Over the course of Emma's life so far, she'd come to realize that you could learn a lot about a person based on the place they called home.

Take Regina, for example. Her house was classy and neat to the point of unfriendliness. It fit perfectly with her cold exterior and almost unchangeable opinions. In contrast, Mary Margaret's home was ridiculously homey. It was bright, neat but cluttered enough to feel lived-in, and rustic. In short, it was welcoming, much like she was. Then there was Mr. Gold's shop. It was cluttered, dark, and dusty. In short, sketchy. Again, a perfect match for the man who owned it.

That was why, when Emma found herself in Hook's cabin once again, she was suddenly struck with a burning curiosity. She'd been in his cabin before, of course, but things had been different then. She hadn't been as... well... interested? At the very least, she was forcing herself not to be interested. Hook was a necessary means to the end of getting Henry back, nothing more. Any curiosity about the contents of the room had been pushed aside in a stubborn refusal to admit any interest in the man, but now they were, at the very least, friends. He'd followed her into a time-travel portal, for God's sake. Surely, it was natural for her to be a little bit tempted by the opportunity to look around and learn more about the man now lying knocked out on the floor.

Her Hook - no, she meant Hook from her time, not hers - was currently up on the deck. Right after he'd knocked himself out, Smee had nervously called down to him about some "visitors" who wanted to see him.

"What visitors?" Emma asked.

Hook frowned. "I've no idea. Perhaps some men seeking a place among my crew."

Emma raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

With a sigh, Killian admitted, "but more likely visitors with less friendly intentions."

"Like?" Emma demanded.

"Men wishing to challenge my position, men who have taken issue with myself or my crew at some point, some new sycophantic soldier or officer of the law hoping for glory by bringing pirates to justice," he shrugged. "You get the idea."

Emma groaned. "Seriously? How can you be so calm about this?"

"Because, love, this is far from the first time this has happened. I'll just go up and take care of it and then we can be on our way," he assured her, moving towards the ladder.

"Do you have... uh... a spare sword, or something?" Emma asked awkwardly. The words felt ridiculously strange on her tongue. Sometimes she still almost had to pinch herself to remind herself that this was, in fact, her life.

"Plenty, but they will be of little use to you down here," Killian said firmly.

"Hey! I'm coming," Emma snapped, moving to follow him.

Killian pushed her back gently but firmly. "No, you're not. I'm sorry to tell you this Swan, but you're bloody useless with a sword-"

"I beat you!" Emma argued.

Killian just raised an eyebrow at her. The silence dragged out for a few seconds as Emma studied his expression for any sign of a lie, growing increasingly irritated.

"No, you are not going to convince me that you let me win," Emma said irritably.

Killian glanced at her pityingly. "Swan, love. We don't have the luxury of time at this second, so perhaps we can leave that conversation for a later date. If my concern for your welfare isn't enough to keep you down here, then think about this; no bar-wench I brought back to the ship would be rushing up there to assist me. At the very least, you would cause Smee suspicion. Or, perhaps one of the 'guests' on the ship is someone you have met or will meet in the future, and meeting him too early would cause catastrophic consequences. I'm not willing to take that risk. And, if you need yet another reason, I think Henry needs his mother back in one piece, don't you?"

Emma scowled. "I can handle myself in a fight."

Again, the eyebrow jumped up. "Be back in a few. Make yourself at home, love," Killian said, leaving no room for argument.

Emma let out a frustrated groan, turning her anger towards the unconscious man on the floor.

"You did not let me win," she insisted.

His lack of response, even if it was justified since this Hook hadn't fought her yet, just made her more irritated.

And perhaps that was another reason for her sudden curiosity. If she was going to have to stay down here, at least for now, she needed something to pass the time. Invading his privacy for revenge may have been a little bit juvenile, but Emma preferred to think of it as a learning experience. Returning to the past had reminded her of something that was strangely disconcerting. She had realized to her surprise that while Hook knew many things about her past, she knew very little about his. Sure, she knew about Milah and a little bit about Gold, but other than that, the man in the tavern had been a complete mystery to her. Surely using her time in a constructive way wasn't such a bad thing, and Killian had said to make herself at home.

