Reawakened: A Once Upon a Time Tale (19 page)

“Yes,” she said. “I want that.”

“Very well,” said Rumplestiltskin, who produced a slender vial and dipped it into the river. When he withdrew the full vial, he passed a skeletal hand over the water, and a white glow came from the liquid. He smiled.

“That’s all?” she said.

He reached forward and plucked a hair from her head,
causing her to reel back and yelp. The boat knocked against the dock.

“Not quite yet,” he said, amused by her surprise. “Not all loves are the same. I have to make it slightly more… personal.” He dropped the hair into the potion and put a cork in the top. “There,” he said, handing it to her. “Drink this and you will forget your true love, and all of the stories of the two of you.”

Forget our stories? Snow White thought, wondering if the pain of forgetting them would be worse than the pain of not having Charming.

“Don’t doubt yourself now, dearie,” said Rumplestiltskin. “Love makes us sick. It haunts our dreams and destroys our days. It starts wars and ends lives. Love has killed more than any disease. The cure? This is a gift.”

“And what’s the price?”

“The price?” he said, as though he hadn’t yet thought of it. Snow White was skeptical. But Rumplestiltskin merely grinned again and held up a few more of her hairs, which had come from his original pluck. “These will do just fine,” he said.

“What do you want of my hair?”

“What do you need of it now that I have it?” he asked in response.

Snow White couldn’t think of why she’d need it back, and decided she didn’t care. The price seemed very low.

• • •

Snow White journeyed back to her corner of the forest. She rowed her boat upstream through the night, then hiked on foot throughout the morning, stopping once to eat. She avoided looking at the vial in her tunic pocket, as she did not want to
see it. It was one thing to fantasize about a potion and another thing entirely to have the potion. Did she really want to forget him? Even if he did get married? Was it not a part of her, either way, to have loved him and to have known of that love? Who would she be if she didn’t remember? Someone else completely?

The debate raged in her mind all morning and into the afternoon. She would go an hour having decided not to drink the potion, but then a pang of sadness would come as she imagined the wedding, and the scales would tilt again, and she’d become determined to swallow it right then and there. Back and forth she went, unsure what to do, until she reached a familiar glen, looked up, and realized she was home—back, at least, to her cabin, where she’d been staying. Seeing the modest little structure, she was filled with sadness again, knowing she would spend the night alone, and the next night alone, and the next night after that. She didn’t want to face a life like this with the weight of regret, too. She took the vial from her pocket, pulled the cork, raised it to her lips—

In the sky, directly above, she saw a lone dove circling, descending toward her.

Frozen, she watched as it circled down and landed at her feet.

There was a scroll attached to its feet, in a tiny cylindrical satchel. She quickly opened it and read it, and as the words moved through her mind, her heart billowed with both joy and hope.

The note read:

She looked up, eyes alight. Hastily, she put the cork back in the vial. Tucking the note back into her pocket, she turned and started back down the path she’d arrived on.

She had to get to the castle before it was too late.

• • •

Mary Margaret was in the middle of the woods, and she didn’t care whether a storm was coming. She cared about one thing: a bird.

She was determined to get the dove back to its proper place in the world. The idea of a living creature—dove, person, deer, wolf, dog, bluebird, it didn’t matter—being forced into a position that wasn’t right, that went against the true nature of things… well, it was too much for her to bear. She wanted to do what she could.

David had called fifteen minutes earlier and she had refused to pick up, knowing it would inevitably be a mixed signal of some kind.

The rain began with a trickle. Mary Margaret was not far
from the road, and she’d found an open pasture with a good view of the sky. From here she could see the flock coming by. She was hoping for a miracle, she knew that, but what else could she do? Her hope was that the flock would be stirred by the rains and would fly south, attempting to avoid the bad weather. If they did, she would catch them here.

