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Belle is no princess, but then Rumpelstiltskin is certainly no prince. His price is her hand in marriage.
He smelled of leather, and faintly of the leaves in autumn and of dark forest soil. Magic clung to him, wrapped all about him, so much more powerful than any she'd ever known. Magic was everywhere in the world, but when visible it was always small magic, scarce and sparkling and precious. In him magic pooled and swirled, bottomless and dark.