Chapter Text
"It seems plausible enough tonight, but wait until tomorrow. Wait for the common sense of the morning." --H.G. Wells, The Time Machine
Myka likes authority. She should, considering she is a well-versed practitioner. She likes rules and logic and order, because things are so much easier when you can follow a formula. When one person is calling the shots, problems are easier to solve. They are easier to prevent.
What she doesn’t like is when authority is abused, distorted and molded into something that only fits a specific set of needs. Authority can be lenient. It shouldn’t be malleable. The Regents are a necessary force, but they have become warped. Two thousand years of power is too long.
They have twisted Helena, poked and prodded at her as if she were made of Play-Doh, and Myka is tired of it. So when Helena walks into the B&B, trailing behind Pete and looking decidedly haggard, Myka is sure she’s never felt happier.
With the exception of Artie, they’re all in the living room in various states of exhaustion. Claudia is passed out on the couch, hugging the metronome like it’s her favorite stuffed animal. Leena and Mrs. Frederic are huddled in a corner, having a conversation in serious whispers. Sometimes Myka makes out Steve’s name, but mostly she just tries to relax. She closes her eyes and leans back into her chair. Helena got the execution all wrong, but the sentiment was in the right place. Sometimes, all you need is a good bit of rest.
“Mykes, hey, wake up.”
(And other times, your partner is Pete Lattimer.)
“I’m not asleep.”
“Okay, so open your eyes.”
“I mean, I could be asleep, but I’m not.”
“Perhaps a bed would help with that, darling.”
Myka jolts out of her chair. “Helena! I thought the Regents—”
Helena twists her hands together. “It seems Pete swooped in at the last minute and freed me from their clutches. My savior,” she quips drily, rolling her eyes.
“Hey, hey, hey, who said he could charm the Regents?” Pete points both of his thumbs at his chest. “Pete Lattimer did!”
“Ah, I will never doubt anything you say again,” Myka concedes dramatically.
“Really?”
She punches him just because he looks so stupidly pleased with himself. “No, not really. But I might stop punching you so much.”
“I’ll take it.” Pete smiles until Myka smiles back, and then he cranes left and right, taking note of everyone in the room. “How are they all doing?”
Myka shakes her head. “Leena and Mrs. Frederic haven’t stopped talking since we got here. Claudia…I’m just hoping that a lot of sleep will take the edge off. I don’t know how to help her right now.”
“Okay, so, let me take the night shift and stay here until she’s awake. I wanna wait up for my mom, anyway.”
“She’s okay, right?”
“Yeah, she’s good. Safe and sound and probably annoying the flight attendants all the way back from China.” Myka furrows her brows. “She doesn’t like to fly,” Pete explains.
“Oh.”
“I’m gonna go sit with Claud, so you guys…”
Myka nods, stuffing her hands in her pockets. “Right, we’ll just go…yes.” She walks out of the room, squeezing Helena’s shoulder as she goes.
“Pete, thank you again,” Helena says before following.
Pete gives a little wave. “Don’t sweat it, Helena.”
“Helena?” Myka murmurs as they walk away. “He must be starting to like you.”
“We seem to have grown on each other, yes.”
Myka laughs as they walk upstairs. She can barely hear Helena step—she moves with silence, so softly that a part of Myka wants to walk backwards, just to make sure she’s there. Because that’s the problem with Helena; even when she’s not there, she is, and it can drive a girl mad trying to figure out what’s real and what’s hope.
They stop in front of Myka’s room. “Um, Steve was in your old room but I don’t think you’d—”
“No,” Helena shakes her head. “No, I don’t think I would. If it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition…”
Myka smiles, reaching for Helena’s hand. “Everyone’s gotta sleep,” she shrugs. “Might as well be with a friend.”
“Truer words have rarely been spoken.”
