— Of course you already know about that.
— It’s really not what I’m here to talk about I don’t mind. I understand the urge; he’s a lovely child.
— What is it, — said Emma flatly, — that you’d like to discuss?
— Roots, Ms. Swan. The problem of roots.
— Roots?
— That’s right — Regina said. — You don’t have any. You drift, you don’t stay in the same place for long. Phoenix, Nashville, Tallahassee, Boston… and here you are now. With no lease, staying with Miss Blanchard. How long will it be before you leave again? Do you see what I mean? I’m happy that Henry is happy, but I’m making this appeal to you. If you’re being honest, don’t you think this will all eventually hurt Henry more than help him?
Emma stared, feeling the cold recognition of a fear she’d had herself.
Regina saw it and drove in the knife: — You will leave eventually. People don’t change. Why not spare your son’s feelings and rip the Band-Aid off clean?
The mayor stood and walked away. Emma was so flustered by the comment that she stood as well, trying to think of something to say in response. But no words came. All she managed to do was knock over her hot cocoa and spill it all over her sweater.
Ruby saw this happen, took pity, and sent her back to the diner’s laundry room to clean up.
— My friend’s back there, — she said, passing by with an order. — She’s nice. Talk to her, will you? She’s going through something. — Ruby zipped away.
Sure thing, Emma thought. Happy to help. She shrugged and headed to the back room.
Ruby’s friend was indeed back there, trying (and failing) to wash a set of white sheets, crying as she did it. Emma gave her some advice based on her very limited knowledge of laundry: Try some bleach, lady. But at the hint of a connection, the girl — Ashley was her name — glommed on to her like a lost puppy dog and soon was telling Emma her whole sad story. Ruby had sure been right: She was going through something. Nineteen years old, very pregnant, all alone in the world, no plan, no way to make money. Where have I heard this story before? Emma thought, listening to the young woman’s worries.
— I don’t know, I don’t know, — Ashley said. — I just — I just feel like giving up sometimes.
— You’re nineteen now, — Emma said. — I was eighteen.
Ashley looked up, realizing what Emma was saying.
— It gets easier, — Emma lied. — But listen. This is the important thing. You are the one who decides. You get to choose. And if you choose that you can do it, you’re gonna make it.
Ashley wiped her face, let this sink in.
Emma added: — Life is there to be taken. You have to take it. It doesn’t seem like it could be that simple, but it is.
This seemed to strike a chord with Ashley. Some of the clouds that had been darkening her face lifted. Emma had surprised herself a little with the speech, but it was how she’d made it this far. Be bold, be strong — there’s no other way.
It would be a few hours before she found out just how literally Ashley took her advice.
It was Saturday, and Mary Margaret and Emma were together in the apartment. Emma’s few possessions had been delivered from her apartment in Boston. She was going through her clothes as Mary Margaret made scrambled eggs. Life was starting to feel a little more normal.
— That’s it? That’s everything you’ve got? — Mary Margaret asked, sizing up the box.
— I’m not a hoarder. I don’t keep things.
— Makes it easy to move, right? — Mary Margaret said.
Before she could get too upset at Mary Margaret’s innocent comment, the doorbell rang.
Mary Margaret answered, and gasped a bit when she saw who it was.
Mr. Gold, a bandage on his head, darkened their doorway.
— Hello there. Miss Blanchard, — he said politely. — I’m looking for Ms. Swan.
Emma walked up behind Mary Margaret. She remembered him horn Granny’s on her first night in town. Creepy dude.
— Yeah? — was all Emma said.
— Ah, Ms. Swan, hello, — he said. — Perhaps you recall meeting? I am Mr. Gold, a local… businessman.
— I remember.
He nodded curtly and continued: — I’ve heard through the grapevine that you’re quite good at tracking people down. And as I have a need to track somebody down, I thought to stop over and offer you some work.
Both she and Mary Margaret looked at him for a long while. Mary Margaret then made an excuse and retreated into the apartment. Emma, cautious but intrigued, shrugged and invited him in.
— Her name is Ashley Boyd, — he said as they both sat in the living room, — and she’s stolen from me.
— Why not use the police?
— Because this is a delicate matter. I don’t want her to get into any trouble. I just need what she stole to be returned.
— What did she steal?
— I don’t think it’s important for you to know that, — he said. — Find her, you’ll find it.
Emma didn’t know what to think, but it wouldn’t hurt to earn a little money. She hadn’t made a dime since she’d been there.
— She broke into my shop last night, muttering something about taking control, choosing to take control of one’s life, some such nonsense. — He shrugged, touched the bandage on his head, and as he did so Emma tried to conceal the glimmer of surprise in her eye. Good grief, she thought, it’s Ashley from the diner.
— Okay, — Emma found herself saying. — Okay. I’ll find her.
Mr. Gold, apparently delighted, stood and thanked her. At the door, he was nearly run over by Henry, who came bounding in, a big smile on his face. — I have until…
Henry was exclaiming, but he stopped in his tracks when he saw Mr. Gold looking down at him.
— Hello, young man, — said Mr. Gold. — Ms. Swan and I were just discussing a business matter. I was just leaving.
Henry looked terrified. And Emma knew why; she remembered from the book: Henry thought Gold was Rumplestiltskin.
— Hello, sir, — Henry said quietly, then entered the apartment, head down.
Once Gold was gone, Emma sat down with Henry and told him that he couldn’t keep showing up in secret, even though she did want to see him. She explained that Regina would find a way to use it against them. Henry assured her it was okay — that he had until five o’clock and that his mother would never know. Emma didn’t like it one bit. Before she could insist that he leave, though, Henry started asking questions about why Mr. Gold had been there.
— He asked me to find someone, — she said. — A girl. It’s just a job.
— What girl?
— I doubt you’d know her, kid, — she said, regretting saying anything at all.
Henry sat down on the couch, removing his backpack. He dug around and took out his book, started flipping through the pages.
— Is she pregnant?
Emma turned, eyes wide. — How did you know that?
Emma’s plan was simple. She never made a complicated plan unless she needed a complicated plan, and in her experience, whenever she was trying to find somebody, it was simplest to start with friends. Emma didn’t know much about Ashley, but she knew she had one friend in Storybrooke. Ruby.
She and Henry went right to the diner. When she saw that Ruby had a moment free, Emma pulled her over to the back entrance and asked her if she had any guesses about where Ashley might have gone.
— I don’t. No, — Ruby said, shaking her head. — Excuse me. — She pushed on the back door and propped it open. — I’m waiting for them to drop off my car, sorry.
— You don’t think the boyfriend could be involved?