Chapter 2: Lost and Found

"An actual trial? With a judge and a courtroom and—"

Emma bit her tongue before she finished her sentence, so Gold finished it for her: "A sentence, yes, if there's a guilty verdict." Gold stood, as though bringing the conversation to a close. "This being a rather unusual circumstance, with Snow herself being her only accuser—apart from Regina, whose judgment has proven faulty time and again—if, after the arguments conclude, the jury and the defendant still believe she has committed murder, the sentence will be determined by Her Majesty."

"Regina?!" Emma exclaimed. "Oh hell no—"

"Not Regina." Gold dipped his head toward Snow. "The rightful queen of the Enchanted Forest."

"What kind of trial is that?" Snow sputtered. "You'd let the defendant choose her own punishment?"

"You would be a lot harder on yourself than any of us would," Gold suggested. He started for the door. "Sheriff Swan, perhaps you'd be so good as to round up a jury and schedule the use of the court room? Prince David, I'd suggest you speak to the Blue Fairy about acting as judge. I will go back to my office to gather some reference material and will return at 1 pm. I suggest you all have a hearty lunch; you'll need the energy."

"Wait, you're going to—what? Defend her? Or prosecute her?" David thrust his hands on his hips, ready to argue if the answer positioned them as enemies.

Gold brushed past him without a glance. "Ms. Blanchard hired me to defend her before. I intend to finish the job."

"Then who's going to prosecute her?"

"That role," Gold opened the door and stepped through, finishing his reply as the door closed behind him, "will be filled by Regina."

"You can't actually want to go through with this," David protested, seating himself on the bed beside his wife.

"Of course not; it's ridiculous," Emma huffed. "Mr. Gold and his cockamamie schemes."

"No," Snow pressed a hand against David's chest. "I want to. He's right. I need to know if what I did was an act of self-defense or murder."

"Mary—" Emma corrected herself—"Mom. If we were out there in the real world—"

"Emma, this is the real world, for us."

"Fine. If we were out there, in Bangor or New York or whatever, there's no way this would go to trial. Gold's right about one thing: only two people in this entire world think you might have done something wrong, and one of them has been trying for years to kill you, so her opinion doesn't count. Now, how can you agree to this—this sick joke from that crazy old imp?"

"If he's crazy, it's because we had a hand in making him that way," David muttered. "One hundred and twenty-one days. . . ." He cradled Snow's hand in his own. "Are you sure, Snow? Sure this is what you need?"

She nodded, biting her lip. "I need to face the truth."

"All right." He kissed her palm and stood up. "I'll go out to the convent, then."

Emma threw her hands in the air in surrender. "Whatever. I'm going over to the courthouse—and order some take-out from Granny's. You take the squad car; I'll take my Bug."

As her family moved in their separate ways, Snow rested her chin against her propped up knee and wondered what arguments her attorney might make in her defense—Gold had a unique talent for justifying even the most horrendous of crimes. She wondered if a jury would believe him—and more importantly, if she would believe him.

From the window above her bed, a shaft of sunlight pushed its way through the curtains that she thought she had drawn tight shut. A dust mote hopped along the sunbeam and idly she followed it with her eyes as a current of heat from the floor vent carried it over the bed. The heater cut off momentarily and the mote dropped, landing a black wool coat lying on the straight chair.

Snow frowned. Gold had forgotten his coat. How was it the old man had gotten all the way out to the street without noticing the cold? She'd better run it downstairs and try to catch him before he caught his death—she chuckled at the irony of that. She stuffed her feet into her slippers as she tucked the coat under her arm. She started for the door—and something clattered to the floor. Something shiny and metal. Something familiar.

She picked it up and ran her finger lightly across the name engraved in the bilah: Rumplestiltskin. With a hard thump she sat back down on the bed, the Armani coat pooling at her feet.

She sat with the dagger lying in her open palms. She couldn't bear to close her hands around it: whenever she did, jolts of electricity shot through her skin. It wasn't painful: on the contrary, she found it invigorating. Even if she didn't know what this thing was, those jolts would be enough to inform her it was extraordinary—and potentially dangerous.

As her fingertip skimmed the edge of the wavy blade, flashes of light filled her mind. When she held her finger still, the flashes became images: glimpses of a passing truck, the Sycamore Street sign, a broken curb, the sailor's wheel in the bakery window, the tip of a cane touching down on a sidewalk a heartbeat before a black Ferragamo shoe did.

The dagger was showing her what Gold was seeing as he walked back to his shop.

She swallowed hard.

"The Dark One finally can be controlled."