Emma moved towards the bed first. It was neatly made - almost hotel room standards, really - with luxurious, exotically patterned blankets and pillows. The idea of him being well-travelled was hardly news to her, so examining the bed provided little new information. Some random pirate-y things hung from hooks on the walls, but Emma found herself moving away from those things towards the books stacked above his bed. She had never really pictured Captain Hook as a fan of reading, but then maybe she shouldn't have been surprised considering his extensive vocabulary. There were books on sailing, books on science, books on medicine, books on plants, books of poetry (she hadn't been expecting that one), books filled with neat cursive that appeared to be records of the ship... his collection was extensive. Emma would have loved to read through more of them, but she wasn't sure how long she would have to explore the cabin and she wanted to get through as much as she could.

She moved to the wardrobe next, throwing it open to find many neatly hung clothes. Some of them looked like the sort of thing she had seen him wear before, but there were surprises in the wardrobe too. There was one outfit that looked like a naval uniform, which Emma took out to stare at. It looked too big to be Hook's. Could it have been his mysterious brother's? Was his brother in the navy? Or was it a souvenir from a battle, belonging to some enemy? Would Killian make his enemies strip and then walk the plank? He did have a strange sense of humour.

Emma put it back and looked at the rest of the clothing again. She felt a small twinge of something, perhaps sympathy or even some sadness of her own, to see that half of the wardrobe was still taken up by what could only be the clothes of a woman. There were dresses and there were clothes that looked more suitable to life aboard a pirate ship, but all of them looked to be about the same size. There was a great variety, as well. One dress, pushed to the back as though it was not well-loved, was fairly conservative and made of rough, cheap fabric. Others were far nicer, made of silks or prettily patterned. Then, of course, there was a certain amount of leather. Curious, Emma pulled out one of the dresses and held it up against herself. The woman who owned these had been taller than her, but that was about all she could determine. Emma put it back quickly, feeling guilty for a moment as though she was disturbing something sacred. To Killian, perhaps she was. She wondered briefly if Killian had gotten rid of anything of Milah's at all. Based on the wardrobe, she would guess not. The only question she really had was whether he kept them to preserve her memory or because getting rid of them was too painful.

Emma opened the cupboards underneath the wardrobe next, finding jewelry, shoes, small clothing items, and other small things. Emma bit back a smile when she found what could only be Hook's supply of eyeliner. The bottom drawer seemed to be devoted to Milah as well. She opened it to find an ornate mirror, a brush (with long, curly hair still stuck onto it... the never-get-rid-of-anything-belonging-to-Milah theory was looking better and better), elegant hairpins, perfume, make-up, hose, gloves, paintbrushes, pencils, other assorted items... it was almost as if Killian still expected Milah to waltz through the door.

There were various treasures scattered throughout the cabin, but Emma found herself drawn towards the desk instead. Various papers covered with Hook's elegant scrawl and navigational instruments were all neatly placed on the desk or in the drawers. Emma was about to shut the desk drawer and move onto the drawers underneath the bed when something caught her eye. One paper was much older than the others, tucked underneath other papers so that it was obscured except for a single, yellowed corner. Carefully, Emma extracted the paper from the pile and stared.

A charcoal woman stared back at her. She had wild, dark curls cascading down her front and her back, high cheekbones, a sharp nose, and intelligent eyes. She had the oddest feeling that the woman was staring right through her.

Emma knew without a doubt that she was looking at Milah. The paper was weathered, slightly torn, and creased as though it was habitually folded and carried around in a pocket. There were a couple of lighter spots on the page that looked almost like tear stains, but Emma supposed it also could have been the spray of the ocean. In fact, she hoped it was. She had trouble picturing Killian crying, but, then again, he must have. For the first time, Emma let her mind wander, wondering how many nights Killian had spent crying for this woman.

