

In response, she simply stared at him, quizzical. “What? Me?”

“Yeah.” He couldn’t contain a brief spark of amusement seeing her taken aback by his proposal, but he squashed it down immediately after, mortified. They weren’t children anymore. He was supposed to be acting maturely, for fuck’s sake. “You don’t trust me? Ask him yourself. Ask him if something’s happening, some big, weird conspiracy, and maybe you’ll be satisfied. Maybe we’re just getting worked up over nothing, and you can go back to ignoring me.”

There was another long, quiet stretch as the girl seemed to ponder over that, lips pursed in thought. Then her expression hardened, a muscle in her jaw twitching as she threw her hands up exasperatedly and gave her answer.

“Fine. Let’s see what you’ve come up with, this time.”

Chapter Text

Storybrooke, the last months of the Dark Curse

Giuseppe’s very favorite prayer, during convent services, was definitely the Hail Mary.

It was a pretty boring thing to pick favorites about, he knew that, but it couldn’t be helped. They weren’t allowed to bring anything with them when they were herded down to the chapel, except their coats when the heating wasn’t working and Mr. Gold was dragging his feet to get it fixed, which meant that you had to get creative about how to keep yourself entertained until the congregation was finally dismissed.

Giuseppe was super creative, everyone said so, even if sometimes they didn’t say it like it was a good thing. He’d come up with lots of ideas about ways to distract himself without looking too distracted, when he was kneeling on the pew with his hands clasped in front of him – he counted the prayers left until the best ones came in, the ones about love and celebrations and not people suffering for their sins; he tried to see how long he could hold his breath through the Holy Father verses; he followed the wear and damage lines dug through the wooden benches, imagining they were rivers and canyons he could travel through on some fantastical journey.

But mostly, like now, he snuck glances around the room. Looking at the other children was funnier than most things, to be quite honest, even if it was always the same people he saw all the time, day and day out.

Giuseppe knew by now who he’d find sitting in the first rows, but it was worth checking anyway, Oscar who wanted to be first in line no matter what the event was, Emily sad and somber, Paige with the straight back and the dutifully closed eyes, her dark blonde hair falling forward so he couldn’t see her face from that angle. Funnier still were the other benches, where something was always happening; right now, for example, two benches back on the other side of the aisle, Mariane was defiantly chewing on a gum when the nuns weren’t looking – she stuck her tongue out at Giuseppe when she caught the boy staring, the sticky pink mess clinging to it and making Polly recoil in disgust from the seat next to her.

But then, of course, there were the decorations. There were mostly angels on the ceiling, and the Mother Superior said it was fitting for a house for children, but they looked all the same to said children, all chubby and blonde and rosy. No, the real attractions were the statues – maybe not Jesus on his cross up at the front, scary and bleeding all over, but the saints and their companions and their big flowing robes, painted in bright colors that hadn’t started fading away yet.

And in her special nook, almost at the entrance, Mother Mary and her baby. That, too, was Giuseppe’s favorite. Even when the priest made them close their eyes and go Hail Mary, full of grace, it was that statue that the boy pictured every time, with her kind smile and light blue veil – the other Mary, the special ones they kept in the sacristy, was dressed in gold instead, but Giuseppe liked the blue better. It was simpler, and made her look just like a regular lady. A regular mother.

He wondered, sometimes, if that was how his actual mother would have looked like, if she had kept him. Baby Jesus seemed very comfortable in Mary’s arms, but Giuseppe didn’t remember ever being held like that, except from Sister Astrid’s stories, where she liked talking about how tiny he’d been when he’d arrived at the convent, and how much he’d used to eat. He didn’t have any pictures of himself as a pudgy toddler, giggling or sad, nestled in his mother’s blue cape or not, and he kind of felt their absence when he looked at the statue sometimes.

But those were just flights of fancy, the Mother Superior called them. He shouldn’t be thinking about stuff that would never happen. Besides, he could feel himself being watched – he didn’t want to look around to check if it was true or if it was just his imagination, with all those painted eyes of saints glaring down at them, because then he would be spotted for sure. No point in risking it. He was stupid, but he wasn’t that stupid.

So he closed his eyes again and ducked his head, tuning back into the prayer as his mouth mechanically droned along with the other children’s.

Mother of God, pray for us sinners...

Storybrooke, present day

Grace almost wished Mignon had come along, when she visited the hospital.

She wished just about anyone had come along, in truth, but they hadn’t wanted to push their luck by bringing a whole crowd inside – a few of their friends had settled down to wait for them outside, and a couple more would likely get there before she and Pinocchio left the building, but once again, they hadn’t gone any further than the parking lot. Some part of Grace suggested with dry amusement that they ought to set up camp out there, given the frequency of their visits during the past week.

Still, that was only a small part. The rest of herself craved the company of someone aside for Pinocchio, who hadn’t said a single word to her as they’d walked through the white-tiled hallways, and her best friend fit the bill perfectly – Mignon wouldn’t have felt the need to wear the polite, good-girl mask Grace already felt chafing against her face. Mignon would have marched inside and demanded answers from this beach creep, and then probably offered him a cigarette to make him talk, ignoring every order the nurses might give her.

More than anything, though, Mignon would have likely laughed herself silly when Grace formulated her first thought after seeing the man in the flesh, which was he looks different than I remember.

In the other girl’s absence, however, she shook the thought away herself, realizing how stupid it must sound. Of course he looked different: he was cleaner and more conscious, sitting in an armchair against the wall, and the clothes he’d worn outside were nowhere to be seen, leaving him wrapped in a soft, anonymous hospital nightgown. Someone must have taken care of his dark hair, too, for it was no longer falling on his shoulders in a tangled mess, but instead well-groomed and combed back – it gave a distinctly better adjusted impression of him at first glance, all in all.

He'd been sitting in a slouch and staring out of the window when the two teenagers entered, but once he saw them he straightened up immediately, a broad grin spreading across his face. “Come in, come in,” he greeted them affably, gesturing at the restricted space of his room. “Welcome to my lodgings- I apologize for not having more chairs to offer you, but that good nurse said I ought not to go wandering around too much. Do feel free to sit on the bed, if you want to.”

Despite their disagreements, Grace and Pinocchio found themselves exchanging a confused glance, the same thought clearly crossing both of their minds. The guy sounded as confused as the sheriff had implied, alright, but they hadn’t expected him to be this detached from reality – he sounded like an old-times nobleman inviting guests into their parlor, honestly. “Do you...know who we are?” The boy asked, hesitantly.

The stranger let out a hearty guffaw, as if Pinocchio had just said the funniest thing on Earth. “Of course I do. You’re the young ones that came to my aid and took my message, how could I possibly forget your faces?”

He pressed a hand to his chest, then, inclining his head slightly. “I thank you most fervently for your help, but it seems I was amiss in introducing himself- forgive me, I was too preoccupied with other things. My name is Aireil, and I’m at your service.”

“Wait, what?” Grace leaned forward, frowning suspiciously at him. “The sheriff said you didn’t even remember your name. What’s this all about?”

“The sheriff?”

“Blonde lady with a badge? Probably wore leather? Came here yesterday?”

“Oh, her!” Aireil, if that really was his name, shrugged in response, looking a bit sheepish. “Yes, I do remember her. Unfortunately, I could not tell the full truth, at least not until I knew I could trust her with it.”

“That shouldn’t be possible,” Pinocchio whispered, clearly not meant to be heard by their flighty interlocutor. “Emma can tell when people aren’t telling the truth. It’s a whole thing.”

The girl pulled a face, unconvinced, but nodded imperceptibly all the same. This whole conversation sounded like a load of bullshit already – she wasn’t dismissing the eventuality of it being full of lies as well just yet. “And you trust us? Do you even know us, sir?”

“That I do not. However, I do know where you both come from- it’s writ all over you so clearly, it’s almost blinding.” He raised his arm in their direction. “Especially him.”

His fingers was pointed right at Pinocchio’s face, who returned the gesture with a blank, appalled look, his eyes flicking frantically between his companion and Aireil as if she knew any more than he did. For her part, Grace almost felt a stab of vindication – so this was it, then. This was the whole reason why she’d come all the way up here. To have proof that it was all his fault, that once again his own fuck-ups had somehow managed to damage her too.

Almost. No matter how much she’d have loved to pin guilt on Pinocchio for any and all things that had gone wrong in the last four days or so, she couldn’t bring herself to believe the look in his eyes was faked. It was too surprised, too genuine, too frightened – he had the same expression a deer caught in a pair of headlights might have, ready to bolt out of the hospital room and bound away to hide into the woods.

He hadn’t expected this outcome. Grace hated to be the one to acknowledge it, but he definitely hadn’t.

Therefore, against her every instinct, she shook her head and closed the distance between them and the bed, sitting down with a heavy sigh and reluctantly motioning for Pinocchio to do the same. “You better start from the beginning, I think. We don’t have the foggiest idea of what you’re talking about. Am I right?”

“You’re right,” Pinocchio echoed numbly, all but sinking onto the thin mattress next to her. “Yes. Please, sir. Explain.”

The man arched a dark eyebrow, looking earnestly surprised. “Do you truly not know?”

“Not...Not really, no. Should we?”

“That is concerning- but then again, perhaps not as shocking as I was led to believe. Forgive me, I took much for granted since my arrival.” He smoothed down the bundle of hospital gown and blanket covering his legs, as if it were the most pompous of suits, and then cleared his throat and spoke again, sounding almost wistful.

“You see, things are afoot in my kingdom, and there are many in this land that would take great interest in these events. I am but a humble messenger- I was tasked to alert anyone of importance before it was too late, but the journey was harder on me than I’d expected, it seems. It is not for the weak, traveling from there in such a fashion.”

“Is it?” Grace grumbled, not feeling particularly charitable towards this pitiful story. Wonderland blood she might have, but that didn’t mean she appreciated people speaking in riddles, especially when she was trying to have a sensible conversation. “Why? Which kingdom is that?”

“Well, the Kingdom Below, of course. It has many names, but that should be the one you’re most familiar with, here-“

“Nope. Never heard of that. Have you?”

The last question had been directed at Pinocchio, who shook his head, his expression quizzical. “No. Sorry. It’s a first for me, too.”

Aireil threw his hands up in the air, his exasperation carrying a dramatic flair that reminded Grace faintly of Pierrot – which did nothing to ingratiate him to her, honestly, not in her current state of mind. “How can it be?” He exclaimed, at a volume that no doubt would soon summon a pissed off nurse if he kept carrying on like that.

“You must be jesting. I speak of Elphame, children. Avalon. The domain of the fair folk, the fae and fairies and all their offspring. Surely, you of all people ought to know these names.”

It was a good thing, ultimately, that Grace had spent such a long time perfecting her pristine, impassable expression. The mask didn’t so much as crack when her brain finally registered what she’d just heard, politely frozen even if on the inside she wanted to scream and rage and punch those white walls that now seemed to be closing in around her, her ribcage tightening and cutting off her breath. Pinocchio, for one, was having trouble keeping those very same emotions off his face – wear his heart on his sleeve, he always had, even when it had irritated Grace to see him look about like a lost lamb, all childish confusion and deceivingly innocent blue eyes.

There was none of that, now. If anything, he looked like he wanted to retch his breakfast out, but she couldn’t play nursemaid right that second yet. She needed to be the mature one, once again, the one who reacted promptly and gave no sign of hesitation.

“I’m afraid we’ve never been there,” she said, and God, even her own voice made her skin crawl. She didn’t want to be the girl who handled the public relations right now, even if she was rolling on pure instinct at this point. She wanted to stand up and march out of the room. She wanted to punch this idiot for making them both recoil in fear again.

“What kind of business could they have with us here, anyway? I mean, this is a weird place, alright, but like...The fairies handle their own problems, usually.”

Except when they involve children in them, her mind amended, even if Grace refused to say it aloud. It wasn’t worth it. It was never worth it – people already knew, and they hardly did anything about it, so there was no point in repeating oneself, was it? Except when it’s Sister Bridget liking sherry more than kids. Except when it’s Sister Vanessa telling Mignon she’ll go to hell for her sins. Except when it’s the Mother Superior treating us like dogshit. Except except except-

“So they do,” Aireil replied with a regretful grimace, nodding his head and snapping her out of her spiral, “but this one is shaping up to be a complicated matter, I fear. However, hopefully it is none of your concern, and never will be again, once I’ve completed my task.”

“But you gave us this.” Grace’s heart skipped a beat, taken off guard by Pinocchio speaking up so abruptly – he sounded hoarse, almost, as if his voice were petering out like a candle, and when she turned to look at him he had gone pale as a sheet, his teeth grinding together as he held up the parchment pages that had caused them all so much grief.

“You- What are these? What do they have to do with anything? With us?”

“That is my message, child. Those are the names of the blessed ones I had to summon- I doubt I would be able to deliver the invitation to them all myself, but finding one should be enough, I wager. The word will travel fast, once some of the people involved know- and only them, aye? Them and those they choose to share the news with. It is not a matter for the powerless folk of this land- that is why I did not tell your sheriff anything about my mission, yesterday. I would apologize to her if I could, but I did not know if it was my place to say it.”

“Then why us? You didn’t have to- you could have just held onto them! We’re not any of those things you just said, are we?”

“But you are?” The man’s open gaze traveled between the two of them, only briefly lingering on Grace before settling steadily on Pinocchio – on any other occasion she would have taken offense at being dismissed like that, but at the moment she was too quietly horrified to care, truth be told.

“I told you, I could feel it radiating from the both of you the moment I laid eyes on your group- a couple of the others as well, but you two were closer, and thus it was much stronger. I knew you belonged to our kind, or at least, that our kind has touched you in meaningful ways- your friend here had a glimmer of it, sure, but you, boy, you are bursting with it. Do not lie- you must have some fair folk blood in you, or have been nurtured in its spirit at the very least. That is why I expected you to know my homeland, before.”

One could have heard a pin drop in the silence that followed. Even the chattering and bustling of the nurses in the hallway outside appeared to have dimmed down, Grace’s utter shock clogging her ears and muffling every noise that wasn’t that of her own frantic heartbeat, hammering away inside her – it was frankly unbearable, almost enough to make her want to thump on her chest and tell it to take it down a few notches, but even that was beyond her at the moment. She was frozen. Everyone was frozen, it seemed to her, as if her astonishment had been contagious.

Then Pinocchio stood up. He did it without warning, as suddenly as he’d taken the floor only minutes prior, and in a moment he was at the door again, opening it wordlessly and without meeting either of the other two’s gazes. Before Grace could so much as ask him where he thought he was going (and hell, had it gotten hard to force any sentence out of her mouth, over the past five minutes or so) the boy had left, disappearing among the hospital crowd.

“Is he unwell?” Aireil spoke up, briefly catching the girl’s attention again. He was frowning in clear puzzlement, now, his hands clasped tightly in his lap like a scolded child. “I thought...”

“Oh, fuck off.” Grace only realized she’d said it aloud once it was too late to take it back, but honestly, the twinge of peevish satisfaction she felt in return was enough for her to not want to take it back at all. Instead, she simply hopped off the bed and marched out without a second glance to the man as well, suddenly aware she needed to start hunting down her catch right now if she wanted this folly to end anytime soon.

I’m never going to find him if he started running, she found herself thinking moodily when looking around the corridor yielded no results, even if she knew it was ridiculous – no way the hospital staff would have let anyone just rush past them without a good cause, or without yelling at them to slow down. Of course, she doubted Pinocchio would have heeded their orders in his current state anyway, and if there was anything about him that Grace knew, much to her childhood chagrin, it was that he was fast. There had been no stopping him, when people had deigned to let him join their team during a game, which hadn’t been all that often, really.

They’d made him a runner when the Dark Curse had been broken, she remembered suddenly. The older kids had been hogging most of the windows, trying to guess what was happening outside, but the quick, excitable little ones had been sent all around the convent with messages, because the nuns had been too busy to either tell them to stop or share any news with their charges – Pinocchio had, in fact, been the one to inform her that her father had come to get her, barreling into the room she’d been sharing with Ariadne and making them both jump out of her skin.

She hadn’t even thanked him for that, Grace ruminated as she stomped down the hallway to check on the opposite side, determinately pushing the other, fresher convent-related thoughts brewing in her mind to a corner of the latter. In fact, she had barely acknowledged the information aside from rushing downstairs to find her father, tired and rumpled and real – but then again, why should she have acted any different? By then she’d already started putting those 28 years behind her, carefully shedding all the people and memories off herself like layers of clothes until she could pretend it had been another girl entirely in her place, tittering and smiling and pleasing a bunch of fairies. Pinocchio had been just an afterthought for her, as had been many, many other children like them.

That had been wishful thinking. Even now, nine going on ten years after the Savior had come to town, those people were haunting them all as if they had never stopped; Grace would never get far if she tried running away from them, and neither, it seemed, had Pinocchio – she found him just around the corner, his back pressed against a wall near a window and a hand clamped painfully tight over his mouth.

The girl hesitated, stopping in her tracks as she pondered on what to say. If it had been Coppelia, or Olympia, or even Twinkle, who was usually the one doing the reassuring, she would have known the right words, but there was nothing right about this situation. Dammit, they weren’t friends. They weren’t supposed to be trying to comfort each other, particularly when they were equally as fucked up by current events. That was what their actual friends were for.

Mercifully, though, he lifted his head before she could steady her resolve, taking a deep, stuttering breath and lowering his hand. His eyes were big and bright and vacant when he noticed her, but he held her gaze with surprising steadiness, swallowing thickly before speaking.

“You were right. I was an idiot.”

That hadn’t been what Grace had expected at all. “Wait, what?” She blurted out, completely taken aback. “I got my proof. You couldn’t have planned it this well if you had tried. What, do you want me to grovel? Shout it at the world?”

“No. No, you’re not- We’re not telling anyone.” Another heavy breath, inhale, exhale, slow but hardly calming.

“I mean, you can tell Mignon, and the others, and I’ll tell them too, but...If Emma asks you anything, this didn’t happen. The mayor, those people from Camelot I talked about- they don’t need to know. At most we say this- this man, he just remembered his name when we had a chat with him. Nothing else.”

“Listen, I don’t even know what actually happened, so I guess it’s none of their business either, but...Do you? Know what the hell all of that meant?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. But I don’t want anyone to explain it to me, okay? I don’t want to talk about it with people, because that’d make it too real, and I don’t- whatever that was, I don’t want it to be real. And I bet you don’t, either.”

She shook her head, mouth pressed into a grim line. That was true, at least. She didn’t. There had been too much talk of fairies, and summons, and sixth sense; this was beyond her realm of experience, in more ways than one. She was nineteen, and human, and normal. She wasn’t that dolled up, tense as a violin string child anymore – she refused to entertain the notion that those nuns had irrevocably tainted her somehow, making her stand out among the rest. Aireil must have been delirious. The gods knew she’d seen delirium before, with the family she had.

Pinocchio, for some reason, seemed somewhat relieved by her reaction. “Good,” he continued firmly – he was still clutching those lists of names in his fingers, and he tightened his hold on them as he watched, balling them up and roughly shoving them back in his pocket.

“I meant what I said. You can...You should pretend none of this has happened, too, if you want. I’m going to give this stuff to the Mother Superior, and if anything goes wrong, that’ll be on me. Then we can forget all about it and go on with our lives. I’m not dragging us that deep anymore.”

“You can’t be serious.” Grace glanced around, but none of the people nearby appeared to be interested in their conversation just yet, so she drew even closer, lowering her voice.

“She’ll chew you up like a dog bone. You know that’s how it’s going to go- you said it yourself yesterday, didn’t you? That woman has it out for you.”

To her shock, Pinocchio smiled, but there was nothing happy or relaxed about that smile. If anything, it was eerily similar to the kind of smile she would coax out sometimes, except less polished, less believable, letting the resignation and dismay shine through the cracks. “It just means I must be used to it by now, right? Don’t worry about it.”

“I’ll be the one to decide what to worry or not worry about, thank you very much.” The girl sighed, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. Every single nerve in her body was screaming at her to accept his offer, to fade out of the situation and go home and pretend she wasn’t involved, but spite had been a powerful motivator for her since forever, no matter what or who she directed it against. If Pinocchio said she should go, she’d stay, and make the Mother Superior look them straight in the eyes as she recounted their supposed mistakes. That was how Mignon would have reacted. That was how she ought to always react, if she had bothered to put down the Paige-face for a second.

And the thing was- the boy in front of her was shaking, a full-body tremor that prevented him from speaking without a slight stammer, and Grace had noticed because her hands were shaking, too. They still weren’t friends, and to be honest she wasn’t sure she actually liked Pinocchio at all, but anything that made two people panic in the same way at the same time was something those two people needed to fight together or not at all. Running away now would have been the cowardly choice, she was sure of it.

Grace wasn’t a coward. She wasn’t scared of her own shadow. So she reached out and grabbed Pinocchio by the wrist, forcing both of their hands to stop their quivering together, and stared at him straight in the eyes, a determined set to her jaw.

“Which means you can’t get rid of me that easily, Pinocchio. We’re already in too deep by now. I’m coming with, and we’ll get your friend the sheriff on board, too, so she can hold the Mother Superior accountable if she tries anything. That’s her whole job, right? She’s the Savior. She’s supposed to keep us safe.

“And who knows, maybe you can’t get that fairy to mellow down for a minute, but I can, you know? You did say I was her favorite- You can’t take it back anymore, even if neither of us liked it. Time to put it to use, I guess.”

Chapter Text

“So,” Emma began, leaning to sit against the edge of her desk, “what’s the matter? You two sounded in a rush when you called me. Why did you want both of us here?”

She crossed her arms against her chest as she spoke, too, pointedly unimpressed at the lack of response she was getting. It wasn’t the most comfortable position to take, honestly, but she’d avoided taking her usual chair for fear of making this conversation look even more like an interrogation – she would have sworn up and down that it wasn’t, if someone had asked, but she’d dealt with those kids for long enough they were terrifyingly easy to startle, like birds on a telephone line. They’d requested to have a chat with her, and a chat they’d have, as relaxed as Emma could make it; being anymore formal would have reminded her too much of being called up to the principal’s office in school, except in the opposite role, and this way she’d able to leave quickly if her phone rang again.

Besides, she’d felt compelled to give the chair to Blue, who didn’t look nearly as mellow as the sheriff was. The fairy was, in fact, sitting perfectly straight, her gaze calm but never leaving the two still silent teenagers in front of her – it brought to mind some comic books Emma had read as a teenager, bizarrely enough, the ones where the Professor X was using his telepathic powers on some villain or the other, even if she would have argued that there were no mutants in the room with her right now.

No mutants, perhaps, but plenty enough confusion on her part, that was for certain. Whatever it was that the kids had been begging to talk about, they sure were taking a long time spitting it out, and Pinocchio’s expression had already given her pause more than once: the boy was resolutely staring at his shoes, his face slack and distantly blank – he’d looked like that when Emma had caught him and Lampwick knee deep in some mischief, time and time again, but he’d never seemed so...so subdued, at least not within the confines of her office. One could argue that Camelot had been different, but she did not want to argue about Camelot anymore right now, thank you very much.

And he wasn’t even in the company of his usual friends. Emma hadn’t interacted much with Jefferson’s daughter, and she definitely had never seemed the kind of girl who’d orbit around that specific pack of oddballs, and yet there she was, quiet but placid, only the faintest worry line marring her features. Where Pinocchio appeared to be shrinking further in place by the second, Grace had hardly moved an inch since she’d sat down, answering any nicety with a smile that nevertheless failed to reach her eyes.

Hell, was Emma destined to never interact with a normal child once in her life? The whole Princess Enid business was already pretty heavy to bear – she fervently hoped no one else had gotten lost again, for the kids’ sakes as much as her own. She didn’t want any more damage on her watch. She most certainly didn’t want it to be a pattern, for goodness’ sake.

Finally, Pinocchio lifted his head, even if not enough to meet Blue’s eyes, and said: “We...haven’t been entirely honest, about that guy we rescued at the beach.”

And that was enough to gain the sheriff’s attention, really. What now? “Come again?”

The Mother Superior, too, seemed immediately more alert, but there was a sort of resignation to her instead, her frown faintly disapproving. “Really, Pinocchio?” She asked, sighing deeply. “I thought you were doing better.”

“I know.” The boy’s voice was small, almost inaudible – it would have made Emma even more concerned, if she hadn’t been flabbergasted already. These kids were supposed to be loud. She was used to them being loud. She didn’t know how to handle them, in a situation where she had to strain to hear their voices.

“I’m sorry. But...something happened, and I didn’t want anyone to worry until I was sure it was important. That’s why I waited.”

“It’s true,” Grace interjected, nodding along. By contrast, her own voice was steady and controlled – it sounded like she was trying to reassure the adults, and not the other way around. “We didn’t mean to hide anything from anybody. It was just a matter of sparing you all the trouble. We know everyone’s a bit busy right now. The sheriff came to Pinocchio’s house to explain, the other day.”

“Yeah, and I would have appreciated if you guys had told me everything back then, honestly.” Emma took a deep breath, then another, trying to steady herself. Calm down. It won’t help anyone if you snap at them.

“Never mind. Thanks for being so thoughtful, I guess. Would love to have a heads up next time, though.”

“Hopefully there won’t be a next time, Emma,” Blue remarked, with a lightness that sounded somewhat forced. “Now, what could you possibly have seen that might require both of our attention?”

Pinocchio hesitated, then brought his hands out, settling something onto the desktop before retreating back into his mistrustful huddle. The two women exchanged a glance, then leaned forward to examine what to Emma looked nothing more than a bunch of torn notepad pages, stained and crumpled to hell and back – she made to pick it up gingerly, but the Mother Superior snatched it away first, bringing them closer to her narrowed eyes.

The sheriff, therefore, was left with nothing better to do than turning back to the teens, eyebrows raised. “Okay, kid, what are we looking at?”

“I...We didn’t know what it was, either. That man put it in my hands before he passed out, but we couldn’t read what was written on it at first, not until Belle helped us decipher it.” Abruptly, he looked up, meeting her gaze almost pleadingly. “But don’t blame her, please. We didn’t tell her what it was for. She just wanted to be helpful.”

Oh, for Heaven’s sake. It was getting increasingly harder to be mad at these little fools, to be quite honest. “Don’t worry about that right now. It’s just- what the hell can you read now that made you come to us? How bad is it?”

“I just saw the Mother Superior’s name, that’s all. Her- her real name. We couldn’t recognize anything else, but I thought it could be more names, even if I don’t know whose names-“

“And it’s none of your business to know.”

To her shame, Emma very nearly jumped out of her skin when Blue spoke up again, suddenly and unexpectedly. When she glanced back, the fairy had lowered the pieces of parchment slightly, and above their edge her eyes were tense and displeased, glaring down at the other two with peculiar intensity.

“I am very disappointed in you, Pinocchio,” she continued, still as flat and reprimanding as she’d begun. She laid the pages back onto the desk, pressing a firm hand over them to keep them pinned down – or at least, she was probably trying to make it look firm, Emma noted. In truth, there was a nervousness to it that made the sheriff wonder, as if the Mother Superior were too jittery to properly hold still.

“You should have showed this to an adult the moment you received it. It could have been dangerous- it could still be dangerous, with the delay you gave it. That was foolish of you, keeping it secret until now. What were you thinking?”

If he hadn’t been sitting down, Pinocchio would have probably taken a step back towards the door. As it was, he’d just craned his head down again, his shoulders almost raised to his ears. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, swallowing haltingly. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

Grace was looking at him, now. Emma knew it was the most inconsequential thing to notice at such a time, but something in the girl’s gaze forcibly stopped her in her tracks, nearly mesmerized; Grace’s expression had shifted ever so slightly, revealing traces of surprise and bewilderment underneath – they were gone as quickly as they’d appeared, but something of them lingered in her eyes, and Emma had seen them, besides. There was stuff they weren’t saying yet, that was beyond any doubt.

Before she could pry any further, however, the girl slowly raised a hand in front of her companion as if to stop him and cut into the conversation herself, the previous steadiness still in place: “Not all of it was his fault, Mother Superior. We made a group decision. We talked about it and everything before we chose to hold onto it a little longer, I swear.”

The fairy smiled sadly, almost pityingly, like a spectator on a set of bleachers watching the players below have an incredibly poor performance. “Oh, Grace,” she said, a hint of indulgence in her voice. “I appreciate your kindness, but I know very well how convincing Pinocchio can be when he gets something in his head. Poor Dr. Hopper had his hands full with him, I fear.”

Her tone hardened again, then, as she picked the parchments back up and her face darkened in tandem. “Besides, if that decision involved some of the people you insist on associating yourselves with, I can see how it would be a poorly informed one. Those boys, and that girl Mignon...I do hope they don’t drag you in bigger troubles than this one, going forward.”

There was a twitch in Grace’s composure. It was a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it twinge, so faint the Mother Superior had likely not noticed the change at all – but Emma had, if only because she’d been studying the kids’ faces intently, searching them for any clue. Once again a shadow had passed over the girl’s eyes, a glimpse of something harsher, darker, like an animal peeking out from behind a bush, like Jefferson when he’d stop being warm and courteous and let the Mad Hatter shine beneath the surface.

But then Pinocchio raised his own arm and took the girl’s hand, squeezing it and pulling it down once more, and the moment passed, so fleeting it was nearly enough to make Emma dizzy. “That’s everything we know,” he said, louder if somewhat raucous. “I left the notes Belle gave us in there, so you can read them too. Can we go, now?”

“Not so fast,” the sheriff muttered, still reeling from that rollercoaster of mood changes. “Are you sure that’s all that happened on that beach, kid? He didn’t give you anything else with those pages? No clue?”

He nodded vigorously, even if he was pale to a sickening degree at this point, the bags under his eyes so dark they looked bruised. He didn’t appear to have slept well, recently; rather, it was a miracle he was still standing, if he was holding this kind of conversation while exhausted. Why, Emma had never seen him so tired, at least not since...

“Nothing,” he replied, cutting her train of thought short again. “That’s all he gave us, I swear.”

He was telling the truth, too. It wasn’t any more convincing than it had been that night at his father’s house, but at least that wide, dark gaping hole where Emma’s superpower should have taken the lead was gone, the verdict more straightforward than ever. He hadn’t received any more objects that belonged to the stranger, at the very least.

Therefore, she couldn’t help but nod, even if she had a hundred more questions to ask them both. Their stubborn invisible wall had gone up again, and she had no desire to bang her head against it, right now, nor did she have the time to tear it down brick by brick when she had new information to chew through. “Alright. Run along, you two. But if anything new happens, I want you to tell me, stat. Did I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” they replied in unison, already halfway out of their chairs, but before they could leave Blue spoke up again, stopping them in their tracks.

“And stay away from the forest,” she said, terse and warning. “That is not the place for you to be, these days.”

The pair stared back, clearly puzzled. “May I ask why, Mother Superior?” Grace ventured politely, her hand falling out of Pinocchio’s clutch.

“You may not, thank you. But I trust you’ll believe me when I say you’ve just given me reason to think it wouldn’t be safe for anyone, least of all someone prone to such...recklessness. Is that clear, Pinocchio?”

“Yes, Mother Superior,” the boy answered, quiet and expressionless. Then he stiffly turned on his heel and left, Grace following suit a step behind him.

Emma watched them go for a long moment before turning back to the fairy next to her, unable to keep the skeptic grimace off her face. “Don’t you think that was a bit harsh? They did a stupid thing, alright, but I’ve seen worse from supposed grown-ups. You have seen worse, too, I bet.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Emma,” Blue sighed, shaking her head. “This is...unexpected. Those children don’t know what damage they could have caused by keeping it a secret.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know, either. Care to explain what’s going on? To me, at least?”

It had come out more snappish than she’d intended it to, in truth, but her patience was running thin lately, and the urge had been stronger than her. Emma didn’t like being this snide, but she’d liked the kids’ funeral faces even less – maybe she was coddling them, as Regina had often insinuated in jest, but she’d rather coddle them and then have them come back when they needed help than scare anyone under the age of 21 out of her office. Her office, not the Mother Superior’s.

Said Mother Superior clearly balked at her hostile words, but she appeared to recover fairly quickly, gesturing towards their new clue until Emma had leant close enough to read. “Pinocchio was right about his supposition, at least. These are names, but...They are not names most people would know, I’m afraid.”

“Sorry, I’m not following you. Whose names are they, for a start?”

“Fairies. Magical beings. They- this is supposed to be a formal summon, using our true language. Our true names. I didn’t think one of these would ever reach us in Storybrooke, which is why I’m so worried about it. Something so urgent only rarely means good news for anyone.”

“A summon to where?” Emma asked, and then, as her brain finally caught up with her: “Wait, magical beings? Just, in general? What does that mean, exactly?”

“Nothing straightforward.” The nun sighed again, raising a hand to massage at her temple as though she were feeling the beginning of a budding headache.

“You’re used to fairies like me or my sisters, but not everyone of our kind is a fairy godmother. The ramifications are....complicated, and I don’t think you would understand, even if I tried to explain them to you. But all of us have roots in the same place, which is where this list comes from. You can think of it as an invitation, if you want, a way to call us back home.”

The invitation is open. The words echoed in Emma’s ears, her blood running cold all of a sudden. That had been the message Morgana had left in the princess’ chambers – they had treated it as a cruel joke, a mockery of the journey the knights would need to go through to retrieve little Enid, but now...

“Why?” She heard herself asking distantly, as if the words were coming from someone else’s mouth. “Who’s inviting you? And for what reason?”

Blue pressed her lips together in thought, her brow creased as she glared at the list once again. “It doesn’t say. But as I said, I doubt it’d be good news- there are some names in here I wouldn’t wish to ever meet again, if they’re even around at all anymore.”

“Do you know every one of them? Your...kind?”

“The important ones? Yes, I believe I do. Most of us are quite old- some even older than me, for what it’s worth. If their presence – our presence – is needed, I can’t imagine whoever sent these summons would only do it to waste their time.”

“Have you ever met a- a sorceress? Someone named Morgana?” Even as she spoke Emma was already dreading the answer she might get, though she knew it was her job to ask. The two notes overlapping- the times matching- she would have loved for it all to be a big, dumb coincidence, but coincidences never tended to happen in Storybrooke, not when her family and friends were involved.

“Not often, but yes.” The fairy looked up at her in puzzlement, her confusion clashing jarringly against the blow she’d just unknowingly dealt to Emma. “She’s well-known in our homeland, even if she’s used many names in her life. Morgan, Morgause, Morgante...Now that you mention her, I would have expected to find one of those on this list. She was a powerful enchantress, back in the day, but I couldn’t tell you what has become of her since theen.”

“I can.” Emma sank heavily into one of the chairs the kids had freed, giving up on her more carefree perch. This wasn’t the time to feel like a scolded schoolgirl – Grace had already filled up that position for the day, and besides, there were now more pressing matters brought to her attention, heavy, troublesome ones that the sheriff had hoped to have forgotten about six years prior.

God. For once, she could have used some of the slack she always cut Pinocchio and his friends. They tried to return the favor when they could, but that didn’t stop them from unsuspectingly threatening to be the death of her every other week or so.

“Actually, I can tell you exactly what this Morgana has been up to. Up until about a week ago, anyway.”

Pinocchio stepped out of the sheriff’s station with the curious feeling that he was floating a few inches above his own body.

It wasn’t dissociation, not exactly; at least, he didn’t think that was the right word. He was vaguely aware of where he was and what he’d been doing – he kept coming to his senses in jerky intervals, sound and sight and whatnot turning on and off as if hinging on a faulty connection. The only issue was that all of it was oddly fuzzy and distant, as though it were a double of himself maneuvering his arms and legs, moving him from one situation to the other with little recollection of what had happened in the meantime.

Detachedly, he almost regretted telling the others not to follow them at this meeting. Pinocchio still stood by it – that had been their own yarn ball to entangle, his and Grace’s, and their friends would hear about everything that had been said soon enough anyway – but now he wished Lampwick was here, or maybe Eugene, grabbing him by the arm and forcing him to sit down until his ears stopped ringing. He wished someone, no matter who, could patch up his lacking recollection of events – he was sure he and Grace had said something to each other, for one, and that he’d wandered off on his own only afterwards, but there was no picture of it in his mind. Between stopping on the entrance steps and finding himself walking in the opposite direction two blocks away was nothing but a big crater, clouded and unmanageable.

Mercifully, however, he didn’t seem to have lost more than a few minutes of lucidity by the time he finally came to in full. Next thing he knew he was ducking behind a bunch of greenery at the park, which wasn’t that far from the precinct; then he bent down, bracing himself against a nearby tree, and started retching, finally releasing what he’d struggled to keep down for a while.

He was only at it for a handful of minutes, but they felt like the longest minutes of his life. Afterwards, Pinocchio tried to straighten up, breathing raggedly and steadfastly refusing to look at what he’d just sprayed all over a patch of public grass – it had to be mostly bile, he knew, but he wasn’t particularly eager to do a thorough check. He was already aware that he’d been picking at his food for days now, and that he’d skipped breakfast entirely that morning, even if he’d known his father would immediately notice something was amiss. No need to be reminded of his failure to behave like he was doing well.

He hadn’t been able to help it, though. Nausea had been his constant companion day and night lately, when he’d gone to see Lampwick and then Grace and then the hospital, but never had it come to a head like it had just now. It was a miracle he hadn’t spewed onto his own shoes in front of Emma and the Blue Fairy, really; it had taken all of his willpower to avoid that result, and even something more to get to a secluded space. They ought to be proud of him, honestly.

Pinocchio wasn’t very proud of himself, but then again, it could have been worse. The fresh air was making him feel just a smidge more alive than he’d been inside, even if he still wasn’t doing well – the conversation with the two women had been near unbearable, and while he didn’t get sick often, and always made a speedy recovery even when he did, it tended to be brutal and persistent like that.

That must have been it. Sick. He was sick. Sure, it was a rarity for him, but not impossible - it had been quite a while since he’d caught some bug or the other, it was bound to happen at some point. Why, even as a puppet he’d-

No. He was not going to think about that. He didn’t want to start puking again – all he had to do was focus on his breathing, for lack of anything better to set his mind onto. Inhale. Exhale. There he was. Better already, and without making even more of a fool out of himself to boot.

A low bar to clear, for sure. He didn’t know what had gotten into him inside the station, but there had been this long, dizzying moment where the whole room had seemed to go blurry before his eyes, fuzzy, piercing colors like the screen of an old TV set, and he’d been sweating, and his skin had seemed to be burning and bursting with that awful anger again, itching at his back and neck and legs as though it were about to rip at the edges, so yes, this was still miles better than what he remembered. At least he felt loosely like himself, now, not a poorly stitched together scarecrow.

He had yet to find an explanation for what kept happening to him, sure, but that could wait. His friends would probably have a few ideas Pinocchio would never even have dreamt about. That was how things always went for him, right? He had issues, and someone smarter than him solved them before he became a real problem – sometimes after, too, as a few of their scars could testify. They were probably beyond sick of him by now, but until they shooed him away, he might as well listen to what they had to say. He just needed to get in touch with them before they got genuinely worried, was all. He could do that. He could.

If only he could stand upright without leaning his whole weight against this goddamn tree-

“Pinocchio? Are you alright?”

The boy’s head whipped up, even though the motion made it spin again, and then he found himself biting back a curse before he could speak it aloud. Great. He’d thought that maybe Lampwick or Pierrot might have found him somehow, defying all odds and logic, but this was infinitely worse.

Instead of any of his friends, it was Dr. Archie Hopper in the flesh looming over him, a concerned look on his face and Pongo tugging at the leash in his right hand. The dog was sniffing at the grass at their feet with great interest, which meant that his owner could hardly ignore what had happened there – Pinocchio’s former conscience glanced from Pinocchio himself to the discarded contents of his guts and back a couple times, and his expression grew steadily more troubled, even if he was still patiently waiting for a reaction.

“Hi, Jiminy.” Pinocchio wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, trying to coax out a tremulous grin. His voice was cracking and wobbly, as though he were about to burst in tears, but there was nothing he could do about it – maybe he could blame it on his parched throat, in case of need. “It’s fine, really. I think something didn’t agree with my stomach.”

Yeah, the Mother Superior, his brain chimed in tartly, but he shut it back down just as quickly. Now was not the time for being difficult. He had to give his best impression of someone at the peak of his health, otherwise he would never hear the end of it at all.

Still, the man didn’t appear particularly convinced. “You don’t exactly look fine to me,” he said, and then he held out a hand, palm upward, offering but not pressuring. “Come on. We’ll get you some water, and then I can walk you home. Has this been going on long? Have you been sick, lately?”

“Not really, no.” Pinocchio considered refusing for a split second, but a clogging exhaustion had blanketed him while he wasn’t paying attention, and all of a sudden he wanted nothing more than to lean on something warm and welcoming for a change, not just the rough bark of a public tree, so he nodded slowly and took Jiminy’s hand, leaning heavily against the latter’s arm.

The doctor led him to a nearby bench and bade him to sit there as he went to buy some water from one of the park vendors. The thought of leaving while he was distracted flashed briefly through Pinocchio’s mind, but that felt incredibly vile to him all of a sudden, and besides, Jiminy had left Pongo there with him, so there was no going anywhere guilt-free, right now. If the boy had left, the dog would have barked, or tried to go with him, and he looked so content with his snout on Pinocchio’s legs and his tail wagging cheerfully, Pinocchio didn’t have the heart to move him.

“Thanks, Pongo,” he muttered, scratching behind the dalmatian’s ears. Time had passed for Pongo, too – he had slowed down some, over the years, and there were some grey hairs on his head and coat, but he was still as comforting a presence as when Pinocchio had been a child, curling up on Jiminy’s office couch when the world outside had gone too loud and puzzling.

He would have done anything in his power to be that child again, at the moment. At least some things had deigned to make sense, back then.

Still, there was no turning back time, as Aqua often sang in Pierrot’s favorite playlist. When Jiminy returned, water bottle in hand, Pongo trotted back away to nose at his pant legs, and Pinocchio realized with sudden dread that there was no hiding behind a dog or anything like that anymore. He’d have to answer questions, and his options sounded less pleasant the longer he looked at them – either he told the truth, and enacted some of that cosmic curse that seemed to be hanging over his head, or he lied to his conscience’s face, causing guilt to wrap around his throat once again.

Mercifully, the doctor didn’t start prying right off the bat. Instead he simply screwed the bottle open and put it in the boy’s hands before sitting down next to him, lightly pressing the back of his fingers to Pinocchio’s forehead. “You don’t feel hot. That’s good, at least.”

“I told you, I’m fine. Maybe I just caught a chill or something.” Pinocchio tried to rinse out that awful acrid taste from his mouth with the first sip, swirling it around and spitting it over the side of the bench, then took a few greedy gulps before he hesitantly spoke again. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to- to see that.”

“Nonsense. Being unwell is nothing you should apologize for.”

You weren’t saying that the first time, that venomous voice spoke up again, and Pinocchio barely repressed a shudder, his stomach twisting in painful knots. Why did he keep thinking about that night today? What was wrong with him, for fuck’s sake?

If Jiminy had noticed the wavering, though, he made no mention of it. Rather, he only said: “Besides, it’s good that I found you when I did. I’d rather you’re not alone in this state, and I wanted to speak to you, anyway.”

That didn’t sound very reassuring. The last few days had proved his supposition right - people wanting to speak to him or his friends hardly ever had anything pleasant to say, usually. “Really? Why?”

“Well, you said you haven’t been ill lately, and I’d be happy to believe you. But then, why would the school call me on Monday, saying that Pierrot had been telling people you were at home sick and asking for confirmation?”

Pinocchio’s blood went ice cold. Of all the pessimistic scenarios he’d dared explore before calling Emma and the Mother Superior, this one had been so far from his mind he’d barely deigned to consider it – Monday felt like ages in the past already, despite only a couple days having passed by since then. He couldn’t believe it had come back to bite him at all, really, and in this moment in the first place.

“Please don’t be mad at him,” he heard himself blurt out, his mouth recovering from the panicked short-circuit before his brain ever could. “It’s not his fault. I asked him to do that.”

There was a brief twitch in his old conscience’s expression, as if he’d tensed up for a moment before conjuring out a  sad smile. “I’m not mad at anyone,” he said, cupping the side of Pinocchio’s head with his hand. “Not at you, and not at your brother. But I am worried- this is something you haven’t done in a long time, Pinocchio. You can see why it would surprise me.”

“I’m- It’s not going to happen again. I promise.”

“I know. I trust you. That’s why I’m worried, and why I haven’t told your father just yet- though I’m afraid he’s worried about you, too. I suspect the school called me because he was too busy to answer the phone, and I’m still one of your emergency contacts, but I wanted to hear from you before I talked to him. You’re old enough to explain your reasons, by now.”

The boy let out a shaky breath, feeling his shoulders sag minutely in relief. Good. At least Geppetto hadn’t learned about his son messing up once more – not yet, anyway. The thought of having disappointed the old man again was more than Pinocchio could realistically take, right now.

Still, that didn’t mean he was out of the woods at all. He must have wrapped his arms around himself at some point during the conversation, for now he could feel his fingers digging painfully into his sides, trying to keep ahold of himself – he clenched his fists tightly, hoping it would be of some use, but that didn’t stop him from fidgeting, or from trembling head to toe like a child caught in a blizzard.

At least things weren’t flurrying before him in fuzzy technicolor anymore, at present. He wasn’t sure he could stomach it for much longer. The Mother Superior had been such a vivid blue, even though she wasn’t dressed nearly as garishly as she’d been in the Enchanted Forest, and the man had said Pinocchio had her kind’s blood in him-

He barely repressed another bout of gagging. Nope. Not that. Not now.

“I just needed some time to think,” he mumbled finally, once he realized Jiminy was still waiting for his reaction. “It’s been a weird week. My head was somewhere else. I didn’t even have any quiz or anything I wanted to skip.”

The doctor nodded, humming along in assent. “Is this about what happened at the beach last Saturday? I heard some rumors, but it was hard to determine which ones were real and which were not.”

“Yeah. Kind of.” Pinocchio couldn’t blame him, really. It was near impossible to say what had been undoubtedly real since that damned beach, and the boy had been there – most of it seemed ridiculous, in hindsight, or too frightening to even contemplate. If he could have, he would have spent the rest of his life in denial, to be quite honest.

Except he couldn’t. He wasn’t so out of his mind yet that he might have such vivid hallucinations, even if he was heading in that direction at a pretty brisk step. He and Grace had rescued a stranger named Aireil, and the latter had returned the favor by telling them he had...what, sensed their connection to fairies just by looking at them? Yes, no wonder why it was hard to come to terms with it. It sounded stupid even just in the safety of his brain.

That’s because it is stupid, the Eugene-shaped voice at the back of his consciousness groused, mindless of the much taller, much more concrete conscience sitting right next to them. Grace’s dad is from another land. You were a log of wood. Neither of you came out of that lady’s belly, so the blood thing is moot. It’s basic biology, you know? Even Fabian would remember.

It was a good point. It would have been even better if Pinocchio hadn’t had the nagging sensation that he was making it all up on the fly to justify his own actions, really.

“And-“ He continued, voice barely above a whisper, “We- I talked to the Mother Superior. She’s upset with me.”

Jiminy went still at his side for a split second, but then he sighed, his thumb brushing a gentle, repetitive path across the boy’s cheek. “I see. Is there any particular reason?”

“I don’t know.” Despite every fiber of his being screaming at him to lean into the touch, Pinocchio found himself pulling away instead, setting down the bottle and burying his face into his hands. He wanted that comfort- he needed that comfort, honestly, but right now he didn’t feel like he deserved any of it. Stupid. Stupid fucking idiot.

Could he genuinely be mad at the Blue Fairy for mistrusting him, uh? He had kept something hidden, even if it had been for a good reason. He’d been reckless and selfish, just like he’d done for the previous four decades. Why, she’d had to intervene in his life so much she’d probably influenced him with her touch, and that was why Aireil had scented her on him, with whatever...superpower...sixth sense...bullshit trick he seemed to possess.

It was all Pinocchio’s fault. It always was. He’d brought trouble onto himself on his own, as he’d done every time since he’d come to life.

“Was I really a handful, Jiminy?”

That hadn’t been supposed to come out of his mouth, either. Pinocchio didn’t have the strength to look up, but he fancied he could hear the doctor shift in surprise and hesitate a bit before replying, as though he’d needed to gather his words. “Whatever do you mean?”

“The Blue Fairy said you had your hands full with me. It’s true, isn’t it? I ran you ragged all the time. You and Papa, too.”

There was a beat of silence, probably no longer than a couple seconds, but that seemed to stretch out indefinitely nevertheless. Then Jiminy sighed again and carefully placed a hand on Pinocchio’s back, heavy and grounding. “Yes, I suppose you weren’t an easy child to manage, back then.”

But then, with a hint of humor, before Pinocchio could take the words in and burrow even deeper into his misery: “But to be fair, so was your father. Most children aren’t easy, Pinocchio. That’s just part of growing up. Besides, I was only an old cricket, and my hands were very small. I suppose it wouldn’t have been that hard to fill them.”

Pinocchio felt his lips twitch in response, but where normally he would have laughed at the joke, if maybe a bit tensely, what fell out was instead: “But- Did you still love me, even when I was a bad person?”

It was a dumb question, he knew. Childish. Inappropriate. You didn’t go around asking your family if they loved you, especially not when they’d already been even too patient with the likes of you. He should have kept his mouth, he should have.

But it had been stronger than him, that need to know, and now that he’d voiced it aloud he was bursting with anticipation for the answer, even if he dreaded what it might be. He couldn’t demand it to be pleasant, after all. Looking pitiful and foolish was not a good reason for people to lie to him out of pure sympathy.

What he hadn’t expected was for his conscience to take his hands and pull them off of his face, firmly but not unkindly. “Pinocchio. Please, look at me.”

Pinocchio did so reluctantly, with the growing feeling that he was gradually losing control of his entire expression. For his part, Jiminy’s gaze was nothing but warm, almost unbearably so, holding the boy’s own with impressive steadiness.

“I don’t know what the Mother Superior told you,” he said, squeezing Pinocchio’s fingers gently, “but I don’t want to hear you call yourself a bad person ever again. I’ve seen you grow up, and all this time, you’ve done nothing except try your best, and yes, you might have gotten into a lot of trouble back in the day, but- you were a child. You can’t judge yourself so harshly.”

“But it doesn’t matter.” The boy sucked in a tight breath, trying to get his rapidly closing up throat to cooperate.

“All people remember is what I used to do when I was little. I’m- all everyone remembers is that I was dumb, and- and a liar, and that I wasn’t even real in the first place. Nobody cares about what I’m doing now.”

“The right people will. Your friends, your father, your brother, Leona- they trust you, Pinocchio. They love you. I love you. That hasn’t changed one bit since you were made. Everything else hardly matters.”

“But I don’t- I’m- I just wish I was normal.” There were tears running down Pinocchio’s face by now, but trying to wipe them off with the sleeve of his shirt only made a bigger mess, and he was choking up with sobs besides, so there was no point in trying to hide the fact that he was crying at all.

“There must be something wrong with me, Jiminy, because I can’t- I can’t do anything right, even when I try for real. That story Papa used to tell when I was a puppet, about the ugly duckling- I know he changed it to make me feel better, but he shouldn’t have. It was true the first time around- I’m not a stupid duckling, I’m just in the wrong place. I’m just different from everyone else. That’s the truth.”

It hurt, saying those words aloud. It felt like they’d clawed their way out of his lips with sharp nails, leaving a stinging trail behind themselves – and yet that didn’t make them any less sincere, not at all. He meant it. He meant it with his whole heart.

And the week’s events had proven him right, anyway, as had those gone by during his childhood. He was a freak. Normal kids didn’t get singled out by strangers speaking nonsense, nor did they get kidnapped for their stupidity and taken to weird chapels that made them see in monochrome. Normal kids were born properly, not carved out of a tree and sent running until they deserved to be human.

Normal kids didn’t let others get hurt because of their own mistakes nearly as much as Pinocchio had. Grace, Eugene, Lampwick, his father...they’d all suffered thanks to him, one way or the other. It was a wonder people still dared to stand close to him, honestly. Trouble radiated from him like a busted nuclear reactor, infecting everyone in the vicinity with its deadly waves.

For a split, terrifying second he believed Jiminy must have read his thoughts somehow, for the grip on his hands slackened, pulling away entirely. Then the man leaned forward and pulled Pinocchio into a hug, wrapping his arms tightly around the boy and allowing him to bury his face into the crook of a soft tweed-clothed shoulder.

“Oh, Pinocchio,” Jiminy murmured, stroking his head in familiar, soothing circles, “I promise you, that’s not true. There is nothing wrong with you, nothing, alright? The circumstances of how you came to life don’t matter- you’ve been nothing but brave and caring since we arrived here, and I’m proud of the person you’ve grown into. You should be, too. You’ve done more than anyone could have asked of you and then some, and if people can’t see it, then it’s their fault, not yours.”

That was still up for debate, as far as Pinocchio was concerned, but all of his debating skills had gone out of the window the moment the Blue Fairy had shown that Grace’s seemingly good influence would never be enough to protect him from his own poor decisions. Right now he was too exhausted to be coherent, and too desperate to be ashamed – all he wanted was to curl into a tight little ball and disappear, little enough that no one would notice or address him ever again.

So, for the time being, he let himself be held, sobbing in his conscience’s arms with Pongo whining on his lap and horrible green memories flashing behind his closed eyes.

Chapter Text

Leona was more than grateful for Nova’s invitation to coffee and a chat, because frankly, she needed both.

Something was off in her family, and by the gods, she was no closer to figuring out what it was than when she’d started prying. She and Marco had always stuck to their decision of waiting for their sons to open up autonomously rather than suffocating them with questions, but it was getting increasingly hard to keep that promise; both boys were restless and in a cagey mood, and the previous night Archie had apparently brought Pinocchio home with the sunken, drained look of someone who’d just had all their energy sucked out of themselves – Leona hadn’t had the chance to talk about it in private with her partner yet, but it wasn’t looking good. Far from it, in fact.

Still, right now she was positive her children were safe and comfortable, at least. Marco was working, but the boys were currently at her house, ostensibly helping each other with schoolwork – of course, the last Leona had seen of them they’d been napping together on the couch, but they’d looked so peaceful for once, she hadn’t had the heart to wake them up. Sure, when she’d kissed them goodbye before leaving Pierrot had briefly opened his eyes, but it had been short-lived, and he’d immediately snuggled against his brother’s back again, throwing a protective arm over Pinocchio’s slumbering form.

The sight had made her heart clench. She had no clue what was troubling them so much, or making them this tired, but she was determined to figure it out before it got worse. Barehanded, if she must.

If she’d expected her mood to be lifted once she met her usually more bubbly friend, however, she’d been sorely mistaken. When Leona entered Granny’s, she noted with surprise that the younger woman’s expression was pinched and forcedly cheerful, and so was that of the man on the other side of the table, tearing a paper napkin to shreds with his eyebrows knitted together.

“Igor, dear, I didn’t think you’d be joining us,” Leona commented with a faint smile, as he got out of the booth with the usual gallantry and allowed her to take the seat closer to the window in his place. “What brings you here?”

“If my presence offends you, I can leave,” he muttered, his lips quirking upwards to mark the lightness of his words. “ But it is impolite to say so, when you are the last to arrive.”

“I hope you don’t mind if we’ve already ordered, Leona,” Nova chimed in, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand briefly. “I’m sorry, I forgot all about your coffee order, but Igor remembered it just fine.”

“Of course he did. Thank you, it’s no problem, really.” Leona sighed, setting her bag down onto her lap and finally looking with more attention to her friends’ faces.

“Now, what is it that you wanted to talk about? Is something the matter?”

The other two exchanged a brief glance, as if playing tug-o-war about who was supposed to speak first, but then it was Nova who opened her mouth again, sounding somewhat hesitant. “Do you...know if there is something wrong with the kids?”

Igor scoffed, crossing his arms against his chest. “The question is not if. The question is- what is wrong with the kids?”

Leona’s eyebrows rose, not even attempting to hide her surprise. “So you’ve noticed that too? I thought I was going crazy.”

“It is pretty hard to not notice. Twinkle is not worried about us hearing what she tells her friends, usually, but she is worried all the time now, and she whispers when she talks on the phone. That is not a good sign for me.”

“And Lampwick has his head somewhere else lately,” the former fairy added, nodding along. “I mean, more than usual, I know he’s all Leroy on that front, but- I’m concerned, you know? And when he’s upset, Pinocchio is always involved somehow, or the other way around. I just wanted to check with you if these were coincidences, or if you knew something that we don’t.”

“Actually, you just confirmed my worst fear.” A young woman in the diner’s apron appeared with their drinks, so Leona waited until she’d walked away to continue speaking, nursing her coffee cup in her hands with a deep sigh.

“You’re not wrong. Something’s eating at them alright. But- I don’t know what it is, I’m sorry. I wish I knew, though- you don’t think it’s something normal like school, do you?”

Igor shook his head, his face grim and marred by deep worry lines. “It is not school, I am sure of it. Too big of a problem. And they have this...this dance coming, they should only be thinking about that. Sylvester bought Twinkle a dress- she was so happy with it, I thought she would never take it off, and she was making such plans to make it better, she wanted to show it to you- have I seen her work on it this week? No. Something is not right, I tell you.”

“That’s what I thought. I was just hoping you’d prove me wrong, I guess.”

Outside, a gaggle of kids rushed by, their high-pitched laughter filtering in through an open window until they disappeared around the corner. Leona found herself watching them go, even if of course her boys weren’t part of the group – they’d already grown past these playground antics, those two. They were more likely to be eating her out of house and home and scribbling crude drawings on each other’s notes, at that age, the kind of stuff a parent had to pretend not to see for their own peace of mind.

Perhaps a better mother would have known what was eating at them, though. Herself, she was quite unexperienced for someone raising two teenagers; one of them didn’t even call her mom out loud, bless him, though he was among the sweetest children Leona had ever met and she loved him as much as she did Pierrot. Perhaps, by learning as she went, she’d made a mess of everything along the way – perhaps she should have been sterner, firmer. Perhaps she should have demanded a solid answer from them all instead of grasping at straws.

