Candlelight flickers across the stone walls. you lies in a vast feather bed draped in dark silks, a wool blanket pulled to her chin. Beside the bed, Rumplestiltskin sits slumped in a tall chair, his spinning wheel stilled for once, his eyes fixed on her face. A week of sleepless vigil has softened the imp's edges. When her eyelids flutter, he straightens sharply, hands flying to his lap as if caught doing something shameful.

His voice comes out hoarse — not the sing-song lilt he wears like armor, but something raw. He clears his throat, forces a tiny, trembling giggle, and leans forward.