Maids and Merchandise (Chapter Four-B)
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.)
Belle is not a total stranger to village festivals. While Lady Cecile had understood the importance of propriety, she had always encouraged her young daughter to go out and mingle with those who lived under Sir Maurice's protection, regardless of station or status. Observing the distinction of class is absurd at this age, her mother had told Belle's frequently aggrieved nanny, and she's far more likely to take harm from living without other children. The last had been said with great melancholy, though at the time Belle did not understand why. It was not until years later that a chambermaid, while explaining female matters, had told her that her mother tried to bring her a sibling more than half a dozen times, and that the last attempt was what killed her.
After her mother's death, a small conglomerate of women -- nannies, governesses, tutors, even dressers -- took over her rearing, and informed her loving but uncertain father that the time had come to stop indulging associations with peasants and prepare his daughter for a life of embroidery stitches. And thus it was that Belle's social outings -- before the war, when there still were social outings -- became entirely comprised of visits to nearby courts, with their balls, weddings, christenings, and the other sort of twenty-utensiled affairs attended by girls whose futures rested upon gentlemen's arms.
This market square of half-intoxicated townsfolk is therefore a bit beyond Belle's recent experience. The noise is so tremendous that she's stunned they couldn't hear it from the castle: fiddles and flutes and shouting and laughter and more, rolled together in a mass of humanity that certainly doesn't care which fork one uses for the amuse-bouche, or if one even uses forks at all. But as they hover at the edge of the crowd, in the shadows of the towering oaks, it becomes clear that her discomfort is nothing to Regina's. Belle's fingers are going numb from the girl's grip.
"Maybe..." Regina gulps. "I think maybe Ru-- maybe he wouldn't like it if we were down here after all. I-- I think this is much more dull than I expected it to be. I think maybe we should go home."
But Belle has not snuck away from the Dark Castle in the middle of the night only to see Rumpelstiltskin's apprentice shy away from her first, and likely her only, chance to mingle with people who don't yet cower at her name. "It will be all right," she says softly. She scans the crowd, rejecting the dancing -- and more adult activities -- near the towering bonfire, the drinking by the barrels in front of the dilapidated tavern, the haggling by the covered stalls of wares. None are likely to make the girl any more comfortable.
Then Belle notices a few children milling about an ancient stable on the far side of the square. That seems more promising. "Would you like to see the horses, Regina?"
"Lady Regina."
"Not here, you're not."
Regina scowls... then, to Belle's surprise, perks up slightly. "You're right," she says. "I'm not, here. That's a good idea. We are different people tonight. You'll be -- you will be Margie. And I'll be Verna. It'll be fun."
Belle doesn't much care for her new name, but if a new identity will make Regina feel secure, then she'll tolerate it -- for a night. "Would Verna like to see the horses, then?"
The girl thinks for a moment, then says: "Yes. I think Verna is the sort of person who would." She pauses. "Is Margie the sort of person who would like to see the horses, too?"
"I think Margie is the sort of person who will walk around a bit, but will stay where Verna can always see her," says Belle. "Because Margie thinks Verna is the sort of person who will have a good time talking to other children about horses all on her own."
"Does... does Margie think Verna is the sort of person other children will like?"
"Yes," Belle says firmly. "Margie absolutely thinks Verna is the sort of person other children will like -- if Verna doesn't insist the other children call her Lady Verna."
Regina wrinkles her nose. "That's ridiculous," she informs Belle with great seriousness. "Remember, Verna isn't a lady."
"Oh. Of course. My apologies, Verna."
"It's all right," Regina says, waving her hand airily. "It is a very easy mistake to make." At this, Regina glances down at herself; Belle looks as well. The cloak Regina chose is dark and common enough, but the dress underneath is satin with gold stitching. "Too easy, I think. Verna wouldn't wear something like this."
And before Belle can stop her, Regina twists her hands in a complicated pattern. The icy sensation of an enchantment being cast washes over Belle from head to toe; when the purple smoke clears, Regina's hair is tied back in a simple scarf, and her dress has turned to a dull gray wool. "There," she says, satisfied. "Now I look like Verna."
"You shouldn't have done that!" Belle whirls about, but no one seems to have noticed the two figures by the wood. "They will see -- no more magic, Regina!"
"Verna."
"Verna, then! Verna doesn't know how to cast spells, all right?"
Regina heaves a long-suffering sigh. "All right. I suppose Verna doesn't." She glances up at Belle -- no, above Belle -- and winces. "Oops. I only meant to do highlights..."
Belle blinks, then grabs for a lock of her hair.
It is blonde.
"What did you do?" she demands, urgently pulling the rest of her curls free from their ribbons; they have all transformed to a fair, pale flaxen. "Oh, no..."
"Margie needed something different," says Regina, in the tones of someone explaining the obvious. "And you're already dressed like a peasant. Besides, it's very pretty."
"This had better wear off, Re-- Verna."
"It will in a few hours. Probably. And... and Margie will be much easier for Verna to spot in the crowd, I think, with hair that color. No one else has it."
Belle is almost more frustrated with Regina for saying something Belle can't be frustrated with. "I suppose that's true," she grumbles. "Now go. You are still going to be in bed by midnight. I'll be right near by."
Regina -- Verna -- nods. She takes a deep breath, straightens her scarf, and creeps around the edge of the forest towards the stable with slow, hesitant, but steady steps.
And Belle, despite her annoyance and misgivings, feels the strangest surge of pride.
***
Belle has spoken to no one except Rumpelstiltskin and Regina since winter, the thief and the odious sheriff aside. While this has not been the hardship it might appear -- Belle has always been of a solitary disposition, a bit odd by the standards of those around her, and the Dark Castle's library is all the companionship she could wish for -- it does make mingling with a crowd of rowdy peasants a bit of an adjustment. Steering clear of the bonfire and the barrels, Belle settles on browsing through the wagon-set stalls of the market, smiling politely as each merchant suggests this trinket or that trifle. And she can't help but laugh when one old woman assures her of the effectiveness of an anti-aging draught, guaranteed to keep her hair blonde and bright and her cheeks from ever sagging. "I see the beginnings of lines about your eyes," the crone warns her, as though announcing the first signs of plague. "Such a lovely face you have, but if you are not careful, pet, soon your love will no longer pay you heed."
It takes a great deal of effort for Belle to swallow back an unmannerly chortle. "I appreciate the offer, but I have no love to care whether I've developed lines or not." The idea of purchasing an elixar from a common apothecary, when she lives with the greatest potion master in the world, amuses her to no end. "So I and my face will manage, I should think."
"You certainly will," says a voice over her shoulder. "And better."
Later, when Belle thinks of this evening, she will not be able to picture the man's face. She will not remember the timbre of his voice. She will not recall his height, his weight, the shade of his skin, or anything that distinguishes him from any other villager making his way through the square. She will, in fact, recall very little at all; only that she met an ordinary man in an ordinary town and that it was an ordinary conversation.
But that? That is later. Now, Belle smiles at the man, recognizing that he has paid her a generous if somewhat stock compliment, which no one has done is quite a long time. "Thank you," she says. "That's very sweet."
"The truth is never sweet. It's only the truth." He nods to the old woman; she glowers at him in reponse, knowing full well he is stealing a potential customer. "Though if you would like a brew of sage and syrup, I'll be happy to purchase it for you."