They both stop when Myka flips on the light, because her room is exactly the way she left it before Sykes tried to ruin their lives. Her favorite worn-out boots are piled by her desk. There are two pencils lined neatly next to a notepad because when Myka can’t think and her brain is too busy to read, she doodles. The paperback she was reading is laying face-down on her bed, cracked open to where she stopped because Myka does not like bookmarks. She loves books and spent her childhood listening to her father rant on and on about preserving them and not letting the binding tear or bend. But she also spent most of her childhood not really liking her father (and his bookstore was a mess anyway, so who was he to tell her how to treat her favorite books?)
Helena notices the book immediately and picks it up. “Comics?” she laughs. “My dear, I had you pegged for a literature elitist.”
“I am,” Myka grumbles, snatching Persepolis out of Helena’s hands. “But I lost a bet with Pete when we had a superhero case and he made me read some ‘grown-up comics.’” She makes exaggerated air-quote gestures. “They’re not really comics; they’re graphic novels. And this one is particularly traumatizing.”
“If a work relies on pictures to convey meaning because words have failed, it isn’t much of a book.”
“You can read art just as much as you can read words.”
“But not with the same gravitas.”
“You, Helena Wells, are not familiar with 21st-century visual literacy. But I can teach you all about it.”
“If you’re talking about film, Pete has already tried and failed to educate me.”
“Pete tried with monster movies and sports flicks. Give me a little more credit than that. I think Pollock would blow your mind.”
“Is that an allergen?”
“Oh, stop.” Myka reaches for the book, but Helena yanks it away. “I’m going to take a shower. Read a little of that and then tell me how much of a book it isn’t.”
“I can assure you, I won’t be impressed.”
Myka rolls her eyes and heads into the bathroom. She turns on the water but doesn’t get in for a good five minutes. Helena is reading the book, and the longer Myka watches, the more engrossed she becomes.
She can’t stop smiling as she gets into the shower.
It isn’t the time to be smiling, in the wake of everything that’s happened. Or maybe this is exactly the time. Myka can’t tell—of the Warehouse Wonder Twins, she isn’t the one who gets vibes. Pete can read situations better than she can, which is sometimes a frightening thought.
Myka could stay in the shower for a long time, if she really wanted to. Pete is going to fall asleep waiting for his mom, as much as he says he won’t. He will. He could fall asleep in the middle of a volcano. Helena gets into a trance very quickly when she reads a good book, and Myka knows that Persepolis is more than a good book. The water is warm and calming, and she’d be happy to stay in here forever.
But she can’t and she won’t, because there is too much to do. There are too many people who need her. If there’s one thing Myka’s learned from her time as a Warehouse agent, it’s that when one person falls down, everyone does. Myka will not be the one to fall this time.
So she dawdles just a little bit and eventually gets out, rouging a towel against hair that has started to curl again.
Helena is a third of the way through the book when Myka emerges from the bathroom.
“So,” she wheedles, “how do you like it?”
Helena pretends to be annoyed at her self-satisfied smirk. “It has merit.”
Myka grins triumphantly. “Told you.” She drapes her towel over a chair. “I’m done with the bathroom, if you want a shower.”
“I do,” Helena says, closing the book. “But I am extraordinarily fatigued, and I fear I may fall asleep quite abruptly.”
“Okay. So we’ll sleep.”
Helena looks at her warily, her eyes never leaving Myka’s face as she gets settled into bed.
“Myka, don’t you think—?”
“We can talk in the morning, Helena. You’re not the only who’s extraordinarily fatigued.” Myka turns off the lamp on her nightstand, waiting for Helena to follow suit.
But still, Helena hesitates. “Are you sure—?”
“Helena.” Myka snaps though she doesn’t intend to. She just wants to sleep so she can start forgetting the day they’ve just had, because if she stays away she’ll run out of things to say about Pete or graphic novels or anything that doesn’t have to do with almost losing everything, and if she does that, there will be little hope of a quick recovery.
“I just want to sleep,” she says, composing herself. Helena nods a little but still makes no move to turn off the light. Myka remembers then, and shakes her head. “I’m sorry; I totally forgot. If you want to keep the lamp on, that’s fine.”
Helena smiles and looks down, fiddling with her hands in her lap. “That’s very thoughtful, darling. I would demur and say that I’ve outgrown such insecurities, but after an ordeal like this they’ve come back in full force. Will you be able to rest?”
