Maids and Merchadise (Chapter Two)
Title: Maids and Merchandise
Author: audreyii_fic
Fandom: Once Upon a Time
Rating: PG
Characters: Rumpelstiltskin, Belle, Regina, Cora (Rumbelle)
Genre: Romance/Angst
Warnings: None.
Summary:
Wherein Rumpelstiltskin doesn't modify his deal with Cora, and Belle's responsibilities at the Dark Castle include the girl who will cast the curse to end all curses. (FTL AU. Rumbelle.)
After two weeks in her new home, Belle wonders -- in her gloomier moments, anyway -- if perhaps she would have been better off chained to Rumpelstiltskin's bed. It would have been degrading, yes, and certainly unpleasant, but at least she might have been good at it. How much talent does one need to lie still on a mattress?
Surely less talent than one needs to be a caretaker.
For Belle is, to her chagrin, showing a frankly disconcerting ineptitude for her new responsibilities. She had been raised a lady; when the ogres came and her waiting women were sent to the refugee camps in the distant hills, Belle learned to lace her own dresses, wash her own hair, mend her own petticoats -- but nothing beyond that. The war was fast and hard and crushing as an avalanche; by the time there were no more servants, it didn't matter that the halls were crusted in mud from soldiers' boots. There was no point.
So she can sweep a broom, and she can wring a mop, but the Dark Castle is in need of far, far more than that. The tiles of the foyer are gray with grime; spiderwebs the size of serving platters hang from corner gargoyles; a waist-high iridescent mushroom grows in the south passageway; strange goo is dripping inside the third dungeon cell. She finds dozens of rooms that clearly haven't been opened in decades, rooms where enough spools of spun gold to feed a mid-sized country lay forgotten in ankle-deep dust. The mildew makes her sneeze for hours.
Possibly more worrisome are the rooms that are clean, at least by comparison. These all feature strange bric-a-brac throwing off the unmistakable ozone of magic: everything from a velvet carton of jeweled eggs, to a three-foot cutlass with engravings that change with every heartbeat, to what appears to be a human thumb floating in a glass jar. They intimidate even Belle's curiosity, and she flatly refuses to touch anything without instruction. Not even with a feather duster. They might not care to be tickled.
She is no better at laundry, or cooking. Every shirt she washes turns pink -- no matter the original color! -- and her mutton is inevitably burnt on the outside and raw on the inside. She slices her thumb twice chopping vegetables, and she has yet to convince a single loaf of bread dough to rise.
And don't get her started on the mice.
At least her employer isn't present to witness her domestic deficiencies. Start work on your duties, he'd said upon transporting them to the front gates, don't accept any packages, and stay out of the west wing.
What's in the west--
It's forbidden. He had then admonished Regina not to get into to any mischief, promised to be back sooner or later -- Don't wait up! -- and vanished into thin air, leaving them to trudge a hundred yards to the castle doors. Through two feet of snow.
That was twelve days ago.
Twelve days in which, in addition to everything else, Belle has utterly failed as a governess.
It certainly hasn't been for lack of effort. The first evening at the Dark Castle, as Belle explored with only a golden candelabra that seemed to twist into new shapes whenever she closed her eyes, she came across a tower library that took her breath away. Her home in Avonlea had not lacked for reading material, precisely, but Belle's appetite for the written word had been voracious since the moment she learned her letters, and she'd consumed every document in her father's study before she'd been out of pigtails. Here the shelves stretched to five times her height, and everyone one of them filled with novels in every language; she was relieved to note that, even though she was to live here for the rest of her life, she would never run short of reading material. There was a happiness -- or at least contentment -- to be found in that.
But she had reluctantly set aside the first story that caught her eye -- a tale of far off places, daring sword fights, magic spells, a prince in disguise, all of which had her enthralled before the end of the first chapter -- and searched instead for practical volumes that could provide foundation for a young girl's schooling. She found books on history, literature, mathematics, and even a very dusty tome that covered royal protocol. She dug paper and quills from a convenient letter desk and spent several hours sketching out plan of study that would cover all the basic topics she herself had learned as a child. Overall, given that she had no experience in teaching anyone anything, Belle had been rather pleased with her accomplishment.
There was just one small problem.
Regina wanted nothing to do with her.
She would knock at the girl's bedroom -- for lack of direction, Belle had chosen two chambers for them at random in the best-lit hall -- and promise only the best books and most fascinating stories, met each time by terse orders go away. Then Regina would turn up at meals, settle into the only chair at the dining table, take five bites of a dish, say something derogatory about the quality, and vanish back to her room. She ignored all suggestions that they begin the studies with which Belle had been tasked, and referred to Belle only as maid.
Belle reminds herself that Regina is surely distressed by her new surroundings. She reminds herself Regina has grown up alone on a farm and probably knows no better. But, more than once, her palms have itched to slap the girl for her insolence.
She doesn't, though. Belle knows her father would have immediately dismissed any governess who attempted to strike her; heaven only knows how the Dark One would react.
These thoughts lead her down many melancholy roads. As she lies in her bed at the end of each day, she tries to think of how her tutors would have persuaded Regina into obedience. She tries to think of how her cooks would have cleaned greasy ashes from the kitchen fireplace. She tries to think of how her father would comfort her.
Keep your chin up, my girl, he would have said. You are clever, and you are true. The Gods reward those with good hearts.
She cries herself to sleep every night.
***
On the thirteenth evening, after a day wherein there is still no sign of Rumpelstiltskin, no success in convincing her charge to even speak to her, and a disaster in the kitchen wherein the baking oven nearly explodes, Belle's tears are interrupted by a series of sharp knocks. She doesn't even have time to rise and pull on a dressing robe before her chamber door opens.
Regina stands with her arms crossed, hair reflecting light from the hall candles that never seem to run down. "Your crying is keeping me awake," she says severely.
There are several retorts Belle would like to make to that; she swallows them back along with her sobs. "I'll try to be quieter," she manages.
"Quieter is good, but you should really just stop." Regina tilts her head to the side, which makes her braid swing over her shoulder. "Why would you cry, anyway?"
She pauses. "Because... well, because I'm homesick," she says after a moment.
Regina narrows her eyes at the admission. "Why?"
"I miss my family." There's no response, and Belle sits up a bit on the cushions of her bed so as to see the girl's expression more clearly, because it surely cannot be as mystified as it appears. "Don't you miss yours?"
"You mean Mr. and Mrs. Berkshire? They're not my family."
"But-- but they raised you." Regina nods, and Belle continues: "They fed you, and dressed you, and rocked you to sleep; that's what a family is. They must have loved you."
