Chapter 1: She Who Laughs First

Her Majesty Queen Regina of the Enchanted Forest and assorted lesser holdings was—for the moment—a merry old soul, so she called for her pipe and she called for her bowl and she called for her fiddlers three, and she even allowed her Magic Mirror to get in on the celebration. And the reason for her extraordinary merriment, so unlike her usual out-of-my-way-before-I-stomp-on-you demeanor? After more than fifteen months, she had finally, finally finished The Plan.

After all that intensive labor, casting the curse itself would be easy. She'd had no idea, when she'd so hungrily snapped her jaws around the idea that Rumplestiltskin had dangled before her (yes, yes, she knew he was using her, but so what? She'd have the last laugh when her curse wiped away his memory along with everyone else's), how detailed the damn thing would be. She figured she'd just toss a few ingredients (eye of newt, toe of frog, that sort of thing) into a cauldron and boom! Boiled curse, coming right up. But no, oh no no no, Rumplestiltskin had clicked his tongue and shaken his finger at her: revenge is never easy, and this is the curse to top all curses, yadda yadda yadda, and before she could even think about cauldrons, she had to plan every damn detail of the life to come in the new world. Everyone she wanted to invite to the party had to have a new identity, from the name—Rumple made her spend entire days selecting names for the principal characters in her little play—to the haircut. She worked out what they'd wear, how they earned their living, what they'd eat for Sunday brunch—you name it, she planned it. And the more she discovered she had to plan, the shorter her invitation list got, because who wants to work so hard on behalf of strangers?

And just when she had identities for all three hundred of her guests (okay, she fudged a little and handed over two-thirds of the work to Daddy and the Mirror), just when she thought she was through, Rumplestiltskin—now just a hop and a skip short of Crazy Town, after more than a year in Charming's prison (you talk about evil! After seeing Charming's theory of criminal rehabilitation put into practice, Regina would have gladly signed him up as sergeant of the Royal Guard)—shook his finger and tsk'ed at her again. "Dearie, dearie, dear, you're only halfway there. Now you have an entire village to plan: roads, bridges, shops, schools, homes, etcetera, etcetera. Back to work. Off with you now!" (For a second there, she thought he'd said, "Off with your head.")

She was tired and bored and ready to throw in the proverbial towel at this point. "Ah hell with it; let all these people build their own damn village."

"Nuh uh uh! To do that would require progress, wouldn't it? And if any one of these people experiences the slightest change in his day-to-day routine, he's going to suspect something, isn't he? He's going to start to wonder why no one else changes: gets older, gets wiser, leaves town, dies. When people wonder, they ask questions: when they ask questions, they start to think for themselves. They wake up, dearie! No, no, you must provide everything for them, right down to the 'his and hers' towels they hang in their bathrooms."

"This will take forever!" she whined and winced.

"All right then, perhaps I can take some of the work off your hands."

"What's your price?" For she wasn't about to let him pull the wool over her eyes again.

"I want to be rich." He had this all thought out; being much older and more experienced and better traveled than she, he knew that in most lands, might may be right, but money is the ultimate power, and people could be controlled by it more easily, less messily than by brute strength. But Rumple also knew that magic requires specificity, and he must fill in all the colors himself, leaving no room for Regina's creativity, else he'd end up miserable in this new land. "I want to be the richest person in town, with so much money that if I work for a living, it will be simply for the entertainment of it, not for need."

"But I'm going to be the ruler in this new land. I should have the most money."

"You can be the second-richest. If you want my help—"

"All right, you're the richest." She'd find a way to get back at him, anyway.

"And I want financial security. I want to own the entire village—except for your house, of course."

Oh, they'd fought a good two weeks over that point, until finally, frazzled, she gave in. Once again, she figured, being the ruler, she would have power over him and could simply tax him into poverty.

"One last thing. I want the comfort of a supportive, attentive, obedient wife, sweet-natured and demure, in her twenties or early thirties. Oh, and, uh, I'm a leg man." She swore she detected a blush beneath his scales. "And to encourage her attentiveness, make me good looking and well dressed."

"Fine, good looks, nice clothes, a leggy wife." She thrust a stack of parchments at him, along with a box of quills and a bag of bottles of ink. "I'll be back in one week. It had better be ready to roll out then." She figured he wouldn't make her deadline, and then she could dock him on some of his demands, but the completed parchments were waiting when she returned seven days later. Their deal, then, was struck, and honestly, she didn't mind acceding to his demands; she had the final say over this curse anyway.

So as she celebrated the completion of her labors and the coming of the curse, Regina drank and ate and danced and laughed in her glass towers. And that night, as she took pleasure in the arms of her Huntsman (oh you better believe he'd be coming to the new world with her!), fireworks went off in her brain as well as her body, and she then had the last line for her curse: the perfect way to get back at everybody who had crossed her!

