an agitation of hands

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible .

Mom and Ma are dancing in the kitchen again. Henry peers out from the top of the stairs like he's still ten years old, watching Mom with mixed suspicion and longing. He's long past that. He's fourteen, and his mothers are no longer enemies. Instead, Ma lives with them, and sometimes at night they'll wash dishes and start dancing because they can.

They'd all learned ballroom dancing in Camelot, after Ma had become the Dark One and before Mom and Ma had gotten together. Now, they like to make up for it by dancing together whenever they can, Mom drawing Ma or Henry into little dances that feel as perfect as their family. It's a tiny little callback to a world that no longer exists, one of fairytales and magic that hadn't been kind to their family until now.

Tonight, Henry is supposed to be sleeping, and Ma is twirling Mom, bringing her closer with her eyes shining, and the dish towel is forgotten on Mom's shoulder. They lean forward, foreheads pressed together, and Henry ducks back into his room to give them some privacy and spare himself some images he doesn't need.

This is how it should be, Mom and Ma together and the house bright with love and joy. He wants it to stay this way. Unbidden, his eyes flicker to a booklet sitting on his dresser, untouched all weekend. No . It's just an assignment for school, one that he's supposed to have finished by Monday. It doesn't matter more than this fragile peace in his home, and he doesn't need to bring it out right now. He'll explain to his teacher that he just can't do it, and he'll do something else instead. That's all.

He stretches out in bed, and he is lulled to sleep by the sounds of soft laughter filtering up the stairs to his room.

It doesn't go quite like he'd envisioned it. For one, his teacher is not impressed with his excuses. She's from the newer influx of Storybrooke citizens post-second curse, and she is less forgiving of his special situation than someone who'd watched him grow up might have been. Or of his mother, for that matter.

For another, she decides that the answer to this is to speak directly to his moms. Mom picks up the call just after dinner, and Henry washes the dishes silently while he listens to her end. "Henry?" she says, sounding surprised. "He's usually quite conscientious when it comes to schoolwork. What was this project?" A pause, and then, "I see." Another pause. Mom sounds less enthused now. "I don't think that's a good idea," she says at last. "Our family history is...complex, as I'm sure you know. Maybe he could focus only on my father's background– it's quite interesting–" Another pause, lengthy and strained, and then Mom says in a low, irritated voice, "I am not hiding anything from him."

Ma swoops in then, seizing the phone from Mom as she speaks to Henry's teacher in lighter, cajoling tones. Mom stands still, her face stiff, and she says, "Has she ever shown any sign of prejudice toward you?"

Henry shakes his head. "I mean, I think she doesn't really like you, but she's good about not taking it out on me," he admits. "It's always been fine until now. I just didn't want to do that assignment."

The assignment is half of his grade for this term, and it sucks . It's large and vague and requires a lot of research, and most kids half-ass it, anyway. It wouldn't be a big deal if Henry did only talk to Mom about her dad. He'd get a C and be fine.