Chapter Text

1995 JFK Airport, New York

It’s late when they find her. The airport is slowing down for the night. A vacuum is buzzing not far away and the corridors, once noisy and busy, have turned cavernous. A TV is humming nearby and those who do remain in the airport are gathered around it in rapt attention.

She is tucked in a corner, between a chair and drinking fountain. Knees pulled to chest, her arms wrapping around herself. Her tiny body can’t stop shaking.

She gazes up at strange faces, two men, dressed in blue who surround her. If she could read, she’d understand that their badges read Police. But where she is from, guards dress in more elaborate wear.

Guards like Liam. Wherever he’s gone off.

“I’ll be back soon, Princess. I’m just running to the toilet. Stay here,” he had said.

But that had been hours ago.

“Do you know where your mommy or daddy are?” The pair of men ask her.

She shakes her head no.

“Did you come here with a granny or granpy? Maybe an aunt or uncle?” They ask again.

She nods a little, “Uncle Liam.”

She knows he isn’t really her uncle, but she misses him all the same. She thinks of her mother helping her pack a bag a few days before. “Sometime soon my dear, you’re going to go to on a holiday with Uncle Liam. Mummy and Daddy won’t be able to come with you. We’ll find you though, we always do.” She’d given her a kiss and tucked Emma’s favorite, embroidered blanket into her bag.

But as soon as Emma’s airplane landed, she’d lost track of Liam. He’d simply gone and never returned. Feeling alone in the airport, she’d hidden away in the corner hoping her parents will come find her. It’s been hours now and she hasn’t seen them or Uncle Liam. All of her life, she’s been surrounded by people- dressing her, serving her, playing with her, taking care of it- but now she feel so so alone.

“What’s your name?” Asks the man.

“Princess,” She says.

The two men exchange glances.

“Sweetie what’s your real name?” The other man asks, his face sympathetic.

“Princess,” She says.

“Do you think?” The one man asks to the other, wild disbelief in his eyes.

They’d seen the news earlier that day: the small principality of Misthaven, a tiny country lodged between Belgium and the Netherlands, had been host to a violent revolution. The Royal Family slaughtered, a malevolent dictator replacing them. The images from the television have been haunting, streets covered in the dead, flags being ripped, and the fearful faces of those trying to escape.

But this tiny, innocent little girl… she can’t be…

“She’s been sitting next to the TV all night,” He replies, “She probably just picked something off of it. You know kids and their imaginations. Besides, reports say the princess died.”

The other man shakes his head, as if trying to rid it of a thought.

“You’re right,” He agrees, finally.

“Let’s take you to go find your parents or Uncle or whoever,” The other man says, tugging her away.

They don’t find her parents. Or any trace of Uncle Liam. After a week of searching, she finds a place in a foster home in Boston.

2000, Boston, Massachusetts

When Emma is nine she goes to the movies with the other kids in the group home.

In the film, a dashing hero rescues a princess from her tower. She goes on a brilliant adventure and finally reunites with her family. She lives happily ever after, with her family and handsome hero in a big and beautiful castle.

Emma thinks about that movie all day. She thinks about it on the drive home, her face pressed against the car window, her eyes closed in daydream. She thinks about it as she does her daily chores- sweeping the kitchen, cleaning the upstairs toilets. She thinks about it when they all sit down to eat dinner- 14 grubby hands clawing at the night’s offerings. Its spaghetti, which makes Emma’s tummy hurt. She takes a piece of garlic bread and sneaks up to her room- the one she shares with three other girls. She sits on the cold windowsill, wrapped in the thin blanket from her bed, and watches the snow fall.

He must be out there, she thinks, my hero.

She imagines what he might look like. And for a moment she can almost picture him, like a face from another life. Dark hair, blue eyes, freckles, and a smile so white and pure that she trusts him just for that.

She wonders if he is walking down the snowy streets, checking in every house looking for her. “Is there a princess here?” He might ask. “I’m looking for a princess.” Because surely there has to be a place in the world for her that is less painful than the one she is in.

When Emma was younger, she used to imagine herself a princess all the time. In fact, the social workers used to tease her for it. Apparently she’d been found in airport claiming to be a princess. The adults had exchanged concerned faces. When she was older, they’d explained to her that she must have had something so traumatic happen to her that she’d invented a different reality for herself. If this was her imagination, Emma didn’t want to remember the truth.

She dreams of it often- a castle with grey stonewalls, brilliant tapestries, and warm fireplaces. A place where there would be balls and feasts. She wakes from these dreams always convinced that they are real, they must be real. It’s only when she opens her eyes and takes heaping gasps of air that she gets hit by reality and knows that she is far from being a princess. She’s started to dread these dreams.

Emma doesn’t let herself think of it much anymore. There’s been so many times that families have come to group homes, inquiring about who to adopt- but it’s never been her. She knows that she is nearly too old to find a family willing to take her in. The king and queen have clearly never arrived.

But tonight, she lets herself indulge in the fantasies. She’s thought about the king and queen a lot before- but never a hero. Tonight she thinks about the knight in shining armor- the one who will find her and finally bring her home.

The door opens and a face peers in. It’s Kennedy, her older foster sister. Emma likes Kennedy. She has coppery skin and thick, dark, curly hair that sticks out in all directions. Kennedy is seventeen. Next year, she’ll be free to leave the system. Emma sometimes wishes she would stay. She’s the closest thing Emma’s ever found to a sister in this home.

“There you are, Em,” Kennedy says kindly, crossing the room to sit by her in the sill. “I was worried about you. I didn’t see you at dinner and I know spaghetti always hurts your tummy.”

“I didn’t have any,” Emma told her, lifting the last bit of the roll, before tossing it in her mouth, “Just some garlic bread.”

“I see,” Kennedy says, “So, you just escaped to brood?”

“Brood?” Emma asks.

“Think, angstily,” Kennedy defines.

Emma files the word away in the dictionary in her brain.

“Then yes, I’m brooding,” Emma tells her.

“I see,” Kennedy says, giving her a smile and squeezing her hand, “Penny for your thoughts?”

“I was thinking about the movie earlier,” Emma says.

Kennedy nods.

“I was just wondering if there was a prince coming to save me,” Emma tells her, feeling silly and childish when the words come out of her mouth.

Kennedy frowns and bites her lip, as if thinking of the words to say.

“Emma, no one is coming.”

Emma knows that was what the answer was going to be, but it still hurts her.

“But he could be,” She says emphatically, her fantasy appearing before her eyes again, “He could be out there, right now. He could be looking for me. He could be ready to whisk me off to our kingdom to meet the king and queen.”

“What kingdom is that?” Kennedy says, her voice is kind, but sensible.

Emma shrugs, trying to keep the tears at bay. But she can feel that tell tale dryness in the back of her throat.

“Emma,” Kennedy says, “I’m going to tell you some very important things. You are going to have to listen very carefully and never forget them. Do you promise me?”

Emma nods, not sure what respond to that.

“Emma, fairytales are pretend. There are no fairy godmothers, no knights in shining armor, no wishes on a star,” Kennedy tells her.

Emma lets out the sob she’s been holding in. Kennedy moves closer to wrap her in a hug.

“But listen to me, Em, you can be that for yourself,” Kennedy continues, “You have to be your own hero. In this hard life we’ve been given, you can’t rely on anyone else but yourself. You have to work as hard as you can. Promise me you will. You have to work harder in school than anyone else you know. Read as much as you can. Study, ask questions, stay afterschool for extra help if you need it, join clubs, run for class president. Do everything you can to get into college. Because once you have a degree, you can get a good job, make a life for yourself. Promise me you’ll go to college.”

Emma doesn’t really know what college is. She’s never met anyone who has been to one. But she admires Kennedy and knows that she’ll do whatever her clever big sister tells her to.

“I will,” Emma sniffles.

“Do you remember Quinn who lived here last year?” Kennedy asks.

Emma nods. She remembers the older girl with long raven hair and big lips.

“Quinn didn’t have a plan when she left here. She got involved with a bad guy. She started stealing. Now Quinn is in jail,” Kennedy tells her.

Emma’s heart drops. She tries to picture her former foster sister in a black and white outfit and shackles like she saw on the cartoon on TV once. It only makes her cry harder.

“I can’t have that happen to you,” Kennedy tells her, “I care too much about you Emma to let that happen to you. Do good in school. Go to college. Be your own hero. Do you promise me?”

“I promise.”

It’s that moment when Emma stops believing in fairy tales.

2001, Misthaven

When Killian is 12 his gran dies.

He can still remember when he used to live in a castle. He and Liam lived in a small room in basement. It was a good life. There was always lots of food. There was always dancing and laughter and music. He took lessons with the royal tutor.

He can still remember the night when everything changed. He remembers running across the palace grounds in the dead of night- him and Liam and the princess. He remembers how Liam and the princess, a small girl, his friend, not yet five, had turned in one direction towards the airport and the flight that would take them to safety in America. He remembers Liam begging him, “Go to our grans house and hide. Don’t come out till I call you and tell you it’s safe.”

But Liam has never called. Killian stills thinks of him and the princess. He supposes they must have stayed in American and forgotten all about him. Does he tell people that the princess is his sister now? Does he think of him at all?

He can still remember how things got much worse after the King and Queen were murdered. A man name Gold had declared himself the ruler. He remembers how they began rationing food. He remembers how the schools got shut down for weeks, before reopening with different teachers. He remembers how they learned different history, read strange books. He remembers the way everything seemed a little more gray, a little more bleak- or maybe that was just because Liam was gone.

So when his gran dies, Killian has nowhere else to go. He’s never had parents. He hardly has friends. So he just leaves.

She’s been sick for weeks, so he knew it was coming. He’s had a bag packed just in case. A few days clothes, a bottle of water, a granola bar, a toothbrush. He thinks about taking his picture of Liam, but he leaves it on his nightstand instead. Liam has forgotten him, so he might as well forget Liam.

He tip-toes out of the back door and into the cold night air. It’s windy, which is good, because it lets him pretend he isn’t crying. It blocks the sound of his sniffles and it lets him convince himself it’s just the sharp, icy sting that makes his eyes water. It cant’ be his heart breaking. He is trying to be brave and deal with this as best he can. But he has never felt so alone in all his life.

He knows exactly where he is going. The docks. He is going on a ship. Killian has always liked ships.

It is easier to sneak onto the cargo hold than he imagines. While there are strict locks on the borders, not allowing people to come and go, no one seems to be looking for a little boy. After all, he is small and fast, able to duck into the hold and curl up in a corner unseen.

The ship leaves port and he is bound across the channel to England. The water churns and it makes Killian’s stomach heave, something he didn’t expect.  He eats his granola bar to try to settle it, but instead ends up expelling it into a corner of the ship. It is cold in the hold, so he takes all his clothes out of his backpack and lays them on top of himself as a makeshift blanket. It doesn’t make him much warmer, but he feels resourceful for it nonetheless.

In the morning, he sneaks out when no one is looking. He realizes that he doesn’t know where to go. He decides to use his money to buy a bus ticket to London. In school, they read a book a boy who lives in an orphanage in London. The boy got in lots of trouble, goes on loads of adventures, but ends up with a happy life and a family. This is what Killian wants.

When he arrives in London, he doesn’t know what to do. He buys himself chips wrapped in newspaper and sits by the river and watches it flow by. It reminds him of the river that flows through Misthaven. For a moment, he feels like a king himself. The whole city is his and he can do anything he wants. He buys five chocolate bars from a nearby shop, indulgent that they don’t ration chocolate here. He buys himself a copy of the book he read in school. Oliver Twist. The cover is shiny and he rereads the whole thing as he sits in a sunny park where there are lots of ducks.

He walks to one castle made of austere grey stone that scares him. It’s tucked a long the bit of the city with the tallest buildings, alongside the water and by the bridge he’s seen in a geography book. He touches it’s walls and shutters, memories of his past dancing before his eyes. As he looks at it, he thinks about the night the castle was attacked.

He still remembers what it sounded like when the Queen screamed.

He leaves this castle as quick as he can.

He walks to another castle on the other side of town. There are guards that walk back and forth in front of it in silly hats. It makes him think of Liam and that is all the more painful. It leaves him feeling empty. It leaves him thinking about the hole in heart that never got to heal.

It’s on that day that realizes he has run out of money. He is no longer a king. He is foundling.

So he sits in a park reading Oliver Twist. He supposes that is what he needs. He needs to find an orphanage.

He starts listening to the accents of the people around him. In his country, they spoke English, French, and Dutch. His accent is different than theirs, but he practices it over and over that night, once the park has cleared and his stomach rubbles, till he gets it perfect. He can’t be sent back home. That’s all he knows.

In the morning, he goes to a police officer.

“I’m sorry, excuse me sir,” He says, “I’ve seemed to have lost my family.”

“That no good, you little chap,” The officer says. Killian imagines him like a character in the book. “What happened?”

“Well, it’s rather funny really, you see I fell and hit my head and I can’t remember anything,” He tells the officer.

It’s a bit of a stretch, but he has always been a good liar.

“Are you going to put me in an orphanage now?” He asks later, when he is at the police station, when they’ve given him a juice box and some crackers, and searched a computer to find his family.

The police officer chuckles at Killian’s naiveté. “Son, we haven’t had orphanages here since the 1950’s.”

That is the moment when Killian realizes that he is not going to be Oliver Twist. He is not going to have a raucous adventure and then find a new family. He is still alone.

2001, Boston, Massachussetts

Kennedy moves away two weeks after Emma turns ten.

“I’m going to college in New York,” Kennedy tells her, “At New York University. They call it NYU. I got a full ride- that means I can go for free.”

A few weeks after she’s left, Emma receives a package in the mail from her. Inside is a letter, telling her about her adventures in college. There is a picture of her room, a dorm she calls it. Emma imagines having a room all to her own. It seems too good to be true. There is a picture of Kennedy and few other girls. “Look,” she wrote on the back, “I made friends!” The last thing in the package is a book called the Red Fairy Book.

“I know we’ve agreed not to believe in fairy tales, but that doesn’t mean you can’t read them,” Kennedy writes.

The Red Fairy Book changes everything. It makes Emma learn to love reading. Not all the fairy tales are pretty, not all of them have happy endings- but she likes that. Some of them are gruesome and horrific, while others are sweet and charming. It has lots fairy tales she’s read before, but many more new ones. She likes the new ones, especially the ones that no one has heard of. They feel like her own discovery. Her own secret stories.

The Red Fairy Book leads her to discovery the library. Allie, the new oldest girl in the home, takes her. She shows her how to get a library card. Emma feels greedy at all the books she can take. No one has every let her take anything before.

She reads her way through the Blue Fairy Book. Then the Green one. Then the yellow. When she’s finished that, the librarian shows her a book called Ella Enchanted, which she reads in just one night. The next day, she goes back and gets three more books, which she finishes by the end of the week.

Before she graduates middle school, Emma Swan has lived in 12 different homes, but she has read 2,678 books. She is very proud of that (the books, not the number of homes she’s been rejected from). The first thing she does when settling into a new home is ask where the library is and if someone can take her to get a library card.

It’s when she’s in eighth grade that she finds herself in her 13^th home. 13 is always an unlucky number in fairy tales, she thinks.

She’s knows that it’s a bad fit as soon as she moves in. She asks to be taken to the library, but her new foster father refuses.

“We don’t do libraries here,” He tells her, “They’re a distraction from chores and work that needs to be done.”

She sits idly in her room, flicking through her worn copy of Red Fairy book her first night. She think of a book she read, Matilda, about a little girl with magical powers who escapes her horrible family with the help of a wonderful teacher. Emma imagines herself to be Matilda and spends hours staring at a book on the shelf trying to will it to move. Nothing happens. Emma is not Matilda.

She soon realizes that this new house is worst than her imaginings. Her foster father assigns her an endless list of chores, threatening her with violence when she fails to do them to his liking.

She retreats into herself, becoming withdrawn. It wasn’t like she had tons of friends in the first places, she’s moved around too much for that. But the ones she does have, she pulls away from. She doesn’t want them to know how horrible her life has become.

She stops doing her schoolwork. There isn’t any time and she’s too afraid of her foster father’s fist. Her books, which were once her sanctuary, sit unread of her shelf. Her postcards from Kennedy get chucked in the trash. How can she think about college when it takes all her energy to just survive?

Emma thinks time and time again about running away. But where would she go? Who would she turn to? She would only get in more trouble if she takes off. She can only imagine the pain that would take place if her foster father would catch her escaping. So she stays.

Emma may not have a Miss Honey, but she does have a Ms. Waverly. Ms. Waverly notices when Emma fails time after time to turn into her assignments. She notices how Emma has become quiet and sullen. It’s after class one day that she beckons her over to her desk.

“Emma, is there anything wrong?”

“No, mam,” Emma mutters, “I’m fine.”

“Why haven’t I received your composition yet?” She asks, “You are usually one of the most gifted writers in your class.”

“I just haven’t time,” Emma says.

“Haven’t had time? Emma, you’re 13, what can be taking up so much time?”

And that’s how Emma starts sobbing at her teacher’s desk. Later, she shows the school counselor the bruises on her ribs, the black-eye she’s been covering up with her hair and a bit of make up.

She gets removed that night, taken to a woman in upstate New York. They’re gentle with her. No one touches her anymore, not even hugs, without asking for permission first. The social workers are making her feel safe again and she appreciates it. She has to repeat eighth grade, she finds out, too many incomplete assignments. She feels farther from her dream of college than ever before.

But then she walks into her new house in New York, to a woman named Ingrid, with blond hair and rosy cheeks. She gives her a mug of hot chocolate and a room of her own. And a library card. Emma might just like it here.

2003, Bradford, England

It doesn’t take Killian long to realize that the life he read about in books was never going to happen. He is sent to a group home with the promise of finding him a family that never comes. He is fine without one, he thinks. He never had much family anyway: Just a brother who never came back for him, a gran who died too early. He’s probably better off without a family, he thinks.

They move him out of London and to a town called Bradford, farther north. He immediately misses the freedom and excitement of London. Between the pace of the town, the overcast weather, and loneliness- there is a dreariness that settles inside of Killian.

At the beginning of secondary school, he meets some boys in class. Peter and Felix are clearly up to no good, but after two years of feeling alone and bored- he needs someone, something. And the petty crime the boys partake in- well, it’s the closest thing Killian has had in years to an adventure.

It starts with sweets from the petrol station, slipped into his pocket when no one in looking. Later, it’s little things from PoundLand, knick knacks and small treasures nicked easily. He does it for the rush, the feeling as if he is getting away with something. He has to admit, the stolen chocolate tastes better than anything he ever paid for.

A few months later, it starts to escalate. They realize how easy they can get away with their easy swipes. So why not try for something of higher value?

They start picking pockets. It’s easy, really, to snatch a wallet out the pocket of the man sitting beside you. Or take of the phone of the woman who just happens to be looking away. They get a fair bit from these swipings. Killian starts to dream of things he’ll buy for himself with the money- maybe a DVD player or a device to play mp3s. He imagines the faces of the other kids in the home when they’ll see him with one.

There is a warmth to the camaraderie of the boys. After they’ve collected their treasures, they sit in the alley together drinking hot chocolate bought from the money the boys have tugged out of unwilling wallets. They count their loot, watching their riches unfold before them. Killian feels a bit like he belongs. Killian has not felt like he belongs in a very long time.

It’s after a few more months that they decide to set their eyes on something bigger. Felix has been keeping his eyes on some watches at a local jewelry store. He knows when they’ll lock up each night and when the alarm kicks in. Peter thinks if they time it right, they’ll be able to make off with the watches. Killian starts to picture vacations on tropical islands, maybe a car when he’s old enough. He pictures riches he’s never dreamt of before.

So he agrees to the plan. It takes a few weeks of preparation to get the timing right, the roles assigned. They decide to execute their plan on the last day of school, that way they’ll have their riches to spend all summer.

At first, everything goes to plan. That is, until a man turns around and Killian is caught red-handed holding the watches. He watches Peter and Felix slink off with quiet smirks- leaving Killian to take the fall.

He get eleven months in a Young Offenders institution.

When he arrives, he is angry. He’s mad at Peter and Felix for leaving him behind. He’s mad at himself for ever believing that he could belong to anything, for ever believing that he meant something to anyone.

As he falls asleep in a locked cell room, he finds himself angry at Liam. None of this would have ever happened if Liam hadn’t left. If Liam hadn’t decided that things were better in America, if he hadn’t decided that the princess made a better sister than Killian made a brother- maybe Killian wouldn’t be here. There is a pit in his stomach that knows that Liam would be so so disappointed if he ever found out what had become his brother.

In the middle of the night, when Killian awakes with the old nightmare of the castle under siege, he finds he is angry at the Princess. The princess stole his brother from him. The princess who is off in America living an easy life. The princess who must be too young to remember the terror of that night in the castle. The princess who is too young to remember the family she lost. Killian thinks that not remembering would be a lot easier that living as he does.

Chapter Text

2005, Syracuse, New York

At first, Ingrid is the nicest person who has ever fostered her. She is gentle with Emma, probably alerted by social workers about the previous abuse. She lets Emma read as long as she wants and brings her cocoa. When Emma starts high school, she drives her to the extensive array of extracurricular activities she signs up for- student council, debate team, chorus, Model UN, and the book club she starts herself. Ingrid even takes her on a trip to New York City to visit Kennedy, where she is going to law school.

“Look,” Emma says, pulling out her all A report card and showing it to Kennedy, “Look I’m doing everything you said. I’m studying as hard as I can. I’m going to go to college.”

“I’m proud of you, Em,” Kennedy tells her, “Don’t let anything stop you. Be your own hero.”

When Emma is a sophomore, she gets an award for being the best English student. She starts volunteering at the library when her counselor tell her that volunteer hours look good on college applications. She and her debate team win States.

By the time she is a junior, she’s earned a reputation in the school for her braininess, but she couldn’t be happier. She becomes treasurer of student council. She wins an essay contest in the local paper.

She wishes she could say she has friends, but she doesn’t. She has acquaintances on student council and in chorus, but no the type of friends that she’d hang out with outside of school. She’s never had a boyfriend, but it doesn’t bother her. Boys are only a bigger distraction from academics. She lives by Kennedy’s rules- be your own hero. Save yourself.

As a senior, she is class president and captain of the debate team. She begins to fill out college applications. She thinks of going to a college in New York like Kennedy, but if she is going to be her own hero, she wants to have her own adventure. She spends hours pouring over college pamphlets that come in the mail.

She settles on Duke as her top choice. It’s highly ranked and Emma has never been to North Carolina before. She knows that it is sunnier there, with less snow. There is a tiny part of her that secretly likes that it sounds like royalty. She’s long given up any princess dreams, but she still has a fond place in her heart for it.

When she fills out her application, she wonders what to check off as her major. It doesn’t take much thought, as she reflects on all the books she’s read and how much she loves to read, she checks off “English” without a second thought.

In the end, she is waitlisted at Duke, but receives a full ride scholarship from a small commuting college down the street. She could save money and live at home. Ingrid says she is welcome to stay.

Emma is certain that is what she going to pick- when everything changes. Ingrid starts to become strange. She starts asking Emma questions about her childhood, becoming frustrated when Emma can’t recall anything before the arriving in a foster home in Boston. She starts pouring over books on royal histories. Then begin strange calls in the middle of the night. Emma’s not sure what is going, but it unsettles her. She’s known Ingrid to be a solid person, a reliable and trustworthy parent. But now she doesn’t know.

It’s one day when Emma comes back from school, ready to dive into some last-minute AP test studying that Ingrid suggest that they move to Europe for the next year. She says it in a menacing tone and Emma wonders if she’ll have a choice. But she can’t just get up and move, she has to start college. She promised Kennedy. She promised herself.

But where does she have to go?

There must have been a fairy godmother out there for her somewhere because she gets a call from Duke that night, telling her they have a place for her off the waitlist. She’ll get some financial aid, but she’ll need to take out some loans. Emma doesn’t care, she accepts immediately. The sooner she can leave the better.

She works at a sleep away camp in the Catskills that summer because it has free room and board. She makes enough money to pay for a one-way ticket to Durham and for a semesters worth of books.

Emma Swan doesn’t look back. But she’s good at that now.

When Emma tumbles into her dorm room bed the first night of college, all she feels is gratitude. She knows she’s lucky. That’s the only reason she’s made it so far. She was lucky to have Kennedy’s pep talks to get her life on track. She’s lucky to have had Ms. Waverly to pull her out of the horrible, abusive home she found herself in. She’s lucky to have known about library cards. She’s lucky to have fallen in love with books. She’s lucky to have Ingrid even, before she went crazy. Emma knows that there were a million things that could have fallen into place to make this not happen. Emma knows that the average foster kid doesn’t end up at Duke. She thinks of all the terrible turns that her story could have taken and she feels grateful that this is the one she’s been given.

2004, Leeds, England

The Young Offender institute leaves Killian feeling hollow. The parts of him that used to feel alive have turned numb and cold. He wishes he could be angry, because then he would feel something, anything.

Because he now has a criminal past, he’s placed in a different sort of foster home, one for troubled kids. It’s in Leeds, a few towns over from Bradford. He has less freedom here, stricter rules. It makes him feel only more isolated, more depressed. None of his old friends are nearby, but he is happy without them. He hears from a few acquaintances that Peter and Felix have gotten themselves tied up in a drug ring in Bradford. Killian decides he is far better off without them. After all, he’s learned over and over again that he can’t rely on anyone but himself.

He spends as much time as he can lying in bed. He’s tired in a way he’s never been tired before. It’s not just that he wants to sleep, it’s just that he doesn’t want to do anything, doesn’t see the point in doing anything. His homework assignments are half done- just the minimum he needs to not get in any more trouble. He wonders if one of the foster parents will notice the hollowness in him and reach out. No one does.

Sometimes he feels thin. As if he is made of nothing. As if someone blew on him, he’d flutter away.

His only solace comes from the library. He is assigned community service hours there and quickly comes to treasure the time among the books. It’s silent and peaceful. He likes the neat order that comes with shelving books. He likes the adventures he finds inside them, when he can tug some off a shelf and disappear into a corner for a while. He is old enough, hardened enough to know that he’ll never have the adventures he reads about in books, but he has enough of a heart to enjoy them anyway. When he is reading, he feels less alone than he does in the rest of his life.

It’s on a Friday, when he’s waiting for another round of shelving to begin, perusing the stacks to find something to read in the meantime, that one of the librarians approaches him. He’s seen her before. She has warm eyes and straight black hair. She’s young enough, especially compared to the other librarians who border on crypt-keeping.

“You’re from Misthaven, aren’t you?” She asks.

Killian’s eye bulge. No one knows about that. No one knows that he isn’t from around here.

“Shhh,” she says, “Your secret is safe with me.”

He can tell from her voice she has a trace of Misthaven accent as well. Maybe he isn’t the only one who has sought refuge in a different country, trying to make a new life.

He wants to ask her about her past, how she got here- but he thinks better of it. He doesn’t want her to question his past and see how much of a disappointment he has become.

“I just thought you might be interested in these,” The woman says, guiding him over to a series of books lining the shelf. “They’re pretty new, written under the penname of Blanche Neige. She takes classic fairytales and sets them in Misthaven.”

Killian picks one up from the shelf and turns it over in his hands.

“They’re all about people in Misthaven fighting for their freedom,” The librarian says. “They are quite good. I think you’ll like them.” She pauses and for a minute he feels as if she knows how hard things have been for him, “They give me hope when it seems hard to find.”

Killian blinks up at the woman, struck by her kindness. It isn’t much, to recommend a book to him, but it’s the nicest thing anyone had done for him in a very long time. People don’t notice him or his sadness. It feels nice that someone has.

“Thank you,” He mumbles, taking the first few books in the series and heading to an armchair to curl up with one.

Once upon a time, in a land called Misthaven, there was a princess…

As Killian sinks into the story, he feels hope for the first time in a very, very long time.

2009, Durham, North Carolina

Emma is all business from the moment that college begins. She can’t afford to lose her scholarships. She can’t afford bad grades. She’s made it this far by her own grit and she isn’t going to back down now. She’s all lists and planners, coffee and extensive reading lists.

It’s hard work. The hardest, really. The first essay she writes gets ripped to pieces by the instructor. She cries herself to sleep that night, wondering why she thought she was good enough. But then she goes to her professor’s office and they work together to fix her paper up. She gets an A on the rewrite.

Emma isn’t very good at asking for help, but she eventually discovers the Writing Studio and Library Resources and Peer Tutoring. She realizes early on that she needs to reach out if she ever wants to succeed.

She joins The Archive, the university’s literary journal staff. She dreams of eventually joining the staff of one of the school’s academic journals, but she has time to work up to it.

She tutors at risk kids in the neighborhood. She sees herself in them and hopes that the hour a week she spends with them is enough to make a difference.

She doesn’t do well in making friends, but she’s never been particularly good at that sort of thing. Emma doesn’t do frat parties. She’s far too busy studying to get meals with other students in the dining halls, instead preferring to eat by herself and read a book. She gets invited to a few things, going to see a play with some kids from the literary journal, a dinner out with some students from the tutoring team, but she feels awkward around them. She feels so different from them and their easy lives.

She doesn’t try to make friends with her roommate. Belle is sweet and studious, but she finds a boyfriend very early into the year and spends all her time with him. Emma doesn’t mind the quiet dorm room; it’s easier to study that way. And anyway, Emma has always done better on her own.

That is, until one night, when Emma notices her roommate coming back late, nursing a black eye. Emma is quick to respond with an icepack and blanket.

“It’s the boyfriend, isn’t it? He’s hurting you,” Emma asks, tentatively, beckoning her roommate down onto to the futon and wrapping her in the blanket, “How long has it been going on?”

Belle starts to cry, “A month or so.”

“You have to end it,” Emma says sharply.

“That’s easy for you to say,” Belle says, hiccupping a sob, “He’s threatening… he’s saying it’ll be worse if-“

“Shh, I know, I was there before,” Emma says, “Look we can call the police. We can get a restraining order on him so he won’t hurt you anymore. It’s going to be okay. You’re safe now.”

It’s a few weeks later, after things are truly broken off with Belle’s boyfriend, that the two become friends. Turns out, they both have much more in common than they thought. They both are studying English. They both like to study with warm beverages and acoustic playlists. They both really like libraries.

When Belle asks Emma her plans for Christmas break, then subsequently finds out that she has no where to go, she invites her home with her for Christmas. Emma is immediately fond of Belle’s home, a small town in Pennsylvania, where her father owns a flower shop. Belle and her father tell Emma about the different flowers they grow.

“Poisettas for the holidays,” Belle explains.

They invite her to help decorate their Christmas tree and buy her presents on Christmas morning. It’s more than she can ask for. But slowly realizes that is what friendship is.

Their friendship grows over the spring. It’s build on late night study sessions and a Saturday morning yoga class they both sign up for and an endless supply of hot chocolate packets. Emma gets a student job at a local coffee shop and Belle goes and studies there during her shifts. They stay on campus for spring break, taking a few days to drive up to DC, which Emma has never visited before. By the end of the year, Emma has decent grades, her scholarships in place, and, for the first time ever, a friend.

2008, London, England

After Killian finishes secondary school, he doesn’t know where to go next.

He thinks about maybe working at a library, especially after how much he found refuge in his volunteer work there. That is, till he finds out that he’ll need a master degree in library science. It took all the energy he had to finish school and he knows he isn’t cut out for anything with the word science in it.

He eventually decides to head to London on a whim. He liked it there last time and he’s had enough of smaller towns. He craves the big city.

When he arrives in London, he realizes that he can’t actually afford to live there. So he rents out a tiny place with a few other lads on the very outskirts, in a crappy place, in a dodgy area. He gets a job at a bookstore. It’s a good compromise. It’s similar enough to the library: books, shelving, giving recommendations. It also has a café inside so on the odd day he’ll end up serving up cappuccinos instead, which he doesn’t mind. It’s a warm, welcoming place and he likes the way he feels at home there.

This is closest things have ever been to good for Killian. Two years pass here gracefully.

He meets a girl. She’s tiny, thin, with blonde knot on the top of her head. She’s beautiful, but sassy. He likes that. It doesn’t take much at all for him to fall in love with her. He’s never been one for love stories, but he’s never really given them the chance. He thinks he likes this one.

They date for a few months, just little things- dinners, walks in the parks, nights at the cinema. One of those nights turns into an invitation to his apartment. He can’t deny that he enjoys their coupling. Foster homes never made for a romantic place to take a lover back to, so he relishes the privacy he has now.

It’s after a few more months of dating that she admits she’s pregnant. He doesn’t know how to react. He never planned for it. But at the same time, it’s been forever since he’s had a family. He wonders if he would be good at it. All of a sudden he is longing for one in a way he hasn’t in a long time.

But she’s scared. She’s a year younger than him and she says that she isn’t ready to settle down. She really starts to panic. She breaks up with him and says that she is heading home for a while, to spend time with her family. She cuts off all contact with him and it’s crippling, heart breaking.

Finally, he gets a text a few months later saying, The baby was born dead. It’s probably better this way.

A part of him breaks. The hollow part of him that knew when he was fifteen comes back full force. This time his remedy is alcohol. He binges on a bottle of rum till the pain fads, till he lies on the kitchen floor in his own vomit. Who was he to ever think he could have a family?

“Hey, wake up,” Says one of his housemates, waking him with a jab of his toe. His voice is harsh, “You’re nasty. Go take care of yourself.”

Killian lifts himself groggily from the floor and begins to stumble towards his room, thinking murkily of a shower, when his eye catches the TV screen in the living room.

“Breaking News: Revolution in Principality of Misthaven; Country Freed of Dictator”

He sinks onto the couch and watches the feature.

While he was passed out drunk, mourning the family that would never be, the citizens of Misthaven had surrounded the castle. They’d ambushed the place, taking off layers of guards till eventually the dictator, Gold, killed himself.

It was violent, brash- but they were free.

There are people talking about forming a parliament and using a democratic system to elect a new prime minister. There is talk of creating a memorial for all those fallen so that the country could be free. There is talk of reforming the education systems. The borders are to be reopened, free trade re-established. Across the world, families are able to reunite, after being separated for years.

Most astonishing of all, the queen reappears. For years, everyone, Killian included, has thought she was dead. He’s relived the sounds of her screams for years and years in his nightmares. But here she is, alive and well. She’s been hiding out in rural Norway all this time.

It boggles Killian’s mind that he’s spent a whole lifetime thinking someone was dead, only to realize they’ve been alive the whole time.

He watches on the news screen as families reunite, hugging in Misthaven’s main square. There is footage of the Queen visiting families in the hospital, thanking those who fought for Misthaven’s freedom. It’s all surreal.

He pulls himself out of his stupor. He knows what his next step is. He is going back to the place that is his actual home. He is going back to Misthaven.

2010, Durham, North Carolina

“So Emma,” Professor Shepherd says, turning his desk chair to face her, “Have you given any thought to your thesis?”

Two years at Duke have passed in no time. With intense planning and overloading, Emma has managed to arrange it for herself to graduate a year early. After all, she needs to keep the loans down and this way she can get started on a career earlier. Whatever career she decides on, that is.

The only thing that she needs to graduate is a senior honors thesis, which is seemingly harder than it looks. It isn’t that she doesn’t know what to pick, it is just that she can’t decide. There are so many interesting things to study that she is having a hard time narrowing it down to one work or author. She’s always cared about fairytales, things of myth and legends. But as she’s gotten older in her studies, she’s developed an interest in world literature, but also in post-modernism, but also in contemporary fiction. It’s hard to choose just one subject to base her thesis on.

So, she shrugs.

“I was kinda hoping you’d do that,” He says, lifting his eyebrows, “Because I’ve stumbled upon something that’s right up your ally.”

Now it’s Emma’s turn to lift her eyebrows as he passed her a stack of novels.

“Have a look over them,” He says, “I know you are particularly interested in folk legend and fairytale. This contemporary author, Blanche Neige, which is obviously some sort of penname, takes traditional tales and transforms them into resistance narratives. She writes about Misthaven. Have you heard it?”

“It’s like some sort of principality right? It was in the news lately because of some sort of revolution,” Emma rattles off the top of her head, trying to think of when she’d heard of it.

“Exactly,” Professor Shepherd replies, “They had a dictator murder the royal family and take over a little less than twenty years ago and they’ve just gotten their freedom back. This means it’s an ideal time for you to study this actually. The country will be back open, so it will easy to communicate with scholars there if you need information or to borrow things from their libraries.”

Emma nods, as she picks up one of the books.

“Her writing is relatively new,” He explains, “And there has been no academic work yet done it. So you’ve got an open canvas. It’s the kind of thing you could build a career off of.”

“Oh, wow,” Emma says, flattered and exhilarated at the prospect, “that’s so generous of you.”

“Have a read, see if you like her work,” He says, spinning in his chair, marking the end of the meeting, “After all, you and Blanche Neige will spending lots of time together if you make her your thesis topic.”

Emma retreats home with the stack of books in her hands, depositing them in a pile next to her favorite reading arm chair and settling in with a cup of cocoa to devour them.

Emma loves Blanche Neige’s books. She falls in love with them straight away. They’ve got the plot and charm of old world fairy tales, the thrill of a resistance narrative, the slight bit of post-modern absurdity, and a politically intriguing contemporary setting. It’s all she wants in a book. It takes her one weekend to read all of Blanche Neige’s work.

On Monday, she returns to Professor Shepherd’s office to declare her thesis topic.

And her life takes off from there.

She dives into the research, enjoying each moment of dissecting the work. As months go by, her thoughts drift back to Professor Shepherd’s words, “you could build a career off of it.” Well, maybe she could.

Literature, writing papers, academics- those are her favorite things. What if she just keeps doing it? If she can get funding for graduate work, if she can build a career in academia, if she just keeps reading and writing- she can build a career out of this.

So Emma starts studying for the GRE. She starts working on grad school applications to places all over the country; whichever ones have the most funding. She borrows a suit from the career center for her interviews, as well as accepting some donations from professors to pay for airfare.

In the end, she’s offered several places in wonderful grad programs, which shocks her. She isn’t really expecting anything. But it seems that once again, she’s lucky. The final offer she receives is from Duke. It means keeping Professor Shepherd as her advisor, as well as staying with Belle who would be at Duke for her final year.

She submits her acceptance as soon as she can. So thus, begins her life as a Ph.D student.

If she thought undergrad was hard, of course, it just seems to get harder. But Emma relishes it. She likes working hard. It’s all she knows how to do at this point. She likes that it gives her more independent research time, more time to pour over books, more time to write and revise her papers. She indulges herself in every moment of it.

She and Belle get an apartment together in Durham. Belle’s decided to stick around for a masters at Duke and Emma is thrilled she doesn’t have to say good bye yet. Emma’s still surprised she hasn’t managed to mess up this best friend thing yet, but she doesn’t let herself dwell too much on it.

As she focuses on finalizing her plans for her dissertation, one thing becomes astoundingly clear, in order to finish this thing, she’s going to have to spend a semester in Misthaven. She needs to interview some people there, to help piece together the experience of resistance and revolution they experience in contrast with those written in the novel. She also needs access to the Misthaven University library, where she can examen the source texts for the fairy tales that Blanche Neige has adapted.

Emma is excited, she’s been dreaming of Misthaven for years now. She’s read about it, wrote about it, and imagined it since she first started reading Blanche Neige. She’s excited to finally experience it. For years, books have been her only way to explore, but now she’s finally going to take an adventure of her own.

2010, Misthaven

Killian buys a ticket back to Misthaven. This time, riding the ferry legally. There is a bit of him that will miss his job in London, the mates in his apartment. But he knows that he needs a new start now. He thinks that something has always been calling him home.

His stomach feels in knots when he sees it come into view. The towering castle reminds him of a life he can hardly remember, a brother who he has nearly forgotten. Echos of a scream of a queen who never died. Echos of the footsteps of a running princess as she escapes across the lawn.

But it is sunny here now and Killian begins to see hope for the first time in a very long time. It’s a different kind of hope. Not the kind he found in a book, or empty love, but the hope that is found in home. Home.

When he arrives, the whole nation is in the spirit of renewal. All across the small country people are coming back to once forgotten homes, to friends and family they thought they’d lost. For his first few days Killian wonders if he’ll see Liam again, but he doesn’t. There is a bit of him, deep down, that knows he isn’t ever coming back. Sometimes he wonders if he and the princess ever even made it to the airplane.

For his first few weeks, he works odd jobs. There is a lot of work to be done in a healing nation. He helps people fix their houses after years of disuse. He paints fences. He repairs roofs. He tends to gardens. After years of feeling like a burden, Killian likes the feeling of helping.

He daren’t go back to his old house. It sickens him to think of how he left his grandmother’s corpse lying in the bed, sneaking out like a thief in the night. Instead, he rents a room above a small bar and restaurant in city center. After a few nights sitting at the bar, the owner offers him a job as a bartender.

Seeing as he has little other options and most of Misthaven has been restored, he accepts and takes to the job immediately. He loves talking to the patrons, hearing their secrets, listening to their stories. He has a lot to catch up on since he left and the bar is always filled with gossip. Everyone is trying to reconnect after years of oppression. Everyone is searching for someone. He likes listening to it all, trying to put together the pieces from the life he has missed for so long.

He won’t deny that he misses the bookshop. There is something about being surrounded by stories that he finds immensely comforting. He thinks often of opening one of his own, but he doesn’t know where he’d get the money. It’s the sort of idea he files back in his head for a rainy day- the sort of rainy day where he wins the lottery.

Two years pass under the new regime and things are good, peaceful even. A woman named Regina has been elected Prime Minister. She’s severe, but has a compassionate side. It’s the combination needed to turn the country around, but also make it a more loving place. The Queen no longer rules the country, but has a sort of advisory role.

It’s then that some investigations begin as to the deaths of the rest of the royal family. Everyone had waited to see if they would show up, but alas, it seems the queen was the only one to survive. That is, however, how Killian discovers the news of Liam’s death. His remains are found in the Hudson River. It takes dental records and DNA tests to prove it’s him, but it is. After years of wondering his brother’s fate, he discovers that he died helping the princess escape the castle. Liam would have wanted to go that way anyway, protecting his country, protecting the crown. His remains return to Misthaven and Killian is able to bury him with honor. The Queen even comes the funeral. Killian blushes as she dotes on him, remembering seeing Killian in the castle as a boy. She thanks Liam’s memory for protecting her daughter. If she’s out there.

Because that is the thing. The daughter, the princess, her remains were never found. She very well might exist somewhere, out there. She probably wouldn’t remember being a princess. She might not know she is a princess.

So it doesn’t surprise him when he turns on the news to see:

Queen Announces Official Search for Princess Emma. Anyone With Any Information of her Whereabouts Should Contact the Following Number…..  

Chapter Text

Breaking: Supposed Misthaven Princess Revealed as Fake

After months of convincing Queen Mary Margaret Nolan that she was indeed the lost princess, it has been revealed that the supposed Princess Emma is actually an imposter. It was noted this week that she lacked a scar on her shoulder that the princess should bare. The identity of this young woman, revealed through DNA testing, is said to be actually one Zelena Marshall.

This is the third imposter to try for the Misthaven throne. In 2011, Queen Mary Margaret came out of hiding to reveal that she was indeed alive and well. In 2013, she then began the iconic hunt to find her long, lost daughter who allegedly was smuggled out of the castle and taken to America during the 1995 Revolution. While reports prove that guard Liam Jones was killed in New York, his remains being found in the Hudson River, there have been no whereabouts for the then three-year-old princess who he was protecting. This has, of course, given rise to the conspiracy that the princess is still alive and well.

As you’ll remember, there have been two others to vie for the Misthaven throne before Ms. Marshall’s attempt. There was first Ashley Boyd who charmed the Queen and kingdom, nearly convincing them all that she was the daughter of King and Queen Nolan. The “other shoe dropped” so to speak when it was found that she was revealed to actually be a local maid in a hotel, posing at the princess. She has since been tried and imprisoned for impersonation.

The second attempt was by an Aurora Carrington who was blackmailed into posing as the lost princess. She convinced the Queen for the better part of a year that she was the princess, that is, till it was revealed that she was the second imposter. While she was not prosecuted, due to the blackmail, she has since left the country.

This third attempt gives way to fear that the true Princess of Misthaven may not be out there at all. Is best for Queen Mary Margaret to give up before all hope is lost?

--

“Mary Margaret, this has to stop,” Regina says curtly, putting the paper down.

The Queen looks up from her delicate teacup to meet her friend’s eyes, knowing that there are still unabashed tears in her own eyes, knowing that her friend is right.

“I’m sorry,” She says, “I really thought it was her this time.”

“I know you did,” Regina replies, stirring at her coffee, “But you said that about the last two as well.”

“She wasn’t even blonde,” The Queen moans regretfully, “She wasn’t even American.”

She feels foolish now. She can hardly believe that she’s let herself be sabotaged again- but at the same time she knew how desperate she was. She has been desperate enough to let herself be convinced time after time that these sweet, charming girls who’d come to her claiming to be her daughter were truly Emma. In reality, some days Mary Margaret feels like she can hardly remember her daughter. She remembers her blond ringlets, her toothy smile, her bright green eyes. She remembers her liking for cinnamon and her love for ponies and her favorite cake. But her daughter would be 25 now. She knows that if she did actually meet her, she’d hardly be able to recognize her.

“I know,” Regina says, “All of which makes this whole thing a huge image nightmare. People are going to start to think of Misthaven as a laughing stock. Our tourism efforts are only just starting to take off. Our exports are going up. Our country is just starting to thrive after years of mismanagement. I can’t have our royalty turning our country into a laughing stock.”

Mary Margaret nods solemnly at Regina. She’s all business, which is, of course, why she had been elected in the first place.

When Mary Margaret had decided to return to Misthaven, after the revolution, she knew that there was no way she could rule again. She’d given that all up years ago. She didn’t want the burden and pressure of it. She thought that after all Misthaven had been through, they deserved to make some decision for themselves. She has been more that happy to see the election for a prime minister take place, to see a parliament formed. Regina is extremely intelligent and driven. Most of all, she trusts the woman to run her country efficiently and with care.

So, Queen Mary Margaret had relinquished all of it, refusing to move back into the castle that haunted her memories. She’s taken up residence in a summer palace in the hills, coming into town only twice weekly- for a weekly Tuesday advisory meeting with Regina and on Fridays to see whatever is on at opera house. She needs a slower pace, distance from the places that still give her nightmares.

She is happy for her life, but she misses her family. There are moments when she walks around her silent palace, and wishes dearly, that Emma and David were still with her. It is for this, of course, that she’s let herself been sabotaged time after time. She has gullibly clung to anything that she could to convince herself that these young women were her daughter. She has gullibly clung to anything that would convince herself that she is less alone.

She knows that she’s been stupid. She’s insisted on not using DNA tests immediately, saying that she’d know her daughter. She ignored evidence: the way that ponies spooked around Ashley or the way that Zelena gawked at cinnamon in her hot chocolate. Each sign a dead give away that these girls weren’t her daughter, but she’d ignored the signs and let herself be fooled. Being fooled was a little less painful that accepting her loneliness.

Her attention turns to Regina as she moved from her seat behind her desk, to rise to the window. It looks out over the castle grounds. The same window that Mary Margaret last watched her daughter from- as Emma and Liam and Liam’s brother escaped across the inky expanse of fields to disappear into the forest.

“Look, your highness,” Regina says, turning to her, lifting her from her reverie, “I’m sorry, but you need to stop looking for her. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. A needle that might not even be alive.”

Mary Margaret winces, though she knows there is validity to the woman’s point.

“But honestly, the real reason this needs to stop is because I’m worried for you,” Regina says, a trace of sympathy in her voice.

“I’m fine,” Mary Margaret begins.

“You aren’t,” Regina replies, “I’m sorry, but it’s true. You get your heart broken every time one of these girls isn’t your daughter. You can’t keep going through this. You can’t keep getting hurt.”

“But-“ Mary Margaret starts to protest.

“No buts, this is is how it is,” Regina says, “You and I both know that these girls are only trying to charm you for money, or fame, or some combination of it. I care about you and I can’t see you keep getting hurt time after time.”

“But what if the next girl is her? What if it’s Emma?” Mary Margaret whispers.

“But what if she’s not?” Regina says, “What if you go through five more girls who disappoint you? Twenty more who break your heart? It has to end now. It’s been enough.”

Mary Margaret puts down her tea, taking a breath to compose herself.

“Here’s the thing,” Regina says, “I know this is painful, I know you don’t want to hear this. But you have to give up. You have to stop waiting for her. You are only going to hurt yourself.”

Mary Margaret feels tears begin to sting her eyes, “But I never give up hope.”

Because, there is the aching truth of it, if she gives up then they are dead. Ending the search means accepting that her family was brutally murdered. It means accepting that she was the only one who was lucky enough to escape. And she can’t bare it.

Regina’s voice grows soft, as she rest what seems like her best reassuring hand on her shoulder, “Then don’t give up hope. But give up searching. Maybe your daughter is out there, maybe she will find you- but you have to stop looking.”

Mary Margaret nods limply.

“Good,” Regina says, “I’m sending out a press release that the search is over. That should put an end to the parade of princess look-a-likes.”

It’s so like Regina to be so administrative about it, press releases already drafted. Mary Margaret just tries not to sob.

“I know how your family is,” Regina tells her, “If she’s out there, you’ll find her. She’ll find you. But closing the search officially is the best way to reassure that no more fake daughters come by to break your heart. If she’s really your daughter, she won’t stop searching till she finds you.”

Mary Margaret wipes at the tears in her eyes, struck her by her friend’s kind sentiment. She’s not sure if she’ll ever find her, especially now, but her friend is right. It doesn’t mean she has to give up hope. It doesn’t necessarily mean that her daughter is certainly dead.

“How is it that you’re giving me the pep talks on hope?” She laughs, “Doesn’t this usually go the other way around?”

“It’s rather uncomfortable this way, isn’t it?” Regina says, “Let’s make sure we never rely on me to be the hopeful one again. We need our resilient queen.”

It was true, beyond anything, her job as queen means that she had to make decisions that were best for her country. Even though this is painful, it’s what was best for the country. She is just a figurehead now, but it doesn’t mean she can be selfish.

“You’re right,” Mary Margaret says, squaring her soldiers and sealing her heart, “Our kingdom does need a resilient queen. Thanks for the reminder. Is there anything that would help the press release?”

Regina flashes a rare grin, “That’s the spirit, your majesty.”

Killian doesn’t care much for the morning crowd at the bar. There aren’t a lot of decent people who start drinking at 9AM. Killian only works the morning shift on Tuesday mornings. Normally, it’s Ruby’s domain. Her sassy tongue usually shuts down the most ruthless of drunks. Killian doesn’t have Ruby’s charm. More than not the morning crowd is disappointed in seeing Killian instead of Ruby and her promiscuous apparel.

As is the case this morning. The lack of Ruby presence has made the drunks grumpy, which has made them demand more alcohol. This is only making them more and more boisterous. By 11:30, Killian has already kicked several patrons out of the bar.

It’s days like that makes his bookshop dream burn brighter in his heart. He imagines being surrounded by books instead of drunk patrons. He imagines setting up a tiny coffee bar in the corner, the smell the fresh roasted beans replacing the reek of booze. Killian knows that this is a good life he has here, still surrounded by stories and characters of their kind, but days like this he’ll trade it all for a shop full of books.

Like something out of the books on his imagined shelves, the most particular thing happens to startle his world. He is in the middle of pouring two pints when he notices the man tucked in the corner.

The man is dressed in an enormous hoodie that lingers over his eyes, leaving his identity hidden. Killian supposes this the closest 2016 came to those creepy cloaked strangers that he’s read about in fairy tales. If he were not a bartender, he would turn around and walked the other way. But well, he has to make money, even if that means attending to the more terrifying of bar attendees.

He passes the pints to the lads who asked for them and then summons his gumption to approach the menacingly dressed man who has become an unwelcome addition to the pub. He leans over to the fellow, who is hunched over, but yet still nodding him over.

“Can I help you, sir?” Killian asks.

“A whiskey,” The voice croaks.

Killian gives him a skeptical look before heading over the liquor shelf to pour the drink. He returns and places it on the table beside the man.

He is ready to turn and get away from what might be an actual skeleton face under the hood, when the man says ever so softly.

“Come closer.”

Killian glances around, looking for an escape from this situation. There aren’t any patrons waving him over, or beckoning him for more drinks, or even getting in a fight. For once in his life can’t someone be getting in a fight?

Against his better judgment, Killian bends his head forward to the hooded figure.

Yup, the guy smells like death.

“How would you like to be fabulously rich?” The man asks.

Killian doesn’t claim to know a lot of things, but he does know that when shady figures promise to make you fabulously rich, it isn’t something you should listen to.

“I’ll pass,” He says, backing away from the figure.

“5 million Euros,” The man promises.

Killian looks back. All of a sudden the thoughts of his bookshop return. It could be everything he ever dreamed of. 5 million can give that dream a chance. Isn’t it worth it just to listen to the offer? The worst he can do was tell the guy no.

“The latest princess has been deemed a fake,” The man hisses, “I need to find the real one.”

“You want me to find the princess?” He questions reasonably, “It’s been years of searching and no one has found her. Why would I be able to?”