"Oh-- oh, no, no." Belle shakes her head. "I couldn't possibly."
"You couldn't?"
"No. I don't accept gifts from strangers."
"That's very wise. Perhaps we are not meant to be strangers, then."
This is a line which, in the wrong mouth, would have been presumptuous, or even a bit alarming. But the man says it with such an impassive archness that Belle cannot help but laugh. "Perhaps we are not," she concedes. "Though I would still rather not drink the tonic."
"As the lady wishes," he says, bowing very slightly. There's something odd about that, something familiar but not familiar, but the moment Belle tries to focus on it this idea slides away like oil across water.
Briefly she thinks this is odd, but then that feeling slides away as well.
It takes Belle a moment to realize the man has introduced himself. "Oh! I'm-- I'm B- Margie," she replies, embarrassed that she failed to note his name. It would be impolite to ask for it now.
"Margie," he says, testing the word on his tongue, turning it over and over like a piece of chipped china, a buyer at market searching for imperfections. Then he smiles, a little sardonically. "It doesn't suit you."
This makes Belle laugh as well. "Thank you again," she says. "You've no notion how happy I am to hear that."
The crowd is pressing closer; there are women who are far more interested in the sage-and-syrup youth tonic than Belle, and she steps away to settle herself on the edge of a nearby stone fountain. The man steps with her. "You've not been to town before," he says. It is not a question.
"No. I-- I'm not from here." Belle can feel her face heating already. One would think that after two seasons of living with Regina she would have developed greater skills for lying, but it hasn't come to pass. "I am only attending the festival."
"All alone? You must plan to meet with someone."
"No, no, not alone. I've brought my-- my niece." Belle nods towards the stable, where Regina stands close to a brown-headed boy near her age, clearly fascinated by his demonstration of how to brush a dappled mare's flank. "She's... she's been a bit, ah, a bit lonely, and she very much wanted to come. And as I've never been to the village before, how could I plan to meet with someone?"
The man hums, as though acknowledging she's made something of a point that is not quite prepared to concede. "Ah, but you've met with me," he announces after a moment. "So you are seeking new... friendships; you cannot deny it."
She chuckles again. "Very clever of you, sir; I won't argue." He is flirting, which doesn't shock Belle. What does surprise her is that she's enjoying it. Perhaps she's lonelier than she thought. "But I think everyone makes new friends at a festival." She nods to the barrels, and the men and women dipping in tin cups. "I suspect that is why."
He arches an eyebrow. "You've been at the mead."
"I haven't, I assure you."
"But you laugh at cleverness."
"I always laugh at cleverness."
"You most certainly do not." For a moment, Belle swears she sees a blush cross the man's cheeks, though again the detail melts away before she can be sure. He coughs. "That is, I doubt anyone does."
"Hmm." Belle considers this, then allows, "I-- I always laugh at well-meant cleverness, I suppose. Mean-spirited wit isn't nearly as amusing."
"I wouldn't know," he murmurs. Belle is about to ask him to expand on the topic, but before she can he continues: "So you've only left home for your... niece, then."
"It was her idea. And I wouldn't say I've left home--"
"But you're not there, are you? Is there no one who would be concerned to discover his house empty of its inhabitants?"
Belle fidgets a little at this, glancing up the mountain. She cannot see the Dark Castle, though it ought to be clearly visible in the moonlight. "Well, there... there is," she confesses. "My-- my, um, brother. We live with my brother, but he isn't-- that is, he's not in today, so he needn't worry."
The silence that follows this statement is long and punctuated by the start of raucous, impressively lewd singing around the bonfire. "Brother," the man says tonelessly.
"Yes." Oh, to have Regina's talent for deception. "I live with him, keep house, care for my niece. But he's away, so he'll not worry that we're out for a single evening."
He snorts. "That's a grand assumption."
"True, but it's my assumption to make," she replies pertly. "And as it's the only evening I've had out in longer than I care to remember, I'd rather not spend it fretting, if it's all the same to you."
The man stares at her for a moment, then huffs in faux-annoyance. "A compelling argument. Go ahead, then: be merry in haste, and repent at leisure." Belle bursts out in laughter, and he looks surprised again. "You're more easily amused than I realized," he says.
"I appreciate terrible puns even more than cleverness." Her stomach chooses that moment to interrupt the conversation with a loud, embarrassing growl. It has been a long time since supper. "Sorry," she says, wincing sheepishly.
He stands at once. "The tavern is serving, I believe."
Belle catches his arm before he takes more than a step away. His sleeve feels odd under her hand, not very much like cloth at all, but the thought disappears as fast as it comes. "No, I can't." A flush rises to her cheeks. "I don't-- that is, I haven't the coin for food."
"You 'haven't the coin'?" the man repeats, sounding astonished. "You left home, and you didn't bring any money with you?"
"As I said, I didn't leave home. And the money is my-- my brother's, not mine."
"It's your household as well, isn't it?"
"Not really, no." Belle flinches, thinking of Robin Hood. "And my brother doesn't care for thieves."
"Ah." The man very carefully removes her hand from his arm, as gingerly as he might pluck a butterfly from a rose. He says, quite lightly, "Your brother sounds like an ogre."
Belle frowns. "Don't say that." She's seen ogres, heard ogres, watched ogres send men home in pieces. "That is not a small comparison to make."
"What is he, then?"
She considers the question more carefully than it probably warrants, sorting through the complex matter of her current feelings... and then: "A beast. When he's of a mind to be, he is a complete beast."
The man is silent for a very long time. "I'll fetch something to eat," he finally says, then waves off Belle's protest. "Now that we're not strangers, Margie, you can accept a gift from me, can't you?"
It's difficult to object to that. And she is hungry.
As her new friend disappears into the tavern, Belle takes the opportunity to watch the movement around the horses. Regina is still caught up in discussion with the child with the brush, who, based on his clothes, is likely the stable boy. She watches as Regina pats the nose of the mare; it nudges her face, nickering, and the girl lights up as though it's her birthday.
It would seem this outing was a good idea after all -- though she will not admit this to Regina, who would only take it as encouragement.
The man returns with a leg of something Belle cannot immediately recognize. But it smells delicious, and when she takes a bite in the most unladylike manner imaginable, she feels younger and more alive than she has in years. "This is very good," she says, mouth full.
"Slow-roasted partridge is this world's greatest magic," he replies. Belle nearly chokes upon hearing the forbidden word, but the man said it so innocently, so simply, and so confidentially, as though the existence of slow-roasted partridges would be a very great secret known only to the two of them, that she cannot be alarmed for long.
He keeps glancing up at her hair. Belle raises an eyebrow, and he has the good grace to look embarrassed at being caught ogling. "The color," he says by way of explanation. "It... rather suits you."
Ah. He is flirting. It truly has been so long; no one dared to be the slightest bit playful with her after the engagement to Gaston, and one cannot flirt with books. And she used to be so good at it, too.
Perhaps she still is. She glances up through her lashes in a demure, ever-so-slightly wicked fashion. "Why did you come to talk to me?" She asks this as coyly as she can, given that she has a leg of partridge in her hand and probably grease upon her cheek. She should have brought a handkerchief.
