Disclaimer: I don't own anything

Summary: Two near-miss occurrences prior, their threads cross again, in the middle of nowhere, sharing stories and loaded looks over wine and mead, during a mountain blizzard. Belle's traveled the world; her former employer is glad to hear the tale. Belle/Tavern Rumbelle

Prompt from dreamingrain: "East of the Sun, West of the Moon"

"Wine comes in at the mouth
And loves comes in at the eye;
That's all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh."
A Drinking Song – William Butler Yeats

As the door to the tavern and hunger hall opens and shuts, blowing in more snow from the storm outside, Belle wonders just how long she will have to stay in these parts. She watches the newcomer settle in at the bar—just another hooded, stranded traveler, like herself.

She has journeyed from three towns over where she'd been stranded ever since the snow had closed off the mountain passes. The blizzard came as a complete surprise, for they are almost out of winter days. Now, she'd never make it back to the port cities, at least until there is a large enough thaw, or she has the means to travel the long way around.

So, when she'd heard about the famed, golden spinning wheel being traded to men from the islands, a week's journey as the crow flies, Belle had decided it was worth the trip to see if a better deal, or mysterious disappearance, could be worked out.

Like many rumors, it had all come to naught, and now here she was, stuck in a tavern and town much like the one from which she'd come, wondering just how she was going to make it till springtime in the same place.

Though, for tonight, at least, she has a plan.

She sits close to the fire; Belle's never been one to enjoy the cold. Her hooded and lined cloak obscures her face, adding a touch of mystery, and she slouches, along with the rest of the crowd. She draws no attention to herself—that will come later.

She smiles as she sees the cook exiting the kitchen, arms laden with food and drink. The portly woman breezes past Belle, winking. She makes no movement of recognition, as the cook moves to a nearby table, setting down three platters. Belle has parted with a few silver pieces earlier this evening—the woman had better come through.

She watches as the men of the table speak with the bar-mistress, who points over to Belle's table. "Aye, that's her."

She hears their talk grow louder, and the one-time princess holds in a smile—so it begins.

"Aye, highwaywoman," one of the burly and bearded men from the table calls. "Is it true you're—"

"The runaway salt slave from Tarshish; yes, it's true."

"The very one responsible for the White Rebellion? No lass, not a chance—that's a right laugh, that is," he raises his mug and begins to clank glasses with his tablemates.

"Salt slaves have no rights, nor laughs," Belle pulls back her sleeve on her left arm, revealing an intricately branded "S." When the men see the blackened skin, their laughter dies down. "Proof enough for you?"

"By the gods, I can't believe it."

"Believe it good sir, and buy me the same dish you've just been served and I'll share my tale of just how I did it, truer than what the salt-traders will tell you. They lie through their teeth, with weighted scales, selling bags with pebbles in the bottom—you'll sooner get honest talk from a siren."

The man at the table rummages in his coin purse and draws out enough for a meal, handing it over to the cook. "You heard the woman: she'll 'ave same as me." The cook hurries off, as heads turn to Belle all around the pub, "Now, on with your story, slave girl."

That is how Belle does it. Only one tale of daring-deed, her travels having become a little on the known side, and she makes enough to scrape by for the next week. She supposes that makes her current profession bard of a sort, to add to her steadily growing list, including (but not limited to) salt miner, privateer, navigator, and, as always, maid, among others.

She takes a bite of the stew the cook brought her and another sip of her mulled wine. "So, once the overseer was out of the way, it was all rather simple: knock out the rigged pegs from the silos and run like hell!"

The tavern explodes in laughter, and she laughs along too. Looking back, it was an amusing tale, however living it had been another matter altogether—there was a trick to that too, for no tavern of drunks plucks silver out their pockets for a somber tale.

She picks up her bowl, drinking down the rest of the brown liquid, as another voice calls out to her, a little more slurred than the first, "You may be the salt slave girl, but you can't expect us to believe you're the self-same girl of Captain Gwynek's crew. We may be no city-folk, but we're not stupid." He knocks his glass on the table, "Here, here," the townsman calls and the bar echoes back scattered reply-knocks.

"You've got it wrong, sir," She laughs lightly, "I wasn't one of Gwynek's crewmen, I was their stolen maid."