"No, they didn't. They were scared of me."
Belle blinks at this matter-of-fact statement. "Whatever for?"
"Because they knew I might say something bad about them to Rumpelstiltskin. He made them promise to take good care of me--" she states this proudly, her head held high "--and if they didn't, they would be in terrible trouble."
"Oh." Belle isn't quite sure what to say, but she doesn't fail to note that this is by far the longest conversation the two of them have yet had. She's tired, and her eyes are swollen from tears, but she sits up a little farther and pats the bedclothes at her side. "You can come in you'd like, Regina."
The girl frowns. "You're supposed to call me Lady Regina," she corrects, a child-like imperiousness coloring her words.
"Lady Regina, then." It isn't worth it to disagree -- and, after all, she's probably right. "Why don't you sit down?"
The girl -- she looks so much younger than she is in bare feet and a white linen nightdress -- hesitates, shifting her weight back and forth. But Belle is patient, and after a minute Regina crosses the room with cautious steps to perch gingerly on the very edge of the mattress.
This is a good beginning... but Belle hasn't the slightest idea what she ought to do or say next. Whatever her employer may think about the value of a feminine touch, the only experience Belle has had with children came from watching the laundress's three-year-old twins chase each other about the chicken yard. They would come back filthy and giggling, only to be dunked straight into the washing tub by their mother and warned that next time they'd be hung on the line to dry like doublets. They died that winter of typhoid.
This did not teach Belle how to speak to a haughty, lonely girl of ten.
Luckily, it is Regina who chooses to break the silence. "When is Rumpelstiltskin coming back?"
"I'm not certain." Belle has been wondering this herself -- has he just left them? Has something happened? How would they know? -- but those are not reassuring thoughts to voice to a child. "I can't imagine it will be much longer."
"I'm not worried," she announces hastily, as though Belle had suggested otherwise. "He's very busy."
"I'm sure he is." Belle watches the way Regina's little fingers pick at the golden thread of the quilt, and she can no longer hold back the question that has been burning in her since the moment they met. "How did Rumpelstiltskin find you?"
Regina giggles, oddly enough, and it is a surprisingly warm-hearted sound. "He got me for a sack of radishes."
Belle's mouth drops open. "Radishes?"
"That's what he said. I don't think it's true, but he's funny, isn't he?"
"I... I suppose so. I don't know him very well."
"Well, I know him, and he's funny." The girl glances at her sideways. "He's going to teach me magic."
"Yes, he told me."
"I'm really powerful," she adds.
"I'm sure you are. The Dark One wouldn't teach just anybody."
These, at last, are the exact right words to say. Even in the dim light Belle can see Regina beaming. "No," she agrees, "he wouldn't. He's teaching me because I'm special. He always came to see me on my birthday because he wanted to keep an eye on me. He gave me books so I would be ready. I'm going to be the greatest sorceress in the realm."
Belle can only nod, and swallow against the nausea that comes from remembering how Rumpelstiltskin called this girl a trinket.
"Want to see what I can do?" Regina asks suddenly. Before Belle can respond, the girl points at a pitcher resting on Belle's dresser; she crooks her fingers, and the faintest wisp of smoke swirls along the porcelain, changing it from pale blue to a deep, rich red.
But after a moment the new color starts to fade. Regina scowls. She mutters something under her breath. She twists her wrist with a flourish.
The pitcher shatters.
Belle shouts in surprise and cringes back; the shards haven't even settled on the floor before Regina cries: "I did that on purpose!"
"Regina--"
"That's how the spell's supposed to work!"
"Regina--"
"It is! It was in the book!"
"Regina!"
"Lady Regina!"
"Lady Regina," Belle says, exasperated, "give me your hand."
The little girl blinks, then looks down; a piece of porcelain the side of a thumbnail is embedded in the back of her hand. Large, fat drops of crimson well up around the edges, an almost perfect match for the shade of the failed spell. "I meant to do it," she insists.
"Give me your hand anyway," Belle says, reaching for Regina's arm--
--but Regina pulls back and hops off the bed. Belle winces as she hears the broken pitcher crunch beneath her bare feet. "I meant to do it," she repeats steadily, "and I don't need your help."
Studying Regina's expression, Belle realizes for the first time that the child is an exceptionally talented liar. If she hasn't seen what just happened, she might be inclined to believe her. "I just want to bind up your cut," she says gently. "Doesn't it hurt?"
"No," Regina says. "It doesn't." She plucks the shard from her hand without a flinch, and blood flows between her fingers to drip to the floor. "I'm going back to bed, so don't cry anymore, maid. I need my sleep."
In the morning Regina does not come out for breakfast, and Belle picks glass from the carpet until noon.
***
Two days later, as Belle is standing in the entryway wondering which staircase to scrub first, the master of the castle returns. Never the most graceful, she nearly falls down the steps when the enormous double doors burst open with a loud bang. "Oh," she says blankly as Rumpelstiltskin stalks into the room, shedding his spiked coat and dropping it to the floor. "You're-- you're back."
"Of course I am, dearie; there's no place like home." This, for some reason, makes him titter in that humorless way of his; and from thin air he produces a bright yellow brick, which he drops to the entryway table hard enough to crack the marble. "Errand took a bit longer than expected, but nothing ventured, nothing gained."
"You were looking for that?"
"Indeed I was."
"But it's just a brick."
"Very few things are just anything, dearie. In this world or any other." Rumpelstiltskin brushes his scaled hands free of dust in a few melodramatic swipes and looks about the hall, eyebrows raised in an exaggerated expression of disbelief. "I see you haven't made much progress in my absence."
Belle flushes. She knows perfectly well what he sees: the dustbunnies -- more like dusthares -- that linger in the corners, the lack of shine on the table, and the tangled fur of the stuffed bear, whose fearsome expression contrasts with a plaque bearing the name of Baloo. "It's a big castle," she says, a touch defensively, "and it's only been two weeks."
"Two weeks? Have I really been gone that long? Time does fly when you're on a broomstick." He strips off another layer, removing his cravat from his neck to drop it beside his coat. "I'll be wanting supper in an hour," he tells her, heading up the opposite staircase. "Have the girl present and presentable as well. Oh, and get those mended by morning -- monkeys have surprisingly sharp claws."
Belle collects the fallen clothes automatically... and sighs when she sees the holes torn into the edges of fabric not made of dragonhide. At least a needle and thread she can manage.