The man shrugs. He himself is not eating. "I had nothing better to do."
She smirks at him. "I think you were lonely," she proclaims. He gives her a strange look -- she can't read his features, she cannot focus on his features, but she knows it is strange nonetheless -- and she adds: "You haven't come with anyone else, have you?"
"Indeed not."
"Well, then. Any man who attends a festival all by himself must be lonely."
"Perhaps I wanted to have an evening out, same as you." He twists his fingers together. "Perhaps I wanted to be an ordinary man for once."
Belle wrinkles her nose in amusement, continuing to devour her partridge. This makes the man scowl and demand: "Does the beast not feed you enough? If he doesn't, you ought to say something."
"Oh, no. I just don't eat anything so good very often. I'm a terrible cook, you see." Belle waves the leg. "If I knew how to roast a bird like this, I imagine I'd have fewer complaints about my failures as a chef."
"I doubt you receive as much credit as you deserve."
"No, believe me, I've tasted my own meals. They're horrendous. But no one has starved yet." She tosses the now bare bone aside and stands, wiping her fingers clean on the skirt of her dress; who is there to complain, after all, when she's the one to do the laundry? "There," she declares, and holds out her hand. The man tilts his head to the side and stares at it, seeming mystified. She prods: "Come and dance with me."
His mouth drops open. "Dance with you?"
"Yes." She nods towards the people around the bonfire, who spin and shout and sing in ways that would scandalize any ballroom in the realm. But Belle is already giddy with breaking the rules; why not one more? "Do you not know how?"
Her friend scoffs. "I was attending festivals years before you were born," he informs her. "I assure you I know them better than you."
"I don't doubt it," she says cheerfully. "I've never danced like this in my life. Come teach me?"
He still looks suspicious, but takes her hand in his own; the only detail she registers is that his touch is rather cooler than she expected. "You're... you're very persuasive, Margie." Again with the turning over of her false name, as though he's tasting it on his tongue. It's shockingly intimate, and she blushes, but wonders what it would be like to hear him say Belle in that way.
Despite his reluctance, it is he, not she, who leads them to the bonfire. It is he, not she, who places his hands about her waist before she places hers upon his shoulders. And it is he who guides her through the dance, teasing generously when she missteps, twisting her out of the way of those who are far more sure-footed, and -- more than once -- glaring at the other men whose eyes glide over her appreciatively as her blonde hair flies behind her with every twirl.
"You garner a great deal of attention," her friend says, a note of petulance in the words.
"Yes. I'm pretty." There is such a fine line between boasting and false modesty, but Belle knows what she is, and she's been accustomed to men gawking at her since she wore her first corset. "So they look at me."
"And you enjoy it."
She shrugs, which throws off her rhythm for just a moment. "I don't not enjoy it," she says. "But I don't like when they stare without speaking to me, as though I'm-- as though being pretty just makes me into a bauble." She remembers the drunken sheriff, and adds: "Or into other things."
Suddenly she is held just a little bit closer, a little bit tighter. "Anyone who thinks you a bauble is a fool."
It's impossible not to laugh at such a cloying compliment. "Flatterer," she teases, though she doesn't mind in the slightest.
"Run away."
Belle blinks. "Wh-- what?"
She is spun, twice, her impractical shoes digging into the straw-strewn earth, until the leaping flames of the bonfire warm her face and her back is pressed to the man's front. "Run away," he repeats, murming directly into her ear, breath stirring her hair. His arms tighten around her stomach; there is something edged and cold in his words. "You're not happy with this life, are you? You're miserable--"
"I never said that!"
"--and isolated--"
"I didn't say that either!"
"--and you've been waiting for your chance, haven't you? It's what you dream about at night. Leaving. Seeing the world, having a thousand adventures, and then finding your dim-witted prince and settling down to a life of riches and power. Every minute you've been waiting, hoping, so do it. Run away. Tonight. Never think on the beast again."
Belle stops dancing. She reaches down, takes her new friend firmly by the wrists, and pulls his arms away from her waist; he doesn't resist as she turns to him. He is still, so still, and utterly unreadable.
"Is it my face?" Belle demands.
"...excuse me?"
"Is it my face?" she repeats, stepping forward, away from the other dancers. He steps backwards automatically. "My voice? Something in the way I carry myself? What is it about me that makes everyone believe I'll break my promises at the first opportunity?"
"That isn't--"
"I keep my word!" She is so angry that she cannot see straight, until she realizes that the blurriness of her vision is from tears, which only makes her angrier. "I said I would look after my-- my niece, and that I would keep house for my brother! I'm an honorable person, I am, and it doesn't feel good, you know, to always be thought untrustworthy! Especially when I haven't done anything to warrant it! Not to you, nor-- nor anyone else!"
And she had been having such a good time.
Her friend -- or rather, the man she'd believed was her friend -- has nothing to say for a solid minute. Belle wipes her eyes with her sleeve -- how she wishes she'd brought a handkerchief! -- and prepares to walk away, but then the man says, half-strangled: "You're right."
"I... pardon?"
"You're right." He swallows visibly, his focus somewhere around her knees. "You've never given me reason to believe-- that is, you've done nothing to warrant my suspicions. Or my behavior. I've been... unfair, and I'm-- I'm sorry. I truly am."
For a moment, Belle considers holding onto her indignation and storming off in a huff. But his remorse seems genuine -- and, if she's honest with herself, she did give him reason to believe she would wish to run away from 'the beast'. It was not such an unreasonable conclusion to reach.
Anyway, it isn't really him she's upset with. It isn't fair to take her frustrations out on someone else. "Apology accepted," she says.
If the man was surprised before, he is now absolutely flabbergasted. "It is?"
"It is." He seems so stunned that Belle can't help but smile, though a bit sadly. Some people don't know what to do with just the smallest touches of courtesy. It reminds her of Regina. "So," she says, stepping back towards the fiddlers, "shall we keep dancing?"
He doesn't hold her quite so close this time, and she must lead them, but thankfully she has memorized at least the simplest of the steps. Her friend seems entirely too shaken to do more than follow her direction. "You are too kind," he says finally.
"Thank you."
"It wasn't a compliment." One of his hands slowly drifts upwards, touches the end of a loose curl. "You grant your forgiveness much too freely. You-- you will come to regret that, in the end."
"I don't believe I shall. Being suspicious all the time would be exhausting; I would much rather think the best of people."
"Even the beast?"
She nods. "Even him. Besides, as I said, he's only a beast when he's of a mind to be. He can just as easily decide to be... well, more." She pulls back a bit, so to more easily look her friend in the eye. She cannot tell their color. "So, you see? There's no call for concern. I'm not as miserable as you imagine."
"As I said, too kind."
"Besides, there's R-- my niece to think of." He raises an eyebrow, and she elaborates: "She... she needs me, in her own way. They both do. I worry, sometimes, about what would happen if I weren't there; they both carry so much darkness. Someone needs to keep an eye on them."
"You intend to create good where there is none?"
"I don't need to. There's more than enough good there, as long as someone reminds them to look." She beams at him. "I have a great talent for that, you know: finding good in people."
"Is that so." He spins her so close to the fire that her skirts nearly catch on the coals. "And is there good in me?"