“I think you are the kind of man who likes treasures,” The man hisses again, “I think you’ll do anything with loot as the prize.”

Killian shrugs. He might be right.

“Are there conditions?” He asks, “There has to be a catch.”

“You have 24 hours to find her, or the deal expires,” The man whispers, “Once you’ve found her, she must pass scrutiny from the queen, so don’t try to find someone close enough. It has to be her.”

Killian nods.

“And I’ve nothing to lose if I don’t find her?” He asks.

The man shakes his head, “Quite the sweet deal, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” Killian responds, “but there’s got to be a catch.”

“Ah no catches for you, dearie, just rewards,” The man says.

“Well, I guess I can try,” He offers.

“Try you will, dearie,” The man offers and extends a piece of paper with a number written on it. “Call this number when you’ve found the girl.”

“Right,” He says.

“If I don’t hear anything before tomorrow morning, the deal is off,” The man says

“Well, alright,” Killian says.

It wasn’t even a real deal was it? He finds a princess and get five million, or not find her and life continue as normal. It doesn’t even count as a deal- it’s like a treasure hunt.

He does like a good treasure hunt.

Killian takes the piece of paper, crumples it, and puts it in his pocket. What’s the harm in trying to find a princess? Besides, what are the chances he’d actually find her. It might as well be interesting to attempt it. And if he pulls it off? Well, then his dream will actually come true- as soon as tomorrow.

“Oi! Over here! Mister Bartender! Can I get me a pint or what?” A patron calls and Killian turns around to serve him.

When Killian looks back, the stranger is gone.

“Hey, Are you alright Jones?” Asks Ruby, when she came in ten minutes later, “You look spooked.”

“Nah, I’m grand, love,” He says, “Just had some curious patrons, that’s all.”

“Anything I should be worried about?” She asks, throwing her hair up in a ponytail to begin her shift.

“Nothing to worry about,” He confirms.

“Good, because those two over there look like they are itching to start a fight,” She nods at a pair of drunk men in the corner, “Enjoy your afternoon off.”

“Thanks,” He says, exiting the bar, “I will. See you later.”

It’s when Killian gets to the street that he realizes that the task at hand really hits him.

He’s going to find the princess.

For the last few years, the princess has been a thing of myth, of pop culture, of jokes. Lewdly, there has been more than one moment when Killian has witnessed someone pointing at a rather unattractive woman with a snicker saying, “Maybe that’s the lost princess.” She’s become a thing of gossip, the whole search an embarrassment to the nation as it continues to go on and on, growing more disastrous with each rejected princess. The lost princess hunt is the kind of thing of conspiracy theory. Killian’s never paid much mind to it, but he’s never thought of it as a lucrative opportunity before.

But there is something else. He knew her.

Sure, the memories are foggy. Sure, he hasn’t seen her since he was six and she was maybe three or four. Sure, all he remembers is her blond curls, her dimpled chin, and her fearless smile. But he did know her.

There is a bit of him that wonders if the stranger knows that. He doesn’t know how he could. Most people don’t know that Killian lived in the castle for his childhood. Ruby knows. He told her over the years. The Queen knows as well, obviously. So this stranger couldn’t have picked him for his history with the crown. He’d been a boy. It couldn’t have meant anything.

He sinks down on a bench nearby the river, watching a small boat tour glide by, a few ducks flying away in its wake.

She knew Liam too. The princess would have been with Liam in his final moments. If Killian can find the princess, he can finally settle the mystery that’s weighed heavy on his heart as long as he could remember. If he can find the princess, he’ll get the closure he has always yearned for. That in itself seems worthwhile.

But well, Killian doesn’t know the first thing about finding a princess, the princess. If he is going to find this lass then he’ll need to do some research first.

He springs from the bench and heads back towards the pub. Once he’s there, it’s up the stairs to his small room. He’s lived there since he arrived at Misthaven. It isn’t much- a bed, a desk, a view of Old Town and the river. He has a toilet and shower en-suite and access to the kitchens below to cook. Killian has never lived the high life, not since his stint at the castle, so this humble abode has always been plenty for him.

He swipes his laptop off his desk and heads back out the door. Across the street from the pub is a café opened by Ruby’s gran. It’s an incredible place, really. It’s hard to imagine that a 70-year-old woman was able to open the most hip café in Misthaven. Yet it exists with bright minimalist decor, silky cappuccinos, and a smooth playlist of singer-songwriter tunes. It’s the kind of place that coffee and Instagram junkies live for. It also has the most consistent WiFi in town.

Killian heads inside, giving a wave to Ruby’s gran who is lingering over the expresso machine. He sets up shop on one of the tables, connecting to the internet, and bringing up articles on the lost princess.

Lostprincesscomehome.com has the most thorough amount of information on the princess. There are articles from the day of the revolution, speculating on the princess’ escape. Killian cringes as the articles mention Liam’s name, there are plenty more that document his death.

According to the website, providing that the princess is still alive (apparently, most people think she likely died alongside his brother), there are several indisputable facts about the princess:

• She’d be 25 years old this year.
• She has blond hair (providing she hasn’t dyed it).
• She’s likely residing in America or has an American accent.
• She’ll have a scar on her left shoulder.
• She’s likely oblivious to the fact she is a princess.

Killian rolls his eyes, as he glances over the facts. There is no way he is going to find her. She is most likely in America. There’s no way that he could get to the United States and search through a sea of blonds to find some lass that no one has found in 20 years. It’s just not possible.

As Granny brings him over an Americano and a piece of cherry bread, a new idea dawns on him. What if he doesn’t find the princess? What if he just finds someone close enough?

Just as he thinks this, the door opens and in walks a young woman. She’s got a youthful face, certainly not older than her mid-twenties. She’s got blond hair, wavy and light- it’s half pulled into a little bun, half floating past her shoulders. There are a cute pair of black square rim glasses on her nose. She dressed in jeans and, a t-shirt, and a cardigan. She gorgeous.

“A large cappuccino please,” She requests at the counter, her American accent ringing out in a room full of Misthaven ones.

He’s just found- well not the princess- but well, he’s found his princess.

If Emma isn’t paying attention, it’s easy to think that she is still in America, especially at Mamie’s Café. The white walls, minimalist furniture, and row of succulents under the window recall some of her favorite hip cafes in Durham. If she squints enough, she can easily imagine Belle sitting across from her with a large stack of books and the latest English Department gossip.

It’s the kind of thought that could make her homesick if she wants it to. After all, Duke has been the closest thing she’d ever had to a home. But Emma has wanted all her life to travel, all her scholarly life to visit Misthaven- so the thought is so easy to dismiss. After all, she is an academic. Her life revolves around analyzing passages of literature- she doesn’t have time for sap. In fact, Emma will boldly tell you that she’s only made it this far in life, in academia, because she isn’t a sentimental person. So she neatly bottles up the little bit of homesickness that accidentally settled in her gut, and stores it away with the other emotions she’d gotten good at repressing.

Sometimes she thinks she might able to build castle walls out of all the emotions she’s diligently packed into bottles. Most days, she knows that she already has.

The best thing about Mamie’s, besides it’s phenomenal aesthetics, is that they have cups of coffee the size of her head. Literal bowls of coffee. Emma is pretty sure she’d forsake ever going back to America just for that.

She’s been in Misthaven for four days so far and she’s still jetlagged, as evidenced by the fact that it’s just afternoon and she’s finally getting out of bed to get some coffee. At some point she’s got to get used to European time, right?

As the coffee brings Emma back to life, she opens her laptop and takes out her notebook to start her morning routine. She’s made herself like routine. She’s never really been naturally good at organization, but it’s a survival skill she’s picked up to fight her way through school and academia.

Part one of her routine begins by checking her e-mail.

From: Professor Shepherd

Hey Em,

Just letting you know that I’m always available if you need help or advising from the Stateside! However, I’ve been in contact with Professor Hood from Misthaven University and he’s offered to meet with you as a stand-in advisor for this semester in case you need someone to run ideas by in person. Obviously, he won’t be as amazing as I am (I jest, he has a pretty impressive CV), but he should be a good resource for you in Misthaven. Hope all is well and that you’re settling in. We can have a skype advising session as you get acclimated.

• Professor Shepherd

From: Professor Hood

Ms Swan,

I’m writing to let you know that I’ll be your stand in advisor, if you so need advising during your time in Misthaven. Would you like to meet for tea next week to get to know each other and discuss the project? Let me know a time that is good for you.

• Professor Hood

From: Misthaven U Foreign Students

Attention Foreign Students at Misthaven U

We have a limited number of tickets available for Friday’s opera at a reduced student price. Let us know if you would be interested.

From: Reilly Dissertation Award

Ms Swan,

Thank you for your application to the Reilly Dissertation Grant. I am sorry to inform you that you have not been chosen for the award this year. We wish you the best of luck with your studies.

• Catherine Reilly

Emma groans while slamming her laptop shut. Her dreams aren’t going to get very far if she doesn’t get funding soon. She just has a semester to finish on her PhD. She’s received funding for her semester in Misthaven, but she’s fresh out of options when the semester ends. Sure, she could take out another loan, but she knows that her student debt is already out of hand.

It’s pretty hard to focus on finishing her dissertation and enjoying her time in Misthaven when things like “financial ruin” are hanging menacingly over her head.

She turns to her notebook, frowning as she crosses off yet another grant she’s been rejected for. She’s tried everything- grants for foster students, grants for first generation college students (not that she knows who her parents are, but she figures she can count as first-gen because of that), grants for women in academia, grants for people who just need to finish their dissertation. Nothing, zip, nada. Emma’s spent her whole life being extraordinarily lucky. It was about time her luck would run out.

She remembers all the times in her life that she wished for a fairy godmother to wave her wand and make everything better. If only her hypothetic fairy godmother had just the tiniest bit of pixie dust left in her wand.

“Excuse me, love,” A voice says, waking her from her daydream, “Can I bother you for a moment?”

She glances up from her emails and to-do list to take in the man who is standing beside her table.

He is hot. Really hot. Dark hair, stubble smattered jaw line, and blue eyes that actually shine.

Belle is an expert at this sort of thing. She’s written her master thesis on marriage plots. She is always looking for romance around her. She can point out tropes, revel in the nuances of romantic clichés, and is always looking for ways to put a feminist twist on them. Belle would probably take one look at Mr. Hottie and the adorable coffee shop in question and already be dissecting the narrative at hand.

But Emma studies post-modernism. Which is basically as un-romantic as it gets.

Also there is the thing where she doesn’t date. She never dates. Emma has one night stands, boys picked up at the bar to celebrate the end of the semester and then promptly kicked out of her apartment before she’s made coffee the next morning. Just scratch the itch and carry on. Books are infinitely preferable to male company- less distracting, less disappointing.

“What can I do for you?” She asks.

“Do you mind if I sit?” He asks.

She takes in his accent. It’s weird. Well weirder than most Misthaven accents. His accent sounds first and foremost English, with undertones of Dutch and French that are normally more prominent in Misthaven accents.

“Uh, sure go ahead,” Emma replies, because she’s like really good at talking to boys (not that she cares about them).

He settles down across from her and she gently closes her notebook, as she realizes that this is going to be a long affair.

“Right, well, I was wondering if you’d like to do me a favor,” He says.

She takes a sip of her cappuccino and thrilled to realize that the bowl size mug covers his face entirely. Ha, he can’t use his dashing good looks on her if her face is covered with a mug.

“You’d receive quite a bit of money for it,” He adds.

She lowers her mug.

Well, she is broke.

“Okay, I’m listening,” She says.

He’s about to open his mouth to explain when she cuts him off.

“Wait- this isn’t going to be prostitution?” She asks, the thought suddenly hitting her, “Or exotic dancing? Or anything nasty?”

He looks aghast, “Nothing untoward, I assure you.”

“Okay, continue then,” She says.

“Right, well I’m looking for a princess,” He begins.

She bursts out laughing, cackling more like it. What kind of person even says that in 2016?

“You’re looking for a princess?” She repeats, slowly.

Then for a moment, she’s nine again. She’s sitting on a window sill, eating garlic bread, watching snow fall, and waiting for a knight to come find her. I’m looking for a princess. That’s what she had imagined him saying, before he’d sweep her off her feet and take her to the kingdom of her dreams.

Good thing she’s become far more self-reliant since then.

“Look, a lad offered me a large sum of money to find the lost princess,” He explains, “That’s basically impossible because the lost princess, if she even exists, is in America. It would be like finding a needle in a haystack. So, I thought instead I’d find someone who could pass as the princess. The queen is so desperate to find her daughter.”

“Waits what are you asking?” She clairifies.

“I’m asking if you want to pretend to be the princess of Misthaven,” He says.

“Me? A princess?” She laughs again, “You’ve got to have the wrong person.”

“Well, you’ve got the right hair and age and accent,” He says, “Which is more than can be said about the last few women who’ve tried for it.”

“And how did you even pick me?” She questions.

He shrugs, “Would you find it rude if I said I just looked around the coffee shop?”

She smiles at this, “No, that’s surprisingly honest, and non-stalkery. I appreciate that.”

“No stalking here, milady,” He says, flashing a crooked smile, “Just a dashing rapscallion.”

“Okay, so then lets talk specifics,” She says, leaning forward, “I’m a busy lady. I’m in grad school. I’m here doing research for my dissertation. I don’t have time to wine and dine with royals.”

“I promise, minimal time,” He vows.

“And money,” She says, “How much?”

“Well, I’m getting paid 5 million euro for this,” He says, “So let’s say, we split it?”

“2.5 million euro,” Emma repeats.

Shoot. 2.5 million will do more than just pay for her final semester and her student debt. 2.5 million will change her entire life.

For a moment she pictures a proper house in a nice neighborhood, with a large library. She pictures a chance to travel- all over Europe, then maybe someplace tropical.

But something claws at Emma’s stomach. She’s made it this far because she’s realistic, even when she doesn’t want to be. This has to be too good to be true.

“I don’t really know what to say,” She admits, “You just threw a lot at me.”

“I did, didn’t I?” He says.

She takes another sip of her drink so she doesn’t have to look at him. Because his eyes really are making her feel melty and she might just say yes if she looks at him for much longer.

“Look,” He says, “Take a few hours, think it over. Let’s meet tonight for dinner. You can give me your decision then.”

He takes her pen and scribbles on an open page in her notebook.

“I’ve given you my number and where we should meet,” He says, “I’m Killian, by the way.”

She offers a hand, resigned to at least think about this asinine proposal, “I’m Emma.”

He pulls back his hand, looking at her as if he’d seen a ghost.

“Are you alright?” She asks.

“No, it’s just, well, of course you are Emma.”

Chapter Text

The worst part about this whole situation is that Emma now has to leave Mamie’s. She had just gotten comfy, started her morning - well, now afternoon - routine. But with Mr. Super-Hot-And-Wants-To-Offer-You-A-Lot-Of-Money lingering in the coffee shop, she needs her own space to process the offer.

So, she packs up her things and heads out of the café. Mamie’s is in a part of Misthaven called Old Town. Emma likes Old Town with its winding streets and ancient buildings. It’s got a smattering of high end stores that have opened up there after Misthaven’s economic revival. The weather is fair today, so there are a fair amount of people at outdoor cafes, drinking on terraces. She knows she could stay close to Mamie’s and grab a sunny seat at a different café. And yet, she’s restless and decides that she needs more space between her and Killian.

Emma crosses the bridge to the more modern part of the city. The university is here. Universities are soothing to her. Libraries, classrooms, students studying on the quad - all of these are familiar to Emma. There is the buzz of a new semester alive on campus that she loves. The campus sits on a hill overlooking the town.

She hasn’t spent that much time exploring the campus yet. She received her student ID and turned in her paperwork a few days before, but for the most part she’s spent her last few days working on her applying for visa, setting up her apartment, fighting jetlag, and guzzling Mamie’s cappuccinos.

She thinks about taking this time to explore the library and finding a book to take her mind off the situation for a couple hours, but she knows she doesn’t have that luxury. So instead, she collapses onto a bench that overlooks Old Town.

From here, she can trace the outline of the town. There are the towers of the main Cathedral, and smaller spires of a few others. The opera house rests along the river, with a distinctive domed roof. The most predominant feature of Old Town is the large castle perched on the opposite hill. It’s a mess of turrets and tall grey walls, with sprawling grounds extending backwards into the forest and hills beyond. There is something about the castle that makes Emma shiver. It’s austere. It’s dazzling.

Emma gazes up at it for a moment. She knows enough from her research to know that the Queen doesn’t live there anymore. The prime minister’s offices are there, as is parliament. It’s a government building, no longer a home. Emma thinks of the events that happened there - the first revolution, the slaughter of the Royal Family - or, well - at least part of it. Then another revolution and suicide of a dictator. Emma understands why no one would want to live there.

If she were the princess, she would have been born there. She thinks of the dreams that haunted her childhood - castle hallways, dresses that rustled when she walked, running across palace grounds at night. She knows that they were just her childish imaginings, but well, she’s never had a home. She’s never had a starting point to her story. Who is to say she isn’t the lost princess?

There is a lot of her that thinks that this plan is stupid. She’s not a princess. She’s the opposite. She’s the kind of kid who was constantly unwanted. She’s had to scrape her life together with her own bare hands.

But, she’s curious. What is there to lose? She could have a chance at money - enough to do more than just finish her degree and pay off her student loans. That’s the only reason she’s giving this offer the time of day.

There is more though. She could have a chance at a family. She had Ingrid at one point. She has Belle now. But she’s never a real family - no mothers or fathers or aunts or uncles. If this somehow works, if she somehow charms the queen into thinking she is her daughter, then she’d have a home. She’d have someone who care about her.

What is she thinking ?

Emma pinches herself, shaking the thought of family from her mind with vehemence. She’s only made it this far because she’s relied on herself. She’s only made it this far by not letting anyone in. She has her walls and fierce independence because it’s been the only way for her to survive. She doesn’t need a family. She doesn’t need this plan. 

But, isn’t this plan the best solution to her problem?

She was literally just waiting for something to fall in her lap and it did. Duke fell in her lap. Blanche Neige fell into her lap. She’s taken advantage of each of those opportunities and used them to get ahead. So shouldn’t she, in her very plucky nature, take advantage of this opportunity to get ahead? 

Yes, she should. She squares her shoulders. She is going to give it a shot. Not because of sentimental things, like family, like home. Not because the guy who offered her this opportunity is sex-on-a-stick. She’s doing this because she needs money. She needs to finish her PhD. That’s it.

He’s waiting outside the restaurant a half hour early. It’s nearly dusk and the streets are milling with activity. Young and old couples, families of tourists, small packs of teenagers making their ways to restaurants and bars to begin their evening. Their fluttering of moment sends a feeling of anticipation into the air. He wonders if she’ll show.

Emma.

He can’t believe she’s called Emma. What are the chances that this girl he randomly found would not only be blond and American, but also named Emma?

And her chin, she has the same dimpled chin that the princess did. 

It’s just enough that he thinks they might be able to pull this off. He lived in the castle. He technically knew the lost princess. His brother was the last one to see her alive.  If anyone could have found the real princess - it’s him.

And, well, if anyone is going to convince the queen that she is the princess - it might be this girl.

That is, if she shows up.

He waits a half hour till it’s the time she’s supposed to be here. Then his eyes are on his watch as he waits for five minutes to pass, then ten, then fifteen. Maybe she isn’t coming. She was really skeptical. It was a lot to throw on someone who was just minding their business.

It’s probably unrealistic anyway. She must have a family of her own. She must have friends she cares about. She’s probably just here on holiday - she said something about research right? She can’t just give it all up to pretend to be a princess. So what? So he can open a bookshop? His life is pretty good. He doesn’t need anything more and he doesn’t need to draw a random girl into this messy plan. It’s good that she hasn’t shown up. She’ll be better off without this plan.

“Hey,” a voice interrupt his thoughts, “Killian, right?”

It’s her. She’s changed from earlier. She wearing a sundress and a jean jacket. Her hair is up in a ponytail. Her glasses are gone too, revealing mossy green eyes.

She is still gorgeous.

“Emma.” He says, not trying to sound so surprised.

“Sorry, I’m a little late,” she says, “I just-“

“No need to apologize,” he replies, “let’s just get dinner, shall we, love?”

He ushers her into the restaurant. It’s a nice place. He used to go to school with the owner’s daughter, but she died in the revolution. He wishes he was he here for that. He should have died for the country instead of her. Those in the revolution were braver than him. 

They are seated in the back, in a table he requested in advance because it’d be more private. He doesn’t want to risk someone overhearing his plan. He asks the waiter to bring over a nice bottle of red.

 “So,” he says, beginning to ramble, his hesitations coming back. “Have you given it any thought? Because I was thinking about it and it was unfair for me to even put you up to this. It was selfish-“

 “No.” She interrupts him this time. “It’s actually perfect. Granted, I’m not really the kind of girl who does this kind of thing. I’m not anything close to a princess. But I really, really need money.”

 “Fair enough.” He says, “I understand that the fiscal reward makes it all worth it. So if you aren’t a princess- just who are you, Swan?”

 “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she says, raising her eyebrows.

 Just then, the wine arrives. He nods at the waiter to let the lady taste it first. When she gives a small smile and nods, he beckons at the waiter to pour two glasses.

 When the waiter is out of earshot, he raises his glass, “To our potential business arrangement.”

 She lifts her glass back and then takes a few huge gulps. “We should talk about specifics.”

 “Yes, precisely,” he replies. “But look, I see the waiter heading back over. So let’s order, shall we?”

 “Shoot,” Emma says, flipping through the menu, “I haven’t had time to look yet. What’s good here?”

 “Well, Misthaven cuisine is mostly a mix of French, Belgian and Dutch foods,” He explains quickly, “It’s the best of both worlds really. You’ve got the superb pastry and crepes of France. The excellent chocolate and chips from Belgium. Then there is amazing cheese from Holland. Honestly, you can’t go wrong with anything.”

 Emma’s face is still baffled as the waiter approaches for the order.

 “Ladies first,” he says, turning to Emma.

 “Um, I’ll have the crepe,” she said, her forehead adorably wrinkled.

 The waiter nods and turns to Killian.

 “Pour moi, le steak-frite, s’il vous plait,” He replies.

 The waiter jots their order down and is off again.

 "See, love, you survived,” Killian says.

 “I think I’ve had a crepe before at like iHop,” Emma tells him.

 “What’s iHop?” he asks. It’s his turn to be perplexed.

 “It’s like a really cheap pancake place,” Emma starts, “Nevermind. I didn’t eat a lot of global cuisine growing up.”

 “Well it’s lucky you are getting to Misthaven now then,” Killian says, “You’ll have plenty of time to eat amazing food.”

 Emma smiles and for moment he thinks they both forget the situation at hand. For a moment, they are just two friends out for dinner. For a moment, they aren’t about to undertake a preposterous plot to fool the Queen of Misthaven.

 But well, that can only last for so long.

 “Right, so, specifics,” He says, “Honestly, I can’t tell you too much because I don’t know that much.”

 “What do you mean? You’re the one who approached me with this deal.”

 “Right, but, well, like I said a man approached me to find the princess and I thought you’d be close enough,” He explains, shrugging apologetically with a nervous smile.

 “You really know how to make a girl feel special,” she snorts.

 “Well, I thought you were fake-princess material, so there’s probably a compliment in there if you search for it,” he smiles.

 “So what would happen if I say yes?”

 “Well, we’d call the chap who put me up for it and he’ll tell us the next step. It will probably involve telling the queen, convincing her it’s you, etcetera.”

 “Wait. Can’t she just do a DNA test and figure it out?” Emma asks. It’s a good question.

 “Well, from the research I’ve done, it seems that in the past she’s insisted that she would ‘know her daughter’ and refused DNA testing. The only time it’s been used was after each girl was revealed as an imposter.”

 Emma nods, as if checking off a mental list of questions. “So, right, that’s question number two - what happens if they think I’m an imposter?”

 “Well, in the past, two of the girls have ended up jail,” he begins -

 “What? No way. I’m not going to jail. I have a career,” she erupts.

 Panic is bright in her eyes. It seems to draw from him an unexpected reaction.

 “I’ll take the fall,” he offers.

 He blurts it out too quickly. It doesn’t make sense.Why would he risk jail for some lass he just met? He doesn’t need his dream to workout for him to live a decent life. He wants to open his bookshop, desperately. He wouldn’t have taken on this task if he didn’t want his dream to have a chance. All the same, he knows he could see a future where he is happy without this dream coming true.

 But she won’t. She needs this money for whatever reason, a reason desperate enough to give this plan a chance. He doesn’t know much about her. He knows she’s pretty. He thinks she mentioned being in grad school, so he knows she’s probably smart. She has a fierce look in her eyes that he can’t ignore. He has this urge to protect her, to help her. Hell, he doesn’t even know what she needs the money for. It doesn’t matter. He feels something for her, something kindred that lingers in her eyes. It’s enough for him to suddenly want to risk everything.

 And practically speaking, he has a record. It wouldn’t be a surprise for someone like him to end up in jail again. He can take that worry from her. He can protect her.

 The waiter appears with their food, suddenly, shaking him from his thoughts. The man puts their warm plates down before walking off.

 Emma takes a bite of her crepe, which from the looks of it is stuffed with mushroom, egg, tomato, and cheese.

 “Wow. You were right, Killian. This is really good,” she remarks.

 “Told you that you were lucky to be in Misthaven,” he tells her. He wonders if those words resonate on many levels.

 “So, what’s next?” Emma asks.

 “First, we need to talk about your specifics,” he says.

 She takes another bite of crepe as he continues.

 “How long are you here for?” he asks.

 “A semester,” she says, “til December.”

 That’s good , he decides, sufficient time to secure the money.

 “And you’ll have to keep your family quiet,” he says.

 “That’s easy,” she smiles, “I don’t have a family.”

 Shit. This girl is really perfect for this job.

 “No family at all?” he asks.

 “Nope. Long sad story, but the important thing is that there isn’t anyone who will be offended that I’m claiming someone else is my mom.”

 “Brilliant.” He nods. “What about friends?”

 “Just one best friend and she’s too busy in grad school to care. But I’ll tell her to stay mum anyway.”

 He pops a frite in his mouth.

 “What about a boyfriend?” He asks. He knows this question is self-indulgent. What can he say? He’s curious.

 “No boyfriend,” she says, “no exes. I’m not really a dating type.”

 A curious fact he files in his brain for further thought.

 “Well, then it looks like you truly are the perfect woman for the job,” he says.

 “So what happens now?” She asks, eating more crepe.

 “Well, we call the gentleman, and by gentleman, I mean the scariest man you’ve ever met,” he says, “And tell him we are interested in the deal. Then I assume he’ll arrange a chance to meet the queen and present our case.”

 She looks nervous.

“So, I’m up to meet with the guy, it’s just that this whole plan, it makes me hesitant. But, well, like I said, I really need money.”

He wonders what she needs the money for, maybe a hasty bet or some sort of horrible debt. He wants to ask, but thinks better of it. Emma deserves some privacy.

“Listen, Emma, love, I’ll be with you the whole way. If anything seems off, if you feel unsafe - I’ll be right beside you.”

He can tell there is still hesitation in her face. There is still something holding her back. He can’t solve all her problems, but he maybe a little smolder will help.

He tries for his most charming face, a crooked smiled and some uneven eyebrows, and then tosses her a, “Try something new, darling, it’s called trust.”

She rolls her eyes, but her face finally erupts into a true smile and he thinks that everything might be alright.

After their meal, she watches as he calls the man.

All she can think is that she would much rather be in her apartment with her fuzzy socks and a good book. But she’s here. The evening air has gone cold and windy, her sundress floats around her and she feels her legs prickle with goosebumps. She doesn’t want to be here.

“Right,” he says, “he wants us to meet him in twenty minutes.”

“Meet him where?”

She imagines a dark alley somewhere and then her imagination turns it into something uncouth. Who is to say this isn’t going to lead to a trap? Maybe this was all a scheme to get her in a position to rob her, or worse.

“A shop nearby,” He says, “Look, I don’t know who this guy is, but I haven’t told you any lies. I’ll stick with you through this.”

Emma flashes him a doubtful look, because honestly, she’s not really sure she trusts him let alone this shady fellow they are about to meet. She’s starting to think this was a bad idea. She likes to think she could handle herself if she ended up in a bad situation, but she isn’t too sure - especially if she has to face two men. She took a women’s self-defense class in undergrad, but, in the end, she’s not sure if she remembers any of it.

But she plasters on a determined look and vows to give it a shot anyway.

“Right, let’s go,” she says.

They wind through curvy streets. It’s later now and the streets are milling with people having evenings out. There are groups of girls and boys, dressed up and floating out of bars. She wishes she were them, going out to meet new friends and not off to meet a potentially questionable fate.

Yet, she shuffles behind this guy anyway because she’s just a little bit curious.

And she really needs money.

They come to a stop outside a pawn shop on the edge of Old Town, just before it gives way to more residential roads.

It looks dingy on the outside, as if it’s only half used. Or you know, like it’s a front for more shady affairs. There is peeling paint, a boarded-up window. Most of Misthaven has been rebuilt and tidied since the revolution, but it seems like this little nook got passed over.

Emma starts trying to dredge up anything she can remember from that women’s self-defense class. She’s pretty sure if someone grabs her wrist, she can twist it to escape - but twist it which way? She can’t remember. Crap, she’s hopeless.

Killian cracks open the door and they enter the shop. Inside, the air is thick and musty. There are dusty cases containing trinkets and mementos. She looks over at one, full of memorabilia from during the time under the reign of the dictator. There is paraphernalia - pamphlets with Gold’s face on them, buttons with his leering smile. She feels sick and looks over at another cabinet. This one is full of jewels. In the center is a tiny, glittering tiara.

There is something startling about the crown. It’s familiar . She wonders if maybe she played dress up with one that looked like that an early foster home. But it looks too nice to be anything she’d find in a foster home. Everything she was given in her childhood was shit.

“Like what you see, Your Highness?” asks a voice with a chuckle.

She looks up to see a man, just as creepy as Killian described - dark hoodie that covers his face, vague smell of death.

She jumps at his words, not used to the title. She supposes she should get used to it if she is going to impersonate the princess for the next few months.

“Lovely jewels,” she murmurs.

“Lovely indeed,” the death-man hisses.

His voice is a mix of something snake-like and something impish. It makes her blood curdle.

“That crown belonged to the princess,” the man explains.

She looks up at him and he zeroes in on her face. He walks to other side of the case to take her in. He circles her, looking her up and down. Then he stops so they are face to face. He runs a dirty finger along her chin and she tries not to flinch. She can see Killian in her peripheral standing defensively, as if ready to jump in and help her.

“She’s not the princess, is she?” he asks Killian.

“What are you talking about?” Killian replies, “Of course, she is.”

“Yeah right, dearie, I gave you this challenge this morning.” He snarls, “There is no way you’ve found the princess in such short time.”

Killian grimaces.

So maybe the jig is up, but maybe that’s for the best. This guy is giving Emma major heeby jeebies.

“She’s the real thing,” Killian insists.

“Oh please,” Mr. Creepy says, “Don’t lie to me boy. Don’t try to pass off a fake on me. I’m a connoisseur of rare goods. I notice when the quality of my goods are - lacking or inauthentic.”

She exchanges a glance with Killian, as the man retracts his hand from her face and circles her again.

“I will say that she’s a good fake.” He squeaks, “While she’s not what I was looking for, she might be able to convince the queen. That woman is willing to believe anything just to think her daughter is alive again.”

He brushes a lock of her hair, before adding, “I think that you might be lucrative.”

Emma stomach curls again. She doesn’t like the implication that she’s a money making device. It seems just one step away from prostitution.

She tries to make eye contact again with Killian. She wonders if he is just as uncomfortable as she is.

“Hmm, yes,” the man says. “Well, if we are going to pull this off, it will be more difficult than I expect. Take a look at this.”

He shoves an article, fished out of his pocket, to Emma. Killian peeks over her shoulder at the article as Emma begins to read it.

In a press conference today, Queen Mary Margaret announced that she has closed the search for her missing daughter.

“The loss of my daughter and husband in 1995 was devastating. It was only by a stroke of pure luck that I was able to survive and escape the revolution. I spent twenty years in exile, comforted only in knowing that my daughter escaped safely. When I returned to find her untraceable, her guard murdered, I could only think of finding her. But the past few years have led to nothing but cruel disappointment. I love my daughter and I remain hopeful that she might still be alive somewhere. But I’ve come to the realization that a public search is no longer the most productive way to locate her. I am officially calling off the search. I will no longer accept submissions of tips or applications for consideration. If my daughter is out there, I know that she will find me. We always do.”

The announcement comes on the heels of the reveal of Zelena Marshall impersonating Princess Emma. Ms. Marshall’s was the third attempt so far, leaving behind a trail of disappointment after each woman’s attempt….

Princess Emma. She must have forgotten that, that the lost princess shared the same name as her. She’s studied the Misthaven Royal Family a bit for her dissertation, but her research primarily focused on the period that followed the revolution, rather than the revolution itself (Though now that she thinks of it, it might make a terrific argument to pull in - saying that use of fairy tale as a motif displays a nostalgia for the royal family and monarchical regime).

“What?” Killian shouts, “All this has been for nothing.”

“Oh, dearie, I don’t agree.” The hooded man says, “This situation may still allow us to make money. We’ll have to convince the queen differently. We can’t waltz right in there. We’ll have to build her trust. Well, you two will.”

“There isn’t anything I can do by means of convincing,” Killian protests.

“We both know that’s not true,” the man leers. “I didn’t pick just anyone to help me with this task.”

Killian grimaces. Emma wonders what his secret might be, why he might be so helpful.

She doesn’t like this, the secrets, the manipulation. This isn’t something she is ready for. It’s one thing to try to follow an opportunity that falls into her lap, but it’s another to get this deep in a scheme she doesn’t really believe in. And this feels wrong. Killian was okay - but this other guy is making her stomach churn. She doesn’t want anything to do with him. She doesn’t want to be an accomplice to anything he is dreaming up.

He turns to her, a devious glint in his eyes.

“Well, dearie,” he says to her, “first things first, take off that jean jacket.”

“What? Why?” She asks, her voice sounding distant to her.

He chuckles darkly as he pulls a large knife from his sweatshirt. Her stomach flips. She had worried that this place could be a front for drugs or maybe even trafficking, but now she is worried that this might be the place of her murder.

The man steps closer, putting the blade of the knife up to her chin, as he reaches to push her jacket off of her shoulders. She feels violated by this movement, an unwilling undressing.

“Because the princess has a scar on her shoulder and you need to match. A princess without a scar? Well,” He says, as her jacket hits the floor and she feels blood well at the dip in her chin, “the jig is up.”

Emma glances wildly at Killian. He looks pale and sick. She knows that he must feel uncomfortable about this too. How can he not?

“I’ve changed my mind,” she announces.

The hooded man doesn’t seem to hear her and he raises the knife. She swallows in fear. She hopes it is going to hit her shoulder and not like a vital organ.

Then Killian knocks a cabinet over. The glass shatters in a loud crash. Dust flies up into the air, clouding her eyes and nose.

“What have you done?” The man hisses.

“You heard the lass, she said she changed her mind,” Killian roars.

Emma runs. Through the commotion, she finds the door and pushes. She turns briefly to flash a grateful smile at Killian. Then she is outside, safe, running over the cobblestones to put as much space as she can between herself and the nightmare she just witnessed.

It’s cold out now, especially without her jacket, but she is full of adrenaline and fear. She can’t slow down. She doesn’t want the man to follow her. She just wants to put it behind her, to forget his snake-like voice, his dark hood, the feeling of his knife against her chin.

She hopes that Killian is okay. She knows that he had good intentions, even if he did lead her into the scariest situation she’s ever been in. She still has his number in her pocket, so she can call him later if she gets really worried. But part of her already knows that she won’t. She just wants this all behind her. She doesn’t want to think about it again. She’ll find another way to pay for her final year.

She gets to the river where the tram stop is. For the first lucky moment in her day, the tram is waiting when she gets there. She hurries on and grabs a seat by the window. The train begins to move, following along the river, then across it. It winds past the university, past the business district, until it reaches her neighborhood.

It’s a young area full of student residences and young professional apartments. There are plenty of trendy cafes, gyms, and bars. While Mamie’s still remains her favorite Misthaven café and study place, she appreciates the hip vibe of this neighborhood. Tonight, it’s soothing to her. There is the sound of parties - laughter and loud music - wafting out of some of the apartments. Gangs of students, chattering mostly in French or Dutch, linger outside the bars, smoking and drinking with friends. It feels safer here. If the city is so alive, she can’t feel alone.

She walks the two blocks to where her apartment is. She was fortunate that there was a biology PhD that was spending the semester at Duke and they could do an easy swap between the two of them. When she’d talked to him briefly, he had sound like a mess. He’d even been a little drunk during their skype chat. But the apartment itself had been neat as could be. It was a bright place, a one bedroom with white walls, a few potted plants, and a desk with a view of a cute park. She knows that she’s lucky to have scored a place like this for her semester in Misthaven.

As she soon as she gets in, she puts the kettle on, hoping that a cup of tea and a book will settle her mind. Books are always her go to comfort in times like this. She scans the shelf of her sparse book collection that she’d brought with her. She settles on Emma by Jane Austen. She isn’t much for stories of regency dresses and marriage plots, that is always Belle’s domain. Emma herself prefers something a little darker, with an interplay between past and present, a fusion of a culture or history into it. Yet, she can’t resist Emma ’s spirit and tenacity. It is a secret favorite. And maybe she likes that it was named after herself.

But as she settles on the sofa, with her tea and book and a worn grey blanket - she still won’t settle. As her eyes glance over the title, she can’t help but think of the lost princess. Emma .

“Your Highness,” the lecherous man had called her.

It was like an echo. It was like a dream.

She gets up from the couch, too restless to sit still. Instead, she heads for the shower. Maybe hot, steamy water will sooth her where books could not.

She takes off her dress, still mourning the loss of her favorite jean jacket, and tosses it into the laundry basket. She climbs into the shower, cranking the water way up until it burns. She remembers a foster home where she was limited to five minute showers with cold water only. Ever since then, she’s cherished hot showers.

She feels the tension leave her shoulders, as she reaches up rub them. There is a small part, which she pushes away immediately, that wonders what it would be like if Killian would be the one rubbing her shoulders in the shower. She knows that’s not possible.

As begins her rub on her aromatherapy lavender body wash, her eyes drift to her shoulders. She swallows as her eyes follow the thin silver line that begins at the edge of her collarbone and travels down the arc of her shoulder. It’s a scar that’s been there for as long as she can remember, since before she was found alone in the airport. She’s always been ashamed of it, thinking it was proof that her life was hard before she could remember it. But now, she wonders if it’s something else.

If it’s a key, an imprint, an echo of the life she never knew.

Chapter Text

Unfortunately, the incident with Killian and the creepy guy forces her to avoid Mamie’s. She doesn’t know if she’ll run into him there and she is not ready to talk about what happened in that scarier-than-hell pawn shop, or whatever it was. Honestly, she doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to.

Instead, she makes do with coffee made in the French press she finds in the apartment’s cupboard. It’s not great and certainly not as wonderful as Mamie’s, but well she’ll take what she can get.

She throws herself instead into university life to give herself proper distraction. As part of her fellowship with Misthaven University, she’s responsible for teaching a course to undergraduates. She finds out this week that she’s assigned to teach an Intro to American Lit class. She hasn’t really dealt extensively with American literature class, it’s certainly not her specialty. She imagines that they gave it to her just because she is American. Emma spends an afternoon sifting through books and trying to pick some novels selections for the semester. It’s hard to decide on a proper survey, weighing the options of a more traditional canon American reading list against a more diverse one.

The next day, she crafts the syllabus. It’s several hours in the library with a thermos of coffee and a bag of croissants and stroopwafel (dang, at least Misthaven has one thing right- the perfect intersection of food). The library in Misthaven is gorgeous. While most of the university buildings are more modern architecture, the library is older. Its rich wood and elegant windows makes her feel like she’s in a fairy tale. It’s the closest she’ll get, so she might as well enjoy it. She outlines the entire course, including details on papers and reading assignments. She realizes that classes in Europe might actually be different than they are in America, but she doesn’t really know how else to structure a class, so she goes for it.

On Friday morning, she finds herself in Professor Hood’s office for her advising meeting. He’s younger than she imagined, probably late thirties or early forties. His office is sunny and decorated with illustrations of various English folk stories and legends.

“How have you been settling in?” He asks her, as she slides down into a seat and he passes her a cup of tea.

He speaks with a crisp English accent, no trace of a Misthaven accent. She assumes he must be an implant like herself.

“I’m doing well,” she tells him.

“You’ve secured lodgings and all that?” He asks.

“Yeah, I’ve done an apartment swap,” she informs him.

“That’s great. Sometimes foreign students can have trouble with that kind of thing,” he tells her.

“No problems here.”

“And the culture shock isn’t too much?” He asks, “I know it was hard for me when I got here.”

Culture shock? She thinks. More like “worry for my life” shock . But she can’t tell this random professor about her brief dalliance with scamming the Queen. Or the creepy man in the pawn shop who might’ve tried to kill her. Or the stupidly attractive Misthaven guy who made her heart a little swoony.

Instead, she smiles sweetly and says, “It’s not terrible. I’ve been dreaming of visiting Misthaven for so long, so I think it’s mostly just excitement for now. I’m sure the culture shock will kick in soon enough.”

“Good to hear. If you ever need suggestions for places to go, let me know. I’ve been in Misthaven for a while, so I’ve found the expat troves.”

“How did you find yourself here?” She asks.

Emma is becoming increasingly curious about this guy. There aren’t a ton of expats in Misthaven, since the borders have only been open a few years. He’s not a visiting professor either. She wonders how this British man ended up with a secure place on the Misthaven staff.

“Love,” he says, blushing, “I was working on my undergrad at the University of Nottingham and I fell for a visiting student from Misthaven. I followed her here. Just after that, the Crown fell and we were trapped here. We made the best of it and got married. We needed something to be happy about.”

Emma likes stories, even personal ones. Suddenly she wants to know all of Professor Hood’s story. Besides, part of her research involves listening to stories of resistance and accounts from people who lived through the Dark Times. This seems to be a place to start.

“That’s so sweet,” Emma prods, gently, “What happened after that?”

He smiles, thinking of his wife then sighs, as he continues to spin his story. “It was a dark time for academia. There was a witch hunt here for people who had royal sympathies or who were opposed to Gold’s dictatorship. A lot of professors lost their jobs, most imprisoned, some worse.”

Emma can’t imagine living under such a harsh regime. Academia has always been her safe escape. This story is turning from sweet to scary in a matter of words.

“That’s horrible. Were you okay?” Emma asks.

He grimaces, painful memories stretched out across his face.

“Sorry,” Emma says quickly, “This is really personal. You don’t have to tell me these things if you are uncomfortable.”

He shakes his head, “It’s okay. I wanted to work with you for a reason, Emma. When I saw your proposal, I jumped at the chance to have our story told, the stories of many like us told. The work you are doing is rare and important.”

Emma nods and carefully slips her notebook out to start jotting down notes. Professor Hood takes a sip of his tea and then continues.

“Eventually my name went onto a black list and I was certain that I was bound for prison. My wife and I decided it was best for me to go into hiding. I spent three years living in a secret panel in my basement. It was maddening, but my wife, my Marian, she took exceptional care of me and never let me grow lonely.”

“That’s great of her,” Emma says. She wonders if she’ll get to meet this woman. From this story it sounds like they are a perfect match.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice melancholic, “we were both growing impatient. Things were getting worse and worse. Food was being rationed and we shared just her ration, so we were both constantly hungry. Oil was rationed as well and everything was always cold. I was worried I was going to spend my whole damn life freezing in that basement and Marian blamed herself for moving us here. So, we got involved in the resistance movement. She was in deeper than I was, since she could leave the house. She eventually ended up being part of the team that planned the final battle for the castle, the movement that ended the Dark Times in Misthaven.” He gulps, “but she met her end there.”

Emma’s mouth opens in shock. She’s read countless things about Misthaven resistance movements, but it’s different to hear it from someone who lived through it.

“Thanks for telling me that,” she says, not knowing if she should reach out in comfort, but she hardly knows him. Instead, she busies her hands taking notes. “I’m really sorry about your wife. That’s part of why I’ve come here, though. I want to understand resistance better from people who lived through it. I want to be able to argue how and why Blanche Neige used her books to encourage revolution.”

“Well, I can certainly help you find people to interview,” He says, “Those of us who remain from the resistance are still very close. We’d be happy to help you find people for your project.”

“Thanks so much,” she says, finishing her notes.

“What else do you need help with?” he asks.

“Well, I’m hoping to use the Misthaven U Folk and Fairytale collection to look at the stories she based her novels on,” Emma adds.

“That’s great idea. We have some rare collections that I can grant you access to.”

“Amazing,” Emma breathes, excited at the very notion of pouring over the old tomes.

“If you need help with anything else, let me know,” Professor Hood finishes.

“I will,” she promises, stacking up her notebooks as she feels the short meeting approaching it’s end.

“And will you send me your thesis so far?” He asks, “I don’t think I’ve actually been sent it yet- I’d love to give you feedback if you are up for it?”

“That’s great,” Emma says, earnestly, “All I want is for this thing to be the best it can be.”

“I look forward to reading it. Do you have plans for tonight?” he asks.

Emma’s feels her forehead wrinkle. Her new advisor is hitting on her? That’s definitely unprofessional, not mention that he’s far too old. And he just told her the story of his dead wife.

“Sorry,” he amends, seeing where her thoughts had turned, “Not like that. It’s just that they give out free opera house tickets to foreign students every Friday. They do really great performances there, operas and ballets, if you like that kind of thing. Even if you don’t, it’s a nice excuse for an evening out and the building is gorgeous.”

“Oh thanks for the tip,” Emma says. “I’ll think about it.”

She bids her goodbyes and gathers her stuff.

The Opera isn’t a bad idea. She’s still spooked from the events earlier this week and she’d rather not spend the night alone in her apartment. Plus, it might be a way to meet some other foreign students, since she is yet to make friends. Other than Killian, if you counted the 12 hours they were wary friends.

She stops by the foreign student office on her way to the tram and picks up a ticket for the performance that night. It’s an opera by Samuel Barber. She doesn’t know much about opera, so she hopes it’s alright.

When she gets off the tram in her neighborhood, she finds herself ducking into little clothing stores to window shop. This area has a lot of thrift shops and independent boutiques.

Emma won’t deny that she misses her old jean jacket. She’s upset that it was a casualty of that horrible night. There was something comforting about the worn jacket - it was a talisman of sorts, protecting her from harm. She weaves through racks at the thrift shop looking for a replacement. She fingers tan suede jackets, black corduroy ones, and a bright pink windbreaker.

A red jacket catches her eye and she slips it on. It feels right. After her last jacket was ripped from her shoulders, this one feels steady, like armor. It’s the kind of jacket that is perfect for a girl who has always had to do everything for herself.

She buys the thing, spending more than she had planned to. But hey, she got a free ticket to the opera. She can splurge on something .

It’s just past noon when she gets back to her apartment and she’s exhausted. Honestly, this week has been so fricken much. She needs to escape and not think about her grant applications or the creepy man in the pawn shop. She hasn’t been sleeping well, images of that night dancing before her eyes and make it hard for her to calm down. All Emma wants to do is relax. She tosses her opera ticket and new jacket onto the counter and heads over to her bookshelf.

Today she needs an old favorite, she picks up a Blanche Neige book. This is one of her favorites, Towering Hope , a twist on Rapunzel. It’s much more empowering than the traditional fairy tale. In this version, the savior of Misthaven is trapped in a castle. There is a hero, a dashing rapscallion of a thief, who comes to save her from the tower - but only so that she can use her powers to save the whole country and lead them all to freedom. Emma’s always liked this narrative because while the damsel gets rescued from the tower, she’s also the hero of the story. That’s what she loves about Blanche Neige, the way that her stories are always empowering, always about resisting, and yet still have the magic and charm of fairy tales.

The story is more than familiar, it’s like an old favorite song. She’s read it countless times. She’s analyzed it and wrote essays on it. Somewhere along the familiar pages and the softness of being curled up on the sunny sofa, Emma falls asleep.

When she awakes, the light is low and she finally feels rested for the first time that week. She can’t remember her dream, but she knows that there were traces of Towering Hope in it, but that the thief had Killian’s eyes. Stupid, attractive Killian. She wishes she could get him out of her head so she could move on from that night, that idiotic idea. But she can’t.

She pushes him out of her mind, for now at least. She has bigger things to do, like get ready for this opera.

Emma has never really owned the sort of things that one wears to an opera, but after rummaging in her closet for a bit, she picks out a plain black dress and a statement necklace. With a pair of heels and some red lipstick, she figures she can almost pull it off.

She quickly makes a mug of coffee with the French press, toasts a few slices of bread, and then she’s out the door. It’s a tram ride into town, just across the river to Old Town. The opera house sits along the water. It’s ornate, as an opera house should be, white with gold accents and a domed roof.

Outside, she finds a person carrying a sign that reads “Misthaven U Foreign Students” and she joins the crowd. There is a cluster of undergrad students speaking very quickly to each other in Korean, two girls chattering in what might be Norwegian, and a few more chattering in French. Emma was expecting to use this outing as an opportunity to make new friends, but she quickly realizes this might not be the case.

The group moves into the opera house and Emma shuffles along beside them. She squares her shoulders as she walks in. She doesn’t need friends. She’s always gotten through life on her own grit and perseverance. She’s going to enjoy the night even if she is by herself.

The opera house is lovely and certainly distracts her from her problems. There are gold and marble embellishments everywhere, fresh flowers, and velvet draping. Emma wants to look at all of it all at once, but the group is guided along to where their seats are.

Emma glances through her program as the curtain drops and then all at once she’s absorbed in the show.

And it’s weird. It’s really weird. An older woman is waiting for her lover, Anatole, to return to her - but his son does instead. And somehow she falls in love with him? But he impregnates her niece. Yeah, it’s super weird.

At the interval, Emma downs a glass of red wine because she knows that’s the only way she’ll make it through the rest. Plus, the broody plot lends itself to red wine.

By the end of the opera, three and half hours that feel like the longest of her life, the wine has made its way through her system. All she can think is that she has to pee. Like right now.

While the applause starts, she bolts out of her seat and dashes to the closest bathroom before the bows begin. As much as she should feel bad for not adding the applause, she really doesn’t because the opera was so strange.

As she exits the toilets, she washes her hands and pauses to fix her hair.

“So, what did you think?” asks a voice and Emma glances up to see the woman next to her.

Standing beside her at the mirror is a woman with short cropped hair and a nice pantsuit. Her face is lightly lined. She’s probably in her late forties, maybe early fifties. She has an elegant way of carrying herself that Emma envies. She’s always had atrocious posture.

Emma tries for something intellectual to say. This lady seems like the serious opera type.

“Well, it was certainly literary,” Emma manages, after all, she is really good at analyzing things. “The plot was wholly modernist, I think. Though I think anything with that many Oedipal allusions isn’t necessarily my cup of tea.”

“It’s okay, I won’t be offended if you say it sucked,” the woman says.

She has a clear, posh Misthaven accent to her English - with a hint of something that Emma can’t quite place. She’s the kind of woman you’d never expect to say the word “sucked.”

“Okay,” Emma laughs, “It did kinda suck.”

“Honestly, I think most operas in English tend to,” she explains, “Maybe go to an Italian, or even a French one, next time around.”

“I’ll have to remember that,” Emma says.

“Is it your first time at the opera?” asks the lady.

Emma nods, a little shyly. She’s an intellectual. She doesn’t like to admit not knowing things.

“Well, I hope it doesn’t deter you from coming back,” the lady says, “There are usually very nice shows on here. There is a very promising ballet planned for next Friday, if that interests you. It should be a bit better than this.”

Emma laughs, “yeah, maybe I’ll come back. I’m here for the next few months.”

“Here, I’ll make it easy for you,” the lady says, “I can arrange some free tickets for you.”

Geesh , Emma thinks, they must be desperate in this town to get people into the opera house if they are always giving out free tickets.

“That’ll be great,” Emma says, sounding more enthusiastic than she actually is. She’d feel bad disappointing this opera aficionado who seems so zealous about getting Emma interested in this place.

“I’ll leave two tickets next Friday at the door under your name,” she tells her, “What is it?”

“Emma, Emma Swan.”

The woman’s eyes widen and she shivers. Emma can feel her looking her up and down, before she meets her eyes, staring intensely.

“Sorry, is something wrong?” Emma asks.

The woman startles, “what? No, sorry. I’ll arrange the tickets for you, Emma.”

“Uh, thanks,” Emma replies feeling a little awkward.

The woman exits the bathroom with a final, closed mouthed smile. Emma turns back to the mirror and gazes at her reflection. What had the woman been looking for? What had she seen?

Killian has often dreamt of the night he fled the castle. The screams of the queen echoing through the castle. The feeling of air tearing through his lungs as he runs as fast as his short legs will take him to his gran’s cottage. The empty, hollow feeling as he watches Liam and a small bob of blonde hair disappear from sight. Killian knows that dream well.

So, when a new one begins, it startles him.

The night he returns from the pawn shop, his bones rattled, his hand still shaking from the altercation with stranger, the new dream begins.