Myka smiles. “You know I always do.”
“Well, it has been a while,” Helena concedes. “It seems I may have forgotten as well.”
She slides under the covers, curling her hands under her cheek. Helena, despite growing up in the 1800s, is not as conservative a creature as Myka had expected. Pete likes to make fun and tease her about Victorian restraint, but Helena has always belonged to the modern age. She is forward-thinking, forward-doing, forward-reaching.
Myka is the only one who knows that at night, Helena is small and prim.
“Good night,” Helena whispers, and she closes her eyes.
Myka says nothing. Instead, she reaches forward and pulls Helena closer. Helena doesn’t open her eyes or acknowledge Myka in any way, but her back sags in relief and (Myka hopes) comfort.
Myka is exhausted. She is tired of artifacts and their troubles. She is tired of worrying about her physical safety with every mission. She is tired of playing parent to the entire planet. She is tired of authority, of responsibility and duty.
But Helena is real again and within Myka’s reach.
She lies awake the whole night making sure that doesn’t change.
/
She dreams of impossible things, of a deceptively tranquil forest that reeks of death the further in she goes. She dreams of being trapped in electricity, as if a Tesla could shoot nets of fire.
And, as always, she dreams of Helena; of her smile and her words; of little moments that seem bigger in hindsight; of big moments that she wishes she could shrink. Big is overwhelming. Big envelops and overtakes, swallows and engulfs.
In every one of her dreams, just as in life, Helena looms.
/
Myka sleeps later than she ever has in her life. It is almost dark again when she wakes up. Helena is curled in a chair by the window, and Myka has no intention of leaving her room today.
This is their time to heal.
She sits up in bed, wiping the dreams out of her eyes. She wishes some of them could stay.
“What time is it?” she asks.
(Helena looks at her and Myka thinks that maybe some of them have.)
“Just after five.”
Myka widens her eyes. “In the afternoon?” Helena nods. “I slept that long?”
Helena smiles. “You awoke two or three hours ago, kicked me, and fell back asleep. I found it prudent to relocate.”
Myka blushes. “Sorry about that,” she laughs sheepishly. “I’ve never been a graceful sleeper.”
“One of your very few inelegant qualities.”
Myka overlooks the compliment. “How did you sleep?”
Helena sighs before answering. “Restlessly. To be expected, I suppose.”
Myka hums in agreement. “Probably.”
“Did you know,” Helena says, leaning her head against the window, “for as fascinated as I was with space, I spent very little time looking at the stars? They are terribly abstract, and it was quite past my abilities to render them more comprehensible.”
“You mean you can’t do everything?” Myka jokes.
“I wish I could,” Helena absently mutters. “It was only after Egypt that I started to examine them,” she continues. “It is easier to appreciate faraway things when you are out of touch yourself.”
“How—?
“Irene is a very ardent conversationalist, contrary as that may seem. I’m sure it was against protocol to let my consciousness free as often as she did, but we had many talks well into the morning hours.”
Myka is more than a little impressed that Helena is on a first-name basis with Mrs. Frederic. “What did you talk about?”
“The Warehouse, mostly. My time in the Bronzer.” Her cheeks flush and she exhales, fogging the window just the slightest bit. “Christina. She left nothing untouched. I am grateful now, but it was draining, to say the least.”
Helena props an arm on the windowsill and rests her chin on her fist. She draws a foot onto her chair, curling her knee close to her chest. It is as modern a position as Myka has ever seen her adopt. She wonders what Helena really thinks of the 21st century.
“It wasn’t until our last talk that I truly began to solve my most intricate puzzle.”
“And what’s that?”
“I am a scientist,” Helena continues. “An inventor. It is in my nature to explain the inexplicable. It is because I am puzzled by the abstract that I surround myself with it. After a century in its depths, I thought I had come to fear it. But it is not the unknown that haunts me.” Helena sighs and shrugs. “You, Myka Bering, are far too tangible.”
“I don’t mean to be,” Myka automatically deflects. It is so easy to placate, to comfort, when Helena will never stop needing it.
