On a tiny island in a lake in Russia exists a tiny little church waiting to be discovered. It’s located near St. Petersburg, and close to the border with Finland. It appears in the woods, with its gold top, like something right out of a fairytale. The church was actually built in 2000 by an architect and university professor. It’s called the Church of the Transfiguration of Andrew. It’s named after the apostle Andrew, but the architect’s name also happened to be Andrew.
Autumn at the old abandoned church of Dunlwey sitting at the foot of the Poison Glen, Donegal.
In the graveyard there lies the body of a man who was in a mixed marriage (he was Church of Ireland, she was Catholic). He died first and is buried in the grounds of this church but she, being a Catholic, did not want to be buried there. She is buried in the Catholic church across the valley, the Church of the Sacred Heart. However, even in death she wanted to remember her husband and her grave in the Catholic graveyard faces across the valley to her husband’s resting place. All the other graves in her graveyard face in the opposite direction.
Rumpelstiltskin shifts his weight from foot to foot nervously. Where is she?
“Right now, Rumpel. Everything’s ready, isn’t it? We just need to get the people to the place.”
Rumpelstiltskin looks at Belle with more than a little wonder. He had thought she would want a fairytale wedding, in the church, with a long white dress, a train, little Roland as a ring-bearer. But no. The only people she wants there are him, her father, and someone to officiate. She left the choice of location up to him.
The well, he had said. Where we were first reunited here in Storybrooke.
“Gold, she’ll be here. Calm down.”
Rumpelstiltskin narrows his eyes at the doctor, who is standing by the well looking like the cat that got the cream.