For once, it takes no effort to convince Regina to come to dinner. Belle only has to say the words "Rumpelstiltskin has returned" and a promise to be down shortly is followed by the unmistakable sound of a closet being frantically rifled through. Then she heads to the kitchen and warms the leftovers of a mutton stew Regina had only picked at three days earlier; it was one of her better efforts, and Belle doubts she'll be able to conjure up anything else in the hour before Rumpelstiltskin expects his meal. Rushing would only lead to more disasters.
Cooking, Belle suspects, must be rather like magic in that regard.
The mantleclock strikes the hour as Belle carries a tray bearing bowls and a soup tureen into the great room; only the Dark One awaits her, lounging in his high-backed chair as a cat on the throne of a king. "Punctual, dearie," he observes, tapping his fingertips together. "I approve of that in a servant."
"Thank you."
"Of course, I'd approve more if you'd managed the other half of your task. Just where is your little charge, anyway?"
Belle bites her lip as she places the tureen in the center of the table; the delicate rosebud pattern seems to dance in the firelight, catching each thorn aflame. "Lady Regina knows she's expected for dinner," she says, going for diplomacy. "I'm sure she'll be along soon."
"She'd best be." He peers at the bowl of stew Belle has set before him with an expression half-intrigued, half-revolted. "If she doesn't eat with me, then she doesn't eat at all."
"Well, I hope it doesn't upset you that she's been eating for this last fortnight," Belle retorts. "I didn't know we were meant to starve during your absence."
More bitterness than Belle had anticipated or intended bleeds out of her words, and Rumpelstiltskin looks up at her, loose waves of hair swinging into his eyes. "Oh, what's this, then?" he trills. "Angry that the monster didn't wait to see you in properly?"
She is, actually; she's very angry, and the depth of it didn't strike her until this moment. But she bites it back and merely replies: "It would have been nice to know where the linen closet was, that's all."
Rumpelstiltskin cocks his head to the side; she turns away, busying herself with setting out the silverware, but she can feel his gaze boring into the side of her face. It makes her cheek prickle. "I've a ball of string about here somewhere," he says after a moment. "Not using it at the moment. The previous owner told me her lover thought it handy for finding his way around." He snickers. "Though she seemed to rather, ah, regret having gifted it to him in the first place."
And he waits.
Belle's never been good at stifling her curiosity, and though she knows perfectly well the Dark One is baiting her, she allows herself to be hooked anyway. "Why did she regret it?" she asks him. "What happened?"
"The usual. She gave the string to the hero to save his life. It worked, of course. Then he sailed off to become king and abandoned her on an island without so much as a thank you."
"That's-- that's awful!" Belle only just stops herself in time from overflowing the goblet and spilling wine across the table -- which she would have to clean up -- and turns to Rumpelstiltskin in shock. "After she saved his life? Why would he do something like that?"
"Because he'd gotten what he wanted, dearie, and he had no further use for her. Simple as that."
"No. There must have been some explanation--"
"There wasn't." He's watching her, a bitter smile at odds with the vaguely speculative look in his eyes. "Don't pity the girl too much; presented with the opportunity, she undoubtably would have done the same. Anyone would."
"I don't believe that." Belle straightens her back, wishing fruitlessly that there were a second goblet from which she might drink. Bravery follows brave deeds, but wine would smooth the way. "Maybe her lover was... was selfish, and terrible, but you can't assume everyone will act that way just because he did. You can't tell what's in a person's heart until you truly know them."
This coaxes another laugh out of him, and it's not kind. "You're wrong, dearie. All hearts are alike -- I've carved enough chests to prove that."
Belle is spared from responding to this cold statement -- and thankfully so, because she cannot imagine how to respond -- by the sound of hesitant steps coming in from the hall. Regina enters, wearing an expression of very determined calm, her dark hair is brushed loose to her waist; again, through the softness her jawline and roundness of her cheeks, Belle sees the beginning of a true beauty, if a somewhat severe one.
If Rumpelstiltskin notices this, he offers nothing; rather, his eyes narrow at the girl's dress. It's the same simple cut Belle has seen Regina in thus far, but she recognizes the deep shade of red as the one from the shattered basin; pretty, but much too dramatic for such a young girl -- and, judging by the disapproval in the Dark One's strange face, he feels the same way.
But "You're late," is all he says.
Regina quails slightly under the harsh tone. "I'm sorry. I didn't intend to be."
"Intent is meaningless. Don't be late for my summons again." Rumpelstiltskin's tone is sharp and pitched as ever, but it lacks the barbed playfulness Belle has come to associate with him. He snaps his fingers, and a plush chair appears at the opposite end of the table. "Please, sit."
She does. Belle moves quickly to set a place for the girl -- with juice instead of wine -- and she notices the stitching along the back of her dress is still a mottled buttery yellow.
Rumpelstiltskin takes a bite of his stew. Regina lifts her spoon, but holds it away from the bowl, waiting for his reaction; he chews once, twice, then swallows, disgust wrinkling his nose. He says to Belle: "Not much of a chef, are you?"
Regina puts her spoon down.
Belle flushes. "Maybe your magic string can lead me to some cookbooks," she counters without thinking.
There's a long pause; Belle can nearly see the evaluation spin through Rumpelstiltskin's head. She shifts her weight but keeps her chin up, and prays she is not found wanting -- well, any more so than she already is.
But at last, his face splits into a mossy grin. "I don't have any of those in my collection," he informs her, "which I can see now is an appalling oversight. I'll see about trading for a stack of recipes before you poison us all."
And he eats the rest of his stew without complaint. Regina immediately follows suit.
For all that Rumpelstiltskin commanded the presence of his -- ward? Apprentice? What does he consider Regina exactly, aside from a trinket? -- at the dinner table, he seems decidedly disinclined to speak to her. Belle catches Regina sneaking glances at him multiple times, but she apparently lacks the bravery to begin a conversation. Belle, for her part, is grateful that their master's presence has convinced the girl to eat a proper meal for once, less-than-savory though it may be.
Belle is clearing the dishes when Rumpelstiltskin demands: "What happened to your hand?"
Both Regina and Belle glance down at Regina's left palm, which is wrapped with what looks to be a piece of torn bedsheet. "I hurt it," she says.
"Yes, yes, dearie, I can see that. I was hoping for a bit more detail."
Regina swallows. "I cast a spell. Just a little one. And when I did, it-- and..."
Her words die at the look on the Dark One's face. "You thought you'd practice all on your own, did you? I can see how well it went."
A muscle in Regina's jaw tightens. "It went perfectly," she lies, without a visible hint of shame. "I did it right."