“But you do,” Helena protests, “and it is the very best part of you.” She gets up from her chair, crosses back to the bed and sits down. Her hands hover in the space between them, as if she is reluctant to reach. Myka makes the decision for her. Helena’s skin is soft and cool, and every inch of it is trembling. That only makes Myka hold on tighter.
“There has always been an understanding between us, I think. If Charles were here, he would spin you a thousand romantic yarns. He would write odes to your eyes and pen sonnets about your hair. But I lack his finesse. I am no wordsmith. I find it almost impossible to give thought to my feelings for you other than to say that I have come to consider you the most important part of my life. It is a feeling so thorough that sometimes I find myself quite paralyzed.”
“For not-a-wordsmith, you sure know how to woo a girl.”
“I’m being serious, Myka.”
“So am I.” She squeezes Helena’s hand until she makes eye contact. Helena looks terrified. Hopeful, open, but mostly terrified. Myka tries to speak. Instead, she cries.
She cries because the Warehouse was almost decimated; because they almost died; because Steve is dead; because Helena is finally talking and it is too late. It is too late for Myka to truly save her, too late to make up for a year of fractured hope.
Myka cries because it isn’t too late at all.
Helena holds her until she sleeps again.
/
“Waiting is failure,” her father used to say, which is pretty ironic considering the book he kept dormant for thirty years. But perhaps he said that to spare his children the pain of regret. Tracy took it to heart. She went after clubs and awards and boys and didn’t relent until she had them. Myka was a cautious child. She always waited, and to her father, thus she always failed.
But there was merit to waiting. Patience usually prevailed. The tortoise surpassed the hare. Myka waited through med school, through law classes and all the literature she could find. She waited and learned six languages, mastered martial arts, and fencing, and intellect. She waited until the Secret Service wouldn’t let her, until Sam wouldn’t let her, and it was then she thought herself ready.
But at Yellowstone she failed again, and Myka stopped waiting. She stopped doing everything.
The problem, of course, is that we never stop waiting. Waiting is our natural state. So Myka has always been waiting.
She has always been waiting for Helena.
Helena, who spent a hundred years waiting for all the wrong things. Helena waited and dreamed of a thousand ways to destroy the world. Myka waited and thought of a thousand ways to save it.
They will always need each other.
Myka has been waiting for Helena and—as it so often happens with longstanding dreams—she has no idea what to do when she is finally allowed to stop.
/
Helena is gone the next time she wakes up. It is early morning; Myka can still see dew on the window. Artie’s sports car is still missing from the driveway, but the SUV she shares with Pete and the clunky El Camino that Claudia has appropriated are still there.
Large tragedies often abound with small comforts.
The house is silent so Myka quickly makes her way downstairs, itching for some kind of a distraction. There aren’t many to choose from. Pete is playing some game on his phone and Claudia must be in her room. Or Steve’s, Myka things with a twinge of guilt.
She plods to the kitchen and finds hot water waiting with an assortment of tea to choose from.
“H.G. came down about half an hour ago,” Pete says from the doorway. “Left those for you.”
“Well, I certainly didn’t think you did it,” Myka smiles.
Pete winces, feigning hurt. “Hey, I can be thoughtful sometimes.”
“I know.” She studies the selection of tea, deciding on one with five packets left because all the others have four. Myka likes order. “How’d you sleep?”
Pete shrugs. “I didn’t, mostly. Hung out with my mom when she got back, played some games with Claudia until she started crying again. Artie dropped by for a little and made, like, five zillion batches of cookies.”
“And how many of those batches are left?”
“Two.”
“Two zillion?”
“No, just two.” Pete pats his stomach. “I gotta do something when I can’t sleep.”
Myka smiles and blows on her tea to cool it. “What kind of cookies?”
“You know those jelly ones with the powdered sugar?”
“Ah,” Myka nods. “Claudia’s favorite.”
“Yeah.”
“Has she eaten anything?”
