Will had known the fragile calm wouldn't last. Beneath the elation of finding Tuck's children alive and safe, their problems still lingered, as twisted and intractable as ever. The Sheriff was still hunting them, and they still couldn't agree on what to do about it. The longer they kicked that can down the road, the larger Marian's cell seemed to loom in their future. The weight of the secrets hung about his neck like a leaden anchor.
It's a prophecy, was all Tuck had said, and that was enough to turn Will's blood to ice. Will had no love of prophecy: like most magic, it was tricky and slippery and it didn't move in ways you could anticipate. Prophecy could be a poison, one that could render you paralysed with indecision or screw with your sense of direction, send you running headlong toward the future you were fleeing.
And Tuck wouldn't have sounded so grave if the omens had been favourable ones.