Another voice, off to the left, by the door, "And is it true, what they say, that Gwynek's no bigger than a man-child?"

"'Tis true, but I must say, two things of his are larger," she pauses and watches—this part never gets old, excepting when you've told the jest at least a thousand times—as the men of the tavern lean in, waiting on her words. "His stench and his ego." The place roils over with laughter, and she asks, raising her mug, "Who'll give me coin for the rest of the tale? It's quite fine, absconded by pirates with a dwarf captain, only to be sold to the salt mines."

More than a few coins are tossed her way. Belle doesn't bother collecting them just yet. She has a story to tell first. "It's true what they say: women are bad luck upon the high seas, or that's at least what Gwynek and his men came to believe after I was through with them…"

He settles for the night in a place far away from the lands where he deals and their wars and the queen and her cursing. Where a person from the Orient, with their thick, straight, black mustaches, that never need for untangling, will be the talk of the town for a month at least. Where spices from the Levant trade for twice their weight in gold. Where children are not sold and traded for precious jewels, but left out when there are too many mouths to feed, for scavengers and the elements to fight over.

Here in all the places, farther away from their known world than east is from west, he stumbles upon her.

He's just finished making a spectacular trade for a magic spinning wheel, made of solid gold and able to spin unbreakable thread (but most people, the seller included, only know about the gold part) when the blasted storm hits.

Rumpelstiltskin hates the snow; he hates leaving tracks. So, becloaked and cold (and snappingly irritable) he descends upon the tavern and inn in which he'll have to spend the night. He enters, orders a pint, sitting at the bar, and thinks of little except his general disdain for humanity, until he hears that voice.

Belle.

Her travels, her wiles, fill his ears as he drinks his mead.

He listens, not bothering to eat. He can't yet bring himself to turn and look, but thinks instead that apparently she got what she wanted.

For two tales, he teeters between standing and going to her or leaving without so much as a glance, but as she tells the hall of how she'd tricked the pirates into believing her cursed, precipitating their selling her to the salt mines, he finds that if he leaves now, he'll hate himself more than he already does.

He doesn't remember walking or moving, but somehow he's right in front of her table. "Looks like someone's rather far from home."

She looks up, blinking rapidly, but then, she pushes back her surprise, "A bit pot calling the kettle black, don't you think?"

They stare for a fire-lit moment. They're both cloaked and strangers far away and snow-locked. They've more in common now than they've probably ever had or ever will again.

"You're not following me, are you, dearie?" he asks, wiggling a finger in her face.

"Hardly," she scoffs, "Good to see some things never change."

"To whatever do you refer?"

"Your ego." She rolls her eyes, "I was two towns over when I heard about a deal too good to pass up, but it was just tavern-talk, I found out." Belle shrugs, "I could have been out of here by Lammastide; now I'll probably be stuck till spring." She looks up frowning, "You can sit down you know." She motions to the empty chair across from her.

Oddly enough, Rumpelstiltskin takes it, "So, you've seen the world, or so I've heard."

She smiles, "Yes, I suppose I have."

He wants to ask her again, because, he knows in his bones, a chance like this will never come again. So he does, "And is it everything you hoped?"

Her smile falls at the rehearsed line, but her expressionless face bears no ill will (and Rumpelstiltskin is good at ignoring regret). "No dream is ever exactly what one hopes. It's always bit more and less. Some parts better than others, of course."

He nods, thinking that's exactly as he'd describe her since last they'd met: more and less. Less hair, but now it's wild, the curls pouring out from beneath her hood. Face more angular, but there's a color to it that speaks of life and sun.

Suddenly, with whatever amount of heart Rumpelstiltskin has left, he wants to give her money or golden thread or a thimble—in some parts of the world, he hears that counts for something. However, he holds back on all of these desires.

Instead he says, "Another round? For your tale of before you came to be in the dwarf captain's company?"

Belle wears a pained and bruised look for a second before locking it away, putting on her smile again, "Only if you're paying." The imp smirks and stands to go to the bar, but she calls out, "I've not told you what I'm having."

"I know what you drink, dearie."