"Oh, indeed," he says sarcastically. "And I suppose you couldn't possibly have injured yourself on a foolhardy, arrogant, overreaching backfire."
"No. I didn't. The spell worked."
"Then how did you hurt your hand?"
"It was my fault," says Belle. Rumpelstiltskin and Regina turn to look at her, the former with surprise, the latter with alarm. "Lady Regina was changing the color of her curtains, and it surprised me. I dropped a pitcher. It broke. She hurt herself while helping me clean up."
Belle is surprised to hear the story trip so easily from her tongue; she only wishes her cheeks weren't burning like hot coals. She never could lie. She doesn't even know why she's doing it. But it's not right for a grown man -- or whatever he is -- to bully a little girl who thinks the world of him.
The silence stretches; Regina stares at her plate, Rumpelstiltskin stares at Belle. Her face grows warmer, but she does not flinch.
"I could heal that," he says to Regina after some moments, eyes still on Belle, "but I won't. Not until tomorrow. Consider this your first lesson, dearie: all magic comes with a price. Never cast a spell until you know exactly what that price is."
"Yes, sir," she whispers.
"Good. You're dismissed. And be awake bright and early; you and I have a lot of work to do."
Rumpelstiltskin sits silent after Regina has slunk from the room, immobile except for the way the tips of his fingers tap restlessly against one another; the rest of him can be still as any reptile lurking in the grass, but his hands never stop moving. Belle chooses to ignore his scrutiny, and has stacked the empty dishes on the tray and wiped off the table before he says in an indifferent lilt: "If I remember correctly, the very first task you were given was to look after the girl. You were listening, weren't you?"
Belle's stomach sinks. "I was."
"Good. I'd hate to think my instructions were going unheeded -- because I certainly can't imagine what else would have caused this."
She swallows, and wonders if, when he carves her chest open, her heart will look the same as everyone else's. "I'm sorry. I'll be more careful in the future."
"Oh, yes, dearie, I think you will. But let's add a little extra motivation, shall we?" He flicks his wrist.
A cold, prickling sensation rushes across Belle's skin, like falling through thin ice on a frozen pond. It's gone in a flash, but is quickly replaced by a sharp pain piercing her left hand; she watches in horror as a cut appears from nowhere, neatly running parallel to the slender bones separating her fingers.
"I don't want a single scratch on that girl," Rumpelstiltskin murmurs. Even when his tone is low it carries over the crackle of the fire. "Any damage she suffers, you'll suffer as well. Do you understand the rules?"
It takes a moment, but Belle manages a "Yes, sir."
"Good."
She so wants to be stoic, and face this new leash with courage -- do the brave thing, and bravery will follow -- but it hurts, and silent tears fall to the table to mingle with the drops dripping from her hand. With her uninjured hand she swipes a rag through the mess, trying to clean before it dries. The ogre wars taught her long ago how blood stains never entirely go away.
She hiccups.
Then, as quickly as it came, the cut is gone. "That-- that one was a warning," says Rumpelstiltskin; he's leapt from his chair and settled at his spinning wheel before Belle can even blink the tears from her eyes. "I trust you'll know better in the future, dearie. You're dismissed."
Ten feet of gold thread have fallen into the basket before Belle collects herself enough to depart. But before she closes the door, he calls: "And get rid of any other red dresses she has."
She blinks. "Why? I-- I mean, they're not practical, but the color does suit her--"
"Yes. I know. Burn them."
By the time Belle has finished washing up from dinner -- kitchen cleaning is less difficult than other sorts, perhaps, but still time-consuming, and she has yet to learn any tricks or shortcuts that might speed it along -- the sun is long set, and she can think of nothing but her pillow. She makes her way back to her chambers -- and as she passes Regina's room she hears a thud, followed by a string of profanities no child should know.
Belle opens the door to find Regina on her enormous four-poster bed, surrounded by a half-dozen open books, glaring at them so fiercely Belle is surprised the paper don't burst into flame. Strewn across the floor are the shredded remains of at least six dresses in various stages of red -- debris of the same failed spell that shattered Belle's pitcher.
The girl ignores her completely, and Belle observes out of the corner of her eye as she silently gathers up the fallen scraps. Regina keeps turning back to the same pages, their edges worn down and yellowed with use; Belle knows all the signed of a well-loved tome. As she comes to the other side of the bed -- after throwing the dresses into the hearth -- she uses the pretense of smoothing down the quilts to peer over Regina's shoulder.
The page Regina is focused on bears the title Imbuement. Beneath a few paragraphs of instructions, a series of wood-cut figures depict the appropriate movements of casting; Belle watches as Regina repeats miniature versions of these gestures over and over, glowering at the illustration as though it is at fault for everything wrong in the world.
Belle glances around.
All the books are open to illustrations.
The pieces click into place. "Regina?" Belle asks gently. "Regina, can you read?"
"Yes." The answer is too flat, too fast, and too automatic. "And it's Lady Regina."
She hesitates for a moment, but then Belle moves aside a few of the volumes and sits on the edge of the mattress. She picks one up and flips through one with a great deal of cautiousness, but the pages don't bite, and a moment of examination makes it clear that these are hardly spell books at all, mostly just histories and the barest of descriptions. Of course Rumpelstiltskin would only give her something novice-safe. "No one's born reading," she offers. "Everyone is taught."
Regina's face is as red as the coloring spell she keeps trying to cast. "I can read," she lies. "All sorceresses can. Leave me alone."
"All right." Belle pauses, then slides the book in her hands back across the bedclothes. "But I was just thinking... oh, never mind." She stands. "Good night, Lady Regina."
Belle's hand is on the doorknob before Regina says reluctantly: "What were you thinking?"
"Nothing of consequence. Only that... perhaps you and I could make a deal."
"What kind of deal?"
Belle turns back with a great show of reluctance. "Well, I could help--"
Regina bristles.
"--I could assist you with your spellbooks," Belle amends, "and we could talk about them, think them over, so that you'll be prepared when you go to your magic lessons... if you'll also let me talk with you about a few other subjects as well." Regina looks skeptical, and Belle adds: "Rumpelstiltskin is the one who asked me to teach you, you know."
It's this last sentence that wins Regina over, as Belle knew it would, but the little girl saves her dignity by dismissing Belle with a flutter of her hand decidedly reminiscent of their master. "I'll think about it," she says airily. "Good night, maid."
"Sleep well, Lady Regina."
***
In the morning there is a spool of shining string dangling from Belle's door handle. It steers her instantly to the linen closet.
***
Next: Wherein Belle and Rumpelstiltskin disagree over Regina's education.