"Of course there is." She twists under his arm playfully. "You bought me a partridge leg!"
If he intends elaborate on this discussion, or even just continue to dance, Belle never finds out -- for in that moment she is barreled into from the side and knocked from her partner's grip. The arms around her waist are now lower, skinnier, and clinging twice as tightly.
"I-- I couldn't see you," says the face pressed against Belle's stomach, voice muffled. "And I-- I thought you-- you might be frightened without me. I wasn't frightened though."
Guilt washes over Belle. So much for keeping promises! "Oh, I'm certain you weren't," she says, petting the top of Regina's head. She notices a small figure -- the stable boy -- hovering by the edge of the dancers, awkwardly shifting his weight, but not leaving, either. "Thank you for coming to make certain I was all right. I didn't mean to move so far away."
The girl is trembling. "I wasn't frightened."
"No. Of course not." Belle gives Regina a moment to surreptitiously wipe her nose on Belle's dress -- it is now past redemption -- before saying to her friend in a clear, pointed tone that Regina cannot miss: "This is my niece, Verna."
"Verna. What a lovely name," he says smoothly. "Well met... Verna."
With a final hidden sniffle, Regina relinquishes Belle's waist to turn and face the man. "Thank you," she says reluctantly. "It's a pleasure to..." She trails off, eyebrows furrowing together as she stares at the man. She squints. She blinks several times.
Then she gasps and backs straight into Belle, who struggles to maintain her balance against the second hit in as many minutes. "Oh," she breathes. "Oh, I--"
"Have you been enjoying the festival, Verna?"
Regina glances from the man to Belle. "I... I h-have..."
"Forgive me for saying, Verna, but you seem a trifle young to be out so late."
At this, Belle looks up at the clock affixed above the tavern; the hands read seven minutes past midnight. "Much too late," she sighs. "Here I made you promise, and I lost track of the time."
"We'll go home," says Regina, grabbing for Belle's hand and all but dragging her in the direction of the wooden bridge. "We'll go home right now."
Belle allows the girl to pull her along, because otherwise her arm is likely to be yanked from its socket. "I doubt we'll meet again," she says to her new friend, regretfully. "But thank you for the dance, and the meal. I had a lovely time."
"As did I," replies the man. He gives her the most incomprehensible look, then says, a tinge of desperation to his voice: "Please, I know it will be difficult, but try to remember what I... that-- that you've not... you aren't..."
But Regina is pulling too hard, and the man is not speaking quickly or clearly enough, and Belle has only time for one more wave before she can no longer distinguish him from the crowd.
The stable boy shouts his goodbyes as they pass; Belle nods to him, but Regina pays him no heed. Belle notes how his shoulders slump as he turns back towards the horses.
Regina doesn't speak as they make their way back up the mountainside -- the return trip is even easier than their descent, and heavens only knows what price the girl will pay for that magic -- and they are halfway across the castle grounds before Belle thinks to ask: "Did you have a good time?"
"Huh?"
"Did you have a good time, Regina. That stable boy: was he nice?"
"I-- oh. Yes. Daniel. He... he was-- I liked the horses. Belle? About the man you were talking to..."
Belle frowns. "What? The man... oh!" Yes, she did spend the evening talking to someone, didn't she? She tries to recall the details, but very little comes to mind. "He was... clever, I believe. And slow-roasted partridge is this world's greatest magic."
"What? Partridge?"
"Yes. Why?"
Regina shakes her head, and starts to bite at the edge of her knuckle as they approach the front doors. "I-- I just--" She takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Nothing. Goodnight, Belle. And... thank you."
Belle goes to bed with no distinct thoughts, but warm with a general sensation of well-being. There is, after all, something to be said for breaking the rules once in awhile.
***
The first thing Belle does in the morning is check the looking glass. Her hair, thank goodness, has returned to its normal shade of brown; otherwise she would have had to dye it with whatever she could find in the kitchens, an endeavor that might well have ended with her begging the magicians in residence for a wig.
Regina doesn't take a bite of her breakfast, only pushing her toast around the plate listlessly. Normally this would not concern Belle overmuch, but the girl's eyes are swollen and red, with dark circles beneath. She clearly hasn't slept a wink. "Regina? Are you ill?"
Regina shakes her head, but she doesn't correct Belle with Lady Regina, which worries Belle more than anything else. "Why don't you return to bed," she suggests. "If Rumpelstiltskin comes back, I'll make your excuses--"
"Excuses for what?"
Belle and Regina both look up; the Dark One is sitting at the head of the table, casually sprawled in his chair as though he has been there since they came in. He drums his long fingers against the oak and glances at the empty space before him with a raised eyebrow. "None for me?" he says archly.
Belle shakes herself. "Sorry," she murmurs, reaching for her tray. "I didn't realize you were back, I'll fetch some now."
He dismisses her words with a wave. "No need, dearie, I'm not hungry. Nor is my pupil, it would seem; I do wonder why that is."
Regina's face pales to a milky-white. She glances up at Belle, screws her eyes shut, takes a huge breath, and blurts out: "It was all my fault. Don't be angry with Belle, she told me not to, but I didn't listen--"
"Oh, I have no doubt of that, dearie." Rumpelstiltskin plucks a cup from the tea tray -- the one with the chip, oddly enough -- and passes it to Belle to be filled. "I can barely convince you to gather potion ingredients when ordered; it's hardly a shock that our little maid couldn't procure your obedience, either."
Regina's eyes open. "P-potion ingredients?"
"Yes. Potion ingredients. Which you were supposed to have ready when I returned?" He adds a wedge of lemon to his tea and stirs it idly, spoon clinking against porcelain. "Why, there wasn't anything else to confess, was there?"
Belle's breath catches; Regina only stares. "N-no," she falters. "I... I guess not?"
"Excellent! Now eat that toast of yours before it grows cold." His eyes dart up to Belle's -- who is open-mouthed with confusion -- and then quickly back down to his cup. "And thank Belle for it," he tells Regina. "It isn't burnt today."
"Oh. I... thank you, Belle."
"You're-- you're welcome."
"Oh, and, uh..." Rumpelstiltskin scrapes the teaspoon against the saucer a few times, then waves his hand; a wicker basket, shallow and as long as Belle's arm, appears on the table. "That is for you."
Belle cannot make hide nor hair of the gift, nor of the Dark One this morning, for that matter. "For me?"
"That's what I said, dearie." He coughs, then says severely: "I don't expect to run out of straw for a moment. Ever. Day or night."
Belle blinks, then looks back at the basket, suddenly understanding. "I... you expect me to get you straw? From... from town?"
"Whenever I have need of it. Promptly. Without complaint. Understood?"
"And you... trust me to come back?"
"Is that so hard to believe?"
Yes. Yes, it is, it is unfathomable, but Belle is not about to question her good luck. "Thank you," she says again, heartfelt, meaning it this time.
He shrugs, hair in his eyes as he takes another sip of tea. He mutters: "No matter."
Regina has been watching this exchange with an open mouth, glancing back and forth between the adults. "Does this mean I can go, too?"
"I--"
"Because," she announces, and there is the faintest hint of a blush on her cheeks that Belle suspects bodes very badly for them all, "I really want to take horseback riding lessons."
***
Next: Wherein there are many miscommunications and Regina is profoundly unpleasant.