In this new village, this new life under her thumb, there would be fireworks for no one except herself and the Huntsman. It was even more perfect because she could always blame Rumplestiltskin for it ("You said no lives could change—well, lovemaking leads to love and babies, so in Storybrooke no one except me will ever make love!").

In the final moments before she cast the curse, Regina had one more brain orgasm. . . .

As the morning sun casts its gentle rays upon his manly bed (firm mattress, brown bedding), David Nolan stretches and smiles and slips into his carpet slippers. Before exiting his bedroom, he cinches the belt of his terrycloth robe and makes certain it's completely closed, for, should he run into the missus on his way to the bathroom, he wouldn't want to shock her. After all, she's a lady and deserving of a gentleman's respect.

After his morning ablutions, he returns to his bedroom to dress for the workday: neatly pressed jeans and equally pressed t-shirt, for the wife takes pride in her husband's appearance as well as her own. When in public, he represents her: other wives will judge her housekeeping by his appearance. Now ready for the day, he patters into the kitchen, where coffee and bacon greet his nose and his wife greets his cheek with a good-morning kiss. "And how are you this fine day, sweetheart?" he asks.

"Hunky-dory, darling. And you?" She drops two slices of whole wheat into the toaster before smiling over her shoulder at him.

"Splendid, and it appears the weather will be, too. I believe I'll bicycle to work this morning." As he pours himself a cup of joe, he pats his tummy. "I seem to have added a few pounds since we married—too many second helpings of your wonderful cooking."

Expertly she catches the toast as it pops up, cuts the slices diagonally down the middle and lays them on his plate at the 3:00 position. At the 6:00 position she has two sunny-side-ups waiting, and at the 9:00, three strips of crisp bacon. One teaspoon of half-and-half for his coffee and he's all set.

She sits across from him at their Formica table and sips her Earl Grey as he butters his toast. "Do you have any new animals at the shelter?"

"No, the same as yesterday." Never mind the fact that technically, there was no yesterday, this being the first day of Storybrooke's existence. But the false memories that the curse delivers to all the residents, excepting Regina, lead everyone to think they'd lived here for ages.

"And were there any adoptions yesterday?"

"No, a few lookie-loos, but no adoptions." He crunches his toast (always work clockwise down the plate, his sense of etiquette tells him). "Do you have anything special planned for today, sweet?"

"I'll deliver books to the hospital patients at 9:00, then story time is at 10:00, and this afternoon the third-grade is coming for a tour."

"Sounds like a full day," he says, admiring his eggs.

Never mind the fact that his memory tells him they've asked each other these same questions and given the same answers every morning at precisely 8:10; his memory also tells him that these questions have to be asked and these answers have to be given: it's what married people do, just as, at promptly 8:15, he will rise, pat his mouth with a napkin, rinse his dishes in the sink, set them in the dishwasher (a considerate husband helps with the washing up), kiss his wife's cheek, lift his jacket from the hook at the back door, and dash out to his waiting bicycle; and at 6:09, as it's payday, he will deposit his check in the bank, call his wife to ask if she needs him to pick up anything ("No, thank you, darling," she'll answer, because they never need anything. They have it all), and then pedal straight home.

What a perfect life. A textbook perfect life.

As he mounts his Schwinn, he waves farewell to his wifey, who waves from the back door. "Have a nice day, Belle."

As she always does (for she knows what wives are supposed to do), she blows him an air kiss. "Have a nice day, David."

At 8:19, a steady thump-clump-thump-clump on the porch informs her that her husband has returned home, not one minute earlier or later than he did last night, the night before, or the night before (or so the curse has her believing). The front door of the pink mansion squeaks open—she must remember to add "oil the door" to his honey-do list—and his cane enters, with him a step behind. She rises from the 20-seat Ethan Allen dining room table (built for elegant dinner parties that they never have), abandons the stack of essays that she's grading and comes around, the heels of her sensible flats clacking against the parquet, which she waxes every Saturday morning while her husband is at work. It never occurs to her to wonder why, since they never have guests.

"Good evening, honey," she says, straightening the sweater of her twinset. She takes his briefcase and sets it neatly on the dining table.

"Good evening, sweetie," he answers, and he sniffs. "Mmm, yankee pot roast" (the same as last night and the night before). "What's the occasion?"

"The occasion is us," she chirps. "It's a wife's duty and privilege to make her hubby happy."

"As it's a husband's duty and privilege to greet his wife properly when he comes home." He slips an arm about her shoulders—never the waist; that would be too personal—and leans in; she raises her face and he kisses her cheek.