But would they have answered, she wondered? Somehow, Leona doubted it. They had gone through some unbelievably harsh experiences, her boys, and that had done nothing but make them fragile and frightened, the kind of kids who asked for little and expected even less. Both her and Marco had always gotten better results from letting them open up on their own terms – other mothers might have been horrified to know her near-eighteen son still climbed into her bed on some occasions, but Leona remembered her late-night conversation with Pierrot fondly, because she knew it hadn’t come easily for him, adapting to this gentler approach to bedtime. She might not be the best mom, but by the gods, she’d given these children the best efforts of her life for sure.

“Maybe we could ask someone closer to them,” she said in the end, turning back to her friends once she’d realized she’d been staring vacantly at the window for too long.

“Someone we can trust to know if it’s serious enough for us to be worried about- it doesn’t have to go past that, if it’s not. What about Eugene’s sister? She’s got her head on her shoulders just fine, I think, and she won’t tattle on them if it’s about- I don’t know, who kissed who and whose grades are the best.”

“Why not Eugene’s parents directly?” Nova ventured hesitantly. “They would want to know if it’s something serious, wouldn’t they?”

Igor snorted in derision, barely concealing it behind the rim of his cup. “If they did, they would never tell us. They do not like us, remember?”

It was a harsh description, but a correct one as well, Leona had to admit. Eugene himself might be as sturdy as a chestnut hull, prickly on the outside and sweet and reliable on the inside, but his parents had never warmed up to his friends past a certain point, for whatever reason – they’d always been polite to the other adults, sure, but nothing beyond that, even in close proximity. “I doubt they noticed more than we did. I would have told more to a sister than to my mother and father at seventeen, myself, if I’d had one.”

“As did I.” The man took another careful sip, frowning as though the drink had offended him personally. “I think it happened when they went to the beach. That’s when they started acting strange. Everything looked normal, before.”

Which would have been mighty helpful, if they’d had even the faintest idea of what the kids had seen at the beach. Marco had spoken of two men, some knights from Camelot who’d come to ask them about that, but even then the tale grew foggy and dubious, and not for lack of her partner trying – those children could hold a masterclass on the art of confusing everyone, that they did. If Leona hadn’t known better, she would have wagered they were doing it out of malice, to keep the lot of them clueless on purpose.

Thing was, her boys didn’t have a single malicious bone in their whole bodies. Neither did their friends, or those other girls she saw more rarely, for all she knew. Thinking any different would have been preposterous, which meant Leona had no choice but to worry about the issue, real mother or not. “Gods above, what could have they possibly done that got them so worked up? I know for sure at least a couple of them never even touched the water – there’s a limit to how much damage you can do with some sand, isn’t it?”

“I will tell you, though, sand is easy to dig through. Good place to hide something.”

“What are you saying they found, Igor? Lost treasure? King Triton’s halls? A body?”

“Don’t even joke about that.” Nova had turned pale and wide-eyed, folding a napkin in her hands over and over again, her grin somewhat wobbly.

“They shouldn’t- we shouldn’t be worrying about that in the first place. They’ve seen bad things plenty, don’t you think? Oh, I hope we’re looking too much into it, and that it’s just something silly for real- they deserve it, if you ask me. They act like they’re big and strong, yes, but they’re still- Oh, hello, Roland! What brings you here?”

Her voice had gone up in volume all of a sudden, full of strained cheerfulness. The abrupt shift in tone made Leona and Igor’s heads both swivel around, startled – a round-faced, curly-haired figure had appeared next to their table, one hand burrowed in his pocket and the other holding a half-eaten donut.

Roland smiled politely, wiping sugar icing off his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Hi, miss Nova,” he said, glancing around. “Is Lampwick here too?”

The former fairy’s gaze softened as she reached out to affectionately pat him on the arm. “I’m afraid not, honey. He went out with Leroy today. I’ll tell him you asked about him when they get home, alright?”

“That’s fine, I guess. Thanks.”

“Don’t bother people while they’re eating, Roland, please,” another voice cut in, and a split second later the mayor appeared in their field of view, wrapping an arm around the boy’s shoulders. A hint of surprise flickered across her expression when she noticed who the table’s occupants were, but she schooled it away almost immediately, replacing it with a tight smile. “Of course. I should have known you wouldn’t just be running off with some stranger.”

“Madam Mayor,” Leona greeted her, calm but not discourteous. She’d had very few occasions to speak with Regina Mills before, and that name came with a notable reputation besides, but the woman was helping raise a kid her own boys had taken under their wings, so there was no animosity there – it always came back to the children, one way or another. It was as if they couldn’t avoid that kind of connection anywhere, no matter how hard they tried.

“It’s not a bother. We were just having a chat, here.”

“I was asking them about Lampwick,” Roland interjected, in between bites of his snack. “I haven’t seen him in ages, and he said he was going to take me to the arcade soon.”

“I think he might be a bit busy at the moment.” The mayor’s eyes flitted between the other three adults with some trepidation, her face slightly pinched when she finally settled on looking at Leona. “You’re Marco’s...lady friend, aren’t you?”

That caught the older woman off-guard, even though she’d heard that kind of question from a thousand other people before. “The one and only- at least, I hope I am. Is something the matter?”

Mayor Mills seemed to hesitate for a moment more, then she leaned forward, bracing herself against the table as she lowered her voice. “Then you’d better tell him to keep an eye on his kid. I think someone might have it out for the boy.”

“Is this a threat, Madam Mayor?”

“It’s a warning. Our sheriff had a chat with him the other day, and so did the Mother Superior- I am to understand she overstepped quite a bit with Pinocchio, it seems. Left him pretty rattled. I’d want to know, if I were in Marco’s place- or yours.”

Her grip on Roland’s shoulder tightened as she spoke, though the boy didn’t appear particularly ruffled, instead staring distractedly out of the window as he munched on his donut. It shouldn’t have been that surprising, really – he was no longer a cheery, amiable small child, prone to noticing every change in his stepmother’s moods. In fact, he would probably soon reach that point in his life where being hugged and fussed over in public might make him embarrassed, as many boys of eleven or twelve that weren’t Pierrot were wont to do.

But all of this, Leona only took in detachedly, too distracted by what had just been said about her children to pay attention to anything else. “What?” She hissed, idly shocked at the sudden coldness in her own words. “What did she say to him?”

The mayor shook her head, straightening up with a frown. “I don’t know the exact words. Nothing pleasant, though, I’m sure, and I dare say the sheriff would agree with me if you asked her, too. Just- do try to keep this in mind if anything happens, ma’am. Keep the kids away from that convent.” She cleared her throat, as though trying to put herself back on track. “Let’s go, Roland. Your father’s waiting for us.”

She turned on her heel and marched out without a by-your-leave, scruffy child in tow. Nova returned Roland’s wave of goodbye, albeit a bit mechanically, and so did Igor, but Leona just sat there, frozen, stunned beyond words, something biting and clawing furiously at the inside of her mouth, clamoring to come out – it wasn’t pretty words pushing there, not at all. In fact, they tasted rancid and spoiled, even more so as the seconds passed.

“Leona.” One of Igor’s hands on her shoulder, tight with concern, and the other pulling the coffee cup from her clenched fingers, albeit with some difficulty. “You will burn yourself if you spill this, Leona.”

“That bitch,” Leona muttered, distantly, and there it was. This wasn’t her usual choice of vocabulary, not in the slightest. She’d taught her son to be courteous with girls and women alike, no matter how angry he was. He might not be the quietest or best-mannered of boys, but at least he’d learned to be respectful, from her.

But of course, she was the degenerate mother, wasn’t she? She didn’t scold, she didn’t scream, she never put her foot down to show her children who was boss. She let them snack in their room when they were scared of going hungry and wake her up at night when they couldn’t sleep, and she’d laughed when Marco had confessed he’d allowed them to try a taste of wine, because the hilarity of their three identical guilty faces had overpowered any worry she might have over alcohol consumption. She loved them in all those ways parenthood rulebooks would never agree with, and she didn’t really give a damn about it, either.

What difference would it make, then, if she got up right now and went to give the Mother Superior a piece of her mind, as vulgar as she pleased?

That instinctive act, however, was stopped in its tracks as soon as Leona was lucid enough to realize she couldn’t move. Not only was Igor’s grip surprisingly steady, but Nova had taken a hold of her, too, reaching out across the table to clasp Leona’s hand in her own.

“I know what you’re thinking,” the younger woman whispered fretfully, as though she were frightened of who else might hear, “but you can’t do anything like that. Please.”

Leona scoffed, brusquely jerking her head to the side to get some flyaway hair out of her eyes. “You’ll find out I can just fine, dear, but thank you for your concern.”

“No, you can’t. You can’t just walk out there and- and just slap someone, Leona. I- I don’t know if that would be the right call.”

“I agree with Nova,” Igor said, almost conversationally, casually leaning against Leona’s shoulder. “We can’t let you do that. She has magic and you do not. I do not want you to be- blasted? Is that what they do? Maybe it is, and I like you whole, Leona.”

“So what, I just have to tolerate that she got her nose in the children’s business? Again? A pox on that, Igor. I’m shocked you would suggest anything like this.”

“I did not say that.” He grinned, then, and suddenly it would have appeared very clear even to a stranger that he’d been among those who’d raised Twinkle – his smile was bright and dangerous, and there was a furious light sunk deep in his eyes, one that would have made many recoil in fear and that Leona had seen on his daughter’s animated face more than once, fired up about this injustice or that.

He was a mild, reserved man most of the time, hardly the stuff former criminals were made of, but he’d never looked the part more than he was doing now, so much that even Nova straightened up abruptly, her expression filled with an understanding that went beyond her customary, motherly warmth.

“I see that you are angry, Leona,” Igor continued, the grin not faltering even once.

“But I am angry now, too. So we better start thinking of something else we can do without being burned by magic, because I would like to hit someone very much, too, and if you go first then I will follow, and Nova will have to mourn us both. That would not work very well, would it?

“So there you go. You two are smarter than me by far. Let us find another way to make the Mother Superior see reason, and if we can’t, then I will happily hit her myself- nobody would care about silly old Igor doing some madness, would they, my friends?”

Eugene’s head felt blissfully empty as he sped down Main Street, the trusty wooden board clacking underneath his feet.

Skating was the only way he managed to keep his thoughts at bay, on some days. It was as if, in some abstract sense that he could hardly explain, most of said thoughts couldn’t catch up with him – he was too fast on four wheels, too nimble, and besides, if he was moving, it meant that he already knew where he was going. He didn’t like wandering around aimlessly; he only stepped onto the board if he had a plan in mind, and if he had a plan, then he had nothing to worry about until he’d reached his destination.

Eugene always had a plan. That was his entire deal. He didn’t enjoy being caught off-guard, his routine disrupted unexpectedly – to him, the world was an endless maze to navigate, one he could only hope to solve if he followed the chalk marks he’d previously drawn on the pavement. And even when he did get thrown off the path, as had happened so often during the past week, well, that was he always made a contingency plan, too. Being prepared for the worst tended to be the smartest choice, around their parts.

Right now said contingency plan wasn’t looking particularly foolproof, but he hadn’t had any other option to fall back onto, so he’d had to make do. It was the reason why he’d come all the way up there, kicking his skateboard to a halt in front of a house he didn’t know that well, and it was why he pulled out his phone to shoot a text to a number he’d saved under a suitably anonymous name, saying Hi. I need to ask you something. I’m down your street – can you come out for a second, please?

Eugene watched with apprehension as the message was marked as received, the briefest flash of stress churning in his gut at the thought he might be ignored completely. Then the typing bubble appeared at the bottom of the screen, lingering for a couple seconds before it was replaced by a curt, no-nonsense Come round the back.

He cut through the yard without wasting a second, but by the time he’d reached the backdoor of the house, Coppelia was already there, harried as though she’d run down a flight of stairs to greet him. The scarf wrapped around her head was a rich burgundy today, though haphazardly pinned up – a dark coil of hair had escaped its folds, already, curling rebelliously against the girl’s rounded cheek.

The sight of it made Eugene’s face heat up, for some unfathomable reason, but thankfully it might not be too noticeable yet. Coppelia’s skin, too, had gone even darker than its usual golden brown, though to her credit she kept her composure just fine, an eyebrow raised in amusement. “If you’ve come here to vouch for your friend again, you wasted your time,” she said, drily. “Olympia’s still saying she’s not ready to date yet, and besides, she’s studying right now. Sorry for the disappointment.”

The boy shook his head, trying to remain lucid despite everything. It was as if the tangled thoughts that had chased him for the whole ride had finally caught up with him, making it impossible to form a coherent sentence, but he had to do it, nevertheless. This was far more important than his brain being unreasonable as usual.

“It’s not that. I wanted to talk to you. I need your help.”

She blinked, clearly surprised. “My help?”

“Yeah. If you can help, that is. And if you want to.”

“Depends. What for?”

“I want to do some research.” Eugene tucked the skateboard more firmly under his arm, doing his best not to start fidgeting. Suddenly, the conversation he’d psyched himself up about for hours was beginning to sound ridiculous, like a game proposal hatched by a much younger boy on the playground.

“This whole thing with Pinocchio and Grace- we don’t know enough, and no one’s telling us anything. I want to go back to the library and see if there’s anything we’ve missed that can tell us what’s going on, but I don’t want to go alone. I think two people would work better and faster, together.”

Coppelia hummed detachedly, lips pressed together in thought. “And you came to ask me to help you with that?”

“Only if you want.”

“Why?”

Because I needed an excuse to talk to you, Eugene almost said, against his better judgement. Because I can’t be scared of that place if I know you’re watching me. Both reasons were true, strictly speaking, but they also sounded embarrassingly dumb, not to mention like something Pierrot would have said to a girl, which usually was not a flattering comparison for anyone.

“Because I need to have someone smart with me,” he said instead, which wasn’t a lie, either. “Someone who won’t make fun of the questions I’m asking. You know as well as I do that half our friend group is losing his mind these days. You seemed like a good choice.”

“I see.” Coppelia nodded along, seemingly pondering on it. The corner of her mouth twitched upwards slightly, the ghost of an amused smile. “You know, most guys, when they ask girls to go somewhere, they pick them up with a car. Someone might say you’re trying to be cheap with me.”

“I couldn’t borrow my father’s car for this. Everyone’s been keeping an eye on us since Saturday’s trip to the beach- that’s why I didn’t knock on your door straightaway. I didn’t want to get you into any trouble. If you don’t want to risk any of that, I understand, but I’m not- it’s not- I’m not trying anything, doesn’t matter what people might say. I’m just worried. And I only have a skateboard, yeah, but you can ride it, if it makes you feel safer than being on foot.”

His parents would have called that an oxymoron, Eugene found himself thinking, idly, as he waited for a response with bated breath. One couldn’t be safer on a skateboard than they were on foot – skateboards were dangerous and finicky, his mother would have said, especially if you weren’t used to handling them. Walking was always the safest choice, as long as no one was running over you.

But then again, his parents thought Eugene’s friends were dangerous, too, with their big fairytale names and turbulent past, and he’d been ignoring that argument for nigh ten years at this point, so there was no reason why he should start listening to their complaints now of all times.

Coppelia was looking intently at him, her dark brown gaze carrying an air of intense concentration, made even bigger and deeper by the lens of her glasses. She stayed like that for a harrowingly long moment, then she lifted one finger, taking a step backwards into the house. “Give me a second.”

She disappeared immediately after, shutting the door behind herself. Eugene was left staring at it like a loon, dumbfounded, as the minutes ticked by – there was a good chance he’d just been played for a fool, and that soon there’d be a phone camera pointed at him from above, ready to film his ridicule and share it with a dozen other giggling girls. That was how it went, sometimes. He had nothing to offer that might shield him from such cruel jokes, but he’d had to try, nonetheless. No one else he could trust would have picked up the phone, like as not, and none of them had the piercing, beautiful chestnut eyes of Coppelia Dawoud, anyway. It had been his best shot, even if it had probably failed.

But then the girl reappeared, her whole stance straightening into something much more determined than before. Her headscarf was pinned more securely around her neck, now, and there was a pair of sleek rollerblades in her hand as well, dangling from purple laces and slung over her shoulder.

“Come on, then,” she said, and her smile had changed, too, turned broader and fiercer, bright like a blooming fire.

“Show me what you’ve got in mind, Mr. Researcher. I’m following your lead.”

“So what are we looking for, exactly?”

“Beats me,” Leroy grunted, sounding more than a little annoyed. “Sheriff said to keep an eye out for anything that looks out of place. Whatever that means.”

Lampwick hummed in acknowledgement, skirting around a particularly bulky rock as he followed in the man’s wake. “And you brought me along because...?”

To be honest, he’d asked that question more to pass the time than anything else. He didn’t really need to know why Leroy had decided this was a good time to show him around a mine tunnel – it wasn’t as familiar as their usual fishing spot, true, but it was pleasant enough all the same, cool and muted and more secluded than most other places in Storybrooke. It would have been hard to find a more exclusive club in their area, like as not.

The dwarf, however, was not the kind to let a jape pass by in silence, just as wasn’t Lampwick himself. “’Cause it’s high time you learn the trade, boy,” he said gruffly, giving the other a sideway glare that only barely looked convincing.

“You’re not getting stuck cleaning floors and mending boats, you hear me? You need to know how to work with your hands. Just ‘cause you can’t pass as a dwarf even on a moonless night, doesn’t mean you can’t start acting like one.”

The boy broke into a faint, peevish grin, picking up the pace so he could nudge Leroy amicably in the side. “That means I’m gettin’ an axe soon, right?”

“Over my dead body. You ain’t touching a proper axe until you’re grown, brat.”

“Aw, come on, you were doing so well- why not?”

“’Cause Nova said you couldn’t. That clear enough for you now?”

“Crystal.” Nova had probably been the one to ask Leroy to take him somewhere and distracting him, too, but Lampwick knew better than to mention that. Instead, he simply nodded and lifted his torch higher, looking around for clues as to the reason why they were spending the better part of their afternoon underground.

He didn’t mind the distraction, either. It wasn’t working all that well, maybe, but he knew both ex-dwarf and ex-fairy were only trying their best there; he’d been in a funk for almost a week, now, enough for them both to notice even if they hadn’t been paying attention – and they were paying attention just fine, most of the time. They paid more attention than most adults in Lampwick’s life had ever done before, really.

It was just- he couldn’t just stop thinking, even if he was being dragged below sea level, not when above ground everyone else was losing their fucking marbles. Nuns and sorceresses and intruders – a lot of bloody fools, if you asked him. They should have minded their business instead of getting in the way of folks only trying to get by. Especially the nuns.

Point was, Lampwick was worried about Pinocchio. Story of their life, alright; that had been the way of things since they’d been this tall; but this whole ordeal in particular felt different, somehow – he couldn’t quite put his finger on the reason why, but he couldn’t shake that feeling off, even as he glanced to his right to check one of the side tunnels.

Perhaps they’d all just been taken off guard by it, he reasoned gloomily.  Perhaps this town wasn’t really a place where they’d expected to have horrible, magical adventures – it seemed unfair, in a way, that they’d be asked to stumble headfirst into something so weird and otherworldly when their utmost priority should have been to convince Eugene to stop being so stingy with his Netflix password. What next, they’d have to pick up some swords and barge into a grocery store with a war cry? They’d had to go through hell and back before, sure, but that had been in the Enchanted Forest, where they’d all have looked a tad less ridiculous in the meantime.

The Enchanted Forest, or Camelot, at least. Everything always seemed to circle back to Camelot, these days, and Lampwick was not exactly pleased by that – he didn’t remember the place fondly, himself, and there was a high chance this little mine expedition was tied to those folks that had come to visit as well, besides. Of course, the sheriff had only told Leroy that he needed to check for any activity out of the ordinary, and that was what had trickled down to Lampwick, but either the two knights had something to do with it, which was the most likely option, or they had another problem on their hands, which wasn’t particularly funny to consider. Surely there couldn’t be multiple monsters crawling around underneath their town, right-

Hello?

The boy’s head whipped around brusquely, the sudden diversion pulling him out of his reflections. For a moment he thought it could have been the echo of his footsteps – he’d been steadily kicking around every pebble left behind by the dwarves’ previous trips since he’d jumped in, to try and empty his mind as well as to annoy Leroy a bit – except he had heard echo before, and it didn’t sound like that at all. Echo had a way of bouncing off walls like a ping-pong ball, muffled and distorted, but even if this one noise hadn’t felt like a human word, it would have still been too clear cut, too distinct to be confused with anything else, and it was followed by a prolonged lull of silence, only to repeat itself a few seconds later, stretched out indefinitely by distance.

Hello-o-o-o?

“Wait.” Lampwick made to grab Leroy’s elbow, stopping the latter in his tracks. “D’you hear that?”

The dwarf raised an eyebrow, turning to the side to follow his gaze. “Hear what?”

Is anyone there?

“That.” It appeared to be coming from the side tunnel, though there didn’t seem to be any movement within the torch’s reach. “Did the sheriff send any of the others down too?”

“Kid, I swear, I don’t get what you’re talking about-“

Please. I’m scared.

Oh, now there was no mistaking it alright. “Hear that? There’s someone down there, come on.“

Leroy let out some more protests, but Lampwick was only partly listening, by then. It wasn’t the wisest thing to do- he knew it wasn’t the wisest thing to do- but he just couldn’t help it. It was as if his feet were moving of their own volition, walking urgently towards the source of the noise.

And it couldn’t be one of the other dwarves calling for help, either. The tunnels might warp any sound running through them, maybe, but only to a certain extent, and this wasn’t the voice any grown man he knew might have, garbled though it got along the way. It was shriller, higher-pitched, and with an unease to it that no sane dwarf would have showed on this terrain, which they’d all molded and mined and dug through at their leisure.

Worse even, it was a child’s voice, a girl, most likely, thin and frightened as only someone very small could have been.

Where are you? Help me. Please.

Lampwick drew to a halt halfway through the tunnel, straining to see further than the cone of light would allow. The passage grew smaller here, where Leroy and his brothers had spent less time searching for who knew what, enough that he had to bend down slightly, but that wasn’t why he’d stopped – rather, a wave of familiarity had washed over him, making him freeze on the spot in surprise.

He'd heard this voice, before. He didn’t know where, or when, or how, but he had, and it was going to his head, because he could count on the fingers of one hand the little girls he knew that well, and none of them could have had access to a mineshaft even on a good day – sure, that Lancelot fellow had said they’d been missing a princess, but Lampwick hadn’t seen her since she’d just came out of the womb, and he sure as hell hadn’t heard her speak that often. Who else was left? Twinkle in the days of old? Mignon’s impertinent little sister? Nah, that stuff was getting out of hand. None of his acquaintances fit the bill, past or present.

Except-

“Hello?” He called out, swallowing thickly around the sudden lump that had formed in his throat. “Can you hear me? Who’s there?”

Still no movement as far as he could see, and yet the voice persisted, now alarmingly close and well-known. Hello. I’m here. Hello-

Fighting against the stiffness that had filled his limbs, Lampwick forced himself to step forward – and then came to another, unplanned stop soon after, as his torch illuminated the last stretch of the tunnel.

There was no one there with him. The passage was a dead end, with no deviations to the right nor to the left, but all he could see was the bare wall that blocked the way, empty and lifeless, almost mockingly silent in the face of his shock.

Or, well. Not completely silent, it seemed. A slight tremor was making its way through it, starting from the bottom and climbing up, up, up, until not only was the ground shaking faintly under the boy’s feet, but dust and debris were starting to fall onto his head as well, clinging to his hair and making his eyes burn.

Move, his instincts screamed at him, enraged, but for some reason Lampwick could not move, rooted on the unstable flooring as though he’d been nailed to it, speechless and dumbfounded. It was only when a rough, strong hand grabbed him by the scruff like an unruly kitten and yanked him away that he let himself be torn from his place and pulled to safety, still staring transfixedly at the same spot.

Before him, the small, final section of the tunnel crumbled, no more than a couple feet wide, but still enough to bury the area where he’d expected to find a scared little girl waiting for him.

Chapter Text

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Leroy snarled, throwing his hands up in the air.

He had so much pent up energy he needed to release that he was about to start pacing like a loon, but he didn’t dare do that, just in case Lampwick decided he wanted to run headfirst into danger again as soon as he turned his back. The kid didn’t seem intentioned to do anything of the sort, right now, rather sitting at the tunnel’s entrance with his arms crossed and a stormy glare on his face, but one could never know. A second’s distraction tended to be enough, with those little fools.

Except Leroy wasn’t directly in charge of most of said little fools, which was probably why this one incident had made him snap so harshly. It had been a small cave-in, barely a blip in the radar if you knew what you were doing, but the boy was inexperienced and reckless, and shouldn’t have strayed out of the path at all. “Thought you knew the rules- you keep an ear out for ground movements, you don’t run off on me, and you don’t go down unmarked tunnels. What the hell got into you?”

Lampwick pulled a face, even having the gall to look upset. Upset! As though he hadn’t just taken ten years off Leroy’s life with his stunt. “I heard someone asking for help, okay? They could have been in trouble.”

“There was nobody in there, kid. Only Doc and Happy went down to do the rounds for the sheriff, aside from us, but they were on the other side of town. No one’s getting in or out until we say so.”

That, of course, meant that whatever Emma thought they’d find down there, it had probably never existed, but you couldn’t reason with the Savior on matters like that. Stubborn like her mother, she was, and besides, impossible things always became a bit more likely in Storybrooke – if she turned out to be right, and some intruder had managed to crawl into the mines, then she’d get to lord it over the dwarves for the rest of time. Better nip that idea in the bud, if you asked Leroy.

He'd been right, thus far. There had been no trace of anyone passing by, except the marks left by him and his brothers. Even the light crumbling of the ceiling was hardly worth mentioning – it had been a recent excavation, that one. They just hadn’t had the time to continue down that path and put some stabilizing beams in there. It would have been fine, if a certain someone hadn’t convinced himself that his skull was thick enough to withstanding falling stones and wandered off on his own.

A certain someone who still looked offended by the reaction he was getting, to top it all off. “But there was! I don’t know how the fuck they did it, but I heard a voice, ‘cept when I tried to follow it, there wasn’t anyone in sight. I’m not making this shit up, Leroy.”

“Not saying you are, but it’s not making a lot of sense, is it? I didn’t hear squat, and I didn’t see squat, so there you have it- and even if you’d got it right, there are ways to go about it that aren’t as dumb as what you just did. I’m not taking you back in there ‘til I know you’re not pulling something like that again.”

Which might be a long time yet, he thought gloomily, if his heart kept pounding the way it was doing now. He’d been eager to show Lampwick the ropes of their trade – hell, Lampwick had been eager to join in, bouncing off the walls with an enthusiasm he’d rarely shown as of late, since he and his friends had entered their weird funk – but he could take the blow, if it meant keeping the kid safe. That was worth any disappointment on either side, and he was pretty sure Nova would agree, too.

Maybe the mines just weren’t the place for this lad. Awful bad luck, if that was the case, but not the kind of luck you wanted to push, if you had a boy you wanted to see grow past legal drinking age.

Still, the startled, crestfallen look on Lampwick’s face was more devastating than he’d expected. “What?” The boy stammered, sounding betrayed. “Come on, you can’t be serious-”

No chance to back up now, was there? “You heard me. You’re lucky you got out when you did- there’s folks who can get crippled or blinded in accidents like that, and I’m not letting you end up there just ‘cause you’ve been hearing voices.”

“But I told you, it wasn’t just random voices, I- I thought I heard my-“ Abruptly, he clamped his mouth shut, his expression hardening as he stood up, rubbing dust off his cheeks with the sleeve of his shirt before he continued.

“You know what? Fine. Now I get how Pinocchio feels when he says people think he’s crazy. This shit is a mess and a half.”

Leroy scoffed, reaching out to take him by the arm. “Come on, kid, no one’s saying you’re…”

But Lampwick took a step back, moving slightly out of range. “I said it’s fine. I was hallucinating things, sure, whatever. Gonna go see if Doctor Cricket has the time to hear me out, or if he thinks I’m a lost cause, too, if you don’t mind.”

That had been a low blow. The boy must have known it, too – there was a quick flash of regret in his eyes, even though it had been delivered with cold, cutting precision – but that didn’t make it hurt any less, honestly, and the dwarf was feeling it go to his head, torn between worry and outrage. “The hell you are. Get in the truck. I’m taking you home- need to check you up, check if it got you in the head.”

“Don’t bother.” Lampwick shook some more debris out of his hair, and then pulled his hood over his head, retracting into it like a turtle in its shell. “I’m gonna take a walk. Get some fresh air. Tell Nova I’ll be back for dinner.”

“Wait-“ But the kid had already turned on his heel and stomped away, moving back towards the town center as though he’d gone deaf to all complaints.

Leroy had half a mind to try and grab him before he got too far, but he knew from past experiences that that was hardly likely to do any good. In fact, it might even make things worse, and his mind wasn’t cool enough to handle it right now besides – if the boy wanted to mope around instead of actually listening, fine. He couldn’t say he hadn’t been warned, if it happened again.

So the dwarf, after a moment of fuming, went to seal back the entrance to the tunnel and then clambered behind the wheel of his truck, slamming the door closed with way more force than necessary. Only then did he let out a loud, frustrated groan, pounding his fist against the scraped dashboard. “Dammit.”

Fucking teenagers. Why hadn’t anyone tried to talk him into reason when he’d gotten attached to this one, exactly?

“I’m starting to think this isn’t going to be very helpful,” Coppelia mused, turning another page of her book.

She sounded awfully right, loathe as Eugene was to admit it. They had been at it for what felt like an eternity, and yet their research hadn’t yielded any results thus far. Even the piles of books crowding their table seemed to be glaring at them in judgement, though he’d taken care to readjust them every so often, so they wouldn’t tip over and bump Coppelia over the head.

And to think, they’d combed through everything for information. They’d checked every fairytale they knew, they’d dived into history books, they’d even ventured into some sort of pseudoscience section to see if there might be a mystical explanation for their problems, but since they knew no one in their respective friend groups had ever taken hallucinogenic mushrooms – or at least, no one they might suspect of actually having hallucinations at present – they’d come out as empty-handed as they’d started.

It made Eugene feel restless, really, itchy inside his own skin. He didn’t like not having the answers. Worse, he didn’t like not knowing what the question was in the first place – did they need to focus on Camelot lore, since it had all seemed to start there? Should it have been Maine legends and mythology instead, for a change? Was it truly a magic problem, or was it just adults fucking his friends over, as it had happened countless times before?

No, this would remain a fool’s errand, unless they solved that issue first, and what Eugene hated the most was that he’d involved someone else in it before being certain that it would make sense. “I’m sorry I dragged you here for nothing. You probably had tons of better things to do.”

Coppelia shrugged, shooting him a small, guarded grin. “No, not really. You’re alright. I just wish I could help out more.”

“You are helping. It’s just- maybe we’re wasting our time. I wasted your time.”

“I told you, you’re alright.” She gave her rollerblades a kick under the table, diverting his attention – she’d worn them all the way to the library, gliding alongside his skateboard with effortless grace, but had slipped her shoes back on before they’d entered, as to move more easily around the rooms. “Besides, at least I got to get some fresh air and use this. I mostly just do ice skating, you know?”

“I know,” the boy blurted out before he could stop himself, and by then it was too late to pretend he hadn’t said anything, Coppelia’s dark eyes turning to him in curiosity, so he gave up and continued, cursing his stupid tongue. “I- Twinkle told me. She told me you wanted to go professional, but the coaches here could be better.”

“Oh.” Some color rushed to her cheeks, and she ducked her head away from him, fidgeting with her scarf. “Did she…tell you a lot about me?”

“Not much. Just things she knew you wouldn’t mind sharing, I swear.”

“Alright. I mean, I trust her with that- and you, of course.” The girl seemed to ponder on it a moment, then shot him a sly glance, her smile turned peevish.

“So if you knew I skate, why have I never seen you at the rink? We still do competitions, even if we can’t really host national tournaments because of, you know, all the fairies and dragons and stuff.”

Eugene swallowed thickly, wondering when his mouth had become so dry. “I wasn’t sure I should come uninvited. I thought it might look a bit creepy.”

“Well, I’m inviting you now. Practice sessions are open to the public, too, if that works better for you. You can come whenever.”

“I…Okay. Thanks.”

They both turned back to their books almost in unison, a hint of…something hanging between them like a heavy curtain. Stifling hot, too; Eugene was doing his best, trying to focus on the words before him, but his eyes kept drifting to the rest of the room, quietly searching for a window he could open – it wasn’t that late in the season yet, and still it had gotten way too warm for his liking. He fancied that if he stuck a finger under the neckline of his shirt, it would be about the right temperature to cook an egg, which was ridiculous, really.

He was being ridiculous, to be honest. There were more important things at stake than his hot flashes. He had to keep his head down and work, instead of acting like a fool.

But no sooner had he stubbornly forced the book page to make sense for him again that he felt soft fingers wrapping around his wrist, polarizing his attention again. “Wait. Could this be our guy?”

Coppelia unceremoniously dropped the volume in his hands without waiting for a response, adjusting her glasses and flicking through the pages in search of what she’d found. For his part, Eugene could only follow her gestures, frowning in confusion.

It was a collection of Shakespeare plays, according to the pompously decorated cover. One had to wonder how it had fallen into their radar, since they’d hardly perused all the works of fiction in the library, but the girl didn’t give him the time to voice his concerns aloud, instead finally stopping in her tracks and pointing at a small, black-and-white illustration. “It says here that this is a spirit called Ariel. Runs errands and delivers messages for a witch, and then for a wizard. He’s from the Tempest. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

Eugene squinted at the drawing, his brain trying to catch up with the new onslaught of information. There wasn’t much to see, all in all – only a vague, lithe figure, caught mid-flight as it pounced off the top of a tree. “But- Grace said the man we helped is called Aireil, not Ariel.”

“Yes, and my story in this land is a comedy- do I look like I’m laughing?” Coppelia turned back a couple pages, retracing her reading steps.

“I’m not saying we’ve got to expect something like this to happen to us, but…if everything in town comes from a tale and went through some changes, maybe it’s not that weird that he’d be the same. Someone who’s involved with magic, with a name that sounds like his…it’s not impossible, Eugene.”

“No, it’s not,” he replied, mechanically, but he was not listening as intently as he pretended to be, in truth. There was something off with this idea, something on the tip of his tongue, clamoring to get out and make sense. Still fumbling for an explanation, his gaze kept returning to the tiny ink drawing, the supposed spirit flying off towards his next target, a wily smile on his gaunt face.

Flying off a tree…

He dropped the book abruptly, already getting out of his seat as it clattered against the tabletop. Coppelia startled at the sudden change of pace, watching him go with her eyes open wide behind her glasses. “What’s wrong? What are you doing?”

“Hold on just a second.” Belle, too, had lifted her eyes from her desk as the library’s most unlikely visitor darted by, but he didn’t need her help with this one, for once. He knew what he was looking for, and he knew where he might find it as well, unfortunately.

When he came back, the new book clutched tightly against his chest, Coppelia was still where he’d left her, stunned and frozen in place. Eugene would have liked to apologize to her for his roughness, but he was too caught up in his train of thought to speak, feverishly laser focused on going back through the chapters until he could look at what he needed.

He’d only read the story once, on a memorable night several years prior, but it had been enough to make him puke in disgust, the pictures seared permanently into his brain. He firmly ignored the illustrated donkeys and the snapshot of his own body laying unconscious on a beach, and his heart only skipped a beat when he hesitated in front of the little puppet dangling by his neck from a tree branch, but he knew in which order it had all happened, according to this land’s writers, and thus the scene he was looking for had to be- there. Not two pages earlier, there it was.

There was the little hut nestled into the woods, brightly clear against the pitch black of the night, with the blue-haired girl at the window and the boy banging on the door begging for help because something had been chasing him through the whole forest.

Slowly, Eugene lowered the Adventures of Pinocchio and glanced up to meet Coppelia’s gaze again, a blistering hot kind of dread climbing up his throat like a spoonful of soup straight out of the pot. “Do you think we can get the others to meet us in a bit?” He ventured, with a calmness he wasn’t feeling.

“Because I might have an idea about what we should do.”

“So let me get this straight,” Lampwick spoke up, sounding skeptical, “you think the Mother Superior has got some secret lair in the woods?”

Pierrot was grateful for the intervention, for more reasons than one. First, it wasn’t fun when he was the only one giving Eugene grief, and second, he needed some clarifications, too – he was a visual learner, mostly; give him a map and he could find his way out of the country in five minutes, but long-winded plans weren’t exactly his forte.

Third and most important, it was kind of a relief to hear Lampwick sound as snarky as usual. Frankly speaking, he’d been looking grey like a raincloud when they’d gathered, brooding and mulishly silent – he tended to be the one draping himself all over Pinocchio’s business, but right now it was Pierrot’s brother holding him instead, like a makeshift chair his boyfriend could lean back against while his head rested on top of Lampwick’s hair. The closeness was doing them both good, it seemed, which Pierrot appreciated, even if he wanted to protest against the unfairness of the world every time he saw how many more lovey-dovey interactions Pinocchio got compared to him.

True enough, Lampwick also currently had Twinkle perched on his legs, but that hardly counted. Twinkle perched everywhere, and this was her bedroom, besides, small and cramped and painted in pastel pinks; there was a near dozen of them squashed inside, so it was a given that they would need to get creative with the space. Pierrot himself was sitting at the edge of the narrow bed next to Olympia, a situation that was sending his brain into overdrive – of course he was taking care not to lean in too close, because his mom had raised him right, okay, but it was close enough for a guy to short circuit all the same. One had to hope Eugene’s master plan would distract him, at least.

“Did you listen to what I just said?” The short boy snapped, scowling determinedly.

“I don’t know what could be in the forest, but I’m pretty sure there is something. All the stuff me and- and Coppelia checked, it agrees that fairies dwell in woods around the whole world, and she found this one character that sounds an awful lot like the guy from the beach, and he came out of a whole tree because some witch had trapped him in there. If that’s a coincidence, then it’s a pretty big one.”

He turned to Pinocchio, then, the briefest spark of hesitation flashing in his eyes. “You can confirm that, right? The Mother Superior had a place in the woods you saw. You…you told me when we were little, didn’t you?”

Pinocchio’s brow creased in puzzlement, as if he were trying to piece the memories together. “I- I guess I did? I mean, I didn’t stay that long, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t far from the forest path, yeah.”

“And Grace, she told you that it was none of your business what was going on in our forest, even after she warned you not to go there, didn’t she?”

“She sure did,” the girl grumbled, picking at her fingernails with a thunderous expression. “Tittering asshole. As though I’d asked her a personal question.”

“Maybe it was personal, if we’re right.” Coppelia opened one of the books she’d carted over, pulling out a sheet of paper scribbled over from top to bottom.

“Let’s look over the information we have, alright? Mr. Stranger there could be some sort of magical being sent by the fairies through the forest- we can’t prove it 100%, but the clues are there. The nun lady said not to go into the forest, even if most people in town spend half their time there without issue-“

“Almost always without issue,” Pinocchio chimed in, though it was a low murmur, and Pierrot couldn’t swear that anyone aside people in close proximity had heard him.

“-and that’s one of the most common places for magical stuff to happen. Which brings us to the conclusion-“

“-that if that shithead’s hiding something, she’s doing it in the woods and stuff,” Mignon finished for her, jovially dark, sitting the wrong way over on Twinkle’s desk chair.

Coppelia nodded grimly, her frown deepening. “Not the words I would have used, but yes, that’s the gist of it. However, if we want to make sure, we- I mean, Eugene thinks we should go check for ourselves.”

Pierrot had often heard kids at school say that the Dawoud sisters were like night and day, despite being that close in age. He hadn’t given such comments much credit, at least until he’d started taking an interest in one of the girls – they looked very much alike, those two, though Coppelia had rounder features and glasses, and her choice in clothes more modest than her older sister’s. They could have passed for twins, he wagered, if they’d wanted to mess with people. He knew he would have, if not for the small detail that Pinocchio was too white for it to work.

Still, he thought he could see it, now. Coppelia was standing there with her new research partner, facing the crowd of their assembled friends with unflinching certainty, which was adorable, honestly, because it meant that Eugene had finally found someone who wouldn’t be swayed by his stubbornness or who, at the very least, was on the same bizarre wavelength as him; meanwhile, Olympia simply sat there, looking increasingly troubled, fidgeting nervously with the hem of her top even as she made to address her sister. “You’re not saying what I think you’re saying, right?”

Coppelia pulled a face, eyebrows raised. “I sure am.”

“But- but that’s mad, Elia. We’re going to get in trouble, and- and even if we don’t, you just said you don’t know what we could find in there. What if it’s something dangerous? Maybe there’s a reason why we were told not to go out of town. We’re not magic, it’s not like we can fight.”

“Speak for yourself,” Mignon said, pulling a lighter out of her back pocket and beginning to twirl it around her fingers. “I’m sure we can work something out, if we find out there’s tree people in there. No offense, Püppchen.”

The last part had been directed at Pinocchio, who only gave her a wan smile, toying with Lampwick’s relaxed hand in what Pierrot recognized as a nervous tic. “None taken,” he replied, somewhat tense, “but I don’t think Olympia is wrong, either. We don’t know what could be waiting for us, if we go into the woods, and it’s a huge area, anyway. How do we guess where to look? And- and what if we get caught, for that matter? Grace and I, we’ve already drawn enough attention. I don’t want anyone else to have problems.”

“Then we won’t get caught.” Ten heads whipped around in unison to stare at him, and it was only then that Pierrot realized he’d been the one to say those words aloud. As per usual, his mouth had started speaking before his brain could catch up with it, but as the boy fumbled to find a follow up, he realized that perhaps his subconscious hadn’t been so out of line.

Olympia, bless her beautiful heart, had been right. It was mad. But maybe…maybe they could work with it, madness and all.

“Think about it,” he continued, the idea shaping up in his mind even as he talked, “I doubt the sheriff has put like, sentinels around the town line, right? And the Mother Superior, we know how her mind works- she just tells us what the rules are and expects us to follow them, because if we don’t, then she can ruin our life because of it anyway. It’s a win/win situation, for her. Which means, all we have to do is get in there when no one’s looking. We’re not getting caught if we go at night.”

“Let’s pretend for a minute that I agree with you, and that what you just said made sense,” Grace interjected, sounding skeptical. “That still doesn’t solve the issue of where to look.”

“I’m getting there. Another thing we know, because that Aireil guy mentioned a below, and the sheriff is getting the mines checked- there could be something happening underground, too. Isn’t that right, Lampwick? That’s what the sheriff wanted your folks to do?”

“Sure was,” Lampwick replied gloomily, raising a peace sign that dripped sarcasm from every pore. “Best day of my fucking life, really.”

There was something unspoken there, too, something so utterly wrong Pierrot couldn’t even begin to formulate what it was, but he couldn’t stop to wonder too deeply on it, now. Finally, they had a path they could follow, and even if it turned out to be wrong, who cared – at least they would be doing something, instead of sitting there like a bunch of rock trolls, staring dumbly at each other and watching other people trying to sort the mess out. Finally he had a way to help his brother, and his brother’s boyfriend, and all the rest of them crowding Twinkle’s room like sardines in a can, even those he wasn’t sure he liked all that much, because each one of them was losing it at the same time, and while Pierrot was slow to anger, as a rule, this situation was really starting to piss him off for good. “So there you go. There’s a mineshaft at the edge of the forest. We start from there and go forward, and if we find a clue, we’ll follow that. It’s as good as any spot, at this point.”

He stood up, then, and though it was mostly so he could make some grand gestures to express his fervor, he made sure to shoot a quick look at Olympia, too, with what he hoped to be a private, reassuring grin.

“And I’ve got a foolproof plan for how to get there, too. Saturday night, we say we’re having a sleepover- I say I’m having one, actually. My mom’s going to want to spend the night with Marco, since it’s the weekend, so if I tell I think Pinocchio needs a distraction to clear his mind – which you do, Pinou, ‘cause pardon my French, but you look like shit – she’ll never say no to people coming over. And if some of you girls can’t stay over at a boy’s house, that’s fine- Grace, you could host a few of them, too. You live in the forest, dammit. You don’t even need an excuse to be there.

“We wait until after dark, then we meet up there and start investigating- no one’s going to notice anything, if we’re back before morning. And if anyone changes their mind, and wants to hold back or turn around- at least they’ll have a spot to return to, and we’re not shaming or getting mad at anyone if they get scared. It’s not a group decision if we force people to come, anyway.”

His gaze swept dramatically over them all, before landing on Grace, smile widening. “So? Do you got any better idea?”

Grace was glaring at him, as per usual, but then she looked past him altogether, staring at Pinocchio over his shoulder, a silent, blatant question in her eyes. For his part, Pinocchio held her gaze for a handful of seconds, and afterwards he turned to Eugene, the same question bouncing over as though their diminutive, unbendable friend had all the answers in the world.

Eugene seemed to retract against the wall even further under such piercing attention, but he appeared to be thinking over the matter deeply, too, as he did with everything else. “It’s not a terrible plan,” he said, in the end, clearly reluctant. “It might just work, if we’re careful.”

That was pretty much a knighthood, coming from him. “Then I say we try it,” Pierrot replied, triumphantly.

“The way I see it, the matter is settled, ladies, gentlemen, and Mignon. Into the woods, the time is now, into the woods to sell the cow.”

Chapter Text

The Enchanted Forest, about 40 years ago

“Pinocchio!” Jiminy called out, clearly out of breath. “Turn back right now!”

Pinocchio ignored him, as he’d done since he’d headed down the path Madam Fox and Master Cat had shown them. He liked Jiminy, but this was more important than who he liked or disliked. He had money to make, after all.

The cricket didn’t seem discouraged by his obstinacy, however, seeing as he kept jumping forward to keep ahead of the little puppet he was in charge of, hopping onto tree roots and broken fences to gain a little more height. “Can’t you see you’re being tricked? You should go back to your father’s house with the coins you have, and be thankful you’re all in one piece! Nothing good’s going to come out of this, mark my words.”

“But if I plant them, we’ll have so many more,” Pinocchio replied stubbornly, because he knew how important that was, at least.

“Money trees don’t exist, Pinocchio. You’re just looking for trouble again, acting like this.”

“Says you.”

“Says- of course says me! I’m trying to keep you safe, young man, even if you’re making my job much harder than it needs to be. Are you out of your mind? Or have you already forgotten what the Blue Fairy told you?”

Of course Pinocchio hadn’t forgotten. It wasn’t like he’d had much else to do as she spoke, being stuck in a cage and all that. He had listened. He just wasn’t sure the Blue Fairy and Jiminy had to always be right about everything, honestly.

Alright, Jiminy had been right about the Fire Eater being bad news. That much was true. But just because the Blue Fairy had had to break him out of the travelling caravan, that didn’t mean Pinocchio was going to need help like that again anytime soon. He was trying to do good, he was.

The boy bounced the golden coins in his hand, his pace slowing down as he got lost in thought. They were already worth a considerable amount, from what little he’d seen around his village; they probably would help his father quite a lot as it was. And Pinocchio did miss home – he wanted to sleep in his own bed again, instead of being threatened to be used as firewood and left out of dinner. The urge to give in and go back the way he’d come was very strong, right now.

But- if this was a lot of money, he couldn’t imagine how much more could sprout out of it, once planted. Pinocchio certainly couldn’t count that high yet. They could be well off and still have enough to hand out to other people in town, the nice ones, who gave Geppetto spare logs and unsold fruit when they knew he hadn’t worked in a while. Everything would end up fine, with that much gold in their hands.

He just had to get through the forest first, and head to the Field of Miracles. Easy. No forest in the land could hope to scare him like that. He was braver than everyone thought, even the Blue Fairy.

Pinocchio didn’t say that part aloud, just in case he didn’t sound convincing enough and his nose decided to start growing, but he did stop at the edge of the woods, looking up at the giant trees looming over him. He tried to peer past them, too, but the path got a lot darker than it had seemed from a distance, and as such, he couldn’t see farther than a couple dozen feet ahead, if anything. He regretted not having taken a lantern from the Fire Eater’s carriage as well, but at that point he’d been too rattled and ashamed to do much more than run away – he still was, of a sort. He didn’t really want to be stuck in the dark again, this time without even knowing what laid forwards or backwards.

He'd taken the coins, though. They were right there, clutched in his hand, and he had earned them by working as an actor, even if he’d had to take them back from his kidnapper’s coffers. He’d gotten them fair and square, and if he could just multiply them a few times, then he might go back and make his Papa proud and everything would be fixed. Yes. That was the right way to go. He couldn’t be scared of fixing things, could he?

So Pinocchio squared his shoulders, cradled his earnings against his chest, and dove straight down the forest path, ignoring Jiminy’s calls for him to be sensible.

Storybrooke, Present Day

“Are you sure you guys don’t need anything else?” Leona asked, hesitating right before the door in that annoying fashion she’d found creeping up on her once she’d become a mother.

Fortunately, Pierrot had also grown into his own brand of annoyance over time, which was teenage boy who can’t wait for his mother to leave so he can be with his friends – he gave her a blinding grin and a double thumbs up, the picture of reassuring enthusiasm. “Absolutely. We got snacks, we got movies, and don’t worry, I promise I’ll make Pinocchio and Lampwick sleep in separate beds, so they don’t give you grandkids just yet.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s my biggest concern, dear.” She turned her eyes skyward in fond exasperation, praying for patience, then her gaze softened as it moved to Pinocchio, hovering at his brother’s shoulder with much less conviction.

“And you? Is everything alright?”

The boy smiled by reflex, thinner and dimmer than Pierrot’s, but with an earnestness that made her heart clench. “Of course. I’m always alright.”

Leona lifted a hand to pat him on the cheek, searching his expression for anything suspicious. “Forgive an old lady for being doubtful, honey, I can’t help it.”

“He’ll be fine, mom,” Pierrot interjected, leaning comfortably against the other boy’s arm. “We’ll have lots of fun, and you’ll come back to a spotless house, promise.”

“I wouldn’t dare ask for so much. Just take out the trash and…and look after each other, okay? I don’t want to leave Eugene in charge of my own house if I can help it.”

“I think he’d love that, actually.” Pinocchio’s smile broadened ever so slightly, with that warmth that characterized him.

“But we’ll be okay, I promise. We won’t go to sleep too late, either- I can send you a text when we do, if it’ll make you feel better.”

“You boys and your phones.” Leona leaned in to kiss both of their cheeks, grateful once again that they weren’t the kind of children to squirm away from their mother’s affections. “Yes, that would make me feel better, thank you.”

Her own phone had already buzzed once or twice in the past five minutes, since she’d stashed it in her coat pocket. She doubted it could be Marco, who was as technologically averse as her, but it still spurred her to get a move on – Leona suspected it might be texts from Igor, who kept making a point of checking up on her every so often, and that reminded her of what exactly she needed to speak of with Marco, once they were finally alone and away from prying ears.

She was still mad about what the mayor had told her, a couple days earlier. Actually, mad was a mere euphemism – in truth she was so pissed she could feel it dripping from her fingernails, as though it were pouring out of her after tearing at the seams of her body. She had never been so angry in her entire life, and she’d grown up among women who wouldn’t hold back when provoked, ripping into each other barehanded at the washing-house after every perceived slight.

Leona would have loved to do that to the Mother Superior, but Igor had counseled her to bide her time, and so time she was biding, watching and waiting until she had a good excuse to roll her sleeves up. There would be chances to do that, she knew, but first, she needed to look after her children, which included allowing them to have a night of respite from the niceties they put up for grown ups. First she needed to sit Marco down in the privacy of his house and compare what they knew, and ask him what Archie had said when he’d taken Pinocchio home, too, if she could.

With that in mind, she bid her boys goodbye, nodding in acknowledgement to Lampwick who was spreading out sleeping bags in her living room as an excuse to pick at the snacks sitting on the table, and then she finally headed out, pulling out her phone to check what news there were. Be patient, she told herself, gloomily. Don’t be rash. This is not about you. It’s about the children. They deserve to see this handled properly.

Oh, but how Leona hoped they weren’t watching, if she ever managed to deliver a good slap to the Mother Superior. That wasn’t for their sake, it was for her own, and as such, they didn’t need to see their parents’ uglier side if it could be avoided.

And she hoped it would be soon, as well. Very, very soon, because her patience could only stretch so thin, and then-

And then it would snap, and the gods help whoever stood in her way, dammit.

They waited until they’d deemed enough stragglers to have passed by, headed to their own nights out, and only then did they sneak out of the house, leaving locked doors and turned off lights behind.

They’d picked Pierrot’s house and not Pinocchio’s for many reasons – first, it was the biggest of the two; it wouldn’t have made sense to beg for a sleepover in a place with a tiny kitchen and an even tinier TV set, and they’d needed their plan to be believable, not just to work. Second, one could never predict how many people might swing by Geppetto’s workshop for one reason or the other, given how well-known he was in town: for them to turn up and find it empty, and then demand an explanation for it to Pinocchio’s father, would have easily turned into a catastrophe.

And finally, last but not least, Pierrot’s house was in a much less crowded area than Main Street, and as such, it was much easier to creep out unseen, ducking away from the lamppost lights until they’d reached the woodsline. There was a general bout of hesitation before they stepped through the trees, a brief shiver running through the group one after the other, but Pinocchio didn’t seem to perceive it – he plunged right in without flinching, and the rest of them couldn’t help but follow, after exchanging a collective, puzzled glance.

They had been in the forest countless times before, playing games away from adult supervision, but this was starkly different; there was no giggling or pushing each other around, tonight, just hushed whispers in the off chance someone had keen enough ears to bust their little plan. Pierrot had to swallow multiple jokes back down, stopping them just before they left his mouth – they would have made him a lot less nervous, sure, but he couldn’t risk going into a hysterical fit at the moment, nor get noisily bashed on the arm by a disgruntled Ava wielding her father’s huge torch lamp.

They were first at the meeting spot, which left them hovering awkwardly in a small clearing like a bunch of tools. Only Pinocchio, once again, had that far-away, determined look on his face that made him stick out like a sore thumb among them all – he’d wrapped his arms around himself as tight as a shield, despite the uncomfortable humidity of the woods, and was staring straight ahead, as though he could see something his friends could not.

Pierrot didn’t like that look one bit, honestly, but neither was he the kind of guy to carefully ask what was wrong – instead he threw a companionable arm around his stepbrother’s shoulders, coaxing out his own special occasions’ grin. “Cheer up, Pinou. We’ll have a chance to be detectives very soon.”

Pinocchio didn’t smile back, which was worrying enough, but then he also lowered his gaze, frowning slightly. “I hope you’re wrong,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry, but- I really hope we don’t find anything, tonight. I doubt that’s what’s going to happen, but…”

He had brought along that thrice cursed green scarf, Pierrot noted with a jolt of unpleasant surprise. It was tied loosely around his wrist, but Pinocchio kept pulling and tugging at the knot and strands anyway, as though it was chafing against his skin – not the worst tic to have, but certainly an ominous one, right now.

Pierrot’s grin dimmed, but he forced it back up bravely, refusing to let doubt creep into his voice. “Don’t apologize. That’s the mark of a real detective- I bet even Sherlock Holmes was happy when he got no clues, since it meant there was no crime.”

“That’s because you don’t know how to fucking read, Piero.”

Their heads snapped up at the new voice, caught off-guard. Mignon had materialized not a few feet from them – her flashlight was pointed at the ground, and yet her smug grin was clear enough all the same, amused by their surprise. “Fancy meeting you here, lads. What are nice kids like you doing in this nasty place?”

Grace stepped around her with an annoyed huff, followed by the Dawoud sisters. “Cut it out. You’ll attract bears if you keep being loud like that.”

“God, I wish.”

“Not those bears, Mignon. And the joke’s getting old, by the way.” She waved her not-light-bearing hand around, clutching some sort of paper roll tightly. “So? Are we doing this or not?”

“Yeah.” Pinocchio pulled out of Pierrot’s grasp, stepping resolutely towards the girl. “Did you have any problems getting out of the house?”

Grace shook her head, a thin, grim line creasing her forehead. “I don’t have people sleeping over often, so my dad was very keen on- not being in the way, I guess. He went to bed early, but I left him a note if he wakes up- we’re playing flashlight hide and seek near the house right now, for all intents and purposes.”

She handed him the roll, then, mindless of his confused look. “Anyway, I got one of his maps. He has a ton of those- this should be the area we want to check out, more or less.”

Oh, now they were talking. “I’ll take that, if you don’t mind,” Pierrot cut in, smoothly, going to spread the map open as far as his arms would allow. “Our friend here has many qualities, but he does not have a sense of direction.”

Grace rolled her eyes, but mercifully took a step back and let him work, limiting herself to glaring at the drawings over his shoulder. “Didn’t Mignon just say you don’t know how to read?”

“Mais oui, mon amie, but luckily, this is all pictures.” Noticing the others had come closer to see for themselves, he plopped a corner of the map in Nicholas’ grasp, so he could have a free hand to trace along the desired path and his friend could be of some use for once.

“It’s pretty straightforward, actually- if we keep going this way, and then turn left just before the old Merry Men camp, we should be at the mineshaft in no time. Then we can decide if we want to stick together or split up so we can cover more space.”

“That’s how they get Scooby Doo every time, dumbass,” Twinkle snorted, flicking at the parchment with her finger. “We go in together, we stay together. That’s the plan.”

No one could argue with that kind of logic, least of all him. When they set out again, the group was much more crowded than before, though this time the oppressive air seemed to have been lifted off some, despite Grace’s presence – there were more conversations picking up behind Pierrot’s back, and even the occasional nervous laugh, promptly suffocated before it got too loud. He would have liked to hang back to walk beside Olympia, himself, but she was holding tightly onto Coppelia’s hand, and he had his own sibling to keep an eye on, besides.

Hopefully there would be other chances to play knight in shining armor later – or none at all, as it was. His brother had been dead right, unfortunately. For how much Pierrot wanted to feel the thrill of discovery, the excitement of being the ones to unveil something the big names in town hadn’t seen yet, the whole business seemed gnarly enough already. He didn’t want to solve a mystery if it brought grief to Pinocchio, or Lampwick, or Eugene, who looked even more disgruntled than usual at present, his thin flashlight lingering on Pierrot’s brother every so often as if fearing the latter would simply vanish in the darkness.

At least there was Mignon keeping spirits up. God bless that unpredictable German firecracker, really. “It’s a lot warmer than I thought,” she commented, briefly handing Ava her torch so she could shed her jacket. “Don’t know if it’s magic stuff or global warming, but I don’t like either of those options, guys.”