What had Killian seen in her? For him to preserve all of this stuff of hers, to brand her name on his skin, to devote his life to revenge, surely she must have been special. All Emma knew was Milah had abandoned her son, although she wasn't sure she could entirely blame her for leaving a husband like Rumplestiltskin. She had a pretty face, but surely that wouldn't inspire such devotion. What was it about her that Killian loved? Emma was suddenly burning with curiosity about the woman staring at her from the page in her hand. Her gaze had become almost mocking now. Perhaps it was the secrets of the woman herself that lingered beneath the page, mocking Emma with their eternal mystery. Or perhaps it was something else. Emma felt oddly as though the woman was judging her, which was ridiculous when the woman was dead and all she was holding was a facsimile. Nevertheless, Emma felt like Milah was appraising her value and triumphing in the knowledge that she was superior to Killian's new object of affection.

Emma slammed the picture on the desk with a bit more force than may have been necessary.

She opened a cupboard underneath Killian's bed next and found the last thing she had expected.

A violin.

It gleamed faintly in the dim light, polished and clearly well-loved. It was cradled among fabric, protected enough that it must be a prized possession. A long, elegant bow lay next to it, with one crucial difference in comparison to other violin bows: there was a hand attachment, like the one that Killian used in place of his hook, attached to the bow.

So, Killian had played the violin. With one hand. That was surprising, to say the least, and maybe a little bit impressive.

Emma frowned slightly. She was certain that violin bows were held with the right hand. Did that mean that Killian played backwards? She supposed he'd had hundreds of years to master it. Suddenly, a new image popped into her mind. Suddenly, she could clearly imagine Killian playing violin in his cabin through the long nights of Neverland, drowning out the cries of the lost boys with bittersweet music that was perhaps as heartbreaking as the crying itself.

Emma closed the cupboard gently and moved to the opposite one underneath his bed. She gasped when she opened it, taking in the piles and piles of pages covered with writing.

Music. These were pages of music, handwritten in a familiar scrawl. Emma knew very little about the subject of composition, but she still sifted through multiple pages. Many were titled and dated, such as "Dawn - 1923" or "For Milah - 1826". They seemed to get older and older closer to the bottom of the pile. One, dated 1814, even had a letter on the back:

Dearest Lyanna,

I regret that I cannot send you more than this for your birthday. As you are now six years old, I wanted to give you something befitting of a lady such as a necklace or one of those perfumes that your mother seems to love so much. However, I'm afraid that there are very few merchants on a battlefield, so I hope this will suffice.

I set the poem that you loved so well when I read it to you last year to music. Perhaps your mother can sing it to you, but if she will not, I may show it to you when I return.

I think of you every day. Try to stay out of my uncle's way. I know that you are almost grown up, but, still, I would rather I were there to protect you. I send you as much love as I can fit onto this page,

Killian

Underneath, a small reply was scrawled in a far messier print:

Dear Killian,

Now that I am six I beleve my speling is much improved! My mother will not giv me paper so I decided to send you this bak. Mother says she will not sing it, but that's fine becos I'd prefer you to sing it enyway. I love it very much and now that you hav it bak, you can stedy it and giv me a perfect performence when you come home.

Pleese hurry. I am lonely without you.

Love,

Lyanna

Well, now Emma knew that Killian had been involved in some sort of war, and he was close with a mystery little girl. A daughter? A sister?

Emma rifled through the papers from around that time, hoping for another mention of this mysterious Lyanna.

When she found it, she almost wished she hadn't.

It was titled "Requiescat - for Lyanna" and dated only 1817. The little girl had died when she was only eight or nine. It looked as though Killian had written both music and words:

Tread lightly, she is near

Under the snow,

Speak gently, she can hear

The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair

Tarnished with rust,

She that was young and fair

Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow,

She hardly knew

She was a woman, so

Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone,

Lie on her breast,

I vex my heart alone

She is at rest.