Author: audreyii_fic
Fandom: Once Upon a Time
Rating: PG
Characters: Rumpelstiltskin, Belle, Regina, Cora (Rumbelle)
Genre: Romance/Angst
Warnings: None.
Summary:
Wherein Rumpelstiltskin doesn't modify his deal with Cora, and Belle's responsibilities at the Dark Castle include the girl who will cast the curse to end all curses. (FTL AU. Rumbelle.)
After two weeks in her new home, Belle wonders -- in her gloomier moments, anyway -- if perhaps she would have been better off chained to Rumpelstiltskin's bed. It would have been degrading, yes, and certainly unpleasant, but at least she might have been good at it. How much talent does one need to lie still on a mattress?
Surely less talent than one needs to be a caretaker.
For Belle is, to her chagrin, showing a frankly disconcerting ineptitude for her new responsibilities. She had been raised a lady; when the ogres came and her waiting women were sent to the refugee camps in the distant hills, Belle learned to lace her own dresses, wash her own hair, mend her own petticoats -- but nothing beyond that. The war was fast and hard and crushing as an avalanche; by the time there were no more servants, it didn't matter that the halls were crusted in mud from soldiers' boots. There was no point.
So she can sweep a broom, and she can wring a mop, but the Dark Castle is in need of far, far more than that. The tiles of the foyer are gray with grime; spiderwebs the size of serving platters hang from corner gargoyles; a waist-high iridescent mushroom grows in the south passageway; strange goo is dripping inside the third dungeon cell. She finds dozens of rooms that clearly haven't been opened in decades, rooms where enough spools of spun gold to feed a mid-sized country lay forgotten in ankle-deep dust. The mildew makes her sneeze for hours.
Possibly more worrisome are the rooms that are clean, at least by comparison. These all feature strange bric-a-brac throwing off the unmistakable ozone of magic: everything from a velvet carton of jeweled eggs, to a three-foot cutlass with engravings that change with every heartbeat, to what appears to be a human thumb floating in a glass jar. They intimidate even Belle's curiosity, and she flatly refuses to touch anything without instruction. Not even with a feather duster. They might not care to be tickled.
She is no better at laundry, or cooking. Every shirt she washes turns pink -- no matter the original color! -- and her mutton is inevitably burnt on the outside and raw on the inside. She slices her thumb twice chopping vegetables, and she has yet to convince a single loaf of bread dough to rise.
And don't get her started on the mice.
At least her employer isn't present to witness her domestic deficiencies. Start work on your duties, he'd said upon transporting them to the front gates, don't accept any packages, and stay out of the west wing.
What's in the west--
It's forbidden. He had then admonished Regina not to get into to any mischief, promised to be back sooner or later -- Don't wait up! -- and vanished into thin air, leaving them to trudge a hundred yards to the castle doors. Through two feet of snow.
That was twelve days ago.
Twelve days in which, in addition to everything else, Belle has utterly failed as a governess.
It certainly hasn't been for lack of effort. The first evening at the Dark Castle, as Belle explored with only a golden candelabra that seemed to twist into new shapes whenever she closed her eyes, she came across a tower library that took her breath away. Her home in Avonlea had not lacked for reading material, precisely, but Belle's appetite for the written word had been voracious since the moment she learned her letters, and she'd consumed every document in her father's study before she'd been out of pigtails. Here the shelves stretched to five times her height, and everyone one of them filled with novels in every language; she was relieved to note that, even though she was to live here for the rest of her life, she would never run short of reading material. There was a happiness -- or at least contentment -- to be found in that.
But she had reluctantly set aside the first story that caught her eye -- a tale of far off places, daring sword fights, magic spells, a prince in disguise, all of which had her enthralled before the end of the first chapter -- and searched instead for practical volumes that could provide foundation for a young girl's schooling. She found books on history, literature, mathematics, and even a very dusty tome that covered royal protocol. She dug paper and quills from a convenient letter desk and spent several hours sketching out plan of study that would cover all the basic topics she herself had learned as a child. Overall, given that she had no experience in teaching anyone anything, Belle had been rather pleased with her accomplishment.
There was just one small problem.
Regina wanted nothing to do with her.
She would knock at the girl's bedroom -- for lack of direction, Belle had chosen two chambers for them at random in the best-lit hall -- and promise only the best books and most fascinating stories, met each time by terse orders go away. Then Regina would turn up at meals, settle into the only chair at the dining table, take five bites of a dish, say something derogatory about the quality, and vanish back to her room. She ignored all suggestions that they begin the studies with which Belle had been tasked, and referred to Belle only as maid.
Belle reminds herself that Regina is surely distressed by her new surroundings. She reminds herself Regina has grown up alone on a farm and probably knows no better. But, more than once, her palms have itched to slap the girl for her insolence.
She doesn't, though. Belle knows her father would have immediately dismissed any governess who attempted to strike her; heaven only knows how the Dark One would react.
These thoughts lead her down many melancholy roads. As she lies in her bed at the end of each day, she tries to think of how her tutors would have persuaded Regina into obedience. She tries to think of how her cooks would have cleaned greasy ashes from the kitchen fireplace. She tries to think of how her father would comfort her.
Keep your chin up, my girl, he would have said. You are clever, and you are true. The Gods reward those with good hearts.
She cries herself to sleep every night.
***
On the thirteenth evening, after a day wherein there is still no sign of Rumpelstiltskin, no success in convincing her charge to even speak to her, and a disaster in the kitchen wherein the baking oven nearly explodes, Belle's tears are interrupted by a series of sharp knocks. She doesn't even have time to rise and pull on a dressing robe before her chamber door opens.
Regina stands with her arms crossed, hair reflecting light from the hall candles that never seem to run down. "Your crying is keeping me awake," she says severely.
There are several retorts Belle would like to make to that; she swallows them back along with her sobs. "I'll try to be quieter," she manages.
"Quieter is good, but you should really just stop." Regina tilts her head to the side, which makes her braid swing over her shoulder. "Why would you cry, anyway?"
She pauses. "Because... well, because I'm homesick," she says after a moment.
Regina narrows her eyes at the admission. "Why?"
"I miss my family." There's no response, and Belle sits up a bit on the cushions of her bed so as to see the girl's expression more clearly, because it surely cannot be as mystified as it appears. "Don't you miss yours?"
"You mean Mr. and Mrs. Berkshire? They're not my family."
"But-- but they raised you." Regina nods, and Belle continues: "They fed you, and dressed you, and rocked you to sleep; that's what a family is. They must have loved you."