“Pinocchio said it was like that in the chapel back in Camelot, too,” Lampwick replied, with all the snark and bravado of someone who wasn’t keeping a discreet hand on his boyfriend’s arm and glancing back every so often to check how said boyfriend was faring. “So my guess is definitely magic.”

“Great. So how come the convent used to feel like a bloody freezer in winter? The Mother Superior not giving Mr. Gold enough action to cover the heating bill?”

There was a chorus of muffled groans as soon as the joke landed. It was an outrageous image to conjure in anyone’s brain; and yet despite that, if Pierrot had closed his eyes and soaked in the squabbling, he could almost have pretended this was merely a simple outdoor stroll, where they could piss each other off and cause just enough mayhem to leave trace of their passage without resorting to littering. That was the kind of stuff people their age were supposed to be doing on a Saturday night – sure, there ought to have been a lot more smoking pot and receiving noise complaints according to old school movies, but movies always got that sort of things wrong. Why, Twinkle had had a Virgin Suicides phase one summer, and that depiction had been as ridiculously inaccurate as it had been grim.

But of course, none of them could prop themselves up as a paragon of normalcy. No teenager in the world had ever been in a situation similar to theirs; growing up in a place like the Enchanted Forest had been an unpredictable business for all involved, but the lot of them had been systematically unlucky about it, falling into the sort of predicaments other people’s parents would later use as cautionary tales. What your average Joe, aged something-teen, could find at night in his hometown in, say, Wisconsin, was nowhere close to the crap Pierrot and his crowd were currently investigating – their results might vary between the Mother Superior turning them into toads at best, and a dragon burning them all to a crisp at worst, or the other way around, depending on who you were asking.

Too late to turn back now, though. Off they went, Camelot folks aiming swords at their necks or not.

They had trudged through the mossy path for what felt like half an eternity when they finally reached the entrance to the tunnel, the black and yellow of the caution tape still sticking in shreds to some corners a glaring sight in all that greenery. The group came to a natural stop in near unison, though they seemed to instinctively step a little closer to each other, closing ranks like a herd of buffalos as they regarded their surroundings.

“Now what?” Coppelia spoke up after a moment, standing on her tiptoes to frown balefully over people’s heads and shoulders. “Do we just…go in?”

“Wouldn’t recommend that,” Lampwick muttered, sounding somewhat distant even as his eyes were fixed on the tunnel before them. “Not unless you’ve got the right shoes for it, girlie.”

“Then what, we go in circles around it? We don’t even know what we’re looking for in the first place, for goodness’ sake-“

There was a heavy rustle of leaves somewhere to their left, prompting several flinches and at least a couple startled gasps. Pierrot turned around immediately to look in that direction, but no speed could have been a match for the way Lampwick’s bony arm shot out, pushing him and Pinocchio and a few others behind as the older boy stepped forward, shining his light towards the offending corner. “What the fuck was that?”

“Might just be the wind,” Pierrot ventured from around his elbow. “Or a wild hog. Marco said they can be active this time of day.”

He had tried to make light of it, but even his cheerfulness had fallen flat, betraying how nervous he actually was. There was a good chance it might truly be a wild animal, sure, but his jittery brain didn’t agree that much with such a possibility, and besides, even hogs weren’t exactly the most friendly of creatures – Pinocchio’s dad had said they could become vicious if you approached their piglets, and if there had ever been a time where he might have entertained the notion of disagreeing with Pinocchio’s dad, it certainly wasn’t this.

Still, it appeared his companions had doubts of a different sort. “That can’t be right,” Grace scoffed, pressed tightly against Mignon’s side. “It’d already be onto us, if it was a predator. We’re the ones trespassing, not them.”

She waved her flashlight sternly in the direction the rustling had come from, her voice taking on that imperious tone that Pierrot usually resented so much but that was now a welcome touch of familiarity. “Is anyone there? Either you come out or I’ll come get you myself, your choice.”

He had to admit, that sounded like a good strategy. Horror movie villains tended to prefer their clueless victims running away in terror through a forest like this, not scolding them like unruly children – it was hard to tell whether it had worked or not, given that it was only followed by a faint noise of mud squelching underfoot for a few seconds, but at least no one could say Grace was letting herself be intimidated by the atmosphere.

Then the bushes parted and a slight, sinewy figure stepped into the light, raising his hands in a surrendering motion. “Peace, child. I come unarmed.”

Pierrot stared at the man in stunned silence, dimly aware that around him his friends were doing the same thing. He had only seen this Aireil fellow once, on that blasted day at the beach, but the guy had been a topic of conversation often enough since then that it wasn’t particularly hard to recognize him – the hospital bracelet still hung limply around his wrist, but he was wearing his old clothes instead of the patient’s gown one might have expected, the muted colors blending in with the woods behind him with uncanny precision.

His smile was perfectly visible, though. Far from being rattled by the ten or so pairs of eyes peering at him, he seemed, if anything, faintly amused by the scene unfolding in front of him – he stopped a few feet from the group and let his arms drop down, loosely clasping his hands together.

“My apologies if I have scared you,” he said, amiably. “’Tis not a time when one might predict having company, walking through the night.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” This was Lampwick again, still sturdily planted in his defensive stance – it reminded Pierrot, in a brief, bizarre flash, of some pictures he’d seen in documentaries over the years, of buffalo herds running in circles around the weakest members and penguins flapping their arms to protect a gaggle of fluffy chicks from a bird of prey. “The sheriff said you were under observation. You telling me they let you out already?”

Aireil quirked an eyebrow, still more bemused than anything else. “Ah, yes. I do believe the nurses of this land were- concerned about my well-being, to put it mildly. But alas, I had to take my leave with or without their permission. Duty calls, for I have been summoned.”

“By whom?” Grace asked through gritted teeth, her eyes narrowed.

“Why, by my mistress, of course. I need to return to my post- a journey you lot seemed to have in mind, as well, given that you came all the way here from your lovely town.”

“Wait, what?”

But the man ignored the question completely, instead bowing his head deeply, a look of almost reverential worship writ over his face even though there was no one to direct it to.

“My lady, if you may?”

Pierrot had wanted to ask him what the hell was going on with him, or if he was sure the doctors hadn’t pumped him full of drugs before he left, given the utter nonsense of his words, but there was no time for it. A moment he was opening his mouth to argue, or laugh at this stranger, or say something stupid to reassure his friends, and the moment after the ground was giving out from under his feet, sending him and the others staggering amidst cries of surprise.

It was as quick as a heartbeat, probably, but Pierrot watched it pass in near slow motion, as if his brain had given up on sense at last. As he slid down relentlessly, all he was aware of was Pinocchio’s clammy, convulsed hand clamping him over the arm, and what he could have sworn was his brother’s voice hissing “Not again,” but there was no time to parse through that, either, and the deafening, earthquake-like rumbling all around them would have defeated any purpose for conversation, besides – it went on and on and on, loud and maddening, completely absurd for how out of nowhere it had come.

Then, it fell silent, and everything went dark, Pinocchio’s grip slipping out and away from his shirtsleeve altogether.

Chapter Text

????

Pinocchio opened his eyes, only to be greeted by pitch black darkness.

A stab of panic rammed through his chest, already frantically trying to scramble around for any kind of clue about where he was, but then there was a dim shuffling to his right, and he felt foreign fingers crawling up his leg, prodding at him for a moment before clinging to his shirt, and Eugene’s voice asking, nervous and tentative: “Who’s this?”

Relief flooded Pinocchio like a tidal wave, and he took his friend by the arm, grateful for that one thing anchoring him in all that blindness. “It’s me, Gene. You’re alright. Everything’s alright.”

“Like hell it is.” His eyes still hadn’t adjusted to the dark, but he could have sworn this was Mignon speaking, harsh and heavily rattled. “Can’t even find the fucking- hold on. I’ve got this.”

A click, and then the flame of a lighter flickering to life, dancing in front of the girl’s face as she held it aloft. “That’s better. Speak up- anyone hurt? Grace?”

“Over here.” Grace’s golden hair glinted briefly in the firelight as she let her best friend hoist her up to her feet, dusting off her clothes with stiff, enraged movements. “What the hell just happened?”

“I don’t know,” Pinocchio made to reply, but it probably came out more garbled than he’d intended as wave of nausea hit him like a slap – he’d been trying to stand up, too, testing the terrain he’d landed on to perhaps guess what it might be, but the way his head was spinning forced him to stop, kneeling over with his hands braced against the ground.

Mud, he thought distantly, as if woozy enough to detach himself from the situation. It felt like common, unimpressive mud, sticking unpleasantly to his skin – it was a relief, in a way; wherever they might be, there were a dozen less savory things they might have been standing in the middle of. He had to look at the silver lining. He had to-

A hand came to cup the back of his skull, grounding him even more than Eugene’s touch already had. “You okay?”

Lampwick’s voice, along with Lampwick’s heavy, steady grip. That was good. It meant a huge load lifted from Pinocchio’s shoulders, if Lampwick was hale and whole to begin with. “Kind of.”

He clung to the other even as he made another attempt at standing, leaning heavily against Lampwick’s arm while he looked around, mentally ticking off what little he could see. His eyes hadn’t adjusted to anything beyond Mignon’s faint cone of light, but even so he could still recognize the people present, his boyfriend’s drawn face and the German girl, and Grace holding Mignon’s wrist with one hand and gripping the sleeve of Eugene’s hoodie with the other, and-

And nothing else. Even after a frantic, cursory glance around, no one else made their presence known, vocally or not. No one was nearby. The twins and the sisters and Pinocchio’s own brother and Twinkle – all gone, vanished in the collapsing rubble that had led them there, whatever there meant in the first place.

Slowly, as if in a trance, he pulled out his phone, a few of the others following suit around him. The glowing screens stretched out their field of view some, but not by much, and the ground was as barren as they’d first suspected.

No way to contact anyone, either. The tiny icon at the top of Pinocchio’s phone was resolutely gray, announcing a lack of both signal and internet connection – the last notification was still that of Leona’s message, when he’d texted her to reassure her about the state of their alleged sleepover. Thank you. I love you boys. Goodnight.

The guilt that smacked him in the face at the sight of those six simple words was nearly enough to make him double over again. What the fuck had gotten into him? He’d told Leona they were going to sleep, damn it all. He’d lied to her. She’d trusted them to behave in her house for one night, and Pinocchio had lied to her and caused everyone to walk into a dangerous trap, and now Pierrot was missing and if anyone got hurt it would be his fault – he felt so viscerally disgusted with himself he had to fight the urge to puke, fumbling to delete the notification and dig out the built-in flashlight instead.

“Where is everyone?” Eugene ventured, clearly still clinging to the previous train of thought and momentarily snapping him out of his freak-out. “We can’t have gotten separated like this, we were all right there. Where did they go?”

Grace inhaled sharply, her breath hissing through her teeth. “Where did we go? This- none of this makes sense. Did we just- fall somewhere? That’s bullshit. Where’s that guy?”

“We don’t know if he did anything. We were on mined ground- maybe we were standing on a weak spot and we didn’t know.”

“That’s not how it works.” Pinocchio could feel Lampwick stiffen up beside him, tense like a violin string. “The timing was a little too good for it to be an accident, Gene. Don’t fool yourself- this is some magic bullshit for sure.”

“You tell me where the hell we are, then, since you’re the expert in magic travels-“

“Cut this crap out,” Mignon snapped, the light shaking as she glared at them both. “This is useless, and you guys are pissing me off. Let’s start figuring out what’s going on here, and then you can beat each other up.”

“Listen to your friend, young ones.”

The new voice made them all flinch, the flame petering out in the sudden flurry of movement. Even so, the darkness didn’t seem to bother the invisible newcomer much, as it continued, undeterred by their shock: “But there will be no need for violence, now. All of you are safe here. No harm will be dealt to you, or your lost companions.”

And suddenly, light was everywhere. Pinocchio hurried to shield his eyes with the hand not holding onto Lampwick for dear life, but there were still blinding white bursts blossoming behind his eyelids despite that, and it took a long few seconds for him to dare crack one open again to peer between his fingers – and then he let the hand fall limply on its own, all but gaping at the sight surrounding them.

Some people might have called it a cave. It certainly had the looks of one, with its broad, uneven walls that now shined black and brown and green in the new light, with rocks coated in moss jutting out of the ground and climbing vines hanging lazily here and there; and yet Pinocchio only had to glance at the high, vaulted ceiling for his mind to be reminded of a cathedral, the grand ones he’d seen in art books, with the stained glass windows he’d always hoped to be able to copy. It went on and on and on, so tall it seemed to disappear into the darkness – the more he looked at it, the more he had to wonder if they’d actually had to take such a great fall, given how they were all unharmed and not concussed.

And lower, much lower, there stood a woman, in a patch of mud they could have sworn to be empty not a couple minutes earlier. Her barely average height and the overbearing nature of their surroundings ought to have made her look small and insignificant, and yet there was something to her that drew the eye, an invisible spotlight of sort – her dark hair was bound in twin braids that went almost to her waist, a ribbon wrapping around her head, and her long robes, though all in muted colors, shimmered suspiciously when she moved, as if weaved with gold or silver thread.

She was smiling, too. The sight of that smile made Pinocchio’s stomach sink low in his belly, as all the suspicions he’d tried to suffocate since the forest floor had started to shake bubbled up again. So I was right. But- please, no, I don’t want this. Anything but this.

The woman inclined her head graciously, mindless of the turmoil she’d caused. “Greetings, young ones,” she said, her voice high and musical. “Be welcome in these halls, and be merry- I will vouch for your safety at every turn, for you are all my guests, tonight.”

“You.” More than hearing it, Pinocchio felt the word rumble through Lampwick’s chest, his boyfriend all but growling as he leaned forward, his grip iron-tight on the other’s shoulder.

“What the fuck are you doing here? I thought we’d never have to see your mug again.”

She raised an eyebrow, perfectly unfazed. “I could ask you the same thing, child. ‘Twas you who wandered off once again, not me.”

“Pinocchio?” Grace materialized at his flank, a puzzled, wary frown on her face as her gaze flitted between Pinocchio and the newcomer. “Do you know this lady?”

“Yes, I do.” The boy swallowed thickly before he continued, his eyes still glued on that self-satisfied grin, the taste of something foul and rancid and green lingering on his tongue.

“Grace, Gene, Mignon- let me introduce you to Lady Morgana, the sorceress.”

There was a lull of stunned silence that followed that declaration, devoid even of the fluttering noises that had punctuated their walk through the woods.

Then Morgana threw her head back and let out a tittering laugh, high and charming like ringing bells. “My word, young sir, what gallantry you use! King Arthur himself never deigned to address me with even a fraction of this courtesy- should I be impressed, since you have grown in manners as much as you’ve done in body?”

Lampwick’s hand burned with the need to punch her in the teeth and be done with it. As he doubted it’d do them any favor, however, and considering she was most likely the reason why they’d stumbled inside that hellhole, he limited himself to sneering at her with as much contempt as he dared, shifting ever so slightly in front of the rest of the group. “You still going around kidnapping people? Ain’t you tired yet?”

The woman’s eyes shined dangerously, though she was still smiling at them all, blinding white. “Again, boy, I did nothing to lure you away from your homes tonight. Be fair with me, if you please. You came seeking answers, and answers I will give you, if it is in my power to do so.”

“Wait.” This was Mignon, glaring with blatant suspicion at the newcomer as she swatted his  shielding arm aside. “This the lady the sheriff was talking about? The one who took the little princess? Where the fuck is she, then?”

“She is safe, worry not about her. Her health is of the utmost importance to me, at the moment. But as a token of good faith- Aireil?”

The wily stranger all but materialized out of nowhere at her side, bowing deeply and startling them all with his sudden appearance. “My lady?”

“Bring forth the child, will you? I ought to give our guests proof of my sincerity. Only then will we be free to discuss my request.”

Aireil bowed again with a nod, as if taking his leave, but he was interrupted halfway by another voice piping up from the group, heavy with mistrust. “So I was right, then.”

It was Eugene, this time, stepping forward with a cold look in his eyes that would have put the mayor to shame. The man spared him a quick glance, frowning in puzzlement. “About what, young sir?”

“You are the guy in the book we found. The spirit one. You’re a witch’s slave, just like him.”

“You might want to learn some politeness from your friend, boy,” Morgana cautioned him, even too lightly. “My companion here is bound by ties you could hardly understand, and it is generally unwise to address any lady as a witch.”

“I’m always polite,” Eugene replied, not budging an inch, stoic face and all.

“But I also call things like I see them. I’ve heard your name before, and not connected to anything good, and even if you say it’s our fault we’re stuck here, we’re still stuck here with you. I’ll use nicer words when I have a reason to, ma’am.”

Lampwick tended to be profoundly annoyed by Eugene’s antics, at least when he was not taking them as a personal challenge, but right now he was grateful for their continued presence. Very little could push Eugene off of his self-built pedestal, and if they’d yet to reach that point, that could only mean good news for everyone involved.

Mercifully, though, Morgana didn’t seem to be ready to punish insolence by magically smiting them all either – in fact, her smile took an even more disturbing curve then, growing sharper and more satisfied. “You are not afraid to speak your mind, I see. That is good. It will be much needed, in the days to come.”

Aireil had taken the chance to skulk off in the shadows while the focus had been on someone else, it seemed; when he returned, it was as swift and surprising as his first arrival – but he wasn’t alone, this time around. In his arms was a small, gangly bundle that seemed to reflect the impossible light around them in a weird shimmer.

Despite his better judgement, Lampwick found himself leaning forward as Morgana took the child in her own arms, no less confused than he’d been before. Princess Enid was a slip of a girl, with a chubby face and dark brown curls falling in her eyes – closed eyes, as if she were sleeping peacefully, without a care in the world. Her chest was rising and falling regularly, at least, and her limbs hung limply in the sorceress’ hold, not even trying to cling to anything.

Around her, no more than a few inches’ distance from the girl’s tan skin, there appeared to be some kind of flimsy veneer, like a thin-walled fishbowl of sorts. It swirled and shined unevenly, the way oily puddles made rainbows in the sunlight if you looked at them the right way, and when Lampwick instinctively raised a hand to touch it, mesmerized, he couldn’t so much as brush against the surface, an invisible force pushing him away. “What the hell is this? What’d you do to her?”

“Given her a shield,” Morgana murmured, eyes fixed on Enid, swaying ever so slightly on the spot as if to rock her.

“This is old magic, though you would never guess it yourself. Not many in this kingdom would know how to break it, for it would take fairy tools or dwarven blades. She will be kept safe until needed, for nothing can get in- she cannot get out, either, but she does not know that, and never will, gods willing. She is sleeping a dreamless sleep, for now, and has since I retrieved her from Camelot.”

“Bullshit. I’ve heard her just the other day, down in the mines. What was the deal with that?”

“Ah, but are you sure it was this child you heard, young one?”

He hadn’t noticed she had drawn this close, before she shifted Enid’s weight to only one arm and lifted the other hand to caress his face, the touch warm and yet sending a horrified shiver down his spine before the boy had the presence of mind to rear back out of reach. Morgana’s smile had a sickening, almost motherly air to it, now, or maybe it was just his befuddled brain playing tricks on him.

“There are many things in this land you could not fathom in your own home,” she continued, low and wistful. “Things you need to be wary of, if you are to live another day. Wisps, spirits…ghosts, perhaps. Do not take anything you see or hear at face value, for it might be only your mind searching for shapes in the clouds. Arthur’s daughter has never awoken in my care. Look elsewhere, if you wish to find who has frightened you so much.”

She can’t know about that, Lampwick thought, paralyzed by sudden terror. Ain’t no way she knows. She’s just guessing. Just throwing shit out to scare you.

But even as he fervently tried to convince himself, he didn’t find the explanation very convincing, for some reason. There was a knowing look in Morgana’s eyes, twinkling with merriment despite their somber surroundings – I see you, that look said, all too amused for his liking. I heard what you heard. You can’t hide it from me.

But it was impossible. He’d heard something impossible, down in the mines. He wasn’t about to let a damn witch get into his head, no matter how hard she tried to convince him. He’d had enough of magic people wiggling their fingers and ruining his life – everyone’s life, honestly. His priority at the moment was getting them all out before someone got hurt again, Pinocchio and Mignon and all the rest, and Twinkle, wherever she was.

Fuck, he really wished Twinkle was there with them, right now. She’d spent a sizable chunk of her life moving through servant quarters and sucking up to a dirty bastard of a man – she would have known how to read Aireil’s obsequious glances at Morgana better than all of them combined, he was sure of it.

“What are you doing here?” He repeated, forcing himself to keep his voice steady. “Why did you bring us here? What is here, anyway?”

Instead of an answer, though, all he got was Pinocchio speaking up from beside him, distant and yet more sure of himself than he looked. “She needs us for something,” the younger boy said, his gaze fixed on the woman like that of a statue.

“You said so yourself, didn’t you, Lady Morgana? You told us the princess’ safety and ours is important for you at the moment. You just didn’t tell us why- and I think you should tell us, at this point. We won’t be doing anything for you until you give us an explanation.”

Where had this Pinocchio been, in the past week? Not that Lampwick was particularly relieved to see his boyfriend acting like that, mind – this act of steeling himself had come too much out of nowhere to be relieving, especially considering their situation – but it was a bit impressive, really. Pinocchio’s back had straightened, and even the sunken look on his face seemed to have disappeared, replaced by a flat, rigid acceptance. He hadn’t appeared so full of energy in ages, from what Lampwick remembered, at least not since-

An image flashed across his brain, quick and unbidden, like a frame cut out of a movie: Pinocchio with the same staunch determination but several inches shorter, rushing through the fighting in Camelot’s grand hall to stand between the queen and a green, headless stone lady. Lampwick had cursed him black and blue back then, watching his best friend risking his own neck for seemingly no reason, but Pinocchio hadn’t wavered, nor was he wavering now, despite the clear danger bearing down on them in both cases.

Privately, Lampwick found it all unnerving. He was supposed to be the one with the shitty, reckless ideas, not Pinocchio. He couldn’t look out for his boyfriend if they kept going on like this, with their roles reversed and the world going arse up and head down.

At least Morgana didn’t seem intent on trampling them down just yet, albeit that could change in the blink of an eye. Instead she nodded gravely, hoisting Princess Enid a little bit higher as she adjusted her grip. “Nor would I demand anything else from you,” she replied, holding Pinocchio’s glare for a long moment before scanning the rest of the group critically.

“Young friends, ‘tis not out of anger that I have summoned you, but out of grave need. Yes, I need your help- with many things, as it stands, including the safety of this very child. A great change is afoot in my kingdom- our kingdom, and I cannot guarantee it will be a pleasant change, if you do not help me intervene. It might not even be a kingdom anymore, when all is said and done, especially if we fail.”

“Stop speaking in fucking riddles-“ Lampwick began, all but growling, but was interrupted by the sorceress stern glance, signaling that she wasn’t done yet.

“But that is the truth, child,” she said, surprisingly soft.

“This is my homeland, the land of spirits and fairies, and soon, it will be a land without a king. I need your help to make sure that the one who next takes his crown will not bring great pain- to me, to the other subjects, and to some of you most of all, for you lot are in more danger than you could ever imagine.”

Chapter Text

The Enchanted Forest, about 40 years ago

Pinocchio had expected to be a little cold in the forest, but instead it was the opposite; if he’d been real, he’d have probably been sweating buckets by then.

It didn’t make any sense. It was almost nightfall. Night was colder than day, which was why he was supposed to be back inside before sundown, rather than out playing or running away. And he could see that there seemed to be a storm coming, dark clouds piling up overhead and peeking out among the treetops as he rushed by – usually it got colder when it was about to rain, the wind picking up and keeping him cool, but right now it was hard to even breathe, as though he’d walked into a swamp instead of the woods.

But maybe that was his fault, too. Maybe it was hard to feel cold when you were on the run, darting away from people who wanted your coin.

He dared sneak a glance over his shoulder as he tried to pick up the pace, hopping over fallen logs and anthills. The two hooded figures were still hot on his heels, but they seemed to be slowing down a little, though it was hard to tell when it was so dark, and Pinocchio sure wasn’t going to stop to check. Instead, he turned back around and kept going, swallowing a whimper that threatened to climb out of his mouth – crying wouldn’t be of any use right now. He needed to breath to keep running.

He wished Jiminy was still there with him, even though he’d been the one to leave his conscience behind, doing his best to skip ahead of his lectures. Maybe a little cricket wouldn’t have done much of a difference against two fellows who said they were assassins, but at least Pinocchio wouldn’t have felt so alone in there. The forest was very big and frightening all on his lonesome, and every noise was making him jump out of his wooden skin, thinking his hunters had somehow caught up with him and were about to grab him.

Stupid. He should have listened to Jiminy when he’d had the chance to. He should have listened to the Blue Fairy – what had she said, when she’d freed him from the Fire Eater’s clutches? Go straight back to your father. Get home before it’s dark. And stay away from the forest path – I will not be able to help you, if you go in there. And off he’d gone, doing just the opposite of all that. No reason to start sniffling like a baby now, since he’d gotten into trouble all by himself.

A shimmer of light up ahead caught his attention, then, almost making him stumble and lose precious advantage. Maybe he’d gotten to the other side of the woods after all – no, it couldn’t be, there were still too many trees around. The nearest village still had to be very far away, too distant to be of any help to him.

Still, as Pinocchio made his way to where the shine had come from, he realized someone must be living there after all, for there in the clearing was a little house, all white and pleasant, quite different from the forest surrounding it. He’d thought the light might be coming from some lanterns, but there seemed to be none hanging from the walls – in fact, it was hard to tell if there was anyone home at all, since the windows were dark as well, and no sound was coming from inside its walls. Bizarrely, it felt like the house itself was shining, so white it glimmered in the coming moonlight and near hurt the puppet’s eyes.

Well, no matter. His legs were almost giving out as it was – he wouldn’t be getting much farther than that, even if by some miracle the assassins hadn’t already gotten to him. The only thing that was left for him to do was throw himself at the door and bang on it with his fists, desperately calling for anyone to answer. “Help! Help! I’m chased by assassins! Someone, please help me!”

For a long, terrifying moment, nothing seemed to stir. Then there was a creaking noise coming from up high, and Pinocchio lifted his gaze to see a window opening, and a face appeared in the frame; it was hard to catch any details from down below, but the contrast between that pale apparition and the darkness inside made it seem like there was no body at all behind the face – it simply hung there, round and wax-white like a small moon, and kept staring straight ahead, rather than looking at the boy addressing them.

“No one lives in this house,” the face said, flat and distant. “Everyone is dead here.”

“Can’t you open the door for me, at least?” Pinocchio pleaded, growing more frantic by the second.

“I cannot. I also am dead.”

“Then what are you doing out here, then?”

“I am just waiting for the coffin to take me away. You should do the same.”

Then the figure disappeared again, sinking back inside the house as the window closed with an ominous whine.

“Wait!” Pinocchio shouted desperately, making to hammer at the door again, but before he could take a step he felt hands grabbing at his arms and neck, dragging him away from the little white house. He tried to wiggle out of his captors’ hands, but all he managed to do was instinctively toss the golden coins into his mouth, clamping it closed before they could be torn out of his grasp.

“Now we have you,” he heard one of the assassins say, and his heart sank with fear as the other one giggled, as if quite delighted by the turn of events.

“Let’s see if we can make this puppet sing again, uh?”

Storybrooke, present day

Bertilak woke up clawing at his throat, choking on his own breath.

It only took him a few seconds to regain his senses and remember where he was, but they were amongst the longest seconds in his life, stretching out indefinitely into ages. Once he’d finally realized there was no force bearing down on him, though, and that his head was still attached securely to his neck, he inhaled slowly, prolongedly, waiting until his heart had settled down to look around the room.

Lancelot was still asleep, mercifully, laid on his side on the other bed. That was good. The younger knight had lost many hours of sleep since the girl had vanished – understandably so, Bertilak wagered. He knew that he would have likely done the same, had it been one of his children who’d been taken in the dead of night. Even now he wished he could step into their nursery and check on their safety, though they were not as much in danger as their father was, held at their mother’s bosom, their other father standing guard.

Bertilak missed them all deeply, his babies, his wife, and with them brave, valiant Gawain. He would have gone back to them in a heartbeat, if he could, but duty weighed on him as heavy as chainmail – he had to fulfill his promise to bring the child home, before he could follow suit. His hands were already stained with the blood of one king; failing a princess as well would have been an unbearable blow, especially if it meant failing his queen and his friend Lancelot as well.

As quietly as he could, the lord crept out of bed, padding across the room to look out the window. The inn they were staying at for the length of their mission – the owner had called it a bed and breakfast, but Bertilak’s tongue refused to speak it out loud, finding it an ungainly name – was sparse and unremarkable, except for the fact that it stood at the very heart of Storybrooke, right where the town was most lively. He had no clue of what might have woken him up, but logic would have it be some passerby outside, speaking loudly or driving their bothersome carriages of steel and noise.

Except- there was no one in sight, when he stuck his head out to check. The weather was as pleasant as one might expect from later in spring, but not a soul was out and about, probably owing to the unconventional hour of the night. There seemed to be nothing nearby that could have startled him awake with such urgency, not even by mistake.

Bertilak slowly retreated from the window, feeling a bizarre shiver run down his spine despite the warmth. He did not know if it was merely a nightmare still lingering at the back of his mind, but there appeared to be something overbearing looming above him, a dark omen of sorts, whispering in his ear to unsheathe his blade before it was too late.

Preposterous, perhaps. He was in no danger at present, nor was Lancelot – he had spent enough time on the battlefields to be able to single that presentiment out, at least. He knew that Princess Emma and Lady Regina would look out for them, if needed, and guest right protected him from the innkeeper’s ire, though only for a time. They were as safe as they could hope to be, in a situation such as theirs.

And yet, something was wrong in Storybrooke. Maybe not much; maybe not in a way that ought to inconvenience him; but something had roused him from his slumber, and try as he might, he could not shake the sensation off, even as he made his way back to bed and forced himself to try and doze off facing the wall. The muffled prayer he raised to the gods died halfway out of his mouth, as well, and Bertilak was surprised to hear his own voice praying for others instead, for the protection of every other soul in town, those he knew best above all.

Might be he was just getting old and paranoid, but paranoia had led him to an axe drenched with blood, once, and he did not wish that fate to the children of this world, even if they were not Princess Enid.

Below

The declaration was met with stunned silence.

Said silence seemed to go on forever – that is, until Mignon broke it with an indignant scoff. “What? You think we’ve got anything to do with choosing kings? Fuck off. You picked the wrong crowd, lady.”

Grace was inclined to agree, though with much less flippancy that her best friend was displaying, probably as a shield to her true feelings. The last time any king or queen had taken an interest in her, her father had been whisked away for a whole curse – she wasn’t keen on repeating the experience, not when her friends might take the brunt of it, this time.

“’Twas not me who made the pick,” Morgana replied, unmoved by the harshness of the words.

“You are the only crowd I would trust with this task. Your position is…peculiar, to say the least. The rest of those heroes your world boasts would not understand the need for the duty I am about to place on your shoulders.”

“Stop with the fucking riddles-“

“Why us?” Pinocchio interrupted her, raising a tentative hand. “Why does it always have to be us?”

His voice was as firm and uncharacteristically adult as it had been in the sheriff’s office, but Grace thought she could sense a pleading note in it, though she was unsure whether the others had caught it at all. She knew that vague desperation, too; he had been the same when they’d had their quarrel, and when she’d found him wandering the hospital hallways like a lunatic – he wanted so bad to count himself out of this situation, as bad as she did, or perhaps more, loathe as Grace was to admit it.

Unfortunately, it seemed Morgana had other plans for their night. “I will show you, if you allow me. But we have to hurry- our time is preciously limited, and I would not arouse anyone’s suspicions, if I can avoid it.”

She motioned for her servant to take the little princess back, and then added, with a somber look: “Aireil will ensure the child is returned to her safe alcove. As for you- follow me. It will be easier for me to explain, once you have seen what I intend to show you.”

“Do we have a choice?” Eugene asked, flatly.

“Of course you do, child. The choice is whether you come with me and listen to my words, before I point you to the way home, or you remain here, and attempt to find a passage yourselves. I am not your lady, nor your mistress.”

Grace was acutely aware that Pinocchio was looking at her, now. A week ago perhaps she would have hated him for it – he was so blatantly trying to share the burden of this decision with her, he wasn’t even slick about it. A week ago she would have told him to act as he pleased, and let her do the same, as they weren’t joined at the hip, damn it all.

But a lot had changed in that week, and Grace knew better, now. She knew that they were in this together, whatever this was, and that together they needed to stick, like a pack…or a gaggle of sardines caught in the same net, as you pleased. So instead of flipping him off, she took Pinocchio’s hand and whispered, sternly: “I told you you’re not keeping me out of the loop anymore. Face it, your business is my business now.”

And then, raising her voice, with the cutting, haughty coldness she only displayed when people overestimated how well-mannered she was: “Let’s make this quick, sorceress. We don’t have all night to waste dealing with your issues.”

Further Below

When Twinkle had turned five, Master Petter had bade her spend the night in his rooms.

He had spoken of it pleasantly, intending for it to sound like a birthday gift, even though everyone knew what the truth was. Of course his most special girl would enjoy the chance to sleep on a bed that was not a thin straw mattress on the floor, with a lit fireplace instead of the warmth of other servants huddled around her – nevermind that those women were what made her feel safe at night, taking turns sharing their cots and singing Misthaven songs when she cried for Mama. Nevermind that it meant spending the evening of her birthday stock still in a too-soft bed, dreading the moment Master Petter would climb in beside her and demand a goodnight kiss in thanks.

That moment was past and gone. And yet, right now Twinkle was feeling like that frightened little girl again, waiting with bated breath for when the old man’s heavy hands would land on her – there was something to these big, empty halls that made her think there was something huddling behind every corner, ready to go for her neck as soon as she was within range. The skin of her arms was covered in goosebumps, and she kept her ears constantly peeled for any foreign noise, glancing everywhere in search of possible threats.

And still, she kept on walking. She had to. They had to find something, anything that might be a clue as to where they’d fallen off to – thus far they hadn’t seen anyone, nor had they noticed any detail that might explain their bizarre situation, but they had to persevere, at least until they spotted the other half of their group. “Everyone still with me?”

“Yeah,” Ava replied from the back of the line. Twinkle hadn’t set out to be at the head of their little expedition, it had just happened, as it often did, but Ava guarding the rear had been very much a conscious choice – she was good at keeping people in line, Ava, probably because her brother had given her a lot of experience in that field, and besides, she could be scary as fuck when she wanted to. The likelihood of some kind of monster biting them in the ass would definitely plummet, with such a girl covering them all.

A girl that still sounded very skeptical of this plan, however. “You sure we should be going around like this?”

“Ava’s right,” Olympia peeped up, dragging her feet behind her younger sister. “Maybe we should have stayed put. We don’t have any idea of where we’re going, do we?”

Pierrot glanced back from where he was holding Twinkle’s hand, sporting what had to be some sort of solid, reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. Twinkle here knows what she’s doing. Besides, I’m keeping track of all our moves – we’re not getting lost in this place, I promise.”

“But how do you do that? It all looks the same to me. Are you sure we’re not going in circles?”

“It’s not easy to get me turned around. There are all manners of markers we can use to stay on the path- if you wanna call this a path and not an abandoned subway tunnel, that is.”

“And it wasn’t safe to stay in the same spot anyway,” Twinkle cut in resolutely, squeezing her friend’s fingers to signal for him to give them all a break. “If we’re under Storybrooke, there has to be some passage to get back aboveground, and if we’re not, being out in the open could have been dangerous, and would have been useless if we want to look for help. We don’t know who could be living in here.”

Or what, she amended privately, though she didn’t dare voice it aloud, for fear it might make Olympia or Nicholas panic even more. Nasty people they could handle, like most of them had done for their entire lives, but monsters were out of the question. No sense in worrying until they were actively risking being eaten by something, at this point.

Twinkle would have liked to exclude that option altogether, of course, but that wasn’t looking very likely right now. Pierrot had compared that place to a subway tunnel, and yet she thought it too rough around the edges for that – if anything, it reminded her of an uneven, oversized burrow, the kind moles or mice might dig to hunker down for winter. The light they still couldn’t explain, for it came from a source so far above their heads they hadn’t been able to recognize it, but the mossy, crumbling walls spoke of some more natural forms of digging, like giant mud-eating wormholes in a sci fi movie.

Point was, little rodents mostly got pulled out of their burrows by rows of sharp teeth, when weasels or hunting dogs found a way in. Twinkle was doing her best to avoid such a fate for her friends, at the moment – the ones that remained, at least, because thinking about the others was like allowing a nagging doubt to get into her brain and start nib-nib-nibbling until it drove her crazy. She hoped they were okay, wherever they were, and that the worst hadn’t happened to them yet just because she couldn’t see them.

But- no. She refused to believe that. Mignon could survive anything, as could Lampwick, and Eugene would rationalize the world until it folded in his pocket like a tissue before he let it have the best of him. They would look after the others and each other, as she and Ava and Pierrot were doing. She just needed to push forward a little forward, at least until things started to make sense again. Yes. That was a good resolution. Sylvester would have been proud of her for it, if he had known.

Hopefully, he never would. She wagered her dad would have a conniption if he heard what his sweet girl was doing at the moment, and Twinkle sincerely hoped she would be out of this trap before he had any cause to worry.

Still, if there was one thing that was hard to keep track of down there, it was time. They trudged on for what felt like ages, peeking cautiously around every corner before resuming their walk, and yet the scenery hardly ever changed – when they finally landed into what seemed to be a dead end, Twinkle’s eyes were burning because of that infinite streak of identical corridors and burning lights, and she couldn’t wait for this search to be over. For good.

This room, however, if one wanted to call it that, was oddly different. For one, the ceiling had sloped down drastically, now closing in at just a couple feet overhead and taking on a rounded shape that made the place look like the hull of a ship. The white glare from above was gone, replaced by a dimmer, greenish hue that seemed to pervade the whole area, as if the sun were streaming in through close-knit leaves or vines – paired up with the heat seeping through their clothes, it gave the impression of standing in the middle of a jungle or at least glasshouse, surrounded by plants coming from warmer climates.

They hadn’t seen a single living soul in that foreign world thus far; and yet, in this room there was a boy.

Twinkle barely felt herself let go of Pierrot’s hand as she took a couple steps forward, as mesmerized as she was wary. Propped against the wall opposite to the entrance was a great wooden chair, looking as though made of twisted roots or tree limbs – it was so disproportionate that it dwarfed the boy sitting on it, his hands too small where they laid limply on the armrests, though he couldn’t be that much younger than her. Thirteen or fourteen, at best, with a head of dark curls and a pale face that looked even paler under that blue-green lighting, thin and knobby like all boys his age.

His eyes were closed and his head lolled to the side, as though he were asleep, but more roots emerged from the seat to wrap around his chest and hold him into place, and on his hair a wooden circlet rested precariously, probably not slipping off only because of its uneven shape, bumps and microscopic branches jutting out in every direction.

“What the hell?” Pierrot said, loudly, nearly making Twinkle jump out of her skin – for a moment she’d been too hypnotized by that queer sight to be aware of her worries, of the small part of her brain that still expected heavy breaths and a big, calloused hand to card through her hair out of nowhere, but suddenly it all came back in full force, along with the alarm that this new discovery had brought them. “Who’s this now?”

“I don’t know.” Twinkle risked drawing a little closer, the others gathering at her back, trying to determine whether the stranger was breathing or not. It was hard to tell, what with that makeshift harness around his ribcage, but he had to be, right? The only guy they’d found in their fruitless wandering couldn’t be dead. That would have been a very bad omen for them all.

Apparently, Coppelia had been following the same train of thought, for she hovered at Twinkle’s shoulder with a pensive frown. “He’s alive, isn’t he? We don’t have anyone else to ask for help.”

“Right,” Ava cut in, equally as sceptical. “Should we wake ‘em?”

“That would be very unwise on your part.”

The group startled at the incoming voice, too adult to belong to any of them. Twinkle’s first instinct was to elbow her way through her friends, though most of them were a good head taller than her and probably as bent to keep her shielded as she was with them, but she didn’t regret the prime view it gave her of the newcomers.

Sure, a strange woman in old-fashioned garb and a dated hairstyle was there, who somehow managed to cut a striking figure despite being towered over by a couple of them. That was enough for anyone to keep their guard up, as if it already hadn’t been. But flanking her in a disorderly fashion were Twinkle’s people – Grace and Mignon and her silly boys, looking grim but pretty much unharmed. They started forward as they noticed the rest of the group, but she was quicker than them alright, and she flung herself at Lampwick without a second thought, the mysterious child figure temporarily forgotten.

She didn’t regret that, either. Especially since Pierrot had made a similar dive towards Pinocchio, and she was not in the mood to linger back and watch Eugene and Coppelia fumble their way through being relieved that the other was safe. That was a matter for Storybrooke-Twinkle, not dingy-tunnel-in-the-ground-Twinkle.

On his part, Lampwick automatically engulfed her in his long-limbed embrace, barely wavering as she barreled straight into his chest. “Thought I’d finally gotten rid of you, pest,” he huffed, though with an edge to his voice that betrayed how tense he was.

“Shut the fuck up- where were you guys?” Twinkle shot back, mad with relief, and then, sparing a suspicious glare at the woman who’d spoken up earlier: “And who’s this?”

To her surprise, it wasn’t Lampwick who answered – it was Pinocchio, with his stepbrother wrapped around him like a grapevine and, oddly, Grace hovering menacingly at his back. “Her name is Morgana,” he said, quiet and clipped. “She…knows some things about what’s been happening to us.”

The general chorus of shock was overpowered by Pierrot, who unwound an arm from around the other’s neck to point an angry, accusing finger in the woman’s direction. “You’re Morgana? You the loon that messed up with my brother, then?”

She- Morgana, it seemed- simply regaled him with a sharp grin in response. “I have been called many names, child, but never ones such as this. Nevertheless- aye, he speaks the truth. I am Morgana, formerly of Camelot, and I have made sure to reunite you all, as I had vowed to your friends.”

She made an ample movement with her hand, then, a sweeping one that encompassed the whole room. “Still, it is fortuitous that it has happened here, for it will save me a great deal of time in explanations- you might want to sit while I speak, as it is a long tale I ought to spin, and I will have need of your full attention.”

Her gesture might have included everything from the bare walls to the odd ceiling, but her eyes were fixed on the slumbering boy – Twinkle followed her gaze with a frown, expecting to see some change in scenery, but all seemed to be as it had when they’d walked in. “You know who that is?”

“I most certainly do. That is the king of this land- for a short while still, at least.”

“Piss poor kinda king, isn’t he?” Mignon interjected, pulling a disdainful face. “What’s wrong with him? Even the mayor looks better than him, and she hasn’t been a queen in like, forty years.”

Morgana’s smile widened, a somewhat sickening sight, though it was hard to pinpoint exactly why. “Ah, but this one has been a king for nigh two centuries, little girl. It wears on any man, and he was hardly so, when he came here.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Something was chewing at Twinkle’s gut, a strange irritation long settled into her nature, which prompted her to ask, more than a little peeved: “Just the king? Doesn’t he have, I don’t know, a name?”

“A clever one, I see.” The lady’s eyes seemed to glint with amusement, even if her expression remained polite.

“Very well, then, let us make a trade. You will sit down to listen to my words, and I will begin my story by telling you the king’s name- I am sure he would find it a fine exchange, if he could hear it.”

It was as cryptic a reaction as they could get, but there didn’t seem to be anything else they could do beside comply, as that wide, green-grey gaze of hers bore down on them invitingly. After sharing a couple quizzical glances, all more or less hesitant to follow the order, they huddled in what resembled a pile more than the rough half-circle they would have had to form during storytime at school – a couple of Twinkle’s friends didn’t appear to want to address that king’s presence any longer, and had sat down with their backs resolutely turned to him, but not her. She kept him full in her view, as did Pinocchio, curled on himself no more than an arm’s length away from her side, strung up like a bow ready to shoot.

“You have my thanks,” Morgana said lightly, appraising them all with a cursory glance, adjusting the ribbon circling her head before clasping her hands steadily before her. Twinkle had to admire the sheer relaxation in her movements, at least, as if she were an actual storyteller with something worthwhile to describe - it was like watching Pierrot on his best days on stage, or Pinocchio when he let the tale take over him and started narrating things by gesturing and striding around.

“And my apologies, as well. I know this is not how one would think to be summoned, if asked to meet a friend, but hurry bides me to be rude, and thus rude I had to be. But again, I mean none of you any harm- ‘tis your help that I beg for, and time is running out, for me and for our king there.”

She turned to look at the boy, then, prompting many of the others to imitate her. “You may think you have nothing to do with the likes of him,” she continued, and now her tone was carrying a certain wistfulness, as if remembering something gone and distant while she spoke. "I do not blame you. It has been years since he could last enjoy his youth the way you do."

Twinkle was empathetic, most of the time. She ought to have felt sorry for this lady, for the sudden longing on her face if nothing else. And yet, all she felt was a spike of alarm, her survival instincts drawing up to full attention as they took in the words she’d just heard. “But you think we do?”

“Would that you didn’t, clever one. Alas, that is not to be.” A long, heavy sigh, and then Morgana made to face them again, the sorrow gone in an instant.

“You see, now he is only the king, and as the king, he slumbers while the world goes on without him, but that was not always the case. Once upon a time, he was a young boy as any of you are- he had a father, a mother, and another destiny, before magic simply crossed his path by happenstance. And yes, child, before you ask again- yes, he used to have a name back then, before he traded it for the crown.

“And that name was Baelfire.”

Chapter Text

Below

Learning about the stranger’s name was of no comfort, for Pinocchio.

He knew why Twinkle had asked, and he was glad she had – names were important for Twinkle, ever since she’d lost her first one as a little girl. It made sense that she wouldn’t want this…this king to suffer the same fate, and any snippet of information could be crucial right now, besides, since they were basically roaming around blind. Baelfire was not a word they were familiar with, but who knew what could become of it once they got back home.

It was just very hard to focus on pretty much anything at the moment. The light was more subdued in this alcove, but it still seemed to bear down hard on the back of Pinocchio’s head, blurring the edges of his vision like the air above hot asphalt in summer. It was hard to describe the sensation; he felt tight, for one, as if his skin were straining not to burst and blister after being stretched too thin on his bones, and wherever he turned he was drowned in green, which was damning enough on its own – green the walls, green the lighting, green the dead-like face of the sleeping king. Even his friends appeared somewhat greenish, bathed in that atmosphere like fish in a dirty aquarium.

And he was itchy all over again. He rubbed at the back of his neck, trying to get rid of that stinging feeling, but stopped when Lampwick shot him a quizzical look, resorting instead to scratching the area around his calf, discreetly hidden by his sock.

“I thank you for not trying to awake him,” Morgana went on, gravely. “He is slowly emerging from slumber on his own, but it would do naught to hasten this process – much needs to be done, before he leaves his seat.”

“Why is he asleep in the first place?” Coppelia ventured, her brows knitted together tightly. “You said he is your king, which…I guess, okay, it could be true, but what use is a king that sleeps through his entire reign? How does he rule?”

“This is not your homeland, child. Many things are different from what you are accustomed to, and we follow laws that go beyond your understanding.” She began pacing in a small circle, then, her gaze fixed on the rough floor.

“The menfolk have given this land many names, Avalon, Cnoc Maedha…But for us, it has only ever been the Kingdom, or the Queendom, in times gone by. It is a world built on magic, and magic is what ensures its stability, even when plotting and scheming would threaten its roots.

“When a ruler is chosen that can withstand the weight of ruling, then they are free to act as they feel is wise. However, if the king or queen is too frail, too naïve, too inexperienced- the crown and seat are more ancient than all of us combined, my friends. They are imbued with power, and power they use, when those who approach them are weak and lack a steadier hand to lead them.”

His ears were pounding, the blood rushing through them making the explanation almost inaudible. That came straight out of nowhere – he was sitting down, dammit. He could feel the rock-like flooring under his legs, with Lampwick’s hand pressed to the small of his back and Eugene’s at arm’s reach. Why were these words making him tense and twitchy as though he were running the mile?

Morgana stopped to face the knobby wooden throne, sighing deeply as she looked at the boy wrapped in its limbs. “That was the fate of our current king. Two centuries ago he was brought here by some who thought he would be easily manipulated, but those regents proved themselves inadequate, and the kingdom needed to survive their incompetency- ‘tis like a body who requires a heart, but the heart need not concern itself with what happens outside the ribcage, either. The boy has not been aware of much since he was lulled to this kind of sleep- he sleeps, and he dreams, and his existence ensures that our land does not fall apart around him.

“Of course, this sort of arrangement does not make for an evolving land. When we have a sleeping king or queen, much remains unchanged, but it is better to live a static life than to lose it to petty leaders trying to gain a crown, is it not?”

Many questions were flurrying in Pinocchio’s dazed mind, but before he could line up a logical string of words to ask one of them, Grace was leaning forward, beating him to the punch. “Wait, you say he was brought here? What does that mean? Wouldn’t your king be, you know…one of your people?”

The sorceress turned to look at her, a growing, knowing grin making way across her face. “Both things can be true at once, young lady. Our ways are intricate- not many of my kind can bring a child to life as it is done among your people. We have had to find other paths to follow as not to die out.”

“Mordred.” Pinocchio didn’t realize he had been the one to say it aloud until he saw the others directing confused looks at him, Morgana chief among them, but at that point, he couldn’t do anything except follow that line of thought, trying to explain himself better. “In Camelot- you said you had a son. Mordred. You said Arthur had had him killed, and that was why you were there.”

“That is correct.” The woman’s gaze became clouded, losing some of its sharp light.

“Yes, Mordred was my son- of my flesh and my blood, even, which is a rarity in this place. I had him with a mortal man, and I had expected him to meet a mortal’s end, though not slain by a coward king- you might understand my grief, now. Mordred was a gift, a miracle, a blessing I did not expect to be given, and he was gone in the blink of an eye, headless and friendless. Arthur had to pay, and he was lucky I took his life in turn, not that of his then unborn child.”

She shook her head harshly, then, as if trying to force those visions out of her mind. “But as I said, he was an oddity. Children of pure, unaltered fair folk blood- they are as rare as moon eclipses, perhaps more, and mingling with human men and women does not ensure success much more often. All those stories of stolen firstborns, of younglings led away by wood spirits…a child taken under a fairy wing and raised in their image is as magical as one come out of their womb, and there have always been parents willing to trade their offspring out of need or greed, or to abandon them in a fairy circle before they starve in the house. You lot should know it better than most. It should come as no surprise that we would assimilate them, make them our own.

“And that, ultimately, is why I brought you all here tonight.”

The change of topic was so abrupt Pinocchio physically felt himself recoil in surprise, several of his friends instinctively following suit. Once again, though, it was Grace who broke the stunned silence, sitting up straighter and all but demanding: “That makes no sense. How are the two things connected at all?”

“You ought to know the answer already, girl,” Morgana said, sounding darkly amused for some reason.

“You spoke with Aireil when I sent him to bear his message. He told you that he could sense magic in your blood, a fairy’s touch that went deeper in some and shallower in others. You should not be surprised to learn that you belong to this land, albeit only in part- yes, you heard me right.

“Fairy hands leave marks, though the naked eye seldom spots them, and from where I stand, many of you are branded like cattle.”

Grace had been prepared, she thought, for just about anything but this.

To be fair, she had an inkling she’d expected this response, as well, somewhere deep down that she refused to acknowledge. It fit in too comfortably among the information they’d gained before falling into this godforsaken hole, the Mother Superior’s snappish redirections, the bastard on the beach, even Pinocchio’s invasion of her own home – they’d all gone too far for Morgana’s words to feel like a fresh cut, rather than a familiar pang in the chest.

And yet, that didn’t prevent her from freezing on the spot, all her bravado suddenly replaced by stunned silence. Numb. She felt numb, as though someone had stuffed her skull and her limbs with thick medical gauze. Whatever she had planned to say died in her throat, muffled by that cottony flood.

A hand wrapped around hers, temporarily breaking through the numbness. Mignon’s hand, clammy with sweat, but as steady and grounding as ever. “Might have a clue of what you’re saying,” her best friend said, warningly, “but- I don’t know who you think you are, lady, but watch your words. We’re not cows. You ain’t seeing us go moo-moo just ‘cause you say so.”

Surprisingly, Morgana inclined her head in acknowledgement, more somber than one would have expected. “My apologies. I did not mean to imply that you were anything but what you are. I only meant to alert you that there are some who would gladly treat you as such- some that you know very well, unfortunately.”

“The Mother Superior.” It hadn’t been a question. Grace stated it flatly, resolutely despite the way she could barely feel her lips move, and when she received some surprised glance she snapped back, harsher than she’d intended: “What? We’re talking about fairies, and stringing people together like sheep. Who else do we know that fits both of these things?”

“You don’t got to tell me that, wonder girl,” Lampwick replied archly from the other side of the circle, all up in Pinocchio’s personal space as usual. “Been seeing that bastard in action before you even met her. The point is- what’d she have to do with us being in this hole, or with any king of these folks? We have plenty of kings and queens up there too. What’s special about this one?”

“Wish that you were right, young one.” The sorceress sighed, shaking her head.

“Those are mortal men and women, though. Kings and queens from your lands, magic though they might be, have no jurisdiction over the likes of me, or the one that calls herself the Mother Superior- Arthur was not my king, no more than that bold lady I met in Camelot was Reul Ghorm’s queen.

“But this one- he is our lord and master, so long as he sits the throne. We would find this land quite inhospitable, if we were to move against him, and I have no wish to meet the same end as my beloved Mordred just yet.”

Grace inhaled sharply, hissing through her teeth as she tried to wrap her head around that information. All her life that stern, minute woman had loomed over her like a storm cloud, a figure larger than life bearing down on the children in her care until she blocked every ray of sunlight, and now this witch was trying to make them believe that a little boy, barely older than Mignon’s baby sister, could outpower her? No, that didn’t check out. It would take more to convince anyone in their group, especially those that had lived in close proximity to the Mother Superior. “How come we’ve never about anyone like that? If we’re really branded like you said- this should have been important stuff for us to learn, shouldn’t it?”

“Think, child. This is no business of your Savior, nor of your Evil Queen- this pertains fairies and their ilk, and no one else. How many fairies do you know that would have been sincere towards you, and would not have purposefully been kept in the dark by Reul Ghorm? I remember a young apprentice- Nova, was it not? I have heard she cared for you as well. She had the heart most fairies lack, hence why I doubt they would have trusted her with matters of state, no more than they would have trusted her with a godchild.”

“That…would check out, yes.” It wasn’t that much of a stretch to believe the nuns could have been hiding some sort of secret – a den of reptiles, they were, like the ones you saw in documentaries, the kind that snuck into animal nests and stole eggs and gobbled-them-in-one-bite like fantastical orcs. Nobody could trust them with anything, much less Grace herself, or Mignon.

Or Pinocchio. The girl snuck a glance towards him – his face was pale and shiny with sweat, but he was staring Morgana down unflinchingly, his blue eyes stony and his mouth pressed in an unreadable line. It was kind of an unnerving look on him, to be honest, but at least he wasn’t freaking out anymore. If there was anyone that knew the Mother Superior, it had to be him, the unlucky sod.

Still, it was Lampwick that spoke up instead of him again, his voice warningly cold. “How’d you know about Nova?”

The sorceress shrugged, wearing a serene smile that nevertheless wasn’t reassuring in the slightest. “I know many things, boy. I know what you heard in the tunnels that your dwarf father did not, and I know where your families dwell as well- all of them, yes. I know there are some of you that wish for fame and others that wish for peace, and even some who would have neither, as long as it meant never facing the future that was meant for them. The walls between here and your world are thinner than you think- I know quite well which ones of you dread the thought of being the princess in the tower, grandiose dream that it might be for others.”

Curiously, she was not looking at Lampwick anymore as she said that. Rather, she’d planted her eyes on Olympia’s dark ones, reaching out to tease at her long brown hair – the girl went still, something that sounded too much like a whimper escaping her lips, and yet Morgana did not move until Coppelia brashly cut in, wrapping an arm around the other’s shoulders. “Hey! What are you thinking? Leave my sister alone.”

“As you wish.” The woman turned her back to them, opening her arms in a grand, melodramatic gesture.

“Still, you asked questions, and these are the only answers I have. I know there is a powerful being that lives in your town- honored, respected, and having the ear of those that make the law for your people. I know she has no love for any of you, much as she likes to pretend she does.

“And I know that when her king awakes and relinquishes his crown, she will attempt to take it for herself, and we must prevent it from ever happening.”

Pierrot scoffed, loud and disruptive, and for once Grace welcomed his irritating boldness – it was a familiar note in that mayhem, and likely the only thing capable of stopping the confusion in her head. “Woah, woah, back up a second- what? You think the Mother Superior wants to be a queen? She looks more like an evil advisor to me, alright- no one’s crowning her anytime soon.”

“And are you ready to tell her that? Because it would have to be now or never- soon we will be kingless, and by then it might be too late to stop her ascension.”

She motioned towards the sleeping boy, still cradled in his wooden chair. “The signs are not readily visible to many, but believe me when I say that the king’s soul is growing restless, and that there are limits to how long the realm can sustain itself. In the close future he will wake up and become unfit to rule, and then the throne will be up for grabs. Look into your hearts- does it look so improbable that the Blue Fairy would wish to rule? She, who even cursed was at the head of her order?”

“Yeah, okay, that’s plausible, but-“

“Please.” Unexpectedly, Morgana’s voice seemed to have gained a faint hint of desperation, though it was hard to tell, since she was still facing away from them – her hands were now hanging limply at her sides and her head bowed, as if her energy had suddenly begun to trickle out of her body and left her exhausted.

“My kind lives long. I have seen more rulers than you have seen years on earth, even if their reigns lasted centuries. I was here, when our land was still in capable hands. Clíodna queen, Oberon king, Eliana queen…They were the greatest of the great, but their days are long gone- I have seen weak monarchs and evil monarchs and monarchs that were never awake to hold the scepter, over and over again. Please, believe me when I say that putting Reul Ghorm on the throne would be the gravest mistake of anyone’s life.”