He climbs in bed, thinking of Emma. For a moment, he had been sure that the man was going to kill her. The knife raised above her, the fierce look in her eyes replaced by terror - he thought that he’d led the girl to her demise. He hopes that creating a diversion was enough of an apology to her for the mess he dragged her into. He knows she probably won’t ever forgive him for the trouble he caused her, but he’ll miss the lass. He’s known her for a day and he’s already charmed by her quick mind and golden hair.

Her golden hair somehow fades into another’s.

He dreams that night of being a child in the palace. He dreams of the tiny apartment that he and Liam had in the basement. They shared a bed, Killian just small enough to fit under this brother’s shoulder.

He dreams of the royal library, where he discovered new books and would spend hours stretched out on the floor flicking through pages - gazing at pictures and attempting to read the words beside them.

He dreams of trays of rich food that his brother would bring him in the evenings. He’d explain they came from the king’s table, leftovers from the feast.

He dreams of a night when he snuck up the stairs to watch a ball. He remembers all the couples waltzing to the most beautiful music. He thinks of the elegant clothes, the smells of sweets, and the ornate decorations. Even for a young boy, he was very impressed.

He dreams of the family. The father with his blond hair and ponytail. The mother with her round face and long, dark hair. And the daughter, the princess - Emma.

Emma with her wispy gold locks, her dimpled chin, her doey green eyes. Emma with her infectious giggle and toothy smile. He remembers playing with her. She was smaller, first a baby that he’d sing songs to. Then she was toddling and cooing, chasing after him down palace corridors. She was three or four when she fled with Liam. He remembers that she was finally the age where they could play proper games together. He wonders if they would have been real friends when they grew older.

She’s everywhere in his dreams. He’s chasing her down hallways. She’s always one step out of reach.

He awakes with the image a different blond haired girl in his mind. One with longer legs, lovely curves, and a determined poise. Emma .

He tries to get her out of his mind. He throws himself into work at the bar, engaging with customers, making them laugh. He gets Ruby to distract him when he can, having her play dice with him when the bar is having low periods.

The rest of the time he has to himself he reads. He decides on a whim to reread the Blanche Neige series. They’ve been his favorite always, since he discovered them in the library as a teenager. He craves their easy comfort now. He loves the way that the words coax him, familiar like an old favorite song. Even now, in the sad nostalgia and strange dreams left in Emma’s wake, the books lull him and help him to forget his worries.

He manages to stay distracted through the weekend, the bar is busy enough then. It isn’t until the stillness of his Tuesday afternoon that he find himself at Mamie’s with a Blanche Neige book in hand. All he wants to do was to drink an americano and try to lose the dismally restless feeling he’s acquired since that night in the pawn shop.

So, his heart stops a little when he looks up and sees her. Emma.

Her hair is up in a high bun, square rim glasses balanced on her nose. She’s dressed in a black thingy, which Killian thinks might be called a romper, only because Ruby’s called it that before. She has a red leather jacket over it, the overall look seems to match her fierceness. Her laptop is in front of her, a stack of books to her side.

He doesn’t know what to do for a moment. Does he go talk to her? He wants to. He really wants to. He hasn’t stopped thinking about her, try as he may, and here she is right in front of him. He wants to apologize. He wants to make things right with her.

But then again, things left off so horribly between them. He wonders if it’s best to duck out the backdoor and pretend that he didn’t see her. That way he doesn’t have to confront how awkward their last moments together were.

Emma looks up and their eyes meet. She glances away and for a moment he thinks that she’s made the decision for him. She is going to ignore him. Then, she swallows and meets his eyes again. A tiny smile graces her lips, an invitation.

Killian leaves his coffee and book behind to go to her table.

A gentle blush rises in her cheeks and she tucks a strand of hair into her bun.

“Emma, look, I just wanted to say how sorry I am for how everything turned out,” He begins, looking down at his feet, scratching a hand behind his ear, “I never, ever meant to put you in danger.”

“Um, yeah, I’m not going to lie to you, last Tuesday was one of the scariest experiences of my life,” she babbles awkwardly, adorably. “And like, that’s really saying a lot considering my childhood.”

His eyes widen a bit as he takes in her accidental overshare. Just what has this poor girl gone through? He wants to know her secrets, her stories. But they are strangers, former business partners - it’s never going to happen.

“Anyway,” she continues, clearly not wanting to dwell on her admission. “It seemed like you were trying to help. I mean I know that you said the guy was creepy, but I think we were both blindsided by just how weird that got.”

Killian nods furiously. “You can say that again.”

“You got out okay?” she asks, lightly.

He nods again. “Yeah I was just behind you. I haven’t the seen the fiend since.”

“That’s good,” Emma says, “I honestly don’t know what I’d do.”

Killian sniffles and looks down again, thinking it’s probably best to start retreating back to his table and back to his americano. Things are always going to be weird between him and Emma. They can’t just go from the horrible night they experienced and expect to become anything like friends afterwards.

Then he sees the book on top of her stack, Towering Hope by Blanche Neige.

“You read Blanche Neige?” he blurts out,flushed with surprise. Those books are everything to him. They’re the reason he was able to rebuild his life after being a young offender. They’re the reason he was able to find hope.

And there is this girl who has already woven a little tendril around his heart sitting in front of him, reading the very same book.

“Um, actually,” she says, the blush returning to her cheeks. “I’m writing my PhD dissertation on Blanche Neige. I’m basing my career on her.”

“So, you’re something of a Blanche Neige expert?” he asks.

She snorts a laugh. “Not exactly. Not yet, at least. I’ve got to finish the dissertation. But yeah, no one’s written on her before. So maybe, one day.”

“Emma Swan, Blanche Neige expert,” he says, sliding into the seat opposite of her. “Wow, that’s sexy.”

She lets out a full laugh this time, tugging on her bun again.

“I take it you’re a fan?” She asks, curiosity lacing her voice.

“Right, well, you know that horrible childhood thing you talked about before?”

She purses her lips together, her forehead wrinkling again.

“Well, yes, I had one of those too. Quite miserable.” He rattles on, not ready to give details. “But Miss Blanche here, her books were the things that helped me through it.”

She nods, her voice soft, the moment suddenly intimate for the coffee shop setting. “I understand that. The way books can save you from the bad stuff.”

Killian nods and smiles, because Emma gets it. She’s probably the first person he’s ever met who gets it.

“Books are like a little bit of hope,” She adds.

“They are exactly that, Swan.” He nods.

“So what is your favorite?”

“Of Blanche Neige?” He muses, “Probably Never in this Land. ”

He thinks of the novel, a twist on Peter Pan where a modern Captain Hook has a change of heart, abandoning his life of crime and becoming a hero. He ends up sheltering three “darling” children in his house to keep them safe from the dictator.  Like all Blanche Neige, it’s a story about freedom, bravery, and resistance.

“Interesting choice,” she says, smiling.

He wonders if she sees through his choice. He wonders if she sees his previous life of crime. He wonders if she sees a villain in him.

But instead, it seems her thoughts are purely intellectual.

“It’s curiously the only Blanche Neige book that’s not based directly on a fairy tale. Well, that and The Yellow Bug. I can’t find the source material for that one, no matter how hard I look.”

“The Yellow Bug?” Killian muses.

He tries to place the tale. He recalls it a little, the story of an outsider who comes to town in a yellow VMW. She’s looking for her family, but never ends up finding them. Instead, she discovers she can talk to animals and uses the ability to help foil the uprising. In the story, the dictator keeps his soul in an egg which was taken from one of the animals and the heroine eventually finds a way to destroy the soul inside. In typical Blanche Neige fashion, she delivers the town from the dictator.

“You can see traces of the Goose Girl in it,” Emma explains, “In the plot line with the talking animals. And other traces of the Firebird in it, with the soul in the egg. But there are other bits that I can’t place. Blanche Neige usually draws from one source fable, so it doesn’t make sense that she’d mash up a few, or that she’d deviate from using a fairy tale.”

Killian opens his mouth in wonder at Emma. She really is the Blanche Neige expert. Listening to her talk in such detail about his favorite book with so much enthusiasm endears her further to him.

Only he notices one thing she doesn’t.

“I know the story,” Killian blurts.

“What?” Emma asks, surprise in her eyes.

“The source story,” he says, “I remember being told it as a child. It was called The Yellow Carriage. A stranger comes to town in a yellow carriage.”

“What do you mean?” Emma says, “I’ve done extensive research. I’ve looked through countless fairy tale databases.”

“I promise you,” He says emphatically, “I remember it from childhood. The Yellow Carriage.”

Emma gapes at him.

“Well, do you know where to find it?”

“I haven’t heard it since I was a child,” He admits, “I wouldn’t know the anthology it came from.”

Emma frowns. He doesn’t like the disappointment and unhappiness on her face.

“But listen, I’ll try my best to think back and see if I remember it. If I think of it, I’ll tell you.”

The frown abates from her face, “Thanks. It’s just that there is a whole chapter of my dissertation about the irregularities of The Yellow Bug and if there is a source for it - well, it changes things. I wouldn’t want to submit it with an error in it.”

“Listen, I’ve only listened to you talk about Blanche Neige for five minutes now, but I’ve never heard anyone as passionate and informed as you. Anyone reading your thesis or whatever will be able to tell,” He flatters.

She rolls her eyes. “That’s not really how academia works. People don’t care about enthusiasm, just precise analysis and fresh ideas.”

“That’s too bad,” he says, “Or else all your work would be done.”

A blush ghosts her cheeks again, before she admits, “well, that would save me a lot of trouble. The reason I’m so desperate for money is because I need to pay for another semester of grad school.”

“That’s why you agreed to my proposal?” He clarifies.

His heart melts a little for her. Emma, so sweet and studious that her ambition is not for a vacation or a large house or money to spend on clothes and jewels, but to learn, to read literature, to study Blanche Neige.

“I just really want to finish my PhD.” She nods. “And the money would have helped to pay back my student loans from undergrad as well.”

Killian feels a flair of anger at the expense of university education in America. In Misthaven, university fees are very minimal and heavily subsidized by the government. He wishes that Emma didn’t have to worry about fees and that she could enjoy her time here instead of focusing on finding funds.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” Killian says, sadly.

Emma gives a rueful smile. “It’s fine. I’m not sure anyone would have believed that I’m lost princess anyway. It was probably a stupid plan.”

“I would believe it,” Killian says, softly.

Her blonde hair, bright green eyes, and dimples - he would believe her to be the lost princess any day.

“Okay, Romeo.” Emma says with another eye roll. “Anyway, a student loan is better than a jail sentence. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I’m still sorry,” he says, “Let me make it up to you.”

She looks up and meets his eyes. Her fierce look falters for a minute and he sees something vulnerable in her gaze. There is loneliness there, hurt, and rejection.

There is a certain yearning there too.

Then she smiles good naturedly, “Well, I don’t really have any friends in Misthaven yet. So, you could buy me another cappuccino and we could talk about Blanche Neige for a little longer.”

Killian lets himself grin back at her. “Yeah, I’d like that a lot Emma.”

Chapter Text

They wander out of Mamie’s just as the sun is beginning to set. Golden hour, Emma thinks it is called.

“So, how much have you seen of Misthaven?” Asks Killian.

Emma frowns, thinking of the Misthaven University library and the endless bowls of cappuccinos at Mamies.

“Hah,” Killian laughs, “That’s what I thought. Too much time with our darling friend Blanche Neige, and hardly any time spent exploring the thriving metropolis of Misthaven.”

Emma chuckles. She thinks of the past few hours she’s spent with Killian in Mamie’s. They’d exchanged favorite quotations, scenes, and characters from Blanche Neige. They discussed all of their other favorite reads. It seems that Killian is quite well read, his favorite books spanning from Dickens to Rushdie. She’s discovered that he’s not just ridiculously good looking, he’s also thoughtful and has a soft spot for literature.

“Hey,” Emma protests, “I have a lot riding on Blanche Neige right now.”

“Yeah, right, your whole future, I know,” Killian snorts, “But you can take one night off from books.”

Emma’s eyes narrow. What does he mean one night? They just agreed to be friends, not to-

“Emma, just an hour or two of sights in the city,” He offers, “Just that. I’m not planning on coming home with you after, if that’s what you thought I was on about. I mean, we could arrange that too, if you wish.”

Does this guy ever stop with the flirting?

She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms, but manages to let out a little smile, “Okay, fine, one evening off. And nothing more.”

Killian grins. He’s so open with his emotions. He wears his heart on his sleeve in a way that Emma has never done. She can tell how he genuinely feels about each of her responses, whereas she lives to be an enigma.

“Have you been on a river boat tour?” He asks, “They’re quite popular for tourists, but they really are good fun and a nice, proper tour of Misthaven.”

Emma shakes her head, realizing how little time she’s taken to enjoy Misthaven.

“Let’s do that shall we?” He suggests, “At sunset, the city will be very photogenic.”

She swears that the French bit of his trace-of-a-Misthaven-accent comes out a little more as he talks about sunset. And yeah, it’s kinda doing something to her. Stupid attractive voice.

“Yeah, sure,” She agrees.

They walk along the quay to where the tours leave from. Killian buys two tickets and they step onto the boat.

Emma hasn’t been on a lot of boats in her lifetime. One time a group home went on a boat tour of Boston Harbor. She doesn’t remember much of it, only that her hair was in a braid that day and one of the more annoying boys kept tugging on it as she tried to look out at the city. When she was in high school, on her trip to New York with Ingrid, she remembers taking a ferry to the Statue of Liberty. She remembers seeing the skyline of New York on the way back, stately and ruthlessly modern against the sky.

Both of those boat rides were rocky, lurching violently as they traveled, but this boat is smooth. She and Killian find spots upstairs, on the outdoor deck. They lean against the rail, watching the Misthaven flag that hangs off the back flap gently against the backdrop of the river and hills.

“So,” Emma says, turning to Killian, “Obviously, you know all about my life as a student and my thesis- but what about you?”

“What about me?” Killian says, crossing his arms over the rail with smirk.

“I don’t know,” Emma shrugs, “What do you do?”

“It’s going to sound a little dim, after our discussion about literature,” he says, scratching behind his ear nervously.

Why is that so attractive? Calm your loins, Emma Swan, he’s literally scratching his ear.

All the same, she feels weirdly hurt by his admission. She’s never been the kind of person who things herself above others. She’s spent most of her time at Duke feeling less than her peers who lived far more privileged lives than her.

“It’s okay,” Emma says, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Remember the bad childhood thing? It’s made me significantly less judgey than most people in academia. I got really lucky and that’s the only reason that I’m working on a PhD and not cleaning toilets.”

Killian nods, his face solemn and a little gentle, “I’m a bartender.”

“Nice,” Emma says, not waiting a beating, not wanting him to feel bad, “Does that mean that as your friend I get free drinks?”

“Hmm,” he says, his easy smile returning, “Not because we are friends, just because you’re hot.”

Emma dramatically huffs, because it’s her instinct to react that way, but there is a small bit of her that relishes that he thinks that she is hot. Okay, maybe more than a small bit.

She has to stop it. She can’t be swooning over this guy, even if he is charming and attractive and loves her favorite author. She doesn’t date at all. It’s self-preservation. And if she is going to survive finding funding and finishing her dissertation- she needs a much self-preservation as possible.

“What about before that?” Emma prods, trying to distract herself from becoming a love-sick puppy.

“I thought we weren’t getting into the dark childhoods today, love,” Killian said, his face becoming solemn again.

“Sorry,” Emma said, pulling an apologetic face, “I was just curious. Mostly about your accent. It’s more English than Misthaven.”

Killian nods, “I moved to the UK when I was twelve.”

That revelation helps her to connect the dots of confusion that have been mingling in her head about Killian’s backstory.

“Oh,” Emma blurts, “Is that why your name is funny? Killian isn’t a very Misthavian name.”

“It’s an Irish name,” Killian explains, “My mum was Irish. But that’s not why I lived in England.”

“Oh,” Emma says, softer. She notices the was, where she thought there would be an is. She realizes they are hedging along the topic of sad childhoods, a conversation that she definitely doesn’t want to unpack. She’s known Killian for two days, she definitely doesn’t want to be recounting the orphan story to him.

“She, uh, died,” Killian says, “Not long after I was born. My brother took care of me. He had an Irish name too- Liam.”

“Hey, you don’t have to tell me the sad story,” Emma says, noting another past tense where she expects a present one, “I’m sure you want to enjoy this boat ride without dredging up every horrible memory you have.”

He gives her a grateful smile.

It really is beautiful, the boat ride- though his smile is too (not that she’s thinking about it). The city drifts behind them. The opera house is glowing in the evening light. The adorable old town buildings jut out in angles as they creep up the hill, looking like a child’s town toy set. On the other side of the river, she sees the sunset reflected in the windows of more modern office buildings. She can see students lofting on the quadrangles of the campus. Misthaven is beautiful at sunset. Killian was really right about that.

“But, if you were wondering, before that,” Killian says, returning to her question, “I worked at a bookshop in London. I really miss that job.”

Emma looks up at him. The light brings out the flecks of red in his stubble and she marvels in this discovery.

“I think the best jobs are ones where you are surrounded by books all the time,” Emma says, dreamily, stretching.

“It was great,” Killian says, becoming animated once more, his hands suddenly moving as he talks. “I could recommend books, read behind the counter during lulls. There was a coffee shop in it too. I learned to make really nice cappuccinos.”

“The smell of coffee and books?” Emma says, “Sounds like the dream.”

“I really was,” Killian says.

“Why’d you leave?” Emma asks.

Killian shrugs and she assumes it’s part of the long sad story he isn’t ready to tell. Her heart breaks a bit at that. He seems graceful now, happy enough, with a lost look that lurks behind his eyes at moments when he isn’t paying attention. She knows he must have been through some hard things.

“I decided to move back to Misthaven after the Dark Time ended. I missed home. But, I’d love to have a bookshop of my own,” He confesses, “I’ll die happy if I can open my own bookshop.”

Her heart now melts a little bit for him. It’s such a gentle dream to come from man as disarmingly attractive and hopelessly charming.

“That’s what I was going to use the money for,” He tells her, “Why I wanted to go into that deal with the man in the pawn shop.”

“For your bookshop dream?” Emma asks. She had imagined that he’d want the money for personal use, maybe a nice house or an easier life, but not to open a book store.

He nods. She smiles at this idea. She thinks her motivation of wanting a PhD in literature was soft, but Killian’s dream also eeps a sort of gentleness as well.

“We are such nerds,” Emma laughs, “Wanting a large fortune to spend on our bookish dreams.”

Killian gives her a tight smile. In a flash, she feels as if they are kindered souls. They’ve both had really tough lives. They’ve probably spent a lot of time alone, without families, fighting for their own selves because there wasn’t anyone else to. But books are their solace, the bit of hope, the passion that kept them from giving up. She knows in a second that Killian understands her fierce love of literature in a way that her privileged university peers, or even Belle, could never truly understand. Killian knows what it was like to be saved by book. To have books as your only companion.

In this revelation, Emma feels something bubble up inside her that she can’t restrain. A whole glob of feelings for Killian. She doesn’t want them. She isn’t ready for boyfriends or dating or relationships. But yet the feelings explode into her world, unable to be quashed, unable to be brought back in.

So, she does the only thing she’s good at: bottles it up. The feelings go into a bottle, into the wall of bottles.

“Tell me about what the bookshop would be like,” She says, pressing further into the rail of the boat, watching the ripples that the wake makes as it coasts through the water.

“I don’t want anything huge,” he says. “Just a small shop would be lovely. Two floors, I think, with a coffee bar in the back.”

She nods, imagining it already. She pictures it in rich dark wood, like the belly of ship.

“I think I’d like to have reading groups there,” he continues. “Maybe workshops for aspiring writers, or readings from local authors.”

“I’ll be there the second you get Blanche Neige to read,” She says.

“Believe me, if I ever get her, or discover her identity, you’ll be the first to know,” He vows.

“Same,” She agrees, letting herself bump into him (in a purely chummy way).

He looks back at her with an expression of tenderness, of kinship- that she feels herself draw away again. She moves a fraction over, but just enough to feel the space form between them. It’s a game she constantly plays- don’t get too close, don’t let those feelings out.

They are silent for a moment and the boat leaves the river to move into the channel. The skyline of Misthaven turns to silhouette against the dusky rose sky. Emma can trace the top of the opera house, the university library, the cathedral tower. She can see in the distance the taller, modern buildings of the business district. But her eyes linger on the castle, perched on the hill, hovering over the city.

 She thinks again of Emma, the other Emma. Princess Emma.

She thinks of the revolution, the story that Professor Hood told her of his time in hiding, his wife’s death.

“Were you here during the Dark Times?” She asks, turning to Killian, trying to fit his story into the history of the country.

His eyes are fixed on the castle as well, “A bit yes.”

He runs his hand through his hair, ruffling it adorably. There is pain in eyes as he looks at it.

Emma sees him open his mouth and she stops him, “Hey, we aren’t talking sad stories, remember? You don’t have to tell me about it.”

He shakes his head, shrugs, and reveals, “You should probably know, well, because I think this is how the whole thing the other night came to happen- I used to live in the castle.”

All of a sudden, Emma can picture Killian as a child- almost too well. She imagines him with a mop of dark hair and freckle smattered face. She pictures him dressed in finery, the kind of thing you’d wear at a castle.

“Were you royalty then?” She blinks, the reality of his confession hitting her. He must have been pretty important to live at the castle. She knows he is a bartender now, in the way that the revolution made paupers out of many greats from Misthaven, but she imagines he must have been very distinguished to have lived in the castle. Maybe a duke or lord…

He shakes his head, giving her a half grin, “No, Emma, I wasn’t anything like that. My brother was a guard at the castle and the royal family was kind enough to let me stay with him in the castle. We had a small room in the basement. It wasn’t much, but I took lessons from the royal tutor and we got better food than we would have on our own.”

“Your brother Liam was a guard?” Emma asks, her mind still caught up in his previous statement, tracing the words over and over in her head. They brought back an echo to her, of something. It’s like she’d spoken the words before.

“Yeah,” Killian says, “Why?’

Emma shakes her head, brushing off the sense of déjà vu, “Sorry, it just sounded familiar. Something about that.”

“It’s because he was with the princess when she disappeared,” Killian explains, before swallowing hard, “He fled with her to America, to take her into hiding. But something went wrong, his remains were found in the Hudson River.”

“Oh,” Emma says softly, reaching out to Killian, “I’m really sorry, Killian. Truly.”

“It was years ago,” He says, “I lost him when I six. But you’ve probably read it in an article somewhere. Everything about the lost princess seems to mention Liam in it somewhere.”

“So, you knew her then?” Emma asks, “Princess Emma?”

He smiles at her, “I knew a little girl who’d run down corridors and play silly games with me.”

“You were friends?” Emma asks.

“I suppose,” Killian says, “When you are the only two kids in the castle, you stick together. She was younger than me though, so we weren’t terribly close.”

Emma nods, silently, her eyes still looking up at the castle on the hill. The pieces start to come together for her.

She looks enough like the lost princess. She has the right name, the right accent. Damn, she even has that scar. She’s desperate enough to need the money, still despite everything.

Killian knew the princess. Killian has the connections to really sell their story. The queen might actually listen to him.

Maybe she was wrong before. Maybe this is the fairy godmother opportunity that’s fallen into her lap again. She’d been foolish not to try for it.

“What if we really did this?” Emma asks, turning from the rail to face Killian.

“Sorry?” He says, “Do what?”

“Convince the Queen I’m the princess,” Emma says, “We could do it. Between your history with the crown and my uncannily good looks, we might actually be able to pull this off.”

Killian pushes his lips together, a small frown forming, “We aren’t going back to that man. That awful, impish man. Let’s not return there.”

Emma shakes her head, “We don’t need him. We can do this just the two of us.”

“How would we even begin to do that?” Killian asks.

Emma smirks, as the boat loops around and heads back into the river, their horizon turning to nothing but sea before them.

“I’m going to let you in on a little secret,” She says, letting her smirk turn to a grin, “I’m like really good at research.”

“Ha,” Killian says, following Emma off of the tour boat, twenty minutes later. “You said you said you weren’t going to invite me home after our soirée, yet here we are Swan, heading back to your place.”

“Oh shut up,” Emma says, fake annoyance in her voice, “You told me that you don’t have Wi-Fi at your place, so we are going back to my apartment to research. Research, Killian.”

He chuckles, glad that Emma is sassy enough to match him. He’s only picked up the flirting and innuendos after bartending. He realized that his good looks coupled with a few compliments and an eyebrow wiggle are enough to garner a few extra tips and sometimes drinks from his female (and some male) clientele.

“Ah right, research,” He says, smacking his head, “Thanks for reminding me Professor Swan.”

She rolls her eyes, as she seems to adorably do frequently, and he follows her in the direction of the tram.  It’s just across the river from where the boat docked. They cross a bridge towards it. It’s a cute bridge with ornate iron designs and one covered with love locks.

“I thought this was just a Paris thing,” Emma says, nodding to locks.

Killian shrugs, “No, apparently, they are littered all around Europe on bridges and benches.”

“Seems kinda anticlimactic,” Emma remarked, “Like oh hey, let’s put a love lock on a bridge- but not the bridge, not even in the City of Love, just another random bridge in another random city.”

He laughs at her rant, “Well, Swan, if I had thought about getting you a love lock before, I’m scratching that thought now.”

She hums a bit, surprising him with not rolling her eyes.

They finish crossing the bridge and head to the tram station. Emma swipes her metro card moving through the turnstile to the awaiting train. Killian pushes himself above the barrier.

“I could just swipe you in, you know,” Emma offers.

“Nonsense, Swan,” he says, flashing her a smile. “I’ve yet to get caught. Besides, we are about to convince someone that you are a lost princess as part of a money-making scheme- we’ve got other things to worry about.”

He thinks he sees her shiver and he regrets bringing up the devious nature of their scheming. He doesn’t want her to feel guilty for it or anything akin to that. She was crafty to think they could pull it off on their own. He thinks she’s right, with a little research it’s very possible. They have a right, he thinks, to pursue the possibility of this. There is too much lining up for them not to try.

He takes a seat beside Emma and the train moves. He doesn’t know where Emma lives, but he isn’t surprised when they get off at a stop in one of the young neighborhoods not too far from the university.

“You’ve got a place here?” He asks.

“I’ve swapped with a student who is in the states for the semester,” Emma says, “I was surprised by how nice it is.”

He’s surprised as well when she leads him up the apartment. Once she flicks on the lights, it reveals a bright, white space with a few house plants and vintage posters on the walls. There is a large bookshelf, where Emma’s books have neatly been added beside some that the previous apartment owner left behind. There is a funny contrast between her tome of Infinite Jest and an old biology textbook in Dutch. He admires her full row of Blanche Neige books, each and every one there on her shelf.

“Make yourself at home,” Emma says, “Would you like some tea?”

“Wouldn’t mind a cuppa,” Killian remarks, as he sinks into her sofa.

He watches her fuss over the kettle. A few strands have escaped from her bun, and trickle loosely around her face. She’s hung her red leather jacket by the door, so she wears only her romper now. The thin, dark straps create a contrast against her sharp collarbones. She’s lovely.

He’s thought that for a while now. As they chatted over coffees, as he watched her in the golden sunset, as they chatted on the boat, as they giggled on the bridge- she’s truly lovely. She has hard edges, shaped by a mysterious past, but underneath it all she’s full of passion and creativity and drive.

She returns to him with two mugs of milky black tea.

“Thanks, milady,” He says.

“It’s your royal highness, to you,” She corrects, laughing.

“That’s the spirit,” Killian says, taking a sip of the tea.

“So, where do we start?” Emma asks.

“I think we need to figure out a way for you to befriend the queen,” Killian says, “She’s quite approachable for a queen. I’ve met with her since she’s returned.”

“You have?” Emma asks.

Killian flinches, “At Liam’s funeral.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Emma says, putting a gentle hand on Killian’s arm.

“No, it happened a very, very long time ago,” Killian says.

“Well, I think we should start by researching the queen then. If we figure out where she goes in town, where we can find her- maybe then we can negotiate a way to make her acquaintance,” Emma says, her practical academic voice kicking in.

“Right on, Swan,” Killian agrees.

She pulls her laptop out of the bag and flicks it open. He’s surprised at just how fast she types, as she taps in, “queen of misthaven.” She instantly clicks on a wiki article that appears first in the search results.

Killian watches as a familiar picture of Queen Mary Margaret fills the corner of the screen, a description detailed beside it describing her life.

Emma makes a little choking noise as she looks at the screen.

“Swan, are you alright?” He asks, lifting a hand to stroke her back.

She puts the laptop down on the coffee table in front of her. She tucks the wisps that escapes from her bun behind her ear.

“Wait, that’s her?” She manages, “That’s the queen?”

“That would be correct,” Killian replies, “Our royal majesty, your mum, in the flesh.”

Emma purses her lips together, picks at her nail for a moment. He can tell that she’s thrown by the discovery.

He wonders for a moment if she really is the princess. Maybe she is the princess and she’s startled because she remembers. Maybe everything is coming back to her. Well, it would certainly make everything easier if Emma was actually the princess.

But then she says, “I’m sorry, it’s just that I know her.”

“You do?” Killian asks. His heart skips a beat.

Could she really be her? The Princess? He’d believe it.

“I met her at the opera,” She explains.

At the opera? Emma’s never struck him as the opera going type. He’s always written it off as a posh thing that was out of his league. But then again, Emma is a PhD student. She is out of his league. She’s the kind of intellectual type that doesn’t spend time with scum like Killian.

“I got a free ticket from the foreign student association,” Emma says, “It was actually pretty horrendous. But anyway, I ran into this woman in the bathroom and she was trying to convince me to come back to the opera even though this one sucked. She offered me free tickets to a ballet on Friday and I accepted them.”

“And this woman was the queen?” Killian asks.

Emma nods.

“Well, Emma, I think our plan just got a lot easier,” Killian says with a grin.

“I think so,” Emma says, and he can tell reality is hitting her. They really do have a chance at this.

“You said the opera was Friday?” Killian asks.

“I have two tickets,” Emma replies with a nod.

“Hmm, well, Emma Swan, fancy an opera date?” Killian suggests.

“Ugh, with you?” She jests, “I guess.”

“Oh sod off,” he tuts back.

“It’s sod off, your royal highness,” she corrects again.

“I really need to start working on that,” he laughs.

“Yeah, you do,” she says, her voice full of confidence.

His brain starts churning, thinking through the reality of this plan. They’ve nearly accounted for everything- expect for one thing.

“Emma, before we do this,” he says, hesitant, “There is one thing we should do.”

She cocks her head, “What is it?”

“Well, as much as I hate that man, he was right. You do need a scar to match the one the princess has,” He says.

He hates to think of marring her porceline skin with a knife. He hates to think of doing anything that the horrible man wanted them to do. But it would be a shame for the whole plan to fail just because of a small, but crucial detail.

Emma dips her head demurely. “Well, actually, we might not have to.”

She moves to reveal her opposite shoulder. His eyes drift from her lovely sharp collarbones that he noticed earlier, to where a small silver line begins at its base and travels over the curve of her shoulder.

“I’m not sure if it’s the right shoulder,” Emma begins.

“It is,” Killian says.

Her eyes widen.

“I remember the day she got the scar,” He says lightly, “She was on her pony and had a fall, cut her shoulder on a rock.”

“Oh,” Emma says.

He reaches out a hand, letting a finger trail along the slightly puckered skin. Emma shivers and he worries that’s gone too far. Maybe his touch is an unwelcome memory of the hooded man.

“Why? How did you get yours?” He asks her.

Emma shrugs, “I don’t know. I’ve had it as long as I can remember.”

“Emma,” He says, smiling, “You realize we are hardly going to have to lie to pull this off. You are truly the perfect woman for this opportunity.”

There is a part of him that wants to say something more. He wants to tell her that she’s beautiful, that she’s clever, that’s she’s the perfect woman in general. But he holds it back. They are going to be business partners. She already has enough on her plate between this scheme and her academic work. She doesn’t need his unwanted affections. Maybe another time. Maybe in the future when she’s finished her thesis and he’s financially stable. Or maybe never. She’d likely be better off without him.

“Would you like another tea?” Emma asks, shaking him from his melancholy.

“Oh no, Swan, I should be off,” He says.

He stands to head to the door and she rises beside him.

“Well, I’ll see you Friday, then?” She asks.

“Yes, Friday indeed,” Killian says.

She goes to open the door for him, but then pauses, her hand lingering on the knob.

“I’m really glad we’ve become friends, Killian,” She says.

He lets himself smile a full grin, “I am too, Emma.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who cares about Blanche Neige as much as I do,” She says, a little blush gracing her cheek, “It’s nice to have someone to talk about this stuff with.”

“Likewise, Swan,” He says, “Truly, I’m very fortunate that you’ve come into my life.”

“Thanks for the boat ride,” She adds, “Maybe you could show me more of Misthaven sometime. You know, when we aren’t coming up with money making schemes.”

“I’d like that very much,” He says, “I’ll think up something.”

“Well, till Friday then,” Emma says, opening the door.

“Till Friday, Swan.”

Chapter Text

It’s Friday evening when Emma finds herself staring at the mirror trying to decide if her look is 1) nice enough for the opera and 2) nice enough for a night out with Killian.

Not that she likes him.

She definitely doesn’t like him.

She can’t like him. Because she put those feelings into a bottle and put the bottle into the wall. The nice safe wall where she can’t like him.

This isn’t going well.

She quickly pulls out her phone to Facetime Belle. It rings a few times before the screen fills with her friend’s smiling face. She can see in the background the living room of their old apartment. There’s the canvas of New York they bought at Ikea and the funky lamp they found at a yard sale. It’s like she’s home, curled up with a cup of tea and ready for a life chat with her best friend.

“Emma!” She exclaims, “It’s so good to see you.”

“Thanks,” Emma says, “It’s great to see you too, Belle.”

“You look amazing,” Belle ooes, “Is that is pink dress? And blush? Emma Swan, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you have a date.”

Emma sighs and runs a hand over her high ponytail.

“Is it too much? Do I look silly?” She asks.

“No, you look darling,” Belle says, “But what’s the occasion?”

Emma doesn’t know what to say. She isn’t sure if she is ready to tell Belle everything yet.

“I’m going to the opera,” Emma tells her, “Well, the ballet, actually. But it’s in an opera house.”

“Are you really?” Belle asks, “And whom are you going to this opera with? Some dark haired Misthavian History PhD? Or maybe an adorable junior professor with an exotic accent?”

Emma smiles. Belle, good old Belle. Her friend has a mind full of marriage, a product of specializing in 19^th Century women’s writers. She is always search for love stories in Emma’s life.

Only, this time she might be on to something.

She sinks down into the corner of her bed, “I don’t know, Belle. It’s not a date, really.”

“Emma?” Belle asks, concern eeping into her voice.

“I’m going with this guy, Killian,” She says, softly.

“Hmmm, tell me more,” Belle says, “Is he Misthavian?”

“He was born here, but grew up in England,” Emma explains.

“English accent, Irish name,” Belle muses, “I’m intrigued. What does he study?”

Emma shakes her head, “He isn’t in academia.”

“A civilian?” Belle says, giggling in mock horror.

“He’s a bartender,” She admits.

She wonders if Belle will look down on him for it. At Duke, their lives were so tied to the department that the idea of dating outside of academia seemed preposterous. But here, things seem different.

“Sexy,” Belle tells her and Emma lets out her breath. She has her friend’s approval.

“Very sexy, actually,” Emma remarks.

“So he’s gorgeous, huh?” Belle asks.

“Very much so,” Emma nods.

“So how’d you meet him?”

“I’m not completely proud of the story,” Emma admits.

“Out with it,” Belle demands.

Emma weaves for her best friend the story of how she met Killian at Mamie’s. She tells her about the hooded man, the red jacket, Blanche Neige and cappuccinos the size of her head, and the sunset boat ride.

“So, you like him?” Belle asks, when she finishes.

“I tell you a story about how I am planning on scamming the Queen of Misthaven, and the first thing you ask is if I like the guy who I am scheming with?” Emma laughs, relief walking off her.

“Well, do you?”

“Yes, but I can’t do anything about it.”

“Why not?”

“Because my first priority has to be my thesis, that’s what all this work is for,” Emma explains, “And my second priority is funding my thesis, which right now, looks like convincing the queen that I’m her daughter, I guess. All of those things come before boys.”

“But when are you are going to care about you? About your heart?” Belle demands.

“My heart isn’t important,” Emma says, laughing. Seriously, who says sappy stuff like that? “My thesis is important. My Ph.D is important. I’ll worry about my heart or whatever when I have a career and no student loans.”

“But then you’ll have a mortgage. You’ll have classes to teach. You’ll have research and grant applications and publications. You will always have something, Em. When are you going to care about you?” She asks.

Emma wants to roll her eyes, but she can’t because it’s her best friend. And because there is a bit of her that feels more sad than annoyed. Belle is right. There will always be something. So, does that mean that she has no option? Does that mean she’ll just never fall in love because she’s too busy trying to survive?

She gulps and tries to find the words to respond.

“I’m not saying it has to be him,” Belle explains, “You can fall in love with whoever you wish. I just hope that you do. I hope that eventually you find it in yourself to be open to that.”

There is a knock at the door. Emma startles, dropping the phone.

“That’s him, isn’t it?” Belle asks.

“I think so,” Emma says.

“Enjoy, Em,” Belle tells her, “And don’t be afraid to keep your heart open.”

“Okay,” Emma says, “I’ll talk to you later.”

“And you do look really cute,” Belle adds.

“Thanks,” Emma says, flicking off her phone.

She glances back at the mirror. The pink dress is out of character for her, but she likes it’s softness. She does a little twirl in it, admiring the way the skirt fans.

“Emma, love,” A voice calls. His voice. “Open up, it’s me.”

Her stomach does a little backflip, but she walks to door none-the-less.

The first thing Killian notices about Emma is that she’s beautiful. Her pink dress swirls around her knees. Her hair is pulled back. Her face has a light gloss of make up on it. He can tell she’s put in a lot of effort.

For a moment, he wonders if it is to impress him.

Then he remembers that’s silly. She’s trying impress the queen. They are trying to impress the queen.

That doesn’t mean he can’t compliment her.

“Swan, you look-“ He begins, walking in.

“I know,” She says, shrugging off the compliment.

He steps into her apartment. She’s flitting around, tossing things into her clutch.

“You know, you clean up pretty well yourself,” She comments.

He feels his ears turn red. He’s worn a suit- it’s the only one he owns. He bought it for Liam’s funeral, the product of many weeks of saving up.  

“Thanks,” He says, “Shall we go to the opera, your highness? I’m afraid that I’ve left the carriage back at the palace. Will you oblige me to take the tram?”

She bursts into giggles, breaking the quiet moment.

“I suppose I can slum it today,” Emma says, as they head out of the apartment.

They walk through the hallways of the building and out onto the street below. The sun is just beginning to dip low in the sky, announcing the approach of evening.

“Tell me about your week as an illustrious academic,” Killian asks, as they start to walk the few blocks to the tram station.

“Far less exciting that it may seem,” Emma informs him, “I started teaching this week.”

“Hmm, Professor Swan, sounds brilliant. And how did that go?” He asks.

“Well, clearly I need to know more about the European education system,” She begins, “I kept asking the students questions and no one answered.”

“I’m not sure students here are as keen on participation,” He acknowledges.

“Right,” Emma says, “Safe to say, I’ve learned that.”

“And what are you teaching them? An entire course on Blanche Neige, I hope,” Killian teases.

“I wish,” Emma grumbles, “I’d be better at that. I’m teaching American literature, which isn’t close to my actual specialization.”

Killian frowns, “Tough luck, Swan.”

“Well,” She says, “Let’s hope we get luckier tonight.”

“Ah, Swan, you want to get lucky, do you?” He jests, “I can make that happen if you are interested.”

“Ugh,” She groans, “Are you always like this?”

His stomach plummets. He feels stupid. Emma doesn’t deserve his obnoxious innuendo habit.

“It’s a defense mechanism,” He mutters, remorse in his voice, “Or maybe a bad habit picked up from bar tending. Or maybe a survival instinct.”

The emotional sentiment is interrupted by the approach the tram. As usual, Emma swipes in and Killian skips the barrier.

They take seats together. Emma sits by the window. She’s silent for a moment, looking out the window in silence. He worries that he upset her. Or that he revealed too much.

Then she turns to him.

“I have survival instincts too,” She tells him.

“You do?” He asks.

“Yeah, mine look more like detailed lists and planners and routine. I’m not a naturally organized person, but I’ve forced myself to become that way,” She explains. Then in a whisper she adds, “Because I have to survive.”

He feels a wash of understanding between them. They both know about survival.

“Studying, reading novels, writing papers- that’s all I’m really good at. It’s all I have. That’s what surviving looks like to me. That’s why I’m so frantic about funding this thesis. If I don’t have my Ph.D, if I don’t have my dissertation- I don’t have anything,” She confesses.

He doesn’t say anything, but he takes her hand and squeezes it. She looks up at him with a smile.

“Emma, we are going to get you the funding,” Killian tells her, “The world needs your insights about Blanche Neige.”

She laughs, leaning into him, but somehow managing to drop his hand in the process. He wonders if it on purpose or an accidental causality.

The train announces their stop. Opèra, Opèra.

For the amount that Killian bragged about his knowledge of Misthaven, he’s never actually been in the opera. He hasn’t had much free time and he’s not opera-going man.

As they make their way into the building, he feels a flutter of nerves. Maybe this is too out of his league. Everything about the opera house is elegant from the outside: domed patina roof, gold guilding, and majestic stone statues. It’s not a place that a guy like him belongs.

“It’s something, isn’t it?” Emma asks, as they pause outside the doors, gazing up at the building.

“Definitely something,” Killian replies.

As if she can read his fears, she adds, “I felt intimidated last time I was here. But it’s really beautiful if you give it a chance. And hopefully the show won’t suck this time.”

“I mean the queen herself did promise it to be good,” Killian teases.

They walk into the lobby and his jaw drops a little.

“I’ll leave you here to drool over the details,” Emma says, “I’ll just be at the Will-Call.”

He watches her walk away, the dress swishing around her knees again. He can hardly believe that he’s here, in this magnificent opera house with a woman as smart and gorgeous as Emma Swan.

“Ready?” She asks, when she returns with the tickets. “We have like crazy good seats too.”

They wander up to the top of an ornate staircase where an usher directs them towards a hall after passing them programs.

They find their seats, or rather their box, second to the end of the hallway.

“Killian, look,” Emma says, pointing to the door past them. It has the Royal Misthaven crest on it in gold.

“This is her box, isn’t it?” She says, softer now.

Killian nods.

“We’re in the box next to the queen,” She says again.

It’s hitting them both how real this is. This whole thing is about to begin.

“We’ll have to thank her for the tickets at intermission,” He says.

This time Emma nods silently.

Killian opens the door to their box and they head inside. He gasps again at the ornate decorations inside. The seats are lined in red velvet.

“Look at the ceiling,” He murmurs.

Emma laughs, her eyes following his. There are dreamy images painted across it, swirling designs, delicate flowers and angels.

“This whole place is bloody beautiful,” He remarks.

She smacks him with her program and settles into her seat. The orchestra begins to tune and audience slowly quiets down.

Killian never thought that he’d ever enjoy ballet. Yet here he is, watching the dancers prance across the stage and being totally entranced.

“Have you ever seen anything like this Swan?” He whispers. “They’re all moving together.”

“Shh,” She says, swatting at him again, “We’re going to get kicked out.”

He can tell from the amused smile on her face that she’s more endeared than annoyed.

By intermission, Emma’s a mix of nerves and adrenalin.

The ballet doesn’t help. It’s a show called Coppelia. It just so happens to be about a girl pretending to be a doll. It makes Emma think about Princess Emma. It’s the same kind of thing, pretending to be an echo of a real person.

“We should go thank the queen,” Killian whispers in her ear.

Emma nods, “These were really good tickets. She definitely deserves our thanks.”

They stand to leave the box. Before she can make it to the door, Killian captures her hand.

Her heart flutters for a moment. Not from her nerves about the queen, but from the feeling on his hand in hers.

He did that before, earlier, on the tram. Just a soft comforting squeeze to signal that she wasn’t alone. He does the same thing now. He lifts his hand in his, squeezes it, and gives her an encouraging smile. He must know how wound up she is. He must know how worried she is.

“Thanks,” She says, opening the door.

They walk into the hallway, his hand still in hers, and approach the queen’s door. She knocks once and the door is opened by someone who resembles a cartoon character version of a guard. Misthaven guards, she’s read, are known for dressing in funny uniforms.

“Who are you?” He asks in a strict voice.

“I’m Emma,” She says, politely, “Her Majesty Queen Mary Margaret gave me the tickets for tonights show. I wanted to thank her.”

The guard turns back to the box and Emma overhears a female voice answer saying, “Send her in!”

Emma walks in to the box, which is only slightly more ornate than her own. Killian’s hand drops from hers as he follows a few steps behind.

The woman stands to greet Emma. She’s dressed in a black dress with a glittery crystal necklace decorating her neck. There is something comforting about her, making the worry in Emma’s stomach disintegrate.

The queen and the guard seem to be the only people in the box. Emma wonders if the queen has friends. Royalty had to be popular, right? That’s how Emma always imagined it. Queens were like the ultimate queen bees from high school. Suddenly, Emma realizes that most of the queen’s friends were most killed in the revolution. For a moment, she is struck by how lonely the woman might be.

“Your Majesty,” Emma says, bobbing a curtsey. She’s looked up protocol for meeting a queen online earlier that day. She hadn’t wanted to seem rude. “I apologize for my casualness when we last met. I’m ashamed to admit that I didn’t know you were the queen at the time.”

The woman stands to greet her, “Oh please, call me Mary Margaret. I’m not too worried about the pomp and circumstance these days. You are Emma, right?”

There something soft about the way the queen says Emma. As if it is a treat for her to say the name. As if it is a familiar caress.

“Yes,” Emma says, “And this is my friend, Killian.”

Killian steps to stand next to Emma and gives a bow.

“Killian Jones? Is that you?” Mary Margaret says, surprise on her face as she looks between Emma and Killian.

“Indeed, your majesty,” He says, “It’s been a few years.”

“I’m sorry that we haven’t had an occasion to meet since your brother’s funeral,” The queen said, “How have you been?”

“Very well, your majesty,” He answers.

“And how did you and Emma meet?” She asks.

“Over our mutual love for literature,” Emma lies swiftly, “We were both reading our favorite books in a café.”

There is a gem of truth in that. They did bond over their love of literature, only it was after they bonded over their plan to scam the queen, but whatever.

“What a lovely way to start a relationship,” The queen says.

“Oh, we aren’t dating,” Emma says, “We’re just friends. I only arrived last week to Misthaven actually.”

“Welcome to Misthaven then,” Mary Margaret says cheerily.

“Thank you, your majesty- Mary Margaret,” She amends.

“You are quite lucky to have Killian as your tour guided,” Mary Margaret tells her, “He’s made out of the purest, loyalist Misthaven blood there is.”

“He has done a great job of showing me around so far,” Emma babbles, “He took me on river cruise at sunset and Misthaven was so gorgeous.”

“A cruise at sunset? How romantic,” The queen gushes.

“Oh, no,” Emma mutters, “It was just a tour around town.”

“Oh right, not romantic,” Mary Margaret giggles, “Well, I can still remember little Killian running down the hall of our castle. Though, unsurprising, he spent most of his time holed up in the library.”

Killian blushes at the queen’s details, “What can I say, I’ve always liked books.”

Emma gazes at Killian, charmed at the image of a little version of him lying on the library floor, pouring over a book.

“So, what brings you to our country then, Emma?” Mary Margaret asks, pulling her from her thoughts.

“I’m working on my dissertation in English literature,” Emma tells her.

“Delightful,” The queen ooes, “I adore the humanities. Arts, literatures, philosophy, music- they are my joy.”

Emma smiles at the queen.

“I don’t leave my house often,” She tells Emma, her voice growing wistful, “But I don’t ever miss what is going on in the opera house. Culture, art, music, stories- that’s what makes life worth living. Even a lonely life is worth it with art.”

Emma swallows, looking down. The queen, the freaking queen of this country, just revealed something insanely personal to her and she doesn’t know how react. She thinks it’s a good sign though. This has to mean that she at least feels comfortable around Emma.

“Sorry, that’s a lot I just threw at you,” Mary Margaret says, startled, babbling, “I don’t even really know you. But you’ve got a familiar quality, Emma.”

Emma laughs gently, trying to hide the bit of her inside that feels like bursting with happiness. This is SO easy. The queen is playing right into her hands so easily.

“I must have one of those faces, you know?” Emma says.

“Yes, you must,” Mary Margaret says, squinting at her.

Emma wonders if she’ll withstand her scrutiny. She watches as the queen absentmindedly strokes her chin, before blinking.

“I would love to talk to you about literature sometime,” Mary Margaret says suddenly.

Seriously, things couldn’t work out better.

“Yes, of course, I’d love that,” Emma says.

“Brilliant,” The queen says, “What do you say to tea this week at my home?”

Emma tries not to gap or squeal or do anything to reveal how shocked she is that this is all falling into place.

“That would be so sweet,” Emma says, letting her voice sound sincere. She really does love to talk about books.

“When is a good time for you? How does Wednesday afternoon suit?” The queen asks.

Emma nods, happy that she isn’t teaching or meeting with her advisor at that time.

“Give your address to my guard and I’ll send a driver to fetch you around then,” She says, the authority in her voice makes it clear that she is truly the queen, or at least once had the strength of one.

“Okay,” Emma says.

“I’m delighted to meet you properly, Emma,” The queen says. Her name still sounds like a caress coming off her tongue. “I’m sorry I won’t be around after the ballet, so you’ll have to save your thoughts on it for tea.”

“I look forward to it,” Emma says, trying to sound confident and casual, and not still shocked that The Queen of Misthaven wants to have tea to talk about literature with her.

The lights in theater flash, signaling the approaching end of intermission.

“It’s been wonderful to see you again, Killian,” Mary Margaret tells them, as they retreat towards the door of the box.

“Likewise, your majesty,” Killian says, bowing, “I hope to see you more often.”

“As do I,” Mary Margaret says, “See you Wednesday, Emma.”

The guard passes his phone to her and for a moment she is confused. Then she remembers the queen’s directions, and promptly types in her address.

“Thank you again for the tickets,” Emma says, bobbing another curtsey, “And see you, Wednesday.”

When the door closes behind them, Emma knows she can’t react. The walls are too thin. If she lets out the giant whoop that she wants to, she’s not sure it would get the right reaction.

Instead, she grabs Killian’s hand and squeezes it tightly, flashing him a huge smile. He squeezes back, his smile echoing hers.

They slip back into their box and the second act begins. The ballet ends with the girl marrying her lover and living happily ever after with her debts repaid. Emma hopes that the whole thing is a working metaphor for her life today.

The ballet ends with the usual applause and fanfare. Emma decides that she likes it much more than the opera. She’s not sure she’d be up for Opera: Round Two, but she would definitely sit through another ballet. You know, if the queen just wanted to give her tickets.

Killian is silent as they make their way out of the theater. She slips her program into her purse, as they burst out into the slight chill of the night.

“Emma,” Killian hushes, “Emma, you were brilliant.”

She turns to him and he’s grinning wide.

“I can’t believe it we did that,” She breathes.

Then Killian is lifting her up, spinning her in a Hollywood-esque romantic moment. At first she thinks that it’s him being saucy, but when she looks at his face, she knows that the gesture is in pure happiness. She lets herself giggle and grin as Misthaven swirls around her.

“That went so unbelievably well,” Emma sighs, when he put her back on the ground.

He scratches behind his ear, as they start to walk towards the river.

“She really thinks you’re her,” Killian says, “Really and truly. Did you hear the way she said Emma, all dreamy-like?”

“I know and the part where she was like ‘you look familiar or whatever,’” Emma babbles.

“She hardly said a word to me, mind,” Killian mutters, “But that doesn’t matter. All she needs to do is be dazzled by you.”

“No, that’s not true,” Emma says, her voice still giddy, “She said you were made out of the bravest or loyalist Misthaven blood. She trusts you, Killian.”

He chuckles, “Maybe she does. If she trust me enough, I may just be able to put in a good word for you when the time comes.”

“Of course, you’ll be putting in a good word for me,” Emma teases.

“How could I not?” Killian says, his voice joking, but there is a trace of something lacing his tone. Reverence? Affection? Emma pushes it from her mind.

They reach the river when Killian pauses.

“Swan, this calls for a celebration,” He says, “Just stay here a moment, love.”

He runs into a local Carrefour and runs back with a bottle of champagne. Emma giggles again as he unpops the cork and sprays sticky mist everywhere.

They cross the love-lock again bridge. He nods to the quay side and they walk towards it, taking their seat along the river and letting their legs hang over the edge of the low wall that runs along it. It’s dark now and a night tour boat is coasting by. It’s lit up, as is the opera house, the cathedral, and the castle. It’s dreamy.

They pass the bottle between them, taking sips of champagne. A comfortable silence settles between them. Emma likes that. They haven’t known each other too long, but they’ve already gotten to stage where they can be silent around each other. It must be part of the kindred spirits thing.