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.)
Belle is not a total stranger to village festivals. While Lady Cecile had understood the importance of propriety, she had always encouraged her young daughter to go out and mingle with those who lived under Sir Maurice's protection, regardless of station or status. Observing the distinction of class is absurd at this age, her mother had told Belle's frequently aggrieved nanny, and she's far more likely to take harm from living without other children. The last had been said with great melancholy, though at the time Belle did not understand why. It was not until years later that a chambermaid, while explaining female matters, had told her that her mother tried to bring her a sibling more than half a dozen times, and that the last attempt was what killed her.
After her mother's death, a small conglomerate of women -- nannies, governesses, tutors, even dressers -- took over her rearing, and informed her loving but uncertain father that the time had come to stop indulging associations with peasants and prepare his daughter for a life of embroidery stitches. And thus it was that Belle's social outings -- before the war, when there still were social outings -- became entirely comprised of visits to nearby courts, with their balls, weddings, christenings, and the other sort of twenty-utensiled affairs attended by girls whose futures rested upon gentlemen's arms.
This market square of half-intoxicated townsfolk is therefore a bit beyond Belle's recent experience. The noise is so tremendous that she's stunned they couldn't hear it from the castle: fiddles and flutes and shouting and laughter and more, rolled together in a mass of humanity that certainly doesn't care which fork one uses for the amuse-bouche, or if one even uses forks at all. But as they hover at the edge of the crowd, in the shadows of the towering oaks, it becomes clear that her discomfort is nothing to Regina's. Belle's fingers are going numb from the girl's grip.
"Maybe..." Regina gulps. "I think maybe Ru-- maybe he wouldn't like it if we were down here after all. I-- I think this is much more dull than I expected it to be. I think maybe we should go home."
But Belle has not snuck away from the Dark Castle in the middle of the night only to see Rumpelstiltskin's apprentice shy away from her first, and likely her only, chance to mingle with people who don't yet cower at her name. "It will be all right," she says softly. She scans the crowd, rejecting the dancing -- and more adult activities -- near the towering bonfire, the drinking by the barrels in front of the dilapidated tavern, the haggling by the covered stalls of wares. None are likely to make the girl any more comfortable.
Then Belle notices a few children milling about an ancient stable on the far side of the square. That seems more promising. "Would you like to see the horses, Regina?"
"Lady Regina."
"Not here, you're not."
Regina scowls... then, to Belle's surprise, perks up slightly. "You're right," she says. "I'm not, here. That's a good idea. We are different people tonight. You'll be -- you will be Margie. And I'll be Verna. It'll be fun."
Belle doesn't much care for her new name, but if a new identity will make Regina feel secure, then she'll tolerate it -- for a night. "Would Verna like to see the horses, then?"
The girl thinks for a moment, then says: "Yes. I think Verna is the sort of person who would." She pauses. "Is Margie the sort of person who would like to see the horses, too?"
"I think Margie is the sort of person who will walk around a bit, but will stay where Verna can always see her," says Belle. "Because Margie thinks Verna is the sort of person who will have a good time talking to other children about horses all on her own."
"Does... does Margie think Verna is the sort of person other children will like?"
"Yes," Belle says firmly. "Margie absolutely thinks Verna is the sort of person other children will like -- if Verna doesn't insist the other children call her Lady Verna."
Regina wrinkles her nose. "That's ridiculous," she informs Belle with great seriousness. "Remember, Verna isn't a lady."
"Oh. Of course. My apologies, Verna."
"It's all right," Regina says, waving her hand airily. "It is a very easy mistake to make." At this, Regina glances down at herself; Belle looks as well. The cloak Regina chose is dark and common enough, but the dress underneath is satin with gold stitching. "Too easy, I think. Verna wouldn't wear something like this."
And before Belle can stop her, Regina twists her hands in a complicated pattern. The icy sensation of an enchantment being cast washes over Belle from head to toe; when the purple smoke clears, Regina's hair is tied back in a simple scarf, and her dress has turned to a dull gray wool. "There," she says, satisfied. "Now I look like Verna."
"You shouldn't have done that!" Belle whirls about, but no one seems to have noticed the two figures by the wood. "They will see -- no more magic, Regina!"
"Verna."
"Verna, then! Verna doesn't know how to cast spells, all right?"
Regina heaves a long-suffering sigh. "All right. I suppose Verna doesn't." She glances up at Belle -- no, above Belle -- and winces. "Oops. I only meant to do highlights..."
Belle blinks, then grabs for a lock of her hair.
It is blonde.
"What did you do?" she demands, urgently pulling the rest of her curls free from their ribbons; they have all transformed to a fair, pale flaxen. "Oh, no..."
"Margie needed something different," says Regina, in the tones of someone explaining the obvious. "And you're already dressed like a peasant. Besides, it's very pretty."
"This had better wear off, Re-- Verna."
"It will in a few hours. Probably. And... and Margie will be much easier for Verna to spot in the crowd, I think, with hair that color. No one else has it."
Belle is almost more frustrated with Regina for saying something Belle can't be frustrated with. "I suppose that's true," she grumbles. "Now go. You are still going to be in bed by midnight. I'll be right near by."
Regina -- Verna -- nods. She takes a deep breath, straightens her scarf, and creeps around the edge of the forest towards the stable with slow, hesitant, but steady steps.
And Belle, despite her annoyance and misgivings, feels the strangest surge of pride.
***
Belle has spoken to no one except Rumpelstiltskin and Regina since winter, the thief and the odious sheriff aside. While this has not been the hardship it might appear -- Belle has always been of a solitary disposition, a bit odd by the standards of those around her, and the Dark Castle's library is all the companionship she could wish for -- it does make mingling with a crowd of rowdy peasants a bit of an adjustment. Steering clear of the bonfire and the barrels, Belle settles on browsing through the wagon-set stalls of the market, smiling politely as each merchant suggests this trinket or that trifle. And she can't help but laugh when one old woman assures her of the effectiveness of an anti-aging draught, guaranteed to keep her hair blonde and bright and her cheeks from ever sagging. "I see the beginnings of lines about your eyes," the crone warns her, as though announcing the first signs of plague. "Such a lovely face you have, but if you are not careful, pet, soon your love will no longer pay you heed."
It takes a great deal of effort for Belle to swallow back an unmannerly chortle. "I appreciate the offer, but I have no love to care whether I've developed lines or not." The idea of purchasing an elixar from a common apothecary, when she lives with the greatest potion master in the world, amuses her to no end. "So I and my face will manage, I should think."
"You certainly will," says a voice over her shoulder. "And better."
Later, when Belle thinks of this evening, she will not be able to picture the man's face. She will not remember the timbre of his voice. She will not recall his height, his weight, the shade of his skin, or anything that distinguishes him from any other villager making his way through the square. She will, in fact, recall very little at all; only that she met an ordinary man in an ordinary town and that it was an ordinary conversation.
But that? That is later. Now, Belle smiles at the man, recognizing that he has paid her a generous if somewhat stock compliment, which no one has done is quite a long time. "Thank you," she says. "That's very sweet."
"The truth is never sweet. It's only the truth." He nods to the old woman; she glowers at him in reponse, knowing full well he is stealing a potential customer. "Though if you would like a brew of sage and syrup, I'll be happy to purchase it for you."