"You see, in the end, it isn't good or evil that wins, but power."

"I don't care about justice any more."

Watching the town go by through Gold's eyes, Snow called back to mind every legend she could remember about the Dark One. She couldn't recall a time when she didn't know about him: his legend always hung as a looming shadow in the background of everyday life. It was, strangely, something royals, nobles, merchants, clergy and the poor shared in common: fear and awe for the Master Mage, the one who couldn't be killed, and therefore couldn't be stopped.

Except for this. The dagger wouldn't hold still in her hands—or perhaps it was that her hands couldn't hold still, holding it. She expected the steel blade to feel cold, but it didn't: when she pressed her finger into it, not enough to cut herself but just enough to bite, she could feel a steady throbbing in the metal, beating asynchronously to her own pulse. Nervously she licked her lips. She was feeling Gold's heartbeat. Literally, she had her finger on the Dark One's pulse. She gasped and dropped the dagger.

It landed on the lapel of the coat, and she let it lay there for a long time. She leaned forward, staring at it. The heater clicked on again and a blast of warm air rose from the vent, making one of the coat sleeves flutter. She wondered if Mr. Gold was shivering without the protection of his coat, and then she wondered if Rumplestiltskin was shivering without the protection of his dagger. Did he even feel its absence? Did he feel her hand as she picked it up again?

What the hell was the man thinking, anyway, walking around with the dagger in his coat, where a mugger could stumble upon it, where it could slip out into the gutter and he'd not even feel it fall? Just days after almost losing it to Cora!

She chewed her thumbnail.

What if the legend was wrong? What if this was just a knife, not magical at all: a McGuffin? What if he had been the one to start the rumors, to give would-be power-grabbers like Cora a false lead? What if the real thing that could control him was in his shop somewhere, probably some ordinary object sitting out in plain sight? That chipped cup maybe—maybe it had something more than sentimental value after all. That would be just the kind of trick the imp would come up with.

She gripped the handle firmly and a burst of electricity coursed up her wrist, all the way to her shoulder, and then she knew for sure the dagger was real. Her entire body relaxed under the electrical pulses and thought flew into her mind: you never have to be afraid again.

"Yes," she said. "Safe." Emma, Charming, Henry—Regina would never harass them again. The dwarves, Granny, Red, no one could harm any of them ever again, because all she had to do was speak his name and this dagger would summon the world's most powerful watch dog. Blue, the nuns, the kids at school, Archie, all safe, forever.

Belle, if she ever got her memory back. The dagger could protect her against Gold's seduction. Break the spell he had her under—the Stockholm Syndrome, this world called it; a curse, her world called it. The sweet little thing had suffered enough.

A test. A tiny test, just to find out how the dagger worked. She closed her eyes to concentrate on the images his eyes were taking in: a doorknob, a ring of keys, a threshold, a wood laminate floor that needed sweeping. "Rumplestiltskin," she whispered over the dagger, as she had whispered over the black-and-white candle. "Drop the cane."

Through his eyes she watched the tip of the cane catch in a fissure in the laminate. The Ferragamo slid and the cane clattered to the floor. His hand, the one with the ring, retrieved it and he resumed his trip across the front room to the workroom.

Snow wriggled. One more test, in case that was just a coincidence. Something that couldn't possibly be an accident: "Pick up the Mickey Mouse phone and call the Man in the Moon, order a pepperoni pizza. . dearie."

The Ferragamos abruptly halted, made a forty-five degree turn. She watched his hand slide the glass cabinet open, reach in, take out the colorful phone and set it on the counter. His finger poked twelve times at the oversized buttons. She chuckled: so Gold had the Man in the Moon's phone number committed to memory. She heard him speak into the receiver: "Gold here. I'd like a sixteen-inch pepperoni, crunchy crust, extra red peppers, delivered to my shop. Thank you." He hung up and proceeded to his workroom.

She laid the dagger on her pillow and wiped her hands against her slacks. Now that she wasn't focused on him, she could hear a radio on in the apartment downstairs, traffic in the street. She could hear her own heart beating.

She'd made him drop his cane and order a pizza: that meant she could make him. . . reduce the rent on all his properties. Show mercy to those who owed him money. Donate to charities. Walk the dogs in the animal shelter. Speak kindly (for he was always polite, but never kind) to those he passed on the street. Smile, and mean it.

She could make him into a warm, giving grandfather, the kind who would take Henry fishing and tell him stories and help him with his algebra. She could make him into the open-hearted husband Belle deserved. She could mend his relationship with his son, with the community. Who knows, she could even make him into Storybrooke's next mayor. Nothing wrong with any of that. She could do so much good with his power.