"No, they didn't. They were scared of me."
Belle blinks at this matter-of-fact statement. "Whatever for?"
"Because they knew I might say something bad about them to Rumpelstiltskin. He made them promise to take good care of me--" she states this proudly, her head held high "--and if they didn't, they would be in terrible trouble."
"Oh." Belle isn't quite sure what to say, but she doesn't fail to note that this is by far the longest conversation the two of them have yet had. She's tired, and her eyes are swollen from tears, but she sits up a little farther and pats the bedclothes at her side. "You can come in you'd like, Regina."
The girl frowns. "You're supposed to call me Lady Regina," she corrects, a child-like imperiousness coloring her words.
"Lady Regina, then." It isn't worth it to disagree -- and, after all, she's probably right. "Why don't you sit down?"
The girl -- she looks so much younger than she is in bare feet and a white linen nightdress -- hesitates, shifting her weight back and forth. But Belle is patient, and after a minute Regina crosses the room with cautious steps to perch gingerly on the very edge of the mattress.
This is a good beginning... but Belle hasn't the slightest idea what she ought to do or say next. Whatever her employer may think about the value of a feminine touch, the only experience Belle has had with children came from watching the laundress's three-year-old twins chase each other about the chicken yard. They would come back filthy and giggling, only to be dunked straight into the washing tub by their mother and warned that next time they'd be hung on the line to dry like doublets. They died that winter of typhoid.
This did not teach Belle how to speak to a haughty, lonely girl of ten.
Luckily, it is Regina who chooses to break the silence. "When is Rumpelstiltskin coming back?"
"I'm not certain." Belle has been wondering this herself -- has he just left them? Has something happened? How would they know? -- but those are not reassuring thoughts to voice to a child. "I can't imagine it will be much longer."
"I'm not worried," she announces hastily, as though Belle had suggested otherwise. "He's very busy."
"I'm sure he is." Belle watches the way Regina's little fingers pick at the golden thread of the quilt, and she can no longer hold back the question that has been burning in her since the moment they met. "How did Rumpelstiltskin find you?"
Regina giggles, oddly enough, and it is a surprisingly warm-hearted sound. "He got me for a sack of radishes."
Belle's mouth drops open. "Radishes?"
"That's what he said. I don't think it's true, but he's funny, isn't he?"
"I... I suppose so. I don't know him very well."
"Well, I know him, and he's funny." The girl glances at her sideways. "He's going to teach me magic."
"Yes, he told me."
"I'm really powerful," she adds.
"I'm sure you are. The Dark One wouldn't teach just anybody."
These, at last, are the exact right words to say. Even in the dim light Belle can see Regina beaming. "No," she agrees, "he wouldn't. He's teaching me because I'm special. He always came to see me on my birthday because he wanted to keep an eye on me. He gave me books so I would be ready. I'm going to be the greatest sorceress in the realm."
Belle can only nod, and swallow against the nausea that comes from remembering how Rumpelstiltskin called this girl a trinket.
"Want to see what I can do?" Regina asks suddenly. Before Belle can respond, the girl points at a pitcher resting on Belle's dresser; she crooks her fingers, and the faintest wisp of smoke swirls along the porcelain, changing it from pale blue to a deep, rich red.
But after a moment the new color starts to fade. Regina scowls. She mutters something under her breath. She twists her wrist with a flourish.
The pitcher shatters.
Belle shouts in surprise and cringes back; the shards haven't even settled on the floor before Regina cries: "I did that on purpose!"
"Regina--"
"That's how the spell's supposed to work!"
"Regina--"
"It is! It was in the book!"
"Regina!"
"Lady Regina!"
"Lady Regina," Belle says, exasperated, "give me your hand."
The little girl blinks, then looks down; a piece of porcelain the side of a thumbnail is embedded in the back of her hand. Large, fat drops of crimson well up around the edges, an almost perfect match for the shade of the failed spell. "I meant to do it," she insists.
"Give me your hand anyway," Belle says, reaching for Regina's arm--
--but Regina pulls back and hops off the bed. Belle winces as she hears the broken pitcher crunch beneath her bare feet. "I meant to do it," she repeats steadily, "and I don't need your help."
Studying Regina's expression, Belle realizes for the first time that the child is an exceptionally talented liar. If she hasn't seen what just happened, she might be inclined to believe her. "I just want to bind up your cut," she says gently. "Doesn't it hurt?"
"No," Regina says. "It doesn't." She plucks the shard from her hand without a flinch, and blood flows between her fingers to drip to the floor. "I'm going back to bed, so don't cry anymore, maid. I need my sleep."
In the morning Regina does not come out for breakfast, and Belle picks glass from the carpet until noon.
***
Two days later, as Belle is standing in the entryway wondering which staircase to scrub first, the master of the castle returns. Never the most graceful, she nearly falls down the steps when the enormous double doors burst open with a loud bang. "Oh," she says blankly as Rumpelstiltskin stalks into the room, shedding his spiked coat and dropping it to the floor. "You're-- you're back."
"Of course I am, dearie; there's no place like home." This, for some reason, makes him titter in that humorless way of his; and from thin air he produces a bright yellow brick, which he drops to the entryway table hard enough to crack the marble. "Errand took a bit longer than expected, but nothing ventured, nothing gained."
"You were looking for that?"
"Indeed I was."
"But it's just a brick."
"Very few things are just anything, dearie. In this world or any other." Rumpelstiltskin brushes his scaled hands free of dust in a few melodramatic swipes and looks about the hall, eyebrows raised in an exaggerated expression of disbelief. "I see you haven't made much progress in my absence."
Belle flushes. She knows perfectly well what he sees: the dustbunnies -- more like dusthares -- that linger in the corners, the lack of shine on the table, and the tangled fur of the stuffed bear, whose fearsome expression contrasts with a plaque bearing the name of Baloo. "It's a big castle," she says, a touch defensively, "and it's only been two weeks."
"Two weeks? Have I really been gone that long? Time does fly when you're on a broomstick." He strips off another layer, removing his cravat from his neck to drop it beside his coat. "I'll be wanting supper in an hour," he tells her, heading up the opposite staircase. "Have the girl present and presentable as well. Oh, and get those mended by morning -- monkeys have surprisingly sharp claws."
Belle collects the fallen clothes automatically... and sighs when she sees the holes torn into the edges of fabric not made of dragonhide. At least a needle and thread she can manage.
