The cat and dog raced through the Dark Castle, chasing a red ball. There was a spell on it. The ball rolled and bounced about till it was caught. Then, if the dog had it, it went still until he trotted over to the cat and put it down in front of her (he always looked triumphantly pleased with himself when he did this). The ball lay still till the cat nudged. At that point, the spell sent the ball off again. If the cat caught it, she had to take it to the dog. She invariably swatted it back and forth between her paws, making a game of keep-away, before finally letting him at it. He would launch himself at it before it could make another escape. Off it flew, and the pair ran charged after it again.

Their path had careened through various rooms and hallways till the two managed to land on the ball at the same time. They both held onto it with their teeth, managing to yowl and growl at each other without letting go. Then, they both lost their grips at the same time, each tumbling back, the red ball lying still between them.

The cat looked at it then glared accusingly at the dog. The dog didn't notice. He nudged the ball and watched to see what would happen. When nothing he did, he promptly lost interest and trotted off in the direction of the great hall, looking for something new to play with.

The cat swatted the ball. It did nothing. She glared indignantly at the dog's retreating form. He didn't notice. With an irritated meow, she ran after him. She had almost caught up with him when there came a loud clatter from the great hall. Both animals froze where they were, ears twitching and noses lifted to scent the air. The dog, growling softly, went to investigate. The cat, treading as softly as if she were sneaking up on a watchful mouse, followed.

X

Belle's face had lit up when Rumplestiltskin presented her with the small, white terrier. Though fully grown, he was smaller than Belle in her cat form, something Rumplestiltskin had been very careful about when making the just the right choice. The dog had a proven liking for children and (more importantly) for cats. His last owner had been an old woman who had lived with her niece's family. There had been three cats in the house and a large collection of rambunctious children. The father of the family raised small dogs as ratters, there being a good market for those in the area.

This dog, however, had never been trained to hunt vermin. He spent his days playing with children or resting on the old woman's lap. Though barely a year old when the elderly aunt passed away, the dog-trainer was used to taking them in hand practically from the day they were born and considered him too old to bather with. The man had been only too happy when a passing merchant had expressed an interest in the "wee beastie" and promised to take it off his hands for a couple coppers. They sealed the deal with a glass of wine, the merchant wishing the father and his family continued health in the coming year.

That wish had been worth far more than the coins, if the man only knew. But, Rumplestiltskin had been in a benevolent mood when they made the deal, and the look on Belle's face when he presented her with her new pet convinced him he had been right.

"What do you want to name him?" he asked.

She smiled. "Jock," she whispered, her voice ghost soft as it always was when pure terror didn't give her lungs. "Wee Jock."

Jock. It was a common name for the small dogs. In Rumplestiltskin's experience, half the breed in all the world seemed to be named Jock. But, he could think of only one reason for Belle to know that. "Did you ever have a dog?" he asked. "Or know someone who did?"

For a moment, Belle's smile faltered. "Mama," she said. Then, Wee Jock yipped for attention, which Belle was only too happy to give, and she was all smiles again.

Things went well for the next few days. Belle and Wee Jock stampeded through the castle. Her dresses, though Rumplestiltskin and sewn them from silks, velvets, and embroidered cloths, were made for stampeding. As for her hair, Rumplestiltskin brushed it out each morning and wove ribbons into it that kept it out of her eyes while streaming in a kaleidoscope of colors behind her.

Which was only when she was human. It was still not as often as Rumplestiltskin would like. He saw the white cat and the white dog chasing each other and tumbling through the gardens far more often than he saw the little girl. Still, he thought, it was a start.

She still wanted to be held, as a child or a cat, and became frightened if she didn't know where he was (he came when she called, a murmured "Rum" or, more often, "Dragon-Man"). At night, she sat patiently while he brushed out the day's accumulation of leaves and tangles from her hair. He always made a point, when he placed the ribbons in their box on the child-sized vanity he'd placed in her room, of never closing the lid. It was so she would know they were waiting for the next morning, a promise that the little one would be dressed and cared for—her hair done up in ribbons—every day. Like the fanciful dresses he made her, guarantees she would never be trapped, naked and alone, in the cold dark again.

But, now, when he tucked Belle into bed, Wee Jock curled up against her as she fell asleep, listening to Rumplestiltskin's stories. He still made sure to always leave a light in her room (a good thing he had magic. The lights he left her knew better than to scorch little children or burn anything except a candlewick). But, with Wee Jock there, he could let her sleep in peace while he attended to other matters. When she woke from nightmares, she was able to call for him instead of screaming in terror. Usually. The nightmares were rarer, and Wee Jock helped.

Even if they weren't . . . he thought of his son, out there and alone. For all he knew, Bae was trapped in a pit even worse than Belle's prison. He had to come for him. He thought of the years Belle's own father had left her in the dark. No matter what the cost, he couldn't do that to Bae. Let the boy hate him for the rest of his life, but let him know that his father had come for him.

That meant the curse had to be cast. There was no other way, and its time was coming. All too soon, it would be here.

The thought haunted Rumplestiltskin. He had watched the little one last night, sleeping peacefully, a hand thrown over Wee Jock, wondering what would become of her when the curse fell. He had to find a way to keep her safe, but how? To even let Regina know the child existed would be to make her a pawn in the Queen's game—one he had no doubt Regina would exploit to the utmost. But, to abandon her to chance was even worse.

He was in his tower workroom, mixing potions and considering the problem, when he heard a clattering noise. The spells he'd set to alert him to strangers in the castle made it sound as clear as if the source were right next to him, but Rumplestiltskin could tell it was coming from several floors away. Somehow, someone had managed to get past the castle defenses all the way to the great hall. But, that wasn't what frightened him.

Belle.

X

There were many bright and pretty things in the great hall. Treasures, Belle called them. Mama had had boxes full of nice, shiny things. Someday, Belle, Mama said, letting her play with a string of pearls these will be yours.

But, Mama was gone, and Belle had been sent into the dark place. Her dragon-man, Rum, he had taken her out of the dark. He said she was good, and all the shiny things here were his. This stranger was taking them—he was stealing from her dragon-man.

The stranger was big, like the guards who had sometimes beaten her in the dark place. He wore green and had a large bow, one he reached for as soon as Wee Jock's growls turned into angry barking.

She had just enough time to realize that when Wee Jock attacked him, going after the man's ankles with his teeth. The man kicked Wee Jock away, sending him flying across the room. The dog—her doggy—whimpered as he hit stone.

Belle felt her hair stand up all over her. She was afraid but she was angry, too. No. No one could hurt Wee Jock here. The dragon-man wouldn't allow it. He would stop the bad man. She looked at the bad man and yowled, calling for Rum. The man turned and saw her. There was already an arrow set in his bow. The bad man pointed it at her-

—And let the arrow fly.

X

Note: Wee Jock is a reference to the dog belonging to Robert Carlyle's character in Hamish Macbeth.