Emma eventually breaks the silence saying, “So, tell me what I should know about her. If I’m going to be Princess Emma, you’re going to have to give me all the help I can get.”

Killian frowns and takes a long gulp of champagne, “I can’t say I know tons about her. I’ve been dreaming about her more and more recently, the little games we’d play in the royal gardens, running across the castle grounds, other small things like that.”

Emma looks at him.

“I used to dream of castles too,” Emma says. “When I was very little. It was like a reoccurring dream.”

Killian looks up at her now.

“Maybe-“ He begins.

“I think it was a coping mechanism,” She admits, “Trying to imagine my way out of my sad story and into a fairy tale.”

“Emma,” Killian says softly.

She shakes her head, letting the thoughts leave her head. She can’t focus on the past. Dreams don’t mean anything. She was a little kid, of course she dreamt about castles, and probably unicorns and mermaids too. She can’t read into it. Not now.

“So tell me about her,” Emma prods.

“Hmm,” Killian says, looking pensive, “She drank tons of hot chocolate. It didn’t help that she was spoiled rotten by everyone in the kitchens who thought she was adorable. She’d always put cinnamon on top of her hot chocolate.”

Emma ponders this a moment. She can’t imagine a childhood like that. She can’t imagine anyone wanting to spoil her. She can hardly remember having hot chocolate as kid. With Ingrid, sure, but before that it was the biggest luxury.

“But she couldn’t really say cinnamon because she was a silly like kid, so she’d say something like synonym,” Killian chuckles.

“So she spoke English?” Emma asks, curious about the detail.

“They spoke French, Dutch, and English in the castle, but mostly English,” Killian explains, “They said it was the most important language for diplomacy.”

Emma nods.

“Most people in Misthaven speak pretty good English,” Killian continues, “We’re close to England and a lot of people watch loads of American telly.”

“So what else?” Emma prods, “Is there anything I need to know?”

Killian shrugs, “She liked little girl things. She loved ponies. Adored them. She had one, but I can’t remember his name. He was a spotted little pony and she was always riding around on him. I remember her begging her father for lessons time after time.”

It baffles Emma again. A childhood where someone buys you a real-life pony? She was lucky if she got some hand-me-downs and a library card. The fact that someone lived in a castle with stables where they had their own pony seemed unworldly to Emma.

“The rest is hard,” Killian admits, “It’s hard to tell what about a little girl transfers to adulthood.”

Things were quiet now. The boat had passed out into the channel. There was distance laughter and noise across the bridge from Old Town, but it seemed far away.

All of a sudden, Emma was struck by how close Killian was sitting. She felt his presence beside her, like an overwhelming aura reaching out to her. She can hear his breaths beside her, the thick gulp as he swallows more champagne

His hands brush hers as he passes her the champagne bottle. Emma shivers. She knows they’ve held hands for tiny moments during the night, but this feels different. There is an energy crackling between them now, a romantic tension that’s palpable.

“She had blond hair,” Killian says, as Emma takes large sip.

He reaches out and brushes his hand through her curls.

Emma takes another gulp of champagne.

“She had green eyes,” Killian says, leaning forward, brushing a strand of hair out of the way.

Emma puts the champagne bottle down beside her.

“And this adorable, dimpled chin,” Killian hushes.

He rubs his thumb over her chin. She wonders if he notices the tiny fleck of a scar that has formed there after the man pressed his blade to her chin last week. She wonders if Killian has noticed the way her bottom teeth are little crooked. Or the way her eyebrows are overdue for a pluck.

There is this part of her that really, really wants him to find her attractive. She wants him to fall for her. He’s so hot, with his stupid stubble and sexy accent.

He leans his head towards her. She can feel his breath close her. His finger is still on her chin, his hand coming to cup her cheek.

And she’s knows what comes next.

He’s going to kiss her.

But he can’t. She can’t let that happen. Emma has manufactured her world with priorities. School, her degree- that’s what matters. She can’t get distracted by men, even if they are beautiful. Even if she really, really wants to kiss them.

She thinks of the talk with Kennedy on her window-sill when she was nine. She remembers Kennedy telling her about the girl who got involved with a bad guy, ended up in jail. That can’t be Emma. She has a purpose and that is grad school and that is all she can have.

No prince charmings. No knights in shining armor. No stupidly attractive men distracting her with kisses and romance.

Not until she has her thesis turned in, at least.

“I’m sorry,” Emma says.

She draws back from Killian before his lips can meet hers.

“I should really be going,” She says, “I have to wake up early tomorrow and work on my dissertation. I’m really behind. Sorry. I’ll see you around Mamie’s soon.”

She scrambles to her feet and hitches her purse over her shoulder. She doesn’t want to wait to see the look on his face after his rejected advance. So, she takes off across the bridge to the tram stop.

“Wait, Emma,” Killian says, following her.

She turns back, mid-bridge. Mid-love lock bridge.

“At least, let me walk you back to your apartment,” He says, his voice only half-hopeful.

She squares her shoulders and brushes her hair back from her face.

“I’m fine, Killian, I can handle myself,” She says.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

Emma’s rejected kiss stings Killian all weekend. He tries to throw himself into work. To make up for taking Friday night off, he works the day and night shift on Saturday. It is just as well, the intense schedule keeps him busy and that is all he can ask for.

“What are you so down in the mouth about?” Ruby asks, when they swap shifts on Sunday.

“Tis nothing,” Killian mutters.

“Yeah, uh huh,” Ruby teases, folding her arms on the counter and propping up her chin on her hand, “Seriously, Killian, I’ve never seen you so forlorn. Tell Madame Ruby and she’ll sort out all your troubles.”

“Rubs, I said it was nothing,” Killian replies. It comes out more aggressive than intended.

“Woah,” Ruby says, “What the heck?”

She pauses and surveys him, “It’s a girl, isn’t it?” She’s smirking, before adding, “Or a boy? We’ve never talked about that specifically, and you can’t really assume these days.”

Killian rolls his eyes. While he’s seen Ruby sneak both lads and lasses up to her apartment, avoiding her Granny’s watchful eyes- Killian hasn’t brought anyone back to his apartment. He’s had occasional dates, one dreadful bathroom hook up that may have done permanent damage to a sink, and a two-week fling that he ended before anyone could get hurt. But he hasn’t really dated anyone, not since he arrived in Misthaven. Not since he left his painful romantic past behind him.

But there was something different about Emma. He could tell she got it. He could see her being the exception to rule, mostly because she would understand the rule in the first place. She knew about survival.

And maybe that was why she drew away from his kiss. If it was, he could deal with that. He could pick at her walls till she was ready for love.

But there are a million other reasons she might not be interested in him.

Reasons like the fact that she nearly has a PhD, while he’s never gone to a day of college. Reasons like she teaches classes on literature, while he works drawing pints and breaking up bar fights. Or that she lives in a nice apartment in a hip neighborhood, while he lives in a cramped apartment above a noisy bar. Or that he has a criminal record. Or that he’s spent most of his life without a family and that the one time he tried, it fantastically fell apart.

There are more than enough reasons for Emma Swan to not be interested.

“Shoot,” Ruby murmurs, “It is a girl. Or boy.”

“Girl,” Killian huffs.

“Right, girl,” Ruby says, nodding, “So who is she?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Killian shrugs.

“Why doesn’t it matter?” Ruby asks, leaning forward and raising an eyebrow.

“Because I tried to kiss her and she pulled away,” Killian admits, letting the bottled-up words out.

Ruby pulls a sympathetic face. “Tell me more. What’s she like?”

“She’s bloody fantastic. She’s American, blonde. She’s brilliant, a graduate student in literature. She likes all the same weird books I do.”

“Hmm, she sounds like your dream girl,” Ruby muses, “And I can’t think she isn’t interested in you- I mean, look at you. You’re attractive. You’ve got a quirky, but sexy accent. You’re charming as hell.”

“Ah Rubs, you flatter me so,” Killian jests.

“So what’s holding her back?” She asks.

He lifts a shoulder.

“It could be that she’s guarded,” Killian says, “I can tell she’s been through a lot, but I’m not sure what really and I’m not sure how it’s affected her. That’s the thing about Emma. She gets the ‘tough past’ thing. You can see it in her eyes and little things she says. She gets it. She likes books for the same reason I do, which I never known anyone like that before.”

“So, you think it’s the guarded thing?” Ruby says, “Because you know you can work on that. She’ll come around with more time.”

Killian shifts uncomfortably.

“Or it could be me. Maybe she wants someone,” He pauses, “More?”

“More what?” Ruby asks. “You can’t play that game. At least not yet. Give her more time. She’ll either come around and fall into your arms fairy tale style, or you’ll know she’s not interested but gain a friend. Just have patience, young grasshopper.”

“Oh like you are the yoda of dating wisdom?” Killian teases.

Ruby shrugs and gives a hum before leaving for her time off.

--

Killian takes Ruby’s advice and decides not to give up on Emma quite yet. Besides, they are in a business deal together. Wounded as his ego may be from her rejection, they still have to work together to pull off their scheme. And well, he still really fancies her.

He heads to Mamie’s on Tuesday afternoon. He’s given her the weekend to have time for herself, but he hopes he’ll see her today. After all, tomorrow she’ll be meeting with the queen and he reckons it’s a good idea to be on the same page before that happens.

He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees her. She sitting by the window as usual, her laptop and bowl of cappuccino in front of her. She dressed casually, skinny jeans and black t-shirt. Her red leather jacket is draped over the back of her chair. She also The Red Stilettos sitting on her table as well.

Killian flinches at the book. It’s a Blanche Neige, but by the far the darkest. While Killian’s reread most of her novels several times, he’s only read this one once. It was too haunting, too grim to touch again. The Red Stilettos tells the tale of a young girl forced into a career of exotic dancing for The Dictator after a cruel pimp in Dark Times Misthaven forces her into a pair of stiletto’s that force her to keep dancing. Her only solution is to cut off her own feet.

“Well that’s some jolly reading for the afternoon,” Killian remarks.

“Hello Killian,” Emma says, rolling her eyes.

Good old Emma. Always rolling her eyes.

“I can’t stand that one,” Killian tells her.

Emma gives him a puzzled look and then glances down at The Red Stilettos.

“It’s pretty dark,” Emma admits, “But I think it’s one of the most important of Blanche Neige’s work.”

Killian side into the chair across from her, resting a hand under his chin, “How so?”

“Well, her other novels are about people saving Misthaven, delivering it from oppressive dictators. But this one isn’t. The only person that that the protagonist manages to save is herself. And she has to cut away part of herself to do it, but she does. She saves herself. It’s not about daring resistance schemes, but personal resistance. It’s about the little things that we can do every day to rebel, to fight for hope.”

Killian looks at her with a sense of awe. She’s brilliant. Here he had just thought of it as a bleak, gritty novel, but Emma had found a way to see it as something both academic and inspirational.

“I think that it might be how Blanche Neige felt herself. Like she couldn’t bring down a whole regime. She couldn’t be the hero of her books, but she could do something. She could write these stories and use them as her own act of resistance,” Emma adds.

“Do you think they made a difference?” Killian asks.

“They made a difference to us,” Emma says, stirring a spoon in her cappuccino.

“They changed our whole lives,” Killian murmurs.

Emma licks some foam off her spoon and adds, softly, “So I think that counts.”

“Listen, Emma, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable on Friday,” Killian says.

“No, it’s okay, I was just being,” She hesitates and shrugs. He wonders what she’ll say- stubborn, guarded. “Me.”

“Well, I don’t ever want to come in the way of that,” He tells her, “But please, Emma, if you don’t want me around, if you don’t want to work with me- just say the words and I’ll disappear.”

“It’s not that,” Emma nibbles on the edge of the spoon, “I really like having you around. It’s just… I need to focus on my thesis. With this money-making plot as well, I really don’t have time for other… distractions.”

Killian isn’t sure if this was the whole story. Emma has so many walls and layers, he isn’t sure he’ll ever know her fully. But he knows that this is part of the truth. He knows how important her dissertation is to her. He wouldn’t ever want to stand in her way of following her ultimate goal.

“Just know that, um, if you change your mind, I’ll be here,” He says softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She looks up and meets his eyes.

Then just a blush begins to creep up on her, she lifts up her cappuccino bowl to cover her face. When she puts it down, the blush is gone and Emma is back to business. The emotionally intimate moment is pushed aside, or bottled up, or whatever it is Emma does to compartmentalize.

“So, I thought you were going to show me more of Misthaven,” Emma says, “It’s been what- a week- since you promised that and all I’ve seen so far is more of the Misthaven University library.”

Killian doesn’t mind the change in subject when it allows him another opportunity to take Emma on a date. Or maybe a not-date. Whatever, he’s happy for the excuse to spend more time with Emma.

“Your wish is my command, milady,” Killian says, “What would you like to see?”

Emma shrugs and runs her hand through her hair, “Something to get me out of my head.”

“Hmm, I thought you were avoiding distractions,” He teases.

Emma looks startled for a moment, before sticking out her tongue, “I can spare two hours off.”

Killian tries to think of something to do. It’s a gorgeous day, so maybe a hike in the mountains. Or a picnic in one of Misthaven’s many parks. Or a visit to the memorial gardens.

But she’s still so new to Misthaven, he thinks she needs another chance to get acquainted with the city.

“How do you feel about heights?” He asks.

Emma closes her laptop and smiles, “I don’t mind them.”

“Grand,” Killian says, “Grab your things. Let’s go.”

Emma follows Killian into the warm afternoon air. She stuffs her jacket into her purse, realizing that it isn’t necessary in the early autumn heat. They weave through Old Town. It’s buzzing, as usual, but slightly muted as the lunch crowd has headed back to work.

Killian stops in front the main church in town. Emma’s seen the dreamy steeple of the Cathedral de Sainte Ann many times, but she hasn’t ventured into the church before.

She isn’t really a church kind of person. Well, except for one time when she’d been fostered by a particularly religious family. They’d taken her and the three other foster kids to church every Sunday. She hadn’t minded it. There were always good stories. Men trapped in lion dens, others who walked on water- they were fascinating to listen to- nearly as good as fairy tales. But when one of her foster siblings had planted a handful of stolen money under her pillow, she was sent away and that was the end of churches.

She’s a little unsure of what they are doing outside of the building when Killian opens the door and gives her a little nod. Inside, glittering stain glass is scattering light everywhere. There is beautiful grey stone everywhere, like a portal to the past. The ceiling is decorated in little stars, with angels swirled in between.

“Chagall did the windows,” Killian whispers, “Take your time to take it all in.”

Killian goes to sit in one of the pews while she explores. Emma weaves around the church taking in each display of sparkling glass. She can’t tell what any of them are really. They are most dizzying displays of color and images. She loves the details of the place, the bits of gold decorating the alter piece, the ambo.

“It’s really nice,” Emma says, wishing she had better words to describe the fascinating building.

“It’s one of the oldest things in Misthaven,” Killian explains, “That and the castle, really.”

Emma hums, imagining all the history that took place here.

“But come on,” He says, “It’s time to see the true gem of this place.”

They walk together to entrance of the church. There is a small door there, the kind that might go unnoticed to a different eye. It could be leading to a closet, or maybe a space for a choir.

Killian puts a code into the lock on it and swings it open.

“You weren’t lying about the heights, right?” He asks.

Emma’s never been one to mind heights. After everything she’s gone through in life, a nice view has never turned her off. She shakes her head.

“Up we go, Swan. You never forget your first church tower.”

Emma follows him up into a small passage. The climb to the top of the tower is made up of several wooden ladders that lead up from platform to platform.

“Lady first,” Killian says, gesturing to her to begin the climb. “Or should I say Princess first.”

The name brings thoughts racing back to her head, thoughts that she’s been putting off all weekend because she can’t. She isn’t ready to think about them. She shoves them off for a moment more.

Emma begins the assent. The ladder isn’t rickety, but she is relieved that she doesn’t have any fears of heights or claustrophobia because that would make this a lot more difficult. When she reaches the first platform, she hears Killian begin on the ladder below her.

“How do you know about this?” She asks.

She doesn’t peg Killian for a church go-er. He’s a little too rogue for that kind of thing.

“Would you believe me if I told you that I used to be something of a Quasimodo? Living up in this very bell towers, ringing the bells, naming them all,” He rambles.

Emma rolls her eyes at him, even though he can’t see her.

“No,” She says flatly, reaching the second platform.

“Aw, come on. I named the biggest one after you. I call her the Swan,” He says.

“Still no,” She replies. “And are you calling me fat?”

“Of course not, love. Biggest for biggest heart, of course. And actually, she’s called The Vicious Swan,” His voice adds.

“Oh my god, Killian, I’m going to climb down and shove you off the ladder.”

“Only jesting, darling,” he says. “Would you believe me if I told you I worked odd jobs when I first arrived in Misthaven. During the Dark Times, the churches were destroyed and ransacked. This one in particular. I’m surprised the Chagall windows survived to be honest. The whole thing was in disarray. I spent a few weeks helping out here, just trying to be helpful. My biggest task was rebuilding these stairs and platforms.”

“So if they ever break- I’m blaming you?” She asks, stepping up to a higher one.

The image of Killian, hot, sweaty (and probably shirtless- What? A girl can dream!) building things, fills her head. She smiles to herself at the fantasy.

And then promptly cuts off her fantasy. Honestly, this “no Killian” plan is probably doomed.

“Precisely,” He says, “But they won’t. I’m excellent.”

“Are you really?” She asks.

Gesh, there are a lot of stairs to the top.

“Yes, Swan,” He says, mock annoyed.

“But yeah, I’d believe that,” Emma says.

She does, a lot more than his Killian of Notre Dame story.

“Well that’s the truth,” He says.

Emma’s nearly to the top, she thinks. Or at least she hopes. She may be fine with heights, but she isn’t in shape for a stepmaster workout.

“I slept on pews at night for my first week here because I didn’t have anywhere to stay yet. Just me fixing up the church and sleeping in it,” He tells her. “Eventually I paid for a room at the pub and then Ruby offered me the job and the rest was history.”

“Yeah, sounds like a literary classic right there,” Emma jokes, trying not to start puffing, “Killian Jones, Foundling.”

Emma can see a light peeking out of the top and finally climbs the last bit to reach the top of the last ladder.

Emma gets to the top of tower before Killian does. The final stairway gives way to small chamber lookout. There are four windows, each allowing a view of a different part of the town. She can hear him moving below her, but for now it’s just her and the city.

The whole city looks miniature below her. She can see the main sights- the river, the mountains, various spires of other, smaller churches. She can see the main building of the university. The rows of Old Town sprawl below her, winding along the curving roads, the buildings jutting out adorably.

If Killian is still talking, she can’t hear him. There aren’t any distractions here.

And her thoughts, the ones she’s been shoving down all weekend, the worries that rattle in her chest, twist in her stomach- they come full force forward.

How is she going to do this?

How is she going to have tea with the Queen of Misthaven?

Emma has never really been a daughter. Ingrid was the closest she came, but the way things ended there has left Emma even more uncomfortable with idea of family than she was before. She had just thought that it was something sure and loving, when the rug had been pulled out from under her.

How is Emma supposed to be someone’s daughter now?

Is she just going to sashay into the Queen Mary Margaret’s tea room and have a chat like old friends? All the while as she stars at her, looking to see her daughter in her eyes, her smile. All the while as Emma straight up tries to live a lie.

She feels her hands shaking before the enormity it comes crashing down on her.

“Swan?” Killian asks, as he reaches the top step.

A lump has settled in her throat and she can’t find the words. She rests her elbows on the ledge of the open window, leaning forward to busy herself looking over the city.

And to hide her face from Killian lest she does something embarrassing. Like cry.

“Emma, love? Are you alright?” He asks. She can hear him striding across the small room.

She doesn’t move. She doesn’t say anything. She can’t. Anything will make her guard drop at this point.

“Is it the heights?” He says, his voice right behind her. “If it is, we can go back down. I won’t even tease you about it.”

She turns to shake her head, words still sticking in her throat.

Killian extends his hands tentatively. She doesn’t shy away when he places his hands gently on her shoulders, or when he pulls her close for a hug.

She should, she definitely should be pulling away. A hug is one step away from an emotional make out session. But she doesn’t have the energy to resist. She steps awkwardly into his embrace.

Emma has never been good at physical contact. Hot and heavy? Sure. But this, this vulnerability, this gentleness- this is foreign. She never grew up with moms and dads who gave hugs or tender squeezes of a hand. Even Ingrid had been scarce with hugs, afraid of frightening Emma with contact after her previous home. This is so stupid. She doesn’t know even know how to hug someone.

Honestly- how is she going to do this?

But then Killian’s arms tighten around her and she melts.

She lets herself relax so that she fits inside the tiny curves that his encircling arms make. She lets her forehead fall to the crook of his neck. She knows that she’s going to make a mess of tears on his t-shirt, but something tells her already that he won’t mind.

He brushes a hand into her hair. It makes her feel like melting again, a soft, relaxing feeling starting at her head and passing calm through her body.

“What is it, love?” He asks, his voice soft.

It’s many moments later when she gathers her breath, finding the words to begin an answer.

“I’m not sure I can do this,” She whispers.

“Do what?” He asks, another gentle hand through her hair.

It soothes her enough to begin to answer.

“I’m not sure I can be someone’s daughter,” Emma says.

He gently, ever so gently, puts his hands on her face to guide her to look up at him.

“You’re an orphan?” He asks.

She swallows, wondering how he put it together so quickly.

He runs a thumb under her eyes, smearing the tears.

“I know that look,” He tells her before she can ask. “You’ve got a look in your eye of someone who has been left alone for too long.”

“How do you know?” She asks.

“I was too,” He tells her.

All of a sudden the intimacy of the moment hits her. Here they are, alone in this church tower, above Misthaven, faces just inches from each other, sharing the deepest of secrets. It’s way more than Emma is comfortable with, especially after running away from Killian the other night.

But she can’t run away, not now, not in his arms, not at the top of a freaking bell tower. Not after he just revealed a deep secret to her.

So, she lets him continue.

“My gran died when I was twelve. I ran away to England. I ended up lost in foster care with no one at all to care for me,” He explains. “I made a lot of mistakes. I spent a lot of time alone. I tried to have family and the bloody thing came crashing down on me.

“What I’m trying to say, Emma, is that I get it.”

And he does. She knew that they were kindred souls, but not to this extent. She didn’t know how similar they really were till this minute.

“It was the same for me,” She reveals, “Going from foster family to foster family. Some were good, others were really, really bad- but they never really felt like home.”

“It’s okay, Emma,” He says softly. “Love has been all too rare in your life, hasn’t it?”

She sniffles and nods. Then she looks up at Killian. He’s smiling a gentle, reassuring smile. It lets her keep going, letting her full worries pour out.

“I don’t know how to be Princess Emma. I don’t know how to be a girl who grew up with hot chocolate with cinnamon and ponies and parents who loved her.”

Killian makes a sushing sound and sways gently, a rocking motion. His hand is still coaxing her through soft brushes through her hair.

“I don’t even have a middle name. I had to make up my own last name. I’ve never known my birthdate or my parents name. I was just found; left in an airport. And it sucks. At least you had a brother one time. I don’t even know if I had siblings. I don’t know anything about my origins, just that whoever I belonged to didn’t want me.

This is why I’m so freaking terrified to have tea with the queen. She’s going to see right through me because I can’t possibly be like her. I can’t ever be someone so loved, so cared for.”

Killian is silent a moment. And Emma wonders if she is getting snot on his shirt and if he can tell.

“Oh Emma. First of all, you don’t have to be her. If you go in there demanding a hot chocolate with cinnamon and talking about ponies, it will be obvious that I told you all I know. It will look staged and silly. You don’t have to be a modern characterture of a three-year-old Princess,” Killian is rambling now. There is still something calming to it. She can tell he’s really trying to reassure her.

She sniffles again as he keeps going.

“Let’s be honest, Princess Emma is very likely dead. If she isn’t, she could be anyone. She could be someone in Misthaven or someone halfway across the world. She could be someone who was lonely, who grew up in foster care. For all we know, she could be a man now. There is no way to tell what happened to Princess Emma or what she’d be like now. You just have to be you. Just you Emma.”

He strokes his thumb along her jaw, rubbing over her chin. His smile is so sincere, bordering on tender that it melts her heart.

He continues, “And if the queen happens to believe you are her long lost daughter, then that’s amazing. You’ll become a pseudo-princess and you’ll have money to finish your studies and maybe help me with my shop. But if it doesn’t work- you haven’t failed either. You’ll get to sip tea in a bloody fancy house. You’ll get to talk to the queen about books, maybe make a new friend. Who knows, maybe she’ll even pay your school fees anyway, she’ll like you so much. The thing is, I really want this to work. I know we both do. But it doesn’t have to. And you don’t have to stress yourself out trying to be someone you aren’t. Be yourself and the rest will fall into place.”

She gives him a little nod that she understands. Her tears have lessened now. Her breath is still unsteady, a few stray hiccups sneaking in.

He pulls her back into a hug. It’s gentle and sweet and she just wants to stay in it forever. Silly Emma, not being used to physical attention and getting sappy about hugs. She wants to chastise herself, but she also just wants to be in this moment and take it in. Killian Jones, her kindred soul, her fellow foster child, comforting her in the simplest of ways.

“Come on Swan,” He finally says, his voice soft, “You’ll miss out on the greatest view in Misthaven.”

He runs his hands down her arms till he reaches her wrists. He tugs on them slightly, pulling her over to the window.

It’s just as lovely as it was moments before, the whole city laid out in front of her.

“Look,” Killian says softly, pointing, one hand still in hers, “You can see your apartment way over there. And over there, in Old Town, is my pub.”

“Hey, I still haven’t been there,” Emma points out, “I want my free drink.”

“All in good time, Swan,” He teases. “If you look over there, you can see the harbor. The opera house is just below us. You see the dome, right?”

Killian continues pointing out little details to her- the library, a few good museums, parks he promises they’ll visit on a nice day.

“And do you see that castle looking thing over there?” He asks, nodding at the mountain opposite.

She follows his gaze, taking in the small chateau tucked into green of the mountaintop. Even from far away, she can see it’s opulence.

“That’s where you’ll be having tea tomorrow. The queen doesn’t live in the main castle. You probably know that. She’s taken up residence in that little one. It used to be their summer home.”

Right, their summer home is just a slightly smaller castle. That’s totally normal. And so completely out of Emma’s league.

As quickly as Emma feels her fears return, they vanish as she lets the memory of Killian’s earlier words wash over her. She just has to be herself.

“You’re going to brilliant,” He says, his voice soft, “Just watch, you and the queen will get on perfect.”

Emma feels herself blush and smile demurely.

“Now love,” He says, “Enough adventure for today. I think you have a free drink to claim.”

“Really?’ She asks, turning back to face him, cheerfully.

“Yes, now come along Swan, before I change my mind,” He says, wrapping an arm around her to guide her back down.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

Emma wonders how thin the floor below her is. She also wonders if the person who lives below her can tell that she’s been pacing for the last hour. It’s always been her nervous vice- when starting a new family, before English exams, waiting for grad school acceptance letters- she’s always taken to walking in circles. And despite what Killian told her the day before, despite the millions of assurances she’s told herself- it’s not stopping her from walking in circles around her apartment’s floor.

When her phone rings, she flinches before pulling it out of her bag. The phone was an early investment, a Misthaven Sim card so that she’d be able to get calls while here. Now, she extracts her phone from her purse on the counter.

She’d spent hours before worrying over what to wear. What does one wear to meet a queen? She finally settled on a navy knee-length skirt that tied at the waist, a striped blue and white button up, and fake pearl earrings. A little make up, a professional pony tail, and a suitable brown leather tote finished her look.

“Hello?” She says into the phone.

She still hasn’t mastered area codes, but she can tell from the country code that it’s a Misthaven number.

“Hallo? Dis eez Jacques, of zee Queen’s securitay,” He says, his Misthaven accent thick and hard to understand, “Zye am waiting outside, when you please.”

“Oh right,” Emma mutters, “Um, merci? I’ll be there in a moment.”

She grabs her purse, gives her pony tail a final tug, and then heads down the stairs.

Waiting for her outside the apartment is a black car with the royal seal on it. Emma’s beginning to get familiar with it now having seen it on the Royal Box at the opera, but also on many other public places in Misthaven.

The man exits and opens the door for her. She steps in, a little bewildered by the treatment. Inside, there are bottles of sparkling water inside the cup holders, an assortment of fresh fruit between the two seats. Emma tries not to feel completely out of place.

“Eet well be a twenty-minute drive to zee house of zee Queen,” The driver says, as he slips into the front seat, “Zif you need anyting, please just let me know, Madame.”

“Merci,” Emma manages again.

She watches from the window as the car drives through the familiar streets of her neighborhood, before giving way to more unfamiliar areas. They drive past the outskirts of Misthaven City, where there are still a few rundown buildings left to be restored. The sight of them gives Emma the chills, remembering the pawn shop of her first week.

Still farther they drive and the city gives way to the countryside. Misthaven is a very small country, but it does have a sizable amount of countryside considering how small it is. There are friendly green farms, cheerful windmills, and old grey cottages flicking past her window.

Slowly they begin to drive up the mountain, there are more trees here, along with winding mountain roads. Occasionally she gets a peak of the town from mountain side, and each time it is farther and farther below her. Emma can imagine why a Queen like Mary Margaret would want to live here- far from city center and the troubles and stress that come with it.

Finally, the car stops in front of the small chateau. It’s elegant, light grey stone and archways. Emma can see some stained-glass windows farther up. Did Chagall do these ones too? There are gardens going off in all directions- a neat rose garden, organized in Tudor patterns, then beyond that an English-style garden with follies and wild flowers.

“Emma!” Queen Mary Margaret’s voice calls.

Emma had been so engrossed in taking in the estate, that she didn’t notice the Queen’s arrival. The woman is waving brightly, walking down the main stairwell to greet her.

“Your majesty,” Emma says, dropping a curtsey.

“Oh my dear,” she says, “Don’t feel the need to engage in such dramatics. You are at my home. It’s much more casual here.”

“Oh, right, okay,” Emma says, trying to figure out what ‘casual’ means to a queen, “Well, it’s great to see you again.”

“You as well, my dear,” the Queen replies, taking Emma’s hand to give it a friendly squeeze. “Come on in. Welcome to my house.”

The inside is just as seriously insane as the outside. There are ancient tapestries lining the entrance hall, fine dark wood, and golden embellishments. Emma feels like she’s entered some sort of historical display house, not a place that a real person actually lives in.

“This is a really lovely place,” Emma says politely.

“Oh,” the Queen replies, “It’s just our old summer place really. It’s not as ornate as the main castle. I wanted a simpler life when I returned here.”

Simpler life? Emma not certain this exactly what she’d describe as simple.

“Do you have a lot of these?” Emma asks, “Other houses?”

The Queen sashays her way down a corridor and Emma follows.

“Yes, of course,” She says, “There is family home by the seaside, close to the Belgian border. And then in south there is a small, little estate that has been in the royal family for years. It was supposed to go to Emma.”

The Queen pauses and gives a little glance back before adding, in a more melancholic tone. “My daughter. Princess Emma.”

“I’m sorry,” Emma replies softly.

There is a moment of silence that falls between them, as Emma looks down awkwardly, picking at her nails.

“She’s out there,” The Queen replies, “I feel it inside me. One day she’ll return to the kingdom and she’ll have her house in the southern valley.”

It’s a lovely thought. But Emma can only think of Killian’s thoughts the day before. She’s probably dead. If not, she could be anyone.

“I know it sounds silly,” the Queen says, “but I’m very bad at giving up hope.”

“That’s admirable, your majesty,” Emma tells her.

The Queen smiles softly, ruefully, before leading Emma towards a pair of French doors.

“Let me show my favorite room in the house,” She says, her voice is brighter now.

She leads Emma into a small green room with gold stripes. The room is circular with long windows that open out onto the woods nearby. Upon further exception, realizes that the walls aren’t just green and gold. The walls are a forest.

The gold stripes work as illustrations of trees, diving the walls into a multitude of foliage. As Emma gets closer, she sees more- knots in trees, tiny fairies and nymphs peaking out of trees, birds and butterflies, mushrooms and moss- all of it detailed into the walls.

Her eyes turn to the ceiling, it’s decorated so that one half shows the night sky and the other the day. Puffy white clouds and sunshine on one side and glittering constellations on the other.

“I see why it’s your favorite,” Emma remarks.

“I call it my Enchanted Forest Room,” the monarch tells her.

“It’s dazzling,” Emma murmurs.

The Queen beams and leads Emma over to a table. The table has already been set for tea with fine china cups with delicate floral designs. Seconds after they sit down, a servant (holy crap a freaking servant) brings over cart with a pot of hot tea and three-tiered tray of treats and sandwiches. The whole thing is so beautiful that Emma’s fingers twitch as she tries not to Instagram the scene. Seriously, this place would get so many likes.

“Is tea alright for you?” The Queen asks, “Or would you prefer coffee or hot chocolate?”

Emma would always prefer coffee and she’s pretty sure that Princess Emma would ask for a hot chocolate, but the truth is Emma’s nervous and doesn’t want to disturb the woman.

“Tea is perfect,” She replies.

The queen nods at Emma and she knows that it’s her cue to pour the tea. Emma’s listened to enough of Belle’s talk on regency books to know that it is a sign of respect to the elder woman to have the younger pour the tea. But that doesn’t actually mean that Emma knows how to pour the tea. Especially when the tea pot is hot and heavy (and like, obviously, not in the good way).

She tentatively reaches for the pot, not sure where to put her hands. Does she keep her hand on the lid while she pours? Will her wrist actually hold the weight of the pot? Emma puts the handle in one hand and the spout, but she’s instantly burned.

“Fuck,” she hisses, pulling back her hand.

The queen looks up at her, eyes wide.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry your majesty!” Emma says, “I didn’t mean to use foul language in front of-“

“Oh please,” she laughs, “I may be a queen, but I’m still human! Let me show you.”

The queen takes the pot gingerly in her hand, one hand on the handle and the other on the lid.

Dang it. It was the lid!

The queen pours Emma’s cup and then her own. She takes a bit of milk and sugar, before adding a small lemon tart to her plate. She nods at Emma to do the same. In turn, Emma swirls in a splash of milk and puts a small pink macaron onto her plate. She’s pretty sure that there are sparkles somehow baked into the cookie.

“So, Emma,” the Queen asks, “How are you liking Misthaven so far?”

“Very nicely,” Emma replies, “The university is very supportive. It’s a beautiful place to spend a semester.”

“It is, isn’t it?” the queen smiles, taking a sip of tea, “The library is just breathtaking. When I was getting my degree, I used to try to sneak in there to study. I’d dress like a commoner- with a baseball cap and everything. Normally my security would find me and drag me out, you know, off to study in the royal library- but the few minutes I’d get in there would be amazing.”

Emma smiles, taking a nervous sip of tea. She’s drawn in by a specific detail.

“You have your own royal library?”

The queen blushes and smiles, “I do, a few actually. There is one in the main castle, but mostly it’s just filled with legal books now that the parliament has relocated there. A lot of government scholars study there. I’ve moved most of the fiction to my private library here. And the overflow to the Princess’s castle in the valley.”

“Wow,” Emma murmurs, “I can’t imagine having so many books to myself.”

“I know that being queen comes with immense privilege, trials too, but definitely privilege. I think that all the books are the biggest part of that, and the free opera tickets,” She laughs.

“I remember the first time I got a library card,” Emma says, a little wistful between munches of macaron, “I felt like I won the lottery. All those books, as many as I wanted to read, all for free. I’d never felt so lucky.”

The queen smiles, “Well, Emma, since we are friends, you are welcome to use my library whenever you wish.”

The Queen of fricken Misthaven just offered her library to her?

Emma gapes a little bit, “Thank you. I’d really love that.”

The Queen blushes again and takes a sip of her tea.

“So what do you like read?” Emma asks.

“All sorts of things,” The Queen replies, “Classics, of course, Austen, Eliot.”

Dang it, she should’ve meet Belle instead, Emma thinks.

“But I also have a soft place for fairy tales,” She adds.

Emma looks up from her tea, a smile playing on her lips.

“Me too,” Emma blurts.

“Do you?”

Queen Mary Margaret’s eyes look as bright as Emma’s own.

“The Red Fairy Book saved my life,” Emma tells her, “Seriously, those books were my first favorites.”

The queen looks like she might cry, “I had a copy of those that I meant to give my daughter. The shoe books too- you know Ballet Shoes, Dancing Shoes, Theater Shoes- those ones. And all the Little House on the Prairie. And Anne of Green Gables. And Little Women. The Secret Garden. And of course, The Little Princess. I wanted her to read all the little girl classics.”

Now Emma feels like crying too. She has never thought that she’s the kind of person who could feel bad for a queen, yet she feels overwhelmingly sad for this woman who never got to watch her daughter grow up. A daughter which Emma is trying to impersonate, kinda. Emma doesn’t know how to react so she reaches for another macaron and shoves it in her mouth.

Then she mumbles, “I’m sorry you didn’t get to read them with her.”

“Thanks Emma,” she says, “What other things do you read?”

“Well, I like kind of post-modernism and contemporary things. You know? The weird, techno-infused, inventive things,” Emma says, “Creative, unique stuff.”

She takes another sip of tea before she keeps going.

“I’m also into world literatures. I like the concept of books as nations. I’m really interested in how we tell stories about different places and cultures, and how those stories change based on who is writing them,” Emma explains.

“Wow,” The queen says, “Your interests seem to be all over the place, yet you seem to be very articulate about what you like.”

Emma smiles, pleased.

“My favorite,” she continues, “is Blanche Neige. Have you heard of her? I think you’d like her since you like fairy tales.”

There is a small pause as the queen grimaces, searching for what to say. Her voice is grave when she responds.

“Actually, sorry, not to be rude, Emma, but I don’t really care for Blanche Neige.”

Emma feels like she’s been slapped in the face.

WHAT DOES SHE MEAN SHE DOESN’T LIKE BLANCHE NEIGE?

Emma is immediately grateful that she’ll have Killian to call tonight to rant to about this whole situation.

The queen continues, “It’s just that I don’t think she has the right to speak about Misthaven. This tiny country is my life, my whole life, and she uses it as a plot device.”

“That’s not fair,” Emma snaps, “She uses it to encourage revolution. She uses it to stand up for Misthaven during a time of oppression.”

“Does she?” The queen asks, “Or does she take advantage of the oppression to capitalize on a story?”

Emma gapes. She can’t believe that the queen doesn’t like Blanche Neige.

“Do you even know if she lived in Misthaven at the time?” The queen demands, “There is no proof that she cared about Misthaven. She was just someone making money and getting sympathy by using exploited people.”

Emma gulps. The woman is taking down the most important person to Emma and it makes her feel borderline sick. Blanche Neige is Emma’s life. The idea that Blanche Neige is anything but a hero seems blasphemous to her.

“Does that mean that no one can write about exploited people? Tons of people write everyday about the Holocaust, about genocide, refuges, war, oppression of all forms.”

The queen frowns, “I’m sorry if it sounds harsh. This is the real world, my real world, not an academic classroom. My husband died for Misthaven. My daughter died for Misthaven. My friends, my guards, my subjects- they all died for Misthaven. If Blanche Neige thinks it’s as easy as climbing a tower to find a savior, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

Emma swallows and exhales before saying, “I’m sorry for bringing her up, your majesty. I truly didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s okay Emma,” She says softly, her tension defused after her outburst. “Your heart is the right place. I won’t dislike you for liking her writing, but just please respect my request to never mention her again in my house.”

Emma nods.

“Would you like a tour now?” The queen asks, rising.

Emma stands immediately. That seems like another Jane Austen-y thing to follow. Don’t sit when the queen is standing? Not that there are queens or kings in Jane Austen, but still it seems like a proper thing.

“Sure,” Emma says.

“Let’s start with the library,” The queen says, “I wasn’t lying before, you really are free to use it whenever.”

She leads Emma down several hallways, before she approaches a pair of doors. She gives Emma conspiratorial grin, before throwing them open.

It’s an immaculate library. Emma’s never seen anything like it.

While the Misthaven University library is all dark wood, this room is bright with long windows. It’s all marble floors, gold leaf, and ornate blue reading chairs. Emma wants to explore it all immediately. Just from where she’s standing, she can see several large fairy tale anthologies. She wants to devour them immediately.

Emma can only begin to forgive Queen Mary Margaret for the Blanche-Neige-hating-thing because she has an impossibly perfect library.

“Can I really use this anytime I like?” Emma gasps.

“Of course, my dear, you are very welcome here,” The queen tells her.

“Do you mind if I look around?” Emma asks.

“Take your time,” The queen smiles. “I’ll leave you to it. Just give me a ring when you’re done and I’ll finish the tour.”

“Thanks,” Emma mumbles, as the queen backs out of the room. Emma gazes around at the gorgeous library, grinning, before pulling a stack off the shelf and curling up in a chair.

Killian is just finishing his shift when Emma calls.

“Ah, there you are, love,” He says, flopping onto his bed, the exhaustion of the long shift leaving him.

“Hey Killian,” She replies.

He listens to her voice. There is something tired and hesitant about it.

He’s been thinking about her all day. Her meeting with queen. He’s proud of her for even agreeing to the thing, despite her walls and baggage. He knows how it is to open one’s self up to vulnerability after being hurt by someone. In essence, it’s what he’s doing with Emma now.

“How’d it go, Swan?” He asks.

She lets out a moan, “Good I guess, but also horrible.”

“Horrible,” He repeats. “How so?”

Emma lets out another sigh.

“Here, actually, stay where you are. I’ll be right over,” He replies, hanging up.

He stops at Mamie’s on the way, grabbing two drinks, before heading towards the tram. It’s early evening and chilly. Killian’s wearing a lumpy knitted navy jumper (a gift from Ruby’s mamie last Christmas) and a pair of jeans, but it’s almost not enough. Early September has brought with it a kiss of fall.

It’s hard to jump the turnstiles with two warm beverages, but Killian Jones isn’t an ordinary rapscallion and he manages it surprising grace (or so he tells himself).

He arrives at Emma’s apartment twenty minutes after her call. He rings her apartment and she buzzes him up. She waiting at the door when he arrives.

She’s dressed in a pair of grey sweatpants, the European jogger style ones that stay close her legs. She also has a bright pink sports bra and a thin tank top over that. Her blond hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders. The whole look is obvious casual, so it’s alarming how incredibly sexy she is. Damn it Emma Swan.

Yet all the same, he can see faint smears of black on her face. Smeared mascara. She’s been crying.

“Emma,” He says softly, “What’s wrong?”

She lets him. Her grey blanket is crumpled on the couch. Her stack of Blanche Neige books are scattered across the sofa and coffee table. He wonders what she was doing before he arrived.

“Ugh,” She groans, “it’s all so stupid.”

“What’s stupid?”

He takes a seat on a stool at her counter. She slides in beside him.

“The reason I’m upset,” She replies, folding her arms on the counter and pressing her head into them.

“There’s no stupid reason to be upset,” He laughs, “Out with it, Swan.”

She makes a grunt from where she’s buried her head.

 “I’ve brought Mamie’s cocoa, if that will tempt you to tell me,” He tells her.

She reluctantly raises her head, rolling her eyes as she takes the mug.

After a sip she says, “Is there cinnamon on this?”

They both let loose into laughter.

After it calms, she tells him.

“Queen Mary Margaret doesn’t like Blanche Neige.”

Killian laughs again.

“Swan, this is what you are so upset about? Her majesty doesn’t share your same taste in literature?”

Emma takes another sip of cocoa.

“No, it’s not just that. She doesn’t just dislike Blanche Neige, she abhors her. Or moreover, she seems to think that there is something morally abhorant about liking Blanche Neige.”

Killian is beginning to put it together. Blanche Neige is Emma’s life. The queen’s condemnation of the author feels like a condemnation of Emma herself.

“She thinks that Blanche Neige had no right to write about Misthaven and their troubles. She doesn’t think that she was encouraging revolution, so much as profiting off of it,” Emma continues to explain.

“I’m sorry Swan,” Killian says.

She nods at the book messy, “I’ve been spending the rest of the afternoon rereading her books, trying to prove to myself that Blanche Neige is a good person.”

“Of course, dear old Blanche is good,” Killian laughs, “She saved our lives.”

Emma nods, “I guess. I mean this is a huge issue in literature today. Who gets to tell what stories? Can you tell a story about a place you’ve been? Can you tell a story about a struggle you’ve never been through? Are you bringing attention to a place or people in need? Or is it merely profiting off their tragedy?”

She sips her hot chocolate.

“I always thought that the argument was irrelevant. Who cares who tells the story? Literature isn’t about the author or the author’s intentions. The novels we read need to analyzed on their own,” she continues.

Emma removes the lid of the cocoa, using a spoon left on her counter to eat a bit of cinnamon flavored whipped cream.

“But it’s different now that I’ve met someone whose life has been so affected by the tragedy. Queen Mary Margaret lost everything. Does someone have a right to capitalize on that pain? I don’t know. The whole thing makes me feel sick.”

“Oh Emma,” He says.

He stands and moves behind her. He sweeps her hair from her back and over one shoulder in a single movement. Emma might be afraid of kisses and not ready for anything beyond friendship, but he’s realized that he can help her make progress in small, tender gestures. Holding hands, hugs, shoulder rubs- they are all enough to start to break down Emma’s walls. She deserves to be touched by someone who cares about her.

“Is it okay I rub your shoulders?” He asks.

“Sure,” she says, resting her chin on the counter.

He begins to soothe soft circles into her shoulders. Her skin is smooth underneath his thumbs. Beneath the skin, he can feel knots in her muscles. She holding a lot of tension and stress in.

“Did you tell her that Blanche Neige is your dissertation?” He asks.

“No,” Emma mutters, “I don’t know how she’d react if she found out. This whole thing would probably come to a halt.”

“Is it really that bad?” Killian asks.

“She told me never to mention Blanch Neige in her house again,” Emma sighs.

“Yikes,” Killian remarks.

“I know,” Emma laments, “And she invited me to use her library. She wants me to keep coming back and having tea with her to talk about books. It’s going to come up at someone point.”

“So ride it out till it does,” Killian says, “Or make up a fib if she asks. Or tell her you can’t answer.”

“That’s true,” Emma agrees, “It’s just that she’s so much of my life. It’s hard not to share it with her.”

“I know,” Killian says. “What you need, love, is something to take your mind off of this predicament.”

Emma turns to him and he nods over to the couch. Her eyes widen a bit, making an assumption.

“Not that,” He says, chuckling.

He walks over to where her books are scattered and begins to stack them neatly, sliding them onto her shelf.

“I think you need a break from Blanche Neige,” He says, “You can read her tomorrow when you’ve had time to clear your mind.”

Emma walks over to her couch, her hot chocolate in hand, and pulls the grey blanket around her. Killian perches on the corner of the sofa.

“What do you say to another book?” He asks.

“What do you have in mind?” She replies.

“Have you read The Princess Bride?” He asks.

“I remember being a group home where it was one of the few VHS tapes we had,” Emma muses. “I think I watched it a million times that year. But, uh, no. I never read the book.”

Killian grins, “Well, good. You’re in for a treat.”

He slides of the arm of the couch to settle beside Emma. Her legs are tucked under her and she leans in a little to listen. Killian can smell a light floral scent waft off of her, probably her shampoo.

He pulls up the novel on his phone and settles into the story. He’s always liked reading out loud and Emma is good listener. Stories are part of her DNA and so she reacts spectacularly, her eyes wide with wonder at the most surprising turns, then glazed with tears when she thinks the lovers had lost each other for good. Killian tries not to smirk to see such rawness on Emma’s face. While she seems self-assured, walled-in, she has a secret soft spot- at least for characters in books.

In a few hours, Killian has made his way through half of the book. Somehow, between Buttercup and Wesley losing and finding each other again, Emma’s legs turned up over his. By the time they make it out of the forest, Emma’s head has drifted to his shoulder. Killian tries not to all out grin as Emma’s comfortability around him.

Okay, so they might not be dating for now. Killian hates it, but he can accept it. He can accept it if it means tender hugs like they shared yesterday. He can accept it if it means her falling asleep on his shoulder, her lovely legs draped over his. He can accept it if it means her late-night calls, showing up at her apartment to find her in her pajamas. He can accept it if it means this quiet, unspoken intimacy. Sure, they aren’t a couple, but they are close. It’s only been a few weeks of friendship and they are this close. He can live with that.

Her eyes begin to flutter shut, so he nudges her.

“Emma, love, you’re falling asleep,” He says softly, “I should go. We can finish the story when you are more awake.”

She stirs a bit, humming.

“I should go,” He says. He doesn’t want to. He wants to more time with her.

She hums again, mumbling something that sounds like, “Keep reading.”

“I don’t want you to fall asleep and miss part of the story,” He tells her.

“I guess that’s fair,” Emma says, detangling herself from him. She stretches and gets up to let him out.

“Are you a little less perturbed?” He asks her, as he makes his way to the door.

“I guess,” she says, her voice still sleep-laced.

She runs a hand through her hair, making her waves dance. “I just wish I knew who she is.”

“Who?” Killian asks, trying to follow her sleepy thoughts.

“Blanche Neige,” Emma says, “If I knew who she was, I could just ask her why she wrote it. I could figure out if she was here or not. I could figure out if she is as bad as Queen Mary Margaret thinks she is.”

“If anyone can figure it out,” Killian says, “It’s you. I’m pretty sure it’s you.”

Emma rolls her eyes lazily. “Thanks Killian.”

“Good night, Emma.”

Chapter Text

Emma arrives at Mamie’s the next day around noon. Killian’s learned her schedule by now to know that she teaches on Thursday mornings. While normally she takes her time to set up her stuff and open her laptop before ordering, today she walks right up to the counter.

“Swan,” He says, when she finishes her order and stands waiting at the end of the counter.

“Hi Killian,” She says, her face brightening as she faces him. His heart soars a bit at her expression. He makes her happy. That’s certainly something.

“How are you this day, fair maiden?” He asks.

She gives a signature eyeroll, but that doesn’t detract from the fact that she just smiled at him.

“I’m alright,” She says, “Teaching was chaotic this morning, but I survived.”

He wants to reach out and calm her, but he knows they aren’t there yet. In the privacy of a bell tower or her apartment, but not here in Mamie’s.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Swan,” He says, “After all, you’re like me.”

“Like you how?” She laughs.

“Good at surviving,” He replies, his voice is the slightest bit more serious. He can tell she senses it too. Because that’s the truth, they’ve had to fight to survive their whole life. They’re good at it. That’s what makes them kindred spirits.

She nods, her face a touch more solemn too at his declaration. She knows it too.

“Medium cappuccino,” A voice announces.

Her order arrives in a to-go cup, breaking the quiet moment.

“So anyway, Queen Mary Margaret called this morning and offered another ticket to the opera on Friday. Any chance you’d be up for Opera Round Two or whatever?” She says.

“Are you asking me on a date?” He flirts, before flinching at the instinct.

“I’m asking you to come to an opera with me,” She replies, her voice a bit steelier now. “As business partners.”

“Of course I’ll accompany you,” He vows.

“Great, I’ll text you the details,” She says, hiking her bag over her shoulder. It’s nearly bursting with books today.

“You aren’t staying?” He asks, trying not to sound immensely disappointed.

“I’ve got to head out,” She tells him. “I have a huge thesis deadline for Friday. I love Mamie’s, but I need a quiet library and no distractions.”

“What library?” He asks, just trying to keep the conversation going so she won’t leave.

“The one at Misthaven U,” She tells him. “Have you seen it before? It’s gorgeous.”

“No I’m not acquainted,” Killian replies.

“Really? I thought you loved books. This place is literary paradise,” She tells him.

Killian scratches behind his ear, “Perhaps I could accompany you?”

Emma looks mock-annoyed at his expression, but shrugs and says, “Yeah, sure. Come on.”

They walk through Old Town, across the bridge, and to the campus. Autumn is on the cusp of settling in now. The streets are starting to gather with dried leaves, bright and fiery hues of orange and yellow against grey stone roads. Emma’s dressed in a black dress today, tights, boots, and her signature jacket. He thinks about taking her to the countryside when the trees really being to change. He wants to show her the low country flushed with autumn colors.

As they walk through the campus, he glances at Emma. She looks so at home and confident here, navigating her way through the old and new buildings of the university. It’s a place that Killian hasn’t spent much time in, or any at all really. He wasn’t good at school. Maybe he could have been, in another life where he was raised in the castle, tutored by a Royal Scholar. But growing up in the system, spending time in a Young Offender’s institution, battling depression or whatever dark, apathetic demon haunted his teenaged years- all those things had made school just another task in survival. He wishes he had Emma’s comfortability here. While they may be kindred spirits, he all of a sudden feels crippled by how different they are.

“Are you okay?” She asks, stopping in front of an old building, noticing how bizarrely quiet he is.

“Yes, of course, love,” He replies, not wanting her to dwell in his own inadequacies.

“Well, get ready to see the greatest library I’ve ever seen,” Emma prefaces, as she wiggles back and forth in front of the door.

Killian breaks into a smile, seeing how joyful Emma seems about going to see books.

