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Emma follows Mary Margaret to the bar at Granny's, watching the dark-haired woman carefully. She's been out of it since they found the John Doe in the woods, and Emma just hopes she's all right. She's Emma's only real friend in town. So she sits beside Mary Margaret, putting Henry's book on the counter between them, and signals for Ruby to send them some drinks.
Mary Margaret looks down at the book. She is silent and still for a moment before, as if in a trance, opening the book to the bookmarked page. It reveals a large picture of an almost-faceless man—the Prince Charming character Henry believes David Nolan to be. Mary Margaret runs a finger over the image of Prince Charming, tracing the scar above his eyebrow.
"You know, you have to admit," she says. "This does look an awful lot like the John Doe—David Nolan—at the hospital."
Emma flicks her eyes from the book and stares at her friend. Seriously?
"I thought you said you didn't believe Henry's curse idea?"
Mary Margaret seems to shake herself out of her reverie. She hastens to say, "No, no, of course not-."
Emma interrupts with a gentle hand on the other woman's arm.
"Look, since I started meeting the people in this town, or at least the one's with counterparts in Henry's book, it's clear that there are similarities. Obviously, I don't subscribe to Henry's idea, but, it does make me wonder, did someone in town write the book, basing the characters off the people here?" Emma pauses as another question comes to her. "Where did you get the book anyway?"
"Oh, I don't know," Mary Margaret says, a contemplative look on her face. "I just found it in my closet one day. It could have been there when I moved in for all I know."
"Does it have an author?" Emma asks.
Mary Margaret hums. "Not as far as I know." She flips to the front of the book, looking through the first few pages, but there is no author name, no publishing information, nothing to indicate where or when or how the book was made.
"It seems like someone was really interested in staying anonymous," Emma scoffs, thinking: I would be too, if I wrote weird fairytales staring the people living in a small town.
Emma pulls the book towards her and closes it firmly. She feels along the cover, the spine, glances her fingers over the pages all pressed together between the covers. It doesn't feel particularly old or worn, though there's some obvious damage to the edges from Henry shoving it in his backpack. But it is beautifully crafted with it's hard leather binding, gold embossing, and thick pages. It looks nothing like any of the books from Emma's foster homes or schools, or even the library growing up. Those books were nearly always cheap paperbacks with folded and missing pages, and sometimes she would even find one that some kid before her had scribbled all over. And the only book of fairy tales Emma even remembers having was worth more to her as kindling, not reading material—at least, most of it was.
Henry's book is nothing like that. It reminds Emma of the novelty editions of books they sell at Barnes and Noble. But even those are all mass produced. A book like Henry's that seems to be based on the people in a small town in the middle of nowhere, Maine, and that doesn't advertise any author or publishing information must be one of very limited quantity—if there's even more than one at all.
Beside Emma, Mary Margaret hums contemplatively. Emma looks up from the book to her friend, and she sees Mary Margaret has shifted so her elbow's on the counter, and she's holding her head up with her hand, cheek cradled in her palm. She's staring at the book in Emma's hands.
"It's kind of nice," she says, and Emma blinks in confusion.
"What is?" Emma asks.
"That someone might have based fairytale characters off the people in Storybrooke."
Really? Emma thinks, and out-loud she says, "you don't feel likes it's some kind of violation?"
"No, not really," Mary Margaret replies. At Emma's continued confusion, she continues, "Take the Prince Charming character for example. Someone saw David, a man with no name or past or family that anyone knew of until today, and they decided to give him a story. I think there's a lot of hope in that."
Emma doesn't know what to think about that. Hope's something that she's always tried to suppress because every time she's felt it, she's been disappointed. Before Emma can ruminate any more on that, Mary Margaret interrupts.
"Who do you think the author is, if your theory is correct?" she asks.
Emma doesn't immediately give a response—not because she doesn't have one, but because she's not really thought about it. Who is the author? Finding them might help Henry realize that all the stories are just that: stories.
"I don't know," Emma says. "But I'd like to find out."