She sighs, "'Course you do. Now don't go breaking any cups. It might actually cost you something here."

It's not the first their threads have crossed, in this tavern, in the snow-capped mountains. It's simply the only time they've known of it.

The first, Belle had been washing clothes for the Moorish caravan, when he'd been farther up the line, a few miles at least, of camels and horses, tents and trunks, trading for a barrel of enchanted apples—because he had a certain buyer in mind, who he thought would surely desire the magic bushel. They don't meet, but she later hears a description of that afternoon's dealmaker and drinks tea with her dinner instead of water or wine.

The second happens almost a year and a half later, she's free with a touch of fame about her, due to the salt and the pirates. Belle finds herself apprenticed, without really agreeing, to a cobbler. She'd only gone in because after walking halfway cross the desert back to the sea, she'd worn right through her slave sandals.

"You'll learn the trade. It'll take no time at all."

"And why can't I just pay you and be on my merry way?" She asks, half in mirth, half in irritation—she's never liked being told what to do.

"Because if you're going to walk about the world, you need to know how to fix your own damn shoes." She stays to learn.

One day, her master sends her off to pawn an old, ivory carding comb, for it's been a hard year with little business.

The local witch who buys the item from Belle could have told her she'd just missed a man (or rather a once-was-a-man) who'd been in to buy charmed medicine. He'd even had his tealeaves read, against his will, and been shown a barely stalk—the sight hadn't surprised him.

However, the city witch says nothing, over pays and does not know it. Belle pockets the extra earnings, and when she gives the money over to her master, he smiles, not knowing she's cheated him with a smile. Belle misses the knowing smirk of her last employer, who'd never have been fooled by such a ruse.

She tells him of her travels, her journeys and trials. How she'd met a Moorish band, off to join a caravan, stopping only to bury their cook—the plague knows no nationality nor creed—passing through dwarf country. They talk, and by the night's end offer her the job.

"I thought, why not? I'd certainly enough practice cooking and cleaning, and after all, I'd always wanted to see the sea."

He smirks, "Moors eh?"

"Yes. I rather liked them." Belle leans back in her chair, looking to the ceiling, and he knows she's remembering. "They taught me so much. That's where I learned to travel by the stars—they taught me on their astrolabe," She looks back to him. "Not as fine as yours, of course. Honestly, it was in rather poor shape."

I cold have taught you that. I could have taught you stars and constellations.

She blinks, sighing, "Anyway, soon enough I started translating for them. That's how I met Gwynek. Didn't like what I'd had to say, apparently."

"Who knows; maybe it was your accent," he teases, and she laughs.

"Strange you should mention my accent."

"And why is that?"

"I met a man on the road to Perth who said my accent quite strange." She leans forward to tell of this curio she'd stumbled upon. Without realizing it, he mimics her movements.

"We walked together for a time, and he told me the strangest things. Said his name was Autumn, because, he said, the spring and summer of his life had already passed, yet he wasn't old. He was rather young actually."

"Some are older than they look." Rumpelstiltskin raises an eyebrow and takes a large swig of mead.

"Perhaps you're right, but I wasn't so sure. I asked if that had always been his name or if he'd fashioned it for himself. Well," she smiles, happy to divulge her secret, "I was right. He'd picked it for himself, and just before we part, I got him to finally tell me his old name."

"Well done. Names are powerful things."

"True. Then, he offered me his old name." Belle laughed at the memory. "I almost took it. Rather liked it, in any case."

"And why didn't you, dearie?"

Then she speaks him platitudes, higher than he can dare hope to reach. "You can't just take someone else's name—a name has to be given or grown into or chosen. Taking someone else's, it's like taking a lie and calling it truth."

"Yes, but many do that all the time without any trouble of conscious whatsoever."

They fall silent, and Belle realizes she's brought them into tricky territory with her overactive mouth—she'd always been too loose of speech with him, as memory told it. Territory tricky as that herd of trolls she ran into a month back.

They're sipping silently, when he asks, "If I may be so bold, what was his name?"