They walk inside and Killian’s eyes adjust to the dark. The library is all dark wood, stained glass, and books that go from floor to ceiling. It’s exquisite.

“This is amazing, Swan,” He tells her.

“I know, right?” She enthuses.

He follows her to a table, where she sets up shop. Emma stacks her books, her dainty school supplies, and fancy laptop. Killian feels another wave of intimidation. He doesn’t have anything with him.

“I’m, uh, going to find a book,” He tells her, leaving the table to set off through the library.

He weaves through the tables. The silence of the library is intimidating and uncomfortable. He makes his way to the wall of books. He realizes that the shelves nearby are restricted, ropes around them preventing people from reading them. They have old and withered covers, but still it seems silly to Killian to have books people can’t read. He exits the main hall of the library, heading into hallway upon hallway of books. It’s dizzying and he can’t find anything he’s looking for.

Killian likes libraries. He knows the Dewey Decimal systems. He’s worked shelving books before, so he doesn’t how he can possibly be so incompetent in this one. Three hallways and two staircases later, he finds a section that seems to contain literature. He hastily grabs a selection of books, hoping one of them will suffice.

“Did you find something good?” Emma asks, looking up from her laptop, still typing, when he returns to their table.

“We’ll see,” He mutters, beginning to sort through the stack.

“This place is so magical, right?” Emma tells him. “I always find the most interesting books and stuff. It makes me feel like some sort of Academia Disney Princess or something.”

Killian laughs. Emma in simply being herself, lightens his mood.

“Hey, I’m going to go get some resources from the Fairy and Folklore Collection,” Emma tells him. “Will you watch my stuff while I’m gone?”

He nods, “Of course, love.”

“You still haven’t remembered what collection you found The Gold Bug or whatever in.”

“Yellow Carriage, love,” He tells her, “The Gold Bug is by Edgar Allen Poe.”

Emma laughs and runs her hand through her hair, “Right. Well, if you remember let me know. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

She gets up and heads off down a hallway. Killian tries to make sense of his stack of books. He reads a few pages of one, but finds it too dull to continue. Another is accidentally in a different language. Another is a critique of a book and not the book itself. Killian feels himself grow more frustrated. He doesn’t belong here. He doesn’t really want to be here. The space feels suddenly confining. He wants to escape, to breath fresh autumn air, and forget about this stupid Ivory Tower library.

But Emma’s gone and he doesn’t want her laptop to be stolen. So, he stays at the table and muddles through the books. Eventually, he finds one in the stack that is passable to read for a few hours. It’s not terribly entertaining or philosophically interesting, but it’s good enough. He’s too uncomfortable in this space to truly relax.

Emma returns an hour later with a whole cart full of books. “I found all of these collections I haven’t looked through. Do you want to help me?”

Killian nods, happy for an excuse to feel useful or purposeful in this foreign place. They make their way through the tables of contents, scanning for fairy tales that look promising.

“What do you think of the Silver Carriage?” Emma asks.

“Let me see,” Killian requests, as she passes him the book. He scans the story. “No, this one is totally different. The hero is a man and it involves him marrying a turtle.”

“Let me guess,” Emma teases, “He kisses the turtle and it turns into a princess?”

“A prince, actually,” Killian tells her, surprised. “And then they ride off in a sunset to their happily ever after.”

“Oo, progressive. I like it,” Emma says, nodding with a smile. “But no luck for my thesis.”

Killian smiles her and feels a bit more comfortable.

They spend a few hours in the library searching through the fairy tale anthologies. Killian still hasn’t warmed up to the library, but he’s happy to have spent the afternoon with Emma. He loves glancing up from his book to see her reading, the colored light from the stained glass illuminating her blond hair. He can see the particles of dust around her, her eyes looking fondly upon books. Killian didn’t know until now that bookishness could be incredibly sexy.

Around 5pm, Emma looks up. “Well, no luck. We might as well call it a day.”

“Will you be okay for your deadline tomorrow?” Killian asks.

She grimaces, “I told my advisor that I found possible lead on a source for the The Yellow Bug and he wanted me to edit my chapter before I turned in this new draft- but obviously, that’s not going to happen. It’s best to just focus my energy now on editing the rest of the thing. Professor Shepherd will just have to understand.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t have been more helpful,” Killian says, “I wish I could remember.”

“No, it’s fine,” Emma says, as she stacks the books back on the cart. “It’s like searching for a needle in a haystack.”

Killian just wants to make everything easier for Emma. The less stressed she is about school, the more opportunities he’ll have to take her out around Misthaven, to read books with her at Mamie’s. He tries to think of something that would help.

“What if you asked the queen for help?” Killian asks, adding his books to her stacks.

Emma frowns, as she tosses the rest of her things in her tote bag. “Honestly, I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. She’s a fairy tale expert, but that doesn’t mean she’ll help me. Especially once she learns that it has to do with Blanche Neige.”

“That’s so true,” Killian says, realizing how dim his advice is.

“Her library however,” Emma says, “That might be a lead. I wonder what fairytales she has of her own collection.”

Killian grins, “She did say you could study there whenever you like.”

“I’ll ask her on Friday,” Emma says. “Hey, did you like that book you were reading? I could check it out for you.”

Emma’s charity seems weird. She’s let him into this weird, elitist world like it’s nothing. It’s like she’s assuming he’d want to stay in it.

“No, it’s fine, love.”

“Alright, I’m going to take out a few things,” She says, “I’ll be right back.”

A few minutes later, Emma’s bag bursting more than before, they make their way to the door. They walk out of the dark library, blinking as their eyes adjust to the bright sunlight.

“Where to now?” Killian asks.

“I really need to get home,” Emma decides, “I have so much editing to do.”

“First, you need dinner,” Killian tells her. He wants more time with her. He’s pretty sure he can never enough of Emma.

“Do I?” Emma protests. “I think I just need quality time with my dissertation.”

“There is a pretty decent crepe stand not far from your apartment,” Killian tells her. “What if we stopped there on your way home?”

“Fine,” Emma says, before cracking a smile.

They head to the tram station, happy to find the train waiting for them. Emma swipes in, and, as usual, Killian hops the turnstiles.

They ride along to the next station. Killian watches the university turn slowly into the business district. The tall buildings envelop the sides of the tram, outside the window business people leave their offices for the day in neat suits.

“Tickets and tram passes out,” A voice commands.

He watches as Emma digs in her bag for her tram pass.

Killian blanches. He’s been caught before. He’s paid a few fines, but all of them less than how much he’d pay for a tram pass. Those things are bloody expensive. All the same, he’s never been embarrassed to get caught. But it’s different besides Emma. All of a sudden, he feels a rush of shame that he’s never felt before.

It’s just like in the library earlier. He doesn’t belong. Emma’s world is universities and tram passes. Killian is a scoundrel, a thief, a low-life bartender. He doesn’t belong in her world. How could he even imagine dating her? How could he even imagine being enough for her?

“Sorry, mate, I’ve forgotten to buy one today,” Killian tells the officer, as he scans Emma’s pass.

“Sorry, mate, but that’ll be 100 euros,” the officer replies, not amused.

Killian accepts the citation, crumpling it and throwing it in his pocket.

“I could have just swiped you in,” Emma tells him. “Seriously, this student pass gives me like way more swipes than I could possibly use. Next time we can just use it-“

“It’s fine, Emma,” Killian grumbles.

“It’s not a big deal,” Emma shrugs. “It’s no burden to me and it’ll save you some fines.”

“I said, it’s fine,” Killian says more forcefully this time.

Emma looks shocked at his tone. He’s never been anything but kind to her. He has no reason to be anything but kind to her. Yet here he is, lashing out at her. She is just trying to be helpful, not knowing that she’s poking at a sore spot.

She’s quiet for the rest of the ride to her neighborhood. The crepe stand is along the canal. They get crepes. Emma selects one with egg, spinach, tomato, and cheese. Killian’s has chèvre and mushroom. Once they have their crepes, they go to sit along the canal.

“Wow, you’re right,” Emma says, “These are really good.”

Killian smiles, feeling some of the awkward tension between them dissolve.

“The food game in Misthaven is really prime,” She remarks, as she continues to chew.

“I’m glad you like it here,” Killian tells her.

A boat starts floating down the canal, one of the locks shifting to help it through.

“Hey, what did you think about the library?” Emma asks.

Killian wants to tell her the truth. He wants to say that he felt stifled there, uncomfortable, out of his league. He wants to say that being at a university reminded him of everything he didn’t know, all the opportunities to better himself that he missed. He wants to say that the feeling haunts him because it makes him feel not enough.

But he can’t tell Emma that. He can see the happiness in her eyes when she talks about the library.

“I really love studying there,” Emma says. “I seriously can’t stop instagraming it. I’m sure that my followers are all annoyed.”

“I don’t think they could be,” Killian says.

He’s itching to change the subject. He doesn’t want to talk about the damned library anymore.

“I wish you didn’t need a student ID to get in,” Emma babbles, “Because I wish you could study there anytime you want, Killian.”

“It’s no big deal to me,” he says, biting his crepe so he doesn’t have to keep responding.

“Wait! I know,” Emma exclaims, “You could take a class. Tuition is free here for Misthaven residents and you have enough time. You love literature anyway.”

“I don’t think I could,” He mutters.

“Why not? You’re well-read. You are definitely cleverer than the students I teach. You could just try a class and see if you like it. Wait, you could probably do a whole degree. Just take one class at a time, maybe double up when you can. In a few years, you’d have a basic degree-“

“Shut up, Emma.”

Her mouth snaps shut. Her are eyes are wide with shock at his admonition.

“I’m not taking a bloody class at that university.”

“Why not?” Emma protests, annoyed.

“What’s wrong with me as I am?”

“What?”

“Why am I not good enough? Why do I need a degree?”

“You don’t need one,” Emma says slowly, “You just seem interested in literature and I thought you’d get a lot out of it. I know I have.”

“I didn’t grow up like you,” He snarls.

“You grew up exactly like me,” Her voice is sharp.

“Did I?” Killian says, raising an eyebrow.

“Since when are we playing ‘my life was harder than your life?’” Emma shoots. “I thought we were kindred spirits or whatever.”

“I thought so too. But, no one was there to tell me that I needed to do well in school to get out of this trap. No one was there to tell me to get a degree. I was just trying to survive secondary school. I was trying to not feel so empty all the time. That’s why I read books. So I’d feel less empty, less alone.”

“Me too,” Emma protests.

“Did you? Or did you read them because you knew they’d make you successful in life? Did you read them because you wanted good grades and fancy universities? Did you want free opera tickets and advisors and libraries? Did you do it because you wanted to feel more important and more smart than everyone else?”

“What the hell?” Emma spits. “Why are you doing this?”

Killian wants to stop. He’s being rash, and mean. Mean to Emma who he adores. Why is he doing this? He can’t stop.

“Maybe it’s because you need to know that you can’t fix me,” Killian snaps.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” Emma protests, crumbling her crepe wrapper.

“Are you sure you just don’t think I’m not academic enough for you?” Killian says.

“Why would I care if you are academic enough?” Emma says, “I just thought you’d like to learn more about books. I enjoy learning about books. And we seem to like the same things.”

“Well maybe we aren’t as similar as we thought we are,” Killian spits out, regret washing over him.

“Maybe not. But can you just chill out?” Emma says, “You didn’t need to make a big deal out of this. You know what? I have a thesis to write. I’m not going to waste my time tending to your sensitive male ego.”

She gets up, turns on her heel, leaving Killian by the side of the river. He watches her go. He wants to chase after and apologize. She’s right- he’s too sensitive. His ego is turning a sweet idea from Emma into something nefarious and he knows it’s not. Killian wants to make it right. Emma’s one of the first miracles that’s come into his life in a long time. But right now, he can’t move. He’s weighed down by his anger. He’s stooping in it. And he lets her run away.

Emma wakes up the next morning. She was hoping that a night of sleep would clear her head from The Killian Debacle, but instead she’s still livid. She’s very tempted to stay under the covers all day so she doesn’t have think about him or their fight yesterday.

What was he thinking? She’s always thought of Killian as her weird life twin, but now she’s not sure. That reaction from him was so left field and she doesn’t know what to make of it.

Ugh, no, she can’t stay in bed because she needs coffee to process. She crawls out of bed, cringing at the chill. She’d slept with the window open, hoping that the fresh air would clear her mind. But an autumn chill has finally settled and she’s cold outside her blankets. She pulls a long cardigan over the leggings and tank top she slept in. She slinks into the kitchen, frowning at her empty cupboard. She’s going to need to make a grocery run to grab at least some things to eat for breakfast. But she can start with coffee at least. Emma pulls out the French press. The least she can do is coffee.

That is, until she opens her bag of grounds and realizes she’s out of those as well. She lets out an angry grunt and throws the bag across the room. Then, she lets out another angry grunt as she realizes that now she has to go clean up the residual grounds that fell out of the bag in her anger.

This all Killian’s fault, she thinks, as she goes to find the vacuum.

Seriously, all she had wanted to do was share her favorite library with him. Because he showed her his church tower view of town. Because he comforted her the last two days when she was an emotional mess. Because he’s cute and she kinda likes him, even if she isn’t ready for a relationship with him yet. She’d thought it would be a way to share something of herself with him. She isn’t good at sharing emotions or feelings, but she could share a library with him.

That was until he made it all about himself. It’s evident that Killian has some sort of inferiority complex or some weird unworthiness that Emma hasn’t been aware of till yesterday. She knows she must have set of some sort of nerve in suggesting he take a class. It’s not her fault. I can’t be. How was she supposed to know that he’s so fricken sensitive? But all the same, it’s not her job to prune his ego. If he has issues to work out, if he feels inferior, she can’t fix that for him. That’s the kind of thing he has to heal himself.

She vacuums up the grounds and then heads to her room to change into something that doesn’t smell like she slept in it. She finds a pair of skinny jeans and a flannel top. She grabs a beanie as well, realizing how cold it is. She isn’t in the mood to study at Mamie’s. She’d rather spend the day in her room. She turned in her thesis draft last night, so her plan for the day is mostly lesson planning with maybe a hint of  pleasure reading. The kind of thing to do in your jamies and endless mugs of coffee.

But, well, her pantry has other ideas, so to Mamie’s she goes.

She’s surprised to find no texts from Killian when she checks her phone on the tram. She’s always thought he’d be the kind of guy to grovel. The kind of guy who blows up your phone with apologies after any fight. But her phone is silent, so maybe he’s still angry. She can also see Killian has the kind of guy to hold a grudge for a long time if provoked. Maybe he’ll stay mad at her forever.

It’s not even like she was trying to make him mad. It’s not like she wanted him to feel bad about himself or whatever. She’s not going to apologize. She has nothing to apologize for. Right? Right?

And who is she going to go to the ballet with tonight? Does this mean they aren’t business partners anymore? Why did Killian have to freak out like this and throw a wrench in their plans?

She’s angry. But she’s also concerned. Killian wouldn’t throw everything away if he wasn’t really hurt.

Gritting, her teeth, Emma gets off the tram and heads to Mamie’s. She’s weirdly happy that’s she fueled with rage and frustration, otherwise she might have fallen asleep on the tram.

She arrives to Mamie’s and relieved to see Killian isn’t there. She doesn’t know what to say to him. Would she apologize? Would he?

She gets in line for her cappuccino, a smile coming to her face at the very idea of caffeine.

“A large cappuccino for here, please,” Emma requests.

The barista nods.

“Name?” She asks.

“Emma,” She replies.

She heads to her usual table to spread out her work. She pulls some American literature books out of her bag, stacking them neatly, and flicking open her laptop.

“Cappuccino for Emma,” A voice calls.

She pauses. It’s not the chirpy voice of the barista.

It’s Killian’s.

All of sudden he’s there. He’s holding out a to-go cup with “I’m sorry, Swan” scrawled across the drink holder.

“Look, I was completely out of line yesterday,” He begins. “Sometimes I can’t believe how lucky I am to have a-“

“Wait, Killian,” Emma interrupts, “Can I have the coffee? I’m kinda dying here.”

“Certainly,” He says, handing Emma the mug, “But please let me continue. I’ve been rehearsing this, love. Sometimes I can’t believe how lucky I am to have made a best friend as intelligent, as ambitious, as successful as you. I often feel as if I’m not smart enough, not worthy enough to know you. And yesterday, that inferiority got out of hand and I took it out on you.”

“Killian that’s silly, okay?” Emma tells him, “I’m definitely not some holier-than-thou intellectual. We’ve been over this. I did get really lucky and I acknowledge that. But that doesn’t mean I look down on you. I never look down on you.”

“I know. I wasn’t fair to you,” He says, “I’m sorry.”

“Look I can’t make you feel worthy, only you can do that. I can’t make you feel intelligent, only you can do that. But know that you truly can do anything you want. You can take a college class. You can open a bookshop. It’s never too late to live the life of your dreams.”

Killian scratches behind his ear. “I’m not so sure about that. But thanks.”

Emma smiles at him and nods at him to sit across from her. “So are we still on for the ballet tonight?”

“Of course,” He replies.

“Good, because I had no clue where I’d find a date this late, you know?”

“Hmm, so it’s a date?”

“It’s not a date.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Swan.”

The ballet that night is elegant, if a little cliché. Cinderella by Prokofiev. Emma loves watching each of the different fairies prance across the stage. And the music itself is just as good as the dancing.

At intermission, she and Killian stop by Mary Margaret’s box. If there is tension from the Blanch Neige incident of the day before, it’s not evident now. In fact, the Queen more insistent than ever that Emma stop by for tea this Wednesday and that she should bring her homework to stay and use the library afterwards. Emma can’t complain, because she knows that the plan is truly starting to work. The Queen is infatuated with her. The Queen is believing to suspect that Emma is the princess.

Chapter Text

Emma’s life begins to fall into a pattern. She spends each Tuesday with Killian, taking adventures around Misthaven. One week, they go hiking in the hills. The view from the top of the mountain, coupled with the trees around is stunning. He hugs her at the top, in victory of their climb, lingering a moment longer than necessary. And on a whole, she doesn’t mind. Another week, they head to an adorable local bakery where Killian knows the owner. He convinces the old woman to feed Emma free samples of all of Misthaven’s delicacies. Another week, he takes her to Les Halles, the market, where they put together a picnic and enjoy them together in one of Misthaven’s tiny green squares. Emma likes these little adventures. It’s the dreamy European life she imagined when she thought about studying in Misthaven.

She starts her interviews, set up by Professor Hood. Every week she speaks to another person who survived the horrible Dark Times in Misthaven. One week, she speaks to a woman who taught kids the true history of Misthaven undercover, eventually patching together her own secret school. Another week, it’s a fisherman who smuggled goods and messages across the border. Each week is a new story, a new heartbreak. It wears on Emma. Blanche Neige’s books were always hopeful, and always distinctly fictional. But these stories are true. These stories are littered with the deaths of family members, with oppression, with depression that comes with living under a restrictive regime. These stories always mention hunger and emptiness and moments that border on hopelessness. Emma begins to understand why the queen might detest Blanche Neige. These people lived through the most desperate of hardships and here she wrote fairy stories based on them.

After each of these meetings, Emma needs to clear her head, too full of sad stories to let her rest. She ends up at Killian’s pub after one interview and soon another tradition starts. She gets to know some of the regulars who frequent the pub. There’s Leroy, a small but boisterous man. There’s Merida, a feisty Scottish exchange student with wild orange hair. She gets to know Ruby, Killian’s co-worker. Emma had thought she’d be jealous of this woman who spent so much time with Killian, but instead, Emma adores her. Ruby is vivacious and always brimming with gossip. Emma falls right into their dynamic, spending most nights in the pub laughing far past Emma’s bedtime. She’s grateful to Killian for this little community, but she doesn’t know how to express it.

 Friday nights find themselves reserved for the opera house. The queen keeps offering them tickets, so Emma and Killian continue to frequent it. Ballet and opera grow on both of them. In the end, both opera and ballet are simply stories told in an unconventional way and the pair love stories. Plus, the opera house is gorgeous. It’s not like it takes much to convince them to spend more time there. Killian jokes that he might need to invest in a pair of tails if he is going to the opera with the queen so frequently.

Wednesdays, in turn, are reserved for tea with the queen. Emma goes each Wednesday afternoon. After that awkward meeting of the first week, Emma finds that she and the queen get on nicely. They chat about books or art or whatever is at the opera house that week. Emma never thought that she’d be the kind of person to befriend a queen, but here she is. Killian was right, all those weeks ago. She doesn’t have to “be Princess Emma.” She can just be herself, awkward and bookish, for the queen to like her. However, that doesn’t prevent the fact that Emma thinks with increasing certainty that queen really does think she’s her daughter. She gets a wistful look in her eye from time to time during a lull in conversation. She starts bestowing Emma gifts that she truly can’t accept, a gold necklace, an elegant teacup.

“Please Emma, dear, just take it,” The queen protests, “I simply have too much for one solitary woman.”

More and more, Emma realizes that above all, Queen Mary Margaret is lonely. She has a whole house just for herself. She has servants and maids, but no true family. She has a professional friendship with the Prime Minister, but it’s not a true friendship. Emma begins to realize that she is one of Queen Mary Margaret’s closest friends. For a moment, Emma wonders why the queen doesn’t have more, before she realizes that everyone close her must have died in the revolution. After that realization, Emma decides that she will try her hardest to be Princess Emma, but if she can’t, she’ll be the queen’s friend. Because everyone, as surprising as it seems, even queens, needs a friend.

The best part about her friendship with Queen Mary Margaret is that she lets her use her personal library to study. Emma bring her tote bag full of books each Wednesday and spends a few hours after tea holed up in the library. The personal library is gorgeous- floor to ceiling books. Whereas the university library is comfortable in a worn and academic way, the queen’s library is pristine and regal. Emma normally wouldn’t feel comfortable in a place like it, with so much gold leaf and marble, but yet she feels right at home there. And the fairy tale collection. It’s like nothing Emma’s ever seen before. The queen wasn’t joking when she said she loved them. She has anthologies from all over the world and Emma loves to let herself read a few new ones each week when she visits.

It’s one Wednesday when Emma’s curled up with a book of Persian fairy tales by the fire place in the library, that Queen Mary Margaret comes in, two mugs in her hands.

“What are you reading, darling?” She asks.

Emma looks up, unfolding herself from the unlady-like way she was sitting to sit up straight.

“Just some fairy stories,” Emma says.

The queen looks at the cover, “Those are lovely ones indeed. You’ll enjoy those.”

Emma beams.

“Here,” the queen says, “I brought you some cocoa.”

Emma accepts the mug, realizing that the sun has dipped lower in the sky that she expected. Emma’s stayed longer than she ever has before.

She blows on the cocoa and takes a sip. It’s rich and creamy, clearly made with real chocolate and fresh milk. There’s something about the drink, some spice, that tastes familiar. It’s like an old favorite book, an unexpected comfort.

“This is really good,” Emma remarks.

“I put a dash of cinnamon in it,” The queen explains.

Emma blanches and puts the mug down on its saucer.

Oh.

So Queen Mary Margaret really does think that she’s her daughter. Emma’s wanted this for a long time. This has been her and Killian’s goal. She’s suspected it, but now, it seems confirmed. The queen really does believe that Emma is Princess Emma.

“Do you like it?” The queen says.

Emma nods numbly, “Uh, yeah, I do.”

“I was wondering,” the queen begins, “If maybe this weekend you’d like to go horseback riding?”

Oh.

She really believes it.

Emma’s heart breaks a little for her. Because it’s so obvious. The queen is so terribly desperate to believe that her daughter exists somewhere, that she’s truly begun to truly imagine Emma as the princess. She’s bringing her cocoa. She’s taking her horseback riding. Everything is going exactly to plan. But a bit of Emma hates it.

It’s just like Blanche Neige, isn’t it? Emma’s taking advantage of the queen, using her pain and heartbreak for her own personal gain. It makes sense to Emma that she likes Blanche Neige so much, they are both horrible people. Both despicably monopolizing the hardships of Misthaven.

Emma wants to say no. She feels disgusted with herself. She wants to spill the hot chocolate on the floor. She wants to run out of the palace and never come back. She doesn’t want to be this person.

But there is a bit of her, the same bit that feels bad for the queen, that wants to say yes. Because she wants the queen to have hope. Even if it’s a lie, even if it’s false- it’s still hope. Emma’s become friends with this woman. She cares about her. And if it means lying to her, or at least letting her believe that Emma is someone else, maybe it’s worth it. Maybe the queen is happier living her dream than she is living in reality. Emma wants to give her that dream if she can.

“Sure,” Emma says.

“Great,” the queen says, “I’ll arrange it. We still have our royal horses. We kept them at a palace outside of town and we were able to smuggle them out of the country. You’ll be riding my daughter’s horse, Prancer.”

“Oh okay, uh huh,” Emma says.

“I’ll send a car for you around 8AM on Saturday, if that pleases you,” The queen says.

“That’s, uh, great,” Emma replies.

“You can stay as long as you like this afternoon,” The queen adds, “Let me know if you want to stay for dinner.”

“Oh no,” Emma says, “I couldn’t. I’ll be leaving just after I finish this fairy tale.”

“Which one is it?” The queen asks.

“A Persian version of Cinderella,” She tells her.

“Oh I adore that one,” The queen ooes. “Happy reading, darling.”

Emma nods again, still dazed, as the queen waltzes out of room.

A half hour later, after finishing her fairy tale and hug-in-a-mug, Emma bursts out of the chauffer’s car and into her apartment. She fumbles for her phone before she even flicks on the lights.

Killian picks up on the second ring, “What is it, love?”

She smiles at his warm words. “It’s the queen. She’s asked me to go riding with her.”

“As in ponies?” He verifies.

“And she gave me hot chocolate with cinnamon,” Emma adds.

“Damn, she’s got it bad,” Killian says.

“I know,” Emma says.

“Do you want to go?” He asks.

“I told her I would.”

“Have you ever ridden a horse before?”

“Not that I recall,” Emma offers.

“Ruby’s cousins own a farm not far from here,” He tells her. “I bet we could set up a lesson before you have to ride.”

“Wait, you know how to ride a horse?” Emma asks. He’s a former foster child like her. How could he possibly know how to ride a horse?

“Of course, Swan, I learned at the Royal Stables,” He replies.

“Oh right, I forgot you were once fake royalty,” Emma says.

“Well now that’s your job,” He teases.

“So you know Prancer?” She asks.

“Princess Emma’s horse? How do you know that?” Killian asks, a trace of wonder and suspicion in his voice. Seriously, Killian is nearly as bad as the queen.

“The queen told me. Apparently Princess Emma’s horse outlived her.”

“Well that’s a grim thought,” Killian remarked, “I’ll call Ruby’s family and then text you the details.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Of course, Swan.”

Friday morning, Killian meets Emma at the train station. She’s wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, her hair in a braid and headband. He smirks at her carefully crafted country look.

“Well, off we are to the countryside, love,” Killian says.

“Right,” Emma says uncomfortably.

“I did you the favor of buying your ticket,” Killian said, “I didn’t want to watch you struggle through the process.”

“Thanks,” Emma says, with her signature eye roll, “You know I’ve gotten a lot better at French, thank you very much.”

“You can order a baguette, Swan, don’t flatter yourself,” He teases back.

He leads the way to their platform and they board the train.

“So where are we going exactly?” Emma asks, as they find a seat. He offers her the window so that she can see the countryside as it passes by.

“We’ll be just inside Belgium,” Killian explains, “it’s where Ruby’s cousins live. They’ll give us a lift from the station to their farm. And that’s where the fun begins.”

Emma laughs, “If you say so.”

The train begins to roll out of the station. Familiar sights of town flick by, before giving way to lush, green country fields and rich, emerald forests.

“So how is your thesis coming?” Killian asks.

After his stupid outburst the month before, Killian’s been trying to prove much he genuinely cares about Emma’s academic career.

“It’s good,” Emma says, “Interesting actually.”

“How so?” He asks.

The other truth is that he’s become quite invested in her research as well. It helps that it’s about his favorite author, but more than that, he loves the way her eyes light up when she talks about it.

“Well, I’ve been doing these interviews, right?” Emma prefaces.

“With people who lived through the Dark Times and the revolution?” He clarifies, even though he knows what she’s talking about.

“Exactly,” She tells him, “And I’ve put together a curious conclusion.”

“Which is?” Killian clarifies, waiting for her to get the point.

“I don’t think Blanche Neige lived in Misthaven during the revolution.”

“What do you mean?” Killian asks.

“There are little details missing,” Emma explains, “Little things that would be accurate if she was here.”

“Like?”

“She describes rationing wrong. There wasn’t rationing cards, it was all done via spread sheet with credit card like things. The education in school, for as crappy as they were, never cut math. Remember in Never in this Land? One of the Darlings complains about how much he misses math.”

“Wow,” Killian whispers. He’d never realized it before.

“And there’s more. In Towering Hope, the protagonist enters the city for the first time after being captured, and complains about seeing the Cathedral de St Anne louted. But the novel was written in 1998 and the Cathedral was ransacked in 2000.”

Killian hadn’t lived through most of the Dark Times. He’d been tucked away in England, so maybe that’s how he was able to overlook it all.

“Of course, it doesn’t mean anything for my thesis,” Emma says, “It doesn’t really change anything. But it does change Blanche Neige.”

Killian’s noticed that since the Queen’s initial displeasure in the author, Emma’s become a little obsessed with discover her identity. It’s as if to prove that Blanche is innocent of whatever the queen was angry about.

“How does it change her?” He prods.

“Well, it means she’s right,” Emma says, “Blanche Neige is capitalizing on other people’s pain. She’s just as bad as Queen Mary Margaret says she is.”

“Emma, stop,” Killian says. “It’s not your responsibility to justify or condemn Blanche Neige. You were the one who told me that the author doesn’t matter in academics. Your job is to analyze the writing.”

“I guess,” Emma says, “But I always thought that Blanche was trying to save Misthaven. You know, like I told you with the The Red Stilettos- she couldn’t save Misthaven like a hero- but she could write the books. She could add to the resistance by doing that.”

“That doesn’t mean that she wasn’t trying to save Misthaven,” Killian tells her. “I remember how it was, living in a different country, living far away from what was happening here. Home became a horrible unknown. I wanted to do everything I could to help, but I couldn’t go back. Maybe that’s how it was for Blanche. Maybe she had family and friends back in Misthaven. Maybe she wished she could help them. Don’t write off dear Blanche just yet, Swan. She might not be the villain you think she is.”

Emma leans her head against the window. “I guess. I’m just still shaken from what the queen said. Everything about Misthaven’s Dark Times was dramatic back in America, but now it’s heartbreaking, seeing the real people who lived through it.”

Killian nods, “It was really hard Emma. But you can’t let yourself get bogged down with it. Misthaven is a hopeful place now. And you are part of the hope. The university is up and running again. Students from around the world are coming here to study. You’re part of the good, Emma. And even researching Blanche Neige. You are helping to make Misthaven relevant again in the academic discourse.”

“In ‘the academic discourse?’” Emma laughs.

Killian shrugs.

“It seemed like the thing to say,” He says.

They are silent for a minute, watching the green flick by.

“It’s pretty,” Emma tells him. “Nature looks different here.”

“Than in America?” He asks.

Emma nods.

“I’ve never been there, you know,” He says.

“Maybe one day I can take you,” Emma says, “You know, once Queen Mary Margaret has given us all her money.”

“Yeah, okay,” Killian replies.

He imagines America- wild deserts, towering mountains, and cities upon cities. It’s a place he’s traveled to in books, but he wouldn’t mind visiting in real life too. Especially with Emma as his tour guide.

The train begins to slow.

“This is our stop,” He tells her.

They disembark the train. Killian scans for Ruby’s family’s car. He seems them immediately, a small vehicle waiting to transport them.

He walks over with Emma and nods at her to get in the front seat.

“Emma, this Auguste Du Bois, Ruby’s cousin,” Killian introduces, as he slides into the back seat. “Et Auguste, c’est Emma, ma copine.”

Killian watches as Auguste looks Emma up and down. He feels jealousy flair inside of him. She’s gorgeous and the man is only human. And of course, Emma is welcome to date anyone she wants to. But still, he wants to be the one who dates Emma. That is, if she ever decides she wants to date anyone.

“Uh, bonjour,” Emma mutters, “C’est très bien de faire votre connaisance.”

She turns back to Killian, “Why didn’t you tell me Ruby’s family only speaks French?”

“They speak Dutch too,” Killian says.

“Well that’s a big help,” Emma says.

“You said you were getting better at it,” Killian teases.

“And you accurately pointed out that the only thing I can do in French is order a baguette,” Emma giggles.

“La baguette?” Auguste pips up.

“Oui, oui, j’aime la baguette,” Emma attempts, her accent hilariously American.

They all laugh.

It doesn’t take too long to get to their farm. Auguste nods at the stable, making sure Killian knows what to do. “Come find me if you need me,” He directs, before heading into the farm house.

They walk out to the stable. It smells like fresh manure and hay. Killian remembers the royal stables as a kid. The queen had outfitted him with proper riding clothes for his lessons and he’d always felt important. He’d usually ride one of the small ponies, taking classes alongside Princess Emma. For a moment, as he looks at Emma striding beside him and he feels like he’s in the past. He can imagine her as Princess Emma so fully that he wonders, as he has many times in the last month, if Emma really is the princess. It’s so silly, so far-fetched, that he pushes it out of his mind.

“So how does one do the horse thing?” Emma asks.

Killian laughs again. He’s always been a fan of her obscure way of phrasing things.

“Come here, love,” He says, walking her up to a horse. “This here is Blaze. He’s a pretty easy horse to start with. Come say hi. Er, Bonjour.”

Emma walks up to the horse, hesitantly poking his nose.

“You can pet him, Emma,” He laughs.

He takes her hand lightly in his, looking up at her eyes as he does.

“Gently, love,” He says, lifting her hand to stroke the horse’s nose.

“Oh,” Emma says, surprised, “He’s soft.”

“Stay here,” Killian says, moving his hand off hers gently, “Make friends. I’ll go get the tack.”

“The what?” Emma asks.

“The saddle, Swan,” Killian replies, before heading the to the tack room.

He’s always loved the smell of rich leather that permeates the room. The tack room in the Royal Stables had been perfectly organized, with constant clean, crested saddle pads. The Du Bois stables are less tidy, with grimy saddle pads thrown in lumpy stacks.

He grabs what he needs and heads back to where Emma is waiting for him. She looks a bit calmer around Blaze now.

He spends nearly an hour showing her how to get the horse ready. When she’ll ride with the queen, there will likely be a groom who will prepare the horse, but Killian thinks that this is a good way to help Emma get comfortable around horses.

And Killian can’t deny that he likes showing her the ropes. He puts his hand on hers as he shows her how to use the curry comb in gentle circles, then the brush to take the loose hairs away. His body is behind her, around her, and he cherishes her warmth, the smell of her hair. There is something intimate about this.

When they finally have Blaze saddled and ready to go, Killian leaves Emma momentarily to get his own mount ready. As usual, he rides Mango. It’s one of Ruby’s horses. She’s feisty, but that’s what Killian likes about her.

They take their horses to the pasture outside.

“Well, up you go,” He says.

Emma pulls a face.

“Like this,” Killian says.

He walks Blaze over to the mounting block.

“Will you hold on to the steering thingies while I get on?” Emma asks.

“The steering thingies? Reins, Emma. Don’t you have a PhD or something in literature?’

Emma glares at him, before climbing onto the block.

“Left foot first, and then swing your right over.”

Emma mounts successfully.

“There you go,” Killian says, “You’re a natural.”

“It’s only a matter of time before this all become muscle memory, right?” Emma says hopefully.

“Certainly, Swan. Now let’s begin shall we?”

They spend the next two hours going over the basics of horsemanship. Killian, very slowly, teaches her how to ask Blaze to walk, how to start and stop a horse. Blaze is a push-button-pony and performs beautifully. Emma’s hesitancy slips away, smiling as she reaches down to pat Blaze and coo a good job.

“Can we go faster now?” Emma asks.

So, he teaches her how to trot, showing her how to post neatly. She gawks at the awkward movement at first, but eventually takes to it, trotting Blaze in neat circles around the field.

“Shall we take to the trail now, Swan?” Killian asks after the long lesson. “Just to cool down and so you can get used to riding on a trail.”

Emma nods, her riding helmet bobbing on her head.

The trails on the Du Bois farm are gorgeous and Killian’s favorite part. They are near magical, with mossy trees, small purple flowers, and a little brook weaving through the woods. Auguste’s father is a sculptor and the forest is full of different, hand-carved statues.

“This is nice,” Emma remarks, as their noses fill with the smell of pine needles and damp earth. “I can see why someone would want to try this horse thing.”

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Killian replies. “Ruby and I try to come out here a few times year to ride.”

“It’s nice of Ruby to invite you,” Emma says.

“She and her mamie have made me part of her family,” Killian says. “And I appreciate it. I didn’t have anyone when I moved here.”

Emma nods.

“It was like that when I got to Duke for undergrad,” she says. “I didn’t know anyone. And for a while, I didn’t think I needed to know anyone. I thought I was better off on my own.”

“But then?” Killian prompts.

“I met Belle, my best friend, and I realized that maybe a few friends are okay,” Emma tells him.

“Wise decision,” He says.

“So I have you and Belle and the Queen of Misthaven. What more could girl need?”

Killian thinks of the idea of Emma having a best friend. He wonders if she talks to Belle about him. He wonders if he’ll ever get to know Emma’s friend. He wants to know everything about Emma and her life and what makes her smile. He’s got it so bad.

“Argh!” Emma shrieks.

Killian looks up to see Blaze galloping through the forest suddenly; the push-button-pony suddenly provoked.

“Swan!” He gasps, urging Mango to catch up with her.

“I don’t think I can hold on,” Emma gasps.

“Well, try to,” Killian says.

The horse takes off through a patch of trees, the branches tearing at Emma’s shirt. Blaze jumps over a fallen log, before coming to halt right before the creek. Killian can see the movement coming before it plays out. He cringes as Emma tumbles off, landing in the water with a splash.

Emma is completely soaked. And sore. And thoroughly embarrassed.

She coughs and sputters. The creek isn’t deep, but Emma fell underwater for moment. She wades a bit to the side of the brook, finding a shallow spot she can sit, as she tries to regain her breath.

And dignity.

“Swan, Emma,” Killian says, rushing to her side, “Are you alright, darling?”

“I’m fine,” Emma huffs.

“Let me help you up. You should sit someplace drier,” He tells her.

The only place Emma wants to be sitting right now is in her bed, away from this nature non-sense.

“I don’t need help,” She declares, standing.

Her body is sore and the rocks are slippery. The ground slips out underneath her again and she tries to catch herself. She feels pain jolt through her wrist and palm as she tries to break her own fall. The water splashes around her, making her feel disoriented and damp.

“Fuck it all,” Emma swears, trying not to cry. Because it really hurts.

“Don’t need help, eh?” Killian teases, but she can see unbridled concern in his eyes. She knows that he worries for her.

Emma’s voice catches her throat as she tries to hold back tears. Killian looks at her and sees her distress. He scoops her up, bridal style, and carries her to the bank. She’s too waterlogged to roll her eyes.

When she’s sitting on the bank, she turns her eyes to her wrist.

Killian sits beside her, taking her wrist in his own hand. His thumb rubs over it.

“Is it broken?” He asks, lightly.

It’s sore, but after bending it back and forth a few times, she decides it isn’t broken. She shakes her head.

He turns her hand in his own. His hands feel nice, slightly calloused after working with the horses for a few hours, but gentle. She marvels at how she can sense his feelings for her in such a simple touch.

And then she realizes that her palm is sliced up from the rock she caught herself on.

“Emma,” He hushes softly.

“It’s fine,” She attempts.

He gives her a look, before rising. He walks along the bank to where he left his socks, shoes, jacket, and scarf. She’s jealous that he was able to avoid everything being soaked. Inspired, she carefully takes off her flannel shirt. She’s wearing a black tank top underneath. It’s warm enough with the early October sun shining overhead that she thinks she’ll dry off a little quicker without it.

Killian’s eyes widen a bit as he turns to see her. She blushes under his gaze, ducking her head to fuss with laces of her boots. She wants them off as soon as possible as well. It’s not necessarily easy work, with one hand down for the count.

“Here, let me help,” he says, rushing over to her.

He kneels before her, unties her boots, and carefully takes them off her feet. He stacks them neatly beside each other in the sun. Then he looks back up at her.

“Give me your hand, love,” He says, his voice is reverent and soft.

She’s having a really hard time not melting. She’s having a really hard time trying to keep the feelings away.

Especially as he takes her hand in his, the same tenderness in his touch as before. Especially as he wraps her hand in his scarf. He holds her hand with one hand, the other he uses in place to form a knot. He takes the end of the scarf in his mouth, pulling it to finish the knot, his eyes making contact with her the whole time.

Okay, that’s pretty hot too.

He keeps the eye contact after, lifting a hand to brush through her wet hair. He follows the strand of hair down, to run his finger over the side of her neck. She shivers at the unexpected intimacy. She wants him to kiss her there, along the sensitive skin of her neck. But she can’t ask for that. It’s not right. And it’s not what either of them need right now.

His finger traces over her tank top strap, then along the scar on her shoulder.

“Emma,” He says softly, “Have you ever thought that you might actually be her?”

She’s shaken from her quiet daydream.

“What? Who?” She asks, already knowing the answer, but not wanting to have to think of it.

“Princess Emma,” He says. “Call me crazy-“

“Gladly. You’re crazy,” She snaps.

He sighs, “Call me crazy, but it all adds up. You have the scar. You have her chin, her hair. You don’t have a family. You were found in America, in an airport even. You and the queen seem to have so much in common,” he rattles off.

“No.”

She can’t listen to this. She can’t hear this.

She pulls back, putting space between them. Killian retracts his hand from where it was touching her shoulder.

“I’m not her. I can’t be her.”

“But Emma. Maybe we aren’t dealing with a case of us being master impersonators. Maybe instead we are finding you a family.”

“Why? Because I’m not good enough unless I have a family.”

“What? Emma? No! That’s not what I meant at all,” Killian pleads.

“Sure, right,” She says. She hates this part of her. She hates her walls. But the moment he pokes them, they go straight up.

“Swan,” He says. His voice is soft and remorseful.

She tucks her knees up below her chin, wrapping her arms around her knees. Her eyes are flooding with tears. Not like cute little tears that trickle down your cheeks, but snotty, messy sobs that she can’t contain. Why does she keep crying around Killian? She hardly cries ever.

“Tell me what’s really on your mind,” He says.

It’s hard. It’s really hard. It’s like peeling back a few bricks, one by one, with her nails. She has to claw her way out of her walls, or at least make a small hole in them. A hole big enough for the light to peak through.

“I can’t be her,” Emma repeats, taking a hasty sniffle, “I’ve had to build my life from nothing. I’ve had to save myself every single time. And I learned I can’t afford to dream. I can’t afford to hope. The moment I start hoping, the moment I have everything to lose.”

“Oh,” Killian hushes.

Then his arms are around her, just like in the church tower weeks ago. His touch is so gentle, and warm, and she melts, the tension leaving her shoulders in swoop.

“It’s one thing,” She chokes out, her words flowing freely now, “It’s one thing to pretend I’m her. It’s another thing to believe I’m her. And if I let myself be that vulnerable, then it can destroy me.”

“I understand,” Killian says. “Hope is powerful. And scary. But that doesn’t mean you can’t try for it.”

“I think it does,” Emma counters, “I think I’ve learned that hope is a risk. It’s a weakness.”

Killian looks unfathomably sad as he looks at her. He strokes her hair and places a small kiss against her forehead. She can feel his scruff scratch her skin as he does so, his lips light where they touch her. She wonders momentarily what it would be like if they really kissed. She momentarily wants it.

But then he puts his head on top of hers and nuzzles her gently, rocking her and then stilling.

They stay like this, trembling, but together, for an undefined amount of time. Till finally a cloud passes over the sun and a chill hits Emma. She shivers.

“We should get back,” Killian says, “You’ll need a hot shower and to get your hand looked after, maybe your wrist too.”

Emma wants to argue, to tell him she can do it herself. But he’s right, they do need to get back.

“Where’s Blaze?” She asks.

They glance around, but the pony is nowhere in sight.

“Here,” Killian offers, “Let’s ride back together on Mango, then I’ll go back out and look for Blaze while you warm up.”

Emma nods limply. They head over to the horse. Emma doesn’t really want to get on another horse, but knowing that Killian is there makes her feel better. And besides, she still has to go riding with the queen.

He mounts first, then helps her up onto the horse, careful of her bad wrist and hand. She wraps her hands around his middle. She’s too tired to not lay her head against his back. She presses her ear against him, listening to his heart beat, the sounds of the forest around them. They walk back slowly and Emma’s grateful for it.

When they get to the farm house, Killian talks to August, making arrangements for Emma to take a warm shower and find a change of clothes, before he heads out to find Blaze. It’s hard to shower without irritating her hurt hand, but the hot water is good for Emma, taking the chill out of her bones. When she’s done, she finds a flannel and sweats waiting outside her door. She pulls them on. She wanders through the house, discovering a mug of chocolat chaud waiting in the kitchen with a sprinkle of cinnamon. She smiles at the gesture, taking the mug in her good wrist and taking a warming sip.

Killian.

Through the window, she can see him. His hair is messy from taking off his helmet. She wants to touch it, to run the silky black stands through her fingers.

It’s getting harder and harder to not fall in love with him. And she hates it. But there’s a part of her, a small part, the same part that clawed through her walls earlier, that doesn’t hate it. There is a small part of her that desperately and ardently wants to love him.

He reaches the door, just as the thoughts blossom fully in her head. It’s as if the bottle that contained all her feelings is falling off the shelf and shattering on the ground. Her feelings are everywhere.

She puts the hot chocolate down. Her legs feel phantom-like, not hers, because surely her own legs aren’t taking her to Killian. And surely her own fingers aren’t reaching into his delightfully disheveled hair.

The magnificent smile that takes over his face tells her otherwise. This is real.

Her lips meet his in a fit of passion that echoes the bubbling mess of feelings she has. Her lips are sticky from the cocoa, his slightly chapped from the cold. But all the same, they fall into each other perfectly. Like they were made for this. Two kindred souls.

Her hands slip to grasp the collar of his shirt and tug him closer. His own hands fall to her hips, rising to touch the skin of her lower back where her flannel rides up. She wants him to touch all of her.

And then he pulls back.

And she thinks about the all the spilt feelings on the ground.

And how they should really go back into their bottle.

“That was-“ He mumbles.

“A one-time thing.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 10

“Emma no-middle-name Swan,” Belle announces, as she fills up the screen on Emma’s phone. “I have the greatest beyond greatest news for you.”

It’s Friday night in Emma’s apartment. Facetime is open, her phone propped up by a stack of books on the coffee table as she drinks a mug of tea in her pajamas. Her hand is wrapped in a complex bandage. Killian insisted on having her stop by a clinic on the way home from the farm. The doctors had assured her that she didn’t need stitches for the cut on her hand, but they did some testing to make sure it hasn’t been infected and then gave her a butterfly band aid to keep it together. Killian had then set off to his evening shift, after Emma reassured him for the ninetieth time that she actually fine and he didn’t to fuss over her.  In turn, she headed back to her apartment to skype her best friend.

Who apparently has the greatest news.

“Tell me,” Emma says, pulling her grey blanket around her and smiling at the camera.

“I got a grant to do a bit of research in London at the end of the month,” Belle tells her. “I’m coming to Europe! And you have to hang out with me.”

Emma bursts into a huge smile. She doesn’t realize how much she’s needed her best friend until now. Killian’s been great, more than great. But Belle is her soul-sister, the only friend she’s ever managed to make. And she’s going to see her in person. They’ll be able to talk, really talk. And see London.

“Belle, this is amazing!” Emma ooes. “I’ll book my trip there right away. Do you think it’s cheaper to fly or take a ferry or a train? What days are you getting here?’

Emma dives to grab her planner off the coffee table and starts to pen in the dates as Belle lists them off.

“Wow,” Emma exclaims, running her hand through her hair as she stares fondly at the newly penned dates in her planer. “This is really going to be amazing. I can’t believe this is happening.”

“I know,” Belle says, “You’ll be able to tell me everything about your little schemes and teaching foreign undergrads and your thesis and oh, yeah, the boy.”

“What boy?” Emma repeats.

As if she doesn’t know who Belle is talking about.

“The opera boy,” Belle says.

“Oh, him,” Emma says.

Who else would it be? Killian is her only friend in town, if she didn’t count the Queen of Misthaven. And maybe Professor Hood.

“Killian,” Emma tells her, “His name is Killian.”

“Hmm, now tell me about him,” Belle prompts. “Have you seen him again?”

Ugh, Emma is totally not ready to talk about him. About earlier.

“I mean we hang out most days a week,” Emma explains, hiding her blush in a gulp of tea.

“Oh, do you?” Belle asks, flashing a cheeky smile.

“He’s been showing me around,” Emma tells her, rolling her eyes, “Taking me to see different parts of Misthaven, going to the opera with me, teaching me how to horseback ride- just normal stuff.”

“Teaching you how to horseback ride? Shut up, Emma! That’s super romantic,” Belle ooes.

Emma ducks her head, her blush unable to be blocked any longer.

“Emma,” Belle gasps, “I’ve never seen you make that face before.”

“God, I know, Belle,” Emma mumbles.

“Did you kiss him?”

Emma doesn’t reply.

“Emma Swan! You kissed a boy!” Belle squeals.

“It was just a one-time thing,” Emma says quickly.

“No, no,” Belle says, “You like him. It’s not allowed to be a one-time thing. I forbid it.”

“You can’t forbid it,” Emma says, “I am a strong independent academic woman and I don’t need a man.”

“Obviously, you don’t need a man,” Belle says, “But the marriage plot isn’t about women needing a man. It’s about women making choices that make them happy and fulfilled.”

“My thesis makes me happy and fulfilled,” Emma protests.

“Yeah uh huh,” Belle laughs, “I wish I believed you.”

“I’m not doing any dating until this dissertation is turned in,” Emma sighs, “No matter how much I might be secretly in love with my Misthaven best friend.”

“We need to have a serious conversation about this at some point. In London, shall we?” Belle tells her, “But until then, don’t hurt that boy too much.”

Emma rolls her eyes.

“No, I’m serious, Emma,” Belle tells her, “He obviously likes you a lot. Be careful with his heart.”

Emma runs her good hand through her hair.

“I will,” She vows.

“What about you?” Emma asks, trying to change the subject.

“What about me?” Belle asks.

“How are things for you? Boys?” Emma prods.

Belle sighs, “Delightful. But complicated. Delightfully complicated? I’ll tell you all when we are in London. I can’t explain here.”

“Fine, whatever. I’m glad you are coming to Europe, you loser. Or else I’d never hear all your gossip,” Emma laughs.

“And I’d never have the opportunity to persuade you to stay with your boy,” Belle teases back.

“Ugh, okay. I promise I’m booking my ticket soon,” Emma tells her, “But I should probably sign off now. I’m going riding with the queen tomorrow and I need my beauty sleep.”

“Oh, horseback riding with the queen,” Belle says in a horrible British accent.

“She has a Misthaven accent, you goon,” Emma tells her.

“Oh, horseback riding with the queen,” Belle repeats in an even more atrocious Misthaven accent.

“I’m hanging up with you,” Emma says.

“Alright, let me know when you buy that ticket, will you?” Belle says, “And seriously, girl, don’t be afraid to kiss that boy again.”

“Bye Belle,” Emma laughs, turning off her phone before her friend can give her any more advice.

It’s the next morning when Emma finds herself astride a horse. Again.

Seriously, she never expected her dissertation research to involve so much horseback riding.

But it seems that Prancer is even better behaved than Blaze was, so that’s something. Clearly someone has been riding this pony even though Princess Emma isn’t.

Which brings about the worst part: this pony is tiny.

Seriously, the poor thing was made to carry around 4-year-old Princess Emma, not 25-year-old Fake Princess Emma. What if she squishes the poor thing and it dies? Then the queen will hate her and never give her the money? This is such a mess.

“Do you ride often?” The queen asks her. She’s astride her mount, a large, dark horse named Diego.

“No, not at all really,” Emma says, “I had a lesson with a friend yesterday and it didn’t go very well.”

Emma raises her hurt hand.

“Oh you poor dear,” The queen exclaims, “Are you quite alright now? Is this frightening?”

Emma shrugs, trying not to say, “Get me off of this fucking horse.” Because honestly this pony is too tiny to be scary.

“Oh no, I’m grand,” Emma says, smiling kindly. “It’s so nice of you to take me out to ride.”

And it’s true. The forests here are very well maintained. Clearly the queen employs an extensive grounds crew. While the Du Bois forest was wild and whimsical, the Royal forests are neat and regal. There are tall trees that must have been there for centuries of Nolan rulers. There are ancient looking fountains, classical statues, and strategically planned flowers in color schemes. Emma is refined enough to appreciate it, but she thinks she prefers the enchanting feel of the Du Bois woods better.

And then there is the horses themselves. They are kept in tip top shape, groomed, well, preened more like it. Each horse has identical neat manes, saddle pads with the royal crest on it, and shiny saddles. If anything, Emma feels underdressed in her cable knit sweater and ankle boots that she picked up from the New Look in Old Town. If she ends up getting asked to ride this often in Misthaven, she’ll likely have to invest in some actual riding boots. She can’t believe it. Her, Emma Swan, foster-child-orphan-fraud, buying boots just for horseback riding.