She waited for twenty minutes as the rain became more intense. Finally, she heard thunder in the distance and knew that it wasn’t safe to be where she was, not anymore. Soaked and disheartened, she picked up the cage and began the trudge back toward the road. This is insane, she thought. This is desperate and weird and insane. What are you doing?

She didn’t have time to answer herself, however. Just then, lightning struck somewhere nearby, and a powerful clap of thunder made her jump. When she did, she stumbled backward and slipped in the mud. She felt the ground giving out beneath her feet and reached wildly for a thin tree, which she barely managed to grasp. Panicked, splayed out on her belly, she looked over her shoulder and slipped down the slope toward a ravine, her feet dangling below her torso. The rain was now a downpour, and she couldn’t see how deep the ravine went. She was in trouble. Real trouble.

Until she saw the hand reaching toward her.

“Mary Margaret!” yelled David, leaning toward her. “I found you, thank God! Take my hand!”

She did, and he pulled her up, and together (with the dove), they ran to a nearby cabin, which David had spotted through the woods. It was locked, and no one was there, so David kicked in the door, and they spilled inside, so glad to be out of the rain. They were both soaked and shivering.

“We need to get you dry,” David said. “Hold on.” He began looking around for blankets, towels, and any dry clothes.

“Whose cabin is this?” she asked. “Do you think it’s okay that we’re here?”

“Your roommate is the sheriff, I doubt she’ll care,” he said. He’d found a blanket, and he brought it to her, wrapped it around her shoulders. They were close. Very close.

And then Mary Margaret pulled away.

“Don’t,” she said. “Please.”

“I don’t understand what’s wrong,” he said.

“What’s wrong is that I still have feelings for you, David.”

David just looked back.

“Why do you think I’m at Granny’s every morning at the same time, right when you’re there? It’s just to see you. I don’t care about being punctual, it’s not a coincidence, I… I just want to see you. And I don’t. And I do. I can’t—I don’t know what to do.”

David, throughout this speech, could not help but conceal the faintest of smiles. He looked dazzled, a little confused.

“What?” Mary Margaret said.

“You come at seven-fifteen every morning to see me?” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s embarrassing. Don’t gloat.”

He shook his head. “I’m not gloating.”

“What, then?”

“I come at seven-fifteen every morning to see you, Mary Margaret,” he said. “We’re doing the same thing.”

They both stepped forward then, and embraced. Wordlessly, they got closer and closer, until their lips nearly touched. David’s
eyes were already closed when Mary Margaret suddenly pulled back. His eyes opened, a look of confusion on his face.

“How can you do this to Kathryn, David?” Mary Margaret whispered. She thought: How can I do this? This isn’t me.

“What do you mean?” he said. “I’ve told you, I don’t feel a—”

“Not that, David. I know. I know.”

“Know what?”

“I know that she’s pregnant.”

It did not produce the reaction Mary Margaret had expected. What had she assumed? Some denial, some kind of rationalization, which she was beginning to see David was very good at coming up with. Instead, though, he looked legitimately surprised.

“What did you say?” he asked.

He doesn’t know, she thought. He doesn’t know she’s pregnant.

• • •

Emma tried to track down the “stranger” all day. Someone—some man—had ridden into town on a motorcycle a few days ago, and he was making most of the townspeople nervous. He was also making Regina nervous—enough so that she’d come to Emma and asked her to investigate the man. He’d apparently approached Henry outside of Regina’s house and asked him a number of questions.

For once, Emma agreed with her nemesis. Strangers in town asking odd questions of little boys was not exactly okay. Regardless of the boy. In this case, it was even worse.

No one knew his name, and as of right now, he wasn’t even staying anywhere. He seemed to keep popping up down
this street or that street, and on top of that, he had a very mysterious-looking box attached to the back of his motorcycle. She didn’t like the way he lurked.

So far, she had only what she’d started with: He was a lightly bearded man in his midthirties and he rode a motorcycle. He had a certain cockiness about him, but whenever she got close to him, he always seemed to be heading in the other direction. On three separate occasions she’d seen him in town, and each time, when she started moving toward him or called out, something would come up. Either she’d be called away or he would hop on his motorcycle and disappear.