“But what do you want us to do?” Grace interjected, grown high-pitched with frustration. This was way more chaotic than they had predicted – the sorceress had said they would be receiving answers to their questions, but thus far there had been nothing but bullshit, piled up high on top of itself. All she’d heard were comments that prodded at her worst nightmares, the ones where she was still a little girl forcing herself to smile until her face hurt, and her Papa couldn’t stop her from getting torn out of his hands again.

It was too much. No one had the right to make her this pissed off, especially some no-name from the depths of a hole that thought they were the second coming of Christ.

“We- you brought us here, and then you said we were under, I don’t know, fairy influence at some point, which meant we could solve your problems, but you’re talking like your problems are about the Mother Superior wearing a fucking crown- even if that was true, what could we do about it? We’re not- most of us can’t even vote for the actual government. What makes you think we’d have any say in that sort of stuff? I don’t care what you say, go get the sheriff or something and leave us alone. That would have been the smart choice.”

“She would not listen.”

At last, Morgana turned back towards them, but her head was still inclined, partially concealing her expression. Still, those simple four words sent a shiver down Grace’s spine – if earlier she’d been resolute, now her voice sounded brittle but painful, as though she’d turned from a steel pipe to a sharp icicle. It was hard to determine which one of them was worse, or which one of them penetrated in their skull more, nagging and piercing.

“You have lived for decades among these people, older and wiser than yourselves. Tell me, how many times have they listened to what you had to say about the pain that was inflicted to you by the likes of the Blue Fairy? I speak not of your families- I speak of those who would have had the strength to contain her, and yet never did. Your pleads fell on deaf ears, ears of those who have often professed love for you- do you truly think they would have taken my warning seriously, especially now that they believe me a mother’s nightmare, a monster who would steal a child for no reason but her enjoyment?

“So yes, I needed you. You are open-minded, and while not all of you were touched by my kind, it would have been dangerous to separate you- you are deeply tied to each other, and we need as many hands as we can muster, besides, if we are to prevent a disaster from happening. The branded, the fairy-raised- they are leaders among you, it seems to me. I trusted that they could find the right path to follow alongside me.”

Abruptly, she lifted her chin, her eyes ablaze and looking to the side. “And you cannot deny that you are already feeling the influence of this land- am I wrong, brave one?”

She was looking at Pinocchio. That ought to have been the first sign of alarm. And yet, Grace was too distracted to chide her for it – Morgana had intended to lay her hand on Pinocchio’s head, too, it seemed, but she had stopped halfway through instead, her fingers hovering inches above his hair as he kept that glass-like gaze fixed stubbornly on her. Bizarrely, it looked as though the glare had been a declaration in and of itself, a warning not to come any nearer, but that would have been ludicrous, wouldn’t it? What would he have had to warn a sorceress against?

The second sign, in hindsight, was Pierrot scrambling to draw closer to his brother, sounding astonishingly worried. “What the hell did you do to yourself, Pinou?” He exclaimed, his eyes scanning the other boy’s body in hurry.

Grace would have liked to ask him the same question, really. She’d caught him scratching himself a couple times in the corner of her eye, earlier, but she hadn’t given it much thought, taking into account everything else they’d been dragged through; still, there was now a split second where her brain stopped to wonder just how much he’d been scratching, exactly – his neck, his leg, even what little of his back poked out of his shirt was an angry red under the uneven light, as if he'd flayed himself alive while they spoke.

But- No. That couldn’t be right. Upon closer inspection those didn’t look like scratches at all – red they might be, but it was old skin peeking through, solidified as though years had passed after the damage. Scars. They were scars, and in places she was pretty sure she’d never seen Pinocchio sport scars before, not as children, not at the beach, and decidedly not at the beginning of the night, when they’d been standing too close not to notice.

The one on the back was faint, just the tip of something that probably went on even deeper, but around the boy’s calf was a jagged, wonky scab that circled the whole leg, and as he pulled his sock down slightly, dazedly looking at the clamor Pierrot and Lampwick were now causing around him, he revealed broad patches of discolored, puckered skin that seemed to span across his entire foot. The other one, too, as it became clear with further investigation – both feet pockmarked and patterned like a throw pillow, and a leg as well, and the small of his back, and above all that a circular, halting line that went round and round his neck, not as thick as its companions and yet broader in extension than most, like traces of a shaving gone wrong, or skin scalded by boiling water, or…

Or rope burns.

“Well, then,” Morgana continued, with a singsong lilt to her words, the sickening smile back in its place.

“Care to tell your friends when you earned yourself these marks, brave one?”

Above

The Blue Fairy had spent many long nights standing vigil and doing her duty, but this one seemed to be dilating endlessly, the sun refusing to come out and bring the day in.

It was, in a way, worse than when she had helped Snow White defeat the Evil Queen – the battling had worn all of their spirits thin, but at least her duty had been clear, back then. She’d had to fight, and support the side of good, and even the looming threat of the Dark Curse had brought along some sort of inevitability, making her hyperaware of what must or must not be done to ensure the kingdom’s safety.

Now, however, the guidelines were hardly as clear as they’d been in the past. The leaflets that Pinocchio and Grace had brought her were sitting on the table in her rooms, glaring accusingly at the fairy every time she turned to face them, as though they’d sprouted eyes and faces while she was trying to decide what to do with the information written on them. Not much of it, to be sure: only the call to attention that she’d dreaded to see for so long, and a list of names that she knew far too well – some of them were asleep in her convent at that very moment, and others she refused to summon even under the direst of circumstances, though she couldn’t stop them from finding their way inside despite her best intentions.

There would be an election. The Mother Superior could scarcely believe it; she had been tending to her flock too intently to pay attention the last few times it had happened, and at that point it had been none of her concern, anyway. She hadn’t gone back to her homeland in centuries – too much to do, too much to fix, and no desire to see her work undermined by those who did not understand what it took to be a fairy godmother. The last time she had stepped into those halls, Titania had still been Queen Consort, and her court had brought havoc to any and all, and it had been hard to keep track of the monarchs that had followed after, as well.

But this- this was different. The summon had reached her in Storybrooke, a place that was meant to be separate from all of those quarrels and where she was meant to have control over the few members of her kind in the vicinity. Whatever the reason for it, she was already involved – she would need to take matters in her own hands, if she wanted to avoid destruction to befall that sleepy town.

Still, the issue was how to do that. She knew little and less of the battlefield she was moving through, or of which opponents she would have to face, and there was no one who could counsel her – her sisters would need to be informed, eventually, but she was trying to delay that conversation as much as she could, and none of them had the experience to help, besides. In fact, most of them couldn’t be trusted to return to their kingdom without someone holding their hand and minding their every step, like babes learning how to walk.

Gods, why had those reckless children waited a whole week before informing her, in turn? There was a chance they might have doomed everyone with their naivety, and what they had certainly done was force her to make a decision hastily, which she liked little and less. They hadn’t known what the consequences of their actions would be, but that didn’t make them innocent, either.

And above all that, above any resentment and disappointment, there was another thing the Blue Fairy found herself wondering, walking around her dimly lit room with those treacherous pages as her sole company: why hadn’t she felt the messenger’s true nature herself, when he’d first stepped foot onto Storybrooke soil?

And why, why had he gone to the children first, instead of reaching out to someone she could actually put her trust on?

Chapter Text

The Enchanted Forest, about 40 years ago

Pinocchio came back to his senses to a cool hand being placed on his burning forehead.

He didn’t know what the name of this sensation was, yet, had never felt it before, but what he did know was that he didn’t like it, not one bit. His head was heavy and fire-hot, but the rest of his body was ran through by cold shivers, clattering obnoxiously even though he seemed to be laying on something a lot softer than the forest grass he last remembered seeing.

And there were people talking over each other around him. He wanted to ask them to stop it for a second, because the noise was hurting his ears, but his throat felt scratchy and raw, even though it was still as wooden as the rest of him, and he couldn’t find the energy to open his eyes yet, besides, so he didn’t know who it was that was speaking so loud.

Was it the assassins? No, it couldn’t be. They’d sounded harsh and mocking as they’d dragged him through the forest. These people were loud, but not shouty, and there were definitely more than two of them around. Three, maybe? Four? It was hard to count with his head pounding like that, and he always needed help with his numbers, anyway, because he hadn’t gone to school yet.

If only he’d just gone to school like his father had told him to…

Finally, with a great effort and a little whine, Pinocchio managed to force his eyes open. It was too bright out, which stung a little, but at least the chatter seemed to peter down almost immediately, and the soft hand came up to rest on his hair. When he could focus a bit more, he realized it was attached to an arm, and that arm belonged to the Blue Fairy, looking him over with her brow furrowed in worry.

It was slightly harder to see who else was in the room – two men, maybe, which sent a stab of fear through his chest, until he noticed they had weird heads and faces, as if they had bird beaks and feathers instead of hair. He couldn’t figure anything else out, anyway, as a moment later a smaller, greener figure filled his entire field of view, standing on his blanket-covered chest with several displeased chirps. “You’re awake! Oh, thank goodness- Never try anything like that again, Pinocchio, you took ten years of my life!”

Despite everything, Pinocchio gave him a small smile, feeling something in his head relax a little. He couldn’t be too scared if Jiminy was there. Jiminy always seemed to know what to do, even if Pinocchio wasn’t listening to him. “S’rry,” he slurred out, his tongue thick and strange in his mouth.

“Yes, yes, you should be sorry,” the cricket groused, but there wasn’t any real anger in it, and soon he’d resumed his rightful place on the boy’s shoulder. “It’s a good thing the Blue Fairy found you when she did, otherwise you’d be a goner by now.”

Instinctively, Pinocchio winced, even if it made him ache all over, and looked up. His fairy godmother didn’t look too angry, at least, but there was something odd to her expression all the same, something that he couldn’t quite understand, what with the state he was in. “You gave us all quite the scare, Pinocchio,” she said, evenly.

“It was very reckless, what you did. I told you I wouldn’t be able to help you, if you took the forest path at night. It’s a miracle you held out until morning, with no one around to aid you.”

“But-“ No one? That didn’t sound right. He couldn’t quite remember everything he’d seen, though those scary scenes from the previous night were starting to flash through his mind as he woke up more, but- he could remember something, alright. He remembered the rope being tied around his neck. He remembered the storm that had beat down on him, the wind pushing him around like a sailboat.

He remembered a pale face at the window, utterly disinterested in his troubles. “But there was someone,” he made to insist, haltingly. “I saw a house, in the woods-“

He trailed off, partly because speaking was still very difficult, part because the Blue Fairy’s expression had changed so abruptly it had startled him. The boy had expected her to dismiss his words readily, or to be worried by them, but instead, a strange light had appeared in her eyes, as if she’d gotten startled too – as if his comment had alarmed her, which was very weird, considering she wasn’t supposed to be alarmed by anything with the magic she had, and it wasn’t even the depth of night anymore, from what she’d said earlier.

The moment passed as swiftly as it came; then the woman moved her hand to cup his cheek, the pad of her thumb resting on his lips, as if to prevent him straining himself more. “You’re running a strong fever,” she commented, sounding tight and pinched.

“I’m sure your eyes will be convinced you’ve seen all manners of things, after such a shock. No wonder you’re ill. These gentlemen are doctors – I brought them in alongside Jiminy so they’d make you feel better, as to send you back to your father as soon as possible.

“Rest, Pinocchio. They will give you the right medicine in a moment, and then you’ll be able to put all this nonsense behind yourself for good.”

Below

Eugene wanted to scream.

He didn’t, because it wouldn’t have been productive, and he didn’t wish to startle anyone, but the feeling still scratched and itched on the inside of his skin, like it did when he heard nails dragging across the blackboard at school, or when he put his hands on something that nauseated him. It was the feeling of wrongness, and anger, and sheer blind panic that came when he remembered things he didn’t like, and he’d never never never wanted to have it again in his life, not at all.

He'd hoped, was still hoping, in a way, that he could rationalize all this mess they’d fallen into if he just held his tongue long enough. It wouldn’t have worked in pretty much any other place in the world, but it was how things worked in their world – sometimes stuff was just magic, where they lived. Sometimes magic got people involved that had nothing to do with the real issue at hand. That was just the way it tended to go. At least you didn’t get beheaded anymore, if you made a mistake in Storybrooke.

But it was hard to rationalize what was fundamentally his worst nightmare made real. Pinocchio was sitting only a couple feet away from him, littered with scars that had sprouted out of nowhere, and Eugene knew they hadn’t been there before, because he could place their origin almost to the right millisecond – he’d read the story only once, years and years before, but that was exactly the kind of stuff that got burned into his brain and refused to leave for the rest of time, so he remembered. Of course he remembered.

That was another reason why he couldn’t scream. He couldn’t draw attention on himself right now, because he’d never told Pinocchio he’d read the book they were in – Eugene had never asked for details, not from him and certainly not from Lampwick, because that wasn’t how it was done, so to admit he knew of the whole mess would mean admitting he’d sought answers out elsewhere and kept mum about it, and that was- that was too much to contemplate, right now. They were supposed to have buried that slice of their past deep underground, the guilt and resentment and most of the anger that still bubbled up every now and then.

But perhaps they were underground, now, so Eugene couldn’t do anything except turn to Morgana and grit out, accusingly: “What did you do?”

She looked at him pointedly, her gaze so penetrating he almost felt like she was reading through him like a magnifying glass – it would have made other people squirm, he supposed, but Eugene didn’t squirm. He wasn’t a damn worm, for fuck’s sake. “I did nothing,” she replied, her voice even too complacent.

“The kingdom recognizes its offspring, is all. The magic has seeped through your friend long ago, child– ‘tis merely coming to the surface now that it feels the scent of home, I suppose.”

“What magic?” Lampwick snapped, giving her a burning glare even as he held a protective hand to Pinocchio’s neck, his thumb brushing along the winding scar there. “I know where these come from, and they ain’t supposed to be here. Explain yourself, lady, and make it quick.”

So he knew, too. That wasn’t too surprising. Lampwick and Pinocchio had always been so close they could have shared skin, always getting an earful of each other’s secrets thinking no one else would have been listening in. It was the whole reason why Eugene had felt that bile-rising resentment in the first place, as a young boy – they’d been inseparable and he’d been at the outskirts like everyone else, or at least so it had seemed, until he’d grown up and got over himself.

That had been a selfish, childish thought. Now all he felt was the need to put shields up around his friend again, the way Vikings did in history book illustrations, shuttering themselves in until the enemy came within range of their axes.

And still, Morgana only chuckled lightly, as if their reactions were immensely amusing. “You forget, he was not always as you see him now. He was cut out of magic wood and breathed life into by a magical maker twice, along many other encounters he has made over the years. Why, had it not been for a stroke of fate, he would have come out of yet another magical vessel, born again of an enchanted tree. Is it so surprising that he would show the marks of what he suffered, when he was in his true natural state?”

“That’s a lot of words that mean jackshit to us,” Mignon snapped, not for the first time that night. “Speak clearly, or shut up and let us go home.”

But instead of Morgana’s response, what they heard was Pinocchio’s voice – he’d been so silent he’d almost been drowned by the conversation continuing around him, but now he was propping himself forward, out of Lampwick and Pierrot’s hands, his eyes stony and his tone even more so. “She means I got these when I was made of wood, and came back now because of magic,” he said, with a coldness that was horribly jarring coming from his mouth.

“But you don’t get to say what my true natural state is, Lady Morgana, and wood doesn’t scar on his own. I don’t care what effect this place is having on me, and it’s not the important thing at hand, either. What I want to know is, what do you want from me- from us? What do you want us to do? Why did you take us and the princess?”

It was hard to determine whether Morgana found this change of pace fishy, but Eugene definitely did. This whole situation had escaped any attempt he’d made to categorize it, but if there was one thing that was still true, it was that he knew his friends. He’d spent too long watching their movements and actions and shifts in mannerisms not to know them, and by knowing them he knew what to expect of them – and what he expected of Pinocchio wasn’t a commanding stance. Far from it, in fact. Pinocchio had never tried to take control of what games they played or where they would go next, not in the ten years since the curse had broken; people gravitated towards him, true enough, but he only gave his input when he was sure they were willing to hear it, and he was more likely to let others take the wheel than to cling to it.

This didn’t sound like that Pinocchio at all. This Pinocchio looked tense all over, his jaw clenched and his eyes firm – he looked like he might soon be slamming a fist down on a tabletop, if they’d been sitting round having a proper conversation. Not that Eugene could blame him, given that everyone around them had had their hackles up for ages now, but… It was still unsettling, that switch. As if the world had gone off the rails all of a sudden.

Eugene did not like when things went off the rails. It left the door open to train crashes, usually.

For her part, the sorceress only gave a small sigh, not looking particularly ruffled – actually, her eyes seemed to have lit up some, which was even weirder to witness. “The princess is my bartering chip,” she replied, curt and terse.

“I am not popular, among my kind. If it came to an unfair election, as I fear, I would have no chance to win against such a strong candidate- but young Enid might, if I played her cards right. Child of a king, conceived under an Avalon spell, in the shade of Merlin’s tree… She fits our requirements, I believe. Many would turn their nose up at another reigning babe, but they might also see her as their key to seizing the power- in fact, I took her because I knew others with worse intentions might do the same once they saw her potential, though Guinevere would certainly not believe me, if I told her. You might not think so, but the child is safer in my hands than most everywhere else, right now. I have no love lost for her, but she is innocent of her father’s crimes, and I mean her no harm.

“Your task, however, is to help me prevent all of this from happening in the first place.”

“How?” Grace interjected, frowning skeptically. “What can we do?”

“Keep watch. I do not have free reign in your land, and my magic would attract Reul Ghorm’s eye, but you can go where I cannot, and as I have proved you, your senses are keener than most. Look out for the Blue Fairy’s plots in my stead- I will give you the means to warn me of imminent danger, and intervene before it is too late. I do not know what she plans to do, but you carry experience that even your princesses and queens lack- I do not doubt you will recognize her suspicious moves before anyone else.”

Morgana paused, them, pressing a hand to her cheek for a long moment before she continued, as if pondering over something. “In truth, I might have a clue to give you. There is a brew that Reul Ghorm’s sisterhood owns- just a drop of it can undo any fairy-made spell. ‘Tis a painful trick to play on a living creature, but I doubt that that would stop her, and if she can use it to cut a fairy-child’s tether to our land…In a word, to remove any possible claimant to the throne…Do you think she would?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?” Pierrot ventured, though his usual pompous, sing-song tone was wavering now, hovering at Pinocchio’s back with a troubled look. “Yeah, she would. But how can we find out if she’s using this…this thing if we don’t know what it looks like?”

“I told you. Keep your eyes open. If I had more to give you, I would- I have no fear for your Mother Superior, but what I do fear are the consequences of her actions. How many people do you know that she has harmed, before?”

Too many, Eugene thought morosely. He didn’t have first-hand experience on that, but he’d seen what haughty adults had done to his friends when they’d been little – only one of them constantly looking over their shoulder for threats would have already been one too many, but he’d watched it happen over and over again to Pinocchio, and Pierrot, and Grace, and all of the others that had gotten caught in the ripples, and as such the sum of their troubles went way over the limit. He didn’t want to put faith in this strange woman and her talk of kings and queens, but he had to admit she was beginning to make an awful lot of sense, given what they’d all been through before.

Unbidden, a dull, distant ache began snaking across his skull, starting from his eye socket up to the side of his head. Great. Just what he needed right about now. He tried to relax his neck muscles, hoping it would be enough to keep the migraine at bay until they were a safe distance from this mess.

“If you could aid me in stopping her attempt to seize the crown, then there would be a lawful crowning, and I could return the princess to her insipid mother,” Morgana went on, undeterred. “She would have no memory of any ill intention, no more than our dear king will have once he wakes- only the shadows of a long dream, gone in the morning light. This I swear to you, on the head and blood of my beloved son.”

Suddenly, she glanced up with her lips pressed together, as if there were some message inscribed on the ceiling only she could read. “But you ought to leave, now. The night is nearly over, and you need to return to your homes before anyone notices, young ones. It would not do for the wrong people to notice your absence- I will show you the path back to the woods, and make sure you go unseen until you have left this land. After that, it will be on you. Make sure you close the passage on your way out, too- we would not want something unseemly to creep in, or worse, out, would we?

“And I beg of you, keep your eyes open, and guard one another’s rear. You might be the only ones who can prevent a madwoman from gaining the power of a queen. Remember, this could be our only chance.”

“Wait!” Twinkle blurted out, springing halfway up to her feet. “You didn’t really tell us what to do! How are we supposed to work with you, if you’re just kicking us out like this?”

And at that, Morgana simply smiled, a smile that looked at once too hollow and too wide, as though it didn’t quite fit the face that was wearing it, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “As I said, you will know how to speak to me once you have the need for it. And worry not, child- you will see me again soon, for better or for worse.”

Then she made a swift gesture with her hand, flicking her wrist around, and all the light went out in unison. There were some surprised shouts, piling over one another, and Eugene felt a hand grabbing him, thin fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt – Twinkle herself perhaps, or Coppelia, damp with worried sweat. He clung to the person in return, holding his breath as a breeze seemed to pick up around them, mussing Eugene’s hair wildly…

And then stopped, as swiftly as it had come. Slowly, light began to filter through again, dim at first until it had become as bright as that of their first meeting with Morgana, but the room was not the same as it had been only moments prior. Gone were the rounded walls, the wooden seat and the mysterious boy tied to it; gone was the sorceress herself, vanished into thin air while they’d been too blinded to notice. All they could see was, once more, barren rock below and above them, and an only half-illuminated corridor that seemed to stretch indefinitely further on both sides.

And in the middle of their stunned semicircle sat a little gray fox, perfectly unbothered as it licked and nibbled at the fur of its paw.

The first words out of Lampwick’s mouth, once he’d recovered from the shock, were “Don’t you fucking dare.”

They’d been directed at Pinocchio, obviously. He knew it wasn’t particularly fair – they were all still reeling from the hellish night they’d had -that they were still having- and needed some patience and time to deal with everything they’d seen and hear. He knew that. It wasn’t rational to ask his boyfriend not to do what seemed to be only the culmination of that disastrous kinda-sleepover.

The point was, Lampwick wasn’t exactly trying to be rational. He was just about fed up with all that business about fairies and magic and kings, and the only image that was flashing before his eyes as he watched the other boy kneel down and lean towards the creature before him was eerily similar and yet with some tweaks here and there, a kid of almost-eleven with big, tired eyes bending down to scratch a fox’s head and then following it back into that blasted Camelot forest.

No, maybe it wouldn’t have made any sense to anyone else, but he was not about to get yet another reminder of some of the worst days of their shared lives, not a chance in hell.

Pinocchio, however, seemed to catch the meaning behind those words immediately, because he glanced up to meet Lampwick’s eyes, looking exhausted and resigned and not at all like the angry brick wall that had snapped back at Morgana just a little earlier. “What else am I supposed to do, Lampwick?” He murmured. “How else do you think we can find out which way to go? Any better ideas?”

Frustrating as it was, Lampwick did not, in fact, have a better idea. Therefore he was forced to hold his tongue and watch as Pinocchio held his hands out to the fox, palms upwards – the animal immediately stopped its grooming session to step on them, sniffing the boy’s face for a good while until, seemingly satisfied, it erupted in joyous yapping and chittering, terribly loud for all that it couldn’t be more than a few inches away from Pinocchio’s ears.

“What’s he doing?” Mignon asked in a low whisper, popping out from behind Lampwick’s arm – he was suddenly aware of everyone’s eyes being fixed on Pinocchio, watching him nervously even as they stumbled to their feet or helped each other up.

Lampwick shrugged, with more nonchalance than he actually felt. “What’s it look like? He’s having a chat with it. Nothing new.”

“You for fucking real?”

“Listen, look at all the shit we went through today- You wanna get on my case about this?”

It had come out much harsher than he’d intended – it only took Lampwick the lull of silence after he’d finished speaking to realize that, and he turned to face his friend, groaning in dismay. “Shit- sorry, ‘Gnon, I- you know how it is.”

She didn’t tell him to fuck off, which would have been somewhat warranted. Instead she scrutinized his face intensely for a handful of seconds, then shook her head and squeezed his arm briefly before returning to Grace’s side, forcing him to check on Pinocchio and his stupid fox again.

The one-sided, beastly conversation seemed to have ended. The little grey animal hopped a few feet away, chasing its tail in circles for a moment before stopping in the middle of the passage and pointedly staring at them all. Pinocchio pushed himself upright as well, brushing dust off his knees, and turned to face the rest of the group, tired and dejected. “She knows the way. Come on, let’s go. It shouldn’t be too far.”

“Are you serious?” Grace cut back archly. “You want us to follow that? What if it’s another trick, uh?”

“If Morgana had wanted us to get stuck in here, she wouldn’t have given us any hint. This is the kind of thing she does with her magic- but you can stay here, if you don’t believe me, Grace. I’m not the boss of you.”

“He’s right,” Lampwick added, despite his own reticence. “Foxes are her thing. She used one to get us out of Camelot, and she sent another to Snow White. Don’t ask me why. Those folks are weird.”

He had expected Pinocchio to… Well, maybe not thank him for the support, but maybe acknowledge Lampwick’d had his back. Say something. Anything. Any sign of life that would confirm he was talking to his boyfriend and not a zombie.

Instead all Pinocchio did was hold that vacuous stare for a little longer, then turn on his heel and head towards the fox wordlessly. Feeling as though his head had gotten caught in a whirlpool, Lampwick chased after him, and after a beat he heard footsteps in his wake, some more hesitant than others – when he glanced behind his back to check, he saw that everyone else was following their impromptu little queue, but while Twinkle and the likes were hot on their heels, some holding hands like schoolchildren, a couple of the girls were lagging behind, giving Pinocchio a wide berth.

Not that Lampwick could really blame them. He was all for blindly trusting a select handful of people, but the events of the last week had started to wear him down, too. Still, he’d stayed loyal through much worse shit, he wasn’t about to stop now, so he simply reached for Pinocchio’s hand as well, lacing their fingers together – the only scar on there was the old one from Camelot, but that did nothing to make him relax, and he snuck a glance to the other boy, to the raw skin around his neck.

“Does it hurt?” He asked in a low whisper – he could have been more clear, probably, but when Pinocchio met his gaze, he seemed to catch Lampwick’s meaning immediately.

 “I- No,” was the answer, just as quiet. “It’s itchy, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s like I just peeled a scab off.”

Lampwick nodded, as though any of it was reassuring in the slightest. “That’s some bullshit, isn’t it? That stuff’s too old to still be giving you grief.”

“You know how my luck is.” Pinocchio’s voice was shaking, and his hands were, too – he squeezed his eyes shut with an expression that looked nothing but pained, despite his earlier response.

“I- I don’t know what’s going on anymore, Lampwick. I just don’t. Why doesn’t it stop? Why can’t I make it stop?”

“’S not your fault, Pinoke.” It was the lamest answer one could have possibly given, but there really wasn’t anything smart to say, right now, especially for someone for whom words weren’t exactly a specialty. Instead, Lampwick lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss to Pinocchio’s knuckles, and then kept pushing them forward, mindful of the uneven terrain.

The fox maintained a steady pace ahead of them, stopping every so often to check that they were keeping up with it. They passed multiple spots where the path forked, but the creature continued to walk without pause, no hesitation whatsoever in the road it was following; rather, they went on and on and on, barely talking, and their surroundings remained nearly unchanged, all mossy rocks and dusty ground.

Until suddenly, after yet another turn, a sliver of different light appeared ahead of them. The fox hopped on a few feet more, then turned to look at them, yapping loudly, and darted into a patch of shadows, disappearing from their view in an instant. Lampwick exchanged a nervous glance with a couple of the others, even Eugene, but the message seemed clear enough, despite the fact that Pinocchio wasn’t commenting on it and no one else in their group could talk to fucking animals.

Lampwick let go of him and went to investigate, feeling once again as though he’d been dragged into a mine without a headlight. There seemed to be something blocking the passage – it felt like wood under his fingers, damp and crumbling when he touched it and ungainly to move. He was grateful when he caught Mignon joining him, pushing on the opposite side until they were able to knock down what appeared to be a huge fallen log, bark rotting with humidity, and reveal the open gap behind it.

Outside. They were outside – he inhaled the fresh air deeply, feeling high as though they’d just hit the kind of stuff they sold cheap behind the Rabbit Hole, then immediately turned around to help the others out, watching carefully for Pinocchio’s unsteady steps and lifting Twinkle over the steep change in ground level and pointedly ignoring Grace’s mistrustful look when she grabbed onto his arm for stability. There’d be time for bitching and bickering later; right now the priority was digging themselves out of that hole and leaving, before the lady changed her mind and pulled them back in again.

And, well, Lampwick had to admit it; nothing had ever looked as relieving as the open sky over their heads, dimly lit stars and all.

Chapter Text

The ringing phone startled Emma awake like a tornado siren, making her sit up with her heart caught in her throat.

She groaned once she realized there was, in fact, no immediate danger around her, and then picked it up off the bedside table and blearily looked at the time on the screen, sinking back into her pillows when it became clear it was too damn early. She threw an arm over her eyes as she answered, too, hoping it could give her some respite from the bright light she’d just unwillingly shot into them.

“This better be something important,” she grumbled, in lieu of a greeting.

“You think I like being roused like this, either?” Regina’s voice was tight and snappish, and that alone was a bad sign, enough to send a spike of alarm through Emma’s chest.

“I just got a call from the hospital about our newest acquaintance. Bad news.”

“Wait, wasn’t he stable? They said he was okay last time I went there.” He couldn’t be dead, right? That would have solved only one of their problems and given way to a thousand more, and it would have come like lighting out of a clear sky, anyway.

“Well, he probably still is. We just have to figure out where he went first.”

In the morning, Grace made tea.

They’d all woken up restless from their scarce hours of sleep, but no one had been in the mood for a proper breakfast – a sentiment she could understand, given the way her own stomach was still rolling and turning. Olympia and Coppelia had left shortly after her father had started making noise upstairs, and Mignon was slumped onto the kitchen table as though recovering from a wild night, which meant there was nothing to distract Grace from that feeling of impending doom that weighed on her shoulders.

Hence, the tea. She went through the motions of putting the kettle on and preparing her mug as if in a daze, hoping the mechanical, repetitive task would allow her to zone out and ignore those nasty thoughts in her head, but it didn’t seem to have much of an effect – when Mignon’s wordless grunt made her notice the water was boiling, she realized she hadn’t done anything except ruminate the same thing over and over again, leaning against the counter and staring into empty space.

Perhaps she was going mad. People did say it ran in the blood, after all. It was what Grace had been afraid of her whole life, looking in the mirror only to see a distorted reflection of herself grinning from ear to ear. Perhaps she’d only hallucinated the whole night; nobody had ever heard of half a classroom’s worth of teenagers being kidnapped by fairies – young children, yes, and fair maidens who’d fallen in love with a spirit, but aside from being part of a group that could only be called fair through the widest stretch of imagination, Grace was grown enough, and the few boys she’d kissed were simple, down-to-earth troglodytes, hardly demanding her to step inside a fairy ring for their sakes. Perhaps all of it had only been a nasty nightmare, the kind she hadn’t had in ages.

But- No. That was wishful thinking. She’d always prided herself of being rational, and rationality had no doubt that last night had been a very real, very inconvenient experience, that made her hands grow icy cold and shaky despite the warm drink cradled in them.  They had spoken to a sorceress, and she had called Grace, and Pinocchio, and hell knew who else, as close as family the Mother Superior could hope to get. She’s said they were special. Leaders.

Grace didn’t want to lead anyone. To lead meant to expose oneself to the world, and she was comfortable right where she was, hidden behind the carefully sewn curtain she’d had up since the age of nine. Pinocchio could be leader if he really wanted to, which was doubtful, or Pierrot, since he loved being the center of attention so much – anyone would have been better than her, honestly. Even Mignon would have sufficed, for all that Mignon had the making of a right hand man, rather than the first in command.

Grace almost asked her best friend what she thought of all that – the four of them had hardly spoken upon returning home, rather collapsing on their sleeping bags in a fitful, exhausted sleep – but the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs made her stop, swallowing the question back down. Her father seemed in a fine mood when he entered the kitchen, kissing her cheek and snorting at the sight of Mignon, who by now resembled a bushy-haired puddle and barely lifted a hand in greeting. “Long night, girls?”

A foreign, abrupt feeling surged in Grace’s gut, forcing her to struggle to keep her returning smile from wavering. It had to be the tiredness, surely – only seconds prior she’d been mostly focused on maintaining some semblance of normalcy for her father’s sake, and now out of nowhere had come a stab of resentment every time she turned to look at him, burning and bursting at the seams.

You left, that part of her wanted to scream in his face. This is all your fault, because you left. If he hadn’t broken his promise, all those years ago, then no one could have tried to tell her that she was fairy-tied or- or whatever word Morgana had used. If he hadn’t missed that other teatime, then she wouldn’t have had to spend the curse in the nuns’ grasp, having to shield herself from their pious chittering. He was the one to blame, a minute, nagging part of her brain insisted.

But of course that made no sense. She loved her father. He’d had no say in whether he could make it home before the curse or not. This was just the bitterness in her talking, the nonsense that sorceress had spent the whole night blabbing about – she would feel much better once she’d had a nap and gotten a chance to put all that information in order, she was sure of it.

So Grace kept her expression amiable, that Paige-smile she’d been practicing for so long, and strained to give her father’s questions some appropriately witty responses, pushing the thoughts to a corner of her mind and nursing her mug of tea, already gone lukewarm in her unsteady hands.

“How did he get out without anyone noticing him?” Emma gritted out, all but storming out of the hospital. “Never mind the nurses- how is he not in any security footage? We don’t even know which way he went!”

Beside her, Regina shook her head – despite the rough awakening they’d both had, she hardly looked frazzled, her hair as pristine as ever. “Magic, I suppose. That’s the only explanation I have in mind. Though it’s not the first time someone’s escaped this place- should I remind you of your father’s first course of action?”

“Yeah, well, that was its own thing. And there was a curse in place, if you don’t remember. We don’t look very cursed right now, do we?”

Though maybe they were, the sheriff thought bitterly. Cursed to never have a day of peace, they had to be, because this situation was getting ridiculous – they’d lost a whole man during the night, and no one had had the sense to explain how that had been allowed to happen. He hadn’t been caught leaving…not just the building, but his own room; he had simply vanished between one nurse’s round and the other, disappearing into thin air like a hologram.

It was enough to drive a sane woman nuts, and Emma had hardly slept the hours required to reach that sanity, as of late.

Regina, for her part, seemed just as pensive, though when she spoke up again it was clear she’d been following an entirely different train of thought. “You might have a point,” she said, distractedly. “I wonder…”

“Yes?”

“Nothing concerning that guy has made sense ever since he showed up here. Those kids, and the Mother Superior…I feel like we’re missing something, and no one has been telling us what it is. And look, I know you think some of them are clever, but between a bunch of teenagers and a fairy, I think it’s quite clear who’d be better at making someone disappear.”

It wasn’t too farfetched a guess, though Emma really, really hoped it was the wrong one, the way things were going. “So what do you want us to do? March on the convent and demand to see if they’re hiding a complete stranger in their basement?”

“Would it be that outlandish, at this point?” Regina opened her arms in a stiff, resigned gesture.

“If this man used magic to disappear, he hasn’t left any trace I could detect, so it would take a miracle for us to track him down. And if he somehow walked out of the hospital on his own feet, either he went straight down Main Street or he took to the woods, and contrary to when David decided to take a stroll to the Toll Bridge, we don’t have Ruby on hand to sniff this one out of his hiding spot. She might still be gallivanting around the realms for what we know. So no, I don’t have any better plan than questioning the only person beside us and- and Pinocchio who knows something about magic and Morgana. Do you?”

Did Emma have a better plan? She wasn’t certain, herself. Regina raised a fair concern – who else was there to help them, really? The kids had retreated into their shells like ill-tempered snails when confronted outright, and everyone else had been clueless and unhelpful, and even if they’d released any skilled trackers they had, scarce as they were, into the woods, she doubted they could find someone who had already managed to go unseen inside a damn hospital. The prospect of fetching Blue and more or less accusing her of hiding something was a little tantalizing, after Emma had seen how she’d treated Pinocchio and Grace, but things had a chance of turning sour quickly after taking that step, given how the fairy had reacted to her actions being questioned in the past; and yet, that had to be the fastest way to discard some options on hand, right? There weren’t any other Emma could see at the moment.

Unless…

“Wait.” Unbidden, her hand went to grip Regina’s arm, as if to stop the latter from already losing her cool. “Maybe we don’t have to do that just yet.”

Regina, in turn, simply stared skeptically at her. “You have a better idea?”

“Yeah.” Better, debatably; but maybe, just maybe, it would keep things from escalating until it couldn’t be avoided anymore, which was as good as any sheriff could hope to do, these days.

“Hear me out. I think we can kill two birds with one stone, and then, if that doesn’t work out, we can go with your plan. What do you say?”

Lampwick didn’t even bother taking off his shoes once he got home, instead slumping onto the couch the second the door had closed behind him.

He’d assumed- hoped, really, that the apartment would be empty at this time of day, and luckily it seemed he’d been correct. There was blessedly complete silence around him, but contrary to what he’d experienced only a few hours prior, this time he didn’t feel the need to have his eyes open and keep watch, wondering what kind of stupid nonsense could be hiding behind that quietness – he’d hardly slept, even after they’d made it back to Pierrot’s house. He’d been too busy clutching his boyfriend tight like a grapevine, Twinkle pressed against his back with his shirt balled in her clammy fingers.

At least Pinocchio had dozed off, eventually, or perhaps he’d just pretended to, and laid there with his eyes squeezed shut to avoid conversations. He’d hardly spoken since they’d left the hole in the forest, Lampwick and Mignon carefully closing the passage again behind their back before the group split in two once more – instead, he’d remained mute as a fish up until the morning, packing up his things and making to leave with the rest of them rather than staying back with his brother to wait for Leona’s return.

Lampwick had walked him home, of course. He didn’t trust their town like that anymore, and he certainly didn’t trust Pinocchio to ride his scooter in a straight line in the state that he was – he’d pushed it all the way to old Geppetto’s house himself, in truth, occasionally glancing to the side to check if the younger boy had regained at least some color. Pointless attempts, sure, but what else was he supposed to do to pass the time? The road had felt interminable, with both of them dead silent and too occupied with their own stuff to hold hands.

Those horrible scars had disappeared, at least. He’d checked several times, but they’d started fading the moment the lot of them had left the forest, and hadn’t made a reappearance since, which was great, as far as Lampwick was concerned. He could already see the reminders of the lashings he’d gotten as a donkey every time he stripped down to shower, he wasn’t keen on Pinocchio going through the same thing over and over again. That kind of stuff was better left behind like the bad trip it was – they could file it away as a simple trick .

Still, he’d checked. He’d held Pinocchio nice and tight, and scoured every visible inch of his body to look for the blasted things, and Pinocchio had just let him, burrowing in his arms and not letting go for a good long while before finally walking into the house, as if trying to absorb as much comfort as he could while it lasted. Of course, Lampwick would have made it last an eternity if he could have, but no luck with that – they had to rest and recuperate, and then try to figure out what the next step could be.

As a group. No chance in hell any of them should play the lone ranger, given what tended to happen when they were separated. The only thing he could do on his own was have a snooze, and maybe a proper breakfast, and…

“Look what the cat’s brought in.”

Lampwick damn near jumped out of his skin, then groaned, burrowing his face even deeper into the couch cushions. Where the hell had Leroy popped out from? “D’you really need to yell?” He muttered, disgruntled.

“No one’s yelling, bonehead, you’re just too out of it.” A heavy hand landed on the back of his skull, ruffling his hair. “What, you hungover? Happy got you beers again? You know what I think about that.”

“That was one time. We didn’t drink anything.”

It was…weird, to be bantering like this with Leroy. They had barely exchanged a couple words since the whole tunnel mishap a few days prior – not that the man hadn’t tried, but Lampwick had been too pissed off, too laser focused on what they’d planned to do on Saturday night to relent, and Nova always said they were both too stubborn for their own good. He supposed he ought to be even madder, now that he had proof he wasn’t crazy, but most of all he only felt on edge, his exhaustion leaving to make space for a sense of sudden alert.

Leroy must have sensed the stilted atmosphere, too, because soon enough an awkward silence had fallen between them, though Lampwick didn’t hear his footsteps leave, either. Then he sighed and plopped down to seat beside the boy, on what narrow space was left on the edge of the couch. “Can we have that chat now or are you gonna run away again?”

Ugh. Just what Lampwick had been dreading the most. He wasn’t in the state to handle this conversation – he probably never would be, but being tired and alarmed and all around out of sorts could only make it worse, make him too weak and vulnerable to keep mum about things that were his business and his alone. There was nothing he wanted more than to keep it all close to his chest and never, ever let it go, really. “Nothing to chat about,” he mumbled, doing his best to sound flippant. “You said your piece. ‘S fine.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t let you say yours. Was too scared you’d cracked your skull open, like that boy you hang out with.”

“No chance. Eugene’d hate having shit in common with me.”

“Maybe. But since now you’re blabbering too much to be concussed- wanna tell me what happened in the mines? From the start, if you please.”

Lampwick would have held onto his resolution to keep his mouth shut if he’d been left alone. He would have, honest. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to forget far more than he wanted to talk about it. No use in digging into the past, even if said past had resurfaced less than half a week prior.

But- maybe their little adventure in the ground had wrung him out more than he’d thought. Maybe it was just that Leroy wasn’t being as loud and brash as usual, and Lampwick wasn’t forced to look him in the eye if he was stuck in that position. Either way, after a long, hesitant moment, he found himself saying, in a barely audible whisper: “I didn’t hear the little princess in the mineshaft. I thought it was, at first, but it wasn’t. I wouldn’t even know what she sounds like.”

He expected another scoff, but Leroy only hummed encouragingly, patting him roughly on the back. “So what’d you hear?”

“I- I thought I heard my sister.”

The boy sucked in a breath, clenching against the sting those words always dealt him. Long seconds trickled by, and then he heard, surprised and yet subdued: “I didn’t know you had a sister, kid.”

“’Cause I don’t. She’s probably dead now.” Oh, that hadn’t stopped being difficult to wrap his head around, despite the forty-odd years that had passed thanks to magical reasons. It was just as fresh as the first time he’d realized, even though he was supposed not to be that spineless little boy anymore. “She probably was dead ages ago.”

The hand on his back was a warm, steady weight, keeping him together right where it was. “Tell me about her?”

If Leroy had pressed more, Lampwick thought he would have likely shut down again. And yet, it had been worded like a question, and thus he felt the words falling out of his mouth almost of their own accord. “Her name was Renata,” he said, his throat suddenly tight and dry.

“I called her Nati. My Nati. She was the baby, but she looked like me- we had the same hair and all. She was just smaller, ‘cause she was always sick. The lungs, the healer said. She was always ill in winter, so she couldn’t grow properly, and we didn’t have the coin for fancy doctors, or to keep the fire going all day.

“The last winter- nobody told me outright, but I could see it myself. I was her favorite, and we shared a cot ‘cause there wasn’t any space, and I run hot like an oven anyway. I knew it was worse than the other times, and that she wasn’t gonna get better. Was just a matter of time before they stopped trying anything.

“’Cept I didn’t want to be around to see it. It’s stupid, but I was so damn scared of what was gonna happen to her, I just did the coward thing and ran- we’d talked ‘bout Pleasure Island before, me and Pinocchio, so I knew he’d come with me, and I was right, I convinced him easy.

“That night was the last I saw of Nati. She went to sleep and I… I left. Dunno how the curse worked for them, but if it hit, she’d be about Roland’s age now. Maybe older- I don’t know, it fucks with my head, and I don’t think she lasted that long, anyway. It’s a gut feeling, I can’t explain how it works. I’d know it, if she were alive. I’d just know.”

He clamped his lips shut, then, eyes still stubbornly fixed on the fraying couch cover. He’d said too much already. He didn’t think he’d spoken at length of Renata in years – maybe ever, if he was honest with himself. Nobody in town even knew she’d existed, except Pinocchio and Eugene, and they knew better than to pry about it. He had no clue what had just prompted him to prattle like that to Leroy of all people, and in a way it felt good, as if it had been pressing against the back of his tongue waiting to spill out, but he had to put a stop to it, at some point.

For his part, Leroy didn’t respond immediately, but when he did, there was a hint of disbelief in his voice, surprisingly. “You know it wasn’t your fault, what happened, right?”

“I know.” Did he? Lampwick wished he could have sounded more convinced of it, and yet, he just couldn’t bring himself to. “But I should have stayed with her anyway. She was too little. She probably didn’t even understand why I wasn’t there anymore.”

“You were a little kid, too. You were doing what you could.” The dwarf sighed, followed by the telltale sound of him scratching at the back of his head. “You know- Look, I get it. There used to be eight of us, and I was the eldest. I worked my ass off to keep all of those idiots alive, and when we lost Stealthy, I thought it was my fault, too, but I know he would have rapped me on the head if he’d heard that, even if it was me he was coming to free. It was just a bad time for the whole kingdom.”

Great. Now he’d unearthed painful memories from the past, too. He’d been awfully busy for it being a Sunday morning, hadn’t he? “Sorry.”

“Nothing for you to be sorry about. Point is- It wasn’t fair, what happened to your sister, and neither was what happened to Stealthy, but… Nothing either of us could do about it. Can’t beat yourself up for that. It doesn’t help anybody.” Another pause, shorter this time, less intense. “Doesn’t explain why you’d hear her voice out of nowhere, either.”

They were back where they’d started, then. Even worse, considering his and his friends’ predicament. “I don’t know, Leroy. I wasn’t even thinking about her. No more than usual, anyway.”

Actually, Lampwick did know, or rather, he’d had confirmation that he hadn’t made it all up, but he made no mention of it, instead preferring to keep his mouth shut once more. They had an unspoken agreement not to tattle on their piss poor sleepover just yet, which would already have been enough of a motivation, but he also didn’t think it would have helped the case about his mental stability, to say something on the lines of well, you see, a weird Camelot loon took us underground and told me there are ghosts in the tunnels, so it was probably one of them calling for help- also, the Mother Superior is staging a coup, d’you know anything about that?

“The mind can play some nasty tricks down in the mines, let me tell you that. And these mines are worse than you’d think, what with magic and all- can’t find a decent vein of fairy dust anymore, and the sheriff says she fought a dragon even below that, but I wouldn’t put my money on it, unless she got pictures.”

Despite himself, Lampwick couldn’t contain a snort, the image conjured by his mind too vivid to dismiss. “Man, I’d have killed to see that, though.”

“Yeah, don’t. Nova’d say it’s my fault if you wind up in jail.” One last shoulder squeeze, then Leroy stood up with a groan, the couch creaking as some weight was lifted off of it.

“Look, you were still too damn reckless for my liking, but- Sorry for making you think I was calling you crazy, kid. You just scared the life out of me, is all. I’m sure there’s an explanation about all that, somewhere. We just gotta find someone smarter than the likes of us to figure it.

“I’m gonna go grab some coffee. Get some sleep, you lazy bum- we’ll figure out if you can come back to the mines with me once you can keep your eyes open.”

Then he walked away, leaving Lampwick to contend with the mixed feelings of guilt and warmth pressing against his ribcage all at once.

Michael Tillman’s garage was open despite it being a Sunday, just as Emma had hoped.

What went even beyond her hopes, however, was the man’s response to being asked whether he’d seen their mystery fellow anywhere the previous night. He had closed his business at the same time as usual, he said, long before the man had been reported missing – but then, when the two women were already about to throw the towel, he nodded towards a corner of the garage, shrugging. “You can try asking my daughter- she comes down here at night sometimes, to work on her little projects. Maybe she was around to see something, I don’t know.”

“Did you know he’d say that?” Regina whispered, after they’d thanked him with poorly hidden haste and started marching off to the aforementioned corner.

“I didn’t plan that far ahead,” Emma replied, equally as quiet. “He has two kids- I would have found a way to talk with at least one of them, whatever his answer was.”

It was a shot in the dark. She knew it was. All the children she’d tried interrogating since Saturday of the last week had been very good at keeping mum – there was no reason why these ones would be any different, really. Perhaps they would truly have been better off demanding answers out of Blue, as Regina had suggested, or knocked on some more doors down Main Street, or started a desperate scavenger hunt into the woods. Perhaps anything would have been smarter than this fool’s errand.

But the twins were Pinocchio’s friends. Emma didn’t want to accuse the boy of anything, and getting any answer out of the ankle biters she knew best had been as hard as pulling teeth, and still, she couldn’t shake off the discomfort that had hit her in the sheriff’s office back then – she remembered the way he and Grace had treaded as warily as deers under headlights quite clearly, and more than that the empty, gaping hole where she’d expected to sense whether Pinocchio was telling the truth or not. Something was wrong with those kids, and it was her job to intervene, even if no one else deigned to do so.

All those fancy words, however, possibly hinged on Ava Zimmer’s answers to their question. When they found her she was elbow-deep into rummaging through the hood of a car and giving no sign of having heard them approach, though perhaps it was only because of the music – what was likely her phone was hooked to a small speaker on one of the workbenches nearby, Kurt Cobain’s voice crooning out of it and drowning most other sounds in the garage.

“You guys still listen to this stuff?” Emma commented, faintly amused. “Really? I remember I was a kid when it first came on the radio.”

The girl stopped mid-motion, and then, slowly, pulled herself out of the engine. At nineteen, Ava was no longer the child Emma had helped out of shoplifting and being sent to a state home – she was tall and willowy in her grimy overalls, and she kept her hair tied up and out of the way, the sides shaved and an unimpressed glare peeking from under the few flyaway strands.

“Yeah, so was I,” she said, glancing between the two women with a raised eyebrow as she wiped her hands on a rag. “And when Princess Diana died and the Spice girls were on top of the charts. That’s kinda the point of a curse. What can I do for you?”

Not in the mood for chitchat, it seemed. Already a bad sign. Still, the sheriff didn’t give up, and instead pressed on: “We just wanted to ask you a couple questions. Can you give us a bit of your time?”

“Questions about what? Anything bad happened?”

“It will be easier to explain, if we can get away from this noise.”

“If I have to…” Ava paused for a moment, as if making sure that she did, in fact, have to, before huffing impatiently and facing the way they’d come from, waving a hand to get her father’s attention. “Dad, I’m taking five!”

Then she turned on her heels and stomped out of the side door, leaving Emma and Regina to exchange a perplexed look as they followed in her trail. Emma was halfway expecting her to have snuck away, honestly, but when they turned the corner she was simply waiting there, leaning against the back wall of the garage and rolling herself a cigarette with impressive dexterity.

“Seriously?” Regina ventured, wrinkling her nose. “Isn’t that stuff bad for your lungs at your age?”

“So you’re fine with witch ovens, but not cigarettes? Fancy that.” Ava lit the cigarette without deigning them of a glance, and took a long, pointed drag before finally shooting them a wry grin. “Anyway, this is supposed to be my break. Either I talk to you and you let me smoke, or I go back inside. Your call.”

Emma struggled not to roll her eyes at those antics, but she’d spent enough time dealing with Lampwick not to be impressed by tough guy acts of that sort, and thus she didn’t acknowledge it at all, instead fishing out her phone and pulling up the picture she’d gotten off the hospital security of the man in his borrowed nightgown. “The guy you and your friends found on the beach- did you see him last night, by any chance? Or hear anyone mention they had?”

The girl frowned deeply, squinting at the grainy image – there were dark bags under her eyes, as if she’d hardly slept, but they only served to accentuate her scowl, if anything. “I thought he was still in the hospital.”

“He’s missing. We thought he might have run off this way- your father mentioned you work in the garage at night, sometimes. Did you see anything weird around these parts?”

“Sorry, can’t help you with that. My dad thinks he’s up to speed with everything, but I wasn’t even at home last night. I slept at a friend’s house, so I’m pretty sure this place was empty after closing hours.”

That was enough for Emma’s ears to perk up, no matter how meager a clue it might be. “Can I ask which friend it was?”

Ava snorted derisively, almost coughing on her own smoke. “What? No, you can’t. That’s none of your business.”

“Leave her be, Sheriff,” Regina interjected, with that sly smile of hers that could only mean she was turning her cunning up a notch. “It’s clear it wasn’t just a friend she was visiting. Had a wild night out, didn’t you, Miss Zimmer?”

“I could ask you the same question. What were you two doing last night, that you’re already out and about together this early in the day?”

“We’re not the ones who have to give answers here, girl.”

“And I don’t have any to give. You asked me if I saw that guy ‘round here, I said I didn’t. Anything beyond that has nothing to do with you. Go back to your love nest or whatever, I’ve got work to do.”

Something in the inflection of her words made Emma stop in her tracks. She wasn’t certain of what it could have been – maybe just self-suggestion, maybe simply a nervous glance hidden among all that snark, but in any case, she knew she wouldn’t be able to rest until she dug further into it, superpower or not. “You didn’t see him here, but- Did you see him somewhere else?”

The girl’s eyes widened ever so slightly, though she schooled her expression back into a scowl immediately after. Bingo. “What kind of question is that?” She scoffed, but it sounded a bit tenser than before, unless it was simply Emma’s biased ears telling her that. “What sort of stuff do you think we do at sleepovers? Lay with men twice our age? That’s Mignon, not me.”

“Is that a no?”

“It’s a stay out of my business, Sheriff. Look, the only reason why you could come harass me here is because ten years ago you decided we needed a fucking father. Which, like, great hero move and all that jazz, but it doesn’t mean you get to waltz in and waste my time- it just means I have an actual job now besides playing wet nurse to my idiot brother, and I have to get back to it before he breaks something at my station again. Have a good day.”

She stubbed her cigarette against the wall and marched off without another word, weaving her way between them resolutely. Emma watched her go in silence, making no attempt to stop her, until the skinny figure had disappeared into the garage again, and only then did she turn to face Regina, who was looking at her with poorly concealed disbelief. “You’re just letting her bow out like that?”

“She’s told me enough.” The sheriff took her friend’s arm and led them out of that alley and back onto the busy street, making a beeline for the car she’d parked along the sidewalk. “We wouldn’t have gotten anything else out of her, unless we resorted to some of your old methods.”

“Yes, well, these kids are making me regret putting those aside, lately.” Regina grimaced, leaning against the passenger’s door but still not opening it.

“Look, Emma- Is this about what she said about you playing the hero? She was just trying to get a rise out of you, you know that.”

“I do. It’s not that.” And it wasn’t, honestly. It had stung, of course, just as Ava had intended – who wouldn’t get offended at the insinuation they’d messed up while helping a child? – but if Emma had taken offense at every venomous barb those ridiculous teenagers threw her way, she would have been reduced to a weeping mess half a decade prior.

“Did you see how she acted when we were talking about our man?” She continued, sliding into her seat and thus prompting the other woman to imitate her. “She knows something about what’s happened last night, and since she wasn’t lying about staying over at someone else’s house, I’m willing to bet they know something, too. I don’t remember seeing Ava with that many other kids, and they’re all involved in this mess, anyway.”

“So what’s our next step, since you think she’s not the ringleader?”

“We go make a house call to the actual ringleader.” Emma started the car, feeling a sense of unease despite her determination. She’d been wrong, before: accusing the Mother Superior of anything would have been less unpleasant than the suspicions that had started brewing in her gut.

She would have taken a fairy being in the wrong over figuring out which of the kids had messed up, after all.

“Fasten your seatbelt, Madam Mayor. Let’s see if Marco’s put his kid to work today, too.”

Pinocchio watched with trepidation as Emma’s car went down Main Street, only stepping into view when he saw it turn fully around the corner.

He hated this kind of subterfuge, even if it really couldn’t be helped. He liked Emma, and he was sure she would be sympathetic of his confusion if he fessed up, but that might still not be enough, so moving behind her back as to avoid her inevitable questions was the only option he felt was left to him – and besides, he didn’t want to get her involved into his mess any further. He’d disappointed so many people already, he wasn’t willing to add others to the count.

He'd promised Lampwick he wouldn’t be doing anything reckless on his own. He’d reassured Emma herself that they weren’t hiding any secret from her. He’d told his father, only a little earlier, that he was just going for a walk as not to spend the whole Sunday sleeping. And yet, despite all those sweet words, there he was, staring at the windows of the second worst place in town he could possibly step into.

But the fox had spoken to him, down in the tunnels. It had whispered in Morgana’s voice, sweet and warm, and it had told him that there might be one person in Storybrooke who would be interested in hearing what he’d witnessed, and Pinocchio didn’t want to trust that voice, he honestly didn’t, but what else was he supposed to do, now? He was already in trouble up to his eyes. Why wouldn’t he go look for answers, at this point, if there was someone able to give them to him?

Distractedly, he scratched his neck, even as he glanced behind himself to check if there was anyone around who might recognize him. The scars had faded, as unsettling as it had been a relief, but his skin still felt tight and burned raw all over his body, and that alone, along with the nausea rolling and rolling in his stomach, were enough to make him put aside his qualms and push the door open, swallowing back any hesitation. Anything to put an end to it, Pinocchio thought as he entered Mr. Gold’s pawn shop, mindless of the closed sign dangling before him.

Anything in the world, if it could make his vision stop blurring like that.

Chapter Text

Storybrooke, the same morning, across the whole town

They made a brief detour to Granny’s first, to get their Camelot guests up to speed.

Regina wished they could have wasted less time with it, but a week hadn’t been enough to educate the two knights on the merits of a telephone, and Granny herself was still not on speaking terms with Sir Bertilak, which left them with fewer communication options than she would have liked. Besides, the mayor tried to reason with herself, they owed it to Lancelot, at least, to share any information they had – she would have appreciated it, if it had been her stepchild who’d disappeared. If it had been Roland to have gone missing from his bed, instead of having a late breakfast on her formerly well-kept couch.

Then again, things might have been a lot easier if Morgana had tried to take Roland. Regina fancied she would have caught the sorceress red-handed and made an example out of her, in that case, rather than being dragged on this wild goose chase around the town.

Still, perhaps Emma had made a good call about checking on the two men in person. Upon entering the diner, it was not Lancelot and Bertilak who turned to look at them, but Bertilak and Emma’s own mother – Snow regaled them with a half-smile, but she didn’t look any more relaxed than the rest of them, her face creased with concern.

“I came to see how Lancelot was doing, but he’s upstairs getting dressed,” she said, in response to her daughter’s silent question. “We didn’t hear from you for a while- Any news?”

“Too much news, honestly,” Emma sighed, sliding into the booth and urging Regina to imitate her.