“So, what does your mother think about you spending so much time with the Queen?” Mary Margaret asks, “I know I’ve been mentoring you a bit, but I hope she doesn’t feel like I’ve replace her.”

Emma stops her horse. It’s a conversation that they definitely should have had before now. But even in a situation like this, even when her whole deception relies on her being an orphan, a ward of the state, she hasn’t brought it up yet. It’s still a secret she guards carefully. She always has. It even took Killian a few weeks to coax it out her, Belle even longer.

But it’s got to come out at some point for this whole thing to go any farther.

“I don’t have a mother,” Emma whispers, her soft words echoing into the chattering forest, “Or a father.”

She tries to brace herself for the pity in the Queen’s face. That’s Emma’s life, always the subject of pity. The emotion is raw across Mary Margaret’s visage- grief, sympathy, and a hint of hope.

Oh. It’s that tiny glint of hope that Emma recognizes in her eyes that lets her know that she is really deep in this.

“I’m sorry, Emma,” The queen murmurs.

She reaches out to take Emma’s hand, despite the horses. It’s a solemn moment. To be honest, Emma’ a little annoyed by it. She’s not in the mood to relive her sad story. She doesn’t want to think about the trauma of growing up moving from house to house. Emma just wants to enjoy the gorgeous autumn weather and the daunting task of horseback riding.

But then again, this woman watched her family and friends get murdered. She lived in secrecy and exile for years. Maybe Emma can reveal a bit of her hardship to her.

“When did they pass?” Mary Margaret asks and Emma has to try not to roll her eyes in front of royalty. Because oh my god. This lady is totally fishing. She has it bad.

But maybe it’s more than that. The Queen also lost her family. They have that in common.

“I don’t really know,” Emma tells her. “I was found in an airport when I was three. They could be out there, but clearly they have no interest in me.”

“Emma-“

And Emma truly hates everything because just like with Killian, when she told him everything, it’s not a story she can tell without turning into an emotional, vulnerable, sobbing thing. This story is part of her neat little wall of bottles. And well, un-corking the bottle, is like un-corking a heaping grossness of emotion.

“Like people forget their water bottle in airports, and sometimes their winter gloves. But when they forget their luggage or their cellphone or some valuable, they go back and get them. So clearly I wasn’t valuable to anyone. Not to my parents. Or Aunts or Uncles. Or Grannies. Or whatever. And it’s taken my whole life to feel like I’m valuable to anyone.”

Queen Mary Margaret sees the unshed tears in Emma’s eyes and dismounts her horse. She gives Emma a gentle nod, and Emma slides off her mount. The mud squishes underneath her ankle boots. She looks down at her hands.

“Do you feel valuable to people now?”

Emma nods.

“To my best friend, Belle. She’s the first time I felt like I could trust anyone truly. Like I actually had a friend entirely on my side.”

She grits her teeth because she isn’t sure she’s ready to say it, but adds, “And Killian.”

“Killian Jones?” The queen grins.

“Yeah,” Emma says, “Him. He’s really great and I care a lot about him. Which is weird for me to care about other people. Sometimes caring for myself seems like a full-time job. But yeah.”

“And you like him?” The queen prods.

Emma sighs, “I don’t know. Maybe? The fact that I’m even saying that is impressive. I don’t like people. I just like surviving.”

The queen takes a step forward and puts her hands on Emma’s shoulders.

“You should know that you are valuable to me,” She says, her voice firm.

Emma swallows a sob that tickles her throat.

“I know I’m a crazy queen of a tiny country that swooped you up under my wing, but you matter to me. I really care about you, Emma.”

Emma wants to run for a moment. Because this is like Ingrid all over again. Because this whole thing is super fake and Emma has become the master manipulator she never wanted to be. Because Mary Margaret can’t actually love her, she just loves the idea that she’s her daughter. Because once someone cares about her, then they have infinite power to break her.

But for the tiniest flicker of a moment, she feels something stir inside that she’s never felt so entirely before. She feels like she has a mother.

And somehow she closes the space between her and Queen Mary Margaret. Here they are in the middle of this random ass fairy tale forest crying together as fake-mother-and-daughter and Emma knows this isn’t her thing. But it feels right. And recently she’s discovered that she can feel things she didn’t think she could feel before. So she hugs her, and lets her snot stain the sovereigns’ elegant riding jacket, and lets herself for the second time in two days, take a risk and feel something for someone.

“Have you ever cantered?” The queen asks, decades later, when they pull away.

“Uh no,” Emma replies.

“Would you like to learn?”

“Sure I guess, but I’m a little worried about my hand,” Emma murmurs, raising her gloved hand, that’s a little chubbier with her complicated bandage.

“You’ll be fine. Come on, get back on your horse. Let’s go.”

Emma remounts Prancer. Luckily, the pony is so tiny she doesn’t need a mounting block.

“Now, take up your trot,” The queen says, as she begins to bob up and down as her horse takes up its uneven rhythm.

Prancer and Emma follow. She tries to remember Killian’s instructions the day before on how to post, using the momentum of each stride to rise up and down.

“Alright, now give Prancer another firm squeeze,” Mary Margaret tells her, demonstrating on her own horse.

Emma thumps her legs against Prancer and the pony switches to a smooth, faster motion. Emma’s face breaks out into a smile. There is something so freeing about this. She feels connected with the horse, the world around her.

Suddenly the forest trail gives way to a valley, it’s nestled between two mountains, but it’s all open field. Emma’s heart skips a beat because there is something achingly familiar about this field, this valley. It’s like she knows it. She can’t know it. She’s never been here before.

It’s probably some fake déjà vu. She probably hiked in a valley similar to this with Killian. She probably saw something like it with Belle during their road trip to DC during college. Something, anything.

She pulls on the reins and slows the horse the down. She shoves the thought into a bottle, into the wall. But dang it. She’s getting worse at the wall thing. She’s getting worst at bottling things up.

“Are you okay?” The queen asks.

“Yeah,” She replies, “it’s all just a little overwhelming.”

“It’s okay, Emma, we can start slow,” She tells her.

Start slow. She breathes out and in. It sounds like a solution to more than one problem.

She glances at the queen who gives her a warm smile. Emma smiles back.

Trust. Emma thinks that the word. That’s why she’s having trouble bottling things up. She’s starting to trust people.

Emma and Queen Mary Margaret finish their ride an hour later. A groom meets them at the stable doors. He helps them dismount, before whisking the ponies away to be untacked and cleaned.

“Would you like a cup of tea before you head home?” The queen asks.

Emma nods, “Sure.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Mary Margaret tells her, “I so want you to see the house here. It’s the one that was meant to be my daughter’s.”

Emma remembers this. Princess Emma’s future home in the Southern Valley. Except there is no Princess Emma, so the house sit ominous empty.

“I still have a few staff who keep it running, of course,” Mary Margaret adds. “It’s a nice place to go to pepper up after a long ride.”

Emma smiles. They walk through the gardens up to the entrance. While these gardens are more subdued compared to those at her hilltop palace, the plants are still well cared for, flourishing in autumn colors- oranges and soft reds. Clearly the grounds are well taken care of.

“The library here is very nice as well,” The queen explains. “It’s bit more subdued than the library at the Summer Palace, but it’s cozier I think.”

Emma grins, already anticipating another book filled room. She wonders if this one will contain any secrets about Misthavian fairy tales. Her fingers already begin to tingle at the thought of all the books and worlds that they open up.

“Oh, Regina, how lovely to see you,” Mary Margaret remarks suddenly, as they watch a tall, elegant woman walk through the gilded doors out into the garden.

There is something incredibly familiar about this lady. Emma’s sworn she’s seen her before.

“Your Majesty,” The woman replies, giving a small curtsey to the Queen.

“Emma darling,” Mary Margaret says, “This is my dear friend, Prime Minister Mills. Regina, this is my friend Emma.”

The Prime Minister gives Mary Margaret a sharp look, raising one eyebrow incredulously.

Emma shifts uncomfortably, “Nice to meet you Madame Prime Minister.”

She puts out a hand. The woman gives it a dubious look, but shakes it.

“Please to meet you as well, Miss…” The woman waits for Emma’s reply.

“Swan,” Emma tells her, “Emma Swan.”

“Emma is an opera aficionado,” Mary Margaret explains. “And a literature Ph.D. from the states. She’s working on a research fellowship here.”

“From the states?” Regina repeats.

For a moment Emma is lost as to why this woman hates her so much. They’ve only just met. And she’s like the Prime Minister of the country and Emma is just a nobody.

“Can I speak to you a moment, your Majesty?” Regina requests, “Alone.”

Emma cringes as she watches the two step into the building. Emma sits down on one of the stone steps in the garden, bending over to wrap her arms around her legs. All of a sudden, the autumn air feels chilly.

All of a sudden, the feelings of trust that Emma felt so strongly before flicker before her. She wants to believe that she can trust the queen, but well, she’s been through this so many times before and she knows what’s going to happen.

As Emma holds herself together through the cold, she imagines the conversation going on inside the house. The Prime Minister is probably convincing the queen that she is delusional. She’ll explain how Emma is obviously a fake. I mean it’s ridiculous to be true- a girl named Emma who is from America, who loves literature and goes the opera. It’s like someone created to simply manipulate the queen into believing that it’s her daughter. And Emma knows it’s all true. She is the perfect person because it is all true. But that doesn’t prevent the tendrils of worry from wrapping their way around her stomach. What if the Prime Minister convinces her that she’s an imposter?

The jig is up, is all Emma can think, as tears threaten her eyes, her worries swimming before her. She’s going to be deported for impersonation. She’s going to be sent back to Duke and never finish her thesis and she’s going to go back to being a lonely-ass foster child with no friends and no prospects. God, she’s so stupid. She never should have trusted anyone. This happens every time she does. Why did she even think-

“Emma?” The queen interrupts.

Emma looks up at the sovereign, who sits down beside her.

“Oh, sorry, you shouldn’t have to sit on stone, you’re like a queen and-“

“It’s not a bother to me,” the queen says, “abet a bit cold.”

Emma chances giving her a smile.

“Is everything okay?” She ventures to ask.

“Regina,” The queen says softly. “Prime Minister Mills, that is. She worries about me.”

Emma is silent. Her stomach still fluttering with worry, the tears from earlier still stuck her in eyes- not yet shed, not yet dried.

“You must know, I suppose, that I’ve had a problem over the years. I don’t like giving up hope. And because of that, I’ve convinced myself that a variety of imposters were my daughter,” she admits. “I’m not proud of it. I know I’ve made myself into a fool in front of the kingdom and I know that Regina is just trying to prevent that from happen again.”

So, Emma isn’t wrong. Regina is on to her. Regina did just try to talk some sense into Mary Margaret. Which granted, to honest, Mary Margaret probably does need some sense talked into her at some point.

“But I told her that it’s not like that with you,” Mary Margaret says and Emma looks up.

She still doesn’t know what to say, some she swallows and raises her eyebrows and widen her eyes, hoping the expression will beckon a response out of the queen.

“I told her that you’ve become something of a mentee to me. That we share a love of books and culture. But regardless, that you’ve lived a life where people have left you. And I’ve lived a life where people have manipulated me and used me. Maybe our friendship is something that is purely healing for both of us.”

The tears that been threatening her eyes start to trickle down a little. Just the day before Emma vowed to cry less, but clearly that isn’t happening. This is now twice in just one outing.

“I told you that you are valuable to me, Emma,” the queen says, “And I wasn’t lying. You are valuable to me.”

Emma sniffles. The word trust echoes in her ears from earlier. A wave of something, some emotion, rolls over her. She’s right to trust Mary Margaret. She can’t believe it, but she is. She’s not like Ingrid or someone from her past who is going to desert her. She’s actually going to stand by her when it counts. Emma’s heart swells a little.

“It’s cold out here, isn’t it?” The queen says suddenly. “Let’s go inside, shall we? Find that cup of tea we discussed?”

“Yes,” Emma manages.

As she stands up, the queen pulls her into a hug and Emma feels herself melt a little. Then they walk inside and the queen talks to a servant and asks them to prepare for them tea in the library.

The library, it turns out, is Emma’s new favorite she’s seen in Misthaven. It’s not as big as the university one, or even the Summer Palace library. Instead, it’s circular and cozy. There are tall windows around the room and the ceiling is painted like the night sky. There is a crackling fire and blue armchairs. Emma has always assumed she’d be a Ravenclaw and this here is exactly how she’d imagine the common room.

They sip their tea together, munching on fresh pumpkin scones, as they discuss books they’ve read and horses and autumn, until the late afternoon cusps on evening. The October sun sinks slightly low in the sky.

“I suppose I should return home,” Emma says.

“Yes,” The queen responds, “I’ll call the car for you.”

“Do you mind if I grab a few books while I’m here?” Emma asks. She wonders if this library will have any more interesting fairy tales volumes.

The queen gives her a smile, with a slight twitch in the corners, “Help yourself my dear.”

The sovereign leaves the room as Emma takes to the shelves. She finds that many of the books here are Princess Emma’s own books. There are many more children’s stories than she’s seen in the Queen’s collection. Despite this, there are still a decent amount of fairy tales scattered through the shelves. Emma helps herself to a pile of books. She finds a volume of Dutch fairy tales that look promising. She’ll have to translate it, but that could be an adventure of its own. The she discovers a book of literary criticism on fairy tale based literature, which is pretty weird to find a kid’s library, but whatever. She adds it to the pile. Then finally, she comes across a thin hard covered book with an black cover embossed in gold reading, “Misthaven Fairy Tales.” Emma flicks open the cover to see an inscription from the queen herself.

 “Shall you stop by on Tuesday for tea, as usual?” The queen asks, returning to the room.

Emma hastily shoves the books in her tote bag. She knows she has permission to take books, but this last one seems intimate. She didn’t get a chance to read the inscription, but she has this feeling as if she’s stumbled upon something precious. She nods, “And I’ll bring some things to study after if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, darling,” The queen says. “Thanks for joining me for tea and a ride today.”

“Thank you for the invitation,” Emma says, offering a shy smile. “And for all the kind words.”

“Hey, I think you might be glowing,” Ruby tells Killian, as they swap shifts.

“I’m not glowing,” Killian tells her, though he can feel a blush creeping up his cheeks to the top of his ears.

“You are. Are you pregnant?” She teases, as she tosses her hair up in a ponytail.

He rolls his eyes. Then smiles, because he’s clearly taking up Emma’s mannerisms.

“So did you and Emma bang?” Ruby asks.

“Ruby, no,” He says, “I would do no such banging with Emma.”

“Okay fine, did you and Emma make love?” She says it super dramatically, mimicking his accent.

“No,” He snorts, “We kissed. That’s all.”

“You kissed? Killian that’s great!”

“It was just a one-time thing,” He shrugs.

“Uh huh,” Ruby grins, “That’s how those things always start.”

 “Honestly, I respect Emma and if that’s what she wants-“

“Oh please. One kiss from you and I bet she’s dreaming of another.”

“Whatever Rubs,” Killian groans.

“You can doubt me if you want, but I bet you are going to get laid before Christmas,” Ruby remarks.

“It’s just October.”

“Exactly, I’m giving you a wide berth just to be safe.”

“Maybe never say wide berth again,” Killian replies, as he exits the bar area.

“Hey, I did say you were glowing!”

“Good bye,” Killian says, turning promptly away from his ridiculous friend.

He heads out of the bar and into the heart of old town, smiling as he feels the autumn sun on his skin, his eyes adjusting from the darkness of the bar. He knows that Emma is off with the queen and he probably won’t hear from her for a couple hours. But he can’t stop thinking about her and that kiss. It was like everything he dreamt about. And better. God, she’s a marvel.

He decides to wait for her return by finding a book to read. For such a literary city, Misthaven has a woeful number of bookstores. Which of course is even more reason for him to want to open his own- he’ll definitely have the market. So instead, he heads towards one of the many charity shops in town. They’ve been his favorite place to find books, since he arrived in Misthaven years ago. What is the point of spending a fortune on books, when he can adopt orphaned ones for pennies?

He turns into his favorite shop along high street and walks inside. After nodding at the woman at the counter, he heads straight to the back where the books are. As usual, the section is stocked full of paperback mysteries and romance novels. Not that Killian doesn’t like these kind of books, or looks down upon them, but today he wants something classic. Emma is so well read, and while Killian knows that he isn’t too shabby himself, he feels the need to prove himself regardless. He studies the shelves and eventually decides on Jane Eyre. He’s never read it before, but knows enough about literature to think that the gothic themes might strike a nice autumnal tone.

He purchases the book and heads outside. It’s nice enough that he can take a seat outside Mamie’s, reading and drinking coffee in the autumn air. He’s drawn in immediately by the young foundling girl and her lonely childhood. He knows a thing or two about lonely childhoods. He’s so entranced in the book that he startles when his phone rings.

“Hello?” He asks, frowning at the unfamiliar number.

“Is this Mister Killian Jones?” A voice asks with an English accent.

“It is,” He answers.

“I’ve got some new for you,” The voice replies.

And the news makes Killian drop his phone.

Chapter Text

Emma is nearly tucked in bed when her phone rings. She’s tempted to ignore it, but when she sees Killian’s number, she pauses. She wonders if he wants to talk about yesterday and the “one time thing.” She’s not ready to talk about it. She’s not ready, far from ready, to admit that she wants it to be more than a one-time thing. She worries that if he pushes the issue, she’ll push him away. She doesn’t want to do that. She doesn’t want to push him away. She just needs more time to grapple with her feelings, maybe talk to Belle about them. The fact that she’s even thinking about that, well it means she’s making some sort of progress in this relationship-y thing.

And besides, she needs to rehash horseback riding with the Queen. And that weird moment of nostalgia or whatever while cantering. But then again, Killian might use that as more material to try to convince her that she truly is the princess.

Ugh.

“Hi,” She says finally, accepting the call.

“Emma.”

His voice is raw, broken. She’s never heard him like this before.

“Killian?” Emma asks, “Hey, what’s up?”

“Emma,” He says again, his voice just as distraught, “Can you come here? It’s just- well I’ll explain when you’re here. How soon can you get here?”

She pulls the phone from her ear to glance at the screen. It’s 11:45PM. The last tram into Old Town is leaving in five minutes. Emma knows she can just make it if she leaves now.

And it’s evident, extremely evident, that Killian needs her.

“Yeah, I’ll leave right now,” She tells him. “I’ll see you soon. Okay?”

Killian lets out a long exhale, his breath rattling against the receiver.

“Yeah, okay,” He replies.

She hangs up her phone and jumps out of bed. Emma’s still her pajamas, a soft pair of floral sleep shorts and a razorback tank. She reaches for her purse and her autumn coat. It’s an olive jacket that doesn’t quite cover her shorts. She’s going to look like a flasher or a hooker or something, but she doesn’t have time to care. She flicks off the lights, locks her door, and books it to tram stop.

Emma is puffing when arrives at the station, but she’s just in time to swipe her card and board the last tram. She hunkers down in a seat, hoping no one notices her. She gets a weird look from an old woman, but the rest of train is drunk university students too intoxicated to care. Grateful, she pulls up her hood and puts in her headphones, hoping to ward off anyone who needs to talk to her.

When she arrives to Old Town, it’s cold outside. While the fall has been mild so far, without the sunshine, the air has a biting chill to it. Her legs prickle with gooseflesh and she breaks into a jog, to get out of the cold.

As she bursts inside of the pub, she’s worried that she’ll attract attention, but the patrons are deep enough in their pints to hardly pay attention. After all, it is past midnight on a Saturday, there are weirder things to see than a girl in her pajamas.

In her whole month or so of friendship with Killian, she’s never seen his room. Shared pints at the bar with him and Ruby? Sure. But ventured to his lodgings? Never. She has an idea of where they are, through the door to the kitchens and then up a flight of stairs. She walks with a purpose through the main floor and up the stairs, hoping that no one will doubt her for walking right through the employees only sign. She takes the flight of stairs to find a small hallway with a flickering light. There are three doors and she imagines two must belong to Ruby and her granny. A faint light glows of the third, which she takes to be Killian.

She knocks on the door. It creaks open, revealing Killian’s face. It’s blotchy. He’s been crying.

“Hey,” She says gently, hugging him.

He’s always been the one to comfort her, during all of her crying episodes. It feels weird that now it’s the reverse. She’s bad at this. Emma Swan isn’t a touchy-feely person. She’s grit and survival and-

The moment she meets his eyes, a bit of her breaks too. She’s never seen Killian like this. He’s hurting. And he called her.

She takes a step towards him, placing her hands on his cheeks. His hands fall loosely at her waist.

“What’s wrong? Killian, hey, everything is going to be okay,” Emma hushes, trying to find the bit of gentleness she knows is deep inside her.

Her tone must do something for him, but she’s not sure if is helpful, because his face crumples. His arms pull her tighter, closer and his face drops limply to her shoulder. Her arms wrap around his neck, and she lets one hand tangle in his hair, stroking in a soothing fashion. It’s something he’s done for her before and she appreciated it then. She hopes that he is repaying him the same comfort.

It’s a while before he stops shaking. When he does, she guides him over to his bed, letting him sink down on the side of it. He’s still in his clothes from work, a pub t-shirt and jeans, his shoes still on his feet. She looks him in the eye before bending to take off his shoes. The angle she takes, on her knees before him, is the sort of thing that would normally make her toes curl- especially given her undeniable feelings for Killian. But he is in crisis mode now, so the task seems natural. She wants to care for him. She wants to make sense of this sudden and bizarre grief. But she can’t do it if he’s uncomfortable.

When she rises from his feet, he’s taken off his shirt. Ordinarily, she’d use this as an opportunity to take him in. She expects to find a semblance of abs beneath a smattering of chest hair. But she diverts her attention to his dresser drawers, turning her back to him as he removes his jeans. She tosses a t-shirt and pajama pants over her shoulder at him, giving him a moment to change, before she returns to sit beside him on the bed.

They scoot back, resting their backs against the wall, letting their feet dangle off the end of the bed. She takes his hand in hers. It’s a little clammy, but she still folds her own around it.

“So, are you gonna tell me why you are so upset?” She asks finally.

His breathing is even again, no longer ragged from tears. She’s glad she’s here so he’s not alone.

“God, I don’t even know where to begin,” He mutters. “Have you ever been in love before?”

She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “No, I’ve never been in love.”

It’s the truth, she thinks. She’s never had a boyfriend, or even a fling. Her focus has been on surviving. He knows that. But there is hint, the tiniest bit of her that knows it’s a lie.

She has been in love. Once. Now.

She glances down at their entwined hands and at the truth she is nowhere near ready to admit.

“Well, I was,” Killian says.

She looks back up at him.

“It was puppy love, in all the silliest of ways,” He admits. “We were young, just out of secondary school. Living in London, working odd jobs, romanticizing our poor life. It was that head over heels feeling. All of a sudden, I felt like I was no one or anything before she came into my life. After my brother left, after my gran died, I’d always felt unwanted. But here was this tiny pixie girl, with bleach blond hair and a few secret tattoos and she wanted me. I felt like I was special for the first time in all my life. I felt like I was lovable.”

Emma swallows. She knows this same thing could have happened to her. It still can. She knows how it feels to be so lonely, to feel so unworthy. She knows that any amount of affection could have left her vulnerable. That’s why she’s been so vigilant. She’s always thought of Quinn. The girl who left the foster home, got involved with a bad guy, and ended up in prison. Emma’s been nothing but determined to never let that be her.

“A couple months into the relationship, she told me she was pregnant. I hadn’t ever thought I’d have a chance at a family again, but there it was given to me as the most delightful surprise.”

He pauses, sighing. Emma squeezes his hand, forcing him to continue recounting.

“Until she decided she wanted to leave London and go home. She cut off contact. The last I heard from her, she lost the baby.”

“Oh,” Emma says softly, letting her head fall to his shoulder.

She knows that she’ll never comprehend the unfathomable sadness that Killian must have faced in the loss of both his love and his child. She wonders how he ever came back from such a loss.

“That was until this evening,” he says.

Emma pulls her head back up.

“I got a call from an agency in London. Apparently, a child was put up for adoption in 2010. The adoptive parent passed quite tragically recently and there was worry that the child might get lost in the system. Until they contacted that child’s birth mother, my former lover, her, and she said she wasn’t interested in the child but to contact the father.”

“You?” Emma asks, looking up at him. She strokes a finger down his cheek.

“That’s the mystery I suppose. Turns out, according to the people I spoke to on the phone, that she was sleeping with at least another man at the time as well. So they are going to do a paternity test to determine if the child is in fact mine or another’s.”

Emma looks up at him and understands why he must be so upset. In one phone call, he’s learned that he may or may not have gained a child that he had once lost. That alone would be traumatic enough, but to learn that the woman he once loved had been unfaithful. That was another burden on top of that.

“I’m sorry,” Emma says. “You must be feeling so much right now.”

Killian nods limply.

“I don’t want to get my hopes up,” He says, “That I could still have a child out there. But then so much comes with that- guilt at all the time lost, worry that I may go through the pain of the loss again, but excitement that I might finally have a family.”

He rubs a hand over his face.

“Emma, I don’t know how to deal with this. Part of me doesn’t even want to go. I’d have to fly to London. Imagine going all the way there to find out that the child isn’t mine. I don’t know how I could live,” He continues.

“Hey, hey,” Emma says softly, “I’m going to London at the end of the month to see Belle. Let’s go together. So you won’t be alone.”

Killian nods, letting out a sniffle.

“A child,” He says softly, another wave of realization hitting him, “A child would change my whole life. I mean, I can’t raise a child in a bar. I’d need to find a place to live, a better job- God, Emma, I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Let’s just take this one step at a time, okay?” Emma suggests. “We’ll go to London. We can start with that. And if it so happens that you are a father, you can figure out the next step.”

Killian takes a long breath and nods. Emma lets her head fall to his shoulder again. This time, they sit in soothing silence for a few long seconds.

She thinks about how her toes are cold. She wishes she had socks.

She thinks about how Killian’s apartment is so much closer to Mamie’s coffee than her own is and how jealous she is about that.

She thinks about what she’d name a child if she had one. She’s always liked the name Jane. It’s literary. Or Henrietta. Or Olivia. Or Lily.

She wonders what Killian will name his kid. If he gets her, or him. Does he even know the gender?

“That’s not all of it,” Killian whispers.

Emma is pulled from thoughts as she turns to Killian.

“You can tell me everything, you know that, right?” She asks, rubbing her thumb against his hand.

Killian swallows and nods.

“I don’t know if you would understand,” He tells her.

“Killian, that’s the thing about us. You and me. We understand each other,” She says softly, rubbing her thumb against his hand.

He sighs, “Have you ever stolen anything?”

She wants to scold him for once again introducing a dark part of his past with a weirdly cryptic question. Because seriously who does that twice in one conversation? But before she can, she’s lost in a memory.

Suddenly, she’s thirteen. She at a CVS in Boston. Her hand is shaking as she reaches for the bottle of Maybelline foundation. She had a foster sister once who was good at make-up, always testing different shades on Emma when they’d go into shops together. Emma’s grateful for her now because she knows that Creamy Natural  is her skin color. She holds the bottle against her wrist, careful to keep the finger shaped bruises covered by her long coat sleeve, as she compares the color. It’s a perfect fit.

Emma slips the bottle in her pocket. She can feel the weight as soon as it lands there. It hits the pit of her stomach. Emma isn’t a bad girl. She’s never really done bad things. But she doesn’t have any money, and her shaggy bangs aren’t enough to cover this black eye.

So she pick the price tag off of the bottle with a fingernail, as she pretends to look at nail polish colors. The whole thing feels silly. Emma’s never had her nails painted before in her life. She’s always wondered what color she would pick. Maybe a light purple. Or a blood red. She pushes away the thought. She’ll never have a life that can afford the little luxury of pretty nails. Not when she’s robbing drugstores for make up to cover her bruises. This is her life now.

It’s a thought that’s kept her up night after night, as she stares her worn paperback copy of Matilda. If she was Matilda, she wouldn’t have to steal the bottle. She could probably just magic it into her pocket or into her bedroom. But then again. If she was Matilda, she could probably escape.

“Emma,” Killian’s voice says, “You’re shaking. I’m sorry.”

She’s back in the room. The expansive memory is nothing more than a distant look her eye, a momentary pause in their conversation.

“Sorry, I just-“ She pauses, but her voice is stuck her throat, “yeah, I’ve stolen stuff before.”

“I’m sorry, Emma,” He said, “I didn’t mean to bring back bad memories. Just from what I know about you, it seemed like you were a good kid.”

Emma swallows, rubbing at her eye where tears are welling. “I was a really good kid. I couldn’t afford not to be. Survival, you know? I just had a really bad foster father and he wasn’t very gentle about getting his point across-“

“Emma, you don’t have to tell me this,” Killian says.

“Anyway, I used to steal make up from drug stores to cover up bruises and things,” Emma said. “I thought it would get worse if people knew.”

“Oh, Emma,” Killian says tenderly.

His fingers replace Emma’s where they scrub underneath her eyes. His touch is feather light, as if soothing invisible bruises. She feels a few stay tears drop from her eyelashes to get caught on the pad of his finger.

“But it’s fine. I never got caught. A teacher asked me to stay after class because my grades were dropping and when I started uncontrollably sobbing- she knew that something else was up,” Emma tells him.

Killian’s face is still wrinkled with concern for her. Maybe it’s only now that she’s spoken the words out loud, for the first time since she told Belle about this years ago, that realizes how miserable her life was.

Killian pulls her to him. It’s awkward on the bed, sitting side by side to do it. Her body twists ungracefully, but she relaxes into his arms, feeling a sense of comfort wash over her.

God. There is too much crying going on tonight.

“It’s fine, though,” She says into his shirt, “Besides, this isn’t even about me.”

“Oh Emma,” Killian says, “I seemed to have trigged a horrible memory for you. And I’m sorry for that.”

“No, it’s okay,” Emma says, tucking her head under Killian’s chin and curling into him. This is more comfortable than their awkward hug. “This is about you. About your story. I interrupted.”

“Oh right,” Killian says, “Well, er, right, I used to steal stuff too.”

“I figured,” Emma laughs, trying to lighten the mood, “Not because you seem dodgy, just because you asked, you know?”

Killian chuckles, but nods, “I wasn’t as lucky as you.”

Emma stops smiling and wraps her around him, giving him support once more.

“I got caught, spent time in a Young Offender’s Institution and then years in foster homes for bad kids,” He tells her.

“I’m sorry,” Emma says.

“It’s not great for a young lad with no family to live like that,” He says, his voice soft and sad now.

“I bet,” Emma says.

She can’t imagine what would happen if she had been caught, sent to juvie. She only survived because she got into college, because she had good grades, a clear record. A sentence, even as a youth, would have devastated her world. She could only guess at how it would have affected Killian.

“I just went to a very dark place after that,” Killian says. “And of course, it was our dear Blanche that saved me from that. And my life got happier. But the fact still remains, I’m not sure if it is even possible for me to get custody of the child.”

Emma rolls her eyes, pulling back. “I don’t think they are going to hold a record from juvie against you.”

But there is fear in Killian’s face and she doesn’t laugh at him more.

“Killian, you can’t jumping to conclusions. You’ve made something of yourself. You’ve lived a good life,” She tells him, making her voice firm. “They will see that.”

Killian swallows and ducks his head to bury it in her hair.

“Like I said, let’s take it step by step. Let’s start with London,” She tells him, making her voice soothing again. “We’ll do it like we do all things.”

“And how is that, Swan?” He asks softly.

“Together,” She whispers.

They stay that way, wrapped in each other, neither speaking, until the faintest of the sun’s rays protrude on the inky expanse of night. Emma lets memories flit through her brain. Horrible foster families. Her first few weeks at Ingrid’s, watching the bruises fade away and worrying when some of them stayed longer. She thinks of the night she ran away from Ingrid’s, falling asleep in a bed at the summer camp in the Catskills. The sound of nature and chatter and this feeling of being alone and never wanting to need anyone again.

But Killian’s breaths match her own and she knows, she knows, that he’s woven his way into her life and it’s too late.

A little bit of her, the same part of her that kissed him, is okay with that. 

Emma finally untangles herself, just to close the curtains and flick off Killian’s desk lamp, before coming back to bed. Killian is still sitting on the bed, watching her. She crawls under the covers and tugs at Killian’s hand to guide him down beside her. Everything in drowsy and fuzzy and she feels him curve around her. They drift off into the dawn.

Killian wakes up to the dim light of his bedroom. There is light peeking out from behind the curtain, proving that it’s later in the morning that he wishes it to be. From the other side of Emma’s body, he can see the light illuminating his bedroom. There is a broken old desk, with a missing drawer and a hole kicked out in the back. An old wardrobe occupies half of the wall of the cramped room. There is chipping paint and loose floorboards. It’s bare bones. Even if Emma hadn’t wanted to admit it the night before, it’s not a place fit to raise a child.

Speaking of Emma, there she was in his bedroom, laying in his arms. He could feel the rises and falls of her breaths through is whole body. God, he could even feel her heart beat.

He realized that one of his hands had snuck beneath her tank top while she was sleeping. As much as he wanted to continue those explorations, now was not the time and certainly not without her consent.

At the movement of his hand, she stirs, her breaths switching from the lazy ones of sleeps to move active ones. Her heartrate increases.

She turns in his arms suddenly, her eyes blinking open.

“Good morning,” He whispers into disheveled blond hair.

She hums sleepily and buries her head against his chest.

“Thanks,” He says softly, “For coming here last night.”

“Of course,” She says, looking up at him.

But she doesn’t understand. Not truly. Her presence here prevented him seeking a liquid companion instead. He is infinitely grateful that Emma kept him from falling down the dark pit. He didn’t think he was safe from it yet, per say, but he felt as him Emma was holding him back from precipice.

“Last time, I had news about the child- when I thought they had passed,” He admit, “I didn’t take it well. I woke up in a pile of my own sick.”

“Oh Killian. I’m sorry,” Emma murmurs.

“So thanks for being here, so that didn’t happen,” He tells her.

“I don’t think it would,” She replies, “You aren’t the same person you were then. You know better now than to make one person, one idea, your whole world.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Her finger traces a pattern against his chest. He is awed at how she always seems to see a better person in him than he is.

But he’s also awed that she hasn’t realized that he’s doing it all over again.

“I’m not so sure,” He says.

“Hm?”

He watches her forehead wrinkle and he knows that part of her doesn’t want to hear this.

“I’m not so sure I know better,” He tells her.

“Killian,” she hushes.

But he can’t stop. He needs to know. Because if she is going to get this close, he can’t let her turn around and push him away again.

“Emma, what is this? What are we?”

He watches her face swirl with emotion. An open book, she’s always been this way for him. He can read her like a novel off the shelf.

First, she looks frustrated.

Then fear clouds her eyes, making a little frown appear between her brows.

Finally, her eyes flutter shut and a look of peace passes over her, a smile curling on her lips.

“Be patient.” She whispers.

He smiles, because it isn’t a no. He knows it’s all she can give him and it suffices.

He puts a kiss on her temple.

“I have all the time in the world.”

They stay like this for a while, their legs entangled, dozing in and out of sleep. Happy to be by each other’s sides- not truly together, but not apart.

After a bit, Emma stirs. She props herself up on her elbow and runs a hand through her hair.

“Killian, we need to do productive things,” She sighs.

“I suppose we should,” He admits. If he’s planning on going to London, they’ll need tickets and travel plans.

She stretches, before rolling out of the soft world of his arms and the blankets. She lands on her feet.

“Shall we get Mamies?” Killian suggests.

“Maybe as take away?” Emma asks. “I need to shower and to get my laptop and planner.”

Killian nods, sitting up in bed and running a hand through his hair.

“I’ll bring my laptop as well,” Killian says. “We can camp out in your apartment. You can do PhD stuff and I’ll book our tickets to London.”

Emma smiles, “Sounds great.” She frowns as she looks down at her skimpy sleep shorts. “However, I’m not super keen on taking the tram back in this. I’m pretty sure people were scandalized enough on the way here.”

“Mmm, right you are, Swan,” Killian says. Misthaven tends to be a well-dressed country, especially within the inner city. A walk through the town in pajamas would be unthinkable.

He moves from his bed to rummage through his wardrobe. He tosses a pair of track pants and a t-shirt at her.

“Will that suit you?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

“It suits,” She says, as she heads off into the bathroom.

Killian changes into a pair of jeans and a button up shirt, running a comb through his hair. He packs up his old laptop and copy of Jane Eyre into his worn leather computer bag.

Emma emerges, her hair tied up, dressed in his clothes. It’s a turn on, he can’t deny it. He dreams of the day when she’ll let him undress her. Well, that is if he ever gets to be so lucky. Be patient. It echoes in his head again.

They head across the street to pick up an Americano and a cappuccino, both made with knowing grin from Ruby’s gran as works behind her expresso machine. Drinks in hand, they make their way to Emma’s apartment. Late Sunday morning is a beautiful time to be in Emma’s neighborhood. There is a farmer’s market set up in the center of town. Groups of university students walk in packs to brunch. A few families walk out of the tiny church down the street.

Killian yearns to hold Emma’s hand, taking their time to walk between the families. But instead, he walks beside her and smiles as the sun catches the gold in her hair. He’ll learn how to be happy like this. He’s got to learn patience.

They get to Emma’s apartment. He settles himself on the couch.

“I’m gonna shower,” Emma says, “And put on some real clothes.”

“Go ahead, love,” He tells her. “I’ll start searching for some tickets of London.”

She gives him a serene smile, before heading off to her bedroom. He tries not to think about her showering and gives all his attention to working on the reservations. He contemplates the age old Misthaven question- train, ferry, or fly. He initially looks at trains, which is probably the most convenient way to travel, a train to Lille and then a train to London. Unfortunately, it’s bloody expensive. He knows that neither him, nor Emma have the money for that. A ferry is pricey too- needing a ticket to cross the sea and then another train to get to London. Eventually, Killian finds a Ryan Air flight for 25 euro each way, as long as they are okay with flying into an airport outside of London and departing at 6AM. It’s silly, but he’s sure they can deal with these obstacles in order to get to their destination.

He fills out all the information for the flight, just holding off on pressing submit till Emma comes back. He fishes out his copy of Jane Eyre in the meantime, flicking open to where he left off- just as Jane is becoming a governess.

Emma returns from the shower not long after. She’s dressed in dark leggings and a soft grey sweater. Her hair is still wrapped in a towel. She sits down on the couch and pulls some fuzzy socks on.

“Jane Eyre?” She asks.

“I found it yesterday at a charity shop,” He explains.

“That’s an interesting choice, don’t you think?” Emma remarks.

“Is it?” Killian isn’t quite sure what she means.

“I mean, Mr. Rochester has this ward that he takes in, some long lost child of his or whatever. And Jane becomes super rich,” Emma mutters.

Killian raises an eyebrow, “Are you saying that you are Jane in this scenario and I, Rochester?”

Emma rolls her eyes a little and shrugs.

“I’m not far in this novel yet, but I’m quite certain that Jane falls for Rochester,” Killian says, giving her a teasing smile, wetting his lips.

“Well I’ve read the novel and I know it ends with Rochester half-blind and losing a hand,” Emma quips. “So, I’m not sure you’re one to talk here.”

“Pssh, like you wouldn’t find me any less dashingly handsome half blind and with one hand,” Killian says, giving Emma his best smolder look.

She bursts into giggles, “Keep tell yourself that buddy.”

She tugs the towel off her head, her normally golden hair damp and tumbling around her head in dark, messy clumps. She tosses the towel into the laundry basket in her room with surprisingly good aim, before grabbing her grey blanket and wrapping around her. Killian cannot stop being mesmerized by the simplest of her movements.

She turns to face him on the couch, their legs tangling together. “So, did you find tickets to London?”

He nods, “I did. How does a 6AM flight sound for you?”

Emma lets out a groan. “Is this our only option?”

“Would you rather pay 200 euro for the train?” He asks.

“No,” Emma sighs. “Go ahead, buy the tickets.”

“Aye, aye.”

Chapter Text

Emma finds it most surprising of all, how entirely normal the drive to the queen’s palace becomes. The small chateau has joined the ranks of Mamie’s, the university library, and Killian’s pubs as her favorite of Misthaven haunts. It has a homey comfort to it. Just looking at the familiar trees and twisting road up the hill has Emma craving hot chocolate with cinnamon and the stillness of the royal library.

She realizes that she’s relaxed a bit around Mary Margaret as well. Today, Emma is even wearing jeans, with a cable knit sweater and knotted faux-silk scarf, but still- it’s far more casual than she’s dared to dress before. Because Mary Margaret is startling to feel like family.

The car pulls up the palace and a footman opens the door for her. It looks welcoming, framed with bright red autumn leaves. Emma gets out, swinging her tote bag over her shoulder.

Just as she’s about to enter the palace, the door swings open.

“Excuse me,” A voice says, and Emma looks up, stumbling back, as she realizes that she’s almost run into the Prime Minister.

“Oh sorry, Prime Minister Mills,” Emma mutters.

“Oh, Emma, right?” The woman says, with a tight smile.

“Yeah, it is,” Emma says awkwardly. “Sorry again.”

“It’s not a bother,” She replies, “But I would like to steal you away for a moment.”

Emma gives the woman a puzzled look.

“Let’s take a walk through the gardens, shall we?” The woman suggests.

“Sure, I guess,” Emma agrees. Who is she to argue with the Prime Minister of Misthaven?

They take a turn towards a leaf littered grove.

“I’m not going to waste your time with small talk, so I’ll get to the point. As someone enthusiastic about the liberal arts, I assume you are knowledgeable about the history of Misthaven,” Prime Minister Mills says.

“I am,” Emma agrees.

“Well then, as you know, Queen Mary Margaret lost a lot in the revolution,” the woman explains.

Emma nods. “I’m researching the revolution for my thesis. I know it was a really bad time. A lot of fear and loss of human life.”

“I’m glad you grasp it a bit. Our Queen lost everything- her family, her kingdom. And I’m sorry to say that she still hasn’t recovered,” Regina tells her.

Emma looks up at the prime minister. They’ve reached the copse now. There is a stone bench that Emma thinks that they are going to sit on, but Regina remains standing.

“You should know that she’s latched onto a lot of young girls named ‘Emma’ who fake American accents and try to win her affections. And every time, it’s ended in heartbreak.”

“She’s told me a little,” Emma admits.

“Well than you should be advised to not let that happen. The queen can’t take another heartbreak. The kingdom can’t take any more false hope.”

Emma’s stomach churns. Regina is on to her.

“I’m not saying that’s what you are doing. But I also haven’t ruled on the fact that you aren’t. Everyone wants to be the lost princess. Everyone wants her to exist.”

Emma tries to keep her face from getting splotchy and her eyes from welling with tears. She doesn’t know how to react.

“I’m not- I mean,” Emma says, “Queen Mary Margaret is a friend. We just talk about books and stuff.”

The prime minister gives Emma stern look. “It would be a humiliation to our kingdom if the queen was to be publically made a fool again. Are we clear?”

Emma feels an unfamiliar rage flame inside of her. The queen isn’t some random, poor lady. The queen is the woman who discusses books with her, who buys bear claws when she discovers that Emma likes them, and who tells her that’s she valuable.

“I know that the queen can be a little naïve, but that doesn’t mean she’s stupid,” Emma says, surprised at her own avarice. “She can make decisions for herself. You aren’t her parent. She’s wise and thoughtful. Yes, she’s hopeful, but she’s not a child.”

Regina breathes in sharply and then exhales slowly, with a grimace.

“Miss Swan, she may be the queen, but I am the one in charge of this country now. If I see that your relationship with her majesty is becoming inappropriate or dangerous to our country, I will have to ask you to leave. Are we understood?”

Emma bites her lip and resists the urge to roll her eyes.

“Yes, Madame Prime Minister.”

“Good day to you, Miss Swan.”

Prime Minister Mills turns on her heel and walks off. Emma tries not to giggle as a leaf gets stuff in the woman’s heel as she stomps off through the leaves.

Once she has driven off, Emma sinks down onto the stone bench. She’s shaking. She feels caught, scolded like a child.

Part of her does feel guilty. This whole thing did begin as a rouse to convince the queen. Emma has celebrated each success she’s had in convincing the woman that she’s her long-lost daughter. There has been a voice in Emma’s head this whole time that is thinking about the money, thinking about tuition fees and students loans, and all the burdens that could be removed by the queen’s affections.

But there is another part of her that has let go of that goal or possibility. She thinks back often to the afternoon in the church tower where she told Killian her worries. He reassured her that merely her friendship with the queen was enough. She could sip tea and talk about books with her, and if that was it- that wasn’t bad either. And it’s true. Emma likes Queen Mary Margaret. She enjoys her company and if this is all that happens- Emma knows she is lucky enough.

Emma wants to survive, but she also cares deeply for Mary Margaret.

And there is this weird part of her that thinks that maybe it is okay that Mary Margaret believes that she’s her daughter. Maybe that is truly the best thing for the sovereign. She knows that the woman’s heart won’t rest until she knows that her daughter is found. And Emma wants the woman’s heart to be at rest.

“Emma, darling?” The queen’s voice calls.

“Sorry, I’m out in the garden,” Emma replies, hurrying to her feet.

“Whatever for?” The queen asks, approaching her, doting a kiss on each cheek.

Emma thinks of telling the queen about her conversation with Regina, but thinks better of it. The queen needs not know about it.

“It’s nothing,” Emma says, “I just wanted to take some Instagram pictures of the forest out here. These trees are gorgeous.”

Mary Margaret smiles, “They are lovely, aren’t they? It’s cold though, so let’s go in and get some tea.”

“Okay,” Emma agrees.

It is warmer inside, especially settled inside the Enchanted Forest room. Regina’s words begin to fade out of her head and Emma is able to focus just on Queen Mary Margaret- and well, the fresh apple tart made from the apples in the palace orchards. Seriously, Emma never plans on relinquishing her friendship with the queen, purely because of how good the food is.

“Do you know what Killian is reading?” Emma tells Mary Margaret.

“No tell me,” the queen laughs.

“Jane Eyre,” Emma tells her.

“Oh, I rather like the Brontës. It’s good fall reading with all the spooks,” She says.

Emma nods, “It is. I think Killian will like it. It’s just a bit uncanny. Because, well, he’s found out that he might be a father.”

“Oh Emma, are you pregnant?” The queen asked, eyes wide, a smile on lips.

Emma bursts out laughing and puts her cup of tea down. “Oh my god. Not at all.”

The queen lets out a snort of laughter. “Alright then, what is happening with Mr Jones then?”

“It’s a previous relationship, from when he lived in London,” Emma explains. “He thought the child hadn’t survived, but in fact, he or she had. And now an agency is looking to put the child under Killian’s care.”

“And you think it resembles Mr. Rochester and Adela?”

Emma nods, “I mean I hope he’d be a bit more fond of his child is than Rochester is of Adela. But honestly, he doesn’t know if the child is his or not. We’re going over to London next weekend to see.”

“I see,” The queen says. “And what happens if the child is his?”

Emma can’t stop her face from falling. “I don’t know. He’s not in a great situation to take in a kid. He works at a pub and lives above it. He doesn’t a lot of money or space for child. I’m in no position to help him.”

The queen reaches out and takes her hand.

“It’ll work out Emma,” She says softly. “I know it will. I’ll see to it if I must.”

Emma gives her a weak smile, their conversation changing to an upcoming opera star who will be touring on Friday.

After a while, they end their tea. Emma heads to the palace library with her tote bag of books. She settles in a large, plush armchair and curls up, letting her legs dangle off the side.

She pulls out the stack of books she borrowed from the Southern Valley library. She sets the book of Dutch tales aside, reminding herself to ask Killian to translate those for her soon. She takes out the book of fairy tales criticism and settles into it.

It’s typical literary criticism, full of challenging Marxist, psychoanalytic analysis of familiar tales. She reads through two articles, taking a few pages of notes that she isn’t a hundred percent sure will help her research, but it also can’t hurt it.

She get bored and realizes she needs to change things up, so she reaches back inside the bag. She takes out the hardbound volume of Misthaven Fairy Tales. It’s dark blue with a gold embossed cover.

She feels a tingle run down her spine. She thinks it must be the shear anticipation of reading this volume. She knows it will provide a wealth of information that she’s never accessed before.

Emma rubs her finger of the cover and for a moment she feels as if she has seen it before. But she hasn’t, obviously. She never read a book of Misthaven Fairy Tales growing up. It must be a sort of fake déjà vu, like a memory of a dream.

She flicks open to the first page and is surprised to see it inscribed.

My Dearest Daughter Emma,

I had this book made for you with my favorite tales that my mother told me as a girl. Some of these tales come just from these castle walls and are unique to the Nolan family. I hope you love these stories, not just because they feature princesses like you, but because they tell stories of strength and hope. My wish for you is that you live with strength and hope always, no matter what you face.

Love always,

Your mother

Emma feels a chill sweep through her body. This book was meant for little princess Emma. The same one that she’s pretending to be. But in a way, Emma feels like this book must be a gift for her as well- an insight into uniquely Misthavian fairy tales.

She flips open to the table of contents and her heart begins to beat with anticipation. She has an idea of what she might find here and she’s not sure if she’s ready to find it, for the implications the come with it.

A bit of her wants to close the book and put it back and pretend she’s never seen it, her mind on the verge of a connection she’s not quite ready to make.

So, she takes a deep breath and starts to look through the content. There are some traditional ones, a Misthavian version of Cinderella, a version of Snow White, and a rather creepy sounding one called “The Wooden Doll Mystery.”

Emma turns to the other side of the index page and finds exactly what she dreads, but also, has yearned for for months.

The Yellow Carriage p. 57

She swallows and begins to flick through the book. There are notes handwritten throughout it. “I always loved this part,” the queen writes beside the moment when Cinderella’s slipper fits. “My favorite tale,” she pens next to Snow White’s title. At the top of page 57, Emma finds the following inscription:

This tale is one that has been passed down in the family for years. I’m not sure it exists outside our own royal family. It always reminds me to have hope.

Emma’s hand is shaking as she begins to read.

There was once a stranger who came to town in a yellow carriage. She arrived into town, not a princess, but a foundling, an orphan girl now grown and looking for her family…

Emma settles into the tale with its uncanny resemblance to another one she’s read before. It reads a lot like The Yellow Bug as well. The savior comes to town in the distinctive yellow carriage, looking for her family, but instead finds she can speak to animals. She speaks to a small duckling who tells her of a missing egg and the whole adventure begins from there.

It’s a short tale, only a few pages of the anthology, so her hands are still shaking when she stops. Tears play at her eyes as she tries to take in all the feelings bubbling up inside her- confusion, betrayal, hurt, loss- she can hardly make sense of it. But she knows two facts, resoundingly well:

• She found the source text for The Yellow Bug.
• She finally knows the identity of Blanche Neige.

“Emma, I brought you some cocoa,” a voice interrupts.

She looks up to see the one person she can’t even stomach to see holding a cup of cocoa.

Emma drops the book when she sees Mary Margaret walk in, some sort of gut reaction, wanting to be done with the whole thing.  But the woman can see it too, and now she knows, that Emma knows.

“Oh Emma,” Mary Margaret says, putting the cocoa down at the table by the door and crossing the room to her.

Emma doesn’t know how to speak. She hasn’t processed enough to put words to all the upsetting emotions she’s feeling right now.

“How could you?” She finally musters. “How could you not tell me?”

The sovereign kneels before Emma’s chair.

“How could I?” She responds. “What would I say?”

“I don’t know, maybe ‘I’m Blanche Neige,’” Emma mutters, her words still wobbly from the mixture of tears and shock.

“It’s not that easy,” The woman says.

“How?” Emma asks, her voice raising. “How is it that hard? We are friends. We trust each other. I’m horrible, absolutely shitty at trusting people, but I trust you.”

“I know,” The queen says. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Emma. It’s really not.”

“For months, ever since we first discussed her, I’ve felt horribly guilty about my infatuation with her. You made me feel ashamed. You made me feel callas to atrocity. I’ve been haunted by it and it was all for nothing.”

“I’m sorry Emma.”

“But, why? You say you trust me, but clearly you don’t. You don’t care about me. So, tell me the reasons? Because I can’t think of single good reason.”

Emma runs her hand through her hair. Her agitation is making her feel clammy. She just wants to escape. She wishes she never picked up that book.

“I wanted to tell you as soon as you said you loved Blanche Neige, but I couldn’t for several reasons.

“The first being that no one knows. Not my publisher. Not my agent. Not Regina. Not my dearest friends. No one knows. I’ve written everything under a penname because I’ve had to. There is no other choice for me. And I can’t, I could never risk anyone finding out. Just think what people would think about the books, just think for one moment, because I think of it all the time.”

“So it’s trust, it’s got to be a trust thing then,” Emma says. “I understand not wanting people to know, but these book are my life, their research my livelihood.”

“Then you understand the second reason,” The queen explains. “What would happen to your research if it was found out that you were close friends with the author?”

Emma pauses her frustration and swallows. Because she knows it’s at least a little bit true.