And most of all, she could keep her family safe, for generations to come.

She held the dagger again and watched him select some books from a shelf, slide them into a briefcase, walk back across the showroom and out the front door. His hand shivered as he locked the door; his fingernails were turning blue. She wished he hadn't forgotten his coat. She picked up the coat and smoothed it on her lap, ironing out the wrinkles. Too bad he didn't treat people with the same respect he treated his clothes.

"You're so sure of her black soul?"

Snow was sure of his black soul. He'd shown it to her less than an hour ago. Black as sin—but not completely.

"I won't apologize for sparing her life. Not when there's a chance she might change."

"Regina redeemed – what a novel thought. And, um… How do you plan to accomplish such an impressive feat?"

"I don't even know if it's possible. I'm probably just fooling myself."

"Maybe you need someone to show you that it is possible."

"What do you mean?"

"Simple. I provide you with a test to help determine whether the Queen can truly change."

She'd given Regina innumerable chances to reform, most of them unasked for. When had she, or anyone else, given Rumplestiltskin such a chance?

Oh, but she'd given him his life back. Wasn't that enough? Shouldn't he have expressed his gratitude by changing his behavior? He had his son sort of back, plus a wonderful grandson: shouldn't that be enough to reform him? If the legends were true, the imp was more than 300 years old: that alone was opportunity enough for reform. Snow wouldn't make the same mistake with Rumplestiltskin as she had with Regina.

She turned the dagger over to the smooth side, and she saw her reflection there. She thought back on the stories of those who controlled Dark Ones throughout the ages. The stories were sketchy: the primarily interest had always been in the actions of the Dark Ones, not the lives of the Dark Ones' handlers. But what she did know was that they'd all lived very short lives, most dying at the hands of dagger thieves. Oh, but that was then. Snow lived in a civilized world now, overseen by her daughter the sheriff and her husband the deputy. Besides, who in Storybrooke would want to steal the dagger from Snow White?

So much good she would do with this power. Only good. Not that she was fooling herself: she could make mistakes. She could even be mean. But she had a family to keep her from temptation. No way would she fall prey to the evil inherent in this power.

Would she?

In her first two commands, she had ordered the Dark One to do something that could have injured him, and she had forced him to make a fool of himself. What would she do with him, to him, an hour from now? A week from now?

Five days ago, she had held another person's heart in her hand. She'd given serious thought to using that heart to control Cora. And when she'd been given the means to easily kill her enemy, she'd taken it. To protect her family, Snow had told herself; to protect her town.

How many days would pass before she'd use this dagger to kill another enemy?

"If we give up the dagger, we can still win."

Listening to David's voice in her memory, she wondered what he would say about the dagger now.

"They will find strength through your goodness."

"That was strength. Strength to resist darkness."

"Oh, Mother. You always knew what was right." Snow bent her head over the dagger and began to cry.

She greeted Gold at the door. She didn't give him a chance to set his briefcase down: with her left hand she offered him his coat; with her right, the dagger. "You left these."

"So I did." He laid the briefcase on the kitchen table. He took the coat, draping it over a chair. He looked at her for a moment before accepting the dagger. "Thank you." He opened the briefcase and dropped the dagger in among the books, then closed the case and drew his coat on.

She chased after him as he walked out. "Wh-where are you going? What about my trial?"

He stopped and gave her a half-smile. "It's over."

"But. . .the jury? The judge?"

"Have you heard the term 'McGuffin,' Your Majesty?"

Her mouth dropped open.

"The jury, the judge and so forth were a McGuffin. A means for getting David and Emma out of the house so you could think in peace. The real trial, the one you needed, has been completed." He shifted the briefcase to his right hand. It was awkward to hold it as well as the cane in one hand, but he'd had years of practice. He held out his left hand towards her. "May I?"

She understood what he was asking. Straightening, she permitted him to sink his hand into her chest and withdraw her heart. His eyes fixed on hers; he seemed not the least bit curious about the heart in his hand. His eyes told her what she wanted to know, but she peeked at his hand to confirm it.

Her heart, large, crystalline, beating. Spotless.

He returned it to her chest. "Good afternoon, Your Majesty." The briefcase went back into his left hand and with his cane he navigated his way down the stairs.

From her doorway she watched him go. "Good afternoon, Rumplestiltskin."

He paused in the foyer and looked back over his shoulder. When her door closed, he set his briefcase down, and reaching into his chest, he withdrew his heart. There was just a little more pink and a little less black in it now.

He smiled. Broadly.