Together, they laid out their new discoveries as well as they could; the big picture seemed a lot less detailed now that Regina could put all the pieces they’d gathered in one spot, and that did nothing to alleviate her frustration. Rather the opposite, in fact. Thus far, their digging and probing had been as fruitful as a scavenger’s hunt meant for children – nothing to show for it but cheap trinkets and poorly written clues, which was not the desired outcome, if one wanted to catch a witch.

Snow, however, appeared far more bewildered than the news should warrant, even more than the men themselves might be, if at all possible. “You think Mother Superior’s hiding something? But Emma, that’s… Why would she do that?”

“I wanted to go ask her the same thing,” the mayor muttered archly, but her friend simply shook her head, grimly determined.

“It’s not that I think she’s hiding something. I know she is- her, and the kids. And I’m still figuring out why they could be doing that, okay, but… Blue still hasn’t gotten back to me about those stupid lists of names, and she scared the crap out of Pinocchio and Grace the last I saw of her, and that didn’t make it any easier to speak with them, either. I’m still going to try and catch at least one of them in a moment, but fairies aren’t exactly in my good graces, right now.”

“I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation-“

“Yeah, and I am sure the two hormonal teenagers we’re talking about will be so receptive to reason, after they got treated like fleas in my presence.” Emma ran a hand through her light hair, a stiff, jerky motion.

“Look, too many things are happening at once not to be connected. Morgana might still be messing with us- and most importantly, she still has the princess. But I’m not going to solve anything by coddling people who won’t help me, and either the Mother Superior is keeping secrets, or she’s actively damaged my chances of getting answers from the kids- either way, she’s wasting my time. I’m going to talk to Pinocchio without her, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll manage to patch this mess up before anyone can make it worse.”

There was a quiet, barely contained fury to her expression, one that hadn’t been there during their brief car ride. It was a kind of indignation that had seemingly just surfaced, and that had only ever showed up at the height of various tensions, before – the kind of anger towards injustice that tended to make the Savior who she was, which would have looked out of place in that pleasant little diner to people who didn’t know any better.

And Regina… Regina understood, honestly. Ava’s callousness had irked her, sure, but it wasn’t as if the girl had been speaking out of turn; she’d been reasonably mistrustful of those she perceived as an enemy, something one should always commend, actually. Those kids had plenty of motives not to trust people in charge – a dangerous affinity for trouble too, true enough, but they were still the same kids that could be perfectly polite in line at Granny’s, or take Roland swimming on a summer afternoon. They weren’t caged beasts that could lash out at anyone who came near, no matter what the Blue Fairy might insinuate.

No, Regina’s opinion hadn’t changed. If Emma’s recount of that conversation was accurate (and they tended to be, especially during crises), then there was a good chance the culprit wasn’t any of those bothersome highschoolers, but rather someone much more capable of magic and general unpleasantness. One could only hope said highschoolers’ goodwill towards the sheriff would be enough to make them talk, at this point.

“Then let me come with you.”

Bertilak’s words had taken the whole group by surprise; the three women turned to look at him all at once, clearly stunned, and Regina couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow in skepticism. “You think that you would make a difference? That didn’t seem to work the last time you visited.”

“His companions were there,” the knight replied curtly. “You did not see them- they were lined up to defend him, and he them. If I could speak to him alone- Perhaps he would let down his guard, and tell me the truth. I do not know how much he remembers of our joint venture, but I hope he remembers enough to know I would believe anything he saw, be it mundane or fantastical.”

“The way things are going, it can’t hurt,” Emma murmured as an aside to her friend, “especially if this time around he leaves out the decapitation part.”

“I still don’t know if this is a good idea, Emma,” Snow said, worry creasing her already lined face. “What if you’re wrong, and it’s those boys who caused trouble? Maybe it’s nothing, and maybe they didn’t mean to, but I just- I don’t want them to do something reckless, if they see everyone coming to question them.”

“You go talk to Blue, then, since you seem so convinced she’s not behind this.” The sheriff stood up, then, already pulling her car keys back out of her pocket as a blatant sign of her intentions, the look in her eyes still stern and inflexible.

“Take Lancelot with you. Maybe she’ll be more interested to that child in danger, since she’s still a small one, but honestly? I wouldn’t count on it, from how she’s acted lately.

“Regina, Lord Bertilak- Let’s go. I want to get my hands on that kid before lunch, if I can.”

It didn’t really feel like a Sunday morning, Pierrot reasoned, pedaling lazily down a side street.

Sunday mornings were made for staying in bed for as long as feasibly possible, especially if they were also the morning after a sleepover. By all rights he should have been comatose in a sleeping bag, wearing his brother’s shirt and planning to head directly to lunch when his mother arrived, not riding aimlessly around Storybrooke in a fruitless bid for fresh air.

But they hadn’t exactly had a normal sleepover, had they? Instead of playing spin the bottle and watching crude b-movies, they’d met a king and a sorceress and a fox that knew the way out better than he did, and no one had been more rattled by it all than Pinocchio – Pierrot would have liked to check on the other boy more thoroughly, but he’d bailed pretty early in the morning, barely accepting Lampwick’s insistence about tagging along rather than riding off alone into the sunrise and likely straight into a mailbox.

Not that Pierrot was mad at him for that. It would take him a lot more than being ghosted while cleaning the house by himself to be mad at his brother – they hadn’t even done much inside the house, anyway, so all he’d had to do was put away the blankets and sleeping bags, and maybe sweep the floor. But he was worried, and thus he kept wandering, because if he’d gone straight to Marco’s house his mom would have caught his worry instantly, and they still needed to be sneaky about the whole business, despite what common sense might say.

Still, he would have liked to be doing the roaming on Pinocchio’s scooter instead. He was a man of poetry, not of sports, and his legs were already aching from their nightly travels. He should have been his brother’s passenger princess, dammit, not be left to ruminate on their problems alone.

And yet, as he was considering turning the bike around and getting some food in his stomach to quell his anxieties, he caught a sight that made him stop, putting his foot down as not to lose balance. He hadn’t really been heading towards any particular direction – he’d barely looked where he was going, to be quite honest – and he was almost surprised to have reached one of the smaller playgrounds, a little off compared to the center of town. It was too early for it to be populated by children and their families, so the colorful structures stood empty before him, but there was a lonely figure sitting on a bench, dark hair moving gently in the breeze.

Pierrot pondered on his options. He pondered long and hard, actually – he wanted nothing more than to walk up to that person and start a conversation, but he didn’t know if that would be overstepping, or if their nerves were still too fresh to be touched. He wouldn’t have liked to be alone in a stressful moment, but he wouldn’t have liked to be alone ever, really, and Eugene often said that they were lucky Pierrot wasn’t the example most people followed. Perhaps making his presence known would have made things worse, but what if it made them better instead?

Ultimately, the side of him that was decidedly his mother’s son prevailed. He dismounted and drew closer on foot, and cleared his throat as an early warning, still not putting the bike down. “Hey. You okay?”

Olympia glanced up, clearly surprised, but to his relief she soon opened in a small smile, straightening her back. “Hey,” she said, not unwarmly. “Yeah, I’m fine- I just needed some time out of the house. Lots of things to think about, you know?”

“Then we’re in the same boat. Do you mind if I sit and have a think with you, or would you rather be alone?”

“No- no, it’s fine. I don’t mind the company.”

Having been granted the permission, the boy let his vehicle fall onto the grass and sat gingerly down alongside her, doing his best not to get too close, nor become overwhelming. For a long time, neither of them spoke, sinking in slightly awkward silence in the empty park, though Pierrot snuck a glance in Olympia’s direction every so often, to catch any change in expression.

Christ, she was so beautiful, from up close. Anyone else, present company included, would have looked like an absolute wreck so early in the day after the kind of night they’d had, but this girl still glowed in the morning light, wary and weary as she was. In fact, she still looked as if she’d walked straight out of a painting, though maybe not one of the fancy, idyllic ones – the Sick Bacchus, maybe? He wasn’t sure. Visual art had always been more of Pinocchio’s purview.

Focus, you imbecile. He hadn’t come all the way up there to wax poetry about her beauty, contrary to his nature. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Her smile widened ever so slightly, though it felt, for a moment, vaguely tense along the edges. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Nothing, it’s just… Last night, you seemed a bit troubled by what that woman said. You know, when she was talking about- princesses, and towers. That sort of thing. Was she talking to you?”

He cursed himself for being tactless near as soon as the words had left his mouth, for Olympia froze immediately, like a small animal hiding from prey birds among the grass, her burnished brown skin taking on a greyish tinge. “Shit- sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to. I was out of line.”

A long second of terse silence. Then she closed her eyes, letting out a rattling, shaky exhale, some of the color briefly returning to her cheeks. “It’s not- it’s not that. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just- I hoped no one had noticed, that’s all.”

Pierrot waited as she appeared to steady herself, not even daring to breath for fear of spooking her again. Though maybe he should have told her he could pretend not to have seen anything at all, to put her at ease? Shit, why was this kind of conversation so difficult?

But Olympia, blind to his doubts, simply sighed again and resumed speaking, looking distantly at nothing in particular. “I don’t suppose you’ve read my story, have you? The one they’ve made in this world, I mean.”

“No, I… I don’t actually tend to do that unless people ask me to do that, you know? It’s bad manners. I’d be mad if someone did that to me and picked the wrong version by mistake, you get what I mean?” That elicited a snicker out of her, but it didn’t last long, and her voice was as serious as it had been before when she replied.

“That’s a good approach, but… There aren’t many versions of mine around here. We managed to narrow down what people know about me or Coppelia, and it’s not- It’s not much.

“The thing is, in my story, I- I don’t do a lot, but- there’s a boy. He falls in love with me, and there are some men that mess with his brain, but mostly, he goes mad. He goes mad because he loves that Olympia, and she makes him lose his mind- literally. He throws himself off a tower because of her, and the story ends with him bleeding out on the street.

“And it’s not- it’s not a well-known story, and I haven’t really told anybody- Elia knows, of course, but nobody else beside her. But that Morgana… She talked like she knew what it was, and what it meant for her. That’s why I was scared, because it means- she really knows so much stuff about us, and she isn’t just making a lucky guess. Nobody else should know about the tower, aside from me and my sister and- and now you, I suppose.”

She met Pierrot’s eyes, staring at her and all but gaping, and let out a stilted, wet giggle, as though she were on the brink of tears. “But that’s the stupidest thing ever to be scared about, right? It’s okay, Elia tells me that at least once a week. You don’t have to be polite about it.”

“What the- No, it’s not stupid.” It was the farthest thing from stupid, actually, at least from his point of view, but he couldn’t bring himself to say more than what was strictly necessary, his mouth dry and fumbling with the words. “Wait a second- Is that why you said you weren’t dating anyone, too? Does it have something to do with that?”

“Twinkle always says you’re more perceptive than you look.” Olympia cast her eyes down, wringing her eyes nervously on her lap for a good few seconds before she resumed speaking.

“I mean, what else am I supposed to do? I know they don’t really tell the stories straight here, but they seem pretty accurate about the stuff that matters – what if I try to date someone and they end up going crazy for real? I’m not taking that chance. I don’t care what sort of names they used to call me in school. Better a priss and an ice cunt than a murderer.”

She spat out the last sentence as though it had a nasty taste, which made sense, considering Pierrot had never heard her speak like that before. It was as if she were mocking her own stance, her voice still tremulous and her mouth drawn into a humorless smile, every muscle in her body tense and poised to snap back if he dared make fun of her, like a wound up spring.

Except- for all his comedic knowledge, there was very little in that situation that Pierrot would have deemed worthy of a joke. In fact, he was scrambling for the right thing to say at that very moment – the feeling pressing against his ribcage was so heavy and specific, he had a hunch he needed to be very clear about it, lest he sounded like a complete idiot. “I still don’t think it’s stupid.”

The girl shook her head brusquely, though her expression softened ever so slightly. “I told you, you don’t need to sweeten the pot for me. I get it. And you’ve always been so nice to me- even if you say something crude, I’ll know you don’t mean to hurt me. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” Pierrot resisted the urge to throw his hands up in frustration – come on, he was usually undeterred by an audience of dozens of people, was he really getting tongue-tied now of all times?

“I’m being serious here, it’s not- I think that’s a very reasonable worry to have, knowing what you know. It’s like, I take the piss out of Eugene all the time, too, for not liking the library because he was punted by a book once, but that’s because he’s my friend. It’s my job to take the piss out of him. I wouldn’t say he’s being stupid about the whole thing in earnest. That’s cruel.”

“But that’s different. Something horrible actually happened to Eugene- I’m sorry, I know it’s not really my business, but Elia looked him up months ago. He’s right to be scared. Nothing’s happened to me yet. I’m just worrying about something that might happen, like- like it’s fate or something.”

“What’s the difference?” Pierrot pulled a face, scrunching up his nose in an effort not to let the train of thought escape his brain. “You read a book, or- or something, where you were involved in bad stuff, and you’re supposed to just go about your day like it’s no big deal? That’s some Neverending Story bullshit. I say, if that’s the skeleton in your closet, then you can dress it up as you like. That’s no one’s business but yours.”

He turned to look straight at her, and felt a jolt of relief when Olympia actually glanced up to meet his gaze. “But- can I give my two cents about it?”

This time the laughter escaping out of her lips sounded a little more genuine, if still a bit wobbly. “Haven’t you been doing just that until now?”

“Fair point. Anyway, look- I see where you’re coming from, I really do, and I know how it might sound coming from me, so if you’re uncomfortable I’ll stop, but… I don’t think it’s good for you to keep looking over your shoulder like that. You’re not actually that Olympia in the story, right? You have no intention of hurting anyone ever, especially not in that way- I mean, if you want to hurt someone unrelated, you do you, obviously, but you’re not going to push anyone off a tower just because they like you. I don’t want to presume, but you don’t look the part.”

“But what if it happens anyway?”

“You’ve seen the kind of thing that happens in this place- We got kidnapped by a lady from Camelot and taken to some… some boy king underground so we could do weird interrealm espionage, were you expecting that from your Saturday night? Because I sure wasn’t, so like, it felt like a good spot to give up on predicting my future. The way I see it, if tomorrow Tommy Sawyer chases after you and slips on a banana peel, that wouldn’t be on you. If a pigeon poops on my bike because I stopped to talk to you here, that’s not on you either. Don’t blame yourself for stuff you can’t control. You’ll go mad before anyone else, that way”

He clamped his mouth shut, abruptly realizing how fired up he’d gotten over his own spiel. Olympia hadn’t signed up for a therapy session when she’d come out to sit on that bench, had she? Maybe Pierrot was overstaying his welcome.

But somehow, his companion didn’t seem upset with him. Rather, she was looking at him with a sort of open curiosity, as though she were actually weighing his words carefully in her mind – the intensity of her gaze was so strong Pierrot felt his cheeks burn, and he had to look away before he spontaneously combusted, the nearest park tree suddenly becoming a source of endless interest for him.

Then Olympia said, quiet and uncertain: “I never really thought about it this way.”

“Oh.” The boy shrugged, doing his best to show he wouldn’t make a big deal out of it if she didn’t want him to. “I’m…sorry if I overstepped?”

“No, you didn’t, I just- I don’t think I’ve got a clear enough head to give you a response. Can we…maybe stop talking about it, for now?”

“Of course. And if you want, I can go-“

“Please, don’t.” She appeared to curl in on herself even further, pulling her legs up to her chest. “I- I kinda don’t want to be alone while I’m thinking about that sort of things, and my parents wouldn’t understand, and Elia was asleep when I left. Could you maybe…stay for a bit?”

The way Pierrot was feeling at present, he would have gladly shot the sun down so the glare wouldn’t hurt her eyes, but as it was, he simply nodded and settled casually back against the bench, making an effort to appear relaxed from every angle. He didn’t break the silence when Olympia refused to say another word, and in fact, very nearly forgot how to breathe when she inched closer to him, leaning her head onto his shoulder as she continued to hug her knees.

Only a week prior, this kind of situation would have made his brain short-circuit, but a lot could change in a week. A lot had changed in a single night, it felt like, and so Pierrot had the curious sensation that it wasn’t him and his wonderful, impossible crush on that bench – only a very tired boy and a very tired girl keeping each other afloat, as though that odd Camelot woman had left them stranded in the ocean with her nonsense. Even when he dared sneak an arm around the other’s shoulder, bracing for any sign of discomfort that might make him pull away, his heart only skipped the tiniest beat, which was as sure a mark of a bizarre day as anything else, really, but he wasn’t going to look a gifted horse in the mouth.

Instead, he only closed his eyes and let his head loll back, soaking in the atmosphere for as long as it lasted while the sun climbed up the sky above them.

The pawn shop hadn’t changed a bit since Pinocchio had last seen it.

Granted, he’d only set foot in it once, on a dare with some older kids from the orphanage, but he doubted it was only his faulty memory giving him hallucinations. This was the kind of place that always remained unchanged in Storybrooke, even when the town deigned to catch up with the outside world, like the clock tower or Granny’s diner – one had to wonder whether people actually ever bought things from Mr. Gold, or if those were still there from the time of the curse, unmoving and miraculously un-dusty.

The man himself was standing behind the counter, leafing through some sort of registry – he glanced up when he heard the bell jingle from above the door, and offered a broad smile that hardly reached his eyes. “Young mister Pinocchio- what a surprise. Looking for something?”

“Sort of.” Pinocchio took a couple steps forward, careful to avoid the displays hanging from the ceiling – breaking something was quite low on his list of worries right now, but that didn’t mean he wanted to risk a shopkeeper’s wrath because of it. “I mean, I’m not sure- I wanted to ask you something, actually. Sir.”

“Did you, now.” Mr. Gold regarded him attentively, a flash of bland curiosity in his gaze, then he closed the ledger and pushing it aside to prop himself against the countertop. “Well, out with it, then. We close at twelve, and I wouldn’t have a customer leave empty-handed because of wasted time.”

He looked a bit older than Pinocchio remembered. It didn’t make any sense, considering he was the Dark One and supposedly ageless, near as old as the Mother Superior, but it was undeniably the case – more than the years, it was as if something else had dug into his features, adding lines to his forehead and the corners of his eyes and making his face seem even sharper. Playground gossip had insinuated that he was going mad, and though Pinocchio barely ever put any stock in that sort of thing, it wasn’t hard to believe now, looking into those unamused and vigilant eyes.

Nevertheless, there was nothing to compare the man’s appearance to except a child’s unreliable memories, and Pinocchio had more pressing business than that, anyway. “How much do you know about fairies?”

“More than I would care to. But if it’s fairy questions you need to ask, I imagine there could be people better suited to answer.”

“Not really, no.”

It was chilly inside the shop; Pinocchio almost regretted not bringing a sweatshirt, as goosebumps crawled their way down his arms and legs. He’d felt as warm as a boiling pot since they’d fallen into the cave, heat itching at his skin wherever he went, to the point he’d only burrowed in Lampwick’s arms for their fitful sleep because he had craved the closeness more than he’d cared about sweat pooling on the back of his head, but now his body temperature had plummeted – it was as if he were standing, still sweaty, under a gust of cold air, but nothing was moving in that room, least of all the wind itself. “What about someone named Morgana? I’m not sure she’s really a fairy, but she should have something to do with them, I’m pretty sure.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that name before.” The spark of interest had disappeared, or perhaps, Mr. Gold was simply being more careful about hiding it from view. “She was an…interesting woman, from what I remember, though quite attached to Camelot’s splendor, the last I heard of her.”

“That doesn’t sound right. There’s nothing splendid about Camelot- when we went there years ago, Morgana did something to it. Some kind of magic. There wasn’t even a castle anymore, only a little village, plus Merlin’s tower.”

That, for some reason, seemed to profoundly amuse him. “That was not the lady’s doing, boy. She only dismantled a very simple illusion- it was a wonder she took so long to do it, really. I never promised our good queen Guinevere that it would last forever, after all. It was only- a kindness, yes. To ease her mind.”

Pinocchio’s eyes widened as he reared back, stiffening in shock. “You did that? You’re the one that made it turn all red? How- why would you do that?”

He was missing a piece, he thought, following that faulty, upside down logic that had characterized the last few days of his life. Back in Camelot, after the chapel, everything of importance had been painted in vibrant colors for him to see, even if it hadn’t made a smidge of sense at the time – the castle had been pulsating red like a heart, and so had Prince Charming, after King Arthur had dragged him to his side, but Lord Bertilak had been as vivid a green as any new leaf, and Morgana even worse. It had spoken to some kind of instinct buried deep inside him, that distinction, and he’d soon learned that for him, red meant danger, even more so than the green knight had.

But there was no red in the pawn shop, right now. The colors had been coming and going for days by then, fluctuating and migraine-inducing as the fuzz on a faulty TV screen, but they’d never been as clear cut as in the past – Morgana’s tunnels had been a sickly shade of blue-green, perhaps owing to the lighting as well, and the Blue Fairy had burned the same color as her namesake, and yet no red had appeared yet. Certainly not in that suffocating place, where he could barely tell where the shelves ended and where the windows started.

If there was any color at all Pinocchio could feel pressing at the edges of his vision, it was black, wispy in the corner of his eye like tendrils of smoke and as menacing as the barrel of a gun.

And it seemed he’d said the wrong thing: Mr. Gold was staring him down again, tense and suspicious, all traces of entertainment dissipating in a heartbeat. It was no longer the bland curiosity of someone looking at a hamster from outside its cage – or maybe Pinocchio still was that trapped, hysterical rodent, but the one sizing him up was now a snake instead. “I did not make anything for that woman to use,” he said, curt and careful.

“It was a trade, no more, no less. I gave the queen the Sands of Avalon to trick her husband, in exchange for something I needed. What happened after didn’t concern me then, and still doesn’t concern me now.

“What does concern me is- what is it that you came here to ask, boy? Your friend the sheriff already questioned me years ago, after your return from Camelot, and was satisfied with my answers. I thought that my involvement in the last decades of Camelot’s history was already common knowledge. So I won’t say this again- tell me, why are you here? Why are you asking me about Morgana and the fairies?”

“I don’t know.” Frustrated, Pinocchio raked a hand through his hair, trying and failing to contain his agitation – he felt as if he had stumbled inside the burrow of a beast again, like Daniel in the lions’ den, except he was pretty sure no religious figure was coming to save him, no more than they had in his childhood.

“Something weird’s been happening lately, and she said you might know something about that, but she didn’t say anything specific. I thought if I mentioned her, you would know what I was talking about.”

“She?” The man raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “You would have me believe you spoke with this Morgana?”

“Yes.” It was the first time he’d said it aloud to anyone that wasn’t one of his or Grace’s friends, and it felt strangely liberating, even if it was laughable that he would do so to one of the few people in town his family had always warned him to avoid – but then again, he’d been going behind his family’s back for days now. Maybe it was a logical conclusion, after all. “I met her in Camelot, and- and last night, she came back. She said some things that didn’t make any sense about the Mother Superior, and the king of fairies, and then she told me that you could help make sure that the next one wasn’t any worse. Do you know anything about that?”

“I’m happy to say I am not involved with the political scheming of those pests. Perhaps you were mistaking.”

“What about someone named Baelfire?”

Pinocchio had expected that to be a pointless, too. He was, for all intents and purposes, currently grasping at straws. Might as well shoot every shot he had, minimal detail or not. What he had not expected was the beat of sudden, stunned silence that fell over him, catching him off guard and making him open his mouth, ready to ask if anything was wrong.

The words never came out. Instead, Mr. Gold lifted a hand, his fingers clenching halfway into a fist, and then Pinocchio’s throat constricted as though it was being squeezed by an invisible force, a force that managed to tug him up and lift him a couple feet in the air, too, for good measure. He tried to fight it off, kicking and clawing at his neck, but it was to no avail – it had to be magic, and he would never have any chance against magic, especially if it was strong like that.

“Where,” the man spelled out, with a slow, threatening lilt to his voice, “did you hear that name?”

“There was a boy,” Pinocchio managed to croak out with considerable effort. More than the pain in his throat and the increasing need for air, something else was urging him to panic, something that had nothing to do with invisible hands and everything to do with slow suffocation, and his feet dangling at a distance from the ground, and a memory that wasn’t quite what he needed to focus on right now, whatever it was- “She said- His name used to be- Baelfire.”

“And what was this boy like?”

“He was- Asleep. Younger than me. With dark hair- Please. Put me down. Please.”

Mr. Gold was silent for a couple more seconds, and they had to be only seconds, even if they felt like ages to Pinocchio, who was starting to see spots in his vision. Then he unclenched his hand, and the boy dropped in a heap on the floor, coughing and rubbing at his throat – the fleeting memory seemed to dissipate as he finally got some more oxygen into his system, but traces of it remained, even though he couldn’t quite place his finger on what it was about, or when it might possibly have happened. He was just glad to still be breathing, really.

Then Mr. Gold said, “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” Pinocchio protested, albeit weakly, lifting his head to face the other even if he wasn’t completely ready to stand up just yet. “Is that name important? I never heard it before last night. Why would I lie about that?”

“That remains to be seen.” With a forcedly calm, collected pace, the man stepped around the counter to stand before him, looming over the boy with another one of his sickening smiles. “Now you are going to tell me everything from the start. Then I will decide if I believe your story or not, so I’d suggest you make it a convincing one, boy.”

“If I explain everything, will you help me figure some things out?”

That seemed to amuse the shopkeeper; he chuckled tersely, shaking his head. “So this is what you came here for? You want to make a deal? I’ll have you know I don’t accept any proposal unless I know exactly what’s at stake, but I might make an exception just to see your face when payment’s due- Do I need to remind you what happened, the last time someone in your family made a deal with me?”

Pinocchio did not, in fact, need any sort of reminder. He’d seen those horrifying puppets in the window for twenty-eight years and then some, long before he could remember that they’d once been his grandparents, and even then they’d made his stomach turn, though he hadn’t known why. He was perfectly aware of the sort of deals people made with Rumpelstiltskin – Jiminy and Geppetto had made sure he avoided that mistake, since others had made it before he was born. He should have learned, he really should have.

But he was so damn tired. Not physically tired, although that was a factor as well – it was the angry, jittery kind of tired, the sort of feeling that would threaten to burst out of him like a landmine. He was tired of empty threats and half-baked explanations, tired of his concerns being dismissed until he could voice them properly, and yes, he was putting himself at risk in that moment, but it was a risk he’d deliberated on his own, not a hole dug specifically to make him fall in, or a rope thrown around his neck from behind. “I don’t want any deals,” he spat out, mindless of the darkness tightening at the edge of his vision.

“I just want to know what’s going on. That’s the whole problem. If you don’t want to help, that’s alright- I’ll tell you what I know, and if you plan to turn me into a puppet afterwards, fine. It wouldn’t make much of a difference at this point.”

“I see those fairies didn’t manage to curb your tongue,” Mr. Gold said, but he seemed somewhat intrigued, albeit still suspicious.

“Very well, then. Start talking.”

Pinocchio told him everything. He talked about the man on the beach, and the list of names, and everything that had happened since the previous Saturday, and the more he spoke the more appalled he felt – with all the events lined up like that, it sounded like he’d lived a year’s worth of trouble within a single week, to the point it felt lowkey impossible to believe it. He hadn’t had a moment of respite in days, and how fair was that, really?

There was a long, heavy pause when he finally finished, his mouth dry and his head spinning. He watched as his only audience member regarded him with intense concentration, the snake once again coiling around the little mouse, until Mr. Gold said, as if thinking aloud: “The king of fairy kind.”

Pinocchio nodded, grateful that at least he wasn’t about to get choked again. “That’s what Lady Morgana said.”

“How do you know it was the truth? You said she gave you- visions before, in Camelot.”

“They weren’t really visions, it was just- those sands, I think they messed with my brain. It wouldn’t make sense for them to still be doing that, but- my point is, I can’t know what’s the truth and what’s not. I know there’s something the Mother Superior didn’t want to tell me, so I suppose Lady Morgana could be doing the same, but I still don’t know what’s that got to do with anything. She said I was involved because the Blue Fairy raised me, but what about that other boy?”

The man huffed under his breath, a half-chuckle that sounded more angry than amused. “You wouldn’t believe how far her little grasping fingers can reach. Further than one might think, truly- tell me, how long has this king been on the throne?”

“About two hundred years. That’s what Morgana told us. Why? Do you know who he might be?”

“Might be. If only.” Mr. Gold glanced away, leaning against one of the cases and clutching its edge so tightly his knuckles turned white, threatening to crack the glass. “Baelfire was my son. I suppose Morgana must remember it, if she made you come to me for answers.”

Pinocchio’s eyes went wide, his itching neck and pounding skull momentarily forgotten as he tried to wrap his head around what he’d just heard. “What?” He stammered, dumbfounded. “But- How? Why would your son be a fairy king? How’s that possible?”

“You ought to ask that little blue parasite yourself, dearie. Two centuries ago, she got into my son’s head and forced us apart- why do you think she would do it, if you knew she was the one to blame? Why would she make him into a prisoner of her own kind?”

Because she thought it was for the best, Pinocchio’s mind chimed in immediately, but it hardly sounded like an explanation, and least of all an excuse. Rather, it was bitter and venomous, carrying the nauseating aftertaste of medicine along with itself.

That had always been the long and the short of it, after all, had it not? The Blue Fairy intervened if and when she deemed it appropriate for your own good, even if you couldn’t see it; he’d heard that mantra his whole life, since her magic had awoken a piece of wood that was already brimming with energy, the way his father told it. She saved you and chastised you and let you turn into something else, no matter what you said – in fact, speaking might well set you back on your journey, if it displeased her enough. Pinocchio knew this from experience, so why would he doubt it had happened to another boy, long before he was born?

The rope coiling, tightening around his neck-

“So you think Morgana might be right?” He replied instead, digging his fingernails into his palms. “The Mother Superior could be up to something to take his place? Get rid of him so she could be queen?”

“It’s not a matter of whether she could,” Mr. Gold said, darkly. “She might very well be acting on it as we speak. She has never wasted any time, when it came to…furthering her position. The question is, how? Where would she strike?”

Suddenly, something sparked in Pinocchio’s brain, the briefest of epiphanies. “I- I might have an idea.”

“What is it?”

“Morgana said something about…a brew? A spell? I don’t know, a thing that can undo any fairy magic that’s been cast. She told us the Blue Fairy  could use it to cut off others from the throne. Does anything like that exist? Because if you think she’d do something to this Baelfire, maybe that’d be it.”

Finally, Rumpelstiltskin turned back to face him. His expression was as hollow and dangerous as ever, but he was smiling again now, sharp and threatening like a bear trap. “Ah, so you are of some use after all,” he commented, nothing short of delighted.

“Yes, such a potion exists, and no, it wouldn’t surprise me to find out she planned to use it in such a fashion. Though I do wonder if she knows its existence is not as secret as she believes- but that will be a problem for later.

“Thank you for your help, boy. We might yet have something to discuss, after all- If you are indeed telling the truth, but I wager you are, given your unique perspective. At least, I believe you’re speaking in good faith, and if those fairies lied to you, then maybe together we might find a way to repay them in kind. Shall we?”

He extended his right hand, open and inviting. Pinocchio stared at it in bewilderment, caught off-guard and unsure as to what he should do – this was the sort of things their world’s tales warned children about, the proposals that were likely hiding something else entirely, the way he was alone in enemy territory, where no one had even noticed him being lifted off the floor by dark magic. He ought to have scurried off without hesitation, deaf and blind to such thoughts.

But no one had batted an eye when he’d been alone in fairy territory, either. He’d let himself be guided by the hand, scolded, mocked, so many days he’d never complained about, and yet there had been no repercussions, no outcry about what had been done to him. Was he supposed to care about it now of all times, when he might finally have proof of damage being done? Would it have been fair? Would it have spared anyone the pain, as he planned to do with the help of the only one person he knew to be strong enough to face the Blue Fairy?

No. He was past the point of caring. He was angry, angry, angry, and the pawn shop was not sultry red or buzzing blue, which must count for something, at least. It had to.

So Pinocchio took that hand and let himself be pulled to his feet, and all his qualms got swallowed down, chafing at his burning throat.

Chapter Text

It was not Marco that opened the door.

On another day, Regina would have found their fumbling arrival mildly hilarious, but their morning had been everything but amusing, thus far. As it was, the sight of an unexpected woman greeting them with wide eyes and a dressing gown over her clothes was hardly the shock it could have been otherwise, especially considering Regina had already crossed paths with her before.

After a brief hesitation, Leona smiled at them, raising a delicate eyebrow. “Sheriff. Madam Mayor. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“We’re really sorry to bother you,” Emma said, gravely. “We were hoping to speak with Marco and Pinocchio- are they home?”

“Marco, yes. I’ve lost track of the boys hours ago- it’s almost lunchtime, so I expect they’ll wander in any moment now. It’s like raising wolf pups, I’ll tell you that. But do come in- if you need to wait, better you wait inside, not on the porch like solicitors.”

And then louder, stepping aside to let them through the door: “Marco, love, you have visitors.”

The handyman appeared with confusion writ all over his face, a look that only got deeper when he noticed who exactly his visitors were. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

“Nothing bad happened,” Emma hurried to explain, moving to the front of the group. “We just wanted to have a chat with Pinocchio- we thought he’d be home, on a Sunday morning.”

“He was, for a little while. He said he was going out for a walk.”

“They had a sleepover at my house,” Leona chimed in, voice careful. “I imagine he needed the fresh air after that- their friends are lovely, but half a dozen teenagers cooped up in the same room for the whole night? I do hope Pierrot opened the windows before he left.”

Emma’s eyes met Regina’s for a split second, a flash of recognition passing over them before she turned away again. “All of their friends, you say?”

“Well, I think so- Why? Did any of them do something?”

Funny you would ask that, Regina thought, drily. None of them had figured out what those damn kids had done yet, but at the rate the conversation was going, it was all but certain that something had been done. All of them gathered in one place, the same night their nameless, senseless guest had disappeared? If her suspicions hadn’t been firmly lodged somewhere else, she would have half expected that lot to have squirreled him away themselves.

“This is not still about what happened at the beach, is it?” Marco asked, louder this time, more testily. “You brought this man over when that happened- Lord… Bertilak, right?”

“Peace, good sir. I have only come along to aid my friends in their investigation.” The knight took a step forward, reaching for Leona’s hand and bowing low to press a light kiss on her knuckles. “I am, indeed, Lord Bertilak of the Tower; and this must be your lady wife?”

Bless Camelot men and their old-fashioned tricks – Leona’s expression softened immediately as a short laugh escaped her lips, though her eyes remained steely and alert, boring through them all like a drill. “Neither of those, ser, but thank you. Well met. Now will you tell us what this investigation is about, if you please?”

“The man on the beach escaped the healers’ hold, I’m afraid. We were, and we still are, looking for him with haste.”

Marco’s brow furrowed in clear displeasure. “And you think the children had something to do with it? How- how could they have done that?”

Emma tried to raise a placating hand, looking slightly alarmed. “We just need to check in with them all. For all we know, that guy could be confused and looking for the people he remembers the most- I’m not saying the kids did anything bad, Marco.”

“Well, I really hope you aren’t. You have asked the boys so many questions, and yet you never gave us a single explanation- What’s happening? What did that man do, that you keep thinking it’s their fault?”

There was a sliver of anger in the handyman’s voice; Regina couldn’t begrudge him for it, honestly, but it was still a surprising sight, coming from someone who tended to be as warm as he was well-liked in town. Of course, he’d always been ready to go to bat for his son, even when Regina herself had been one slight away from crushing both their hearts, so perhaps it shouldn’t have been that much of a shock, but still, it was a problem. They needed helpful compliance, not yet another obstacle in the shape of a rightfully upset father.

Then, to everyone’s surprise, Leona laid a soft hand on his arm, gentle but firm. “Dear- Maybe you and the sheriff could have a seat and talk this through, while we wait for Pinocchio and Pierrot to come home? Just the two of you, so you can understand each other clearly. It won’t do anyone any good to just stand there and yell.”

And this, of all things, appeared to be what made Marco deflate like a tired balloon, where their own attempts at defusing had failed. He hesitated a moment before nodding, stiff and guarded, but at that the woman shot Regina a meaningful glance, her lined face carefully collected. “I’ll get started on some coffee, perhaps, if Her Highness and His Lordship can help me?”

Regina nodded curtly, catching the wordless plea without issue; she half-expected she’d need to elbow Bertilak into agreeing, but though he seemed as blunt as his old axe-head, he jumped in without missing a beat, inclining his head in deference. “Simply Ser will suffice, my lady, and yes, gladly- I only wish to warn you, I am not as inclined to the kitchen work as I would like to be. Pray not be disappointed, I shall do my best.”

“I’m sure you can hold a cup just fine, Ser, and again- not a lady, mh? Now, if you’ll follow me-”

She led them both towards a smaller room, with a gesture that left no room for objection – Emma shot Regina an alarmed glance, as if unsure of whether it was a safe call, but when the latter motioned for her that everything was fine she seemed to steady herself, turning resolutely back to her task. The last Regina saw of her, the sheriff was trying to move closer to Marco, speaking low and reassuring, but then the kitchen door was closed and she was suddenly thrust into her own interrogation, this time by someone who was leaning sternly against a table lathered with crumbs.

“What’s going on here, Madam Mayor?” Leona demanded, her voice a harsh whisper. “You got me believing the Mother Superior had it out for my boys the other day, throwing them to the wolves, and now you’re back to accusing them yourselves? Which one is it, pray tell?”

“I’m still of that opinion, thank you very much,” Regina snapped back, feeling as if her patience had been worn thin by the continuous running around she’d been forced to do at Emma’s behest. “If it had been up to me, I would have gone to the convent myself- I bet that’s where we could get some explanations, with or without the kids’ cooperation.”

“Yes, well, then speak plainly- I’m quite tired of having to guess my way out of this business, Your Majesty. I’d expect you of all people to be blunt about it, so spare me the sugar coating- are the children doing something harmful, yes or no?”

“I wish the answer was that simple. They’re doing something- Emma is sure of that, and I tend to agree, but… I don’t think they want to hurt anyone. I would be surprised if that were the case, actually- they don’t strike me as the hurtful kind of kids, though you know them better than I do. Reckless, maybe, and foolish, but… well-meaning, for the most part.”

The older woman scrutinized her for a long moment, as if searching for some deception on Regina’s face. For her part, the mayor had none to show – she meant what she had said, even if she’d have kindly asked the people present not to repeat it too loudly. Her interactions with those little idiots hadn’t been as direct as Emma’s had been, maybe, save for the exception that had been Camelot, but she wagered she could spot malice in someone else’s heart just fine, and she had never seen it in Pinocchio, and that meant the boy could hardly surround himself with vicious, irresponsible teenagers without his father or conscience taking notice.

It wasn’t like he had ever been the most proficient at being deceptive, after all.

Finally, Leona sighed, hanging her head in apparent resignation. “You’re not wrong. And- we noticed it, too, and we’re worried. Me and Marco, we spent a long time talking about it last night, and I doubt either of us slept peacefully after that. Pierrot thinks he can fool me, but I know when he’s faking those jokes, and Pinocchio… Archie brought him home a wreck, the other day, and it was clear he’d been crying, but he still wouldn’t tell Marco what’s going on. Does that look like the behavior of someone out to hurt people on purpose, to you?”

“Not really, no. But still- we just can’t help them if they don’t tell us what’s going on. Have they given you any sign? An offhanded comment, anything?”

“Nothing. I have nothing more to offer than what you already have- about the problem at hand, that is. If you’re asking me for an experienced opinion, then it might be a whole other story.”

Regina raised a skeptical eyebrow, suddenly alert. “What do you mean?”

Surprisingly, Leona gave her a slight smile, though it was more tired than amused. “You remember my friends, Igor and Nova? You should- they were there, too, when you gave me that ominous warning.”

She did remember, luckily, at least enough not to make a fool out of herself. The rail-thin, olive-skinned man had been just another face in the crowd, but she had seen the other woman before, the jittery one who’d once been part of Blue’s ranks; however, it still wasn’t clear how they fit into the topic on hand. “What do they have to do with this?”

“Well, the three of us have been…sharing our experiences, lately. Putting two and two together, so to speak. You gave us a nudge with your words, so thank you for that- I would have stormed the convent then and there, but Igor was adamant we take it slow, and insisted we compare our information first. Lo and behold, I think we found a pattern.”

“Which is?”

“How the Mother Superior behaves. Not many kids who were in her care have good things to say about her, nor do their parents- I would know, since I am one of them. For a woman that should be a paragon of honesty, she sure likes to bend stories until they fit the guidelines she sets- she seems to have some preconceived notions about who should be held responsible for any issue, from squabbles between children to the grand state of the world, and won’t settle until they are punished, regardless of who’s actually at fault. Pinocchio’s behavior speaks of it, as does Pierrot, and oh, you should have heard what Nova caught Mignon saying to Lampwick. I could make you a list, if you were so inclined.”

Regina narrowed her eyes. “Where are you going with this?”

“To show you that there is almost certainly another explanation.” Leona’s gaze was hard as steel, her hands gripping the edge of the table tightly, and her smile had a venomous edge to it, some kind of mirthless enthusiasm.

“I love my boys- they are everything to me, Madam Mayor, and I’m sure you can understand the feeling- but they don’t have the head to be evil masterminds. You might be able to give that your expert’s opinion, too. So if they’re under the spotlight, there must be someone setting them up to look like the villains- and it seems like we already have someone involved with a history for picking and choosing her villains, and with a lot of power to boot. I might not be a great scholar, but even I can see what the sum of these parts totals to.”

That…certainly made a lot of sense, though it was put way more eloquently than Regina had ever attempted to, even in the privacy of her own mind. Still, it was a far cry from the solution she was looking for, which Emma and Snow wanted to be diplomatic but the mayor herself would have liked to be, more than anything, direct. “Seems like you’ve been thinking this over for a while. Care to share what the next step in this grand plan of yours is, then?”

“That’s just it. We have none. I have threatened the Mother Superior before, when she raised her voice to Pierrot, but I know these are just a laywoman’s words- she has magic, and I have my hands. Doesn’t sound like a fair match, does it? So it’s not like I can make a valiant stand against her actions. I would, I’m not afraid of her, but…that would endanger the children. Would you want that to happen, in my place?”

“Forgive me, is this all of them?”

Both women startled at the sudden intrusion, turning as one towards Bertilak, who had just spoken out of nowhere. The man had been prowling the kitchen silently thus far, but now he was standing in front of the fridge, holding one of the myriad of pictures pinned onto its door with a near undecipherable, quizzical look on his face. “The children,” he clarified when he caught their puzzled stares, offering them the photograph. “I do not recognize some of them- are they all friends?”

Regina took it from his hand, turning it around to see better. It was indeed a bunch of familiar faces, though at least a few years younger – Pinocchio grinning widely to the camera, with a cake sat in front of him and surrounded by his friends – but there were some additions, too. An older girl stood behind them all, and Roland was up in Lampwick’s arms, reaching out towards the dessert, while another dark-haired toddler sat on Pinocchio’s knee, a fist in his mouth and confusion in his eyes.

“Yes.” She glanced up to see Leona looking wistfully on it as well, answering the knight’s question without meeting his gaze. “All of them, plus Eugene’s brother and sister. That was Pinocchio’s birthday, some years past.”

Bertilak smiled encouragingly. “I see. They look content, if I might say so. You must be doing a wonderful job, to raise them so happily.”

“It was before I met any of them, but thank you, Ser.” This time she did turn to look at him, questioningly. “Have you any children of your own?”

“Aye, I do. My wife blessed us all with twins, near two years past. A son and a daughter.”

That was more detail than even Regina had gained thus far, and she couldn’t help but shoot back, peevishly: “And who do they look like? You, or Gawain?”

The man didn’t falter, instead raising his chin in genuine pride. “They look like their mother, thank the gods. No doubt he will be handsome, and she beautiful, when they grow older.”

He reached out to point at the photo, right where Pinocchio’s faded smile was printed. “Actually, I named the boy in his honor, back then.”

Gauging by Leona’s wide eyes, they must both be utterly floored by this revelation, and the older woman faltered as she replied, the words stumbling out of her mouth. “I beg your pardon?”

“You see, we named our daughter Gwyneth, for the queen. But our son… I named him Gwydion, and Ardena and Gawain agreed. In our mother tongue, it means “born of the trees”- for the boy who walked out of the forest and helped us be reunited, to great danger to his own soul.”

Lord Bertilak pressed the picture onto Leona’s palm, then took both of them in his own, larger hands, clutching them tightly and holding her gaze without flinching. “My meaning is this- I owe a great deal to the child Pinocchio, even though a child he is no longer. I would not sully my honor by claiming this debt as null, when he is once again in the midst of trouble.

“I have gone through magic before, my lady Leona. I came out unscathed, but not unchanged- I know the risks, and yet I would do it again, to spare you and your companion the grief to see your boy endure it all by himself. Yes, if we act, there will be danger afoot, but I will shield him from that- him, and his friends, and all of these children, like my axe once shielded my queen from the grasp of her madman husband.

“This I swear to you- on my honor as a father, on my honor as a knight.”

The moment Pierrot came into view of Marco’s house, he could already feel trouble brewing.

Seconds before, he’d still been riding the high of his conversation with Olympia, but it all came crashing down as soon as he spotted the sheriff’s car parked right where he was supposed to hop off his bike; he hit the brakes a lot earlier, instead, ducking around the corner so he could assess the situation in peace without being noticed. Whatever was happening, it didn’t bode well – in general, but more specifically for him, since he doubted that it was his mom who’d committed a crime in the past twelve hours, or his mom’s boyfriend.

Of course, if he was in trouble, so was Pinocchio. Pierrot was perfectly ready to take the fall for any of his friends at any given moment, but there was no denying that right now, his social standing was firmly entwined with his step-brother’s, all the fairy folk business aside. If either of them stepped on dog poop, the other’s shoe would likely start smelling like shit, to say it poetically.

He had to warn Pinocchio, wherever he was. He couldn’t even fathom that his brother could already be inside the house, because in that case, he trusted Pinocchio would have find a way to warn him, even if he’d had to resort to smoke signals or passenger pigeons – instead, he pulled out his phone and typed out a frantic message, sending it over without delay. you know what’s going on???? sheriff at your dad’s house, we need a plan.

Pierrot had half-expected to be ignored for an unnerving amount of time, because that was the way of contacting Pinocchio over text – the other boy’s phone tended to be dead more often than it was charged, or forgotten in some pocket, or, in at least one memorable occasion, fallen inside Pierrot’s pet turtle terrarium. He was therefore very surprised when he got a buzz alerting him of a new notification within a couple minutes, the reply popping up at the top of the screen.

wood of my wood: Wait for me. I’ll be there soon.

That was hardly reassuring, given the tone and the uncharacteristic promptness, but Pierrot resolved to go against his nature and actually wait, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and his foot tapping like a lowlife goon in a cheap period drama. Sure enough, he spotted a very familiar figure walking towards him not ten minutes later, though he was nervous enough that they’d felt more akin to ten years.

Suspicion bowled him over immediately, and not because Pinocchio was looking upset. If anything, Pinocchio was looking too put together – if Pierrot had been the one dragged through a cave, spoken to about magical heritage and then given extra scars that only lasted a few hours, he would have milked the traumatic experience to its fullest, taking the chance to be as bedraggled as possible while he could, but that wasn’t what he was seeing in his brother. There was, in fact, a certain stiffness in how Pinocchio held himself, his back straight, his eyes staring ahead, and that was super concerning, in Pierrot’s humble opinion. Pinocchio was many things, but a stiff guy he was not, whatever the odds; fragile, yes, but there were no less than five people in town capable of gluing him back together when he crumbled to pieces, present company included, and none of their repairing efforts ever made him this rigid.

Still, that could be subject of some prying once they had some peace. Right now they had a bigger problem on hand to solve. “Where have you been? Do you know why the sheriff’s here?”

Pinocchio didn’t reply immediately, his gaze wandering to the unwelcome car in their way for a long while before it returned to his friend. “No one was here when I swung by earlier,” he said, curtly. “Just my father and Leona. It would be too much to ask that Emma only wanted to have a chat with them, right?”

Scratch Pierrot’s first impression – the detachment in his voice was worse than any stiff posture, as was the hard look in his eyes. “You sure you’re alright, Pinou? You look…weird.”

“I’m fine. I just went for a walk.”

Well that’s a load of crap. “Yeah, no one’s gonna buy that, especially the sheriff. We’ve got to agree on a cover story, okay? We just had a normal, boring sleepover, then you went home by yourself because- work with me, mon frére. I need an excuse that works.”

Pinocchio remained quiet, though he had at least the decency to duck his head, as if aware of the uselessness of his suggestions. Pierrot let out the sigh of both an exasperated older brother and a poet hit by writer’s block, then took the other’s arm and started leading him towards the front door. “Alright. I’ll put in the imagination for the both of us. You just play along and agree with me, got it?”

There was no answer, but he’d take it as a yes. Together, they maneuvered their way to the house; the door wasn’t locked, as per usual, so Pierrot simply marched in with his most charming and genuine smile plastered on his face, making a whole lot of noise – no sense in trying to scurry in quietly, in this situation. Better to face it head on and without fear. “Anyone home? More importantly, anyone in the shower? I sweated like a pig last night- we need to check our AC, Mom, I’m not sure it’s working right.”

He kept the lightness in his tone even as people emerged from the other rooms to greet them, though there were a lot more of them than he had predicted – not just his mom and Marco and the sheriff, but also the mayor, plus that one bearded guy Pinocchio had said he’d met in Camelot. None of them looked to be in a particularly good mood, which was unfortunate when one suspected to be under scrutiny from them, but Pierrot could work with it. He could work with the toughest crowd, he did, and this one didn’t even include Eugene. “Uh. Hello. Why’s everyone here? What’s the occasion?”

“Hey, guys,” the sheriff began, stepping forward with exaggerated care. “It’s okay, we just wanted to ask you a couple questions.”

“What about?” Shit, it was hard to act nonchalant with Pinocchio clearly raising his guard by his side, though. It was like trying to have a conversation with a snake taped to his waist.

“The man from the beach. He…disappeared, last night. I was wondering if any of you knew where he went?”

Of course. Pierrot had to admit it would have been hard to terrorize them in the woods by remaining under Dr. Whale’s eye. Still, he didn’t have the time to dwell on it much – in a moment, Pinocchio was butting in, cocking his head to the side with his brow furrowed. “Why would we know where he went?”

“Well, unless he’s got some secret friends in town, you and your friends are the only people he knows,” the mayor said, her mouth curled in a humorless smile. “Who else should we have asked?”

“So because there’s no one else to ask, it’s automatically our fault?”

“Now, Pinocchio, they’re just trying to do their job-“ Marco interjected – he already didn’t sound very convinced, but his son didn’t even let him finish the sentence, instead cutting him off with a sharp gesture.

“No! How many times do I have to say it- we don’t want any trouble, it’s trouble that always finds us. This is the- the- the fourth time this week that you’ve tried asking me questions. Why can’t you just believe what I’m saying?”

“I do believe you,” the sheriff said, though there was an edge to her voice, one that betrayed her calming façade. “But some things aren’t making sense, kid. I’m just trying to fill the gaps, and I thought you could help me with that.”

“Well, I can’t. I’m sorry I can’t help, but I don’t have anything else to tell you. Is that so hard to conceive?”

For his part, Pierrot just watched his brother’s outburst with stunned eyes, speechless at its abrupt arrival. Pinocchio was pissed off, that much was painfully clear, but something else lingered beneath the surface, something different – wounded. That was it. He sounded wounded, as though being questioned hurt more than whatever they were trying to conceal, and that was…odd. Worrisome, yes, and understandable to some degree, but still odd, like a bolt out of the blue.

The sheriff seemed as taken aback as he was, but still, she pressed on. “So what were you guys doing last night?”

“We had a sleepover. The two of us, the Zimmers, Lampwick, Twinkle and Eugene. We were all together, so you can’t blame any of them, either.”

“Then why didn’t you two come here together?”

That was Pierrot’s cue to override the shock and reenter the conversation. “We had a little fight last night,” he chimed in, shrugging with practiced ease. “Dumb stuff. It happens, when you can’t sleep enough and someone wants to snuggle his big oaf of a boyfriend. We each had a bit of time to decompress on our own, had some water, I dunno, but it’s fine. We talked about it before we got here. We’re chill now.”

He wasn’t sure the woman had fallen for it, which was preposterous – it was the best acting he’d displayed thus far, and it was barely lunchtime. “And nothing else happened? Nothing out of the ordinary?”

To a general wave of surprise, Pinocchio scoffed, shaking his head derisively. “I know that tone. You mean out of the ordinary for normal people, or out of the ordinary for us?”

“Now, kid…”

“No. I’m tired of this- Look, it’s not my fault that I can’t go to the seaside without being ambushed by a drunkard, or play in the woods without winding up in another realm. But I’m trying my best to be good, and I thought you knew. I thought you knew I’m trying.”

He whipped his head around, staring at the other people in the room with them with searching eyes. “I thought you of all people would know. Papa? Leona? Lord Bertilak?”

The look on Marco and his mom’s faces at that offhanded, unexpected jab would have been enough to break Pierrot’s heart, but it was the other man’s reaction that puzzled him the most. The Camelot lord pressed his lips together and squeezed his eyes shut, as though a memory were paining him – as though he didn’t want to see what was going on in front of him.

He didn’t say a word, but it seemed that for Pinocchio it was confirmation enough of what he was looking for, because he nodded to himself and turned back to the sheriff. “I don’t know what to tell you, Emma, except- I’m not the one trying to do anything bad here. Now leave me alone, and leave my friends alone. Got it? And good day to you.”

This said, he turned on his heels and stormed off, furiously stomping towards his room until he could slam the door shut behind his back. The noise appeared to shake them all out of their shouting match-induced paralysis, and there were a lot of glances exchanged – Pierrot’s mother even moved towards Marco and clasped his hand, speaking to him in hushed whispers that were impossible to decipher from a distance.

Suddenly, for probably the first time in his life, Pierrot realized he did not like the prospect of being left alone in the center of this much attention. That, plus the ancestral need he felt to check on his brother, was what spurred him into movement – he swiveled around and ducked between the group of older folks, only beginning to talk when he was already at a safe distance from them all. “Sorry about that- I’ll go have a chat with him, okay? See what’s going on, you know-“

Mercifully, he managed to reach the bedroom without anyone stopping him – still, his first instinct once he was inside was to turn the lock, just in case. Only then did he let out a heavy exhale and turned to look for Pinocchio, already dreading what he was about to see.

His brother was huddled on the floor with his back against the wall, his head burrowed in his knees and his hands pressed against his ears. Pierrot watched him for a long moment, feeling his heart sink and sink – they’d been squabbling about which one of them was taller since the age of fourteen, give or take, but right now Pinocchio looked the smallest he’d ever been, like a child thrown in timeout, or like the sinners in the paintings he remembered from the convent chapel, squeezed at the bottom of the picture with grotesque, frightened faces.

He wasn’t sure how to handle a child, or a frightened sinner, for that matter, but he’d be damned as well if he didn’t at least try. “Hell of a performance,” he muttered, drawing closer.

To his relief, Pinocchio reacted immediately, which meant he hadn’t sunk in a stupor like he would as a little boy – it was a mumbled reply, sure, but at least it was something. “I don’t think it was a performance. Not all of it. I mean- I don’t know.”

“That’s fine. We’ll worry about that later- the big question right now is, where the hell have you been earlier, since you won’t tell anyone?”

“Dammit, why does everyone need to know where I go?” Abruptly, Pinocchio lifted his gaze, causing Pierrot to recoil – the younger boy’s hair was tousled and his eyes red-rimmed, but there was fury sprouting from each of his pores, his jaw so clenched in a snarl it almost seemed to have a different angle, like he’d grown up into a man all of a sudden, his features changing in the approximately two minutes they hadn’t seen each other.

The feeling lasted all of three seconds. Then, as quickly as he’d reared his head, Pinocchio appeared to deflate, sinking back into himself with his limbs shaking and his whole stance curling inwards. “Fuck. I’m sorry, I don’t- I know you’re just trying to help. I’m so sorry. I don’t know got into me. Please, don’t go. I’m sorry.”

Pierrot was still reeling from the whiplash of emotions, but he kicked himself back into gear immediately – what was he doing, standing there like a loon? This was just one of those days. They could all cut each other some slack on this fine Sunday morning, couldn’t they?

Slowly, as if he were approaching a startled animal, he knelt down and carefully wrapped Pinocchio into a hug – he didn’t fully relax until he felt the other’s arms tentatively reach back around him, but when it happened he tightened the hold, as strong as he dared be. “It’s alright. No harm done. My skin’s not so thin, Pinou.”

He heard Pinocchio sniffle, which alarmed him, though not extraordinarily so. Better some tears than another meltdown, really. “I wasn’t doing anything bad, I swear. I’m just trying to fix this mess before anyone gets hurt.”

“I know. I believe you. But hey, even if that weren’t the case- I’m your brother. Even if you were out murdering someone, you’d just have to tell me where the shovel is. I bet Mignon knows all the best patches of empty ground, you know…”

That earned him a wet little giggle – a comfort, however poor it was. And yet, Pierrot couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was still amiss, that whatever had transpired between the people in the house meant so much more than he could understand, and that no one might gauge its importance beside Pinocchio himself. He had, in fact, the discreet hunch that it might all come back to bite them in the ass, sooner or later.

Whatever. That wasn’t important right now. Right now nothing could be more important than holding onto his brother, tight enough that he couldn’t fall apart anymore.

“Happy with your results?” Regina ventured, once they were a few feet away from the house.

“What do you think?” Emma replied, sharper than she’d meant to be. She knew her friend had barely anything to do with her foul mood, but that was very hard to remember as she was once again leaving with a fat load of nothing in her hands.

Worse than nothing, her mind supplied, causing her to grit her teeth in an attempt to silence it. Nothing would have meant only stopping at what Marco had told her; he’d been reticent to open up to begin with, and when he’d finally relented he’d admitted to not knowing any more than she did, aside from the fact that Pinocchio and his friends had been acting moody and skittish all week – which she had already managed to see for herself, honestly.

