In Storybrooke, Mr. Gold strives to be the man Bae used to love--until Belle is kidnapped to Neverland. If he resumes his Dark One powers to save her, can he control them? In the Enchanted Forest, Emma battles ogres, zombies and her ex to get back h...
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The Dark One (Rumplestiltskin/Mr. Gold): Good! That's going to save us time during the question and answer portion of our game. (The Crocodile)
Leaning heavily on his cane, aching and tired from his steep climb, Mr. Gold peered around Pinocchio's dimly lit bedroom. The attic chamber was a wee lad's paradise—fierce dragons and feckless knights carved into the paneling, a wooden train running around a high shelf, whittled astronauts and dinosaurs scattered across the floor.
Mr. Gold wondered if the curse that created Storybrooke had prepared for Pinocchio's presence and been cheated when Geppetto had hidden his son in the magical wardrobe and sent him ahead of the curse with Emma.
Sighing, Mr. Gold gestured to one of the child-sized stools—"If you would be so kind"—and waited while Geppetto arranged it next to his boy's bed.
Gratefully, Mr. Gold lowered himself onto it, propped his cane against the nightstand, and slid the stool closer to Pinocchio. He noted with amusement that the wooden man's nose was at least a foot long.
"Can you hear me? Blink once for yes. Good. If your answer to any of my questions is ever no, blink twice."
The wooden lids over the painted staring eyes blinked once.
"Do you feel better this evening?"
One blink and the nose grew longer.
"I'm here to help. You trust me, don't you?"
Pinocchio blinked once for yes, but his telltale nose shot out a full inch.
Mr. Gold chuckled. Then he swiveled to face Geppetto and Dr. Hopper. "I'm going to ask our young friend some very personal questions. Right now, lying is deleterious to his health. He'll be less likely to do that if he's not surrounded by his loved ones. When I'm done, I'll rap my cane on the floor."
Geppetto frowned doubtfully, but Dr. Hopper took his arm. "He's right. In counseling I'd never let someone's relatives eavesdrop on a session."
Mr. Gold waited until the two left, the bedroom door clicked shut, and their scuffling shoes could no longer be heard on the stairs. Then he bent low over Pinocchio to whisper in his ear, "I should destroy you, shouldn't I—after that trick you played on me. It was cruel stirring my hopes, taking advantage of my grief, making me think you were my son, wringing tears from me just to further your scheme to get your hands on my dagger and make me your slave. By rights, I should conjure a fire and incinerate you in your bed." To prove he could, he formed a small flame on the palm of his hand.
Mr. Gold studied his patient for a reaction. Despite his threats, the face remained impassive—wooden, in fact. Not a single twitch of emotion betrayed what he was thinking. No wonder Reul Gorm had included such a heavy dose of guilt in her animating spell that any lie would be as plain as the nose on Pinocchio's face. With a living marionette, how else would one tell?