“Your research would be compromised,” The queen says harshly. “You know that, Emma.”

“Okay, fine,” Emma snaps, “but that doesn’t justify making me feel like a horrible person for liking Blanche Neige. You didn’t need to guilt trip me about it.”

“I just didn’t want you to bring it up again,” The queen tells her.

Emma’s never noticed how shrill and annoying Mary Margaret’s voice sounds, but not it irritates her in a way she didn’t know was possible.

“Don’t you understand, Emma? That’s how I feel every day. I was the one who was trapped in a different country profiting off the loss. My family, my friends- they were all murdered, and why? So I could write novel about them?” She tells her.

Emma wants to feel bad for her. But honestly, she can’t manage any sympathy for this ridiculous, lying woman.

“I’m disgusted with myself for writing them,” the queen whispers. “I had to write them. I couldn’t do nothing. But I feel sick whenever I think about it. Me, stuck in Norway, away from oppressive regime, the rationing, the violence, just writing stories.”

Emma feels a rage bubble up inside of her, fueled by rage, unable to be reined in.

“Yeah, you’re right. You disgust me too,” Emma says.

She gets up, shoving her books back into her bag.

“Emma, stop, you don’t understand-“

Emma hitches the tote over her shoulder.

“Oh no, I understand,” Emma says, “You lied to me. You lied to everyone.”

Emma walks towards the door of the library.

“Please Emma, don’t tell anyone.”

Emma pauses. She frankly wants to tell everyone and let everyone know what a fraud Mary Margaret is. But she can’t bring herself to do that. Especially not with her research at stake.

She doesn’t know what to say and turns, slaming the library door, before running through the halls and out of the castle.

A driver is waiting outside when she arrives. She doesn’t want to use the Queen’s vehicle, now that they’ve seriously quarreled, but she doesn’t know what else to do. She stuck on top of a mountain dammit. And it’s somehow gotten much colder since she was outside earlier.

“Can you drive me back to town?” Emma asks him.

He nods and she gets into the car. He drives down the mountain as a few of the earliest fall flurries come drifting down. Emma leans her forehead against the window and shivers.

She feels an enormity of emotion resting on her. Betrayal. Hurt. Loss. Relief. She doesn’t know how to make sense of it all. She thinks about how each of those made a fine bottle. A bottle of hurt. A bottle of loss. Two or three bottles of betrayal. She adds them to her walls, watching them as they build themselves higher with this hurt, shooting up at the betrayal. As she’s always been, she’s safe inside the sky-high walls.

“Any place you’d like to be dropped off in particular, milday?” The chauffer asks.

Emma wants to go back to her apartment, but she can’t. If she goes home, she’ll think of this over and over until she goes crazy. She thinks of stopping instead at Mamie’s, but that means she’ll likely see Killian. She’s not ready to talk to Killian about this. She needs to throw herself into something else.

“The Misthaven University Library,” Emma insists.

He drops her off in front of the familiar old library a few minutes later. Emma sighs at the familiar grey stone façade, the anticipation of the wood paneling and smell of old books.

She thinks of Mary Margaret telling her about how she used to sneak into the library as a girl. Stop, no. Emma bottles that up as well.

“Thanks,” She says, getting out of the vehicle. It’s even colder outside and Emma shivers for a moment as she walks outside. She crosses the short distance to entrance and walks into the warm inside. She swipes into the library and heads to find a table.

She absolutely cannot read any fairytale anthologies now, and besides, her hunt is over. She still hasn’t processed what this revelation means for research and she’s not sure that she’s ready to. She needs to focus on something completely different. Instead, she picks up the stack of The Scarlet Letter essays that her undergrads turned into her. Yes, a few hours of reading some obnoxious papers about American literature sounds like the perfect antidote to her traumatic afternoon.

She goes to the coffee cart in the library and gets a crappy cup of coffee, before returning to her table and diving into the essay writing.

Killian is getting suspicious when Emma doesn’t send any messages all afternoon. He knows that she’s meeting with the queen for tea, but normally by 5 or so, she’s done and sending him text updates. It’s nearly 7 now and Killian is starting to get nervous. Perhaps it’s an overreaction, but he decides he might as well catch up with Emma.

He pops by Mamie’s to see if she’s there. She’s been found many a time having a late-night study session. But it’s empty when he arrives.

“I haven’t seen her today,” Ruby’s Mamie says, knowing immediately what he’s there for.

He nods and heads to the tram. A short trip later, he’s arrived at Emma’s apartment. He rings her bell several times, but to no avail. She’s either not home, or totally avoiding him. While they did have a skirmish a month ago, he believes they are on the same page now.

He’s got one last guess as to where Emma could be. He walks back to the tram and heads instead to the university. He heads into the Misthaven U library.

“Sorry, do you have your student ID?” Asks a student at the entrance of the library.

Damn, Killian thinks momentarily, before realizing he’s not sure if he’ll get in. Luckily, an excuse arises easily.

“Ah, sorry mate, I left my ID here earlier. That’s why I’m back to grab it from the lost and found before I head out,” Killian lies, hoping that it will fly.

“Oh right on, mate,” The guy tells him, letting him through.

Killian heads to the long room of the library. Even in the low light, he finds Emma one of the large rows of tables. She’s working intently, marking up a stack of papers with a bright red pen. Her hair has formed a curtain around her face, and for a moment, he’s afraid he might frighten her. But she looks up, just as he’s about to slide into the chair across from her.

“How did you find me?” She asks.

“I had a hunch that if you weren’t replying to my texts, it meant you were hard at work at something,” He teases.

“Hard at work distracting myself,” Emma says.

“Tea went poorly?” He asks, letting an eyebrow lift.

“You don’t even know,” Emma says, burrowing her face in her folded arms.

“And you are distracting yourself by reading,” he glances down at the stack of papers on her table, his forehead creasing, “by reading The Scarlet Letter papers. Crikey, Emma. What happened?”

“I honestly don’t want to talk about it right now,” Emma says. “I’m quite adamently trying to not think of it.”

“Hmm,” says Killian, wetting his lips. “Sounds like you need something to take your mind off this.”

“Gladly,” Emma replies, looking up from her folded hands.

“I know just the place,” Killian grins.

Emma runs her hand through her hair. “Seriously?”

“Yes, and it’s a mite bit more exciting than Nathaniel Hawthorne, so grab your stuff,” He teases.

Emma rolls her eyes and starts shoving papers into her tote, but Killian can’t help but smile. He doesn’t know exactly what burdens are weighting on her, but he wants to do anything he can to help. And she’s letting him help. This is huge.

He nods her to the door.

“You found it?” The lad at the door asks.

“Exactly what I was looking for,” Killian replies, smiling.

It’s totally dark when they get outside. Emma shivers and he wordlessly takes her hand. It’s the most affection they’ve ever showed in public. He’s not sure how she’ll react. In fact, the moment he takes her hand, he’s positive it’s a Bad Idea. Emma struggles with intimacy and he doesn’t want to stress her out with everything else that’s distressing her right now.

But she surprises him by squeezing his hand and resting her head against his shoulder for a moment as she leans into him.

He turns and gives her a smile, before they head to the tram.

They ride on the tram a few more stops past where they normally get off in Old Town. Normally, Emma would be asking about their destination, eagerly looking through the window. But today she’s slumped in her seat. Something must definitely be up.

His guess is that she’s been found out. The queen must have discovered their scheme. This is quite unfortunate. He knows that Emma and Queen Mary Margaret have a strong friendship and this would have thrown it off. Killian feels sad for and hopes that Emma won’t be kicked out of the country or anything reactionary on the Queen’s part.

“This is our stop,” He tells her, as they head off tram and into Misthaven’s North Neighborhood.

The North Neighborhood is an artsy area, full of decorated murals and funky bars. They walk past an arty café where a poetic reading is taking place, both of lingering for a few moments taking in some of the words as they echo out. There is a corner side park a few blocks down with a small memorial.

“This area was a violent area during the revolution,” Killian explains, following Emma’s eyes. “There were a lot of secret meetings that took place here. Eventually they got found out. 14 people died in a warehouse a few blocks from here.”

Emma nods solemnly.

“But we aren’t here to look at his memorial. Let’s get somewhere a bit warmer.” He says.

They walk a few blocks down, till they reach an iron gate connected to a wall that surrounds an enclosure.

“Uh, Killian,” Emma remarks. “This appears locked.”

“Hush, love,” He says.

Killian take out his phone and calls an old friend.

“Bonjour Hugo. C’est Killian. Est-ce que possible que tu peux ouvrir la porte de la jardin?” He asks the man.

“Pour toi, Killian? Bien sur,” He voice replies.

The gates open before him and Killian expresses his thanks to his friend.

“Where are we?” Emma asks. “And why are you speaking French?”

Killian laughs he takes a step inside the gates, whisking his hand into a pose to indicate that Emma should enter. A smile tugs at her lips as she follows him in.

“We are at the Misthaven Botanical Gardens,” He finally explains. “And that was Hugo. He’s an old friend.”

“Let me guess,” Emma supplies, “You helped him clean his garden when he first arrived in Misthaven.”

“Look at that Swan, you’re catching on,” He teases. “Indeed. I helped him tidy the national gardens in exchange for sleeping in a shed for a month or two.”

“You’ve got to be the most helpful person around,” Emma teases.

“Well I came here with basically nothing and the country was doing just as bad as I was, so it was easy to make some bargains,” He tells her.

Killian remembers that time of his life. For a few months, it was repairing roofs in exchange for a warm dinner from the old lady whose house was demolished. Or it was shining floors in the art museum in exchange for sleeping on a plush bench. Until he got his gig at the pub, his only way of sustaining himself was being helpful.

“Just another survival technique, love,” He murmurs.

She nods, her countenance full of understanding.

“So are we going to walk around a weird dark garden or what?” Emma asks, rocking back and forth on her feet.

“One moment, Swan,” He says. He walks over to a lever on the wall and flicks the switch.

The garden erupts with light. Fairy lights are hung along the garden walls, inside greenhouses, and along the paths. The place sparkles in their glow, giving light to elegant displays of flowers.

The best however is watching Emma’s face as she takes it in. It starts with a small smile as a few lights go on, but erupts into a full-on combination of a grin and a gasp as she takes it all in.

“Consider me impressed, and distracted,” She laughs.

He mirrors her smile, as he reaches his hand out to hers.

“Come on, love. I’ll show you the conservatory,” He tells her.

He leads her past the rows of late autumn flowers along the way and into the greenhouse. The moment they walk in, everything is much warmer. There are enough palmed plants to make it feel like a jungle.

“This is wonderful, Killian,” Emma remarks. “I feel like I’m in a movie or something.”

She steps onto a bench, still holding Killian’s hand. “I am sixteen, going on seventeen,” She sings, lightly and totally off key.

Killian lets out a chuckle. Emma sits down on the bench and beckons Killian to sit down beside her.

“Are you going to tell me about why you are in so much distress?” Killian asks.

Emma sighs, and buries in her face in her hands. He rubs a hand down her back, hoping it will sooth her. He’s been trying to distract her, but he also knows he can’t help her heal until she tells him what is distressing her.

“So, Mary Margaret is Blanche Neige,” Emma tells him.

He inhales sharply. Whatever he was expecting, it isn’t this.

“The source text,” Emma explains, “it was from the castle.”

Killian makes the connection, a flickering memory of him and Princess Emma tucked in bed with the queen as she reads them a bedtime story on a snowy evening. The yellow carriage. Of course.

“A thin volume of just Misthaven tales?” Killian asks.

Emma nods, “Embossed cover. I found over the weekend in the Southern Valley Palace, but I just read it today. You remember it?”

“Only now that you brought the memory up,” He explains.

“Anyway,” Emma says, “I didn’t know what to do. She walked in with a cup of cocoa and cinnamon or whatever. And I just exploded at her and stormed out.”

Killian stops rubbing her back, instead just wrapping his arm around her in support.

“Did she say why she didn’t tell you the truth?” Killian asks.

Emma shrugs, “Fear her story would get out, guilt over hiding out during the Dark Times. I mean I guess those are good reasons. But I’m still upset.”

“That’s understandable,” Killian agrees. “I’d be angry about that sort of thing too.”

“I don’t know what it means. Can I still write my dissertation on her? Is that ethical or allowed? I don’t even know how these things work.” Emma wonders out loud.

“I don’t see why not,” Killian says. “But then again, I was never in a university class, so I’m not sure how that works.”

Emma sighs and frowns.

“I say it’s a perfect time for a holiday,” Killian says. “We’re going to London next weekend. It sounds like it’s time for you to take a bit of a break.”

“I can’t-“ Emma begins.

“If you take a break it will clear your mind and you’ll be able to deal with this with fresh eyes.”

“I guess,” Emma admits.

“Come on,” Killian says, “Let’s look around the conservatory a bit and then we’ll get you home.”

He leads her through various rooms of the giant greenhouse. There is a desert room full of various cacti. There is another of tropical flowers and a trickling waterfall.

“This reminds me of Belle’s family’s business,” Emma tells him. “Her and her dad have this flower shop called Game of Thorns. In the winter, they have greenhouses full of poinsettias.”

Killian likes the way Emma’s face gets wistful when she talks about it.

“Do you spend every Christmas with her?” He asks.

She nods, “Since I’ve started college I have. I don’t really have anywhere else to go to. My foster mom from high school went nuts. Conspiracy theories and weird stuff, you know? I didn’t want to go back to her once I was out of the system.”

Killian nods.

“Belle’s place sounded better than being homeless for Christmas break,” Emma told him. “And it stuck.”

They walk into another room, this one with roses climbing up a trellised wall. 

“Will you go back this year?” He asks.

“I’m planning on it. My next PhD semester begins in January, so it’s best I head home before then. I need to see if I can get approved for a private loan or something,” Emma mutters.

Killian feels something akin to dread swirl in his stomach. For the first time, he realizes that his friendship, and potential relationship, with Emma has a deadline. She’s leaving for Christmas. And then she’ll be back in America and he’ll be too broke to ever visit her, or see her again.

He thinks to months ago when he told Emma his dream was a bookshop. It still is. He’d love that. But he’s come to realize that his dream is also her. He wants her in his life securely.

“You okay?” She asks, turning back to look at him.

“Right as rain, love,” He says. “Shall we get you home? You’ve had an exhausting day.”

They walk back through the North Neighborhood. The atmosphere has changed. The coffee shops and cocktails are replaced by funky beats coming out of warehouse bars. They board the tram in their usual fashion and the train moves, winding back through town, past the castle on the hill and opera house and St. Anne’s Cathedral. He doesn’t get off at Old Town, instead taking the train all the way up to Emma’s neighborhood. Disembarking, crossing the canal, they head for Emma’s apartment.

He wonders if maybe he should have gotten off at a different stop, if it was presumptuous to assume that Emma would want him to stay. But as soon as they enter, she puts on the electric kettle.

“I’m going to change into pajamas,” She tells him, heading towards her bedroom.

“I’ll finish making tea,” Killian supplies.

When he’s pouring a dash of milk into each mug, Emma walks out of her room in a pair of floral pajama pants and a grey tank top. In her hands are a pair of sweat pants.

“Here,” she says, “They’re extra-large. If you want to stay.”

Killian feels the tips of his ears going red and feels suddenly shy.

“Sure, Swan,” He says, scratching behind his head, “If you’ll have me.”

It’s not long after that they are sitting in her bed, pajama clad with mugs in hand.

“Can you keep me distracted?” Emma asks.

“Certainly,” Killian offers. “I can read to you. Jane Eyre?”

“Not Jane Eyre,” Emma says.

“More Princess Bride?” He offers.

She nods, snuggling into him. “That sounds good.”

He reads to her until her eyes flutter closed. He has to rescue her half-full tea mug from spilling all over her bed. He flicks off the light and tucks them both into the bed.

It’s later, in the middle of night, when he awakens to her sniffles. He knows she’s crying. She had been trying to hide her hurt all evening, but he can hear it raw now. He pulls her against himself, relishing in the feeling of her back against his bare chest.

“It’s going to be okay, Emma,” He whispers, even though he feels sleep pulling him down. He finds the energy to tuck a kiss behind her ear and to listen to her soft sigh as she relaxes into him.

Chapter Text

“Emma, wake up,” Killian whispers, his soft lilt pulling her from her dreams.

It’s Thursday morning, just over a week since Emma discovered the queen’s secret.

“It’s early,” She mumbles, trying to hide down under her duvet.

“Emma, we’re leaving for London this morning,” He says, stroking at her hair.

“Oh right,” Emma says. She jolts awake.

Their frickin 6AM flight thanks to RyanAir.

Emma starts to climb out of bed, as she does, she’s relieved to remember that she left out her clothes and luggage the night before.

“Shall I make coffee?” Killian asks.

Emma shakes her head. “I want to sleep on the flight. Let’s just get a proper coffee when we get to London.”

“Sounds good, love,” Killian says.

Emma grabs her stack of clothes and heads into the bathroom. She pulls on a pair of black jeans, a t-shirt, and an oversized, patterned cardigan. She puts her hair in a messy bun and throws on a bit on concealer. She brushes her teeth and rolls on some deodorant, before collecting her remaining toiletries in her arms.

She exits the bathroom to see Killian finishing buttoning his jeans. He’s got a button up shirt on, looking far more put together than she does at 4AM. She deposits her toiletries into her backpack.

“Ready to go, love?” He asks, walking over to her to give her a morning hug and a kiss to her forehead.

She gives him a sleepy smile and nod.

“Excellent. I’ll clean my teeth and then we can head to the airport?” He suggests.

“Sounds good,” Emma sighs.

She sinks down onto the bed, as Killian heads to the bathroom. She grabs her ankle boots and starts to pull them on. They’ve been closer than ever since the Queen’s betrayal. Ever since that night, he’s been sleeping at her apartment each night. Nothing’s happened really- just sleeping together while snuggled, kisses on the forehead or cheek, and holding hands while walking around Misthaven. This comfortable, familiar intimacy is wonderful. And Emma’s so happy that they’ve managed to form this easy relationship. And she’s so happy that he’s been patient, just as she asked.

But when does being patient turn into impatience? When does it turn from this weird unspeakable thing into an actual relationship? Or will Emma never be ready? Will she go back to Duke and Killian will just be memory, a holiday fling and nothing else? She’ll think of him when Belle rambles about Jane Eyre or when Emma writes about Never in this Land. She’ll do a double take anytime a tall, dark, and handsome guy with an accent orders an Americano. She might wonder if he gets his bookshop or something, but other than that- he’ll just be another chapter in her own story.

No. A fierce and uncertain voice roars inside her. No. She doesn’t want that. She knows she likes him. And she’s running out of time.

So how does she make the jump between what they are now and what they could be?

“Shall we go?” Killian asks, exiting the bathroom.

He looks unfairly attractive, a small smirk on his face as he lifts an eyebrow. They grab their backpacks and head towards the door.

They take the tram to the train station where they take a 15 euro bus to the airport, which is a 40 minute drive away. Emma spends the entirety of the trip asleep. She’s grateful that Killian gives her the seat next to the window on the bus to rest her head against.

The airport is located near the Belgian border. It’s empty in the early morning, near cavernous, as only a few people mill about, the cafes yet to open. They have to get something stamped on Emma’s ticket before they can board, so they attend to that, before heading to security. Security is a breeze, with hardly anyone there so early. They make it to their gate with time to spare.

Once they board, they discover that Killian’s seat is close to the window.

“Would you like to switch?” He asks. “I know you want to sleep.”

Emma shrugs, “No, its fine. As long as you don’t mind me potentially drooling on your shoulder.”

“Drool away, love,” He says, as they slide into their seats.

Emma is fast asleep before the plane even takes off. In fact, she doesn’t really come to till they are on a bus in the outskirts of London, edging into the city, as the sun creeps into the sky.

“Mmm, morning,” Emma grunts, nuzzling her head into Killian’s shoulder.

“Good morning yourself,” He teases, running a hand through her hair.

“Where’re we?” She asks.

“Inside London, but only just,” He tells her.

“Is by where you lived?” She asks, straightening up.

She glances out the window at the shops and buildings, trying to gauge if the area is nice or not.

He shakes his head. “Funny enough, the way cities work. The area used to live in was absolute trash when I was there and now it’s somehow become one of the trendiest parts of the city. I couldn’t afford to live there anymore.”

Emma chuckles. She pulls out her travel notebook. The plan as of now (currently written out and color-coded within her notebook), is to meet up with Belle for coffee and brunch. Then in the afternoon, Killian will catch a train to the city where his potential child is. Emma will spend Friday and Saturday hanging out will Belle. Then they’ll reunite with Killian late Saturday night and fly back together on Saturday morning. She likes seeing the plan laid out before her, each detail accounted for.

“Do you know where Belle is staying?” Killian asks.

“In a hotel not far from Hyde Park,” Emma supplies. “In Paddington, I think.”

Killian nods, “So let’s make sure we get off the bus when they call for Marble Arch.”

Emma agrees. “I’ll send Belle a text while we still have the free bus wifi, so she knows we’re coming.”

London becomes more and more dense as they enter into the city. Emma’s gaze follows the storefronts as they appear. Some are familiar places: McDonald’s, Starbucks, and what has to be a Prêt-a-Manger on every corner. But there are also pubs and bookshops and little boutiques and all Emma can think is that she wants to be out of the bus and exploring the city.

“Marble Arch,” The bus driver announced, “All off for Marble Arch.”

“Come on,” Killian said. “This is us.”

They make their way off the bus, their steps a little uneven as they struggle with their backpacks and grogginess.

Emma downloaded a map on her phone before they left Misthaven, so she pulls it up now and watches the blue dot blink, showing where they are located. They are really in London. Emma feels a shiver of excitement.

“Okay, so it looks like Belle’s hotel is that way,” Emma says, pointing in the direction of the location she starred a few days back when she was preparing for the trip.

Killian glances at her phone, “Ah, that doesn’t look bad at all. We’ll pop up there, drop our bags, grab Belle, and then we can be off to coffee and brunch.”

Emma smiles, as they set off. She’s already shaking a bit at the thought that her Best Friend of All time is about to meet her Misthaven Best Friend/Wannabe Boyfriend. She wonders what they’ll think of each other. They’re both so well read and deeply caring.

They walk through a few blocks of charming London houses. Emma wants to pause to snap pictures of all of them, to wander through the mews and notice all their details. She already has a feeling she’s going to like London.

“So the hotel is right there,” Emma says, pointing at one of the houses.

They cross the street and enter the building. It’s a humble hotel, not overly decorated or glamourous. Emma likes it.

“Did Belle get your text?” Killian asks.

Emma fumbles her phone out of her pocket, turning on the wi-fi. She shakes her head, “Doesn’t look like it.”

“I’ll try calling her,” Emma says, pressing the button to call her through the app.

The phone rings a few times and Emma frowns. Belle isn’t picking up.

“I bet she’s jetlagged and oversleeping,” Emma surmises. She recalls that Belle is a deep sleeper. “Seriously, that girl needs her beauty sleep.”

“It’s fine, Swan,” He says. “What do you say we leave our stuff here and I’ll give you my best tour of London. Belle can call us when she wakes.”

“Really?” Emma asks. Her heart skips a beat. She can’t wait to see Killian’s London.

“Of course, Swan,” He says. “Come on then.”

They leave their backpacks behind the front desk. Emma pulls out a small brown leather purse that she can keep her phone and wallet in. She quickly re-runs the brush through her hair and hopes that she can find coffee as soon as possible. She must be too tired to look attractive right now.

But Killian’s face tells her otherwise, his eyes wide and bright as they exit the hotel and walk into the city.

He offers her his hand and their day in London begins.

“I’m guessing you and Belle will have time to hit the main tourist sites, so I’ll walk you through my favorite bookish parts,” Killian says.

Damn, this boy knows her well.

“But first coffee?” She suggests.

“But first, coffee,” Killian agrees.

They find a small independent coffee shop a few blocks down. It’s well decorated in soft grey tones and she can see a garden in the back for outdoor coffee sipping. Emma likes it. They get their usual- one cappuccino, one Americano- and a scone to split.  They slowly come to life as they finish their drinks.

“Right, coffee done,” Killian says, “Now, onto the literary jewels of London.”

They wander down streets for about twenty minutes. Emma doesn’t mind. She enjoys the crisp autumn air and the excitement of London. She likes taking in each detail as she walks.

Finally, they arrive at a bookshop. Emma likes it already from its green storefront, front window, and neat letters that spell out Daunt Books.

“This was one of my favorite bookstores,” Killian tells her. “It’s part of what inspired me. Shall we have a look around?”

Inside, it’s the same combination of evergreen and wood, with gorgeous glass windows. It seems like the shop focuses on travel books, but it has fairly good selection of fiction as well. There are different books here than Emma is familiar with in the States and even the fairly vast assortment of English books in Misthaven. It charms Emma to see the UK covers of familiar books and find others that she didn’t know existed. Killian points out many of his favorites as they drift through.

At the end of the shop, they find a display of Blanche Neige books. Little cardboard buildings are set up, emulating buildings in Misthaven, with the books tucked in between. They try to avoid looking at it, but they can’t help it. Emma and Killian gaze wordlessly at the familiar buildings- the opera house, the cathedral, the castle on the hill- and the titles that feel like home to them.

“Has it gotten any better?” Killian asks softly.

Emma shakes her head. She can’t stop thinking about the queen, her betrayal, and its implications. She’s had this trip to distract herself, which has been good. But that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t still hurt.

Emma wonders if forgiveness, like relationships, are something you have to search for the courage to dive into. And then you just go for it. It sounds like the kind of vulnerable thing that Emma is dreadful at.

After the bookshop, they walk back outside, hand in hand again, and up to Regent’s Park. Emma smiles, thinking of the book scenes that have taken place here- haunting scenes from Mrs. Dalloway, others from Agatha Christie and Dodie Smith novels, even Harry Potter’s first time talking to a snake in The Sorcerer’s Stone. Emma takes a few pictures.

They walk along Euston street, sky scrapers creeping around them and double decker buses bumbling past. She kind of can’t believe they are an actual thing.

“How did you actually live here?” Emma asks. “I can’t believe I know someone who lived here.”

Killian chuckles. “It wasn’t quite so glamourous when I was here. I shared a small apartment with more lads than could fit in it. I always felt as if I was out of money. It was brilliant, don’t get me wrong, but it was tricky.”

“I can imagine,” Emma agrees.

“It was nice moving to Misthaven and a slower pace after being here,” Killian explains.

Emma can understand that, but it doesn’t take away from the sheer wonder she has for London in this moment.

“Next up is the pride and joy of the London literary scene,” Killian announces, nodding towards a red brick building. “The British Library.”

She follows Killian under an archway that reads “British Library,” through a courtyard, and into the sprawling building. They go through security and then Emma is able to take in the wonder. She can’t even find words to describe what she witnesses- a large wall, no- square, a whole towering cube made out of books that reaches to the top of the building. It’s brilliant.

“This way,” Killian whispers, tugging on Emma’s coat as she snaps more pictures.

They walk into an area that seems more like a gallery.

“This is filled with every glorious English text you’ve ever wanted to see,” He tells her.

And it totally is. The Magna Carta, Beowulf, handwritten Beatles lyrics- they all lie beneath cases in their full glory. Emma’s jaw drops a little more when she sees writing from George Eliot, Jane Austen, and Charles Dickens. She can’t even keep in her delight as she stares open mouthed through the glass. She may focus on contemporary texts, but her appreciation for literary history and tradition is enough to have her in total adoration of this place.

Her mind begins to wonder if something like this exists in Misthaven. She would love to pour over their own manuscripts and she can only imagine how it add to her research-

Right. She stops her thoughts. She can probably see original Blanche Neige texts whenever she wants because they were written by her BFF the Queen of Frickin Misthaven.

But Emma is not allowed to desecrate this holy literary mecca with such angry thoughts. She pushes them away as she walks over to a case to take in an illuminated manuscript.

“I think they’re actually doing an exhibition on Harry Potter,” Killian says. “Would you like to take a look at that?”

Yes. Anything to not stew in anger at the queen.

The exhibition is brilliant. It has Emma wanting to research more on folk traditions and fairytales influencing literature today and integrating it into her research.

It gets better when Killian takes her a block or so over to Actual Platform 9 3/4 in Kings Cross Station. He obliges to take her photo wearing a Harry Potter scarf. God, she’s never, ever, liked a guy like this.

They take hands again as they stroll through Bloomsbury. Killian walks her around the different squares, pointing places where Virginia Woolf and Charles Dickens lived. They find another bookstore, this one filled with books by little known women writers. Emma’s completely enchanted and buys four of them.

Finally, they realize it’s past noon and they’re famished. They pause to get take away sandwiches and more coffee from a Prêt-a-Manger, before heading to Russell Square. It’s warm enough to sit outside and the fall leaves look crisp. They find a bench and spread their lunch between them.

She takes out her phone and connects to some wi-fi called The Cloud which seems ominous but allows her to check her messages. Still nothing from Belle.

They are quiet as they eat, Killian pulling out Jane Eyre and Emma diving into one of her new books.

“How is Jane?” Emma asks, marking her page, before taking a bite of a chicken and avocado sandwich.

“Good,” Killian says, his voice serious, “It’s just making me nervous.”

“About tomorrow? About your Adela?” Emma says.

She feels bad. She’s been so caught up in own emotions from the queen’s betrayal, that she’s hardly had time to think about Killian and his potential child.

He nods, frowning as he puts his sandwich and book down.

“I just-“ He begins. “This isn’t something that I ever imagined happening to me. And I didn’t expect it, but yet, now I can’t bear the thought that the child isn’t mine. I want him or her to be so desperately.”

Emma nods, realizing how serious and raw Killian’s admission is.

“I’m not sure I could afford it. I’m not sure I’m fit to become a father. But I’ve thought about it over and over. I want this child to be mine.”

“You’ll be a good father. I can tell because you’re a good friend, a caring companion. You’ve made what could have been some of the loneliest months of my life, some of my happiest.” Emma reflects.

“Truly, Emma?” He asks. “I’ve made you happy?”

“Oh my gosh, yes, Killian,” She says. “I honestly don’t know how I’d make it through my time in Misthaven without you.”

“That is true. You’d be stuck in the library the whole time and never see half the sights,” He quips.

“You’re right though. You’ve put so much care into being a tour guide for me, to making sure I’m always supported and never alone,” She begins. “Killian, I, uh…”

She can feel it creeping in, the vulnerability. She wants to give in and tell him everything she feels for him. She wants to tell him that she’s in love with him, that she wants more than just hand holding and snuggles. She wants all of him, not just sex (though she totally wants that), but all the good and happy and sad and ordinary moments of his life. She’s never felt like this about anyone. She’s never gotten close enough to think this. And she knows. She definitely knows that if she tells him, he will reciprocate.

But what if she changes her mind? Her world is safe because she’s built it herself. What would she do if she told Killian her feelings? Go back to America and finish her PhD. It’s not like there is any chance of her staying in Misthaven. It’s not like there is any chance of her seeing him again after two more months. So, what’s the point? Yeah, she likes him- but falling for him all the way, that will only result in more pain and useless emotion.

“Killian, I think your child will be so lucky to have you as a parent. I really hope they are yours,” She says. “They will have the best dad.”

He gives her fond smile.

“That means a lot, Emma.”

Her phone rings suddenly, using the wifi calling app, and it’s Belle.

“IMSORRYIMSORRYIMSORRYIMSORRY,” She wails.

“ITSFINEITSFINEITSFINE,” Emma giggles back.

“I can’t believe I slept through your arrival. I’m so happy you are here. God, okay, where are you?”

“I’m in Russell Square with Killian,” Emma tells her.

“Oh good, Killian is still here! I can’t wait to meet him!”

“Ugh, Belle,” Emma groans, knowing her friend will make a fuss.

“I’m going to get dressed. Are you guys okay to head back her soon?” Belle says.

“That’s perfect,” Emma says, “That way Killian can get his stuff before his train.”

“Excellent,” Belle says.

Emma hangs up.

“Belle is finally awake,” She tells Killian, taking her last bite of sandwich. “Want to head back so you can still make your train?”

“Aye,” Killian agrees, gathering their trash to throw in a bin.

They head into the underground and take the tube back to Paddington. They retrace their steps to the hotel. As they walk in, Killian’s attention immediately goes to Emma’s face. She’s smiling widely at a woman in her mid-twenties standing in the middle of the lobby.

“Emma,” She squeals, racing her engulf her friend in a hug.

Obviously, this woman must Belle.

Killian watches fondly as Emma’s whole body relaxes a bit with Belle’s hug. He knows that the two girls have missed each other, but their happiness is evident in their very bodies. Both of them are evidently full of joy to see each other.

When Emma steps back, Killian has the chance to take in her friend. She impeccably dressed for someone struggling with jet lag. She has on high heels, a dress, and luxurious brown curls surround her face.

She takes a step towards him, reaching out her hand in greeting.

“It’s so good to see you too, Killian,” She enthuses. “Not that I’ve met you. I’ve just heard so much about you.”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” He says, smiling warmly at Emma’s friend.

After he retrieves his backpack from behind the desk, they head to a café near Hyde Park for tea. Killian is fully in favor of all the warm beverages he’s consumed in one day. It’s a charming café and they settle into a small table by the window. They get a pot of tea and some macarons to snack on as they chat.

“I’m sorry again about the delay,” Belle says, “I truly didn’t mean to sleep all day. I set an alarm for 6AM in fact, but I slept through it. I got to London yesterday and I thought I’d be adjusted by now.”

“It’s no bother,” Killian tells her.

“Honestly,” Emma enthuses, “We had a great day. Killian took me on a literary tour of London. It was the probably the greatest thing since coffee.”

They all chuckle.

“I’m sorry I missed out then,” Belle says.

“It’s okay, you clearly needed the sleep,” Emma tells her friend.

Killian is eager to learn more about Emma’s friend. He knows how guarded Emma is. Making friends isn’t something that necessary comes naturally to her. But she and Belle seem so united, so bonded. He wants to know more about their friendship.

“So, Belle,” Killian asks, “do you study similar things to Emma, contemporary fairy tales and the like?”

She shakes her head, “Oh no, I’m much more into marriage plots, Regency era, a bit of Victorian or Gothic here and there.”

“Killian’s reading Jane Eyre,” Emma tells her friend.

“Oh delightful,” Belle enthuses, “I took an entire class on the Brontës back in undergrad. They’re like marriage plots, but creepy. What part are you at?”

“Jane’s just discovered she’s inherited the fortune,” Killian explains.

“What a wonderful part,” Belle sighs.

“Wonderful indeed,” Killian remarks. “Though Mr. Rochester is a bit of dick.”

“Totally a dick,” Belle agrees. “What other books do you like to read, Killian?”

The conversation takes off between the three of them. Killian and Belle swap titles of favorite books, with Emma chiming in occasionally her some of her favorites as well. Belle regales him in tales of Emma in college, a time she sang karaoke at a bar (quite well, according to Belle) and a time she convinced a professor to give her an A despite forgetting to show up to the final exam. In turn, Emma looks bashful as Belle recounts the stories. Killian likes Emma like this, red cheeked and eye rolling. Killian likes learning more about Emma’s beginnings.

After the pot of tea is long empty, Killian looks at his phone and realizes it is past time to leave. He’ll need to hurry if he wants to make his train.

Emma seems to notice his frown. “You need to leave?”

“Unfortunately, love,” Killian admits.

“I’ll walk with you to the train station,” She says suddenly.

“Thanks,” Killian agrees.

“Meet you back at the hotel in like 5 minutes?” Emma asks Belle.

“Yes, of course,” Belle agrees.

They are just a few blocks away from Paddington station. They walk in silence. Killian’s thoughts drift over the day. He feels so lucky that Belle was asleep because it meant he got to have the London day of his dreams with Emma. The happiness on her face as she took in the wonder of the British Library, her happy grin reading in the park- it all filled him with so much wonder and satisfaction.

Suddenly, Emma pulls his hand and drags him into a small, nearby green square. It’s lush and secluded and suddenly the noisy city feels miles way.

“Emma?” He asks.

But her lips are on his and at first he is so overwhelmed with surprise he doesn’t know how to react. She had said, “one-time thing” before. And “be patient” not long after that.

Yet here they are now, her lips soft, the taste of tea and sugar on her tongue as his reaches out of tentatively touch hers. Then he’s pulled in, his own lips dancing back and forth with her own. His hands reach around to pull her close. He can feel her warmth despite her layers. His hand strokes up her back, before getting lost in her hair. She gasps as little, her own hands moving to cup his face.

“I don’t want you to miss your train,” Emma tells him. “But I do want you to know that I’m going to miss you. I know it’s literally just a day, but we’ve been spending a lot of time together recently and I like that.”

“I’ll miss you too, darling,” He says. “Truly. But I really must go or else you’ll be stuck with me for far too long.”

“Do keep me updated about the child, won’t you?” Emma requests.

He sighs, resigned to tell her one tiny detail he’s been withholding. One that he’s been guarding close to his heart. It’s detail he couldn’t share because it would make it real. It wouldn’t just be any child.

“Her name is Alice,” He whispers.

A smile curves on Emma’s face. “That’s a really pretty name.”

“I know,” He says.

“I could even see you naming a child that. It’s elegant and literary,” She tells him.

His throat constricts a bit because he’s thought the same thing. He can almost imagine the child- a little girl, blond like her mother, small with his own blue eyes, and a taste for adventure just like the literary heroine. He doesn’t know her, but he loves her already. Is that possible?

Emma leans her head against his, their foreheads meeting, bringing him back to the moment and the train he’s about to miss. “You’ll keep me updated on Alice then?”

“Of course, love,” He hushes softly.

“And thanks for today,” Emma says. “I loved it.”

He rubs his nose gently against hers, wondering at the little bit of warmth that connects there between them.

“I loved today too,” He tells her. “But I really should go.”

He pecks another kiss to her lips, even the brief movement is a marvel, before turning to leave the square and head towards the station. He wants to turn back and take one last look at Emma, but he knows that he’ll see her in a day. After a week of sharing a bed together, he feels more attached to her than ever. But there is something oddly nice about saying good bye to someone like this. There is something nice about saying good bye to someone you already can’t wait to reunite with.

He goes through the train station, scanning his ticket to get through the gates before quickly finding his platform. He makes on the train with just a few minutes to spare. He settles into a seat and the exhaustion of the day hits, the early morning, the long walks around London. His eyes flicker close as the outskirts of London blur into the countryside. Before he gives way to sleep, he thinks once more of Emma and the look on her face as she kissed him.

Chapter Text

“Emma, I’ve never seen you like that with a boy before,” Belle announces as Emma enters her hotel room.

Emma tugs off her ankle boots and leaves them at the door. She hangs her coat on the back of the door, before heading over to the two twin beds pushed together in the center of the hotel room.

“Never seen me like what?” Emma asks, flopping onto one of the beds.

Belle sits beside her, giving her an incredulous look.

“I’ve seen you a little bit tipsy taking a guy back after the English Department Christmas party and I’ve seen you kicking him out before breakfast the next morning,” Belle tells her.

Emma takes the giant duvet on the bed and pulls it over her head. She can see where this is going.

“But I’ve never seen you actively in love,” Belle declares. “And I really like it.”

“I’m not in love,” Emma grumbles beneath the duvet.

“In ‘passionate like’ then?” Belle suggests.

“Okay, that was dumb, I’m in love,” Emma admits.

“I can tell,” Belle says.

Emma is starting to suffocate under the duvet, so she pops her head out.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Emma says. “Or if this is even something worth doing.”

“What do you mean ‘something worth doing?’ You’re in love,” Belle urges.

“But that doesn’t mean I need to act on it?” Emma questions. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot.”

“Oh no, not thinking,” Belle remarks. “Never good when it comes to love.”

Emma shoots her a look, “I’ve never been able to see myself in a relationship with anyone, but I can with Killian. Sometimes it feels like we are already there- he’s slept in my bed every night this week. I just kissed him again.”

“Okay, so you are definitely already there,” Belle tells her. “I’m sensing there is a ‘but’ coming up.”

“But,” Emma says, “I’m leaving in less than two months. Neither of us can afford a long-distance relationship. Unless I somehow become Princess of Misthaven, I doubt that we have any future.”

“That’s quite pessimistic,” Belle says.

“No, it’s self-preservation,” Emma shoots. “Having my heart broken isn’t going to help anybody. Killian doesn’t need that either. He gets it. We’ve both had nothing before. We’ve both done what it takes to survive. He understands. This is just another way of doing this.”

“Emma,” Belle says, “That’s exactly why you should do it. When you are going to stop surviving and start living?”

Emma sits up a feeling akin to betrayal rips through her. It’s the kind of privileged shit that classmates have told her her whole life. “If you really believe in your dreams, they’ll come true.” Or “don’t live life on the sidelines.” Stuff that easy to say when you have money and connections. Fortunately, Emma has always known that it was hard work and luck that actually took you places, and she’s positive it’s the only reason she’s made it this long.

“That’s pretty rich for you to say, Belle. You know that I haven’t had the opportunity to. You know what I’ve been through. Life isn’t always a Jane Austen novel or marriage plot. There is reality and it sucks or whatever, but it’s real.”

Belle sighs. “I’m sorry, Emma. I didn’t want to get in an argument with you. I truly didn’t. But just think about it. In six months, you’ll defend your thesis, you’ll get a PhD. And then what?”

“And then I’ll be trying to find a post-doc, trying to find a position somewhere, trying not to end up on the streets. Trying to survive again,” Emma tells her.

“But what if you start looking for positions here?” Belle suggests. “You could start interviewing in Misthaven. Brussels, Bruges, maybe even Lille. You could be close to Killian, close your BFF the Queen of Misthaven.”

“Ugh, don’t mention her,” Emma laments.

“Wait, what happened to you equestrian and opera partner?” Belle asks, miming a Misthaven accent.

“She kept a massive secret from me,” Emma says. “And I’m not really sure if I can forgive her for it. See, this is why it’s better if I just leave.”

“And leave behind the only man you’ve ever loved?” Belle asks.

Emma groans and buries her face in the bed, making some sort of grunting noise that sounds like “blurg.” She props her head up on a fist, looking up at Belle.

“Fine, okay, tell me about your romantic life,” Emma says.

Belle brushes a hand through her hair, leaning back against the headboard.

“Okay, so, do you remember that guy who you swapped apartments with?” Belle prefaces.

Emma thinks back her Skype session months ago with the bio PhD she was swapping with. The guy was drunk at like 4PM in afternoon. She had written him off as a hot mess, but then again, his apartment had been surprising- all white and neat with living houseplants and stuff.

“Yeah,” Emma replies. “Will, right?”

“Exactly,” Belle says. “Will Scarlet.”

“The drunk guy?” Emma asks.

“Well, that’s what I thought at first too,” Her friend babbles. “But then, well, I don’t know. We got to talking. Like, he came home one night really stressed about his research and so we started talking about it. And his research is actually pretty interesting. Then he asked about mine and somehow we ended up spending half the night talking. Then later that week he took me out for a proper date- nice dinner and everything. And then we slept together and that basically sealed the deal. We’ve been dating since September.”

“Belle!” Emma cries. “That’s amazing.”

She scoots over to give her friend a hug.

“I know, I know,” Belle says. “Look at us American girls falling for Misthaven men.”

Emma sighs and sits ups, pulling the duvet around herself.

“Do you see why I feel so strongly about you and Killian?” Belle says. “Will has made me so happy and we’ve been willing to take a risk. Yes, it’ll be long distance once he moves back and yes, we’ll have to find a way to make it work. But that’s love. And if you and Killian are in love, you’ll find a way to make it work too.”

“Ugh, I’ll think about it,” Emma laments. She closes her eyes and lets the duvet fall from her shoulders. “No, I’m serious. I will. I have a few days without Killian and I think that will help me get a perspective over this situation. You are right, Belle. He is the first guy I’ve ever been really in love with. I’ve just never been the kind of person who prioritized that.”

“You were also not the kind of person who manipulates monarchs of foreign countries into thinking you are their daughter,” Belle points out.

“Don’t remind me,” Emma says, flopping back on the bed. “Can we go get dinner now?”

“It’s only like 5pm,” Belle says.

“So? I’m hungry,” Emma whines. “And we both know that it’s going to take you a minimum of a half an hour to get ready no matter where we go.”

“That’s true,” Belle acknowledges. “I’ll go do make-up and you can Google places to eat?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Emma agrees.

“I’m so glad you are here,” Belle tells her, getting up from the bed. “Everything is truly better with your best friend around.”

Emma sits up again, leaning against the headboard. “It absolutely is.”

--

The next morning Belle has research she needs to do at the Kings College library, so Emma uses the excuse to spend some time playing tourist around London. She shows up for a free walking tour, which takes her wandering around the main sights. She happily snaps away pictures of the landmarks. She was lucky to see the literary side of London yesterday, but today is all about checking off all the touristy boxes: Hyde Park, Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace.

When the tour ends in Trafalgar Square, she heads to the National Portrait Gallery, enjoying seeing portraits of some of her favorite writers and characters from history. Afterwards, she stops for a coffee at a cafe across the street from the gallery. She uses it as an opportunity to read more of one of the books that she bought from Daunt Books the day before. The cappuccino has such a silky texture and Emma spends almost an hour reading at the café.

Afterwards, she starts making her way over to Kings. She stops in Covent Garden, wandering through the marketplace and looking at the different street performers. On a whim, she walks into the Box Office for the Royal Opera House and enquires about tickets. The clerk lets her know that there are a few tickets available a ballet tonight. The tickets are nosebleed, but just a few pounds, so she buys them.

Following the map on her phone, she heads down towards Embankment and Somerset House. She realizes she still has a bit of time before she has to meet Belle and it’s getting cold. So she ducks into the Courtauld Gallery. She uses her student ID to get a free ticket and wanders through the paintings. They are all so dreamy and whimsical. As she sits before a painting, she feels the stress of everything drift away. She isn’t trying to figure out if she needs to forgive a monarch. Or declare her love for Killian. She’s just part of this gallery. Maybe Killian was right about her needing a vacation.

But her phone vibrates from a text with a Belle.

Meet me in the café at Somerset House? We can get coffee and talk about the day xo

Emma reluctantly moves from her spot in the gallery to find the café where Belle is.

“How was your big day in London?” Belle asks when Emma arrives in the café.

Belle already has a large cappuccino waiting for her.

“Good,” Emma says, recounting the different places she visited as she crossed the city. She takes out her phone to show Belle the cheesy selfies she took in front of Buckingham Palace and Big Ben.

“That looks like a packed day,” Belle remarks.

“So exhausting. But I got tickets for the ballet tonight, I hope you don’t mind.”

“Ticket for the ballet tonight, hope you don’t mind,” Parrots Belle, in her horrible Misthaven accent. “Sure you’re not already the Princess of Misthaven?”

Emma rolls her eyes, “No, they were cheap and I thought it might be a fun thing to do.”

“But you still went up to a Box Office and asked for a ticket,” Belle teases. “You still thought, ‘Hmm, I wonder if there are any seat available for the ballet tonight.’”

“Shut up,” Emma laughs, ducking her head to take a sip of cappuccino.

“Okay, but has today helped you process what you are going to do about Killian?” Belle asks.

Emma pushes her hair out of her face and shrugs. “I think it’s helped me more to forget about it. I’ve had a lot weighing on me recently and it’s been good to just relax for a moment.”

“That’s good too,” Belle says. “And I bet the ballet will help even more.”

“True,” Emma agrees.

“Speaking of,” Belle remarks, “We should head to the hotel if we want to change and get dinner before the show.”

“Oh my god, calm down and let me finish this cappuccino,” Emma complains.

“What does someone even wear to the ballet?” Belle wonders.

“Just like a dress or a skirt of something,” Emma says. “You are always well dressed anyway; You’ll be fine.”

“That is true,” Belle acknowledges.

Emma takes another sip of her cappuccino.

“Okay, well, I didn’t fly all the way to England to not hear about marriage plots,” Emma teases. “So how did today go? What did you find in the libraries?”

“Oh Emma. Let me tell you,” Belle says, before launching into a summary of the day’s research.

It’s just after seven when Emma and Belle emerge well dressed and fed from the Holborn tube station. It’s just a short walk through the twilight streets till they reach the Royal Opera House. The outside is beautiful, all white columns and complete with a glass dome in another part.

The inside is just as gorgeous, but selfishly Emma doesn’t think it’s as pretty the Misthaven Opera House. There is less open space, it’s more parceled off into little bits here and there.

An usher directs them to a flight of stairs that they take up to their seats. It’s the nose bleeds. It’s actually past the nosebleed, seats that hang over the side of the theater, shoved in a corner. It’s a far cry from box seats at the Misthaven Opera. But if you lean the right way, it makes for a decent enough view.

Emma flips through her program.

“Have you seen this ballet before?” Belle asks.

It’s called Giselle and Emma shakes her head to indicate that she hasn’t.

“Do you know what it is about?” Her friend asks.

“I think something to do with ghosts,” Emma guesses, looking at the tagline, “Ballet’s Greatest Ghost Story.”

“There’s a description of the plot inside this program,” Belle says.

“I try not to read those,” Emma tells her. “I like to be surprised.”

The music in the orchestra begins and the lights lower. Emma gets that rush of anticipation she feels each time a performance at the opera is about to start. The curtain lifts and the show begins.

This one is about a peasant girl who falls in love with a man. But it turns out that man betrayed her and he is actually married to another girl. Giselle goes nuts at the betrayal and kills herself.

Belle and Emma go get ice cream during intermission. There is a rooftop terrace that they eat it on. It’s a little chilly, but they can see the whole city and it feel special.

“See,” Emma says, “This is why you can’t trust men. They say they love you and then they betray you. And what happens to you? You become a crazy, suicidal mess.”

“This is a ballet, not real life,” Belle points out.

“So? Life is all stories,” Emma retorts.

“There is a whole other act,” Belle tells her. “I don’t think it means that men suck and it’s not worth falling in love.”

“I think it does,” Emma says.

As they walk back to their seat, she thinks of Quinn from the group home, in jail for getting involved with the wrong guy. She thinks of Belle, coming back from that date with a black eye. Boys aren’t worth it. They just mess up your life and it takes forever to move on.

She knows that Killian wouldn’t do that. But that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t dump her, or decide that the distance makes things to hard, or maybe make out with a cute girl who comes into the pub one night because Emma is far away and he’s so alone. Killian would never purposely harm her, but that doesn’t mean he can’t hurt her.

In the second act, the dick face guy goes to visit her in her ghost form. Her evil ghost girl gang decide to kill him, unless he can keep dancing all night. But he does, they work together and risk everything and keep dancing and finally say a goodbye.

And Emma’s crying. The sadness of seeing their goodbye, the bittersweet happiness of their reunion. It all washes over her and she feels something.

She feels like she wishes she had someone that loved her that much that they would risk death to just make things right with her. She wishes she had a great romance that defied every obstacle.

Emma knows, she totally knows, as she walks out of the theater, that Killian would give her that. Killian would give her everything.

It’s honestly silly to think about him hurting her, because she’s never met anyone as devoted, as patient, as kind, as Killian Jones. It’s silly to think he would put her in danger because she knows he would do everything for her.

Maybe it’s some weird post-performance afterglow, but Emma wants Killian. If he asked her to “go steady” or “be his girlfriend” or whatever people say these days, if he asked her right now- she would say yes.

“I take back what I said earlier,” Emma says, as they bump around on the Tube, 15 minutes later.

“What?” Belle asks.

“I think I should say yes to Killian,” Emma says. “I think we can do it. I think I can do it.”

“You don’t see him for a day, you’ve got some time to make up your mind,” Belle tells her.

“No, I’m certain now,” Emma says.

“Wait to tell him in person,” Belle says.

“I will,” Emma agrees.

“The next stop is Paddington Station. Please mind the gap between the train and the platform,” the voice announces.

The girls make for the platform, getting lost in the hustle and bustle of the station. All Emma can think of is getting back to the hotel and the free Wi-Fi, because she needs to text Killian and hear about his day. Because it’s just been a day and he’s still the only thing on her mind.

It’s cold when they burst out of the station and they quickly walk the last few blocks to their hotel. Once inside, Emma immediately goes to shower and change into pajamas. She brushes her teeth and pulls her wet hair into a braid, before giving the bathroom to Belle.

Climbing in bed and snuggling under the fluffy duvet, she connects to the Wi-Fi. She immediately switches to the messaging app to text Killian.

How was today? She writes

She waits a minute, impatient as the little dots bounce around the screen, showing that he is typing back.

Good , He replies. I got settled today and talked to the people at social services about the logistics of the adoption, especially since Alice would move to Misthaven with me .

Do you take the test tomorrow? Emma replies.

Yes. God Emma, I can’t wait to find out if she’s mine , He writes back.

Emma smiles to herself. She thinks that Killian will make a great father. She can just see it. Killian taking Alice to the library, reading books together. Killian playing with her in the park. Killian taking her to Mamie’s for a hot chocolate and croissant. She can picture the way the little girl’s face would bloom with happiness with each interaction.

You’ll be great , Emma writes.

She wishes she was with him. She wants to sooth him, rub her thumbs over his temples, through is hair, as his eyes would flutter close. When he was finally serene, she’s press a kiss to the tip of his nose, then his lips. He’d smile at her touch, before returning it.