"He made me swear an oath not to tell, but it was alive, like magic. Though, not for me. After I swore the oath he did the strangest thing. He told me he was proud of me for following my dreams. I laughed and said how can a stranger be proud of another they hardly know, and he said pride is just admiration directed at a person." Belle suddenly looks sheepish, but continues, "After we'd parted ways, I felt rather relieved, and to be honest, I wondered if that's how you'd felt with all my blathering."

"What, proud?"

"No, it was just he was rather pretentious with all his talk of pride and names and oaths." She smiles, but there is a bitter aftertaste in the sight. "I wondered if I'd come off as pompous and conceited, full of my own wisdom, to you," she says, but he knows it's more a question.

He relieves her fears, "No. You were many things, but not that." Then he lets his own fears show, "This traveler made an impression on you, it seems."

She frowns, but can't help but feel satisfied at the jealousy that hides in the corners of his words. "Not really, it's just, he had these eyes. They—" she stops abruptly, before she can say how they'd reminded and sparked. Instead, she shrugs and lets it die, "Just stuck with me for some reason."

"I feel the other way too, you know," as he speaks he doesn't look at her.

"What way?"

"Proud." Rumpelstiltskin stands, "I'll get the next round."

At the first crossroads outside the kingdom, he speaks to her for the first time, since they've been alone. Rumpelstiltskin asks, "Are you afraid?" Crossroads being unholy places, where witches meet, decisions are made and dead men hung as warnings; it seems an appropriate enough place to start their relationship. Though, it's not like she could turn back, even if she did fear him.

"No," she says, "I'm not."

"Well that's rather unwise, dearie. There's a reason everyone only comes to me as a last resort."

"Yes, but I'm not with here to make a deal, only to keep one."

"Good gracious, have you seen the state the soles of your shoes are in? How can you walk in this weather?" The girl exclaims as he sits back down.

She is always so pleasant, he thinks, until she starts in with the mothering, that is.

He slides her mug across the table, "I hadn't exactly planned on staying overlong."

"Well, I would offer to resole them for you, but I'm out of leather, and I'd have to do both shoes—can't have two mismatched soles."

"And what, prey, could you possibly know about the condition of my sole?" He asks bending over to examine the leather dress shoe—one not at all made for winter wear—when he realizes that despite the plural, he's asked a dangerous question.

She snorts into her drink, high and surprised. There they are, back in tricky territory, speaking truths with riddles, as only the fools do. Like before.

Like always.

She sets down her cup and answers with the same fool's language, "I imagine, more than you'd like me to, sir."

He thinks her words aren't true, but he's not exactly sure which part of them.

Belle looks away from him and into her spice drink. Then, she sets aside her jester's cap and words, "I apprenticed for Albert Schumacher of Perth, within the second wall."

"Perth, you say, how long?"

"Oh gods, half a year about, ever since the mines."

Oh yes, the mines he'd blow from here to the lost worlds if they still stood. Those mines.

"What?" she asks, eyeing him curiously.

"Nothing. Do you know the apothecary two doors down from the slaughterhouse?"

"Witch Mavis? She's the one always with flowers in her hair."

Zucchini flowers, to be exact, in her gray mane, yes, that one. "Hm, can't quite recall the name, but that may be the one. Possibly."

"Not the brightest magicked person, I must say. Why do you ask?"

"No reason. You really aren't following me?"

"Would it really be such an atrocious thing if I was?"

No. Never.

"I'll get the next round," Belle says, not waiting for an answer, because she knows it will take much, much too long in the coming.

He deigns to turn and watch her walk to the bar; she only trips twice. The second time her hood falls back and he sees that her unruly hair is piled atop her head, the curls spilling about her face and neck, and—

Good gods, what is that?

Rumpelstiltskin ponders what is assuredly no shadow about her neck, as he waits. She's full of surprises this time, perhaps even more than usual. As she rejoins him, hood still off, he says, "I see you've met with a skin scribe."

She had just begun to pull her hood back up, but at his words, lets it drop, instead grabbing at the back of her neck, a bit nervously, where her tattoo resides. "Yes, it was rather silly. More of a dare really."

"Whatever is it supposed to be?"

"I was told it's a symbol for freedom and independence, but I've not a word of their language; it could mean 'chamber pot' for all I know."