"Oh-- oh, no, no." Belle shakes her head. "I couldn't possibly."
"You couldn't?"
"No. I don't accept gifts from strangers."
"That's very wise. Perhaps we are not meant to be strangers, then."
This is a line which, in the wrong mouth, would have been presumptuous, or even a bit alarming. But the man says it with such an impassive archness that Belle cannot help but laugh. "Perhaps we are not," she concedes. "Though I would still rather not drink the tonic."
"As the lady wishes," he says, bowing very slightly. There's something odd about that, something familiar but not familiar, but the moment Belle tries to focus on it this idea slides away like oil across water.
Briefly she thinks this is odd, but then that feeling slides away as well.
It takes Belle a moment to realize the man has introduced himself. "Oh! I'm-- I'm B- Margie," she replies, embarrassed that she failed to note his name. It would be impolite to ask for it now.
"Margie," he says, testing the word on his tongue, turning it over and over like a piece of chipped china, a buyer at market searching for imperfections. Then he smiles, a little sardonically. "It doesn't suit you."
This makes Belle laugh as well. "Thank you again," she says. "You've no notion how happy I am to hear that."
The crowd is pressing closer; there are women who are far more interested in the sage-and-syrup youth tonic than Belle, and she steps away to settle herself on the edge of a nearby stone fountain. The man steps with her. "You've not been to town before," he says. It is not a question.
"No. I-- I'm not from here." Belle can feel her face heating already. One would think that after two seasons of living with Regina she would have developed greater skills for lying, but it hasn't come to pass. "I am only attending the festival."
"All alone? You must plan to meet with someone."
"No, no, not alone. I've brought my-- my niece." Belle nods towards the stable, where Regina stands close to a brown-headed boy near her age, clearly fascinated by his demonstration of how to brush a dappled mare's flank. "She's... she's been a bit, ah, a bit lonely, and she very much wanted to come. And as I've never been to the village before, how could I plan to meet with someone?"
The man hums, as though acknowledging she's made something of a point that is not quite prepared to concede. "Ah, but you've met with me," he announces after a moment. "So you are seeking new... friendships; you cannot deny it."
She chuckles again. "Very clever of you, sir; I won't argue." He is flirting, which doesn't shock Belle. What does surprise her is that she's enjoying it. Perhaps she's lonelier than she thought. "But I think everyone makes new friends at a festival." She nods to the barrels, and the men and women dipping in tin cups. "I suspect that is why."
He arches an eyebrow. "You've been at the mead."
"I haven't, I assure you."
"But you laugh at cleverness."
"I always laugh at cleverness."
"You most certainly do not." For a moment, Belle swears she sees a blush cross the man's cheeks, though again the detail melts away before she can be sure. He coughs. "That is, I doubt anyone does."
"Hmm." Belle considers this, then allows, "I-- I always laugh at well-meant cleverness, I suppose. Mean-spirited wit isn't nearly as amusing."
"I wouldn't know," he murmurs. Belle is about to ask him to expand on the topic, but before she can he continues: "So you've only left home for your... niece, then."
"It was her idea. And I wouldn't say I've left home--"
"But you're not there, are you? Is there no one who would be concerned to discover his house empty of its inhabitants?"
Belle fidgets a little at this, glancing up the mountain. She cannot see the Dark Castle, though it ought to be clearly visible in the moonlight. "Well, there... there is," she confesses. "My-- my, um, brother. We live with my brother, but he isn't-- that is, he's not in today, so he needn't worry."
The silence that follows this statement is long and punctuated by the start of raucous, impressively lewd singing around the bonfire. "Brother," the man says tonelessly.
"Yes." Oh, to have Regina's talent for deception. "I live with him, keep house, care for my niece. But he's away, so he'll not worry that we're out for a single evening."
He snorts. "That's a grand assumption."
"True, but it's my assumption to make," she replies pertly. "And as it's the only evening I've had out in longer than I care to remember, I'd rather not spend it fretting, if it's all the same to you."
The man stares at her for a moment, then huffs in faux-annoyance. "A compelling argument. Go ahead, then: be merry in haste, and repent at leisure." Belle bursts out in laughter, and he looks surprised again. "You're more easily amused than I realized," he says.
"I appreciate terrible puns even more than cleverness." Her stomach chooses that moment to interrupt the conversation with a loud, embarrassing growl. It has been a long time since supper. "Sorry," she says, wincing sheepishly.
He stands at once. "The tavern is serving, I believe."
Belle catches his arm before he takes more than a step away. His sleeve feels odd under her hand, not very much like cloth at all, but the thought disappears as fast as it comes. "No, I can't." A flush rises to her cheeks. "I don't-- that is, I haven't the coin for food."
"You 'haven't the coin'?" the man repeats, sounding astonished. "You left home, and you didn't bring any money with you?"
"As I said, I didn't leave home. And the money is my-- my brother's, not mine."
"It's your household as well, isn't it?"
"Not really, no." Belle flinches, thinking of Robin Hood. "And my brother doesn't care for thieves."
"Ah." The man very carefully removes her hand from his arm, as gingerly as he might pluck a butterfly from a rose. He says, quite lightly, "Your brother sounds like an ogre."
Belle frowns. "Don't say that." She's seen ogres, heard ogres, watched ogres send men home in pieces. "That is not a small comparison to make."
"What is he, then?"
She considers the question more carefully than it probably warrants, sorting through the complex matter of her current feelings... and then: "A beast. When he's of a mind to be, he is a complete beast."
The man is silent for a very long time. "I'll fetch something to eat," he finally says, then waves off Belle's protest. "Now that we're not strangers, Margie, you can accept a gift from me, can't you?"
It's difficult to object to that. And she is hungry.
As her new friend disappears into the tavern, Belle takes the opportunity to watch the movement around the horses. Regina is still caught up in discussion with the child with the brush, who, based on his clothes, is likely the stable boy. She watches as Regina pats the nose of the mare; it nudges her face, nickering, and the girl lights up as though it's her birthday.
It would seem this outing was a good idea after all -- though she will not admit this to Regina, who would only take it as encouragement.
The man returns with a leg of something Belle cannot immediately recognize. But it smells delicious, and when she takes a bite in the most unladylike manner imaginable, she feels younger and more alive than she has in years. "This is very good," she says, mouth full.
"Slow-roasted partridge is this world's greatest magic," he replies. Belle nearly chokes upon hearing the forbidden word, but the man said it so innocently, so simply, and so confidentially, as though the existence of slow-roasted partridges would be a very great secret known only to the two of them, that she cannot be alarmed for long.
He keeps glancing up at her hair. Belle raises an eyebrow, and he has the good grace to look embarrassed at being caught ogling. "The color," he says by way of explanation. "It... rather suits you."
Ah. He is flirting. It truly has been so long; no one dared to be the slightest bit playful with her after the engagement to Gaston, and one cannot flirt with books. And she used to be so good at it, too.
Perhaps she still is. She glances up through her lashes in a demure, ever-so-slightly wicked fashion. "Why did you come to talk to me?" She asks this as coyly as she can, given that she has a leg of partridge in her hand and probably grease upon her cheek. She should have brought a handkerchief.