Peace, Peace, she cannot hear

Lyre or sonnet,

All my life's buried here,

Heap earth upon it.*

Tears burned Emma's eyes as she read it. Apparently, Killian was a damn good poet too. She shouldn't have been surprised, but there it was.

Quickly, she rifled to the bottom of the stack, hoping for a happier distraction. She wasn't disappointed.

The bottom piece of music was dated 1804 and written in a messy, young child's hand. It was called "Summer Roses - For Mama". However, in spite of the childlike writing, the content of the music itself looked complicated.

"Great," Emma muttered to herself. It would be just her luck if he ended up being some sort of child prodigy.

She placed the music back into the cupboard carefully, moving to the last unexplored area of the cabin: the drawers under the bed.

The top one contained a sketchbook. Emma opened it to find Milah's name printed neatly in the corner of the cover. Well, now she knew that Milah was an artist. Perhaps the portrait of her was by her own hand. Maybe that meant it was overly flattering? At the very least, it meant that she was vain enough to draw pictures of herself. The thought made Emma oddly satisfied.

She became more grateful to Milah as she rifled through the book, though. Mostly, it had pictures of Killian; Killian sleeping, Killian laughing and looking more carefree than Emma had ever seen, Killian at the helm of the ship...

The person most featured after Killian was a little boy, who Emma assumed must be Neal. He had been a cute child. Seeing him and remembering that he was dead hurt, sending a dull ache through her. She wondered if Neal had ever known how much Milah had loved him; she must have loved him very much to draw him so often. Emma felt a strange sense of - perhaps grudging - camaraderie with the woman, if only because she could relate to a mother's love.

Emma carefully placed the sketchbook back into the drawer, almost wishing that she could take it with her.

The next drawer held an assortment of portraits and papers. The top one immediately caught Emma's eye. A thin woman with dark, gently curled hair and striking, sharp features smiled happily from a small, painted portrait. She was a beautiful woman, with her black hair contrasting starkly against her pale skin. Most striking of all were her eyes, which were bright blue like a tropical ocean. She was all angles, with sharp cheekbones and sharp dimples, but a certain kindness seemed to bleed through underneath. She looked positively elegant in a long white wedding gown. Beside her, a tall, muscled man with a strong jaw and wavy brown hair smiled seriously up at her. His eyes were grey-blue, and everything about him looked serious. Underneath, the pair were identified as "Christine and Edward Jones, 1794", but Emma didn't even need to read it to know that she was looking at Killian's parents. Killian was almost the spitting image of his mother.

Emma looked through each picture carefully, identifying different family members of Killian's. She found Liam, who looked more like his father than his mother. She also found Lyanna, although her picture was only a rough sketch. Nonetheless, the artist captured the little girl well enough that Emma felt herself mourning her, which was ridiculous when she was a stranger who had been dead for almost two hundred years.

She was so wrapped up in looking at the pictures that she didn't hear Killian come back down the ladder.

"What are you doing?" He demanded, more in surprise than in anger.

Emma jumped, almost dropping the sketch.

"You said to make myself at home," she bit back defensively.

Killian carefully stepped over his unconscious self and moved towards her, face expressionless.

"Who was she?" Emma asked softly when he was close enough to clearly see the sketch of Lyanna.

Killian frowned, taking the picture from her with a slightly trembling hand.

"No one that would concern you," he finally said, voice tight, placing the picture back in the drawer with the others and closing it abruptly. "We should get going, Swan."

Emma opened her mouth to argue, but Killian was already leaving, anger and sadness radiating through the tenseness of his body.

With a last look around the cabin, feeling as though she couldn't look at it in the same way anymore, she followed her companion. Somehow, she couldn't help but feel as though her exploration had left her with more questions than answers.

This beautiful poem is actually by Oscar Wilde.