Thanks, love , he types. I’ve got an early morning, so I’m off to bed. See you soon.

Good night, Killian xo , she writes back.

Smiling to herself, she snuggles down beneath the duvet and lets herself float off to bed.

The next morning Belle is doing to research at the library in the Victoria and Albert Museum. Emma takes it as an excuse to visit. She doesn’t think she’ll like it, but she’s totally pulled in to looking at the gorgeous old dresses and curious old statues. She finds Belle a few hours later in the lovely library. It’s got green-blue walls, bright windows, and dark wood accents. Emma takes a few pictures to post online. She considering starting an Instagram just for libraries as she’s seen so many excellent libraries recently.

Emma sits across from Belle and reads more her newest novel for another hour while Belle finishes up her research. They head downstairs to the tearoom for lunch. It’s gorgeous, with stain glass windows and giant, spherical chandeliers. They get large cappuccinos and salads.

“So how are you going to tell him?” Belle asks.

It pulls Emma out of her dreamy coffee-and-books daze.

“Hmm?”

“How are you going to tell Killian yes?” Belle asks.

“Oh that,” Emma replies.

She’s made up her mind. She knows that. She can’t go back and forth. She’s decided on Killian once and for all.

But that doesn’t mean she knows how to tell him.

“I don’t know, maybe just like tell him when we get home,” Emma says.

She can imagine them in bed together waking up and then she’ll just turn over in bed, kiss him, and say, “I’ve decided yes. If that’s okay with you.”

“That’s not bad,” Belle says.

“Why do you, Master of Marriage Plots, have any ideas?” Emma asks.

Belle stirs her cappuccino and bites her lip.

“Consider this, he’s getting off the train from finding out he’s going to be a father. And there she is, the other girl of his dream (you know, not his daughter), waiting on the platform for him and she just goes up and throws her arms around him and kisses and then declares her love for him,” Belle spills.

Emma rolls her eyes, “That’s so cheesy. You should really write, like, romance novels or something.”

“Okay, but is that not a decent idea for telling him that you are now an officially dating couple?” Belle poses.

“I suppose it is decent, but probably with less flinging,” Emma says. “I don’t really do that dramatic running and throwing thing.”

“Fair,” Belle says, “But tell him as soon as you can. So you won’t back out.”

“I won’t back out,” Emma protests.

Belle gives her a look.

“Okay, I could,” Emma acknowledges. “But I won’t.”

They both turn to their salads for a moment, chewing and silent.

Emma feels a bit of warmth in her heart knowing that she and Killian will be an actual thing. It’s like a happy little secret sitting in her heart.

“So, this is our last night together in London,” Belle says. “We should do something special.”

“I agree,” Emma says.

“I’ve got more research to do this afternoon,” Belle says. “So I’m putting you in charge of deciding something splendid to do.”

Emma gives a mock salute, “Aye aye.”

She spends the afternoon hopelessly wandering through Kensington trying to think up something that would be an adequate ending to her mini-vacation with Belle. She ends up back in the hotel googling ideas before deciding on a wine bar in the Shard.

It’s the perfect choice. The city sparkles below them as they sip wine and eat dessert. Though it’s insanely expensive for their graduate student stipends, the memories are worth it.

“I’m glad we did this,” Belle says.

“Me too,” Emma says, looking out at the Thames below them. “Honestly Belle, I’m always grateful for your friendship. This has been like a little oasis, given everything that’s been going on recently. It’s good to know that a life exists outside of my thesis and the queen and Misthaven.”

“Let me always be your oasis,” Belle says. “This was good for me too. I’m glad you know about Will now. And I’m glad I’ve met Killian.”

Emma smiles, sipping red wine, “I am too.”

“And I’m glad you are actually falling in love with someone,” Belle says, nudging her. “Emma Swan, I thought you never would. I didn’t know if you could. But I’m glad you’ve opened your heart. Everything is going to change because of it.”

“Honestly, I think we should call the sap police,” Emma groans. “I don’t think everything is going to change. But I’m happy too.”

That night Emma climbs into bed a bit too tired from the wine to text Killian. But she falls asleep thinking of him and what his lips will feel like on hers when he tells her the news about Alice and when she tells him the news about her heart.

--

It’s the next morning when Emma heads to the train station to meet him. She’s got her bags so they can head right to the airport from there.

Paddington Station is bustling with people. Emma feels a tingle of nerves in heart, but excitement too. She’s finally decided on her feelings. She’s going to have a boyfriend. Killian is going to be her boyfriend.

She’s nervous. She’s jubilant.

And she’s ready.

She’s finally, finally ready to let someone in.

She’s waiting at the gate for where his train comes in. She watches the different passengers coming off. There is a family with three kids. A business man in a suit. A couple looking like they’re off on a holiday.

And then he’s there, right before her.

His head is ducked and she just takes in his dark hair. He’s in a grey wool coat and her heart does a little swoop. She can’t wait for his blue eyes to meet hers.

But then they do and everything breaks.

She’s never seen him look so broken. Even from a few steps away, she can tell they are red-rimmed. He’s been crying.

Oh.

Chapter Text

“She’s not mine,” He says, as he falls into her arms.

Emma wraps her arms around him and holds him tight. He feels the grief of the last few hours pour out of him. New tears threaten his eyes, causing him to bury his face into the crook of her neck.

“Oh Killian,” she hushes.

He feels her hand reach up to stroke his hair and it soothes him. He tries to pull himself together. After all, crying in the middle of Paddington Station is a bit of spectacle. Brits are all about stiff upper lip and the like. Killian’s histrionics are probably something that needs to be curtailed.

He takes a few long breaths and pulls back to wipe his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Emma,” He says. “I should have texted you to tell you what was happening instead of making a display.”

“Hey,” Emma says, taking his hand. “I’m not upset. I mean, I am upset because I don’t want you to be sad and hurting. But it’s fine you didn’t tell me. Sometimes we need more time to process on our own.”

Killian nods, wiping at his nose. God, he can’t believe what a mess he is.

“Let’s start heading towards the bus and you can fill me in,” Emma says.

It’s sunny outside. The weather a weird contrast with his mood. He sees packs of friends strolling down the streets, heading out for brunch or morning coffee. All of them living perfectly normal lives, while Killian feels his is falling apart.

It’s stupid really. There was always a bit of Killian that was hoping the child wouldn’t be his. After all, a child would mean finding a new place to live. It would mean finding furniture, likely getting a second job. It would mean that the idea of opening a bookshop would be an even more distant idea.

It seems silly that Killian was willing to give everything up for his bookshop dream when there are things that seem infinitely more important now. Home. Love. Family. And a little girl named Alice.

They don’t end up talking on the way to the bus station. Killian still can’t find the words and because she is an actual marvel, Emma doesn’t press him for them. But she reaches out and take his hand and it makes it a little bit better.

They reach the bus stop with some time to spare.

“The bus should be here in about ten minutes,” Emma says, looking at the schedule on her phone.

Killian nods. He tries to make small talk. “How was your last day with Belle?”

“It was good,” Emma says. “We went to the V&A and Kensington, but then we ended the day with wine in the Shard. Not cheap, but memorable.”

“That’s good,” Killian says, trying to put some emotion into his voice.

Emma frowns and then squeezes his hand. She can obviously tell how emotionally drained he is and doesn’t press him for more words.

The bus arrives not much later. It’s packed, so they end up sitting separately. He offers Emma a seat near the front, while he tucks himself into the back row. He leans back and closes his eyes. He’s been so distraught, he hardly slept the night before. He doesn’t sleep on the bus ride, but he rests his eyes, which feels good.

They arrive at the airport, which is essentially, a warehouse. He numbly navigates security and they get to what barely constitutes as a concourse. Emma leaves him with their luggage at a table while she heads out to procure lunch. She returns not long later with cappuccinos and sandwiches from Pret.

They are seated together for the short flight, which Killian is infinitely grateful for. He leans his head against Emma’s shoulder, slouching in his seat. Emma in turn presses her lips to his hair.

“We’ll be home soon,” She whispers, as they take off.

Killian is grateful for that.

It’s another bus ride, another tram ride, before they are back in Emma’s apartment. It’s nearly late afternoon by now, the sun already beginning to dip, creating long lines of light across Emma’s living room floor, announcing the shift to late autumn.

They leave their bags by the door and Emma leads him to her sofa, wrapping him in her favorite soft, grey blanket and curling under it with him. This feels good and safe and right. Home.

It’s crazy because before this Killian thought he was settled. He thought he was beyond the silly feelings he’d had as a younger man where he needed a family, he needed a home. But yet now, with another tease, with another opportunity of seeing it before him and then having it ripped away- he feels that same pain, that same longing, all over again.

He knows it’s silly, but he imagined it. He imagined Alice becoming his daughter. He imagined finding a little apartment with two bedrooms, maybe nearby, in Emma’s neighborhood. He imagined house plants and maybe a cat. He imagined setting up a child’s bedroom. He imagined filling her bookshelf with a combination of his and Emma’s favorite books from their childhood. He imagined Sunday afternoons playing in the park, late nights helping her with her homework. And somewhere in there, Emma would move in. Somewhere in there, they’d become a family.

Killian knows it’s silly now. God, if he’s learned anything by now it’s that family isn’t something that magically appears in your life. Maybe it is something you have to earn. And well, maybe that’s a lesson for him too- he hasn’t earned it. He doesn’t deserve it.

Emma puts her hands on his face. Her fingers are cold, so he takes them in his hands and kisses them softly.

“I’m sorry, I’m being like this,” He apologizes.

She shakes her head.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” She asks.

He nods, the lump reforming in his throat.

“She’s not mine,” He says.

“I’ve gathered,” Emma says. She isn’t harsh.

“Like I went there to the paternity test,” He says. “And I thought this was going to be it. I sat there waiting for the news and I had this feeling in my gut that she was mine. She had to be mine.”

Emma rubs her thumb over his hand.

“I didn’t even meet her or see her,” He says. “She was just like a thought. They showed me a picture of her. She’s small, like her mum, with curly blond hair. The workers told me a bit of what she’s like. She likes to read. She’s good at school. She’s curious and kind and fanciful. So, I thought, of course she has to be my daughter.”

“I would think so too,” Emma says.

“But I suppose she belongs to another person,” He says. “She’ll live this whole other life and never know that there was a man who was desperate to be her father.”

Emma snuggles into him, putting a kiss on his shoulder.

“I hope he’s good to her. I hope he loves her,” Killian says. “I don’t want her to grow up like we did. Broken and unloved and trained in how to survive because that’s all we knew. I want her to get to be a kid and to be able to have real dreams and know what it feels like to have a family.”

Emma wraps her arms around him and leans into him. They stay like this for a moment, just breathing and grieving.

“I just really thought,” He begins, “I really thought I was going to have a family.”

Emma looks at him with knowing eyes and swallows.

“I know,” she says, “but you do.”

He looks up at her.

“You have Ruby and her gran. You have all the people whose lives you helped during the revolution, at the cathedral, at the botanical garden. You have your patrons at the pub who know you and laugh with you.”

Killian bows his head. Of course, he’s been so selfish to not think of these people as his family. He mentally scolds himself for it. Ruby is basically his sister. And her gran has taken care of him like his own gran did.

Yet, he thinks back of him and Liam and their little bed in the basement of the castle. That was family. Liam was family.

And while Ruby and Granny and the old priest at the church and lad at the botanical garden are all fine and well- they aren’t the same as Liam. They aren’t really, truly, his family.

He can’t tell Emma that. She’s just trying to help and knows that the idea of family is touchy for her too.

Instead, they stay cuddled on the couch together till the sun disappears under the horizon. Emma eventually stirs, turning on a few lamps, and setting to work in the kitchen.

Killian gets up from the couch and perches himself on one of stools at the counter, looking over her work.

“You’re making cheese toasties again?” He asks.

Emma gives him an incredulous look, “You mean grilled cheese?”

Killian smirks at her American-ism. The tries to focus on her adorableness and not on his grief.

“You do seem to cook this delicacy quite a lot,” He remarks.

She shrugs, “It’s comfort food to me.”

He smiles sadly, thinking of his own comfort foods. A warm croissant from Liam, snatched from the kitchens, eaten under the covers of his bed. A chocolate bon bon from the Princess. His gran’s famous vegetable stew. For the bit of his childhood that wasn’t terrible, he does have his own fond memories of food.

“It’s usually the cheapest thing on the menu in any diner in America,” Emma explains, slathering pain de mie with butter.

Killian cocks his head, listening. He can sense that Emma has a memory on the tip of her tongue.

“When I was kid, I didn’t ever want to be a burden,” She tells him. “So if a family was taking me out dinner, I’d always order grilled cheese, the cheapest thing.”

Killian knows that feeling too. He remembers the warm feeling of finally getting to a good house and wondering, worrying, about what he would do this time to ruin it. He knows how to tread lightly, how to always feel like a burden needing to minimalized.

“The summer before I started at Duke, I finished working at summer camp a week before the fall term began. I had just enough money to afford the Greyhound tickets to campus and a semester’s worth of books. After that I had ten dollars and fourteen cents. I didn’t have anywhere to stay. It was such a mess. Colleges don’t know what to make of homeless freshmen. I ended up sneaking into the library every evening and staying in after hours, till it locked, and I’d sleep on the comfiest couch in one of the study rooms.” She pauses, turning to the fridge to take out a block of cheese.

“Sleeping in the library, love?” He teases. “That sounds like your sort of thing.”

“I’d always thought it’d be the dream, but it was a really hard time. I could afford a grilled cheese from the dinner down the street every other night, so that’s what I fed myself on,” Emma says, with a rueful look.

“That’s hardly enough,” Killian says.

He thinks of a boy on London bench with no money, no more chocolate bars, and no more adventures.

“I know,” Emma says.

She takes out a fry pan and turns on a burner. There is silence for a moment as her hand lingers over the pan, checking to see if it is warm, before putting a sandwich on. It sizzles as it hits the pan.

“I’m sorry I’m just randomly blabbering about this,” She tells him, shrugging uncomfortably. “I feel like today has brought up a lot of memories.”

He nods and swallows. “I know, me too.”

“I didn’t think it would,” She says. “But I can’t stop thinking about how it’s our lives all over again- another little, lost girl in the system.”

“I know. Being around the council workers again these past days,” He murmurs, “It brought a lot of things back.”

“It’s not fair,” Emma says.

“I just keep thinking about her face, her smile,” Killian says. “I keep wondering if she’ll grow up like we did. Never feeling like we belong. Always feeling like a burden. Always feeling unwanted.”

Emma frowns, swallowing. She flips the sandwich, revealing one side golden brown and crispy.

“I don’t want Alice to be full of sad stories,” Killian whispers.

Emma looks up, a smile now gracing her lips

“We aren’t full of sad stories either,” Emma says softly. “We are hopeful ones too.”

He looks up at her and he wants to pour his heart out to her. He wants to say, “You are my hopeful story. You are my family.”

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to scare her off. Especially when she has come so, so far.

So instead, he smiles for the first time that evening and says, “I know.”

Emma had planned to tell Killian that night about her feelings, about her ‘yes’ to an unasked question. But as they eat their sandwiches and she sees the first light of happiness and hope return to Killian’s face, she decides that it’s just not quite the right day. She doesn’t want the start of their relationship to coincide with a day of sadness and unhappiness.

She wants to focus on him healing, not on being a Band-Aid or a mere distraction to his pain.

That night they split a bottle of wine and she reads him The Princess Bride , which they are nearly finished with at this point. Eventually they find their way to her bed. They fall asleep with her body flush against his, her arms wrapped around his middle. She knows that she herself likes to be held this way, and when she hears his cathartic exhale, she imagines he does too.

She thinks she’ll tell him in the morning, but when she wakes she sees grief wrinkled in the corners of his eyes, bleary from a sleepless night and she thinks, “not yet.”

So November begins instead. It’s colder than it was before, early colorful autumn turning suddenly grey, the air unwaveringly chilled. The leaves turn brown and wrinkle and lay damp against the cobblestone.

Emma starts to write a final exam for her students. Normally, their exams are held after Christmas, but since Emma’s next semester at Duke begins in January, she’s gotten permission to move up her exam for just before Christmas. She finds that she likes coming up with exam questions, hoping that they’ll challenge her students and allow them to shine. She also likes the change of focus from her thesis. American literature provides an easy distraction.

Killian continues to become a cohabitating fixture in her apartment. Weirdly enough, she likes it. She likes not being alone at night. She likes cooking dinner with him, splitting a bottle of wine as they navigate the small kitchen together. She likes how they curl up and read together each night.

She slowly sees his spirits rise. One afternoon they find themselves laughing over a funny answer that one of her students wrote on a test. Another evening, Granny lets them behind the counter after close and she lets them create their own coffee concoctions. Granny must know about Killian’s loss as well and is trying to do what she can to raise his spirits. It works, a bit. Killian sports a foamy mustache after sipping overly frothed cappuccino and the pair erupt into giggles again.

They take in the melancholy weather with long afternoon wanders around Misthaven. They go back to the North Neighborhood a few more times, stopping at indie art galleries and record shops. They even get coffee at a few of the cafes in the neighborhood. It isn’t Mamies, but it’s fun to see how each café is decorated and serves their drinks.

They spend time walking along the canal in Emma’s neighborhood as well. Leaves collect in the basin, but it doesn’t stop it from being wistful. Emma lets Killian hold her hand as they walk. It’s another sign of the change that’s already happened, the ‘yes’ that Emma has already said in her head and has yet to articulate.

They kiss sometimes, little pecks on the cheek or the forehead or nose, and occasionally the lips. But they haven’t really come close to making out since London.

It’s two weeks after their trip, two weeks of healing and hope, that things begin to change.

They’re sitting in Mamie’s drinking their morning coffee and splitting a pain au chocolat.

“Have you been to the Musée des Beaux Arts?” Killian asks. “The art museum?”

Emma looks up from where she is grading a paper in Mamie’s, taking a sip of cappuccino.

She shakes her head, “No, I haven’t.”

“Would you like to go later?” He asks, offering her a hopeful smile.

Emma feels her insides warm.

“Yeah, that’d be great,” she says.

They spend a few more hours drinking coffee. Emma slowly makes her way through her stack of papers and Killian is reading something new, the volume of Dutch fairytales from the Queen’s library. Emma never got around to reading it, but since apparently Killian easily reads Dutch (she supposes that she should have assumed that given that he is Misthavian), he’s translating it for her. He flags the fairy tales that might seem related to her research.

Around noon, they head out to the museum. They stop for a panini at a cart along the way, splitting it in half and walking together as they nibble.

The Musée des Beaux Arts is located in an old mansion along the river. It has neat gardens tucked to its side, which is where Emma and Killian enter. They spend time taking in the gardens, which despite the frigid weather, features a few flowers still in bloom.

Emma and Killian are good at garden strolls. After wiping the rest of the panini from her hands and throwing away the napkin, Emma takes Killian’s hand. She lets herself lean against his side as they stop to look at their favorite flowers and plants, pointing out the little details of them. There are some sculptures dotting the gardens as well, elegantly crafted nudes and more abstract pieces.

They finally make their way into the museum. After spending so much time in the Queen’s lavish quarters, the museum seems understated, but that doesn’t make it less beautiful or enthralling. There are tapestries lining the hallways, marble detailing on the grand stairway. Classical music plays over speakers, which feels a little contrived, but it sets an elegant tone.

Emma is impressed by the museum. She isn’t an art aficionado by any means, but she appreciates the narrative quality of paintings. The museum does well in terms of breadth and quality of art. Misthaven benefited from the Dutch Golden Age and has plenty of Baroque paintings. Emma finds herself lost in a daze looking at a Vermeer painting and all of sudden wants to go to Amsterdam soon to see more. The museum also has a hardy influence from French impressionist movements, the second floor full of Van Gogh and Cezanne.

Lost in a dreamy stupor from all the paintings, they make their way to the basement. While the rest of the museum was relatively crowded, the basement is empty. Instead of art, it has a few displays of ancient Misthavian pots and sculptures. After all the dazzling artwork, this section seems more subdued. Emma tries to focus on the tiny, faded clay pots, but without the distraction of the paintings, her thoughts drift to Killian.

All of a sudden, she feels his presence next to her in a way she didn’t before, a warmth that quickly turns into the heat. She can hear each breath he takes. The classical music suddenly seems more distant.

She reaches her hand out to reach for his. She feels a rush of warmth at the contact, her heart fluttering as he squeezes back. They’ve held hands before, obviously, but with the added electricity of the moment, this small touch seems galvanizing.

It’s not enough.

And they are alone, right?

Emma turns on the spot to push Killian against the wall, careful not to harm the glass cases of clay pots. Her lips are pulled to his, which quickly respond to hers, kissing back with equal passion and fire. Her hand dives into his hair, the silky feeling between her fingers only turning her on more. Killian’s hands hesitate for a moment, out of surprise, before they reach forward to wrap around her back. They slip under the hem of her shirt to rub along the small of her back, before dipping lower to give her bottom a firm squeeze.

Just like that, it’s changed.

The love that Emma struggled to put to words before now is communicated through this kiss, this moment. She lets that love go into every press of her lips. She lets healing flood through brush of her hand through his hair.

And it’s still not enough.

“Home,” She whispers between kisses.

She wonders if they can get kicked out of the art gallery for making out in the basement. Technically it’s not even PDA if no one can see it, she supposes. But what if someone checks the security camera.

“Home,” He replies.

So they make their way out of the art gallery, up the stairs, through the garden. They make their way to the nearest tram stop. It’s a seven-minute wait for the next tram, so they keep busy by continuing their kisses.

Killian tugs Emma’s coat tighter around her, kissing her nose to keep it warm, running a hand through her hair. She can’t even stop herself from sighing happily at his ministrations.

They board the tram, making for the backseat where they can continue to steal kisses. She slides into the seat first and he follows. His arms wrap around her and he presses her against the glass windows.

She’s seen teenagers, even couples in their twenties and thirties, making out on the tram before. It’s not uncommon here, especially since kids in Europe tend to live with their families into university and beyond. They have to have somewhere to get their urges out away from their parents, so often that ends up being on the metro. Emma isn’t against it and she’s delirious in the moment to stop.

But she also has few lines that she’s not sure she wants to cross in public.

So when Killian nips at her neck, her back arches automatically and she has to suppress a moan. She pulls back from the kiss.

“Sorry,” she admits, “just if this goes any farther I think we might get kicked out of the train.”

Killian blushes sheepishly, before pecking another kiss to her lips.

“I’m not sure I’d mind,” He tells her, sneaking a kiss behind her ear.

“I would,” Emma whispers. “I want this to be perfect.”

She’s not unrealistic about sex. She’s never been one who thinks that it has to be perfect or even romantic.

But then again, this is the first time she’s going to have sex with someone she actually has feelings for, with someone she actually trusts.

With someone she loves.

Wow. The enormity of this moment hits her. She’s going to have sex will Killian.

Make love? Is that the word for it?

The word had always sounded silly and overly cheesy, but now it fit right. Yes, of course, these moment they were sharing were nothing more than a blossoming of love that had been growing for months. They didn’t even have to have sex for this to be making love. There was love furiously flourishing around them. She imagined it as vines tangling around her ankles, curling low around her belly, wrapping around the tips of her fingers. Love.

Killian acknowledges her wishes and pulls back for the rest of the tram ride. He keeps her hand in his, stroking it lightly. The pad of his finger makes circles on the back of her hand.

When they finally reach their stop, he tugs at her hand to lead her off, the heated moment settling into a warm simmer. This somehow only turns her on more. She swallows at the tingling that she feels drop through her spine and settle at her core.

Their walk from the tram station to her apartment is a mess. They try to walk slowly, savoring the moment, drawing the pleasure out. But halfway back, Killian presses Emma against the side of storefront, the stone walls smooth against her back, as he leaves another bite on her neck. This time, just above her collarbone. It’s the incentive she needs to grab his hand and rush him into the apartment building.

“Do we need to stop for condoms?” He asks, as she opens the building door.

She smiles, knowing that they have the same intentions for how this will end.

“No,” she shakes her head, tossing her hair, “IUD.”

It’s another survival technique, but she doesn’t tell him that. They aren’t survival anymore. They’re thriving.

It’s a flight of stairs up and a fumbling with the key and they’re in.

He pushes her against the door when they are inside. Clearly they’re both into this pushing thing and she can’t say she minds.

His hands drop her hips, moving against her, as he pressing his lips to hers in a deep kiss. It’s all she can do to let her own hands find his hair, grazing the prickly feeling of his scalp, before twisting around a few locks to pull him gently closer.

Then he’s back against her collarbone again, etching a love mark with his teeth. God, she’s going to have to wear a scarf or a turtleneck for her next two weeks of teaching, but whatever. This, all of this, is a hundred percent worth it.

He starts to unbutton her shirt, his hands brushing across the tops of her breasts in a movement so gentle and tender, she has to sigh at the pure beauty of thing.

His hands return to her buttons, undoing them one by one, till her blouse slips off her shoulders in a lovely, freeing motion.

“You’re so incredibly beautiful,” He hushes, running his arms up and down her sides, tracing the outside of her curves, toying with her bra.

She wonders if she should tell him that she always has sex with her bra on. She keeps as many secrets as she can for herself, never revealing too much, never giving more than she has to way.

But this is different, today, this, him. She is vulnerable. She is present. They are real in this moment and she can’t bring herself to give anything less than her whole self to him.

So, she unhooks her bra and tosses it aside.

Killian looks at her, unabashed, taking it all in.

“So incredibly beautiful,” he repeats, his voice an adoring whisper.

He wraps his arms around her and pulls her forward. At first, she thinks it’s for a hug, but then she realizes that he’s picking her up. She loops her arms around his neck, letting her legs wrap around his waist.

He walks them to bedroom, where he sits softly on the side her bed. She leans into him, straddling him, reaching to pull off his grey sweater and toss it to the ground. Then she leans back into him, letting her nipples brush across his chest, reveling in the feeling of skin on skin.

He lowers his head to let his mouth take hold of her nipple, his tongue swirling till her toes curl and she wonders if she can come from just this. Then he pulls back to kiss between her breasts, before moving on to lavish her other breast. She writhes under him, before she finally can’t take it anymore and pushes him back against the mattress.

Her hands drop to his pants, smiling into a kiss, as she fumbles with the button.

“I’ve never felt like this before,” she whispers to him, as she pushes his pants down.

He pulls back and smiles up at her, before flipping her gently, his hands on her pants.

“I’m glad I can give you this,” He whispers back. “I want to give you everything. You deserve everything. And I’m sorry for anyone who ever told you don’t deserve the world, Emma. I intend to spend every day that you’ll have me making up for that.”

Emma doesn’t realize that she’s fallen asleep till she blinks her eyes open. She can tell a few hours have passed since they made love because the sun is now low in the sky. Orange streaks criss-cross the white duvet they are tucked under. She’s folded in Killian’s arms, her back against his chest.

His hands are stroking her hair lightly, a sign that he’s awake.

“That was so good,” she says softly.

“I’m glad,” he says, kissing the back of her head. “It was pretty incredible for me too.”

She feels more vulnerable than ever. But she’s comfortable in it.

She can’t deny that there is a part of her brain that is focused still on survival. There is a part of her that’s upset with herself for falling asleep after. She’s calculating the chances of getting a UTI and wondering if her international student insurance will cover it and how the Misthaven medical system will work.

But courageously, she silences the survivalist part of her brain.

She turns around so she’s looking at him.  Emma takes in Killian: hair rumpled, eyes sleepy, but adoring. A lazy smile on his face.

She loves him. She loves him.

She has other things to focus on now. And something she has to tell Killian right this minute. Something that she can’t let go unsaid another moment, because she thinks she might burst.

“Killian, I like you a lot,” She declares, her voice racing with nerves, trying to force it out before her courage abates. “I might love you, but that really scares me to voice, so I’m just going to say I really like you.”

His lazy smiles splits wide into a grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Her heart feels warm.

“I love you too, Emma,” He says. And she knows he can barely contain himself. The same bursting feeling inside him that is in.

She kisses him, lovely and sincere, on his lips.

“I want this,” She says. “All of this with you. I’ve wanted it for a long time now, but I finally think I have the courage to tell you, so I am. I want to be your girlfriend or human or whatever.”

“Oh Emma, you can certainly be my whatever,” He laughs.

She giggles too, before he catches her lips with his, his thumb gently rubbing across her cheek. The words they can’t say- words about finding a kindred soul, words about curbing a lifelong loneliness, words about feeling like their hearts were finally able to heal with each other- are said in kisses, strokes of hands through hair, and small sighs of adoration.

They are tangled in blankets again when they finally pull apart. The sky is dark now.

“I really should shower,” Emma mumbles, sleepily.

Killian nods.

“Shall I start fixing us some cheese toasties?” He asks.

Emma smiles and rolls her eyes a little.

“Yeah,” She nods. “And tea?”

“Cheese toasties and tea coming right up for my lovely lass,” He says.

Life seems light after they are officially a couple. Emma feels lighter, happier.

It’s a stupid cliché, but being loved makes her want to be more loving to others. She calls Belle the next night and tells her the news. She gets re-introduced to Will over Skype and she’s happy for her friend. She makes plans to see them when they are back in America.

Finally working up the courage, Emma calls Professor Shepherd and explains that she’s discovered the identity of Blanche Neige. They decide to keep that information confidential, but that it won’t discredit the research. In the end, a text is a text.

“You’re a postmodernist! Death of the author,” Professor Shepherd says. “I mean, obviously, we don’t want your friend to die. But they don’t have any bearing on your research itself. If you are doing decent critical analysis, it should be fine.”

Emma takes deep breaths, knowing that it’s finally time to return to her thesis. After a month hiatus, she starts becoming productive on it again, spending long nights at Mamie’s working on it. Other times, especially the nights Killian works at the pub, she tucks herself into a back-corner booth with a whisky and cranks out a couple of pages.

One night, in late November, she sees a man at the bar with a large hoodie on, and with a shiver down her spine, she thinks back to how she and Killian met.

She hasn’t given much more thought to the man in the hood and the knife and the scar on her shoulder and the jean jacket she never got back. In fact, she’s tried her best to get them out of her head. Yet now, she feels a weird gratitude for them. Despite this long, bizarre winding path that her journey in Misthaven has taken, she’s happy for it all, because it has all led to Killian.

She looks up and smiles at him, where he fixes drinks at the bar, and he returns hers with a bright grin.

It’s later that night, on the tram home, she brings up an idea that has been weighing on her heart for days.

“I think I need to forgive the queen,” she murmurs.

“What, love?” Killian asks, looking up from the book he was reading to stroke at her hair.

“I think that I need to forgive Mary Margaret for keeping her identity from me. She had good reason to,” She says.

“I think you have good reason for being angry. No one would blame you for staying angry,” he replies.

“I know, but I want to end my time in Misthaven on a positive note. I don’t want to harbor any bitterness to her or to anyone,” She tells him.

He tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I understand that. I think you should do it, if it feels right.”

“It does,” Emma says, snuggling into him, tucking her head under his chin.

He kisses her forehead, a blessing. They ride the rest of the trip in silence.

When they return to Emma’ apartment, she feels like something is off from the moment she turns on the lights. Her spine tingle uncomfortably and she feels inexplicably as if she is watched.

Surveying the apartment, she asks Killian, “Does it seem like something is off?”

He frowns and turns to her, “Didn’t we leave our tea mugs on the coffee table when we left?”

Anxiety swoops over Emma. She rushes to the bedroom to check that her passport is still there. It is. As is all her jewelry, not that it is worth much anyway.

Killian riffles through his own things. “I don’t think anything of mine is missing.”

Emma begins searching her dresser. She frowns as she notices a few vacant items.

“My green cardigan is gone,” she says. “As is my hairbrush.”

Killian chuckles, “Perhaps our thief wanted a cuppa and a cardigan.”

Emma rolls her eyes and sits on the bed.

“I suppose, but do you mind checking the apartment for intruders.”

After peaking into the bathroom and coat closet, Killian deems them safe and very much alone. He fixes them new mugs of tea and snuggles with Emma in bed. She’s unsettled, clearly, as much by the man earlier as she is by the visitor tonight. But she’s safe. She has her wonderful, protective boyfriend. She doesn’t feel alone.

Emma makes an appointment for the following Tuesday. It’s early December and snow is falling in fits of flurries. Nothing sticks, but it lines the hills with a glittering dust. Emma thinks this might be a blessing too.

She watches from the window as the car takes the familiar path up to the summer palace. She notices a few workers outside hanging garland around the entrance and trimming the garden with fairy lights.

Right, Christmas. Emma’s been so overwhelmed with her relationship with Killian, with her thesis, with her hurt from the Queen that she’s hardly had time to think about the holiday as something other than a deadline for everything- her time in Misthaven, her time with Killian. Sure, they’ll do long distance once she leaves. But it won’t be the same. And Emma still has a little doubt that they’ll survive it.

“Emma?” The queen asks, taking Emma’s attention, as she appears in the doorway.

“Queen Mary Margaret,” Emma says, curtsying.

The queen frowns and Emma feels awkward. She hasn’t curtsied to her in a long time and it shows that distance that has already formed between them since their falling out.

“Come inside, out of the cold,” The queen says. “I’ve had tea set in the Enchanted Forest room. It’s one of my favorite places to watch the snow fall.”

Emma wants to resist and tell her that she doesn’t need to sit down to a full tea, that she just wants a few words. But that is something Old Emma would do. Emma with walls and hard edges. This New Emma, the one that is the product of Killian and Misthaven and hope, is able to say,

“Okay.”

She awkwardly follows the queen back to the ornately decorated room. She was right. It is beautiful in the winter, the dark green and gold walls looking cheery in contrast to the white dusting of snow outside.

Emma sits in one of the chairs and she thinks back to her first tea time with the queen. She was so nervous and it’s only now that Emma realizes she’s nervous now too. Forgiveness doesn’t come natural to her. She’s never forgiven Ingrid. Or her worst foster families. Or her unknown parents who abandoned her.

But she’s learned that there is a lightness that comes with forgiveness and she craves it.

She pours a cup of tea in silence, before pouring one for the queen as well. She finds a chocolate croissant on the tea tray and adds it to her plate, before finally finding the courage to break the silence.

“I’m not going to be in Misthaven much longer, just a few weeks more. My fellowship just lets me stay for a semester and I think I have all the data I need, more than I need really, to finish my dissertation back at Duke next semester.”

“It’s been such a quick semester,” The queen says, quietly. “It’ll be sad to see you go.”

Emma takes the little pitcher of milk and pours it into her teacup. She enjoys the moment where the milk hits the tea and cup swirls with clouds.

Then she pulls together her courage once more.

“I wanted to meet with you today, before I leave, to finish things on a good note,” Emma says. “Knowing you has meant so much to me. My friendship with you, along with meeting Killian, has defined my time here in Misthaven. It wouldn’t be right to just up and leave without saying goodbye.”

The queen looks up at her, a note of surprise tucked in the pursing of her lips and wideness of her eyes.

“And to say that I forgive you,” Emma says.

“Oh Emma,” the queen murmurs. “Thank you.”

“I don’t want to look back on this time of my life and hold resentment. Misthaven has given me so much and you’ve been a part of that,” Emma tells her.

“You’ve helped me too,” the queen says. “You’ve helped me see that my writing hasn’t just been a misguided coping mechanism. It helped you. It helped Killian. It helped you two find each other. It’s lifted a bit of the guilt I’ve felt from writing those books.”

Emma smiles at her, before taking a delicate sip of tea. The queen is right. Her books have given so much to so many people. If Emma could help her realize that, maybe she’s done something to give back to the woman who gave her so much while she was here.

“And you and Killian?” Mary Margaret asks, nibbling daintily on a tarte de pomme.

“We’re a couple,” Emma says, a grin forming.

“I could tell,” The queen replies. “Something was different about you. And you smiled when I said his name.”

Emma feels herself flush and she dips her head.

“Yeah, I’m happy we finally worked things out,” Emma says. “We definitely had feelings for each other for a while. But it was hard, hard for me, to let go.”

“Being open to love, believing in the possibility of a happy ending, those are all really hard things,” Mary Margaret says. “But powerful things. And things that will lead you to true happiness.”

“Or pain,” Emma mutters, the thoughts and warnings not yet dead, despite how open her heart is.

“Emma, take it from me, someone who has had a lot of loss in their life,” Mary Margaret says softly. “It’s worth it. Pain is worth it for love. I hate that I lost my entire family, but I wouldn’t trade it for a moment. I wouldn’t want to have never experienced that love.”

Emma nods.

“Will you write to me?” The queen asks.

Emma smiles a bit. “Yes, of course.”

“Good,” she says. “I want to hear all about how your PhD finishes up and how things go with you and Killian.”

Emma nods warmly.

“And if you two happen to need some funds to reunite with your love, well, I suppose the Her Majesty Queen of Misthaven could happen to need to summon you here and pay for your expenses,” the queen says with a wink.

Emma feels a tiny worry roll off of her. Yes, she hates to rely on others and their money, but all the same- the queen has tons of it. And if now she can return to America at peace that she’ll see Killian again, then that’s all for the better.

“Thank you,” Emma says. “Honestly, for this, and more.”

The queen puts down her cup of tea.

“No Emma, thank you,” she says softly, “for forgiving me. That takes a maturity beyond your years. It makes me think that the future of our world is safe, knowing that there are people as courageous and loving as you leading the way.”

Emma smiles warmly.

She doesn’t stay to spend time in the library after. She bids Mary Margaret farewell, giving her a kiss on each cheek. She knows that Killian is meeting her the apartment to cook dinner together before he starts his shift at the pub. She wonders if she’ll join him and edit a few dissertation chapters as works. Or maybe she’ll work at Mamie’s instead. Or go to bed early. Whatever it is, she feels at peace. She has Killian. She has Mary Margaret. And for just a few more perfect weeks, she has Misthaven and the here and now and everything, for the first time in her life, feels good.

Chapter Text

“Are you ready to go love?” Killian asks. He’s in the kitchen, drying the last of the plates from dinner.

Emma peers her head out of the bedroom, a smile on her face. 

“Almost, I just need shoes,” she says.

It’d been a week since Emma had made peace with the Queen. Killian is endlessly proud of her courage and wisdom. He knows for a fact that forgiveness isn’t easy. The fact that Emma was able to forgive the Queen so openly, well, he admires her for that.

It was earlier this week that Emma booked her flight home. Killian’s throat had caught as he looked at the date on the ticket- just a few days before Christmas. Less than two weeks away. He’s tried to imagine spending Christmas without this woman who had firmly planted herself in his life. The thought of Christmas with Ruby and Granny, which had previously been a comforting thought, now makes him feel empty.

It was from this anxiety that he’d suggested they take one last trip to the opera house together. Emma had admitted that she was uncomfortable asking the queen for tickets and Killian agreed. Instead, she’d gotten them from the international student center at the university. It was for a ballet and Killian thought it would be a nice goodbye to a place that had been part of their journey together.

He’s pulled from his thoughts as she walks out of the room a moment later with a smile on her face. She’s dressed in a knee-length black dress with long sleeves and a jeweled belt around her waist to accentuate her thin frame. Her hair is pulled up in a high ponytail, curling over her shoulder. Killian’s eyes linger over her dark eyelashes and bright red lips.

“Do I look alright?” She whispers.

Killian swallows, thinking about how lovely she looks, and how little time they have. 

“Wonderful, love,” He manages, before offering her his arm.

Emma grabs her purse, opens the door, and leans on him as they walk out of the apartment. The path to the tram from Emma’s apartment is second nature to Killian now, as is the signature way they board the tram- Emma first with her card and Killian with his leap.

With the change of season, it gets darker now. The tram ride is a blur of light against the dark backdrop of the night sky. Killian weaves his arm around Emma and pulls her close. He cherishes each tiny moment of closeness they get. He wants to feel her for every moment they have left.

They get off at “Opèra” and make their way up to the opera house. The seats aren’t in the private box this time, but among the other International Students in the balcony. 

“Maybe we should have invested in opera glasses at this point,” Killian mutters, as he finds his seat. They are still velvet lined and comfortable.

“Nah, it’s nice to see the formations from here. Balcony is good for ballet,” Emma tells him. She glances down at her program. “It’s a guest performance by the Royal Ballet. I saw them do a different show in London. They were spectacular.”

Killian smiles at her, impressed that she’s become a ballet aficionado. Killian doesn’t even know what the show is. He reaches for Emma’s program.

“ Anastasia ?” He asks, looking at the font swirling on top of a grey background. It’s unfamiliar to him. 

“Didn’t you even see the animated movie growing up? With Meg Ryan?” She replies.

He shakes his head after racking his brain and coming up with nothing.

“It was a classic at one of the group homes I was at,” Emma says. “I’d watch it all the time.”

“Is it about the Romanov girl?” He asks, thinking to a history class he had in England.

She nods. “Yeah, well, the movie is like completely fairy tale. It’s about an orphan who discovers that she’s Princess Anastasia and for some reason she’s in Paris and Rasputin wants to kill her. The songs are great. And there is like this cute, little singing bat.”

Killian laughs, trying to picture it. “We’ll have to watch it sometime.”

Emma nods, “Anyway, weird that there is a ballet about it.”

Killian flips through the program, looking for more information. Emma folds her hands on his shoulder and rests her chin on them, peering at it. 

“But look, this ballet was made way before that kids’ movie,” she points out.

“What does that mean?”

But then the orchestra begins the overture and the lights dim. They both take their gaze from the program to the stage.

The first two acts are lively, full of pre-Revolution Imperial memories. It’s balls and family and ornate displays of royalty. It’s like the kind of vision that lives on the corners of Killian’s memory. 

When the third act comes, everything changes. The ballet is now set in a mental hospital in Berlin. The girl who believes she’s Anastasia is dancing madly across the stage. Her steps are crude and wild. Killian shivers, gooseflesh appearing on his arms. She’s delusional. She’s mad. It’s terrifying.

Beside him, he notices Emma gripping the armrest of her chair, her eyes glassy and distant. He reaches out and strokes her arm, then cards his finger through a few strands of her hair. She glances at him, stirred by his touch. Her eyes are haunted and tired. He’d hoped that his touch would soothe her, but she looks so tense.

He tries to understand what could have provoked this. She’d seemed fine at the interval. Then a realization dawns on Killian: she could be remembering . 

He’s kept his suspicion quiet for months, ever since Emma asked him not to mention it. He understands her request. No point getting your hopes up about something that might not ever happen. 

But he still thinks she might be the real deal. A bit of his soul starts to soar as he thinks of it. For a moment, he lets himself imagine Emma remembering everything and discovering that she is in fact the Lost Princess. He imagines her being fitted for gowns and going to balls, looking brilliant as always. He imagines her moving into a castle, being taken care of properly for once in her life. He imagines her finishing out her PhD here, writing her dissertation while balancing her royal duties. He lets himself dream of her life being here in Misthaven, instead of oceans away on a continent he’s never been to. He likes the certainty of her in this fantasy and perhaps that is the true fantasy of it. A life where Emma is firmly beside him for good.

The final bows are taken and curtain drops. Emma reaches for his hand.

“Can we hurry out? I really need some air,” She tells him.

He nods, squeezing her hand and following her down the aisle. They don’t linger in the lobby. He follows Emma’s lead and they go right to the door.

Once they are in the cool winter air, he watches her take huge gulping breaths. He pulls her towards him into a hug. She doesn’t resist him and she rests her head on his shoulder. He realizes she’s shaking a bit.

“Are you okay, love?” He asks.

She purses her lips and shakes her head. “Not really.”

He doesn’t want to ask her, but the fantasy, the hope of epiphany, can’t leave his mind.

“Have you, erm, remembered anything that’s disturbed you?” He asks softly, letting his head drip down to speak into her ear.

She looks up at him, her forehead wrinkling, “What do you mean, remembered anything?”

He frowns, not knowing how to keep from her from realizing what he thought. Before he can explain, she makes the realization.

She draws away.

“Oh my god, Killian. You can’t still possibly think that I’m Princess Emma. That can’t be further from the truth and you know that as well as I.”

He grimaces, upset that he triggered this reaction in her.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, love,” He says, as Emma takes a few steps back. “I just saw your face and you looked so disturbed. I hoped, foolishly hoped, that it was because you were having some sort of lovely epiphany.”

“Well, I’m did and I’m not,” Emma retorts.

“So what is on your mind?” He asks.

“Let’s go sit by the river,” Emma says. 

He knows she’s stalling some sort of conversation, but he follows her nonetheless. He’s pleased that Misthaven is having a small winter heat wave so that it’s tolerable to sit outside. They cross the love-lock bridge and sit along the quai, legs dangling over the water.

He thinks of their first night together at the opera, when they sat together in this same spot, sharing a bottle of champagne. That’s when he tried to kiss Emma for the first time and she shied away from his kiss. So much has changed since then. A wave of reassurance falls over him. If they can go from that embarrassing night to where they are now, they can surely overcome whatever is disturbing her now.

“I was just thinking about how that Anastasia, or I guess her name was Anna,” Emma says. “She had an excuse.”

“What do you mean an excuse?” Killian says.

“For what she was doing, all the pain she is causing,” Emma tells him.

“I don’t believe you’ve caused pain to anyone,” he says, perplexed. “If anything, you’ve made my life, the Queen’s life, much better.”

She shakes her head.

“I did have an epiphany during the show,” Emma says. “But not a good one.”

“Oh?” He questions, daring to reach out and stroke her hair again. She doesn’t draw away from his touch this time. He’s grateful for that.

“I was thinking about Alice,” she says. He can’t help but grimace at the name, a fresh wave of pain flooding over him. “And how disappointed you were that she wasn’t your daughter. You were so upset. I was too. It was like a true loss to realize that someone you thought was your daughter wasn’t.”

Killian nods, the grief still lingering in his bones.

“And I realized that it was exactly what we were doing to the queen,” Emma says. “We’re leading her on, celebrating our sabotage.”

Killian runs his hand down her back. “Emma, love, I don’t think that we’ve been trying to misinform her for a while. I think that she’s come to care for you regardless. Didn’t you say that she said that to you?”

“But it doesn’t matter if we’ve given up on it,” she protests. “That was our intention. We wanted to hurt her. We wanted to take advantage of her pain. We wanted to profit off of it.”

She looks up at him. “It’s despicable. I can’t imagine that we wanted to give that pain you went through to anyone else.”

“Oh Swan,” he says. “I know that was our intention, but can you accept that we’ve done more good than bad? You’ve made the queen so happy.”

“No, there’s no excuse,” Emma says sharply. “We aren’t crazy. We aren’t in a mental hospital, imagining that we are someone else. We were greedy. We were unable to see the Queen as a human person with emotions. It’s disgusting. I’m sorry I was a part of any of this.”

Killian frowns. “Sorry you’ve been with me?”

“No, no, Killian, never,” she says. “I just feel guilty.”

“I know,” he says.

He pulls her towards him. She rests her head on his shoulder.

“I love you,” she says softly.

He kisses her hair, “I love you too, darling.”

“What if we visited the Memorial Gardens tomorrow?” Emma asks.

“Of course, love. Your wish is my command.”

“I just feel like I need to make reparations with the real Princess Emma,” she says.

“I’m sure she’ll forgive you,” he teases. “But for now, let’s go home, shall we Swan?”

The cobblestone path curves up the hill, flanked by rows of houses. The architecture of the houses match the castle in a way. Emma thinks it’s nice. She’s never been in this part of Misthaven before. It’s on the Old Town side of the river, up the hill from the Opera House and Saint Anne’s. 

The cobblestone path gives way to an elaborate iron archway made up of floral designs and patterns. A plaque against the wall next to it reads, “Misthaven Memorial Gardens.”

Emma swallows, thinking how bizarre it is that this path leads right to these gardens. It’s as if it’s always been leading her this way. It’s as if Misthaven itself in its fundamental architecture was leading her to these gardens. It’s funny then to think that she hasn’t been there yet. She’s been to art galleries and parks and mountainside hikes and to the opera house. Yet, she hasn’t been to the part of Misthaven that seems to truly lie at its heart. This place that has existed to capture and memorialize the pain of a nation. Emma’s engaged in that pain through stories, through personal testimonies, but she hasn’t let herself be fully immersed in it.

Until now. That’s why she’s here. She wants to feel it all. She wants to understand Princess Emma who was lost, who was murdered on this night. Maybe if she can make sense of it, she’ll stop feeling guilty for a crime she didn’t commit.

The gardens are wooded with the same lovely old trees that Emma noticed in their other forest walks and in the woods near the Du Bois house in Belgium. There isn’t any snow today, because of the unusually warm weather. Indian Summer is what Emma used to call it in America. She wonders if it has the same name here.

She reaches for Killian’s hand and leans on his shoulder. They walk through the forested path till they reach a clearing. It’s all neat gardens here, arranged in a European style with a long pool down the middle, flowering artfully arranged on either side. 

“There is a walled garden over there,” Killian says, pointing. “And a bog garden over in that part. There is even a Japanese garden in that area. The Royal Family put it in while I lived there.”

Emma sighs. “I want to know more about that.”

“About what?” Killian asks.

“I want to know what it was like when you lived here. When you left here, that night. Can you tell me?” Her voice is small, soft.

He nods and tugs on her hand. They walk around the castle. Her eyes are drawn to the high ramparts, the swirling towers of the castle in the imposing grey stone. In this back part of the castle a long meadow stretches out, forming a grassy plane that gives way to the forest.

Killian beckons her to a bench. They sit.

“I don’t remember it perfectly,” he says softly. “I was very young.”

She nods, scooching over so that their legs touch. His arm wraps around her back. The other points up at a tower.

“Do you see that? It’s the princess’s tower,” he says. “We knew it was coming for weeks, that there was a threat to the kingdom, a barbarian rebellion brewing deep in the town. There were preparations made. The King and Queen worked out a plan with Liam to make sure the Princess could escape. They knew that their fates were likely fixed, but they wanted Emma to have her best chance to live.”

Emma looks at the tiny tower at the top of the castle, imagining inside a little girl’s bedroom.

Killian continues, “Liam was posted to Princess Emma’s room and stayed there day and night with her till the threat passed or came to fruition. I was ordered to stay there with her as well, so I’d have a chance to escape under Liam’s protection. Liam was to go to America with the girl to seek asylum there. I wasn’t allowed to go, there was worry that one more child would make the thing so risky.”

Emma nods, watching the story dance across Killian’s face.

“Gods, Emma, I wish I could forget that night. It’s haunted me my whole life. Sometimes I still dream about it.”

Regret seeps through her. She’s asked too much of him. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “You don’t have to keep going. I didn’t know-“

He shakes his head, before reaching out to stroke her hair. “Emma, I want you to know all my stories. Even the hard ones. The haunting ones.”

She reaches out to run a thumb over his eyebrow, then along his jawline.

“That night there were gunshots in the castle that awoke us and everything was put into motion. Liam smashed the window, the beautiful stained glass one in the Princess’s room. He had this repelling kit that was already ready to go. He had me hold onto his back and put the Princess flush against his chest. We repelled down and it was terrifying. We didn’t know if there were snipers in the woods. If there were, I’d be the first shot. There were arrows, no guns. It’s hard to get weapons inside of Misthaven, so we think now that they only gave those to insurgents. Anyway, the arrows flickered by my head and I wondered if I was going to die.”

Emma can’t imagine a boy so young dealing with such a terrifying realization. 

“When we were half way down, I heard the worst noise I’d ever heard. There was a gun shot, then a scream. I recognized as the Queen’s and I knew she’d been murdered. If she was dead, then surely so was the King. I remembered how kind they were, caring for me and Liam after everything we’d been through. They gave me a chance at an education, a chance to have a good home, to be well-fed even. And now they were gone.”

Emma gulps. She thinks of the woman she knows who is full of more compassion than she’s ever known. She suddenly sees a new side of Mary Margaret. The side that cared for Killian as a child. She might not be her mother, but she was something of that for Killian. Emma’s heart soars at the thought. She can picture Mary Margaret doting on a tiny Killian, reading him books and giving him bon bons. 

“My brother told me to run when we reached the ground. He told me I’d be safe at my grans. He took off in one direction with the Princess and I went in another. I didn’t know that’d be the last time I’d see him. I thought that maybe one day he’d return to me. Or he’d call or send for me. There was nothing. I ran through those woods on my own, my heart thumping in my chest, wondering if I’d get caught, if I’d be found. But I wasn’t. I made it to my grans’ safely. She was surprised to see me. She wasn’t particularly nurturing, too old to be as grandma-like as I’d hoped, but she provided for me.”

Emma senses his story ending and leans her head against his shoulder. 

“I’m shocked that the queen survived. I’m still upset, sometimes, that Liam didn’t. I used to lie in bed at night as a teenager, when I was in the young offender’s institution, and look at the ceiling and think about that scream. I used to be so angry at the Princess. She was off in America with my brother and here I was alone and betrayed. It’s sad now, I suppose. They both are dead. I was the one who was better off.”

She presses a kiss to his cheek. His arms wrap around her back and he pulls her to him.

She doesn’t realize that he’s teared up until he says in a choked-up voice, “You don’t know how much joy you’ve brought to my life, Emma. I was so sad. I was struggling for so long. And you’ve given me so much hope.”

“Oh Killian,” she replies. “You’ve given me so much too. I’m so grateful for you. Every day.”