The man shrugs. He himself is not eating. "I had nothing better to do."
She smirks at him. "I think you were lonely," she proclaims. He gives her a strange look -- she can't read his features, she cannot focus on his features, but she knows it is strange nonetheless -- and she adds: "You haven't come with anyone else, have you?"
"Indeed not."
"Well, then. Any man who attends a festival all by himself must be lonely."
"Perhaps I wanted to have an evening out, same as you." He twists his fingers together. "Perhaps I wanted to be an ordinary man for once."
Belle wrinkles her nose in amusement, continuing to devour her partridge. This makes the man scowl and demand: "Does the beast not feed you enough? If he doesn't, you ought to say something."
"Oh, no. I just don't eat anything so good very often. I'm a terrible cook, you see." Belle waves the leg. "If I knew how to roast a bird like this, I imagine I'd have fewer complaints about my failures as a chef."
"I doubt you receive as much credit as you deserve."
"No, believe me, I've tasted my own meals. They're horrendous. But no one has starved yet." She tosses the now bare bone aside and stands, wiping her fingers clean on the skirt of her dress; who is there to complain, after all, when she's the one to do the laundry? "There," she declares, and holds out her hand. The man tilts his head to the side and stares at it, seeming mystified. She prods: "Come and dance with me."
His mouth drops open. "Dance with you?"
"Yes." She nods towards the people around the bonfire, who spin and shout and sing in ways that would scandalize any ballroom in the realm. But Belle is already giddy with breaking the rules; why not one more? "Do you not know how?"
Her friend scoffs. "I was attending festivals years before you were born," he informs her. "I assure you I know them better than you."
"I don't doubt it," she says cheerfully. "I've never danced like this in my life. Come teach me?"
He still looks suspicious, but takes her hand in his own; the only detail she registers is that his touch is rather cooler than she expected. "You're... you're very persuasive, Margie." Again with the turning over of her false name, as though he's tasting it on his tongue. It's shockingly intimate, and she blushes, but wonders what it would be like to hear him say Belle in that way.
Despite his reluctance, it is he, not she, who leads them to the bonfire. It is he, not she, who places his hands about her waist before she places hers upon his shoulders. And it is he who guides her through the dance, teasing generously when she missteps, twisting her out of the way of those who are far more sure-footed, and -- more than once -- glaring at the other men whose eyes glide over her appreciatively as her blonde hair flies behind her with every twirl.
"You garner a great deal of attention," her friend says, a note of petulance in the words.
"Yes. I'm pretty." There is such a fine line between boasting and false modesty, but Belle knows what she is, and she's been accustomed to men gawking at her since she wore her first corset. "So they look at me."
"And you enjoy it."
She shrugs, which throws off her rhythm for just a moment. "I don't not enjoy it," she says. "But I don't like when they stare without speaking to me, as though I'm-- as though being pretty just makes me into a bauble." She remembers the drunken sheriff, and adds: "Or into other things."
Suddenly she is held just a little bit closer, a little bit tighter. "Anyone who thinks you a bauble is a fool."
It's impossible not to laugh at such a cloying compliment. "Flatterer," she teases, though she doesn't mind in the slightest.
"Run away."
Belle blinks. "Wh-- what?"
She is spun, twice, her impractical shoes digging into the straw-strewn earth, until the leaping flames of the bonfire warm her face and her back is pressed to the man's front. "Run away," he repeats, murming directly into her ear, breath stirring her hair. His arms tighten around her stomach; there is something edged and cold in his words. "You're not happy with this life, are you? You're miserable--"
"I never said that!"
"--and isolated--"
"I didn't say that either!"
"--and you've been waiting for your chance, haven't you? It's what you dream about at night. Leaving. Seeing the world, having a thousand adventures, and then finding your dim-witted prince and settling down to a life of riches and power. Every minute you've been waiting, hoping, so do it. Run away. Tonight. Never think on the beast again."
Belle stops dancing. She reaches down, takes her new friend firmly by the wrists, and pulls his arms away from her waist; he doesn't resist as she turns to him. He is still, so still, and utterly unreadable.
"Is it my face?" Belle demands.
"...excuse me?"
"Is it my face?" she repeats, stepping forward, away from the other dancers. He steps backwards automatically. "My voice? Something in the way I carry myself? What is it about me that makes everyone believe I'll break my promises at the first opportunity?"
"That isn't--"
"I keep my word!" She is so angry that she cannot see straight, until she realizes that the blurriness of her vision is from tears, which only makes her angrier. "I said I would look after my-- my niece, and that I would keep house for my brother! I'm an honorable person, I am, and it doesn't feel good, you know, to always be thought untrustworthy! Especially when I haven't done anything to warrant it! Not to you, nor-- nor anyone else!"
And she had been having such a good time.
Her friend -- or rather, the man she'd believed was her friend -- has nothing to say for a solid minute. Belle wipes her eyes with her sleeve -- how she wishes she'd brought a handkerchief! -- and prepares to walk away, but then the man says, half-strangled: "You're right."
"I... pardon?"
"You're right." He swallows visibly, his focus somewhere around her knees. "You've never given me reason to believe-- that is, you've done nothing to warrant my suspicions. Or my behavior. I've been... unfair, and I'm-- I'm sorry. I truly am."
For a moment, Belle considers holding onto her indignation and storming off in a huff. But his remorse seems genuine -- and, if she's honest with herself, she did give him reason to believe she would wish to run away from 'the beast'. It was not such an unreasonable conclusion to reach.
Anyway, it isn't really him she's upset with. It isn't fair to take her frustrations out on someone else. "Apology accepted," she says.
If the man was surprised before, he is now absolutely flabbergasted. "It is?"
"It is." He seems so stunned that Belle can't help but smile, though a bit sadly. Some people don't know what to do with just the smallest touches of courtesy. It reminds her of Regina. "So," she says, stepping back towards the fiddlers, "shall we keep dancing?"
He doesn't hold her quite so close this time, and she must lead them, but thankfully she has memorized at least the simplest of the steps. Her friend seems entirely too shaken to do more than follow her direction. "You are too kind," he says finally.
"Thank you."
"It wasn't a compliment." One of his hands slowly drifts upwards, touches the end of a loose curl. "You grant your forgiveness much too freely. You-- you will come to regret that, in the end."
"I don't believe I shall. Being suspicious all the time would be exhausting; I would much rather think the best of people."
"Even the beast?"
She nods. "Even him. Besides, as I said, he's only a beast when he's of a mind to be. He can just as easily decide to be... well, more." She pulls back a bit, so to more easily look her friend in the eye. She cannot tell their color. "So, you see? There's no call for concern. I'm not as miserable as you imagine."
"As I said, too kind."
"Besides, there's R-- my niece to think of." He raises an eyebrow, and she elaborates: "She... she needs me, in her own way. They both do. I worry, sometimes, about what would happen if I weren't there; they both carry so much darkness. Someone needs to keep an eye on them."
"You intend to create good where there is none?"
"I don't need to. There's more than enough good there, as long as someone reminds them to look." She beams at him. "I have a great talent for that, you know: finding good in people."
"Is that so." He spins her so close to the fire that her skirts nearly catch on the coals. "And is there good in me?"
"Of course there is." She twists under his arm playfully. "You bought me a partridge leg!"