But of course, she’d had to make it worse. Not only was she as clueless as she’d been before, but she wagered she’d lost what little faith the kids still put in her – she could lie to herself and insist that this was simply a teenager dramatically storming off to avoid being grounded, but that hardly held any water. Pinocchio had been raw and angry and disappointed, with what that had looked too much like betrayal in his blue eyes, and Emma couldn’t shake off the feeling that something had snapped during that little scene he’d put up, a jagged break that couldn’t be mended no matter how hard she tried.

And that didn’t even take into account the gaping, hollow pit of emptiness her superpower had sensed in him. Ten years she’d spent chasing after those imbeciles, trying to gauge if they’d ridden their bikes over people’s lawns on purpose and learning who had put lashing marks over their backs, and not once had she felt this powerless – Pinocchio had lied to her, as had Lampwick, as had all in their clique, but it had always been small white lies, or genuine mistakes, and always, always she’d had that connection to them, that ability to assess if their words were true or not.  It had never failed her before, and for it to happen now that she needed to know the truth the most-

“Well, Marco’s little friend only confirmed what I already knew,” Regina continued, unaware or maybe pointedly ignoring her inner turmoil. “She thinks the Mother Superior is using the kids as scapegoats for some secret plan of hers. Now, one person believing that might just be my personal bias; two people, a coincidence; but it’s starting to look slightly suspicious, Emma.”

“The lady speaks true,” Bertilak said , thoughtfully scratching at his thick beard. “I have not met this fairy you all speak of, but through your stories, she sounds to me a lot like that heinous sorceress- and that is not a comparison I draw lightly in these sorrowful days, my lady Savior.”

Emma rubbed at her forehead, as if she could peel off some layers of confusion off her mind by doing so. “You think Blue might be working with Morgana?”

“Perhaps not, but- magic is a flighty mistress, my lady. Both of them seem to serve it in the same way. Would it be so hard to believe that they are following similar paths as well?”

“I don’t know.” Only a few days past, her answer would have been a resounding no, but a lot could happen in just a few days – she hadn’t had a delay in her superpower back then, for one, nor had she witnessed Pinocchio and Grace holding hands in her office while being scolded by a fairy, clutching each other like castaways at sea.

By some sheer stroke of luck, she was saved from more of those gloomy considerations by her phone buzzing in her jacket pocket – her relief was short lived, for it vanished as soon as she saw her mother’s contact on the screen, but still, at least it was something. “Hey,” she said, once she’d answered and put the call on speaker. “Learned anything new?”

“Not really.” Snow White’s voice was heavy and defeated, which wasn’t exactly a good sign. “Blue insisted that there’s nothing for us to worry about, that it’s her concern only and she has everything under control. I’m beginning to think you might have been onto something with your suspicions, sweetie.”

Regina shot Emma a pointed look before leaning closer to the phone. “I’m guessing not even the bereaved father- sorry, loyal knight moved her?”

“Well-“ Emma’s mother was interrupted by a man’s voice, drowning her with an angry, unintelligible string of words before she could wrestle back control of her end of the call. “Let’s just say Lancelot’s not happy with what she had to say. He thinks she might know something about Enid, and just be hiding it for some reason.”

“Lancelot is a stalwart man,” Bertilak chimed in, gravely. “The situation must be truly dire, if he also is losing his patience.”

Regina raised an eyebrow at his tone. “You agree with him?”

“I follow his lead. He is Queen Guinevere’s right hand man, and he loves the child as if she were his own blood. If he says we are to lay siege to a convent, then I will be taking up arms with haste.”

“No one’s laying siege to anything,” Emma hurried to cut them all off before their plans escalated from bad to worse. “Look, we still don’t have any proof, and- can you give me one more day?”

A pause, then Lancelot himself spoke through the phone, curt as she had never heard him. “What for?”

She sighed, steeling herself for what was to come – she didn’t like this step of the plan, not one bit, but she had nothing left to do. She had to unearth the truth; if not for herself, for the children, and for Pinocchio above all, Pinocchio and his somewhat justified fury. “We can’t risk anyone to interfere again, and honestly, I know someone will interfere if I don’t make sure they’re out of the way. Tomorrow’s Monday- we wait until the kids are at school in the morning, and then me and Regina can head to the convent, alone.

“I’m tired of being dragged around like this as much as you are, Lancelot. Tomorrow, we get some answers, one way or another.”

Night over Storybrooke, at long last.

Safe in their beds, most of its inhabitants slept, some more peacefully than others. Lancelot laid awake, his thoughts chasing each other in circles like dogs before the hunt, Bertilak snoring not far from him. Grace curled up among her many pillows with an arm over her eyes, her window locked and the curtains drawn. Pinocchio tossed and turned in his sleep, dreaming fitfully, unaware of his father periodically pushing the door ajar to check on him.

Further out the town, the forest, too, was quiet and slumbering, the only sounds being the night animals calling and the river’s muffled bubbling, and even those were almost inaudible where Morgana had opened her passage several hours earlier, so far it was from any sign of life. More than that, it seemed that creatures big and small were straying away from it as best as they could, as if avoiding it on purpose – no owl could be heard hooting, nor mice squeaking, as latter hid from former at a wary distance from the tunnel.

The passage was closed, its covering having been carefully repositioned as per Morgana’s orders by Lampwick and Mignon once everyone had climbed out. And yet, though there was no wind nor a single leaf moving, the crude wall-like piece began swaying stiffly, once, twice – and then it fell, as silently as the structure had burst out of the earth the night before, leaving the mouth of the cave wide open like a gaping mouth.

And softly, like a tongue for the mouth, something dark and sinuous slithered out of the tunnel, not disturbing even the lightest blade of grass as it made its way towards the town center, seamless and unrelenting like oil dripping from a jar.

Chapter Text

Storybrooke, present day

Regina woke up to the irritating sensation that something was missing.

She couldn’t fathom what it could be; Robin was at her side when she stirred, pressing languid, scratchy kisses down her neck, and there was no trace of a break-in anywhere, though she checked and re-checked with near maniacal worry. Her coffee had the same taste as it did every day, and Roland tumbled out of the house with just about the usual amount of delay, catching the bus with only moments to spare like he did most of the time.

And still, the feeling persisted. By the time she’d walked out to meet with Emma as they had planned, it had gotten unnerving enough that Regina was starting to wonder whether she might have been cursed, or worse, caught a bug from all the schoolchildren she’d been forced to meet recently; it didn’t help that someone had apparently driven carelessly past her car already, liberally spraying the driver’s door with mud. She scoffed in annoyance at the sight, waving a brief puff of magic in the car’s direction as she fished her phone out of her coat pocket to check the time – surely, the little idiots had to be in school at that point, and they could proceed with their plan.

But the stain remained. Regina frowned in puzzlement, waving her hand again – possibly she hadn’t aimed it right? – and was left stunned when once again she felt the magic pour out of her fingers and then fizzle out as soon as it came into the open, leaving the car untouched.

A sunned, unpredictable jolt of panic seized the mayor’s chest, forcing her to stop in her tracks. She tried a different spell, a simple thing, really, to change her hairdo, and yet nothing moved around her head; when she made to teleport to the opposite side of the road, her feet remained planted right where she was. Her magic didn’t work. Her magic wasn’t working.

Trying to keep her agitation under control, she swiped through her contacts and clicked on Emma’s name, waiting impatiently for the latter to pick up. Mercifully, the sheriff answered the call after only a couple of rings, her voice lightly confused. “Hey, is everything alright? I thought we’d agreed to-“

“We have a bigger problem right now,” Regina interrupted her, sharply. “Actually, I need to know if it’s a me problem or a Storybrooke problem- have you used your magic yet today?”

“Uh, no? Should I have?”

“Do me a favor, mh? Try it out and see how it goes, right now.”

She waited with bated breath, mildly wishing her friend would return to the other end of the line saying everything was working just fine, but for some bizarre reason she didn’t feel such an overwhelming surprise when instead Emma’s response was a loud, resounding “Wow, what the hell? Why is it not…doing anything?”

Great. Wonderful, even. Regina squeezed her eyes shut, exhaling deeply in an attempt to keep herself steady – panicking wouldn’t be of use for anyone, even if they’d just been thrown a curveball right in the middle of a bigger issue, as per usual. “That’s what we need to figure out first,” she said, from behind gritted teeth.

“Don’t go anywhere, I’m coming over. Let’s check together if our fairy friends have the same problem.”

One of the perks of being the sheriff, Emma sometimes thought, was that she could apply traffic laws to herself loosely.

Storybrooke was not the ideal setting for a bout of road rage, obviously, but she had yet to get that far. Really, the only welcome boon was that she didn’t have to look over her shoulder for red and blue lights when her fingers clung stiffly to the wheel and her foot pressed on the accelerator just a smidge too much as she drove down Main Street towards the convent.

She was still just as mad as she’d been when she’d said goodbye to Regina the day prior. Actually, scratch that – she had managed to calm down overnight, though she hadn’t been able to sleep much. She’d woken up, if not relaxed, at the very least lucid, but that feeling had evaporated as soon as she’d answered the other’s phone call, and that made her twice as upset, if at all possible, aside from currently reflecting on her driving.

It was as if she’d just broken that stupid curse all over again; no magic, no knowledge, and just about zero progress with the band of unruly children that tended to infest her life. The only difference was that now she was ten years older and had none of that youthful patience left, and neither did the woman in her passenger seat, she could safely guess – only burning annoyance and irritation, and only one person to direct said emotions to, at least within reason.

There wasn’t exactly a crowd around the convent, mercifully – not that Emma had expected it to, but at least it allowed her not to worry about parking straight into the white lines, and instead stomp right to the gate to be buzzed in. The plan was to march directly up to the Mother Superior’s office, in fact, with much less politeness she’d planned to use before this new mess had arisen, which hadn’t been a lot to begin with.

However, nothing seemed to want to go according to any plan that day, for when the two of them walked through the front door they found the Blue Fairy already walking quickly towards them, a troubled look etched on her face. “Emma- Thank goodness you’re here, I was just about to call you-“

“Let me guess,” Regina commented drily, still a loyal shadow at Emma’s shoulder, “your magic took a break too?”

The fairy opened her mouth, seemingly ready to protest, but then her eyes went wide, as if a horrifying thought had overcome her. “Don’t tell me- You, too? How?”

Suspicion flared up in Emma’s gut, like a glaring warning sign. That had sounded less like the how of someone wondering how they’d all gotten in that predicament and more as though she’d meant to say, How did it happen to you, and not just me? “You know why this is happening, don’t you?”

“I-“

“Don’t you dare tell me it’s not my place to know, alright?” That had come out as even more abrasive than the sheriff had expected it to be, but she found that she cared little and less about sparing a grown nun’s feelings, right now. “Something’s going on, and whatever it is, we’ve just been left without anything we could use to defend ourselves, so the least you could do would be to speak plainly, for once. I’m tired of this bullshit, Blue. Start talking, or I’ll have to assume the worst.”

The other seemed to reel at the snappish tone of Emma’s words, the way she might have if it had outraged her; and yet, it didn’t last more than a couple seconds. Almost immediately, the Mother Superior took a steadying breath, lifting her chin again. “Very well. Just- not here. I think we’ll need a moment of privacy.”

She gestured towards her office, and after sharing a brief glance with Regina, Emma nodded briskly, acquiescing to follow their host. Still, she had no intention of letting anyone off the hook so easily, and as such, she charged again as soon as the door had been closed behind their backs, crossing her arms against her chest and planting her feet firmly in the middle of the room. “So?”

With a heavy sigh, the fairy sank into her chair, and upon rummaging for a moment among the papers on the desk her hand came up holding a couple familiar-looking parchments. “You remember these, I presume?”

Emma scoffed, incredulous. “I’m pretty sure I haven’t thought about anything else in the last few days, yeah.”

“When the children brought these to us, I told you fairy kind is more than what you might see in this convent. Not all fairies could become godmothers- but not all of them have wings, either, or faces human enough to look at. There are powers running beneath the surface the likes of which I could never explain to you, but that magic- it’s not supposed to interfere with this world or the others, not in its full might. They are meant to be kept carefully separate, and fairy magic is meant to be wielded only by those who can shoulder it.

“But something’s shifted. I think- no, I know that there must have been an incident of some kind. These lists were the first sign that something was afoot, but I’m starting to believe they are more than simply a polite summon, and that some of us might get dragged into danger, if the walls are so thin that magic has begun to filter through- and that is what likely has happened, Emma. My world’s magic has begun interfering with the one that we have in this town- only, the situation is direr than I thought, if you both were affected by the change. By right, you never should have been.”

“Wait,” Regina interrupted her, raising a hand. “Rewind the tape for a second- there is a fairy world somewhere that is what, seeping into our own? And it took away our magic, and you might get dragged into it too? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Not quite.” The Mother Superior brought a hand to her forehead, massaging it slightly.

“You see, in your old land, there were many kings and queens to dispute over borders and the like. But fairies- we only have the one leader, and they reside in our homeland, where all of our power comes from. When they step down, our entire kind is called to participate in the election of their successor, whichever realm we might be hailing from.

“These papers are summons to such an election, but if it had been a normal one, I would have barely given it a thought; I have no patience for inner politics, and most of them are no different than what you’ve seen in your life, Madam Mayor- petty disputes, squabbles over personal favors and so on. Between the Dark Curse and other… matters, I never even met our current king, though he has been on the throne for centuries, by now.

“But as I said, this is no common summon- something else seems to be at stake, this time around. Some of my sisters have felt it, too- there is a calling in the air, and I’m not sure we’ll be able to resist it, if it goes on any longer.”

Emma’s head was spinning. That was entirely too much information to put where earlier there had been none – especially since the only thing she’d gathered with some certainty was that not even the Blue Fairy knew why the hell the two of them had lost their magic. “You said that Morgana was one of yours, too- you think this could be her? Trying to take us the way she took King Arthur, or his daughter?”

Blue shook her head resolutely. “Morgana is nearly as ancient as me, but not even she could command this much power alone. No, there must be more to it, but I dread to wonder what it could be.”

“So we’re being lured like fish, and we can’t even see the hook. Great.” Regina leaned heavily against the desk, levelling a hard stare on their interlocutor. “If you’re telling us the whole truth, that is.”

“Are you suggesting I’m hiding things from you?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m saying it plainly- why didn’t you explain all of this to Emma the first time around, if you were trying to help her? We might have done more before our powers disappeared, if we’d had the whole picture to begin with. The only logical conclusion is that you did this on purpose, don’t you think?”

“There is nothing logical about such an accusation, Regina,” the fairy snapped back, clearly irritated. “And there was nothing either of you could have done, if the situation is as dire as I think.”

Emma took a brief pause before replying, gritting her teeth to stop herself from wondering aloud how different it could be from the several villains they, as Savior and former Evil Queen, had already faced in supposedly hopeless fights before. “What makes you so sure about that?”

“If the wall between worlds is so brittle that magic is filtering through, it could very well mean that Morgana crossed it to bring the girl to our realm, and if that is the case, then no amount of power could bring her back by normal means. A child swallowed by the land of fairies doesn’t end up there by chance, and history tells us they can only be retrieved through ancient fairy rules- solving a riddle, making a deal of equal value. I’m guessing you’ve heard this kind of story before.”

“Lort Bertilak had the same idea, though. He told us the green chapel we entered in Camelot was connected to magic like that, which would mean Morgana has already tried this stunt before- and we walked out without any issue. As did Pinocchio, and he was what, ten, at the time? It can’t be as impossible as you think, if we’ve already done this once.”

A shadow passed over the Mother Superior’s eyes, and her whole expression tensed, as if she’d been clenching her jaw behind the polite façade. “You told me of your adventures in Camelot, yes, but believe me, if you walked out, it was only because you were allowed to. From what I’ve gathered, you were only a means to Morgana’s end, so it would make sense for her to let you act freely. As for Pinocchio…he has always been exceedingly lucky, for a child as reckless as he is.”

Reckless. The word was spoken so carelessly it set Emma’s nerves on edge, bringing the sour taste of bile to her mouth. “You mean a child that acts like a child? Of course, that’s outrageous.”

“I only meant that he and his friends should have listened to reason before-“

“Yeah, sorry, that was never going to work,” Regina said, with a cutting, humorless grin. “A bunch of teenagers that think they’re being treated unfairly- those are some of the world’s least reasonable people, and honestly, I’m starting to think they were right not to come to you immediately. I would have kept my secrets very closely guarded, if this was the attitude I’d received before.”

The fairy’s gaze narrowed, veering towards a warning scowl. “You’re not an example I’d want them to follow, Your Highness.”

“And you’re not practicing a lot of Christian forgiveness, Mother Superior. Besides, all I know is- I have a boy living in my house and eating my food, and some of those kids kept him safe in Camelot, and protected him with their lives. You shouldn’t be surprised that I’d rather take their side than that of someone who’s done nothing but accuse them of ridiculous things. Now, do you have a solution for the problem at hand, or not?”

There was a lull of silence as the women glared at one another, the air in the room thick and warm with tension. If there had been any magic left to spare, Emma wagered it would have made every light fixture in the room short-circuit, but she couldn’t bother feeling sorry about it – actually, though it had surprised her to see how passionate Regina had gotten about the topic, she was grateful not to be the only incensed person around. It made her feel more in control, and less as if she were going insane and seeing threats where there was none.

Then the nun said, forcefully, like someone agreeing to a heavy chore: “No, I don’t. We should look for the source of the foreign magic, and try to seal it shut, or at the very least find where the breach was- I should have the tools needed to follow its scent, among my spells.

“But Regina- a word of advice. Don’t be so quick to judge those children without knowing their past. You would be surprised by what Pinocchio could do if left unsupervised- I despaired of him, when he was younger. He was a magnet for magical trouble, that much is certain, and it would shock me greatly to hear he has changed at all.

“And I’ll be frank- I’m beginning to think he has never learned to turn away from what could hurt him, despite his past experiences.”

The Enchanted Forest, about 40 years ago

“Am I to believe you have learned your lesson now, Pinocchio?” The Blue Fairy mused, sounding unimpressed.

The boy nodded, though he could only move his head a little, what with the weight of the nose trying to drag it towards the ground. Already he was sitting on the floor, trying to avoid losing his balance again and bumping against things around the room as he’d done earlier; his face was burning with fear and shame, even more so than it had when he was running a fever, and he didn’t dare raise a hand to wipe it dry, though it was drenched with tears – he was terrified he’d fall down and make a fool of himself again, if he wasn’t using both arms to prop himself up.

He was sorry he’d lied, though, he really was. He shouldn’t have told the fairy that he’d lost the puppet master’s money in the woods, the night prior. He shouldn’t have made up stories about monsters pushing him off the path – he should have been honest from the start, especially to someone who’d helped him and called doctors down to heal him.

Even if said doctors had given him such a nasty medicine, the sour taste was still filling his mouth – it didn’t help that he hadn’t been able to have breakfast and wash it down, probably, instead telling lies that had made his nose grow and scatter all the food on the table before him.

“Good,” the Blue Fairy nodded back, evenly. “Now, will you tell me the truth? All of it?”

“I went into the forest ‘cause I thought I’d find the Field of Miracles,” Pinocchio stammered, sniffling. “And- and I didn’t drop the money, I just kept it in my mouth and then hid it when I woke up. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, please stop this-“

“I am not doing anything to you, Pinocchio. I told you, you’ve been doing this to yourself- you have lies of the long nose variety, it seems. Anything else?”

“Well- when I was on the tree, I saw some things- weird things. I heard-“

She raised a hand to stop him, to which he obeyed immediately, swallowing the rest of his words. He couldn’t wait for all of this to be over, even if he’d never be able to look anyone who’d seen him like this in the eye ever again – the worst part was that Jiminy had been in the room, too, even though the Blue Fairy had ushered him out with the snail maid and the rest when Pinocchio’s sobs had started to quiet down. He couldn’t believe he’d disappointed his conscience like that, and what if Jiminy reported it back to his father when they got home?

The thought of poor old Geppetto being told that his son had behaved so embarrassingly almost made him start crying anew, but Pinocchio forced himself to bite it back, focusing on what his fairy godmother had to say.

“Oh, Pinocchio.” She knelt beside him, brushing gentle fingers down his damp face. Her eyes were kind, surprisingly so, not reprimanding like the puppet had expected them to be, but for some reason he didn’t feel that reassured by the fact, his stomach still lurching unpleasantly like when he’d taken the medicine.

“I know what you think you’ve seen, and I know you’re not lying, that it’s simply an honest mistake- but there was nothing, and no one in the forest with you last night. I’m sure that once you’ve had some proper rest, you’ll see that it was only your poor mind playing tricks on you- but still take it as a reminder not to wander off where you’ve been told to keep away from at night, mh?”

That was odd. He’d been told not to say everything that passed through his mind before, but he’d never heard anyone be so insistent about him pretending he hadn’t seen something. Especially because, while his memories were spotty and confusing from the moment he’d been hanged from the tree until he’d woken up in his sickbed, they definitely couldn’t rival what he’d already seen before in weirdness, stuff everyone else had considered real right from the start. There was no way he’d dreamed it all, no siree.

Was there? “But…”

“No buts,” the Blue Fairy shushed him, firm despite the smile she was wearing. “I know you’re still troubled, but it won’t do you any good to contradict your elders, going forward. Do you understand? I’m saying this for your own good.”

Then, before Pinocchio could protest further, she stood up again and clapped her hands twice, prompting a flock of birds to burst through the window and come perching onto his elongated nose, obscuring her face from his sight in a flurry of feathers.

Storybrooke, present day

Pinocchio’s uneaten food rustled inside his lunchbox as he dropped his bag to the ground, sinking down to sit on the curb beside it.

The noise made him wince, a guilty reminder of yet another thing he’d failed to do properly. Geppetto was very adamant that his son ate enough even on normal days, and lately Pinocchio had been feeling under special surveillance in his own home – he couldn’t simply bring back so many leftovers and expect to get no reaction about it, nor could he dispose of them inside the house, where his father would no doubt discover them instantly. He had half a mind to just toss it all in the trashcan behind the school, really, except his whole body recoiled at the thought, the refusal to waste anything more ingrained in his mind than anything else.

It would have been easier if he’d just eaten his whole lunch, of course, but he hadn’t been able to make himself go through with it. He’d barely made it through the entire school day, truth be told – he’d rested his spinning head onto the desk for most of first period, actually, and that had set the pace for every following hour. At least that had been a class he shared with Eugene, and his friend had never begrudged him the sharing of lecture notes, even if he’d kept sneaking glances at Pinocchio’s pitiful state every few minutes, his brow furrowed as if pondering over a puzzle.

Eugene should have been out of the school by now, too, but Pinocchio couldn’t see him anywhere – though that could be because he was sitting on the edge of the sidewalk and the crowd of students around him was only just starting to dissipate. Eugene was a great friend and a reliable mind, but a tall, bulky boy he was not, so his visibility was up for debate every day.

Still. Eugene wasn’t anywhere to be seen, and neither was Twinkle, or Pierrot, and Pinocchio was finding it particularly hard to get going on his own. There was no physical impediment, really, but the simple thought of standing up and putting one foot in front of the other was enough to leave him nauseated – in fact, it felt nearly impossible to picture it, starting to move without anyone pulling him to his feet, plodding along towards home with his lunchbox full, a blank space in his brain where the lessons of the day ought to have been stored-

The sound of someone clearing their throat somewhere nearby made him break out of his reverie, and the boy looked up from his own feet, startled. He must have spaced out for longer than he’d planned to – a recurring problem, nowadays. The area had mostly cleared up as far as he could see, and only one person was standing before him, sporting a pair of polished black shoes and a black walking cane.

Letting his gaze wander upwards was enough to identify both of those as belonging to Mr. Gold, leaning against the cane and grinning a sharp grin. “Ah, you’re still here,” the man said, affably. “Good. I almost thought you’d already be on the way home, and that I might have missed my chance to speak to you.”

Pinocchio just stared at him dumbfounded, even as his hackles raised in alarm. “I thought you said you didn’t have anything else to tell me.”

“And that was the truth- yesterday. Today? It seems the tide has already turned.”

Frankly, that was even worse. It had taken so much of his considerably depleted energy just to pretend their conversation in the pawn shop had never happened – and now, Rumpelstiltskin was telling him something else had come up? Seriously?

But then again, Pinocchio had never actually deluded himself into thinking he could forget all he’d heard. There had been things said in that shop, things he had silently sworn never to consider again, and yet he’d still been tossing and turning in his bed for most of the night, rotating them around in his head – when he hadn’t been having bizarre nightmares, of course. He couldn’t quite put his fingers on what he’d seen in them, but he’d woken up two or three times at least, gasping for air and scraping at a neck clammy with sweat, so it couldn’t have possibly been anything good.

Green dreams, they had been. That much he could remember. The hue had pressed at the corners of his eyes even after the boy had startled himself awake, little tendrils darting across his vision despite several attempts to ignore them. That alone was enough to be on high alert still, the way Pinocchio saw it.

Mr. Gold leaned towards him, still wearing that sickening smile. “I assume you remember one of the matters we discussed- something our Lady Morgana mentioned, perhaps?”

Something about the man was amiss, Pinocchio noticed with sudden, disquieting clarity. For a moment his mind was torn in two, half trying to figure out what it was, half chewing through the question itself – then it dawned on him, just as he’d been about to give up.

He could count on the fingers of one hand the times he’d seen Mr. Gold use his cane, after the curse had been broken. Before that, it had been a common fixture, but once their memories had returned – why, it had only appeared sparingly, and several years earlier at that. Honestly, Pinocchio had almost forgotten he had ever owned one.

“You mean what she said about the Mother Superior?” He replied, stumbling over his own words as he tried to focus. “About her interfering? Somehow?”

“Precisely. I seem to recall us agreeing on the need to remove the tool she might use for that from her possession, and I’m here to tell you- there has never been a better moment than now.”

“Why? What’s changed from yesterday?”

“The Mother Superior’s ability to stop you, for one. It seems that since last night, someone might have found a way to remove all magic from this town, and that includes every single fairy you could think of.”

Pinocchio’s mouth went dry, as though he’d been at the dentist again, getting his pain numbed down. “She doesn’t have any magic? But- how?”

“Not just her.” Mr. Gold waved his free hand in the air, vaguely encompassing everything around me. “No magic whatsoever, for anyone. I can’t prove who it was yet, but I have my suspicions- and what matters now is, magical shields are down, as well. Believe me, I have tested it myself- there is nothing stopping you, or whoever else, from just strolling into that convent with heinous intentions.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that now it’s your turn to act on what we agreed about. Or was everything you told me just words?”

The boy’s heart was racing, though not nearly as fast as his mind was. He recalled everything he’d told the Dark One vividly, but he hadn’t thought… Not so soon. Not so abruptly. “Why me?” He ventured, mustering as much courage as he could – which wasn’t a lot, he was ashamed to say. His bravery had remained underground, it seemed, with just about enough left to snap at Emma or his guiltless father. “You were even angrier than me about that king business. Why don’t you do it yourself?”

Mr. Gold’s grin widened, if at all possible, as if he were faintly amused by something he’d heard. “Ah, because without magic, I’m just an old cripple with no chance to succeed,” he said, chuckling lightly to himself, then lifted the cane to tap its base briefly against Pinocchio’s chest before returning to his former stance.

“You, on the other hand, look like a clever young man with just enough bravery to make the attempt. Not to mention, I suspect you still know that convent inside out- or some of your friends will, at the very least.”

He nodded towards something behind Pinocchio’s back, his expression never changing. “Speaking of your friends, here they come now. Better not to make them wait. I’m sure we’ll find a reason to talk soon, don’t worry.”

Pinocchio glanced over his shoulder for a split second, enough to notice Twinkle bounding over to him and dragging Eugene along by the hand, but then immediately swiveled his head back around, unwilling to let the conversation go. “Wait, hold on a minute-“

But he was talking to an empty space. Mr. Gold had vanished from sight, though how he could have possibly limped away so quickly was beyond comprehension – the boy was sitting alone once again, the sidewalk cement cold against his legs and a whirlwind of thoughts inside his skull.

Small fingers landed on his shoulder – Twinkle, now crouching beside him with a puzzled frown. “Hey, sorry, I got held up and I brought Gene along- are you okay? Who were you talking to?”

Pinocchio considered spilling the truth right there and then. He genuinely, genuinely did. If there was someone who could understand, it would be his friends – they had stuck along for the ride thus far, surely they wouldn’t begrudge him yet another fuck-up. And yet he suddenly had the feeling that they were too out in the open for that, even though there was nobody else around but them, as if the pitiful, poorly cut schoolyard trees had gained the ability to hear his words out of the blue.

So instead, he shook his head and stood up, not missing the narrow-eyed, scrutinizing look Eugene shot him. “Nobody,” he said, shaking off the awful sensation the lie gave him.

“But I think there’s something I have to tell you and the others. Where should we go, to make sure no one can hear us?”

Chapter Text

“You want to break into the convent,” Grace deadpanned, not even bothering to conceal her skepticism.

It was not a question, but it wasn’t like she was expecting an answer, either. She felt that by now she’d become a good judge of whether Pinocchio and his obnoxious little attendants were asking for her opinion or just informing her that a decision had been made, and this sounded like the latter more than the former, honestly. And anyway, this was her house they were intruding in, again, so she believed that she had every right to be despondent about it if she wanted to.

Except- no one else but Pinocchio seemed to know about this particular plan, given the stunned reactions going around when he nodded curtly in response. “Are you insane?” Twinkle blurted out, throwing her hands up in the air. “What could possibly make you think this would be a good idea?”

The boy exhaled heavily, but didn’t give any other sign of discomfort, which unnerved Grace even more – for all that she’d often been irritated by the way Pinocchio seemed to curl on himself and act like a kicked dog, these sudden steely nerves were more suspicious than anything else, and did nothing to comfort her. “I went to see Mr. Gold in his shop, yesterday.”

Pierrot gaped at him, eyes wide. “That’s what you were doing? Meeting Rumpelstiltskin? Like, the Dark One? And you let me pull a story out of my ass about that?”

Pinocchio visibly winced, and yet he still didn’t back down an inch. “I thought- I hoped I could pretend it hadn’t happened. He told me so many things, and most of them could have been nonsense, but- he came looking for me again, earlier. Things have changed. And that’s why I think now’s the best time to act on what Morgana told us about the Mother Superior.”

Grace pinched the bridge of her nose, silently praying for patience. “Please tell me you didn’t make a deal with him. Genuinely.”

“Do you think I’m that stupid?”

“Well, Pinou, I’ll be honest, this one time I wouldn’t even be mad at her for thinking that,” Pierrot interjected, before she could snap at him with some choice words. “So, did you?”

“No!” Pinocchio sighed, shaking his head sharply, likely shaking what leftover sense he had out along with it. “Look, I know you’re all suspicious, and you’re right, but… Something happened last night. I don’t know what it is, I don’t even know if it’s bad news or good news, but the result is that magic’s not working anymore. For anyone.”

That stunned them all into silence for a good few seconds. Even Grace had to concede that this was not the turn she’d expected the discussion to take – it froze her into place like a statue, her hands in her lap, her mouth snapping shut.

No magic. No magic in a town that hinged on magic – there had to be dozens of people currently cursing their way through the afternoon because the tricks that made their life easier had suddenly disappeared, if not hundreds of them. If this was true, if there was really no one who could do spells around them… The whole place could be in danger, if someone attacked them as newcomers often did. They were powerless. It was like charging into battle naked.

But that meant fairies would be powerless too, as they’d never been after the Dark Curse.

“That makes no fucking sense,” Mignon spoke up, leaning heavily onto Grace’s shoulder – it made her startle, though she was glad for her best friend’s interference, in a way, for having some sensible explanation to offer for that mess. “How’d you know that? Did Rumpelstiltskin tell you that? I wouldn’t trust a word out of that guy’s mouth, especially if it was ‘bout something criminal.”

“But something is off,” Pinocchio insisted, undeterred. “You’re telling me you can’t feel it? Nothing?”

He was right. Hell, Grace hated to admit it, but there had been something in the air – a buzz, an itch under her skin, faint but noticeable, like a bug that had crawled under her shirt. She’d kept forgetting for most of the day, but then it would return, a bothersome distraction that usually dimmed down after less than a minute.

But- it had to be paranoia, surely. There was no concrete proof of things having gone south – or at least, further south than they’d been to begin with. “Mignon’s right. You can’t trust him. And it would have been plain to see, if magic had gone away- we all remember what happened, when it came to Storybrooke. It was like an avalanche. I don’t know what you saw, but I didn’t see any weird clouds.”

“I don’t think that necessarily needs to happen,” Coppelia interjected, from where she was sitting on the floor, right by her sister’s side. “He said it’s not working, not that it’s gone- if there wasn’t any big lightshow, maybe it means it’s still here, and something’s just messing with it.”

Whose side are you on? Grace almost snapped back at her, which wouldn’t have been fair nor in her nature, but would have been pretty indicative of her state at the moment. Thankfully, she managed to restrain herself just in time, as Pinocchio nodded towards her friend. “Thank you,” he said, sounding somewhat relieved.

“I know it sounds crazy. You think I don’t feel the same? It feels like the world’s gone upside down, and it just keeps going on and on and on. But maybe- maybe we can do this one thing to help sort it out. And- and I don’t like the idea of relying on the Dark One, either, but… I do think he’s not tricking us, and I have a good reason to think that.”

“And what would that be?” Eugene asked, voice threateningly flat.

“That boy down there? The one Lady Morgana said was a king? He’s Mr. Gold’s son.”

Grace’s reproachful response died in her throat. She’d expected many, many explanations, ranging from doubtfully valid to ridiculous, but this one- this one had come so much out of the left field, it had slammed hard against the side of her head. “What?” She croaked out, instead.

Pinocchio nodded again, a stubborn set to his jaw. “Yeah. He lost a son named Baelfire, two centuries ago. Sounds familiar?”

“Now wait a goddamn minute,”  Lampwick cut in, frowning. “How does a guy from the Enchanted Forest end up in a fairy land and stay, I don’t know, frozen for two hundred years? That can happen to people?”

“You should ask the Mother Superior. Apparently, she’s the one who gave him a magic bean that would bring him to another realm. That’s why Mr. Gold hates her guts. I did not make a deal, but he told me where to find that- that thing that can annul fairy magic, the stuff Lady Morgana told us about. It’s in her office. And I’m going to get it before she can hurt someone else.”

It made sense. Unfortunately, it made sense. There was not a lot of things she could believe to have happened, especially coming from the mouths of assorted, infamous liars, but the Mother Superior messing a kid up for life? For several lifetimes, actually? That, she could believe. It would have been on par with everything else they knew about the woman.

And besides, there was no denying the intense conviction in Pinocchio’s whole stance. Even if this business turned out to be a trap, he wasn’t going to back out of it, and she was the least likely person to be able to convince him of the contrary.

Finally, Grace cleared her throat, finding her voice at last. “So ultimately, you gathered us here to do what? Ask us who’d be your henchman?”

The boy grimaced, shaking his head. “No. I don’t- I don’t want anyone to be involved in this beside me. I just wanted to warn you so you guys could find an alibi, and wouldn’t get caught off guard if someone asks about me. I’m going alone.”

Grace almost praised him for the foolish self-sacrifice, given that she really didn’t want to be arrested for breaking and entering alongside him. Almost. She didn’t have the time to do so, for by his side, Lampwick scoffed, loud and derisive, bumping lightly against his shoulder. “Well, that’s a big ol’ crock of shit. I’m coming with you.”

Pinocchio’s eyes widened with what looked like a faint tinge of alarm, finally cracking through his stolid stubbornness. “Lampwick-“

“Shut up, doll. You’re delusional if you’re thinking I’m letting you do any of this stuff alone. You need a lookout, in any case.”

“Yeah, I’m coming too,” Pierrot interjected, though he seemed slightly less sure of himself as he said it. “You’ve got no sense of direction, Pinou. You’d end up in the wrong convent wing if you went in there without backup.”

“And me as well,” came yet another voice. “I’m sure Lampwick’d be good at lockpicking, but he can’t do that if he’s on lookout duty.”

They turned in unison to face Twinkle, who was meeting their gazes with a serene smile, but it was Pierrot who blurted out the group’s collective opinion, predictably. “And you know how to pick a lock?”

The girl rolled her eyes, as though offended by the implication. “Uhm, hello? Bought and sold like cattle? Raised by former criminals? Why would I not know how to pick a lock, dumbass?”

“This shit’s starting to look like Guardians of the Galaxy,” Mignon muttered, but Grace could only nod distractedly, too focused on Pinocchio to properly acknowledge the joke. The boy’s glance kept moving wildly between his friends, as if this time he had been the one to start an avalanche without realizing it until it was too late.

“Don’t,” he said, tensely. “It’s too dangerous. If someone’s bound to get in trouble, let that be me. I’m already in trouble anyway.”

“I don’t think they care, honestly,” Eugene commented, but that only made Pinocchio’s head whip around to look at him pleadingly, almost desperately.

“Gene- please, you should stay out of this, at least. If there’s someone who can see how badly this could end, it’s you.”

Eugene’s expression was a curious thing, Grace had to note despite everything else going on around them. It seemed calm on the surface, but it was as if that calmness was ripping at the edges, showing something undecipherable underneath. It reminded her of that brief childhood phase where they’d both been in the same sports team; he’d worn the same look when their Little League coach would reprimand at him, the look of someone barely restraining themselves from making a scene – which would have been in his right, since he’d been the best catcher a nine year old could become.

It only lasted a couple seconds; then the boy lowered his gaze, brows knitted tightly together. “Fine. But I think you’re forgetting something.”

“What is it?”

“They might not have magic, but there’s still a lot of people in that convent. Either you’re planning to fight your way out, which is stupid, or you’re going to need a distraction.”

Someone stepped forward, nudging Grace’s arm in the process, and suddenly, the thing she dreaded the most was no longer being caught in that net herself, because Mignon had now gained center place in the group, bright and loud and visible. “Oh,” she said, with a grin that made her eyes sparkle, her smoking-during-class, egging-houses-on-Halloween grin.

“I don’t think you gotta worry about that, liebling.”

“I see nothing of relevance,” Lancelot grumbled, a hand moving to rest on the pommel of his sword. “Are we being tricked again?”

Bertilak squeezed his arm in an attempt at comfort, though his expression was grave as well. “Have patience, my friend. I’m sure it will all make sense, if we give the ladies their space.”

The younger knight had used just about all the patience he’d brought along from Camelot, in all honesty, but he refrained from saying it aloud, instead keeping the pace with his eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed. He trusted Snow’s daughter, that much was right, and he trusted the mayor, too, despite their past grievances, but he had no trust left for a woman – a fairy – who had dismissed his troubles so flippantly and was only now attempting to answer for it.

Still, it seemed she was the one they needed to rely on the most. The group had summoned him and Lord Bertilak with a story of waning magic and melding realms, and together they’d embarked in a quest to find the possible source of this event; the fairy had brought the tools they needed – bottled spells to compensate for her missing powers, from the looks of it – but Lancelot had yet to witness anything that could justify such a trek through the woods.

Though perhaps, now the time had finally come. The Mother Superior carefully uncorked one of her vials and poured it on the forest floor, down to the last drop. “There,” she said, voice forcedly neutral. “If the issue is what I think it is, this should show us where to look.”

For her sake, Lancelot hoped it would be true. He was tired of being pushed and pulled around without so much as a clue, empty promises in the place of a path towards the little princess.

Gods, the princess. If he didn’t manage to rescue her, Guinevere would be heartbroken – and he would be, too, he could not lie. The two of them were the only family he had left. To lose a child so precious, one who had often demanded to sit on his lap during tiresome council meetings and who would one day wear the crown of Camelot with ten times the wisdom of her deceased father…

No, he would not allow it. He would dig through the crust of this godsforsaken ground barehanded, if need be. He had once sat the Round Table – none of these fools could hope to stop him, not now.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Regina grimaced, turning to the fairy with an eyebrow raised. “So are we supposed to see it, or-“

In the periphery of his vision, Lancelot caught something moving. As if summoned by the complaint, some kind of substance seemed to be bubbling out of the dirt, droplets filtering through the mud and streaming out in black, viscous rivulets. It was unlike anything he had ever seen, and he shot Emma a bewildered glance, hoping to receive an explanation.

None was shared. If anything, the Savior looked as stunned as he felt, staring at the thick liquid with wide, baffled eyes. “What the hell is that?” She asked aloud, directed at no one in particular.

“Just as I thought.” The Mother Superior crouched down slightly, a grave look marring her face, a hand hovering a few inches over the black without ever touching it. “The land has been poisoned with the worst kind of fairy magic. That’s why we have none of our own left.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that to purge it, we need to look for the source. It can’t have come out of nowhere- if there was a passage, it should lead us right to it.”

“That’s easier said than done,” Regina commented, drily. “Look up, Mother Superior.”

They did- and then Lancelot took a step back, inhaling sharply in shock. It was not merely the small stream of substance he had first witnessed running at their feet; the entire field around them appeared to be overrun with similar dark spots, blossoming and then diving back into the ground, moving away from the spot where the potion had been poured in wide, constantly enlarging waves, like the ripples that would form whenever he dropped a pebble in his mother’s lake as a young boy.

“I don’t think that’s going to help us find the spot,” the mayor continued, still with the same sarcastic, irritated tone. “Unless we search the entire forest, which, may I remind you, was already the plan.”

“That might not be necessary, my lady.”

They startled at Bertilak’s sudden intrusion, turning to face him together. The knight had not spoken ever since his reassurance to Lancelot, and the latter had to marvel at how much his face had changed in those few minutes – he now looked pale and waxen, his gaze suddenly leagues away even though his eyes were fixed on the grass before him.

The fairy pursed her lips, clearly somewhat skeptical. “And why is that, Ser?”

This time, Lord Bertilak did meet her eyes, his own appearing nothing less than haunted. “You forget, or perhaps you never knew- I have seen this manner of things happen before, by the hand of Morgana herself. It has troubled my sleep ever since, and I still remember what heralded it- our clue is in the air, Priestess. Can you not hear it?”

A hush fell over them, and Lancelot put all of his focus on his ears, straining to listen. For an interminable stretch of time, he could hear nothing but the wind rustling through the trees – and then, there it was, distant and yet perfectly recognizable, a high-pitched barking that carried easily across the forest.

A fox’s call.

His feet moved before his mind could catch up with them, but even then he did not stop moving, marching towards the sound with all the determination of a thirsty man searching for water. He was dimly aware of the rest of the group following him, but even if they had not he would not have cared – his only goal was to track down the source of the noise, walking as fast as his weapon and mail allowed him to.

The yapping got closer and closer, louder by the second, mocking him like a man’s laughter. When it had gotten so bothersome he would have expected the fox to be right on his shoulder, the knight stopped, glancing around, but there was no beast to be seen – he thought, for the briefest of seconds, to have caught a flash of grey fur in the corner of his eye, but it was entirely possible it might only be wishful thinking.

What was there, though, was a mound of earth and grass, like a miniature hill, as tall as two men or perhaps a little more. He did not immediately notice anything peculiar about it, aside from its positioning, so odd in an otherwise flat stretch of woodland, but then Bertilak caught up with him, grabbing him by the arm and pointing feverishly at the ground. “Look, my friend. Look!”

He looked. Before him the black substance kept worming its way through the mud, but at the foot of the mound it dove in without ever resurfacing on the other side, all the waves redirect to one corner of it – as if seeping in through a cracked door, like a draft in winter.

“You were right,” the fairy said as she reached them, sounding exceedingly surprised. “This must be where it came from. There might have well been an opening here, not so long ago.”

Emma’s brow furrowed as she scanned the mound left and right. “Yeah, but where is it? I mean, not that it doesn’t look familiar, but…”

Regina scoffed. “Familiar? Please. It’s exactly like the wormholes we took to and from Camelot, back in the day. Someone hasn’t changed her style in a while, it seems. The only difference is that there used to be an opening to lure us in- and the reckless little kids, of course, though I’m glad they are well away, right now.”

“That’s what I’m saying. If there’s no passage, how are we even supposed to follow the tracks? Is this another dead end, Blue?”

The sliver of hope that had sparked in Lancelot’s chest petered down in an instant, dread filling him instead. Dread, and anger – in a bout of unexplained fury, he lunged forward, slamming his sword against the treacherous hill, not caring if it chipped or lost its edge. “Gods damn you! Give way, you bastard!”

He managed to get several blows in before a strong hand wrapped around his arm, struggling to pull him away from his target – Bertilak, struggling to contain the force of his rage. “Lancelot, please,” the older knight begged. “Your disappointment is mind, but this is not the way to act on it. We are within reach now- we only need to seek the right path.”

“How? How are we meant to do that? And how- how are you so calm? If it was Gwyneth in there-“

He swallowed the rest of his rant as he met Bertilak’s eyes, full of sorrow and pity. “If it had been my daughter, stolen away in the night, I would have taken some heads already. ‘Tis not that I do not understand you, but if you get hurt, who will be the princess’ protector? Please. Lay down your sword.”

“And it might just be the wrong time, in truth,” the fairy interjected, mindless of how inopportune her presence currently felt to Lancelot. “This is dark, corrupted magic, remember. If you know Morgana and her kind, you must know they rarely act during the daytime. There is a chance it might open after sunset, as it likely did last night.”

The knight went still for a second, stone cold. Then he shrugged his friend’s now lax hold off and planted his sword in the mud, point first, putting both hands on the pommel, the way he had done to stand vigil for Arthur’s corpse, though the man had done little to deserve it. “Very well,” he said, almost surprised at how flat his voice was.

“I shall wait for the night-time, then. Do as you will; I am not moving from this place until the truth has come out, my ladies- the actual truth, that is, not some fairy-forged lie.”

Since the beginning of the Dark Curse, there had been a climbing structure in the orphanage’s yard.

It was a simple, wooden construction, made to resemble some sort of tower up to the pointy little roof, but with the addition of a slide and splashes of primary colors. New, it might have cut a striking figure, but everyone had only ever seen it with chipping paint and poking splinters, and most of the original wards of the convent remembered having to warn the nuns of some dangerous, rusty nail found while playing on it, back when there had been no magic to fix it quickly.

Now the magic was missing again. And that night, the tower was set on fire.

The small playground was far enough from the living quarters and the weather, albeit warm for spring, not so dry that the fire could spread quickly, but it still was plenty concerning, which forced the nuns and remaining children to evacuate as a precaution, at least until it could be dealt with. While that happened, and the firefighters rushed out to smother the flames, four figures approached the building unseen, cracking open one of the windows on the other side.

“Should’ve seen that coming,” Lampwick muttered, as he gave Twinkle a boost through the passage. “’Gnon was too happy to offer her services. I could’ve put money on ‘em destroying something.”

Despite everything, the corner of Pinocchio’s mouth curled upwards, but when he turned to glance at his boyfriend the latter was stubbornly looking away, his lips pressed into a grim line. “Are you…angry about that?”

Lampwick shrugged, still not facing him. “Not angry. And not at Mignon. Just still wondering why you wouldn’t tell me you went to see that bastard. I thought you could trust me.”

Pinocchio’s heart sank. He could have imagined it was about that – actually, he probably had guessed it way earlier, but he’d been hoping, praying he hadn’t done anymore damage to people he loved, and of course he’d been wrong. “Lampwick, I- Of course I can trust you. I don’t trust anyone like I trust you.”

“Then why wouldn’t you tell me? I woulda gone with you. You went alone, Pinoke. That was fucking dangerous. The man’s full of tricks up to his hair.”

“That’s why I didn’t tell anyone. I- I didn’t care if he hurt me, but if it had happened to you…I wasn’t going to let it happen, not for my sake. It’s bad enough that you guys are here right now.”

Lampwick sighed, shaking his head. Then he turned around and pressed a light kiss to Pinocchio’s forehead. “You need to stop blaming yourself for all the bad shit that falls on our head, doll,” he said, his grin dripping with fond exasperation. “That’ll kill you in the end- we’re livin’, thinkin’ people who can decide for ourselves if it’s worth risking our ass over something important. And making sure you’re still breathing at the end of the day is important to me, alright?

“Now go, before the hysterics sisters come back. I’ll whistle if anyone gets close.”

Despite his heavy heart, Pinocchio needed a weaker push than Twinkle had received to clamber through the window. Once inside, he found his friend and brother looking at him expectantly – the whole corridor was dark, the only sources of illumination the street lights outside and the torch in Pierrot’s hand. “We good?” The boy asked, whispering with some trepidation.

Against all good sense, Pinocchio nodded. “Yeah. Let’s get moving.”

It was clear that most of the inhabitants of the convent had been sleeping, before the alarm had hurried them out of the door; the light was still on only in a scarce few rooms as they passed, left the way it had been when everyone had left. That suited them just fine – less of a need to hide whenever they walked by another window, the shadows shielding them well enough, and besides, they didn’t need much direction to find the way. It had been near ten years since Pinocchio had left that place, near six for Pierrot, and yet it was as familiar as it had once been, virtually unchanged and looming heavily over their heads.

“High time they did renovations, don’t you think?” Pierrot whispered, and though Pinocchio couldn’t force himself to laugh at the joke, he had to agree – every room was as he recalled it being, down to the religious decorations. The Virgin Mary seemed to follow them with her hollow eyes from dozens of pictures scattered across the walls, and at the end of the hall a thick wooden crucifix still hung above a doorway, Jesus’ face contorting in pain even under a fine layer of dust that spoke of dustings more recent than the ones they remembered.

Mercifully, they didn’t need to wander around under those less than cheerful reminders for too long. The Mother Superior’s office wasn’t a room a child visited too often, if they were lucky enough – even Pinocchio could count on the fingers of one hand the times he’d been marched there after some mischief, his chastisings usually following him wherever he’d been instead – but the way there was easy to find nevertheless, and the lock to its door just as easy to pick, apparently. Twinkle was at it just for a little while before it creaked open, most of its security clearly entrusted to some magic system now missing from its vicinity.

And yet, despite all these apparent strokes of luck, Pinocchio still had to pause halfway through the doorframe, steadying himself before he could step fully inside the office. The sense of déjà vu had had his head spinning for a moment, flooded by vertigo – it didn’t matter how much time had passed, or how tall he had grown since then; in that split second before he’d regained his balance, he’d felt the same way as he’d been in the past, a little boy who couldn’t possibly know what he’d done wrong, but who couldn’t seem to ever escape his reputation as a lost cause, either.

But- that had been a long time before. He wasn’t a child anymore – he was old enough to keep his wits, and he had a mission to fulfill, anyway. He couldn’t turn tail and run now that he was so close to finally doing something for everyone else.

So he trudged on, unwilling to let himself be deterred by stupid memories, and bent to the task of searching through the drawers and cabinets, his friends hot on his heels. Nothing else was locked manually, which would have been suspicious on any other occasion, but every corner was filled with unlabeled boxes, pouches and bottles to check out, so there wasn’t much time to dwell on those worries. Not long now until the flames were extinguished and the convent was deemed safe again, like as not; they had to be quick, and put everything they’d moved back to its rightful place, as to keep their little visit from being noticed.

Finally, the right glinting of glass caught Pinocchio’s attention – his hand was trembling slightly as he reached for a miniature jar full of blue liquid that fit the description Mr. Gold had given him, but he still wrapped his fingers securely around it, clutching it to his chest with the utmost care. If the Dark One had told the truth, then the magic in that brew could erase any spell cast by a fairy on anyone, provided they drank it first. Not nearly as threatening as Lady Morgana had described it, at first glance, but there were a thousand and one uses the Blue Fairy could make of it that the boy would rather prevent.

Especially in regards to the kind of fairy spells it could remove from him, honestly.

“Did you find it?” Twinkle’s voice, alongside Twinkle’s lithe hand landing on the small of his back, a steadying, warm presence that managed to ground him again. Pinocchio swallowed through the lump in his throat, his heart hammering in his chest as he nodded, but that seemed to satisfy his friend well enough, prompting her to let out a relieved sigh. “Good. Then let’s get the fuck out of here. This place is giving me the chills.”

“Girl, you don’t know the half of it,” Pierrot said, but still led them out without further mockery, even giving a final cursory glance to ensure nothing looked out of place before closing the door behind his back.

The walk back to their meeting point was mostly uneventful, though Pinocchio could still feel sweat beading down his neck, making his shirt stick to his back. There really was no reason for it – the worst was almost over, and the weather was still not warm enough to warrant this kind of rainforest-humid heat – but by now he’d given up on finding reasons, all in all. He’d been basically boiling from the inside out since they’d left the tunnels below ground; might as well get used to it, at this point.

Still, that clamminess turned into a cold sweat not long after. When they were no more than a few windows from the right one, a noise rang through the hallway, a noise so odd and out of place that it did its job perfectly – Lampwick’s whistling, casual enough to conceal the warning it actually was, as shrill and noticeable as it had been during their childhood, followed by the older boy saying, forcibly much louder than the late hour should warrant: “’Lo, Sheriff. Fancy seeing you here. Want a smoke?”

The three of them froze on the spot, looking frantically at each other. The message was clear enough – their way out was compromised, and by people who’d likely be onto them soon enough, as well. “What now?” Twinkle hissed through her teeth, taking a step backwards into thicker shadows.

Pinocchio opened his mouth, then closed it again, every idea turned into piercing white noise in his skull. He wanted to suggest they all double back and find another passage, one where they could all make it out safely, but the words wouldn’t leave his tongue, clinging to his throat with talon-sharp claws. It would have been the smartest plan, but he knew just how badly his smart plans tended to end – mostly for the people around him, if not for himself.

Instead, he said: “You two leave through the kitchen door and hide. I’ll distract whoever’s out there- they’ll never catch you if you run.”

He was met with (hushed) protests from both sides, his friends instantly all up in his space. “Are you nuts?”

“No way we’re leaving you to fend for yourself.”

“Yeah, no way.”

“Forget it.”

“It’s okay.” Pinocchio couldn’t explain why, but a strange, sudden resignation had washed over him, flooding him with a calm he could have barely dreamed of before. At that point, it was as if there couldn’t possibly be any other option – this was the way things were always meant to go, wasn’t it? Deep down, he’d known it even while he’d been crafting the plan. His attempts at heroism never managed to simply work, as their journey to Camelot could demonstrate.

“It’ll be fine,” he continued, putting his free hand on Twinkle’s shoulder – judging by the hint of recognition in Pierrot’s eyes, she was the one he needed to convince, before it was too late. “I know what I’m doing. You guys are better than me at pretending you were just hanging around, if they catch you. And- I want to get this over with, okay? I’m tired, Twinkle. I’m tired of lying. I’ll do it if it’s to keep you all safe, but this stuff’s got to end now. You get what I mean?”

She made as if to oppose him again, but then Pierrot took her hand, becoming the receiving end of a shocked glare. “We should go before it’s too late,” he whispered, his gaze never leaving his brother. “I know it’s crazy, but I think he actually knows what he’s doing. There’s a first time for everything, I guess.”

Twinkle all but gaped at him, her scowl so deep it threatened to leave marks on her face. “Are you both stupid, then? No one’s leaving anyone behind. Why’d we even come in the first place, then?”

“Because we bullied him into it, Twinkle. I say, if he has a plan, let’s trust him with it.” Pierrot pointed a threatening finger at Pinocchio’s face, waving it mere inches from his nose. “But you’re never living this down if you’re wrong, alright, Pinou?”

Pinocchio nodded, clenching his jaw until he was sure he wouldn’t lose his composure when he spoke. “Yeah. You can get me out of trouble easier if no one’s blaming you. Now go.”

Twinkle kept glaring back at him as Pierrot dragged her away, but still, she went, and finally the boy managed to release a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He took another breath, and then another, and then turned to the window and pushed it up until it had opened in full – he’d heard Lampwick chatter away some nonsense at whoever had caught him during their whole confrontation, but he fell silent in bafflement as Pinocchio slid out with a clumsy, one-handed move and landed at his side, regaining his stability before looking up to see who was there.

There were more people than he’d expected. There were flashlights pointed at his face, too, which prevented him from identifying most of them, but that wasn’t important – he imagined the crowd in the background had to be full of evacuees, or maybe some firefighters, but he didn’t really care about the crowd, right now. What mattered was that in the first row, staring directly at him, were Emma, the mayor and the Blue Fairy.

What mattered was that Emma looked profoundly regretful when she lowered her flashlight, as if she had hoped for any outcome but this, and her voice had less of a bite than usual when she said, dejectedly: “What the hell are you doing, kid?”

Chapter Text

as above

It wasn’t often that Emma regretted her job position in this town.

Storybrooke needed a sheriff, of course. Preferably one that wouldn’t bend to the will of the first villain to strut in, as well. Still, the role had been giving her so much grief in just the past week and a half, she was almost on the verge of resigning, if only to avoid having to make another hard choice such as this.

It was bad enough that they hadn’t been able to convince Lancelot to leave the stupid ground be. When the three of them had left, the knight had still been there, unmoving, like a man whose resolve had finally been broken; at least Lord Bertilak had promised to stay with him, and perhaps try to reason with him, but that wouldn’t help in the long run unless they found a better way or the earth cracked open under their feet of its own volition, again. But then, almost immediately after, they’d gotten back to the town, Emma’s phone had rung – her father, telling her he’d been alerted of trouble around the convent.

They’d rushed to the scene, of course, thinking it would be trouble of magical, villainous proportions, but… She hadn’t expected it to be kids taking a crack at breaking and entering, really.

She should have expected it would be these kids, though, which made her feel even worse about the actions she’d need to take. “What the hell are you doing, kid?”

Pinocchio stiffened at her words, one hand balled up and held against his chest, the other clutching at Lampwick’s with a tight grip. He didn’t hesitate when he spoke, sounding terrifyingly adult for a split second. “The right thing. That’s what you wanted me to do, isn’t it? What everyone wanted me to do. Well, I finally got around to it. Aren’t you happy?”

“Pinocchio,” the Mother Superior said softly, taking a step forward. “I know most of it was a long time ago, but I think I’d remember it if you’d learned that entering people’s homes without permission was right.”

The boy’s eyes snapped to her immediately, narrowing in a sharp glare. “This was my home, too,” he replied, his voice dangerously flat. “Twenty-eight years, and I never felt safe in it. Not once. What makes you think you deserve to?”

There were murmurs in the crowd, most of them fairies who’d been waiting to return inside with the orphans in tow. At Emma’s side, Regina took a sharp breath. On the other side of the yard, Lampwick turned to his boyfriend with eyes as wide as saucers, clearly speechless. And yet, no one’s shock was as great and blatant as that of the Blue Fairy, who had been left all but gaping at the declaration, completely stunned.