“Nope.” Myka cranes her head, finding two plates of cookies sitting on the kitchen counter. “H.G.’s in the garden with Leena, if you wanna…”
Myka picks up a plate of cookies instead. It teeters on one palm as she balances it against the tea in her other hand. “No, I think I’m gonna—”
“Right. Well, I bet they’ll still be flower-bonding when you come back down.”
Myka nods. “Thanks, Pete.”
“Hey, Mykes?”
Myka turns around, a little too quickly given what she’s holding. The cookies slide on the plate but thankfully don’t fall. “Yeah?”
“Love you.”
Myka smiles. “I’d hug you if it didn’t mean I’d lose half of these cookies at the same time.”
“Say it back.”
She smiles wider. “Love you too, Pete.”
Once Myka gets her bearings, the stairs are easy to navigate. She avoids all the usual creaks, leans against the banister for all the precarious twists, and finds herself in front of Claudia’s door before she’s really ready to be. She debates knocking on the door with her foot, but decides against it. It isn’t worth possibly dropping every bit of comfort she’s brought with her.
“Claud?” she calls gently. “If you’re in there, I’d love it if you could open the door. My hands are kind of full.” It’s quiet for a few moments before Myka hears movement on the other side of the room. The door swings open a moment later. Myka can’t see Claudia, but she steps in anyway. “I brought cookies,” she says, finally finding Claudia behind the door.
“And tea?” Claudia scoffs.
“Oh. No, the tea is for me, but—I mean, if you want it—”
“Whatever.”
Myka watches Claudia sit back on her bed, immediately reaching for her laptop and pulling it into her lap. “Okay, so I’ll just…” She sets the plate of cookies on Claudia’s desk and sits on the other side of the bed.
“Did Pete send you up to check on me? Are you here to give me magic advice that makes me feel better?”
“No. I mean, I have things to say, but they aren’t going to make anything better.”
“Good pep talk.”
Myka thinks for a moment before speaking again. When Claudia is uncomfortable with something, she becomes resistant. This feels like that first wrestling case all over again, where it falls to Myka to help Claudia see that she can help herself.
(One of the good things about being Myka is she knows how to deal with resistance. Her father called it obstinacy, and he spent a good deal of Myka’s childhood berating her for being stubborn. He didn’t know that she wouldn’t have been stubborn if he had said the right things.
Myka knows exactly what to say to Claudia because it’s everything she was always waiting for.)
“You hid the metronome, right?”
Claudia looks up from her laptop, nose flared, eyes ready to fight. “Why?”
Myka shrugs. “You’ve got little hiding places all over the Warehouse; I bet you’ve got some in here.”
“You’re never going to find it.”
“I’m not looking for it.”
“Myka, I swear, if you rat me out to Artie or Mrs. Frederic—”
Myka just shakes her head. “I’m not going to. I just wanted to say that—knowing where we work—if you plan on using an artifact…use it wisely.”
Claudia pauses before rotating her computer to show Myka the screen. She’s too far away to read anything, but there are multiple tabs of research open. “What do you think I’m doing?”
“Okay.” There is a loose thread on Claudia’s blanket. Part of Myka wants to snip the excess with a pair of scissors and then burn the edge so it won’t fray. The other part just wants to rip it off. “Claud, I know you loved Steve—”
“Don’t talk about him in past tense; I’m bringing him back,” Claudia interrupts.
“Okay. Well, I know you love Steve. And I know it hurts to lose him. But you don’t have to feel it alone.”
“I won’t. I told you; I’m bringing him back.”
“Yeah, I heard you, Claud. But he died two days ago”—Claudia winces—“and he isn’t back yet. So let us help you while you figure things out.”
Claudia says nothing.
“I’ve lost two partners,” Myka continues. “I know how you feel.”
“H.G. came back.”
“Sam didn’t.”
Claudia looks up from her computer. “Yeah, but that’s different.” She flails her hand absently in Myka’s direction. “You’re…you’re Myka. You take bad stuff and you handle it. I’m—” She stops abruptly, swallowing around the tears starting to form in her eyes. “I’m twenty years old,” she exhales. “My best friend just died and I don’t know what to do.”
“You think I magically know what to do because I’ve passed thirty?”