For once, it takes no effort to convince Regina to come to dinner. Belle only has to say the words "Rumpelstiltskin has returned" and a promise to be down shortly is followed by the unmistakable sound of a closet being frantically rifled through. Then she heads to the kitchen and warms the leftovers of a mutton stew Regina had only picked at three days earlier; it was one of her better efforts, and Belle doubts she'll be able to conjure up anything else in the hour before Rumpelstiltskin expects his meal. Rushing would only lead to more disasters.
Cooking, Belle suspects, must be rather like magic in that regard.
The mantleclock strikes the hour as Belle carries a tray bearing bowls and a soup tureen into the great room; only the Dark One awaits her, lounging in his high-backed chair as a cat on the throne of a king. "Punctual, dearie," he observes, tapping his fingertips together. "I approve of that in a servant."
"Thank you."
"Of course, I'd approve more if you'd managed the other half of your task. Just where is your little charge, anyway?"
Belle bites her lip as she places the tureen in the center of the table; the delicate rosebud pattern seems to dance in the firelight, catching each thorn aflame. "Lady Regina knows she's expected for dinner," she says, going for diplomacy. "I'm sure she'll be along soon."
"She'd best be." He peers at the bowl of stew Belle has set before him with an expression half-intrigued, half-revolted. "If she doesn't eat with me, then she doesn't eat at all."
"Well, I hope it doesn't upset you that she's been eating for this last fortnight," Belle retorts. "I didn't know we were meant to starve during your absence."
More bitterness than Belle had anticipated or intended bleeds out of her words, and Rumpelstiltskin looks up at her, loose waves of hair swinging into his eyes. "Oh, what's this, then?" he trills. "Angry that the monster didn't wait to see you in properly?"
She is, actually; she's very angry, and the depth of it didn't strike her until this moment. But she bites it back and merely replies: "It would have been nice to know where the linen closet was, that's all."
Rumpelstiltskin cocks his head to the side; she turns away, busying herself with setting out the silverware, but she can feel his gaze boring into the side of her face. It makes her cheek prickle. "I've a ball of string about here somewhere," he says after a moment. "Not using it at the moment. The previous owner told me her lover thought it handy for finding his way around." He snickers. "Though she seemed to rather, ah, regret having gifted it to him in the first place."
And he waits.
Belle's never been good at stifling her curiosity, and though she knows perfectly well the Dark One is baiting her, she allows herself to be hooked anyway. "Why did she regret it?" she asks him. "What happened?"
"The usual. She gave the string to the hero to save his life. It worked, of course. Then he sailed off to become king and abandoned her on an island without so much as a thank you."
"That's-- that's awful!" Belle only just stops herself in time from overflowing the goblet and spilling wine across the table -- which she would have to clean up -- and turns to Rumpelstiltskin in shock. "After she saved his life? Why would he do something like that?"
"Because he'd gotten what he wanted, dearie, and he had no further use for her. Simple as that."
"No. There must have been some explanation--"
"There wasn't." He's watching her, a bitter smile at odds with the vaguely speculative look in his eyes. "Don't pity the girl too much; presented with the opportunity, she undoubtably would have done the same. Anyone would."
"I don't believe that." Belle straightens her back, wishing fruitlessly that there were a second goblet from which she might drink. Bravery follows brave deeds, but wine would smooth the way. "Maybe her lover was... was selfish, and terrible, but you can't assume everyone will act that way just because he did. You can't tell what's in a person's heart until you truly know them."
This coaxes another laugh out of him, and it's not kind. "You're wrong, dearie. All hearts are alike -- I've carved enough chests to prove that."
Belle is spared from responding to this cold statement -- and thankfully so, because she cannot imagine how to respond -- by the sound of hesitant steps coming in from the hall. Regina enters, wearing an expression of very determined calm, her dark hair is brushed loose to her waist; again, through the softness her jawline and roundness of her cheeks, Belle sees the beginning of a true beauty, if a somewhat severe one.
If Rumpelstiltskin notices this, he offers nothing; rather, his eyes narrow at the girl's dress. It's the same simple cut Belle has seen Regina in thus far, but she recognizes the deep shade of red as the one from the shattered basin; pretty, but much too dramatic for such a young girl -- and, judging by the disapproval in the Dark One's strange face, he feels the same way.
But "You're late," is all he says.
Regina quails slightly under the harsh tone. "I'm sorry. I didn't intend to be."
"Intent is meaningless. Don't be late for my summons again." Rumpelstiltskin's tone is sharp and pitched as ever, but it lacks the barbed playfulness Belle has come to associate with him. He snaps his fingers, and a plush chair appears at the opposite end of the table. "Please, sit."
She does. Belle moves quickly to set a place for the girl -- with juice instead of wine -- and she notices the stitching along the back of her dress is still a mottled buttery yellow.
Rumpelstiltskin takes a bite of his stew. Regina lifts her spoon, but holds it away from the bowl, waiting for his reaction; he chews once, twice, then swallows, disgust wrinkling his nose. He says to Belle: "Not much of a chef, are you?"
Regina puts her spoon down.
Belle flushes. "Maybe your magic string can lead me to some cookbooks," she counters without thinking.
There's a long pause; Belle can nearly see the evaluation spin through Rumpelstiltskin's head. She shifts her weight but keeps her chin up, and prays she is not found wanting -- well, any more so than she already is.
But at last, his face splits into a mossy grin. "I don't have any of those in my collection," he informs her, "which I can see now is an appalling oversight. I'll see about trading for a stack of recipes before you poison us all."
And he eats the rest of his stew without complaint. Regina immediately follows suit.
For all that Rumpelstiltskin commanded the presence of his -- ward? Apprentice? What does he consider Regina exactly, aside from a trinket? -- at the dinner table, he seems decidedly disinclined to speak to her. Belle catches Regina sneaking glances at him multiple times, but she apparently lacks the bravery to begin a conversation. Belle, for her part, is grateful that their master's presence has convinced the girl to eat a proper meal for once, less-than-savory though it may be.
Belle is clearing the dishes when Rumpelstiltskin demands: "What happened to your hand?"
Both Regina and Belle glance down at Regina's left palm, which is wrapped with what looks to be a piece of torn bedsheet. "I hurt it," she says.
"Yes, yes, dearie, I can see that. I was hoping for a bit more detail."
Regina swallows. "I cast a spell. Just a little one. And when I did, it-- and..."
Her words die at the look on the Dark One's face. "You thought you'd practice all on your own, did you? I can see how well it went."
A muscle in Regina's jaw tightens. "It went perfectly," she lies, without a visible hint of shame. "I did it right."