That was when Emma knew she had to step in, before things escalated beyond her reach. “Please, don’t make it even harder for yourself. You know I’d give it a pass if it was stupid stuff, but- sneaking in through windows? Burning things down? Can’t you see how bad your situation is already?”

“Because it was good before?” To her surprise, he scoffed, his lips pulling into a grim, humorless smile. “Besides, we didn’t start any fire. Not me, nor Lampwick. We just took advantage of it.”

“Yeah, sorry, that sounds too good to be true. Mind telling me how it started, then?”

“I might have an answer for that.” A few of the bystanders, now seemingly grown in numbers after the ruckus they’d caused, parted to let Emma’s father through, muttering once again. David had both hands full, all but frog marching two more teenagers towards the group – the sheriff had to repress a groan as she recognized their faces, though once again, she couldn’t in good faith call herself surprised. Of course it couldn’t just be the dynamic duo involved in this mess. Of course.

She fancied she could see Pinocchio pale a little under the streetlights, but his brother decided to step in before she could question it. “Hey, you aren’t implying we’re pyromaniacs, are we?” Pierrot protested, weakly trying to shrug David’s grip off his shirt. “We were having a night out. What, is that a crime now?”

“On a school night?” The man replied, unimpressed. “While your friends are causing mayhem in the vicinity? Try again.”

“Never said we were a lucky bunch! And anyway, you need proof that we’ve done something bad to keep us like this. Otherwise it wouldn’t hold any water in court, no sir!”

“Yeah,” Twinkle chimed in. “There’s no curfew, you found us far away from the fire, we don’t smoke so we don’t have matches or a lighter- what we were doing out is between us and our parents, not you.”

“You act like we’re not going to call your parents once we’re done here.”

The girl actually barked out a laugh, bizarrely high and merry in that dire situation. “Oooh, I’m so scared! Please. Have you met my dads? Yes, I’m sure they will take the deputy sheriff’s side over mine, I’m totally not being sarcastic here.”

“Of course,” the Mother superior said tersely, shaking her head. “It’s only natural that criminals would want their daughter to be just like them.”

The mirth disappeared from Twinkle’s face as quickly as it had come, and she rounded on the nun as best as she could, eyes ablaze. “Was I talking to you? No? Then I suggest you keep my family out of your shithole, ma’am. Nobody asked for your opinion.”

“Easy, kid.” David shifted his hold on her, moving to put a hand on the back of the girl’s head – Emma knew it was meant as a soothing gesture, he’d used it on her plenty of times, but-

Everything happened entirely too quickly to puzzle out in detail. One moment her father was trying to placate a teenager’s fury, the next he bent in two with a huff as said teenager seemed to have elbow him in his midsection and scrambled out of his grasp, grimacing. She didn’t need to go far, either; within seconds Lampwick had detangled his fingers from Pinocchio’s and dashed over to the girl, glaring daggers at David with an arm stretched protectively before her.

“It’s okay,” Twinkle hurried to say, peeking from behind his elbow with a similar frown. “It’s just- the hair, I wasn’t expecting it-“

“Nah, it’s not okay,” Lampwick cut her off. He squeezed her arm, not ungently, then stomped over to Emma’s father, expression still dripping with fury. “I say someone here’s pushing his luck, deputy or not.”

“Is that a threat, boy?” David replied, crossing his arms against his chest with practiced ease. He had let go of the other boy, too, but Pierrot hadn’t made a run for it himself, instead standing by the side with poorly concealed wonder writ all over his face.

“It’s a warning. You know what those are, don’t you, Prince Charming? I’m warning you- if you touch her again, I’ll snap your neck, don’t think I won’t.”

That was the moment Emma knew she was fighting a losing battle. She could blame it on the tension and fear all she wanted; the truth was, she’d spent so long protecting a bunch of children from themselves, she hadn’t taken into account how much time had truly passed. She could have shielded reckless little boys from consequences they hadn’t expected a thousand times – hell, she had done it so often, she could have likely done it blindfolded.

But now, those little boys had grown up. And right now, one of them was butting heads with her own father, standing more than a couple inches taller than the latter, the worry and rage in his eyes making him look even older.

The thought led her to Pinocchio again. Though his loyal shadow had moved from his side, he was still standing right there, unrelenting, smack dab at the center of attention – she would have called it a deer in the headlights stance, but that wouldn’t have been entirely correct. Rather, he looked like a beast trapped in a zoo, sitting in a corner of his cage, waiting for someone to stick a hand between the bars so he could pounce on them. Even his jaw was set in a sharp line, his face contorted in a too-grown mask, teeth bared, seemingly ready to bite.

The alarm bells in Emma’s head were ringing so loud, it was hard to focus on anything else, but she would have been a poor sort of Savior if she hadn’t even tried. “Kid, please. Stand down. I really don’t think this is what you wanted to see happen.”

Pinocchio turned to her with what felt like a hint of disbelief in his glance. “Why are you pinning it on me?” He asked, sounding somewhat incredulous. “Ask her. I’m only trying to set what she might do to rights.”

His finger was pointed accusingly at the Blue Fairy, who visibly balked, frowning. “I’m not taking the blame for the trouble you’ve caused, Pinocchio. That time is long gone.”

“Oh, really? So you wouldn’t have used this ever, right?”

Finally, the boy unfolded the hand he’d been keeping close to his chest, revealing a small vial of blue liquid cradled in his fingers. That only made Emma more puzzled, but even she couldn’t deny the flash of concern in the Mother Superior’s eyes, the way her voice shook slightly for a second before she steeled herself when she spoke again. “Where did you find it?”

“Where you left it.” Pinocchio pulled it up between index and thumb, turning it around with bland, forced curiosity. “Emma, do you know what this is?”

She shook her head, which he seemed to expect, nodding in acknowledgment. “This thing can annul magic done by fairies. If I drink it, there’s a good chance I’ll go back to being a puppet, since I’m real only because the Mother Superior allowed it.”

“Why would you want to do something like that?” Regina spoke up, appalled, and Emma was glad for her solid, irreverent presence at her side, because the revelation had been so monumental it had almost physically made her reel back in shock – the underlying question should have been Why would Blue have something like that?, but the words had dried in the sheriff’s mouth too much to say them aloud.

Luckily, the boy appeared to have caught the drift. “I don’t. But- I couldn’t let her keep it, either. There’s too much fairy magic going on right now, I couldn’t risk it being used. Even if it wasn’t used on me.”

“Enough,” Blue said, raising a warning hand. “You’re making a lot of assumptions based on things you don’t know. That- that is dangerous, incredibly powerful magic that you’re holding, Pinocchio, only to be used in times of great peril. One small misstep, and it could be a catastrophe- you would risk it, for an issue that you’ve made up in your own mind?”

Pinocchio snickered in laughter at that, a nearly hysterical shrill as he threw his empty hand up in the air. “Made up? Aren’t you the one who’s been telling me for years I would return to wood if I didn’t behave? Were you lying then, or are you lying now?”

“That’s completely different. You’ve always known the conditions of your being real- I wouldn’t have intervened with such a spell if you’d strayed too far, there would have simply been no need.”

“Yeah, right. I forgot. You don’t intervene. You never intervene, even when people need you. Making excuses is so much easier, right?”

“I saved you from the consequences of your actions more than once, if you recall-“

“I was hanged from a fucking tree, and you let it happen!”

Silence fell over the crowd. It was as if everyone had collectively taken a sharp breath, unable to let  go of it while the words lingered over them – even Pinocchio’s friends gave up any pretense of paying attention to David, instead gaping wide-eyed at the boy who was now panting in exertion, as though shouting like that had taken all the oxygen out of his body at once.

Emma couldn’t help it, either, but her bafflement was turned elsewhere – her and Regina’s attention seemed to snap to the Mother Superior at once, their voices united in similar indignation. “You what?”

The fairy paid them no mind. In fact, she wasn’t even looking at them. Her eyes were glued to Pinocchio, her mouth pressed into an unreadable line up until she finally replied. “I had warned you,” she said, mostly stable- but not entirely, not quite. “That wasn’t just any forest you decided to walk into. The powers that reside there- I couldn’t have entered it after sundown, you knew that.”

“Sure.” Pinocchio scoffed again, that joyless, furious grin still in place. “Please. I’m stupid, Mother Superior, but I’m not that stupid. My father moved earth and sea to find me, and he’s just a man. You’re a fucking fairy- why is it that you only remind me of how powerful you are when it’s about things you might do to me, and not for me? Again- did you lie? Or am I just not worth the effort?”

“I’ve only ever made you see the results of your choices-“

“I was six!”

His whole body was trembling now, like a bubble of poorly contained fury threatening to burst, his teeth bared as he all but roared in anger. “I- It doesn’t matter how much earlier I’d been carved, I was a little boy! I didn’t know any better! Why did I need to be hurt over and over and- over again, when I could have learned my lesson after you’d saved me? Did I really have to be- hanged, and stabbed, and transformed, just so I could be real? Did I really have to die?”

Emma really thought Blue would say no. Actually, she quickly amended in her mind, she would have said no in a heartbeat, had she been in Blue’s place – she hadn’t been around for the events that they were recalling, so she didn’t know anything beside what she might distantly cobble together from stories and whatnot, but she knew Pinocchio. It didn’t matter what any fairy might say, she had never known him to exaggerate on his feelings. Diminish them, yes, shove them in a corner for adults to ignore, but…

But while there was still a broad, empty canyon where she should have been able to sense whether he was telling the truth or not, she didn’t really need it. She could see that those emotions were raw, and genuine, and unfiltered, and she was hating every second of it, so of course she would have said no. She wouldn’t have hesitated for a second. What lesson could have been worth reducing a boy in such a state, honestly?

And yet, seconds trickled by, stretching indefinitely into ages, and the Mother Superior wasn’t answering. Her lips were moving haltingly, as if searching for the right words, but none was coming out, and Emma felt the moment Pinocchio realized what it meant like a pang in her chest, the split second where understanding dawned on his eyes. The rage vanished from them for a beat, and suddenly, at long last, she could see that child through them again – for that beat, they were the bright blue eyes of a little boy once more, the same little boy she’d seen traipse into Granny’s with muddy shoes and cling to her arm in Camelot, looking painfully wounded and betrayed, as if he truly hadn’t expected that reaction, not in full, at least.

It lasted genuinely no longer than a moment. Then Pinocchio shook his head, the clouded, tense expression returning, and he pressed the vial to his chest again, curled on himself like the caged beast Emma had envisioned earlier. “Figures,” he spat out, his tone verging on disgusted.

“But it doesn’t matter anymore, I guess. I’m in trouble? Fine. You’re probably happy about it, aren’t you? You can turn me into a sermon again this way. But if you get any closer, I’ll smash this thing to the ground- let’s see if it’s as destructive as you said, together.

“If I’m in trouble, I’ll go with Emma and the mayor. They’re the authority, not you. You’re nothing. Someone who hurts children like that isn’t worth shit.”

He spared a glance to the other three teenagers, who were still staring at him with bated breath, stunned frozen into place, then turned to face Emma and took a couple steps towards her, his voice lowering to an almost pleading tone, so very jarring after his outburst. “Emma, listen- Pierrot and Twinkle really didn’t do anything. And Lampwick was just trying to keep me safe- please, this is all on me. If you have to blame someone, blame me.”

Emma exhaled deeply out of her nose, trying to keep her wits together. “Oh my God, kid.” This is what you’re worried about right now? was the unspoken addendum, but of course, there was no point in asking that question. Of course he wanted to shield his friends from the world. Of course. What else had he ever done, in the presence of others?

“You know I can’t just let them go,” she continued, nearly as quiet. “I will have to take all of you back to the station, and call someone to come get you guys. And- you owe me the truth, Pinocchio. The whole truth. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on.”

Unexpectedly, his face broke into a sad, resigned smile, so wan it was almost invisible. “Didn’t you hear what I said? I think I might be beyond help now. But just- just don’t let the others get hurt because of me, okay?”

That was the vaguest, least helpful promise he might have demanded of her. And yet, this time it was Emma’s turn to be unable to utter the word no, even as Pinocchio stepped into place where she could take him firmly by the arm, now docile as a lamb, cradling that mysterious potion like a precious treasure to his heart.

so below

There was no one guarding the King’s chambers.

There would have been simply no reason for it – any creature dwelling in the Kingdom Below would have known that their leader could not be harmed by normal means, and even those foolish enough to make the attempt would soon realize the error in their ways. It was common knowledge that he would only rise when his reign was done, and that only if his successor allowed him to live afterwards. He had not moved an inch in nigh two hundred years, after all.

Still, prying eyes were everywhere, in the land some had named Avalon. And if they had deigned to turn to the boy king at all, that night, they would have been surprised to see his body shift subtly in position.

It was not much – a finger twitching on the curve of the armrest, a slightly more perceptible rise and fall of his chest when he breathed, his head lolling briefly against the wood before it sagged again where it always had laid. His eyes were flitting restlessly from one side to the other under his eyelids, as though he were having a particularly troubling dream.

But most stunning of all those changes had nothing to do with the king himself, only the throne he was sitting on. In fact, while most of the wooden limbs that held him in place remained untouched, a branch enveloping his neck began retracting and shrinking, curling onto itself as it folded into a new shape. No longer reminiscent of a shriveled root, it sprouted dented, leathery leaves as it snaked upwards, slithering through the boy’s dark curls to wrap a thin, finger-like segment around the circlet resting on his head, while green buds sprouted all along the stalk – at impossible speed they matured, turning into blossoms and then proper flowers, the brightly colored petals forming a stark contrast with the dire background they had chosen for themselves.

It was a hellebore shoot. And by the time it was done growing, still fiercely clutching onto the crown, its unusual, bizarrely crimson flowers had all but taken a hold of the left side of King Baelfire’s face, looking like bloodstains against his pale, slumbering skin.

Chapter Text

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Regina murmured, carefully putting a hand on Emma’s tense arm.

“Want? No.” The sheriff shook her head, letting out a deep breath. “But I have to do it. He trusts me- or at least, he trusted me until recently. If I can’t make him talk, I don’t know who else is going to do the trick.”

“Fine. So why am I here, then?”

Emma gave her a meaningful glance, the corner of her mouth twitching grimly. “To keep me from doing something I might regret.”

This was perhaps the thing Regina felt the least qualified to be doing, but she couldn’t very well say that aloud, so instead she simply nodded, following her friend as she stepped inside the interrogation room, where the boy was sitting rigidly at the table, waiting for them.

Most of the lighting in the room came from the harsh neon fixtures of the sheriff’s station, though at that time of night they couldn’t exactly hope for natural light. The sky was still pitch black outside, a clear indication that the rest of the world was still asleep around them – the rest of the world except a bunch of very harried nuns and hysterical children, probably, alongside the three little idiots David was currently keeping an eye on in the next room over.

Regina had expected more resistance from them, honestly, but it seemed that Pinocchio’s scene had left them as dumbfounded as everyone else – once they’d seen him go meekly with the grownups, they’d fallen into pace compliantly enough, faces pinched and lost. Lampwick alone had tried to make a grab for his boyfriend’s arm, but Pinocchio hadn’t even glanced at him for a second, leaving the older boy’s thin hand grasping at nothing, confusion in his stance and betrayal in his eyes.

It had been a sad sight, enough to make Regina’s heart clench momentarily, but it wasn’t like those kids were free of blame, either. She didn’t know what they’d expected, pulling such a stunt – she didn’t really disagree, mind, and the gods knew she’d done worse for weaker reasons, and yet she understood that there would need to be some sort of consequence for their actions, one that she would now need to help Emma pick, apparently.

Deep down, she hoped it wouldn’t be a punishment. It was unrealistic, she knew, but… she had seen that look of angry desperation before, in her own reflection. To witness it on a teenage boy – how could it be fair? How could they be expected to side with Blue, after that outburst?

Still. It seemed to have calmed down, now; silence stretched on, marred only by the scratching of their chairs as they sat down on the other side of the table. One would have expected Emma to get a strong head start on the conversation, as was her custom, but instead the sheriff leaned back with her arms crossed against her chest, staring at their stony-faced interlocutor. It wasn’t an angry look, not at all – rather, she appeared somewhat defeated and dejected, exhaustion in her eyes that had nothing to do with the late hour.

They remained like that for what felt like an eternity, a wordless battle of wills. Then Pinocchio said, his voice flat and monochord: “I’ve seen the princess.”

That wasn’t what Regina had expected, either. She leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “You mean the girl? Enid?” She asked, unable to contain her disbelief.

The boy nodded, still not breaking eye contact with Emma. It was a wonder the Savior wasn’t getting unnerved, with those big, unflinching blue eyes fixed on her. “You were right. Lady Morgana has her. She’s safe, protected by magic. You need to tell Sir Lancelot that.”

“There is no magic in town, kid,” Emma muttered tiredly, opening her mouth at long last. “You just proved it with your stunt. If that’s all she has, she’s as protected as the stuff you stole tonight.”

“She’s not in town. I don’t think anything can touch her, where she is.”

“How’d you see her if she’s not in town, then?”

Finally, Pinocchio looked away, this time electing to stare in the distance towards a corner of the room, his tone quieting down a notch: “You won’t believe me if I tell you.”

“Oh my God.” Emma took a deep breath, massaging her temples with a stiff hand. “Pinocchio, I’ve always believed what you told me. I believed you about people shoplifting, I believed- damn it, I believed it when you said there was a giant green guy chasing after you. Why would this be any different?”

“Because those other times, it wasn’t my word against hers.”

It took Regina a moment to realize he wasn’t talking about Morgana any longer. “This is about the Mother Superior, isn’t it? You think we’re picking sides.”

“Aren’t you?” The boy scoffed, shooting her a quick glare. “That’s how it always goes. If I say one thing and she says another, I’m the one in the wrong. I mean- only one of us is locked up in here, right? I bet if either of you had stolen something from a villain, the police wouldn’t be holding you hostage.”

“What makes you think Blue is the villain here?”

Something wavered in Pinocchio’s stance, a brief, wounded flash in his eyes – suddenly they even looked a lighter blue than they had before, though it was probably just the strong lights. Suddenly he was more scared teenager and less raging young man, if only for the shortest of seconds. “It’s not a new thing,” he whispered, even quieter than he had previously been. “I told Grace. This isn’t just a present day problem- nobody noticed before, why would you notice now?”

“Notice what?” Unexpectedly, Emma broke her composure, reaching out over the table to wrap her fingers around his arm. “Kid, please. I told you, I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me. What do we need to notice? What should we have noticed?”

The boy glanced at the hand, then at her, then at the hand again. If Regina hadn’t known better, she would have thought he looked…surprised by the physical contact, but that would have been insane – hadn’t Emma always been extremely touchy-feely, with those children?

It only lasted a beat. Then, Pinocchio pulled out of her grasp, balling his hands into fists in his lap – well, one of them, at least. The other was still cradling the strange little vial he’d apparently plucked out of the convent, and he moved it with a lot more care and attention. That was what Regina chose to zero in on, for lack of a better alternative to Emma’s crestfallen look. “What about that spell? It’s not exactly beginner stuff. Morgana told you about it, too, didn’t she? How can you be so sure it could do the things you believe?”

“I have my reasons. And anyway, I’d rather be wrong than see the effects of this magic on anyone else.”

“Very convincing. What about the sheriff’s question? Why should we think a fairy would use it on anyone?”

“Because the Mother Superior would do anything to prove a point. Especially to people like me. Or maybe just me.” The boy turned back to his distant corner, chewing his lower lip until it turned white before he continued.

“Look, I get why she’d want to teach me a lesson back in the day. I was dumb. I know. But…She let me die before I could be a real boy, and before that I was already almost drowned once, and- and caged, and stabbed, and burned, and all the stuff they put in that stupid book with my name on it. If- if the Dark One, or someone, had tried making that kind of deal with a child, you’d be pissed, and I didn’t even agree beforehand! It just happened! She shouldn’t get a pass just because she’s a fairy. All the other fairies are like that, anyway. Except Nova- but Nova left, and I’m happy she did. She was the only one who actually loved us in there.

“I mean- Emma, you mentioned it earlier. Do you remember the time you met me? When the curse was still in place?”

“Of course I remember,” Emma mumbled, clearly taken aback by the abrupt change in topic. “Hansel and Gretel shoplifting. How could anyone forget?”

Regina, in turn, was more curious to see where he was going with it than anything else. “I remember, too. We talked with dear miss Zimmer the other day- it seems like she didn’t appreciate either of our interventions in her life.”

To her surprise, Pinocchio smiled briefly, a fleeting little flash of amusement. “Ava doesn’t like you,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“Both of you. She thinks that she got stuck taking care of both her father and brother because you guys didn’t leave them alone. But that’s not the point. My point is- that day I was in the shop with Sister Vanessa, and she didn’t give a wink that some kids were being held by the authority, or that I was accused of lying about theft. She was just mad that I was making her waste time. That was how they handled everything, for twenty-eight years and then some.”

He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, sounding somewhat tired all of a sudden. “So yeah, I’m not sorry if I think a fairy would hurt me or my friends, or- or the little princess, if Lady Morgana wasn’t protecting her. It’s happened before. I’m not taking any chances.”

“Hold on.” Emma shot Regina a freshly alert glance, leaning forward with renewed interest. That came out of nowhere. “Morgana told you she’s protecting Princess Enid? From what?”

The boy clenched his jaw. It appeared that he’d said more than he’d intended, this time around, and that he didn’t really mean to go any further. But then, a beat later, he sighed, shaking his head distastefully. “I don’t know for sure. Maybe you should ask the fairies. It’s a power struggle for them- Lady Morgana just said she didn’t want to see me or the princess be used as pawns.”

“Pawns for what? Pinocchio, please. Anything you say could help us find her. Even the smallest thing.”

“But you can’t. You won’t find her. She’s somewhere you can’t go unless you’re being let in, like the chapel. You remember the chapel, right? Tell me, did you ever manage to walk in unless Lord Bertilak was letting you?”

The sheriff sucked in a sharp breath, but Regina couldn’t chide her for it, not really. She, too, was now speechless, for she’d been the one to hear Bertilak describe that hollow place – she’d reported every single word to Emma, of course, but she couldn’t have given a physical demonstration of the knight’s dejected, distant face even if she had tried.

He’d said the chapel had been a place in between worlds. Like a crossroads, he’d said. A likely place for Morgana to have hidden away in. And now there came this boy, unknowingly saying the exact same thing, only with a certainty none of the adults had had until then and that could potentially bury every lead they’d had thus far.

“Morgana let you in, didn’t she?” She whispered, already dreading the answer to that question. “Where did it happen? What did you see?”

Pinocchio, however, didn’t answer. He just kept on staring at the corner, his eyes dark and vacant, the vial cradled in his cupped hands like a baby bird fallen off the nest. “This isn’t the time to play mum, young man. If you were alone with a sorceress in a magical place, that could- it was incredibly dangerous, not to tell anyone about it. She could have done things to you the kinds of which you couldn’t even imagine. The least you can do now is to bring us up to speed. Is the passage in the forest? Was anyone else there?”

Her insistence was only met with silence, once again. Regina was starting to fear the boy wasn’t paying her any mind at all, his head cocked to the side as if raptly listening to someone or something she couldn’t perceive, or perhaps simply tuning himself out of the world entirely, lost in thoughts they had no means to know.

It was a horrifying perspective. She wasn’t as close to him as Emma was, but this was still a boy she’d known for years, a boy who’d held Roland’s hand and tried to shield a queen in Camelot. What was fogging that clever head? What had Morgana done to him?

What had Blue done?

Her tumultuous thoughts were interrupted by a rapid knock on the door, followed by David poking his head into the interrogation room. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, his expression unreadable. “Can you two come out for a second? We kind of…have a situation.”

Emma groaned in dismay. “What did they do now?”

“No, it’s not the kids. Actually- well, it’s better if you see for yourself.”

What else could be happening at two in the morning? Regina wanted to ask, but she elected to keep her mouth shut, fearing she might jinx what little chances of tranquility they might have left. If she thought about it for more than five seconds, she could find plenty of things that might happen at 2AM in Storybrooke, so really, there was no point. In fact, the town tended to have most of its crises before she could have her first coffee of the day.

Instead, she shrugged when Emma looked at her for support, silently urging her to go see what the issue was. The sheriff complied well enough, but as she stood up and made for the door her gaze lingered on Pinocchio, and Regina couldn’t help but follow her friend’s example – one would have expected him to react to the new arrival somehow, at least, but he was still unmoving and unfazed, not even glancing their way as they pushed their chairs back and left.

No, he simply sat there, staring at nothing, as if he were a strange, changeling child that had replaced the boy they’d known so well.

Her father hadn’t been lying, to Emma’s relief.

It was a small mercy, but a mercy nonetheless. Stupid boneheads they might be, but the last thing she wanted was for those kids to go through something else the minute she looked away. If she could have pretended nothing had happened and gone back to bed, she would have. She could have forgiven even Pinocchio, if that were the straw that might make him snap out of his sort of trance.

And yet, she couldn’t. The other three didn’t even look particularly chastised – in fact, they’d gotten out of their seats and crowded around the nearest window, pointedly ignoring David’s urging them to sit back down. Pierrot in particular was hooting and hollering, a sight that made Emma sigh and reach to grab him by the arm. “You want to wake the whole neighborhood, too? Sit down. This isn’t a sports game.”

He turned to beam mischievously at her – his cheerful expression didn’t quite reach his easy, and it was cracking and tired at the edges, but only just, like a fleeting tension not everyone would have noticed. “But Sheriff, my mom’s over there! She needs to know I’m rooting for her!”

“What do you mean your mom’s there?”

He wasn’t lying, either. Would that he had been. Instead, when the two women stepped out of the station they found an entire gaggle of parents waiting for them, all clearly dressed in some hurry, with looks on their faces that ranged from worried to downright bellicose.

Emma had met Twinkle’s fathers only briefly, but it was easy to pick them out of the group, as she knew Leroy and Nova all too well, and she refused to let her eyes linger on Marco’s face too long. The man looked nothing short of distraught, clinging to his partner’s hand like an anchor, even though she didn’t appear that much steadier. Blue was there, too, as she had feared – the fairy would have stood out among the others just fine, because, while frazzled, she was hardly as shaken as everyone else, but she was also keeping herself a little away from the rest, as though she had no desire to be involved with them.

An opinion that, it seemed, not everyone shared. As soon as she heard the pair walk out the door, Leona rounded up on them, pointing an accusing finger at the fairy. “What’s this about, Sheriff?” She demanded, her tone warningly tense. “Your father said on the phone that this was about the kids- what is she doing here?”

That was not the kind of conversation Emma was prepared to have, not again. Fortunately, Regina was not as concerned with the semantics of it as she was – she stepped forward with a wide smile, her leader-of-a-cursed-town smile, practiced and not at all reassuring. “It just so happens that the kids did something to her. Allegedly, that is.”

The Mother Superior balked at that, clearly having expected more support. “There is nothing alleged about it, Madam Mayor,” she said, sharply, before glancing at the assembled parents. “We saw it with our own eyes, unfortunately. Tonight, Pinocchio tried to steal something very dangerous from me and my sisters, and all of your children had a hand in it.”

“But- that’s not possible,” came Marco’s protest – it was plain to see that he was trying to sound resolute about it, but there was a minute trembling in his hand that nearly betrayed him. “Pinocchio is a good boy. He would never do something like that.”

“I’m so sorry, Geppetto. I wish it wasn’t true, too. But he admitted to the theft, and he still has the object on him- that is, unless you managed to retrieve it?”

The last question had been pointedly directed at Emma, who grimaced, unwilling to let the implied accusation get to her. “He wouldn’t give up on it- I could try and wrestle it out of his hands, sure, but I thought you didn’t want to risk it being smashed?”

The fairy’s eyebrows rose, blatantly unamused. “Perhaps I should try to convince him myself, then, if it was such a hard task for you.”

“Yes, he would definitely heed your opinion on the matter,” Regina snorted, ducking and shaking her head. “But please, if you mean to get into a test of physical strength with a boy in his prime who works with his hands, do warn me in advance. I need to fetch some refreshments.”

Blue’s nostrils flared in outrage, but Nova cut into the conversation before she could react, her head held high even if she was unendingly wringing her hands. “The thing he stole- what was it?”

“I’m afraid it’s none of your business,” the older fairy snapped, though her nervousness had finally changed target. “It’s magical property, and I seem to recall you’re not part of our order anymore, Nova.”

Nova nodded resignedly, as if she’d expected nothing else. “Well, that just about tells me all I need to know about who’s at fault here,” she said, with surprising decisiveness, then shot Emma an apprehensive look. “Where are the children? Are they alright?”

“That’s what I’d like to know, as well.” One of Twinkle’s fathers, the taller one, moved to the former fairy’s side, laying a broad hand on her skinny shoulder. “And what exactly are they accused of, ma’am? I do hope it’s something solid, or it won’t hold any water once people catch wind of it!”

“Well, actually, your kid’s not accused of anything,” Emma said, feeling drained all of a sudden. Why were perfectly human conversation somehow more tiring that trying to convince a teenager to give up on a dangerous supernatural artefact? “And neither is Pierrot. I was just keeping them in custody for their safety. You can take them both home.”

“Emma-“

The sheriff raised a firm hand before the Mother Superior could interrupt her again. “What should I blame them for? Walking around while their friends were in trouble? They’re going home, and that’s final. There’s no proof they did anything wrong.”

“Damn right there isn’t,” the big man interjected once more, sounding oddly proud. “Even if Twinkle had done something wrong - which I’m sure she hasn’t, because I know my darling girl - she’d never leave any evidence behind. We taught her better than that.”

“You’re not helping matters, Sylvester,” Leroy grumbled, elbowing his way to the front of the group. “What about the other kids? You didn’t get Charming here to call the likes of me to come fetch Pinocchio, did ya?”

“No, of course not.” Emma took a deep breath, holding it in for a long moment before releasing it. This could be her best call for the night, or her worst mistake yet, no in-between. “Lampwick’s involved, yeah, but you can take him home, too. And- look, legally I have no right to ask this if I let him go, but I’m asking it as a favor, Leroy. Actually, I’m asking this of all you, okay? Keep the kids in the house, and keep their phones from them. There’s danger around that has nothing to do with what Pinocchio took, and until I figure out how to stop them from getting hurt, you can’t let them plan a guerrilla behind our back. Got it?”

“Yeah, well, the dumbass’ll be luck if I let him out of the house ever again, don’t worry,” the dwarf replied darkly, but whatever itch could possibly be in his voice was drowned by another voice, insistingly taking center stage.

“Emma,” the Blue Fairy repeated, stressing every syllable, “this is ridiculous. You know that the moment you look away, they’ll let their children wreak havoc again. There is no way you can keep the situation under control in these conditions.”

“And I suppose this is coming from the mouth of an expert, yes?” Leona scoffed, turning her eyes skyward. “Back off, Mother Superior. This is out of your jurisdiction.”

“Is this a shining example of your parenting, then? I can’t see why you would be proud of yourself, but…”

Something flashed in the other woman’s gaze, a sudden, ferocious glint. “And yet, it’s your house they apparently came back to rob, not mine. I can’t see why you’d be so proud, but it seems introspection is lost on you.”

Blue narrowed her eyes. “All I know is, both boys took a turn for the worse once they were left in your care, Miss Janeway, and were allowed to spend time with these people. Perhaps it is you who’d benefit from some introspection.”

Leona lunged forward. There was a split half-second where Emma feared she’d have to physically get between the pair to prevent a scrap, but someone else had beat her to the punch – the boney, olive-skinned man, Twinkle’s other father, who’d wrapped his arms around the old woman’s waist and was holding her back with surprising strength and some hurried, frantic words. “Leona- Leona, it’s not worth it. Not yet. Stand down.”

“How dare you,” Leona snarled, straining against his grip. “These kids have known nothing but pain and rejection while they were in your care. I’ve been undoing your damage for years, and I know you have something to do with all of this- I will find a way to prove it, mark my words. You’re not fooling me for a second here.”

One would have expected Marco to be the person to keep his girlfriend from lashing out at a nun. The Mother Superior most likely had – in the face of the other’s fury, she shot him a couple glances, as if silently asking him to step in. And still, the man only kept staring at them both but with his mind clearly elsewhere, except where his son had looked all too young when he’d worn a similar expression earlier in the night, suddenly Marco appeared old, his lined face weighed down by heartbreak. Only when Leona finally stopped struggling, deflating in her friend’s arms, did he turn to Emma again, almost pleadingly. “What about Pinocchio? Please, you can’t- you know he wouldn’t do anything like this without a good reason. He’s changed. And even if he hadn’t- this isn’t children’s mischief, is it?”

“No, it’s not,” Emma admitted, reluctantly. “And I know, Marco. That’s why I want to dig deeper. But- I’m sorry, I can’t do that if I have to constantly worry about him being a target. I’ll figure it out, I swear, but in the meantime I have to keep him safe. I have to keep them all safe, and that means separate and under close watch.”

“Can’t I at least see him? Maybe- maybe he would tell me what has got into him.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, even more regretful “he’s not talking to anyone right now. Go home and- and try to get some sleep, I guess. We’ll see how it goes in the morning. I’ll inform you the moment the situation changes, I promise.”

She looked away, then, away from his unbearably pained gaze to her own father, who’d been standing at the door watching the scene unfold and waiting for some kind of signal. “Let the other three out. Who knows what they might be scheming, alone in there.”

The trio exited the station with widely different stances. Lampwick looked defiant, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes, and Pierrot was gnawing at his thumb nail, at least until Leona pulled him into a rough hug, shooting daggers at Blue over his shoulder – only Twinkle seemed to have some genuine determination, one that wasn’t all posturing and acting untouchable. She marched right to Sylvester and let him envelop her in his arms, brow furrowed. “What happened? We heard yelling, but that guy wouldn’t let us open the window.”

“You’re asking me what happened?” Her father asked, forced laughter in his voice. “We’re here because of you, sweetling. What did you rascals do?”

“Twinkle elbowed the prince in the gut,” Pierrot informed them all, sounding extraordinarily calm from where he’d curled up against Marco’s chest, his woolly head tucked under the man’s chin even as the latter still looked distant. “It was amazing.”

“You did what?”

“It was an accident!” The girl protested. “Shut up, Pierrot- we just had a misunderstanding, okay? He touched my hair, and I acted on instinct. That’s all.”

Slowly, her other dad turned to look at David. In any other occasion it would have been hilarious, the cold solemnity of his stare, especially in such a minute man, but temper were already high enough that night, and Emma didn’t like the undercurrent she was feeling in that glare. “Now I’m sure we can forget that particular incident, alright?”

Twinkle nodded sternly, flyaway strands of hair sticking to her face. “We sure can. Lampwick’s the one who’s threatened the prince with bigger stuff, anyway. That was funny.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Lampwick muttered, cutting Leroy off before he’d even finished opening his mouth. “You told me you did worse. With an axe. You’ve got no leg to stand on.”

“Dammit, boy…” the dwarf said, exhaling heavily, but the boy had already stopped listening to him, leaning towards Emma instead.

“Why isn’t Pinocchio coming?” He asked, his freckled face drawn and pale. “You can’t keep him locked up. I ain’t leaving without him.”

She had expected this. Of course she had. Those two had been each other’s faithful shadow for as long as she had known them. But despite that, despite the fact that she knew she couldn’t falter just now, it was still immensely hard to look him in the eye and go, “He’s staying. I’m sorry.”

“Come on, Sheriff-“

“Kid. Listen to me.” Emma grabbed him by the arms, firm but not painful, with all the urgency she could instill in it.

“I know you guys don’t really trust me right now, and God, I can see why you wouldn’t, but… If you trusted me once, at least, just believe I’m not doing this to make things worse. Please. Pinocchio will be safer here than he’d be if I sent him home unchecked, but I can’t lock all of you up in the same spot. You can see why that is, right? I can’t risk it.

“So just… Just go home, Lampwick. Leroy will watch your back, and I will watch Pinocchio’s. Got it?”

The boy wavered, clearly torn. She could see it in his look that he was desperate to believe her, the way he had when she used to find excuses just to check on him and buy him food, but something still hesitated inside him, the lingering suspicion she’d caught in the other kids as well – it hurt more when coming from this kid, of course, but Emma privately steeled herself against it. Later, she could indulge it, but not right now.

And besides, it seemed that that hesitation wasn’t reason enough to refuse her. Instead, after a long beat of searching her face, Lampwick nodded, his head bowed down as he returned to the others. The sheriff saw him flinch minutely when Nova reached out to him, making her retract her hand as if burned, but then he took it in his own, letting the former fairy’s small fingers cradle his.

“I do hope you know what you’re doing, Emma,” the Mother Superior muttered, approaching her as she watched the back of that long, bony figure retreat. By now most of the parents’ focus had moved away from her, too busy fussing over their children and trying to piece together the events of the night to be outraged, but if one had looked closely they would have noticed Leona’s eyes never leaving the fairy, steel-hard and ice-sharp even as she held her son close.

The thought was abrupt and unwelcome, though not a lie, not really. Emma clenched her jaw, swallowing the need to lose all the control she’d oh-so-carefully kept throughout the night. “And I hope you have a plan for reopening the passage Morgana closed, before Lancelot passes out of exhaustion,” she replied, bitterly.

“Let these people go home and get back to the convent, Blue. It was a small fire- I’m sure everything can be sorted out by now. I’ve got to find a way to fix this mess before you gain some new information to hide from me.”

Then she turned on her heel and marched right back into the station, wondering detachedly if Pinocchio could be broken out of his trance long enough to be sent to bed in one of the cells.

Chapter Text

Twinkle didn’t go to school, the next morning.

She supposed no one could say a word about it, given that the sheriff herself had ordered they stay in the house. She just hoped someone had alerted the staff about this fact – she’d never striven for perfect attendance, but the last thing she wanted was for her parents to be fined because of her prolonged absence.

Not like they were berating her for it, either. In fact, barely a word had been uttered inside the house ever since she’d woken up, since before bed, actually, when Twinkle had given them a barebones rundown of events that did not include her breaking into a convent in the dead of night – she felt kind of bad about it, but she suspected they might know anyway, and besides, she needed them to have plausible deniability. She loved Sylvester like the air in her lungs, but the man couldn’t hold a poker face if his life depended on it, despite all his years in the dejection business.

Instead, they let her be for the most part, leaving her to ruminate in her room, not coming to call her down when she missed breakfast. She’d put some music on eventually, but she couldn’t even find the energy to stand up and bop along to it as she did something – rather, she believed she was spending most of her morning laying supine on the bedcovers, staring at the ceiling as she fidgeted distractedly with one of her childhood dolls, the oldest one, stained and frayed, that had come with her from the Enchanted Forest.

It was a wonder it hadn’t already come apart because of her tugging and pulling, but honestly, it was a wonder Twinkle hadn’t come apart because of the events of the previous couple weeks, either. She was a headstrong girl, everyone said so, sturdy as a brick wall, but even brick walls could crumble to pieces if you tampered with the mortar – and boy, had people done that repeatedly, as of late. Magic and kidnappings and-

And now one of her closest friends was in trouble, and she could do nothing. Nothing. Those folks who could do something about their problems would likely stay out of it until it was too late, and she could lie to herself all she wanted, but she was no match for fairies and sorceresses, damn them all. That’d never have stopped her from trying, of course, but first she’d need to find the willpower to just. Get. Up. Act on her plans, instead of just thinking about them. Climb out of another window. Something. Anything.

There was a knock on her door, interrupting her brooding flow. Twinkle lifted her head just enough to spot Igor peering inside, not quite opening it in full just yet. “Hello,” he said, barely audible over the music. “Can I come in?”

She laid back down with a sigh, resuming her pointless staring. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

“Thank you.” He closed the door behind his back as he got in – she heard its click before the footsteps approaching her, and then her bed creaking slightly under the man’s weight when he sat beside her, taking her hand in his calloused ones. “Did you sleep some?”

“Uh-uh.” Twinkle pulled a face, unsure of whether she should feel more guilty or rebellious. “How disappointed is Sylvester?”

“Not at all. But he’s worried, habibti. And so am I. We can’t understand what is happening if you don’t talk to us.”

Her still free hand clenched around the doll’s arm. She wanted nothing more than to confide in her father, to drop the weight on her shoulders in the hands of someone older, more cunning than her, but… In this case, she was a friend first, and she wondered how much of the whole business would be her story to tell, especially without being able to contact Pinocchio or Grace or whatever.

Well. Best to start with the cat that was already out of the bag, at least. “There’s this sorceress lady- she thinks the Mother Superior’s planning something bad, and that Pinocchio could stop her. That’s what this was all about.”

“I see. And did he ask you to help him with that?”

“No, duh. I said I would help him. We all did.”

“Of course.” Igor huffed a laugh, then lifted her hand up to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the knuckles. “You could never ignore a friend in need, najm. That’s how we knew it had to be something serious, for you to get involved. But I have to ask- do you trust her? This sorceress?”

“I don’t know.” Twinkle pursed her lips for a moment, chewing on her reply. “Pinocchio does, though. I think he knows something we don’t. And I- I have to trust him, you know? This isn’t the bullshit trouble we’d get into when we were little. This feels real. Important. And if he doesn’t know the Blue Fairy best, who would?”

“I understand. I’m just not sure I want to see a boy of seventeen save the day.” She felt a hand cupping her cheek, brushing a thumb along her skin and prompting her to finally look up – her father was smiling, though it wasn’t a very happy smile at all, and his dark eyes were warm and pitiful. “I wish you had talked to us first. We would have helped.”

“The Mother Superior pretty much waved Pinocchio and Grace off when they told her, and she was with the sheriff. I didn’t know if I could break that word for them.”

The grip around her fingers stiffened momentarily, as if Igor’s hand had clenched, but it only lasted a second, and he was cradling them soothingly again soon after. “I see,” he repeated, his expression unchanging. “So it was just you guys against the world, mh?”

Twinkle shrugged tiredly. “Maybe.” She was sorrier than ever to have troubled her fathers so much, but that was just the way of life – not her family life, obviously. Communication had always worked great over there. It was the rest of town that tended to get in the way. She simply didn’t understand why anyone would be surprised.

Hadn’t they always been the weird, unpredictable kids, wherever they went? With the adults calling her a little slut under their breath, and the schoolboys making fun of Pierrot’s upbringing, and Lampwick the hellion and Eugene the neurotic mess, and Pinocchio unreliable, disappointing, a lost cause to the most powerful fairy in Storybrooke? Who could they trust that wasn’t already in their own homes or friend groups? What would have happened to them, if someone tattled and it got to the wrong ear?

They’d put their faith in the sheriff, once. Pinocchio and Lampwick more than anyone. She’d shielded them all and they’d believed her, when they’d been younger. But now, she had Pinocchio in a cell, and maybe she meant well, yes, but maybe those folks around her would distract her from the truth until it was too late, and Twinkle’d had her phone taken away on her request, so she couldn’t even pester the woman with infinite calls to figure out what the next step would be.

“I’m scared, Baba.” The words flew out of her mouth before she’d even realized they were forming, stunning her more than anyone else.

And yet, while part of her wanted to renege them, to recoil away from what they meant…she couldn’t. She might be scared, but she wasn’t a coward. Denying the truth wasn’t in her nature. And this was the truth, even though it wasn’t what she’d set out to say at all. She was terrified, like the little girl she’d been, waiting in an old man’s bed for something she couldn’t understand nor articulate.

Igor went still for a moment, then hummed in acknowledgment, resuming the stroking along her cheekbone. “What are you scared of, najm?”

“I don’t know. It feels like- like everyone’s waiting around for something to happen, but they’re not doing anything to prepare for it. Like we’re the only ones who are getting ready for it. And I don’t even know what we’re doing- I thought we had a plan, that we had to stop the Mother Superior before bad stuff happened, but now the magic’s gone, and isn’t that bad enough already?”

Twinkle drew in a stilted breath, trying to keep her mind clear. “So maybe we’re already too late, I don’t know. Maybe this is all part of the plan, and that Morgana will tell us what the next step should be. But- I don’t know how to figure it out myself, now. We’re all separated, and Pinocchio’s locked up, and I think this stuff was kind of making him lose his mind, anyway. Who’s going to look out for him, in there?”

She’d started rambling, eventually. She was painfully aware of it. But shit had already hit the ceiling at that point, and if she couldn’t trust Igor to listen with an open mind, then she might as well take up the veil herself and go live in a cloister.

Her father didn’t reply for a terrifyingly long moment, his eyes on her but his gaze lost somewhere distant, pondering. But finally, he said: “I wish more than anything that I could take this all from you, Twinkle, so that you’re not in danger ever again.”

And then, before she could protest: “But I know I can’t do that forever. If something happens, I know you will do your best to help your friends. But just…promise me that if it happens, you’ll be careful, yes? Promise me you’ll look after yourself and the others, out there.”

Despite her best efforts, Twinkle felt her eyes stinging. “Promise,” she responded, her voice itching somewhat. “But there’s no risk of that, is there? It’s not like I have any way of getting out there, right now.”

To her surprise, Igor chuckled lightly, shaking his head. “Never say never, habibti. Sylvester says you’re, ah- enterprising, like him. I’m sure you will find a way to help, if they need you.”

He bent down to kiss her between the eyes, well below her bangs, then got up with a huff, stretching his back. “I will go make lunch, but if you’re hungry before that there is falafel left over somewhere, if your father hasn’t eaten them all. You need your energy, to do anything.”

After that, he reached the door and left with that quick, silent step of his, but Twinkle wasn’t looking at him any longer, by that point. Rather, she was staring in bafflement at the thing left in his wake, on the bed beside her – a phone, with its chipped pink case covered in stickers whose colors had long since faded.

Her phone, fallen out of Igor’s pocket as if by mistake.

“Emma?”

The sheriff looked up at hearing her name, trying to stifle her disappointment. For half a second she’d thought her charge had finally deigned to speak to her, but soon enough her brain had caught up with her ears – the voice was too adult, too tentative, and most of all, just a glance in the cells’ direction had confirmed her that Pinocchio had yet to move a muscle.

She hadn’t been sitting in that chair uninterrupted since the night before, of course, but her family’s reports had pretty much mirrored her own experience. The boy hadn’t uttered a single word in hours; he’d let himself be led to the cell without complaint, and he’d taken his shoes off before climbing onto the cot, like a well-mannered child, but Emma wasn’t sure he had slept at all. When she’d approached him, his eyes had been open and uncaring – he hadn’t even responded to her offer of some breakfast, instead remaining huddled with his arms wrapped around his legs, silent, unreachable.

She’d hoped for a sudden miracle, now that enough time had passed. In place of that, however, she only found Archie Hopper, hovering at the station’s doorway with some trepidation.

“Hey there.” She briefly considered getting up to see what he wanted, but firstly, she was too worn out to be professional at the moment, and secondly, it wasn’t hard to guess why anyone would pay them a visit. After all, she’d made it very clear that this wasn’t a proper arrest, and as such, the usual procedures had gone right out of the window. “I didn’t expect you to show up.”

“Marco couldn’t bring himself to come.” The doctor stepped closer, clearly having interpreted her lack of reaction as an invitation to enter. He didn’t look as much a wreck as the friend he was talking about, but it was a close thing – there was a defeated air to him, as though he were trudging along by pure will and inertia alone. “As you might expect, he isn’t taking this situation well. Leona is with him right now.”

“And Pierrot?”

“Holed up in his room, and surprisingly quiet. I saw him myself, but his mother has been checking on him regularly, too. He isn’t leaving anytime soon.”

That was a small mercy, even if the rest of the description hardly reassured her. The pair of them were brothers alright, blood relations or not. “Well, that makes two of them, as you can see.”

“I know. That’s why I came. Marco believes I might get Pinocchio to speak- and he was worried the boy wouldn’t be eating enough, as well.”

Archie produced a small plastic bag, from which he pulled out two containers wrapped in paper towels. “I tried to reassure him that there was no risk of that, but he wouldn’t listen, and I think it helped him take his mind off things. He sent you a serving, too.”

Despite everything, Emma felt the corner of her mouth tug upwards – none of that should have been amusing, but the whole business was surreal enough that she could justify a little lunacy for herself. “Trying to corrupt an officer? I didn’t think Marco had it in him, honestly.”

He didn’t return her smile, but the sigh he let out was more resigned than dejected, at the very least. “If you’d known him as long as I have, you wouldn’t be so certain about it. Anyway- can I talk to Pinocchio? Just for a moment?”

“Suit yourself.” The sheriff took the proffered container and the related fork and allowed herself to take in the pleasant smell for just a second, just as a brief distraction from her exhaustion. At worst, this little chat couldn’t do any harm, but if the kid did open his mouth…perhaps they might know more of what he’d been planning, and in turn, what Morgana might have put into his head. “But I’ll have to stay right here where I can hear you guys. Sorry. It’s not that I don’t trust you, Archie, but-”

“There’s no need to apologize. I understand.”

Emma inclined her head in acknowledgment, watching him carefully as he moved towards the only occupied cell in the building. She’d let Pinocchio have the one facing right, with the high slit windows – she wasn’t sure if it had been guilt, or pity, or simply an attempt to look like the good cop to guide her choice, but even in the dead of night she hadn’t been able to bear the thought of keeping him away from even that sliver of the outside world. If that made her a piss poor example of law enforcement, so be it.

“Pinocchio?” Archie called out, softly. “Are you alright?”

No answer. The boy was as still as a statue, wrapped in his impenetrable silence. That didn’t seem to daunt his conscience much – the man held out the second serving of food through the metal bars, like a peace offering. “Your father sent me to bring you some food. I hear you haven’t had a good meal since last night- I suppose you must be hungry, by now.”

That didn’t prompt any reaction, either. Archie sighed, bending down to set the box onto the ground. “If you expect me to believe you aren’t, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. I seem to remember a little boy who could never be fed quickly enough for his stomach’s liking.”

Emma had been focusing on him so hard, the movement she caught in the corner of her eye almost startled her. Pinocchio had at long last broken out of his immobility, inclining his head and turning towards the doctor with narrowed eyes. “Is that all I am to you?” He asked, his voice hoarse and dangerously flat. “Still a little kid? Still a nuisance?”

“Of course not.” If Archie was as surprised as she was, he gave no sign of it. In fact, he spoke just the way Emma had heard him do over and over again, when trying to break through someone’s walls, villain or otherwise – gentle and open, coaxing without sounding like he was putting any pressure on his interlocutor. “You’ve grown a great deal since then. I would be the last person to say otherwise.”

“Really? So why are you being as condescending as everyone else? Talking to me like I’m an idiot? Like I didn’t know what I was getting myself into?”

“Did you?”

“Yeah. I did.” Slowly, deliberately, the boy threw his legs over the side of the cot and stood up, stepping forward with enviable ease, considering he’d been holding the same position for at least a couple hours.

“I still do,” he continued, once he was face to face with Archie – he wasn’t quite tall enough to be at eye level with the doctor, least of all tower over him, not like Lampwick had done with David the night before, but there was still something imposing in the way he stood, confident and straight-backed. “I’m in trouble because I tried to do the right thing. Again. How is that for reminding you of the past, Jiminy?”

This time Archie did falter, though it was gone in the blink of an eye, and when he spoke next he still sounded even, almost placating. “You’re smart enough for me to trust your judgment. I know you’d never want to hurt anyone, especially your family. But- was there really no other option, besides stealing?”

“I tried- We tried talking about it. Do you think anyone listened?”

“Why didn’t you come to me? You know I would have-“

“Bullshit.”

The word rang clear and spiteful throughout the station, prompting Emma to put down her fork and straighten up instinctively. In the last couple days she’d seen Pinocchio lash out more than he had in the previous decade, and yet it still felt odd, to see him spit out such venomous things without a second thought, his face burning with rage and indignation. He leaned in slightly, one hand grabbing at the bars while he peered through them, and she wasn’t sure why the sight bothered her this much, but it reminded her-

It reminded her of something. Someone. And for all that she couldn’t put a name of them, she could wager it wasn’t anyone pleasant, if she had to.

“You have been trusting that woman’s opinion of me for so long, I don’t even know what you believe anymore,” the boy went on, all but snarling. “And you were there. Out of everyone, I’d have expected you to believe me the most, but no. I wasn’t being good enough for that, was I?”

“That’s unfair,” the doctor said, firmly. “There are so many things that happened to you that shouldn’t have happened at all, and I’m sorry I couldn’t prevent them, but I never doubted you. Not once.”

“Uh-uh. What about the night I was hanged?”

That again. It was like a stone crashing through glass every time it was mentioned, an explosion followed by heavy silence, and this scene was no different – Archie reared back as if stunned, and it took a couple seconds for him to reply, and even then it was with more urgency than before. “I looked for you for hours. That forest was- it was a maze. I didn’t know where you were until the Blue Fairy found me and brought me to your bedside.”

Pinocchio nodded, his expression hard to puzzle through. “I know. I’m not mad about that. At least you wanted to help me. But after that- I saw things that night, Jiminy. Things I couldn’t explain. I needed to understand- I needed to know what they were. But she shushed me like a baby, and told me I had imagined it, and you let her.”

What happened to you in there, kid, was on the tip of Emma’s tongue, and luckily the doctor seemed to share the same sentiment, because he tentatively asked: “What- what did you see?”

Shockingly, Pinocchio smiled. It wasn’t a good smile; it was a wide, sharp, Cheshire-Cat grin, the kind one could have seen on a biology textbook, with the caption this beast only shows teeth to display aggressiveness. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he said, all too casually. “It’s too late. And that one’s on me, really- I shouldn’t have expected the Mother Superior to listen. Even the Dark One paid more attention to what I was saying than she ever did.”

Alarm bells began ringing in Emma’s head, but she had no time to interrupt him, because he continued relentlessly, like a flooding river. “And anyway, you were right- I’ll never do anything to hurt my family. But my family is you, and Papa, and Leona, and Lampwick, and my friends. I don’t care what Lady Morgana says- the Blue Fairy is not part of my family at all, and never will be.”

He gave the container on the floor a slight nudge with his foot. “It’s a shame to waste food. Take this back, or put it in a fridge somewhere, I don’t care. I’m not hungry.”

That said, he turned on his heels and stomped back towards the cell’s bed, laying down on it again with his face stubbornly turned towards the wall. If it had happened anywhere else, it would have looked like a normal, healthy teenage tantrum, but here, it only served to twist the knife deeper into Emma’s guts.

Lucky for her, then, that she had something more pressing in mind to distract herself with.

Archie was still lingering in front of the cell, as if expecting the tide to turn again. It lasted for what felt like an interminable few seconds, then he sighed, ducking his head, and bent down to pick up the packaged meal. When he turned around, there was a grief-stricken look in his eyes that would be hard to forget, but his tone was more apologetic than anything else when he glanced at Emma. “I’m sorry. This isn’t like Pinocchio at all- I really thought I could get more out of him, without anyone else present.”

“Actually, you helped more than you think.” The sheriff stood up and went to take him by the elbow, gently steering him away from the prying ears of her temporary prisoner. “Thank you, Archie. Do you mind if I walk you to the door? I have to make a call.”

Once she had seen the downcast Dr. Hopper out, she positioned herself so she could still keep an eye on Pinocchio while tucked into the entrance – she knew it was probably pointless, given that he now only resembled a pitiful lump of clothes, but she’d rather be safe than sorry – and fished out her phone, quickly pulling up the number she seemed to be calling all the time, lately.

Mercifully, Regina was quick to pick up, though she sounded tense at the other end of the line. “Any news?”

“Kind of. I might have our next clue. Where are you?”

“I just left Granny’s- Lord Bertilak came back to town on foot to tell me our knight friend is still camping out where Blue’s potion led us. I sent him to sleep it off and asked Robin to keep an eye on Lancelot. Why? What’s going on?”

The kid’s conscience is being our guide for a change, Emma thought distantly, even if she didn’t dare say it aloud, not knowing how up her friend would be for jokes. “I got a couple of things out of Pinocchio that could be useful. I can’t investigate one of them right now, because it would mean asking either Blue or Morgana-“

“And one of them isn’t here and the other can’t be trusted,” Regina finished for her, glumly. “Yes, I see your point. What about the second thing? What does that have to do with me?”

“I need you to swing by Gold’s shop, while you’re out. I’ve got a few questions for you to ask him, since no one else has given us the answers we needed.”

In the afternoon, Eugene went to the ice rink.

He’d never set foot in it before, so it took a bit of guessing and looking confused in front of the receptionist to figure out where the bleachers were, but by the time he’d finally climbed up to a decent seat it was abundantly clear other people had had the same idea. There was a smattering of spectators around the whole rink, most of them likely parents waiting for the practice session to finish, aside from a bunch of kids with bags full of hockey gear clamoring on the lowest benches. He winced at the noise, but it wasn’t enough to deter him, so instead he tried to focus on the girls on the ice, waiting to be noticed.

Coppelia didn’t spot him immediately, probably because she wasn’t wearing her glasses, but when she did she flashed a small smile and a quick wave at him, before turning back to her coach with a focused expression. She’d traded her usual scarves for a more technical, form-fitting hood, covering her head down to the base of her neck, where it tucked into her long-sleeved shirt seamlessly.

She was beautiful. She’d been beautiful even in her everyday clothes, poring through dusty books in the library, but here she was clearly in her element, moving her hands to memorize the directions she received, weaving between other girls on her blades, even wiping sweat off her brow. She looked like a proper athlete now, not a puzzled teenager listening to a magic lady talking in the depths of earth.

He'd have liked to say that everyone else who’d joined them in that escapade was faring this well, but of course he couldn’t, Eugene mused darkly, huddling on the uncomfortable seat as he waited for Coppelia to be done. In fact, he didn’t really know how anyone was faring, not in that precise moment, anyway. There had been radio silence ever since the lot of them had embarked on their stupid quest, and that couldn’t possibly be a good sign, even if he hadn’t been as pragmatic as he was. He figured at least one of the four would have deigned to shoot him a text, if they’d been able to do so.

Or maybe not. They had excluded him, after all – he’d been trying not to let the knowledge fester in his chest for the whole night, but it had taken root anyway, like tetanus in a dirty cut. They’d all gone to help Pinocchio, but Pinocchio himself had asked Eugene to stay out of it. Even Mignon had been a part of the plan, but not him. He was on the sidelines, again.

There was rational reasoning behind it. Of course there was. But reasoning was for his brain to handle – it was his gut that wasn’t taking it that well, still.

