"Who the hell are you? I've never seen you before."

The imperious voice pierces Clara's haze of numbness and despair. She is not particularly grateful: numb is better than in pain from grief. Anger is also a numbing option, however, so she swivels on the stool and musters a glare: "Do you claim to know everybody in this town?"

"I'm the mayor," is the haughty response.

Clara scoffs. "Well, I'm just passing through."

The elegant woman carries herself with such an air of authority that Clara feels small and scruffy just being in her presence; the deep black eyes are boring into her, suspicious and irritated and demanding compliance at once. If Clara didn't have experience withstanding the Doctor's stormy gaze, she might just cave.

As it is, she merely sniffs and returns her attention to the cup of tea she hasn't tasted. Even tea doesn't taste the same since- since. She'd thought returning to the Doctor was a good idea, that it would fix everything, that... but... and what she did...

She shudders. She isn't over it. Not by a long shot. Might never be. And the Doctor cannot help. And demanding it of him was an awful, awful thing.

Impatiently, the mayor pushes aside the stool beside her and crosses her arms; she clearly insists on getting her answers, much to Clara's irritation.

"Nobody passes through Storybrooke," claims the woman authoritatively, as if it was a truth universally known and Clara just a silly child trying to lie her way out of trouble.

"Well, I do," Clara retorts childishly and it's all she can do not to stick out her tongue. She feels silly and raggedy and she doesn't like this elegant woman one bit.

The discreet jewels and perfectly tailored suit, not to mention her stern beauty, strengthen the impression of power; Clara wouldn't be surprised to find out she's in control of everything in this town, down to the meanest detail. Scratch mayor: she has the bearing of a Queen.

She's also unused to being denied, obviously.

"Just tell me who you are!" she demands again, frustrated.

Clara doesn't usually have a problem with authority, but right now, she is so not in the mood. She slams down the cup she's just lifted, making the tea slosh and splatter, and rounds on her: "Lovely town and all, Madam Mayor, but I'd rather enjoy it on my own," she says pointedly - and against her will, her voice breaks on the loneliness of those last words.

For a moment, she thinks the woman will hit her, or at least lash out verbally: she almost wishes it. However the regal mayor appears to catch something in Clara's expression – barely concealed grief, probably – and the expression in those demanding eyes becomes complex, sharp and surprised and calculating and sympathetic and a myriad other things, then softens all of a sudden, turning the already beautiful features into an outright stunning visage.

With a sigh and a commiserative look she relaxes, taking a seat next to Clara with the air of a lazy predator rather than a furious one on the prowl.

She signals the formidable old woman who runs the place and regards Clara thoughtfully. "You look like someone kicked your favourite puppy," she proclaims with studied carelessness.

Stung, Clara retorts before thinking things through.

"My boyfriend died!" she hisses and through the wave of sorrow that threatens to choke her, she misses the flash of resigned acknowledgement in the other's eyes.

"He died and I betrayed my best friend to try and get him back," says Clara. She is too abrupt, and probably shouldn't talk about this with a complete stranger, but she's past caring. She gulps forcibly. "I'm evil."

The regal woman snorts.

It's echoed by the old woman who's handing them shots (in the middle of the afternoon!), which earns her a glare from the mayor, but then the elegant woman dismisses the bartender and focuses on Clara.

Without sugarcoating it, she says in precise, clipped tones: "I killed my own father to cast a curse that took away everybody's happy endings, just to try and stifle the pain and grief my beloved's death left in me. Trust me, girl, you're nowhere near evil."

Clara gapes unbecomingly.

The mayor has an arrogant, resolute countenance, filled with furious strength fuelled by desperation and headstrong pride that keeps her head held high, defying the world to judge her; but there is regret in her eyes, and understanding, and powerful buried grief.

That's what breaks Clara in the end.

"It's just... it hurts so much," she says, and her voice breaks.

The mayor covers her hand with hers at once. "I know."