Claudia doesn’t say anything, but her eyes answer yes. It isn’t a definitive answer. It is a hopeful one.
Myka just laughs. “That is a lot of bullshit. That is probably the most bullshit I’ve ever heard coming from you.”
“What?”
“I don’t have all the answers, Claud. When Sam died, I threw myself into work and ended up at the Warehouse. Helena almost killed me and I ran away. I don’t always handle things.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Let me say this, and then you can protest all you want, okay?” Claudia nods. “Losing a partner feels like losing a limb. You’ve relied on this one person for so long, and then suddenly you don’t have them anymore. You’re down an arm and you can’t hold onto things as well as you used to, or maybe you don’t have your left foot and now you don’t know how to balance.
Losing Sam was like losing my thumbs. He was such a big part of me. He worked his way into everything I did so well that he became part of my daily routine. He always kept a pen in his pocket because I could never find mine. He kept my favorite coffee mug clean and hidden from everyone else at the office. He left little notes on my keyboard so he didn’t always have to make it so obvious that we were getting lunch together. And when he died, it was like I forgot how to write, and I couldn’t pour coffee, and sometimes I just couldn’t bear to touch my keyboard.”
“But you got better,” Claudia murmurs.
Myka pretends not to hear. “I was so busy relearning how to use pens and computers that I wasn’t ready for Helena. I—I loved her so deeply and so quickly that I forgot to protect myself. So when I lost her, it was like my head was upside down on my neck, or my heart was buried in the desert, or my lungs had stretched all the way down to my feet. It felt wrong and uncomfortable, and I had to take a long time to put myself back the right way again.”
“So how did you?”
“She came back.”
Claudia narrows her eyes. “It’s as easy as that?”
“No,” Myka sighs. “But mostly yes.” She scoots forward and reaches for Claudia’s hand, smoothing her thumb across the back of it. “Claud, you’re gonna be sad and it’s gonna feel like you don’t know how to do the easiest things. But you won’t feel that way forever. Artie, and Pete, and Leena, and Helena and I—we won’t let you.”
Claudia fights a smile. She loses. “So…”
Myka gets up, running her fingers through Claudia’s hair on her way. “So I’ll be out in the garden with Helena if you need me.”
“H.G. gardens?” Claudia asks, wrinkling her nose.
Myka imitates her. “I know, right? I think it’s weird, too.” She smiles and grabs her tea (and a couple of cookies—Pete will probably find her again) and starts to leave.
“Hey, Myka?”
Myka turns in the doorway. “Yeah.”
“Did you mean it? You love H.G.?”
“What, you didn’t know?” Claudia cocks her head and waits. “Yeah,” Myka admits with a smile. “I do. I love her a lot.”
“Did you tell her?”
“Almost.”
“Did you tell Pete?”
“He told me.”
Claudia laughs. “Figures.” She looks down and plays with the hem of her jeans. “So, like, I’m the first person you’ve really said it out loud to?”
Myka cranes her neck, pretending the thought hadn’t crossed her mind. “You know, I guess you are. Why?”
“Oh, no, you know, no reason,” Claudia stutters, blushing. “It’s, um, I was just curious—it’s cool.” She looks up and clears her throat. “It’s really cool. Don’t worry about me; go garden or whatever.”
Myka smiles and sips her tea.
“Happy researching, Claud.”
/
The garden is more of just a backyard lined with some flowers, but Leena keeps it well-maintained and healthy, so Myka isn’t exactly going to split hairs. Leena and Helena are sitting at the table, talking and sipping what Myka presumes to be tea. Helena doesn’t like coffee. Myka can’t hear the conversation, but they look somber. Helena face aches of the bitter nostalgia she always expresses when she mentions Christina. She wonders if Helena will ever be free of that.
Leena spots her first, making eye contact and waiting for a break in the conversation to excuse herself.
No doubt Helena notices and continues to talk.
Myka comes up behind Helena and places her hands gently on her shoulders. “Sorry to interrupt…”
“It’s no trouble,” Leena smiles. She gets up and moves to the side to let Myka take her chair. “We’ll talk again, Helena,” she promises.