And besides, it wasn’t like he had that many other friends to turn to. Pinocchio, Pierrot and Twinkle hadn’t even come to school – Eugene had thought about showing up at one of their houses after classes were over, but he didn’t know if that would make things better or worse, so he’d refrained from trying. He hated not knowing, not having even the slightest clue of what was going on around him, but once again, who else could he ask?

Hence why he’d decided to take Coppelia up on her standing invitation. Perhaps he’d overstepped, but he was pretty sure he would have gone mad, if he’d holed up in his room alone for the whole afternoon. Fabian could only go so far in keeping him company, after all.

He’d been early, too, but not by much. Soon the girls were stretching and gathering up their water bottles, and then they disappeared in what was presumably their changing room, followed by the plasticky sound of blade guards clicking against the floor. Eugene did his best not to seem too fidgety, pointedly not looking at the time on his phone, but he couldn’t contain a breath of relief when Coppelia popped out again, scarf and glasses once more in place and bag slung over her shoulder.

“So you did come,” she said cheerfully, in lieu of a greeting, waiting as he gingerly stepped off the bleachers. “I wasn’t sure you’d believe me when I told you to show up whenever.”

“I guessed you would make it clear if you wanted me to leave once I got in.” The boy rummaged in his backpack for a moment, producing a bottle of Gatorade out of its recesses, which he then stiffly offered her. “Here. For the electrolytes. I didn’t know what flavor you liked, but when I did baseball the coach said blue was the best for physical activity.”

“So thoughtful. Thank you.” She pulled off the cap and took a long swing, regaling him with a little smile once she was done. “Walk me home? You’ll forgive me if I’m not up for more skating this time around- I like giving my ankles a break every so often, you know?”

“Sure. I figured as much, anyway. I’m on foot.”

“Great. Lead the way, then.”

Eugene kept his eyes firmly fixed on the floor tiles as they got to the exit – Coppelia waved to a couple other girls while walking, but he didn’t know any of them well enough to say hi, and he was pretty sure he heard at least one of them giggling when they waved back. He wasn’t sure what they found so funny, if it was his presence or the whole situation in general, but he was not about to give them any more joke fodder if he could help it.

The fresh air outside was a boon, even though it looked like it might rain at some point, dark clouds amassing in the distance. They walked in silence for a bit, but it was only after they’d put a few blocks between the rink and themselves that Coppelia turned to him once again. “So,” she said, in a light, conversational tone, “have you heard anything from the bank heist team?”

“I wish that was what they were actually doing,” Eugene muttered gloomily. “At least they’d be rich, afterwards. But nobody’s reached out, no. I don’t think it went well.”

“Is that why you came to see me? Because you didn’t have anyone better to keep you company?”

There wasn’t any genuine offense in her voice, only faint amusement, but the boy wouldn’t put it past himself to have just completely missed the shift instead, so he immediately protested: “That makes it sound like you’re a replacement. I would never do that.”

She shrugged, but her smile softened in tandem with that, her eyes glinting behind the lenses. “Well, it was just a joke, but thanks for the reassurance, I guess. And anyway, I’m glad you came. I learned from experience that being on your own when you’re sore about something only ever makes it worse.”

That stung. Eugene’s brow furrowed – had it been that obvious, like the tantrum of a spoiled brat? “What makes you think I’m sore about anything?”

“Come on,” Coppelia snorted, shaking her head. “I’m the ugly little sister of a local ice queen beauty. Do you really think I wouldn’t recognize the signs that someone’s feeling ignored?”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“What, you’re questioning my judgment?”

“No, I just can’t understand why anyone would call you ugly.”

He clamped his mouth shut right afterwards, eyes widening in horror. Had he actually just said that? Out loud? In earnest? The thought was mortifying – this wasn’t what a normal person would blurt out, not unless they wanted their interlocutor to feel awkward and embarrassed. To hell with it all, he’d thought he was going so well, and now he’d put his whole foot in his mouth. How was he supposed to recover, at this point?

Coppelia was quiet for a long moment, long enough for his entire mind to freeze in fear of the worst – color had flushed to her cheeks, darkening the skin there even more. Was she that upset? Was she about to tell him she’d rather walk home alone, leaving him there like the idiot he was?

But then, to his shock, she ducked her head, a tiny little grin painted on her face. “Okay, I get it, you’re very good at derailing the conversation. Can we go back to my original point, though?”

“I wasn’t-“ Eugene blinked, unsure of whether the relief surging in him was warranted. “Wait, was that another joke?”

“Got it in one. But I was being serious first- something’s eating at you, you can’t deny it. Not to me. What I’d like to know if you want to talk about it, because if you don’t, I’ll shut up.”

This time it was his turn to shrug, burrowing his hands in his pockets. If he hadn’t cared so much about not hurting Coppelia, he’d have almost preferred to have embarrassed her for real, if only to be spared a conversation as heavy as this. He didn’t want to talk about it, not exactly, but there was still an itch scratching and clawing at the back of his throat, a little boy with a cracked skull who kept wondering why Eugene wouldn’t let him speak up.

“It’s nothing,” he said ultimately, once again utterly focused on the pavement at his feet. “They can fend for themselves. And I’m used to it, anyway.”

“Are you?” There was disbelief dripping from each of her words, as though he could see her eyebrows rising. “That would be very surprising, honestly. I watch you guys hang out all the time- sometimes you’re all together, and sometimes it’s just two or three of you, but it doesn’t look like they make a point to exclude you specifically. What’s this about, really?”

“Why are you watching us so much that you can pay attention to that?”

“You’re that perceptive and you really can’t guess why?”

Eugene’s mouth opened, then closed again. He stopped in his tracks, then dared to glance upwards, speechless – despite the firmness of her tone, her brown eyes were still warm and welcoming, never leaving his face, and she’d drawn to a halt at a level with the boy, shifting her bag to the side facing the wall instead of him.

“Something’s wrong.” Gently, she pulled his right hand out of its pocket and took it in her own, entwining their fingers together.

“I mean, lots of things are wrong right now, but I can’t solve any of those. I don’t have any power, or magic, or- or whatever. This, though? This bothers me. It bothers me because I’m worried about you, and I really want to help you, but I can’t do that unless you tell me what’s going on. Please?”

The pleading note in her voice tugged at some recess of his mind, exactly the same corner Eugene was still fighting to keep shut and barred. He didn’t want any of it to come out, because he had never let it come out and he wasn’t about to let about a decade of effort go to waste, but perhaps that was exactly why the words were struggling so hard to break free. It had been so long. Too long, maybe.

And Coppelia’s gaze was so open and friendly…

He couldn’t meet it, though. His eyes refused to give up on that, instead settling a little above, where sunlight shined on the juncture of her glasses, even as his tongue finally unfurled. “I told you, I’m used to it. It’s not the first time this happens.”

“That what happens?”

“That Pinocchio picks someone else for his stupid plans. And the last time he did that, it all went to hell, so honestly, I don’t know if my presence would keep bad stuff from happening or if I’d just make it worse, which means it’s not worth thinking about.”

That would have been all well and good, if he had earnestly believed it. Each sentence felt as fake as the one that had preceded it – he figured that if it really hadn’t been worth thinking about, he wouldn’t have spent so much time thinking about it, would he?

And it wasn’t like he blamed Pinocchio for the stuff that had gone wrong. At least, not in full. That was a bridge he’d crossed several years past – if he’d started blaming Pinocchio, then he would also need to blame Lampwick, and himself, in equal measure. They’d all had a part in allowing it to happen, and they’d all been royally screwed over by adults who should have kept a closer look on them. No point in pinning fault on a single person, or two, or three.

Now if only he could convince the tendrils of phantom pain snaking up his head of that.

Unaware of where his thoughts were leading him, Coppelia simply hummed in encouragement. “When was this? Like, during the curse, or…”

“No, I didn’t remember any of them during the curse. It was before. When we were little kids.”

“Oh, the story part? When they went to the donkey place?”

Despite everything, Eugene felt his eyebrows rise in surprise. “You know about that?”

She didn’t look apologetic in the slightest as she shrugged, but then again, he wasn’t sure she really had to apologize for anything. It wasn’t like it was top secret material, and perhaps there was a little relief in there, too, at not having to retell the tale aloud. He was just about certain the words wouldn’t come out, this time, even if he’d tried to make them. “I like knowing who I’m dealing with. If we were in a normal place, I would have just stalked your Instagram, but nothing about this town is normal.”

“Yeah, I get that.” He mulled over what to say next for a moment, then nodded, sighing. “You’re right. That’s what it was.”

“I thought you guys went to school together, at that point. Didn’t they tell you where they were going?”

A snippet of a memory- two children giggling and whispering at the back of the room, even though Pinocchio had been one of the best in class at that point, and could have easily spent most of his time at the blackboard. “No, they didn’t. They didn’t tell anyone. But I still knew they were going somewhere- they were very obnoxious about it, even if they probably didn’t mean to. I was just proven right when they left.”

And hadn’t it smarted at him, when he’d realized their plan had been in earnest. In hindsight, he’d eventually figured out he was lucky not to have followed them to their doom, but he hadn’t known it when it had mattered the most. All he’d known, between the age of six and seven, was that he’d been cast aside again – he’d tried fitting in with the troublemakers, and they’d left him to bleed out on a beach; he’d soaked in the friendship that strange puppet boy had offered him, bringing small gifts into the house and playing with his brother, and Pinocchio had put someone else above him.

He had forgiven them, because there was nothing to forgive when everyone acted childish and stupid; but he hadn’t forgotten, because Eugene never forgot anything except how to behave in public, Daria always said.

Coppelia squeezing his fingers brought him back to reality abruptly, though not in an unwelcome way. She wasn’t smiling, which surprisingly reassured him – as a kid, he’d despised when adults would smile patronizingly and tell him everything was okay when it clearly hadn’t been. Instead, she seemed to be pondering seriously over what he had said, considering it for a long beat before she spoke again. “Did you feel betrayed? That they left without you, I mean. That Pinocchio left without you.”

He scoffed, even if it wasn’t the harsh one he’d have given Pierrot for asking a stupid question. “We were a lot younger. Wouldn’t you have been, in my place?”

“Oh, definitely. I would have started a riot if Olympia had pulled that stunt on me. The difference is, she knows how much I hate feeling excluded, because I told her. Did you ever tell them?”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you’re not wrong. It was a shitty move- it’s excusable because you were babies, basically, but it was still shitty. But my point is- maybe they don’t know how much it upset you, and that’s why it happened again. Personally, I don’t want my sister to take me everywhere she goes, but me telling her I felt like she hadn’t treated me right once was enough for us to work it out.”

She shrugged again, glancing to the side and exhaling deeply. “Look, I won’t pretend to know them as well as you do, but… Pinocchio at least seems a decent guy, and he’s doing this whole hero spiel right now, I doubt he’d cut you out on purpose. If you didn’t tell him outright, he might as well not have noticed. Maybe if you tell him what you told me, you’ll be surprised by what he said.”

It was too easy. Puerile, really. Eugene couldn’t believe she had earnestly suggested they simply...said things aloud. This wasn’t a little quarrel over who would go next down the slide, even though Pinocchio had never been the kind to bully his way through the playground, and would rather let others overtake him instead. He should have gotten over it. They should all have gotten over it, by now.

But had they? Somehow, he wasn’t that sure anymore. He’d already excluded himself from the equation, because he never got over anything – he just dressed the wound and nursed it in private, if he thought he’d already shown it to people too much – but he wasn’t in his friends’ minds. He couldn’t swear on their inner lives, not when so much was at stake.

Perhaps it was worth a shot. Perhaps Coppelia was right, and there was an easy fix for something that had been broken for so long, like a faucet dripping for years and only getting repaired once the floor underneath had rotten away.

Or not. He likely was too dumb, and too reticent to try. That would have fit the bill. But he’d rather eat his skateboard whole than disappoint the girl at his side, so instead he swallowed thickly and said: “That makes sense. Thank you for telling me. I’ll…think about it.”

“Good.” She shot him a small grin, so bright it was almost blinding. “Or don’t. I can’t tell you how to act. I’m not the boss of you.”

A cheerful buzzing erupted from her pocket, then, startling them both. Coppelia rolled her eyes while she fished her phone out, but as her eyes scanned the text her smile grew wider. “Well, it seems we might be putting your resolution to the test sooner than we thought,” she said, conversationally.

Eugene frowned, slightly confused, even though the girl was motioning for him to check the screen out as well. “And why is that?”

“Because Twinkle just texted me, and by the looks of it, this is urgent business.”

“Your Highness,” Rumpelstiltskin greeted her, in his customary wary politeness. “To what do we owe the honor?”

Regina resisted the urge to roll her eyes, letting the shop’s door close behind her back as she entered. She couldn’t afford to show how little she actually knew about his involvement in this matter, true enough, but that didn’t mean she had to give him the satisfaction of seeing how easily he could annoy her. “If you really can’t figure it out, I’d say you’re losing your touch.”

“I can assure you, Regina, I have nothing to do with the current lack of magic you’re experiencing. And I don’t have the means to fix it right now, either, if that was the reason why you came here.”

“Believe me, if I didn’t have solid proof of the real culprit, you would have been my first guess.” She leaned onto the glass desk, regaling him with her finest no-nonsense stare. “No, I was just wondering if you could clear something up for me.”

The man raised an eyebrow, blandly curious. “Depends on what you want to ask.”

“Well, the first question is simple. Do you know Pinocchio?”

She thought she could see a brief flash of alertness in his old eyes – it was too faint to be certain of it, too quick to disappear if it had, indeed, been there at all, but Regina could feel in her gut that something had showed up, nevertheless. “Of course,” Gold replied, measuring each word. “Geppetto’s bright young boy- I think you’d have a hard time finding someone in town who hasn’t met him before. What about him?”

“I heard a rumor that he came to have a chat with you, not that long ago. Is that true?”

“Oh? And who would be the source of this rumor, if I may ask? The boy himself?”

She scoffed. “Hardly. No, just someone who thought they’d seen you two together.” It was only distantly true, and only by a technicality, but she wasn’t about to throw Pinocchio to the wolves just yet. Who knew what the Dark One had vowed to do to him, if he spoke of this conversation Emma suspected to have happened. “So? Is it true?”

He inclined his head, not quite giving anything away. “I’m sure you know very well I’m under no obligation to tell you what does or doesn’t happen in this shop, Madam Mayor.”

“You’re not. But I’m appealing to your smarter side here, Rumple- I have reason to believe Pinocchio has been going around asking questions related to what’s infesting our town, so if you knew something about that it would be much appreciated.”

“And what would that be?”

This was where Regina had to be the most cautious. There was a reason why Emma had asked her to go to the pawn shop, instead of showing up in person – she knew this song and dance well, the careful steps of getting Rumpelstiltskin to show his cards, and even so she’d fallen into her own trap more often than she cared to admit. Bringing the Savior to his doorstep wouldn’t have helped any of them, that much was certain. “Fairies, mostly. Does that ring a bell?”

Gold’s mouth curled into the beginning of his knife-sharp, impish smile. “Not exactly my favorite topic of discussion, is it? Why would the boy come here instead of, I don’t know, visiting his fairy godmother?”

This time she did roll her eyes, unable to restrain herself. “Why does anyone come here at all?” She shot back, tartly. “You have half a realm’s worth of dirty laundry there in the back, and you made sure everyone knew it by the time the Dark Curse broke. Why do you think I’m here? If I’d wanted to debate my choice of vocabulary, I would have gone to see your wife.”

“And she would have been delighted to see you, no doubt.” He was quiet for a long moment, as if deep in thought, then added: “What do you know about fairy rulers, Regina?”

Ah, so the old snake does know something. I should have expected it. “I know they have one,” she said, slow and careful. “I know the Mother Superior doesn’t seem to like talking about them. Why?”

“Do you know how they choose a new ruler, when the previous one becomes, ah- unfit to lead them?”

“I don’t imagine they do it like us common mortals, from the way you’re saying it.”

“And you’d be correct to imagine that.” The man turned to one of his many shelves, and Regina noted he was leaning heavily against the counter, too, keeping most of the weight off his bad leg of old. She had no time to make any remark about it, though, because soon enough he was facing her again, a dusty book in his free hand.

“As were your sources, yes. Pinocchio did come to see me- he had several interesting questions about fairykind, which I’m sure were only scientific curiosity on his part, but he prompted me to do some research, to review what information I had. For example, I had never looked much into the way they hold elections; from what I could gather, there hasn’t been one in a very long time- longer than any plan I might have wished to hatch, if you’re still concerned.”

His sordid little plans were the furthest thing from her mind at the moment, but the mayor kept that thought to herself. “That must have been enlightening. Can you please get to the point?”

“Impatience has never done you any good, if I recall correctly.” He opened the book flat before her, leafing through the pages until he seemed to find what he was looking for – a crude drawing of a small creature with wings, surmounted by several lines of text in a language she couldn’t decipher. “You see, fairies don’t appear to believe in lines of succession. There is no passing on the torch from mother to daughter, or from father to son; they can only earn the throne by cunning, or by force.

“There are fail-safes in place, of course. Their realm is a...living thing, almost; in every tale Belle has shown me, it doesn’t bend to a weak ruler, and would rather govern itself, with their body as a vessel. Not just any two-bit fairy godmother apprentice could snatch the crown off their head and expect to gain immense powers for herself.

“But once the king, or queen, has fulfilled its purpose, and the magic has receded some- well. Their place is ripe for the taking, and anyone powerful enough to take it would be able to see the signs in advance, and decide whether to seize the throne or bend their knee.”

Regina felt a cold, insistent sense of unease crawling up her spine. “So there is no election at all. Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Oh, sometimes there are. Not every change of ruler needs to become a war, nor does every king murder the previous one at his weakest and sit on his still warm seat. Some win by acclamation, or their followers simply intimidate anyone who dares to protest- a tactic you favored yourself, once. But when they do vote, there is one little detail that you would hardly call democratic.”

“Which is?”

“They aren’t bound to gather all their people and let them cast their vote. If one of their kind notices the patterns and feels a turning of the tide, they can simply warn their allies and make their move while they have the advantage. Unanimous elections are seen as suspicious, so they tend to find some semblance of an opposition, or an audience, at least, but there is no law that demands a plebiscite, in their land. Do you know what that means?”

“I don’t think I’m following, no.” But what about the lists? She actually wanted to ask, and she would have, honestly, had she been a little less wary of his honeyed tongue. What about the mysterious man on the beach? Who was he going to warn? Who are his allies, here?

“Then I’ll tell you what I told the boy, when he brought this up.” Rumpelstiltskin closed the tome sharply, sending some dust puffing around, and when he looked up there was such sudden ferocity shining in his eyes it was a baffling contrast with the rest of his mild expression – Regina almost expected them to turn golden and snake-like, so bizarre and inhuman was the difference.

“Nobody learns of a fairy election by chance. Especially not the likes of you, or me, even, given how they consider us below their notice. There is no equality, and no fair fight, ironically enough. It’s a political game of chess, nothing more, nothing less. So if one knows there is about to be a power shift, and they’re not a prospective king or queen, or an ally of theirs…it’s either an open challenge, or they’re already a pawn of someone stronger than them.

“And I suggest you prepare yourself and our Savior for both of these options, Regina.”

Pinocchio was wide awake.

He should have been exhausted. Dead on his feet, even. He was running on more than 24 hours without sleep, and most of it he had spent in stressful spots that should have left him as drained as a wrung towel – and he was, in a way. There was a bone-deep tiredness that refused to leave him, and had done so for more than a week now.

But that still wasn’t enough to knock him out, apparently. He was lying on his side on that stiff, uncomfortable bed, curled on himself with the vial close to his chest, but his brain refused to turn off and let him sleep – instead, his eyes stared at the cement wall without seeing it, multicolored swirls of light filling his vision as he thought and thought some more. He didn’t even know what time it was, or who the figure sitting at one of the desks a few feet away was; he just knew that, judging by the light filtering through the windows, it wasn’t nightfall yet, and that whoever that person was, they were probably checking that he didn’t try to escape.

Not that he had any intention to do so. He had done what he could, and said what he knew to be true; he wasn’t going to lift another finger until he was sure it would be the right thing to do. He wasn’t particularly keen to return home, either – Emma might think he hadn’t heard her and Jiminy talking, but Pinocchio had sharp ears and all the time in the world to listen. He knew there was a man there who was struggling to accept that his son had fucked up this badly.

It tore at Pinocchio’s heart to have hurt his father once more, but then again, there was no way Geppetto hadn’t been expecting such a relapse for the last ten years. Everyone knew Pinocchio could never truly become a good, brave boy worthy of being real; he had the scars to prove it, even if they had only become visible in the darkness underground – they itched and ached under his skin, raw and pink in his mind’s eye.

And besides, his father had Pierrot and Leona, now. He’d finally get the family he deserved; even better, it was a family he wouldn’t feel he owed the Blue Fairy for, if they were lucky.

Something scratched at the window, tearing him from his gloomy thoughts. Pinocchio blinked in surprise, lifting his head slightly – there seemed to be some kind of figure on the other side, but it was hard to tell through the frosted glass, and besides, he was pretty sure there was nothing of relevance in the alley it looked into. The shape was weird, too, so it was probably just a leaf sticking to the pane, bound to float away at the next gust of wind.

But it didn’t. Instead, it moved, thin and sinuous, and when he blinked again he found it had crossed over to his side, even though the window couldn’t open, and there definitely weren’t big enough fissures for it to pass through anywhere.

It was a fox, a quick, nimble little fox, with dark fur and a bushy tail. It stepped onto the cot mere inches from his face the way a bold housecat would have done, its wet nose sniffing at his skin and hair – it had eyes like he’d never seen any foxes have, black and seamless and without pupils, like miniature pools of pitch.

Pinocchio held his breath, waiting for the person in the sheriff’s station to notice and stomp over, but no such thing happened. There was silence all around him, and when he offered the beast a hand, it merely nibbled at the fingers in a friendly manner – they were probably drenched in sweat, but there was no helping it. He was sweating all over. He was always so hot he could barely function, lately.

The fox continued its inspection for a few more seconds, then it leaned closer to him, never breaking eye contact, and began whispering. It whispered and whispered, and its voice was surprisingly human and velvety, soothing like a bout of fresh wind. It said many things, and in its tone, the boy detected many more.

He couldn’t tell how long it lasted, if a couple minutes or long hours. When it was done, the creature yipped quietly and gave him a rough lick over the cheek, then hopped off the bed onto the cell floor – by the time he’d rolled over to look for it, it had vanished into thin air, as though it had never been there at all.

And Pinocchio knew, then, what needed to be done.

Chapter Text

Lampwick was going stir crazy.

He had never perceived Leroy’s house as small, before. Sure, it had been a step down in size from where he’d lived before, but in that house he’d never been certain of receiving a plate of warm food just for himself, or a kiss on the cheek that he only pretended to be suffering through. This was supposed to be a homey place.

And yet, right now he felt suddenly too tall and lumbering for it, a giraffe suffocating in a cage made for rats. It was like Alice drinking the stuff that made you grow big in Wonderland, and getting stuck inside the house – Mignon’s little sister had made them watch it, a couple years past, when the two of them had been hanging out at their house. They’d shared a too-warm beer, and Lampwick had made a joke about the chimney sweeper lizard man, and Phyllis had shushed him and resumed putting temporary tattoos on his arm, covering it in sparkly unicorns that had taken ages to fade afterwards.

Lampwick wondered if his friend had managed to escape notice after the fire thing. Highly likely, he suspected. Mignon was a crafty one, especially when it came to causing mayhem.

Meanwhile, he was stuck pacing around this damn apartment like a loon, restless and unable to pick up anything to do. He was, by all means, under house arrest, but part of him almost wished he’d gotten properly arrested – maybe he’d be able to see how Pinocchio was faring, from the next cell over. Besides, he could manage talking the sheriff into helping; he’d always been good at pulling out the charm when she was involved, even if this time around it’d probably be a bit harder, considering he’d threatened her dad and all that. What he could not do was hold on much longer with Nova looking at him with such concern, as though he was about to crumble to pieces every time he walked past her.

Leroy had been worried, too. It had been easy to detect, even while he’d been chewing Lampwick out for being a reckless idiot. But the lucky bastard had left the house much earlier, to do whatever dwarves did whenever the people in charge were in a crisis, so that was one distraction less to be had. One person less to disappoint…

No, fuck that. He wasn’t entertaining that thought. It was almost as bad as picturing Pinocchio alone in a bloody cell, his eyes vacant and looking ancient.

He was giving a pretense of tidying up, moving around things that had probably been fine in their original spot, his mind a numb haze, when the situation changed. The doorbell rang, and after Nova had gone to answer and chatted briefly with whoever was on the other side, she let out a deep sigh and turned to him, saying: “You have a visitor.”

“I’m still allowed to have those?” Lampwick muttered, then grimaced at how sharp his voice had sounded, sharper than he’d ever intended.

She shot him a glance that was as warning as it was pitiful, and opened the door without another word, letting Roland in.

The boy immediately made a beeline for Lampwick, throwing his hands around the latter’s waist with his usual, gleeful abandon. For his part, Lampwick couldn’t hide his shock, even as he returned the hug. “Wait, what are you doing here?”

“Regina told me you couldn’t take me anywhere right now, but nobody said I couldn’t come see you!” Roland smiled brightly up at him, all dimples and curls, the picture of innocence, fishing something out of his hoodie pocket, brandishing it up proudly. “I brought my Switch- I have a new game, you’ve got to see it.”

“Look, I’m sorry, but I’m not really in the mood for-”

“It’s really nice of you to swing by, Roland,” Nova interrupted him, with a gentle, eloquent smile. “I’ll get you boys some snacks, okay?”

“Thank you, Miss Nova.”

Lampwick watched in bewilderment as Nova disappeared in the kitchen, even closing the door behind herself, but he had no time to wonder what the hell was going on around him – he felt fingers grabbing him by the arm, and then Roland pulled him towards the couch, forcing him to sit down together so they could be at closer eye level.

“Twinkle called me,” the boy whispered, his eyes sparkling with giddiness. “She told me you probably wouldn’t have your phone on you, but nobody would suspect a thing if I showed up.”

Lampwick blinked slowly, still puzzled plenty. “Twinkle’s not supposed to have her phone on her, either. What’s goin’ on?”

“Doesn’t matter. She says she has a plan, and wants to know if you’re in. I’m supposed to tell you what’s your place, if you say yes.”

“A plan to do what?”

“To get Pinocchio out. So? Are you in or not?”

His first instinct was to laugh. Surely, he’d gone mad at least – he was definitely having a fever dream, or maybe he was still stuck in those goddamn mines, hearing voices that nobody else could catch. No way this was happening for real, like the miracle at the end of a school play.

But Roland wasn’t joking, though he was still too enthusiastic for the older boy’s liking. In fact, he looked fiercely determined, full of fire like a timebomb. And the way Nova had disappeared, almost as if she’d guessed what would happen…

“You think I haven’t been trying to figure out how to do just that?” Lampwick spat out, after a moment of mulling over it. “The whole town’s on high alert now. Even if we get him out, where are we going next? No one’s gonna help us hide, that’s for sure.”

“Twinkle said you’d be pissy about it,” Roland said dismissively. “It’s okay. That’s why she gave me this.”

Carefully, he pried the protective case off a corner of his game console, pulling what looked like a folded piece of paper out from the small space in the middle. He pressed it in Lampwick’s hand, then sat there with his arms folded, watching smugly as the other opened the paper to reveal a long series of scribbles.

Twinkle’s handwriting was worse than usual, probably because she’d been jotting things down in a hurry, but it was still legible, and straight to the point, too. Lampwick read through it with a frown that deepened with every bullet point, and at the end he had to go back once more, his brain struggling to process what he’d just seen.

Well, if he wasn’t mad, the plan most certainly was. No way it wouldn’t backfire spectacularly, burning all of their asses in a single swipe. None of them was so lucky, especially not him and Pinocchio – they weren’t a Saturday morning cartoon feature, for fuck’s sake. That was the only place where this would have genuinely worked.

But then again, they had defied all odds before, hadn’t they? After all, they were alive. They were still kicking, not rotting at the bottom of the ocean, or bleeding out from heavy farmwork. They’d been miraculously saved more than once, so why couldn’t they do it themselves this time around? At least they wouldn’t feel like they owed anything to anyone, if they managed to pull it off. As for the alternative…

Well. If Lampwick had to choose between possibly having to jump into the line of fire, or leaving Pinocchio behind while all hell broke loose, then there was no choice to make at all. It wasn’t like he’d ever envisioned himself coming out of his teenage years unscathed, besides, was it?

“Can’t believe Eugene said yes to this,” he muttered, darkly. “Could never look anyone in the face again if he went in and I didn’t.”

Then, louder once more: “If the sheriff shoots at someone, I ain’t taking the blame, got it?”

“Hey, don’t look at me!” The boy protested. “I didn’t make the plan, either. I’m just the messenger.”

“And that’s your place in all of this, huh? What’s next, are you gonna go home and pretend you don’t know anything when the mayor asks?”

It was supposed to be a rhetorical question. He definitely hadn’t expected Roland to shrug, instead, and go: “No, duh. I’m part of the plan, too.”

Like hell you are. “Absolutely not. What’s happening is extra dangerous- if you get involved, and the wrong guy sees you, you could get hurt. You’re not going anywhere.”

“You can’t stop me. I already know what to do.”

“Roland-”

“Don’t tell me I’m too young to help. You were my age in Camelot, and you fought. You think I don’t remember, but I do. You kept me safe because I was too little, but this time I’m doing my part.”

Lampwick had opened his mouth to protest, but he shut it with a click, momentarily speechless. There were a thousand reasons to reject this idea, to insist that Roland be nowhere near the mess they were about to make, but he knew by experience that none of those reasons would even land on the brain of a twelve year old.

And besides, the boy wasn’t wrong. At twelve, Lampwick had threatened a knight with a meat knife, because his friends had been in danger. He didn’t regret it, not one bit, because he wasn’t a fool, but… What kind of high ground could he have, after setting that precedent?

“I did that so you wouldn’t get hurt,” he mumbled, finally. “Would be a waste if I let it happen now. And I’d have to kill the fucker that does anything to you, anyway.”

Roland shook his head determinedly. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to get hurt. I’ll just be a diversion- no one’s going to see a thing.”

“I still don’t like you being involved in this shit- especially if you’ll be alone, and I can’t cover your ass.”

“Don’t worry,” the boy repeated, and then he grinned, broad and mischievous, near enough to make the other feel like he was looking into a mirror.

“I definitely won’t be alone when I do it, I promise.”

Emma heard Bertilak walk into the precinct way before she could see him.

It wasn’t really surprising that Morgana had picked him to be her green knight, once. Even human sized, there was a weight in his step that was likely to unnerve anyone on the opposite side of the battlefield, especially if paired with the clinking of his sword, even now that it was sheathed at his hip. One might have expected him to be marching in with a grim look on his face, ready to unleash some green horror unto people again.

Instead, what Emma saw when he approached her was a soft, tired expression, almost apologetic as he bowed his head in greeting. “My lady. I know your friend said I should rest, but I felt too troubled to sleep for long, so I came to see if you needed my assistance.”

“Unless you had some prophetic dreams about what we should do next, you’re probably better off somewhere else,” she grumbled, wiping a hand down her face.

She hadn’t been able to sleep much, either. She’d taken turns hunting for a solution and standing guard at the sheriff’s station with her father, but neither had given her much in terms of results – no passage had opened that might lead to Morgana, nor had Pinocchio said a word, or eaten, or moved much at all, really. At this rate, she’d rather have trouble blindside her and slap her across the head, in place of this endless waiting that cut the air out of her lungs and led her nowhere.

To her surprise, the knight smiled sadly under his beard. “I am sorry to say, the last time that happened I was lord of a chapel from the depths of hell, and it was entirely too green to be of any help.”

Emma scoffed, amused despite herself. “Was that a joke? I’m impressed you’re managing to find humor in this mess.”

“Alas, I am forced to, in Gawain’s absence. He is most apt at playing the charming courtier, but I cannot rely on him now.”

“Do you miss him?”

“Of course I do.” Bertilak sighed, shaking his head. “I miss him, and my wife, and our children, at every waking moment. But it was my duty to come here and give Lancelot my strength. I said it before- if it had been my Gwyneth in the princess’ place, I would have been grateful if he had done the same in turn.”

He turned slightly, then, looking at the figure huddled in the only locked cell. “As you would for these children, I suppose. All of you- they are children of the whole town, from what I have gathered on this journey. They will remember it, I hope, once the evil has passed.”

“Well, I don’t know how much you’ve heard, but the town hasn’t done a great job at keeping them safe, apparently.” Emma was about to add something else, something that had been itching in her throat for a couple days now, but unfortunately – or fortunately, maybe, for she wasn’t sure of what words she might vomit out, or whether she’d ever want Pinocchio to hear them – she felt her phone buzzing on the desk, and had to mutter a quick apology and answer that instead, taking a deep breath to steady herself before she spoke. “Hey, Mom. What’s going on?”

“I was on my way to you, but Leroy just called.” Her mother’s voice was steady, but there was an edge to it that betrayed her nervousness nevertheless. “The dwarves spotted movement in the cemetery, near Regina’s vault, but she’s not answering the phone. Is she with you?”

The sheriff felt blood freezing in her veins. No one could cast any magic at the moment, but there were heaps of it laying dormant under Regina’s family mausoleum, some of which had held tight for three decades of being cursed – if someone meant to wreak havoc, that was the perfect place to start from. “She’s out in the woods, trying to get through what we found- did Leroy tell you who was there? You think it’s Morgana?”

“At this point it could be anyone. I’ll keep calling Regina- if she’s still in the woods, maybe she’s not getting any signal. In the meantime, I’ll go check it out myself.”

“What? Mom, please be careful.”

“Don’t worry, I have plenty of experience with Evil Queen magic, even bare-handed.” A pause, then, more reassuringly: “And your father will meet me there, anyway. The dwarves are waiting for us before they do anything, I explicitly told them so.”

“Hope they listened. Tell me if you find anything, alright?”

“Of course, Emma.” The call fell through, and Emma lifted her gaze to find Bertilak looking at her questioningly.

“Bad tidings?” He asked, not without trepidation.

The woman put down the phone, pulling a grim face. “We don’t know yet. I might have to ask you to go lend your sword to my mother, though- if something’s happening, she’ll need all the help she can get.”

“And you think a sword is going to do what, exactly?”

That hadn’t come from Bertilak. The two of them turned in unison to face the door – it seemed that they’d been so engrossed in the contents of the phone call that they hadn’t noticed a new arrival.

Several new arrivals, in fact. At the forefront stood Pierrot and Twinkle, holding hands like a stubborn, cheap copy of Hansel and Gretel, and behind them was the actual Gretel, looking nonplussed even with Mignon’s arm thrown around her shoulders. Pierrot had been the one to speak, apparently – he stepped forward, pulling his friend along, holding his chin up in determination. “I don’t mean to doubt this guy’s strength, but I don’t remember swords ever doing much against fairies. Am I wrong?”

“Oh my God.” Emma resisted the strong urge to curse out loud and instead took a deep breath, pushing herself to her feet. “You guys shouldn’t be here, you know that, right?”

“Believe me, I tried to tell them that so many times,” Ava grumbled, scowling deeply. “I’m just here ‘cause they needed a ride.”

“And I’m the bodyguard,” Mignon added cheerfully. “Just to avoid any little incidents like the other night, you know? But hey, your dad isn’t here, which means I’ve got no business staying, and Lampwick can’t tell me nothing. We’re goin’ outside for a smoke while you chew them out, alright?”

The sheriff gestured for them to leave, silently grateful despite everything. It was easier to make two reckless kids see reason than four, even if it was kids like these. “I thought I’d made myself clear with your parents- no leaving the house, no communications, nothing.”

“Well, I thought I’d told Mr. Prince Charming how things would actually go if the police talked to my dad,” Twinkle replied, with a smirk that was all Scalawag. “But it seems neither of us was listening very well, uh?”

“And I can’t stay in the house any longer,” Pierrot said, sounding almost...pleading? It was a stark contrast with his usual, merry demeanor, that was for sure. “My mom is mad, and Marco is going insane, and if you don’t let Pinou go anytime soon, it’s only going to get worse. You know he’s not an actual thief- why can’t you just send him home with us?”

Emma crossed her arms tightly against her chest, as if it could keep those words from getting to her heart. “It’s not about the stealing part, kid. I think he’s in danger, and I want to keep an eye on him until the danger’s passed. You know this.”

“And you think some bars are going to keep him safe? He’s been locked up before, did he tell you that? Fat lot of good it did him. Fairies can turn tiny, remember? Smaller than the gaps between those things, I bet.”

“If any fairy tries to hurt him, they’ll have to get there over my dead body.”

“Sure.” The boy scoffed, clearly unconvinced. “Hey, do you know the difference between a fairy and a vampire?”

Emma arched an eyebrow. “No, I don’t. What is it?”

“You’re only getting the punchline if you let my brother go.”

“Alright. If that’s the only bargaining chip you have, you might as well go home. Both of you.”

“We’re not here to bargain,” Twinkle insisted, raising her head defiantly. “We’re asking you to please let him go. You’re the Savior, you’re supposed to save people, right? And you know some shit is going to go down, and we’re involved, and Pinocchio can’t escape it if he’s behind bars.

“Yeah, you’re right,” the woman conceded, hoping to sound surer of herself than she actually was. Her role of Savior didn’t often get shaken to its core, but hell, these kids were certainly putting a lot of effort in trying to do exactly that.

“I’m supposed to keep people safe. That’s my job. But sometimes, what that means is that I have to stop people from doing things that will hurt them. From what Pinocchio told me, the Mother Superior didn’t put a lot of attention in doing that for him, and I refuse to let any of that stuff happen again- he’s not getting attacked, he’s not being hanged, and he definitely isn’t drowning. Got it?”

She hoped they had, in fact, got it. She’d been at her most sincere there – Bertilak was right, she would have gone to a different land to rescue the lot of them from danger, even if the danger in question turned out to be themselves. She wished she could keep them all tucked someplace where the world couldn’t reach them, but that could never happen again, not now that they were shooting up taller than her and, apparently, trying to meddle with magic, so she had to choose the next best option.

Speaking of Bertilak, though – the man hadn’t uttered a word since their unexpected visitors had come in. She glanced back to find him staring pensively at the kids, and when he met her eye Emma inclined her head towards the cells. “Can you keep an eye on him? I want to walk these guys out, make sure they’re actually leaving.”

“Of course, my lady,” he replied, already moving to replace her at the back of the desk, where he could see more of the room without turning around.

“What, you think I’m going to climb back in through the toilets?” Pierrot protested, but he’d lost some of his fire, already, his head sinking between his shoulders. “Who do you think I am, Pennywise? Or Bella Swan?”

“Bella Swan didn’t escape through the toilets, dumbass,” Twinkle shot back. “She used the toilet’s back door to leave. And the sheriff expects that of me, not you, probably.”

“Correct.” Emma took them both by the shoulders – gently, though, not with force. “Go back to your parents, okay? They want you to be safe as much as I do. Especially your mother, Pierrot.”

She led them out, managing to get them both through the door despite their resistance, only to find Ava sitting on the curb, alone, smoking and scrolling through her phone. “Wait, where’s the other one?”

“Don’t know,” the girl replied, not even bothering to look up. “Told ‘em we couldn’t fuck in the car in broad daylight, and you seemed to have things sorted out, so Mignon left, but I don’t have a clue where she went.”

The sheriff debated addressing the first part of the sentence, but it had likely been put there just to make the adults present uncomfortable, an activity some of them seemed to enjoy immensely, so she made a point to ignore it instead. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll do. I just need you to drive these two back where they came from.”

“Let me guess, you came out just to check that we leave for real, right? ‘Cause these two could do something stupid?”

“Great summary. Yeah, that’s about it.”

“Typical. So predictable.” To her surprise, the girl barked out a laugh, and then finally stood up, but she wasn’t looking at Emma – she was looking at her friends, her face the picture of derision. “I told you guys it’d work. I don’t know what Elia was worrying about.”

“Well, one can never be too sure of themselves.” Pierrot grinned at the sheriff, his stressed expression falling off to reveal a broad smile. “But I can keep my promise now, aren’t you happy?”

Emma met his gaze in great confusion, wondering what switch had flipped in their thick heads this time. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The fairy and the vampire. I can tell you now. The difference is that a vampire needs your permission to come in and suck the life out of you.”

“Wait. But you said-” Confusion turned to dread as a realization sank into her, icy cold in her gut. “No. You didn’t.”

She whipped around and dashed for the door, ignoring the others’ faint booing at the boy and Twinkle’s tart, resigned, “you could have at least picked a good joke for this, you tool”. She barged in with a worry that was verging on full panic, but she’d barely come into view with the main room when Bertilak stopped her in her tracks, halting her mad rush with a hand on her shoulder.

“It is too late, my lady Savior,” he said evenly, his broad, bearded face undecipherable. “It is done.”

Emma couldn’t believe her ears. “What’s done?” She blurted out, hoping she’d fallen asleep at her desk and this was all a bad dream. “What did you do?”

“The right thing. The gods preserve me, I am finally repairing my honor.”

Speechless, she pushed past him, and the knight stepped aside without another word. A cursory look, however, was enough to catch everything she needed to see – one of the windows cracked open, enough for a body to move through it; the top drawer of the desk, where she kept all the precinct’s keys, pulled out; the keys themselves, hanging from the lock of the right cell door, now swinging freely.

The cell itself, empty as it had been only a few days prior.

Emma’s brain was in full override, at this point. She had to act quickly – Pinocchio was a fast runner, but he was still alone and on foot, and she hadn’t been outside long, so he could only have a couple minutes of advantage on her. Besides, there were only a couple places where he could be going, and there’d be people there who could intercept him until she caught up. She grabbed the car keys and dove back out, her other hand already searching for the phone.

The kids were still hanging around, looking at her with the mild curiosity of a child at the zoo. She would have loved to cut them a new one, but she didn’t have the time, so it would have to wait until she’d sorted yet another mess out. She dialed Blue’s number as she turned the key, hoping, praying that the fairy would have the sense to pick up even if she was still mad about their last conversation-

And then the car sputtered, the engine refusing to turn on.

Emma frowned, her focus falling off the phone immediately. She tried to turn the key again and again, more carefully each time, but nothing happened. Despite her best attempts, the car wouldn’t start.

There was a knock on the driver window. She looked up to see Ava grinning smugly behind the glass; she leaned in with perfect ease when Emma rolled the window down, numb with shock – Ava with her hand-rolled cigarette and messy hair, very different from the child she’d caught shoplifting out of hunger.

Ava with the grimy overalls, fingers stained with grease that looked unsettingly fresh.

“I told you, Sheriff,” she said serenely, her grin never wavering.

“It’s nothing personal. You should just have minded your business.”

“I don’t see anything wrong,” Leroy grumbled, stepping up to Snow’s side with practiced ease as they entered the graveyard.

“Neither do I,” she conceded, grip tightening around her bow, “but that doesn’t mean anything. Don’t lower your guard.”

They made for a paltry scouting party, her and her ex husband and a few dwarves, but then again she wasn’t sure there was any need to scout anything at all. Everyone was jittery, lately. Perhaps there had been a mistake, and she could go home without having to test whether her aim was still as true as it had been in her bandit days.

Her wistful thinking, however, was short lived. Once they’d gotten close enough to the Mills mausoleum, two small figures seemed to materialize on its front steps – and they were small for real, it wasn’t just a trick of the distance. Two children huddled on the stone edge, watching them approach without showing any fear at all.

“What the hell?” David muttered, and made as if to add something else, but at that point one of the children stood up, waving at them cheerfully.

“Hello, sirs and ma’am,” she said – it was a girl of about ten or so, with little blonde pigtails and a bright smile. “Sorry, but you can’t come in here. You don’t have permission.”

“Really?” Snow replied, skeptically. “And who told you to stand guard?”

To her astonishment, the girl simply giggled. “You’d like to know that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, very much so. This isn’t the time to play games- you could be in danger here, do you realize that?”

“We’re not playing any game,” the other child protested, his voice squeaky and indignant. A short, stout boy with dark brown hair, he was a stark contrast to his companion, and still he looked just as determined as her. “But maybe you are. Shouldn’t you be doing important stuff somewhere else?”

“Wait,” Leroy said, nudging Snow lightly in the side. “I know these kids. Well, I know one of them- you’re family with that brat Lampwick hangs out with, ain’t you?”

The last part had been directed at the girl, who nodded enthusiastically, her smile broadening. “Hi, Mr. Grumpy! Yes, it’s me- I’m Phyllis, and this here is Fabian, and we’re not supposed to let you pass, even if we know you. We can only give way to our parents or our siblings, that’s the rule, and none of you fits into that.”

The woman blinked in surprise, everything suddenly clicking into place. If these kids were related to Pinocchio’s friends, then it was a given that the latter must have orchestrated this...whatever this was, honestly. It was hardly memorable, even for an epic last stand.

David seemed to be of the same opinion as her, because he stepped forward with his hands open, in a clear, placating gesture. “Look, guys, I have no clue what your siblings told you, but I doubt you even know what’s inside there, so why don’t you step aside and let us check before anything bad happens?”

“Hah! You wish!” Phyllis reached for what had thus far looked like a plastic toy abandoned on the steps beside her, and then pointed it at the deputy, her voice dropping to what was a blatant imitation of someone else. “Go ahead, make my day.”

Snow watched her ex-husband’s eyes widen as he stared at the Nerf gun held at a height with his chest, taking on a more warning tone. “Careful with that. You could take someone’s eye out.”

The girl shrugged dismissively. “Don’t worry. That’s not going to happen. My Geschwister said not to aim at the face ever- except if I see the Mother Superior, because she’s a bitch.”

“What?”

“Don’t give her sass about the language,” Fabian interjected, as though that was the main problem at hand. “She’s quoting someone, so it doesn’t count, because she needs to be accurate. My brother says so.”

“At this point I don’t even want to know who your brother is,” Snow sighed, sliding her bow back into the quiver at her back. They weren’t going to solve the problem with live weapons, no matter what these children so clearly wanted to happen. “Let’s just talk this through, okay? Phyllis? David?”

All of a sudden, the mausoleum door cracked open, making her startle slightly. She would have immediately resumed her defensive stance, already regretting her short-lived relaxation, but it wasn’t any monster or sorceress stepping out of the tomb – only Roland, beanie askew on his dark curls, not looking particularly shocked by the crowd gathered around him.

“That’s great, guys,” he said, giving the other kids a thumbs up. “Exactly what I needed.”

Phyllis and Fabian beamed at him. For her part, Snow was nothing short of stunned, her mouth opening and closing a couple times before she could finally speak again. “And what are you doing here?”

The boy glanced up at her, unperturbed, as if he’d barely noticed her before. “Oh, that? Yeah, that was a bust. I was looking for Excalibur- I was so sure Regina had put it in here, but maybe she moved it? It’s been a while, I guess.”

“And what the hell were you going to do with bloody Excalibur?” Leroy grumbled, but now his disgruntled air had cracked somewhat, as if some kind of epiphany had come over him while his friend wasn’t looking.

Roland shrugged, opening his arms. “Lampwick said something about magic blades, I figured I’d go looking for one. It was just a sidequest, though, so it doesn’t matter- just something to kill time with, while we distracted whoever came over here.”

“Wait,” Snow breathed out. “You wanted people to find you?”

“Yeah, duh. I’ll probably be in big trouble, because Regina always finds out about this sort of thing, but if there’s a bunch of you here, and some people at the station, and someone else in the woods...There won’t be enough of you all in one place to get in the way, and without magic, no one can travel super fast anymore.”

“Divide and conquer,” Phyllis chimed in. “That’s what Twinkle said.”

So they had been tricked by a bunch of children. It would have been hilarious, if the situation hadn’t been so dire. “So your friends used you as a distraction. Very clever.”

The girl stuck her tongue out irreverently. “Don’t try to make us mad at them. We volunteered. You’re the people who don’t tell kids what’s going on, not our friends.”

“And what are they doing, while you get in trouble?”

“This and that.” Roland hopped off the final steps, the gesture so boyish and carefree it was almost appalling in that context. “But hey, tell Regina it’s not as bad as she thinks, if she asks. I didn’t move any of the things she explicitly told me not to touch. I’m helping, I don’t have a death wish.”

Snow would have loved to tell him this was the least of his problems, now; to pry further, to find out whether she should inform her daughter that there were reckless shenanigans likely heading her way; but she didn’t have the time. Instead, the words caught in her throat as she felt the ground shift underneath her feet, almost throwing her off balance.

It was immediately clear that it wasn’t the children’s doing, nor had they accounted for it. All three of them shouted aloud in surprise, and Fabian reached out to take Phyllis’ hand, clinging to her desperately as the cemetery floor shook for a few endless seconds, stopping briefly only to begin anew. Leroy, David and the others were quicker on the uptake, recovering swiftly from their shock and calling out in an overlapping mess.

“Earthquake!”

“Get away from the pillars!”

“It’s not an earthquake,” Snow whispered, though it was almost guaranteed they wouldn’t hear her. It was the most illogical thing one could have said at the moment, and yet she couldn’t ignore the rising feeling that climbed and tore through her chest, a feeling that had no explanation, no reason, but was simply there, clogging her throat.

This wasn’t a normal earthquake, no. It couldn’t be, because the longer she watched the ground shake, the more daunting it looked in her eyes. It felt strange; it felt unnatural; it felt…

Familiar.

When Pinocchio heard the cell lock turn, he didn’t expect, looking up, to find Sir Bertilak on the other side of the door.

He’d heard the man come in, of course, just as he had heard his friends’ attempt at reason; but it had all been dulled and muffled, echoing distantly as if from miles away. He hadn’t cared, not on the surface, because it hadn’t been as clear as the fox’s message – he knew that he would have understood it, if it had been what he needed to hear. Everything else was a muted, pulsating blur of colors that had neither rhyme nor reason by now.

But the lock turning, that he heard perfectly fine. Sir Bertilak pried the door open, then reached out to him, speaking urgently. “Come. We do not have time to tarry.”

“What are you doing?” Pinocchio croaked out, marveling at how dry his throat was. He hadn’t noticed it before, even if it had probably been ages since he’d had something to drink, but now it felt as though he’d swallowed sandpaper by the box.

“My part, as I should have done long ago.” Surprisingly, it seemed that the knight was smiling under his beard, even as he grabbed the boy by the arm and pulled him out of his alcove, hastily but not roughly.

“Your friends were very persuasive, I must say. The girl, the one with the long hair- she said you should hurry to the spies’ lair, and that you would know what it meant. Go! I will buy you what little time I can.”

He pushed Pinocchio towards the window, but Pinocchio himself hesitated, planting his feet firm on the ground. “Wait. Why-”

Sir Bertilak took his face in his hands before the sentence was finished, and his eyes were warm when they met Pinocchio’s, his touch gentle, his smile regretful. “Something terrible is afoot,” he said.

“I cannot stop it. Neither will these ladies, I suspect. But you- you still have a role to play, I feel it in my bones, where my head was shorn from my neck. You need the freedom to act, before it is too late. Now go. With a father’s blessing, and a knight’s, go and help your friends.”

He gave the boy another nudge; and this time Pinocchio complied, ears still ringing and throat still closed, hitting the ground running in his rush to get away from the building.

In any other occasion such as that he would have felt paranoid, worried that anyone who crossed his path might try to hunt him down. Really, the green streaks that kept creeping in the corners of his vision nearly made him think he was running through a dangerous forest again, crawling out of an imposing old chapel or about to be strangled – the sensation was so vivid he could almost feel the rope chafing around his neck, the skin raw and itchy once more.

And yet, Storybrooke seemed impossibly empty around him, blind to whatever he was going through. He’d lost track, between the convent and that cell, but it had to be a weekday, like as not – most people weren’t out and about on the street, and even the few stragglers left weren’t paying him any mind, as though he were nothing but a gust of wind blowing away the garbage on the sidewalk. He was, by all means, invisible, just as he’d wished to be as a cursed, troublemaking seven years old, and as such he moved fast, staring straight ahead, not bothering to hide too much or duck into alleys when he wasn’t close to any hot spots, and that only because the last thing he wanted was for someone he cared about to see him through Granny’s windows.

No doubt the message would have been a mystery to anyone outside their friend group, too, even those who claimed they’d been paying attention during Pinocchio and the others’ childhood. For years they’d been not just spies, but also knights and monsters and pirates, Pokemon trainers and dragons and superheroes; they’d run the town from one end to the other – not carelessly, never carelessly, because none of them had ever had the chance to stop caring even for a little while – lost in their imaginary worlds, picking any setting they wanted for their next adventures, the adults left none the wiser about it.

Still, there was only one place Twinkle could have meant, choosing her words so carefully. And as he stumbled into the playground, and saw someone emerging from underneath the climbing structure, tall and familiar, Pinocchio was relieved to the verge of tears to discover he’d been right.

Lampwick’s face was alert and alarmed, but he still stepped forward with his arms wide open, inviting, calling him home. “Oh my God, you actually made it,” he breathed out, in equal relief, as Pinocchio sank into the hug with immense gratefulness. “I was starting to get doubts. You okay?”

“Yeah.” That was a lie, of course, but who was counting at this point? “You guys are insane- what’s going on?”

Lampwick snorted under his breath, holding his boyfriend tighter. “You know, we figured- if there was anyone who’d know what to do next, it was gonna be you. So I mean, at this point? I really hope you do know, ‘cause we’re in for a hell of a ride if you don’t.” He pressed a kiss to Pinocchio’s hair, then his cheek, and lastly to the corner of his lips, lingering for a couple seconds each time. “Sorry, doll, I just missed you. I can’t believe Twinkle’s plan worked. That’ll teach me never to doubt a scalawag, I guess.”

He let go, then, though not entirely; his left arm was still wrapped firmly around the younger boy’s shoulder, even as he seemed to be scanning the playground for something. “Don’t mind me, I just need- ah, there it is.” He pulled something out from under one of the wooden walls, and hefted it up with a proud grin. “Alright, I’m all set. Where are we goin’?”

Pinocchio’s eyes widened as they took in the object in his boyfriend’s hand. “Is that- did you take Leroy’s axe?”

Lampwick’s expression faltered, but soon he huffed and looked away, his tone as light as ever. “His fault for not taking it with him when he left the house. Finders keepers, and all that.

“’Sides, I was thinking, right? It’s capital we get the princess out whatever we do, ‘cause she doesn’t need everything to fall on her head if we fuck up. And that lady said nothing could break through the magic around her except for stuff made by fairies or dwarves, and I don’t know you, but I don’t exactly have a fairy knife in my back pocket, so this was the next best option. Yeah, he might kick me out when he finds out, but in the grand scale of things right now, that ain’t too bad.”

Pinocchio tried to speak, but at first, he failed. His eyes were stinging, and there was an ache in his chest that hadn’t been there before, a weight that threatened to crush his lungs as though he’d been inhaling too much fire smoke.

Part of him wanted nothing more than to curl up in Lampwick’s arms and tell him they couldn’t do anything, that they’d be better off laying low and hiding somewhere together until the storm had passed. He knew that Lampwick would agree, out of sheer affection if nothing else, and they’d deserved it, anyway – they’d done so much already, more than most people their age had ever gone through, in this land or the other.

But- his friends had gone above and beyond to get him out of a trouble of his own making. They were risking their families’ wrath, and to have issues for the years to come, just because they trusted him to have the next piece of the puzzle. He couldn’t let them down, make all of their efforts be in vain just because he felt like a coward. He had to be brave. For all of their sakes, he had to be the bravest he’d ever been.

So instead, he licked his cracked lips and whispered: “Lady Morgana sent me a message. About what to do if I ever managed to break free.”

He could tell Lampwick was surprised, even if the latter was trying to hide it. “Okay. Sure. What did she say?”

“I have to go back in there. Down below.” Pinocchio lifted his head to meet his boyfriend’s gaze, hoping he looked as decisive as he needed to be.

“You’re right. We have to save the princess. But that boy king… Something bad is going to happen to him if nobody does anything. I don’t know what, I just know he’s not safe, either, so we have to save him too. And if the Mother Superior tries to take his crown- I can’t let that happen, Lampwick. I can’t let her hurt other people like she did with me. But if I want to do all of that, I need to be back in those tunnels. Do you understand?”

“Figures.” Lampwick took a deep breath, pulling a face. “I should’ve known it was gonna be something like that. But- stop saying I, okay? I’m not letting you jump in alone. Wherever you go, I’m coming with you.”

“I can’t ask you to do that-”

“You’re not asking. Actually, you’ve been trying to go solo for a while now, but it won’t work with me- or most the others, either. I’m supposed to hit them up as soon as we’ve got a plan, so they’ll meet us where we need them. So you can spare me that bullshit, okay?”

Pinocchio closed his eyes, hanging his head. He knew, instinctively, that his attempts to plan otherwise would go nowhere...and in a way, he was thankful for it, despite his best intentions. He would have gone alone a thousand times over if need be, but he was glad he wouldn’t be, that someone would be holding his hand and filling the gaps in his mind. “Thank you.”

He felt Lampwick’s lips against his forehead again, and he could tell the other was smiling as he spoke, even then. “We’re a package deal, Pinoke. You should know that by now. Just- how exactly are you planning on going down? There isn’t any fast track that we can open at will, or am I forgetting something?”

“It will open for us.” A pause, as he braced for what was about to come. “It might even already be open. Lady Morgana warned me- where the fairy magic is supposed to be strongest, where they’ll least expect it, that’s where we’ll find a connection.”

“You don’t mean-”

“Yes. Yes, we have to go back to the convent.”

And as if by counterpoint, the ground began shaking under their feet.

Rumpelstiltskin had seen many catastrophes, in his long life.

Most of them had barely left a mark on him, and several had been so unremarkable he’d barely made the effort to remember them. There wasn’t much fire and brimstone could do to a Dark One – in fact, that was precisely the kind of event that would benefit him while bringing tragedy to the common folk, though they’d have likely said they’d gotten the prime cut out of it if asked.

And yet, as he watched thick, unctuous black tendrils crack through the trembling earth and shoot upwards among the shrieks of baffled passersby, he found himself wondering if perhaps this would be the time that he earned the most out of someone’s misery, even if he’d contributed very little to it.

You better keep your part of the deal, boy, he thought; then he pulled the curtain of his shop closed again, the display cases around him rattling with every vibration.