If he intends elaborate on this discussion, or even just continue to dance, Belle never finds out -- for in that moment she is barreled into from the side and knocked from her partner's grip. The arms around her waist are now lower, skinnier, and clinging twice as tightly.
"I-- I couldn't see you," says the face pressed against Belle's stomach, voice muffled. "And I-- I thought you-- you might be frightened without me. I wasn't frightened though."
Guilt washes over Belle. So much for keeping promises! "Oh, I'm certain you weren't," she says, petting the top of Regina's head. She notices a small figure -- the stable boy -- hovering by the edge of the dancers, awkwardly shifting his weight, but not leaving, either. "Thank you for coming to make certain I was all right. I didn't mean to move so far away."
The girl is trembling. "I wasn't frightened."
"No. Of course not." Belle gives Regina a moment to surreptitiously wipe her nose on Belle's dress -- it is now past redemption -- before saying to her friend in a clear, pointed tone that Regina cannot miss: "This is my niece, Verna."
"Verna. What a lovely name," he says smoothly. "Well met... Verna."
With a final hidden sniffle, Regina relinquishes Belle's waist to turn and face the man. "Thank you," she says reluctantly. "It's a pleasure to..." She trails off, eyebrows furrowing together as she stares at the man. She squints. She blinks several times.
Then she gasps and backs straight into Belle, who struggles to maintain her balance against the second hit in as many minutes. "Oh," she breathes. "Oh, I--"
"Have you been enjoying the festival, Verna?"
Regina glances from the man to Belle. "I... I h-have..."
"Forgive me for saying, Verna, but you seem a trifle young to be out so late."
At this, Belle looks up at the clock affixed above the tavern; the hands read seven minutes past midnight. "Much too late," she sighs. "Here I made you promise, and I lost track of the time."
"We'll go home," says Regina, grabbing for Belle's hand and all but dragging her in the direction of the wooden bridge. "We'll go home right now."
Belle allows the girl to pull her along, because otherwise her arm is likely to be yanked from its socket. "I doubt we'll meet again," she says to her new friend, regretfully. "But thank you for the dance, and the meal. I had a lovely time."
"As did I," replies the man. He gives her the most incomprehensible look, then says, a tinge of desperation to his voice: "Please, I know it will be difficult, but try to remember what I... that-- that you've not... you aren't..."
But Regina is pulling too hard, and the man is not speaking quickly or clearly enough, and Belle has only time for one more wave before she can no longer distinguish him from the crowd.
The stable boy shouts his goodbyes as they pass; Belle nods to him, but Regina pays him no heed. Belle notes how his shoulders slump as he turns back towards the horses.
Regina doesn't speak as they make their way back up the mountainside -- the return trip is even easier than their descent, and heavens only knows what price the girl will pay for that magic -- and they are halfway across the castle grounds before Belle thinks to ask: "Did you have a good time?"
"Huh?"
"Did you have a good time, Regina. That stable boy: was he nice?"
"I-- oh. Yes. Daniel. He... he was-- I liked the horses. Belle? About the man you were talking to..."
Belle frowns. "What? The man... oh!" Yes, she did spend the evening talking to someone, didn't she? She tries to recall the details, but very little comes to mind. "He was... clever, I believe. And slow-roasted partridge is this world's greatest magic."
"What? Partridge?"
"Yes. Why?"
Regina shakes her head, and starts to bite at the edge of her knuckle as they approach the front doors. "I-- I just--" She takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Nothing. Goodnight, Belle. And... thank you."
Belle goes to bed with no distinct thoughts, but warm with a general sensation of well-being. There is, after all, something to be said for breaking the rules once in awhile.
***
The first thing Belle does in the morning is check the looking glass. Her hair, thank goodness, has returned to its normal shade of brown; otherwise she would have had to dye it with whatever she could find in the kitchens, an endeavor that might well have ended with her begging the magicians in residence for a wig.
Regina doesn't take a bite of her breakfast, only pushing her toast around the plate listlessly. Normally this would not concern Belle overmuch, but the girl's eyes are swollen and red, with dark circles beneath. She clearly hasn't slept a wink. "Regina? Are you ill?"
Regina shakes her head, but she doesn't correct Belle with Lady Regina, which worries Belle more than anything else. "Why don't you return to bed," she suggests. "If Rumpelstiltskin comes back, I'll make your excuses--"
"Excuses for what?"
Belle and Regina both look up; the Dark One is sitting at the head of the table, casually sprawled in his chair as though he has been there since they came in. He drums his long fingers against the oak and glances at the empty space before him with a raised eyebrow. "None for me?" he says archly.
Belle shakes herself. "Sorry," she murmurs, reaching for her tray. "I didn't realize you were back, I'll fetch some now."
He dismisses her words with a wave. "No need, dearie, I'm not hungry. Nor is my pupil, it would seem; I do wonder why that is."
Regina's face pales to a milky-white. She glances up at Belle, screws her eyes shut, takes a huge breath, and blurts out: "It was all my fault. Don't be angry with Belle, she told me not to, but I didn't listen--"
"Oh, I have no doubt of that, dearie." Rumpelstiltskin plucks a cup from the tea tray -- the one with the chip, oddly enough -- and passes it to Belle to be filled. "I can barely convince you to gather potion ingredients when ordered; it's hardly a shock that our little maid couldn't procure your obedience, either."
Regina's eyes open. "P-potion ingredients?"
"Yes. Potion ingredients. Which you were supposed to have ready when I returned?" He adds a wedge of lemon to his tea and stirs it idly, spoon clinking against porcelain. "Why, there wasn't anything else to confess, was there?"
Belle's breath catches; Regina only stares. "N-no," she falters. "I... I guess not?"
"Excellent! Now eat that toast of yours before it grows cold." His eyes dart up to Belle's -- who is open-mouthed with confusion -- and then quickly back down to his cup. "And thank Belle for it," he tells Regina. "It isn't burnt today."
"Oh. I... thank you, Belle."
"You're-- you're welcome."
"Oh, and, uh..." Rumpelstiltskin scrapes the teaspoon against the saucer a few times, then waves his hand; a wicker basket, shallow and as long as Belle's arm, appears on the table. "That is for you."
Belle cannot make hide nor hair of the gift, nor of the Dark One this morning, for that matter. "For me?"
"That's what I said, dearie." He coughs, then says severely: "I don't expect to run out of straw for a moment. Ever. Day or night."
Belle blinks, then looks back at the basket, suddenly understanding. "I... you expect me to get you straw? From... from town?"
"Whenever I have need of it. Promptly. Without complaint. Understood?"
"And you... trust me to come back?"
"Is that so hard to believe?"
Yes. Yes, it is, it is unfathomable, but Belle is not about to question her good luck. "Thank you," she says again, heartfelt, meaning it this time.
He shrugs, hair in his eyes as he takes another sip of tea. He mutters: "No matter."
Regina has been watching this exchange with an open mouth, glancing back and forth between the adults. "Does this mean I can go, too?"
"I--"
"Because," she announces, and there is the faintest hint of a blush on her cheeks that Belle suspects bodes very badly for them all, "I really want to take horseback riding lessons."
***
Next: Wherein there are many miscommunications and Regina is profoundly unpleasant.