He gestures with his finger for her to turn, so he can examine the marking. He looks at the mar on her fair neck (though this most current disfigurement he finds much less revolting than the slave brand). He recognizes this script. He learned some time, many a score back, how to read the medical tomes of the brown-bodied southerners, with their dye and spices. He's bought tea and tobacco off them more than once, when there's been little to find in his haunts. "Aye, it means what you think it does, more or less."

More and less, fitting for her.

She turns back to face him and pulls up the hood. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't disappointed. "That's a relief to find out."

"However, I should mention it holds implication of flight, or perhaps exile is closer."

She laughs, "That's rather ironic, but then I'm finding life recommends itself to the ironic, don't you think?"

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Well, for instance, when I was sold to the mines, the only thing I could think of was this memory I have of the first banquet I ever attended. At dinner that night, I asked my father where salt came from, in front of the whole court. It seemed like such a magical thing to me at the time. 'Don't ask such impertinent questions,' he'd said."

"So he didn't know."

"Yes, exactly, but then there I was, working in a salt mine. I certainly got my answer, didn't I?" She laughs, and he bloody well wonders how.

He doesn't join in either, because after all, he's never been much for irony. Then he can stand it no longer, "So exile, why didn't you return home?"

She scoffs, "Same reason Gwynek and his iron ship sold me after that hurricane—they believed I was cursed and had finally brought my fortunes down upon their heads."

"Because you'd been tainted by—"

"Rumors, yes."

He growls, because he hates to be interrupted, as she should well recall, "I was going to say association."

Belle rolls her eyes at his irritation, "In any case, it's not like it was really my home anymore. What was there to go back to? Having my voice ignored and being forced into marriage or rigid court customs?"

Or forced into a convent, he thinks, but does not add.

"No, I wanted to see the world, so that's what I did."

"Rather brave of you," he says.

She smiles bright for him—just him. "It's your turn to get the drinks, I think."

After a few more rounds there's a rowdy call for song. So for a bit more coin, the bard-for-the-night agrees to sing a little ditty. The drunken men go surprisingly silent as Belle sings a common song of red dye and reels, of begging bread and parents wishing death upon their offspring.

It's not the first he's heard her sing, nor the first he's heard this song (not a song of her homeland, nor the winterlands they wander, but she's gathered it, like all her bits and scars from around the corners of the earth and made it hers more or less).

Truly, hers is not the best voice in the world, and she goes flat more than once, but as the crisp sound fills the hall, speaking of spinning wheels, love and loss, all the listeners can't help but be enchanted. She sings sharp as iron, sad as the last days of winter, and more than one male eye, Rumpelstiltskin notes, follows the lovely line of her jaw, as well as lines he'll not mention.

She finishes, and the dark tavern, in the middle of frozen hell bursts into a raucous applause.

She bows—for no highwaywoman curtsies, even those who once wore crowns and ball gowns—and sits back down, smiling. As she counts her coins, she asks, "So, speaking of spinning wheels, how much did the deal cost you?"

He raises an eyebrow, "To which deal are you referring, dearie?"

"The golden wheel; that's what brought you here, no?"

He smirks at the slip of her accent, "You said it yourself: those were just rumors."

Belle looks at him, as she ties up her, now full, coin purse. "No rumor would bring you to this godforsaken ice block. So, was the trade enough to make the trip worth it?"

I could have sold a pound of golden thread for rusty iron scraps and it still would be more than worth it.

"Let's just say that in the end, it will have been worth my time."

"But why did you want the thing in the first place? As I recall, gold is your specialty."

"Lower your voice," he censures. No need to alert more than already have realized that the infamous dealmaker is in their presence. Rumpelstiltskin thinks of riddling away an answer, to keep something from her. He's given so much tonight, already. Instead he says, "What it's made of isn't it's value; it's what it has the power to do."

She leans forward, eyes wide, "What does it do?"

"It spins unbreakable thread."

"Well that is rather fantastic. Will you spin that as well, from now on?" She laughs and they both know she's a little drunk, for he can see it in her cheeks, but then so is he.

Which is why he can be more honest and not worry that he'll cause her to cry or something worse. Like try to do that one thing again. "Perhaps; make cloth for empire-minded kings at outrageous prices."

"Their children?"