"My!" she exclaims, blushing and ducking her head. "It's true, what the other wives say. I really am the most fortunate of women."

He wags a warning finger. "Now, now, pet, what have I said about listening to gossip? But I'll make an exception this once, considering it was nice gossip."

"Yes, dear." She hangs her head but she smiles at his admonition. "Are you hungry?"

"For your pot roast? Always."

"I'll have it on the table in a jiff." She scampers off to their all-electric kitchen.

"And I shall be finishing up a little paperwork," he calls after her before picking up his briefcase and making his way to his study. "Call me when it's ready."

After dinner, he returns to his study and she washes the dishes (so lucky: he bought her a dishwasher for her birthday. She can't remember which birthday. . . or just how old she is. . . ). At 10:00 the grandfather clock chimes gently—no harsh sounds in this house—and they emerge from their respective retreats—he the library, she the tv room—take each other's hand and climb the stairs. As he opens his bedroom door, he loosens his tie and unbuttons his jacket (bedtime is the only time he unbuttons the jacket). She pats her hair into place, then sets a hand on his chest for balance and rises on tiptoe to accept his kiss on her forehead. "Sleep tight; don't let the bedbugs bite," she sings.

"Sweet dreams, Mary Margaret."

"Sweet dreams, Mr. Gold." And they open the doors to their respective bedrooms.

It never occurs to her that she's the only wife in Storybrooke who doesn't know her husband's first name.

Warm and glowing from her hot bubble bath—ooh, she adores the clean conveniences of this world!—Regina slips into her silk pajamas, brushes her teeth and patters barefoot (why not: the mayor's mansion has wall-to-wall Berber carpeting and central heat) to her extra-soft bed (queen size, of course). She plumps her pillows, snuggles under the Laura Ashley sheets, reaches for the remote and snaps her color tv on. So perfect, so perfect—

Except for this. Some hideous screeching thing on her television assaults her ears and eyes. It takes her a moment to realize this noise is supposed to be music and those orange-haired creatures in safety-pin earrings are supposed to be minstrels. "Oh no, no, no, this will never do!" she exclaims. If Rumplestiltskin gets a load of these leather-clad rejects from outer space, he'll start thinking he fits in here, and then he'll be happy. With a disgusted whisk of her hand, she banishes MTV from Storybrooke's cable offerings.

She changes channels and finds something much more to her liking: a silver-haired lord of the manor sips bourbon while women in designer gowns and dripping diamonds pause on winding staircases to be admired. Yes, she likes this program very much, especially the young men prancing around in unbuttoned tuxedos. The queen squees when the brilliant raven-haired beauty seizes the bleached blonde by her dark roots and tosses her into a swimming pool. Ah, that Alexis Carrington Colby Dexter Whatever! The blood in her veins must be blue as ink, and the heart in her alabaster breast must be black as pitch.

And then some of the characters start groping each other. . .and their designer clothes are shucked off. . .Regina is intrigued. . . Regina is enticed . . . until Regina remembers the no-lovemaking-for-anyone-but-Regina clause in the curse; then Regina is incensed. Her hand slices the air once again, and her magic slices the airwaves. When she flips through the channels again, she finds the Weather Channel on every one.

She wants her enemies to suffer, not drool over handsome, half-dressed men and wet cat-fighting women who might provoke memories of dilated pupils and tingling naughty parts.

And in the morning, when she turns on her radio and finds that the most popular song of the year is "Every Breath You Take," she decides more changes must be made, before Storybrooke begins to notice that their beloved mayor is watching every move they make. When the next singer purrs, "I need sexual healing" she blocks off all the FM radio stations (she leaves the AM stations with their farm reports). In 2002, after bringing a baby into her world, Regina will allow the Disney Channel and Radio Disney into Storybrooke, but that's it: she's going to keep her town clean: no tongue prints on the mirrors.

And so, for twenty-eight years (but in their minds, just a few fuzzy days, or maybe weeks, or could it be months, but certainly not years) the Nolans and the Golds enjoy their triangle toast and pot roast, their bicycles and briefcases, their nice gossip, their Weather Channel and their forehead kisses. They have comfortable lives and they tell each other they are content, though Belle does get a little vaguely depressed when she reads Fear of Flying and David is disturbed when a German shepherd attaches itself to the back of St. Bernard and thrashes about in some sort of a fevered fit, and when Mary Margaret watches eggs hatch in birds' nests she wonders where baby birds come from, and Mr. Gold takes an awfully long time completing his paint-by-numbers Birth of Venus.

And then with two words the world changes.

"Now, what's the name?"

"Swan. Emma Swan."