Instead of her finding the stranger, though, the stranger found her. She was sitting at a booth in the diner, trying to think of who he might be, when he sat down across from her.

“You,” she said, looking up, coffee halfway to her lips.

“You’ve been following me around all day,” he said. “I assume you want to talk.”

“Why were you talking to Henry the other morning?” she said.

“You mean the little kid who came up to me and started asking me questions? Is that Henry?”

Emma said nothing.

“Does he usually ask that many questions? He seems quite… precocious,” the man said.

“What were you doing outside of his house?”

“My bike broke down.”

“That why you decided to go for a long walk with your mysterious box?”

He patted it. “Who said it’s mysterious?”

“Okay. Then what’s in it?”

“It’s frustrating not knowing, isn’t it?”

“Just tell me,” she said.

“Why?” he asked. “Is it illegal to carry around a box in these parts?”

“No,” she said. “Of course not.”

He smiled at her, but her lips didn’t even quiver.

“You really want to know what’s inside, huh?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I do.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to wait,” he said. “You’re gonna have to wait a long time. And watch me carry it around for a little while. Your imagination will make up all sorts of stories about it. Is it a severed head? Is it a magic machine? A stack of secret documents? What could possibly be inside of this box?”

“Don’t get cute,” she said. “You’re very suspicious. I could get away with forcing you to show me.”

“Or,” he said, “we could do it the easy way. You could let me buy you a drink sometime and I’ll tell you right now.”

She looked back at him, trying to gauge how serious he was. She decided to call his bluff and said, “Okay. A drink it is.”

“A drink?”

“Yup. One drink.”

“Okay,” he said. He reached over and opened the top and showed her what he had. A typewriter.

“Really?” she said.

“I’m a writer,” he said. “This place is inspiring to me. That’s why I’m here.”

• • •

Snow White hurried to the castle and got to its gates the night before the wedding, only hours before Abigail was set to arrive. She snuck inside in the garb of a florist and made her way toward where she guessed Charming’s quarters had to be,
hiding from guards along the way. She came close, she truly did, before she stumbled in a dark corridor, and a young guard poked his head around the corner. His face tensed, and he lunged at her with surprising speed. He caught her easily and ignored her stories as he hauled her down to the dungeon, believing her to be a common thief.

The moment she was locked in her cell, she began looking for a way out. Could she pick the lock? Climb the wall? She didn’t know, but she had to get out. She had to stop the wedding.

“Easy there, sister,” came a voice. “You’re stuck until they decide otherwise.”

She looked over to the next cell, where a deep-voiced man lounged in the corner, his legs crossed.

He was bearded and bald. He smiled at her, gave a friendly wave hello.

“Good to meet you,” he said.

“I don’t need them to let me out of here,” she said. “I’ll find my own way out.”

“Okay, fine,” he said. “Have it your way. You’ll find your own way out.”

He watched her pace back and forth in her cell for some time, then said, “What’s your name?”

“Snow White,” she said. Did it really matter whether some common criminal knew?

“
The
Snow White?” he said, suddenly very interested. “As in Wanted-by-the-Queen Snow White?”

“One and the same,” she said.

“Well, I’m Grumpy,” he said, getting to his feet.

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“No, no,” he said, waving her off. “That’s my name.”

“Your name is Grumpy?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “What kind of name is that?”

He shrugged. “It’s a dwarf’s name,” he said. “What kind of name is Snow White?”

Snow White just smiled, and the two began to talk as she tried to find a weakness in the cell. An hour passed; they talked about many things as she grew more and more concerned that she was going to spend weeks down here, miss the wedding, miss her opportunity. Grumpy explained how he’d ended up in the cell, as did Snow White (vaguely, cautiously). They discussed love, and lost love, and regret.