"Sometimes, but you know my collection is rather varied." He finishes his drink, "After all, magical items tend to be a bit more predictable."

She's cared for his live merchandise on more than one occasion—she doesn't admit to being one, however. "Now that's a question: what's more unpredictable magic or people?"

"I daresay people, for you always know the scales must stay even with the other." All magic comes with a price. "But with people, they tend to obscure their costs."

Belle sighs and they go silent, choosing to just sit in the tension of the territory to which they keep returning. They listen to the storm, the din of the bar folk, and the cackling fire, and for then, it's chatter enough.

The tavern's nigh near empty, for most the men have trudged through knee-high drifts to their homes and sober wives, and the fire's close to dead by the time the two strangers approach the barman for the keys to their rooms.

The barman, a burly man with ginger hair, eyes them both, as he lights small tapers for them. He hands the first candle to Belle and she nods, smiling a bit too large—she wouldn't normally be so unguarded to a stranger, but she's feeling gregarious and oddly safe.

The barman holds out a candle to the shrouded imp, who steps back, away from the light.

Belle shakes her head, tsk-ing, "Oh, I'll take his."

The barman raises an eyebrow. "Should have known, what with the two of you sharing a table the whole of the night," he passes it to the girl, with a smirk. "Of course you'd be carrying his candle."

Before Rumpelstiltskin can tear the mountainman limb from limb, Belle shakes her head and retorts, "Oh yes, very witty. You're certainly the first to think that one up, aren't you?"

She turns to leave and her former employer follows, after of course giving the pub owner a look that could have killed—had the magician willed it to.

Rumpelstiltskin follows her to her door, across and a door down from his own.

"Hold this, would you?" She extends the tallow candle to him.

He stares at it in disdain, not quite sure what she'd have him do.

"Oh bloody hell, it's just a candle. I can't unlock the door and hold them both, now can I?"

Finally he takes the light into his hands. It's not like it's the first time she's seen him by candlelight.

She opens the door and immediately begins to rummage around. He peeks a head in, whispering, "Whatever are you looking for?"

"A candle-stand, of course. Two, actually." She opens the chest of drawers, upon which an unadorned copper washbasin sits, "Ah hah!" She pulls out two candlestick stands, setting them on the cabinet. She slips in the first candle and then walks back over to the doorway. "Here, I'll fix yours for you." She reaches a hand to take the candle from him, but perhaps the wine, or her natural tendency toward ill-founded depth perception, but she knocks into the blasted thing, splashing wax all down his hand and cuff, extinguishing the light in the process.

Rumpelstiltskin hisses at the hot tallow hitting his skin—or scales, rather—and drops the candle. "Damnit, woman."

"Oh no! I'm so sorry." She grabs his hand and starts examining it. Belle rubs her thumb over the drops of coarse wax, quickly drying on him.

"You know, in some lands, what you just did renders a curse."

Deadpan, she says, "Is that so?" She doesn't bother looking up, instead she begins to gently peal off the wax drippings with her index fingernail. "You know, when I was little, candle-making day was always a favorite of mine. I would make these molds when the nuns who oversaw the whole thing weren't looking."

"What sorts of molds?"

"All sorts. That's how I got the idea, you see, to make a mold of the overseer's keys."

He doesn't say a thing, for he's distracted at the moment by the feeling of the tallow tugging at him as it comes loose, by her fingertips.

"Didn't you think that rather cunning of me?"

Again, he doesn't answer, for he still isn't listening. Instead, he's being lulled by the glow of her room, pulling him in like a moth, or a June bug, rather.

"Anyway, when I was a girl, I'd started with wax flowers mostly, though once, I did make a mold of my hand. When my mother saw, she thought I'd burned the thing clean off," she sniggers furtively, "Ironic, don't you think?"

"Oh yes, didn't your mother ever tell you not to drop tallow nor look at manfolk by candlelight? It only leads to evil."

She peals off the last bubble, dropping it on the floor. "She died before she could offer much advice on how to handle men by candlelight."

Belle looks up, wiping her waxy hands on her dirty cloak, and instantly he realizes that they each stand on one side of her threshold. Rumpelstiltskin knows, in that instant, he could ask anything of this foot traveler, and she'd oblige.