"Oh, indeed," he says sarcastically. "And I suppose you couldn't possibly have injured yourself on a foolhardy, arrogant, overreaching backfire."
"No. I didn't. The spell worked."
"Then how did you hurt your hand?"
"It was my fault," says Belle. Rumpelstiltskin and Regina turn to look at her, the former with surprise, the latter with alarm. "Lady Regina was changing the color of her curtains, and it surprised me. I dropped a pitcher. It broke. She hurt herself while helping me clean up."
Belle is surprised to hear the story trip so easily from her tongue; she only wishes her cheeks weren't burning like hot coals. She never could lie. She doesn't even know why she's doing it. But it's not right for a grown man -- or whatever he is -- to bully a little girl who thinks the world of him.
The silence stretches; Regina stares at her plate, Rumpelstiltskin stares at Belle. Her face grows warmer, but she does not flinch.
"I could heal that," he says to Regina after some moments, eyes still on Belle, "but I won't. Not until tomorrow. Consider this your first lesson, dearie: all magic comes with a price. Never cast a spell until you know exactly what that price is."
"Yes, sir," she whispers.
"Good. You're dismissed. And be awake bright and early; you and I have a lot of work to do."
Rumpelstiltskin sits silent after Regina has slunk from the room, immobile except for the way the tips of his fingers tap restlessly against one another; the rest of him can be still as any reptile lurking in the grass, but his hands never stop moving. Belle chooses to ignore his scrutiny, and has stacked the empty dishes on the tray and wiped off the table before he says in an indifferent lilt: "If I remember correctly, the very first task you were given was to look after the girl. You were listening, weren't you?"
Belle's stomach sinks. "I was."
"Good. I'd hate to think my instructions were going unheeded -- because I certainly can't imagine what else would have caused this."
She swallows, and wonders if, when he carves her chest open, her heart will look the same as everyone else's. "I'm sorry. I'll be more careful in the future."
"Oh, yes, dearie, I think you will. But let's add a little extra motivation, shall we?" He flicks his wrist.
A cold, prickling sensation rushes across Belle's skin, like falling through thin ice on a frozen pond. It's gone in a flash, but is quickly replaced by a sharp pain piercing her left hand; she watches in horror as a cut appears from nowhere, neatly running parallel to the slender bones separating her fingers.
"I don't want a single scratch on that girl," Rumpelstiltskin murmurs. Even when his tone is low it carries over the crackle of the fire. "Any damage she suffers, you'll suffer as well. Do you understand the rules?"
It takes a moment, but Belle manages a "Yes, sir."
"Good."
She so wants to be stoic, and face this new leash with courage -- do the brave thing, and bravery will follow -- but it hurts, and silent tears fall to the table to mingle with the drops dripping from her hand. With her uninjured hand she swipes a rag through the mess, trying to clean before it dries. The ogre wars taught her long ago how blood stains never entirely go away.
She hiccups.
Then, as quickly as it came, the cut is gone. "That-- that one was a warning," says Rumpelstiltskin; he's leapt from his chair and settled at his spinning wheel before Belle can even blink the tears from her eyes. "I trust you'll know better in the future, dearie. You're dismissed."
Ten feet of gold thread have fallen into the basket before Belle collects herself enough to depart. But before she closes the door, he calls: "And get rid of any other red dresses she has."
She blinks. "Why? I-- I mean, they're not practical, but the color does suit her--"
"Yes. I know. Burn them."
By the time Belle has finished washing up from dinner -- kitchen cleaning is less difficult than other sorts, perhaps, but still time-consuming, and she has yet to learn any tricks or shortcuts that might speed it along -- the sun is long set, and she can think of nothing but her pillow. She makes her way back to her chambers -- and as she passes Regina's room she hears a thud, followed by a string of profanities no child should know.
Belle opens the door to find Regina on her enormous four-poster bed, surrounded by a half-dozen open books, glaring at them so fiercely Belle is surprised the paper don't burst into flame. Strewn across the floor are the shredded remains of at least six dresses in various stages of red -- debris of the same failed spell that shattered Belle's pitcher.
The girl ignores her completely, and Belle observes out of the corner of her eye as she silently gathers up the fallen scraps. Regina keeps turning back to the same pages, their edges worn down and yellowed with use; Belle knows all the signed of a well-loved tome. As she comes to the other side of the bed -- after throwing the dresses into the hearth -- she uses the pretense of smoothing down the quilts to peer over Regina's shoulder.
The page Regina is focused on bears the title Imbuement. Beneath a few paragraphs of instructions, a series of wood-cut figures depict the appropriate movements of casting; Belle watches as Regina repeats miniature versions of these gestures over and over, glowering at the illustration as though it is at fault for everything wrong in the world.
Belle glances around.
All the books are open to illustrations.
The pieces click into place. "Regina?" Belle asks gently. "Regina, can you read?"
"Yes." The answer is too flat, too fast, and too automatic. "And it's Lady Regina."
She hesitates for a moment, but then Belle moves aside a few of the volumes and sits on the edge of the mattress. She picks one up and flips through one with a great deal of cautiousness, but the pages don't bite, and a moment of examination makes it clear that these are hardly spell books at all, mostly just histories and the barest of descriptions. Of course Rumpelstiltskin would only give her something novice-safe. "No one's born reading," she offers. "Everyone is taught."
Regina's face is as red as the coloring spell she keeps trying to cast. "I can read," she lies. "All sorceresses can. Leave me alone."
"All right." Belle pauses, then slides the book in her hands back across the bedclothes. "But I was just thinking... oh, never mind." She stands. "Good night, Lady Regina."
Belle's hand is on the doorknob before Regina says reluctantly: "What were you thinking?"
"Nothing of consequence. Only that... perhaps you and I could make a deal."
"What kind of deal?"
Belle turns back with a great show of reluctance. "Well, I could help--"
Regina bristles.
"--I could assist you with your spellbooks," Belle amends, "and we could talk about them, think them over, so that you'll be prepared when you go to your magic lessons... if you'll also let me talk with you about a few other subjects as well." Regina looks skeptical, and Belle adds: "Rumpelstiltskin is the one who asked me to teach you, you know."
It's this last sentence that wins Regina over, as Belle knew it would, but the little girl saves her dignity by dismissing Belle with a flutter of her hand decidedly reminiscent of their master. "I'll think about it," she says airily. "Good night, maid."
"Sleep well, Lady Regina."
***
In the morning there is a spool of shining string dangling from Belle's door handle. It steers her instantly to the linen closet.
***
Next: Wherein Belle and Rumpelstiltskin disagree over Regina's education.