She did after all carry his candle.

He could stand where he is and ask her to come back (home) with him. He could step in and kiss her and run away with her tomorrow—though, he'd only slow her down, being a cripple and a coward, after all. He could pass the doorframe and not kiss her mouth, but instead make love only to her body and be gone by first light. He could walk away and do nothing at all, not even take his candle.

Or he could stand there forever, if only she'd just let him keep looking at her.

"What? Is there something on my face?" She asks, then teasing, she adds, "Please tell me you're not going to turn into a bear from a few drops of wax; I'm much to tired to deal with that tonight."

He scoffs. "Not likely."

Suddenly she exclaims, "I almost forgot!" Belle bends over picking up the dropped candle and goes back into her room. She adjusts it in the stand and lights it from the other taper. "Here you are; right as rain," she hands him the light, and he takes it from her.

"Thank you."

Belle smiles to him, and he doesn't think it's at all because she's been drinking. "See you in the morning."

Not bloody likely. "Good night, dearie."

Belle groans and rolls over, to get away from the morning light spilling in her window. She's a bit of a headache and wants to go back to sleep. She's just about to nod off again, when the voices start.

"Can you believe it, Tati? The junker 'imself, in 'ese parts."

"Aye, that's what I heard too. Alex was telling the butcher that he was seen two towns over."

Belle's eyes go wide, but she makes no move, listening for the maids to go on with their gossip.

"Some 're saying 'e's after a runaway slave."

"Not the way I heard it. Here, hold this basket a moment, would you?"

"You think she's more 'an 'is servant?"

"Why else would he come all the way out here? Nay, it would take something more important to bring the likes of Rampelnik."

Belle hears the women move on down the hall. She sits up grumbling. Though inaccurate on more than one count, she knows rumors will breed investigation and eventually the truth will come out. Time to move on, like it or not. She rubs her eyes, standing to stretch. She walks over to the washbasin and mirror, but when she picks up the washcloth, there's a surprise waiting beneath: a compass and spool of thread.

She picks up both items, but after the initial excitement over a surprise, she saddens, realizing that it means he's already gone. However, looking down again, she sees a note in his hand: 'The first, for the cloudy nights. The second, for severance pay.' She shakes her head at the words 'severance pay.' Can't admit to sentimentality to the last, it seems.

She measures the Golden thread in her hands. Certainly, it's enough to get back to Perth by the end of Lammastide, even the long route.

She takes a look at herself in the mirror. Her hair's wilder than last night. She's a headache from drink and bags under her eyes that make her look older than she is, and she smells of smoke from the fire, but she's money and well-cobbled shoes, even a shiny new compass. She's travels to make, stories to tell, and now, at least, one more memory to keep her warm at night.

A/N: The East of the Sun, West of the Moon references include: 1. the three items that bring them together, the Apple, Carding-Comb, and Golden Spinning Wheel, 2. When he asks her if she is afraid, and, 3. when she drops tallow on him and asks if he'll turn into a bear.

For the additional historiosities, oh so many oddities in this one; did you catch them all?

- Lammastide – beginning of the Harvest (so yes a very early snow… but they are in the mountains… and this is my story, I liked how it sounded…), also in Romeo and Juliet, it's Juliet's birthday, which is symbolism for her dying before her relationship with Romeo can be fully "harvested" much like the tragic nature of Rumbelle…

- Gwynek – the first Old English name I came across that resonated.

- Ok, Perth… yeah that's just a city in Australia I'm obsessed with. Awk.

- Tarsish – a Biblical city with a number of meanings. Generally it was meant for a far away place. Possible real locations include Carthage, the Phoenician capital of Tyre, Tartessos in Southern Spain, Sardinia, and a couple cities in Greece and Asia Minor. I like the name mostly.

- Levant – old term for the Middle East (I think more specifically Lebanon and Syria)

- Barely stalks can represent death and loss in Japanese culture

- Rampelnik – Rumpelstiltskin's name in the Czech Republic

- The Junker – the English translation of his Russian Name

- Who is Autumn? Oh you know who it is.

- The song she sings is Suil a Ruin—the quintessential Rumbelle anthem.