Helena simply nods.
“Did you know,” Myka says as she drinks her tea, “that Leena and Mrs. Frederic are very close?”
“That would certainly explain a lot,” Helena mumbles.
“I bet you thought you were free of the talks when you got your body back, huh?”
“I thought I was free of something, yes.”
“Helena.” Myka extends her hand across the table until Helena takes it. “I’m sorry about earlier.”
“It’s alright, darling.”
“It isn’t, but thank you.”
“We’re all a little discombobulated right now. Emotions are bound to work against us.”
Myka nods absently. She looks at the sky, trying to find hints of stars that have not yet hidden from daylight. “You were right, you know.” Helena peers at her quizzically, as if Myka is another creation that is working in an unexpected way. “There is an understanding between us.”
“I am right quite often,” Helena grins. “So glad to hear you affirm it.”
Myka smiles and pushes against her hand. “It’s kind of an unspoken understanding though, don’t you think?” Helena nods. “And that’s not good enough anymore.”
“It isn’t.”
“I love you,” Myka says clearly—simply, as if were just another fact of her life, and it is. It is the truest thing Myka will ever feel.
Helena squeezes her hand. Myka hears her breath hitch at least twice, but neither of them mentions it. “I love you so intently, Myka, that it terrifies me.”
“Because you think it might end?”
Helena lifts her hand, gently pressing a kiss to the back of it. “No, darling. Because I know it won’t. Because you make me so blindingly happy that I see stars.”
Helena speaks as though she has never known how to lie.
It’s all Myka can do not to spend the next hour crying out of relief.
“I suppose we should head inside and mingle with everyone else,” Helena says.
“Do you want to?”
“I can think of nothing I would rather do more than to continue sitting here with you.”
“Then we’ll sit.”
And they do.
/
Artie is the first to return to the Warehouse. It surprises no one. Myka scratches her head when Pete is the one to follow him. She stays home for a few days with Helena, but she is still awake every morning to hear him walking out the door at seven o’clock, already on the phone with Artie. She doesn’t pay much attention. More than likely, Pete will forget all about it in a few days.
There are far better ways to be spending her time, anyway, and all of them have to do with Helena.
They spend their days in the bed and breakfast. Helena talks. Myka kisses her. Helena cries. Myka kisses her some more.
They take walks at night, for as long as they want in any direction they choose. The middle of nowhere looks astonishingly different depending on what you want to see. Helena wants to see everything, and Myka is determined to show it to her.
Helena kisses Myka until her entire body feels like stardust.
/
It takes Claudia another three weeks to wake Steve up. The first time he eats with them again, Pete spends the entire meal telling him he smells. Claudia kicks him under the table and Helena asks Steve how his motor functions are returning, because there isn’t a single thing that doesn’t fascinate her.
Myka is constantly fascinated with just one thing, and she is British and sitting right across from her.
Helena doesn’t return to the Warehouse like Myka had hoped she would. She dutifully works through inventory, sometimes assisted by Leena. She has hours’ worth of conversations with Claudia about archival efficiency. Artie seems to shudder every time he finds them working on something.
Sometimes, Myka ends up working cases alone or with Claudia or Steve, because Pete finds reasons to stay behind. He is becoming secretive again, like that case with the telegraph, and Myka would mention it to Artie except Artie is often his partner-in-crime. Myka catches them more than once having agitated conversations in Artie’s office or a hidden aisle of artifacts. Every time they have an excuse that seems plausible enough, but Myka did not become a Secret Service agent by accepting circumstantial evidence.
It’s hard, though, to focus on work when her private life has never seemed happier.
Helena doesn’t ask for a new room. She moves in with Myka and no one has anything to say about it, though Claudia can’t stop squealing and Pete winks so much it looks as though he’s developed a permanent twitch. At night, they climb into bed and read together and sometimes, when Myka pretends to be asleep, she catches Helena writing. She never mentions it or asks about it in the morning, but Myka can barely focus on her favorite books. There is something she wants to read more, but she’s too polite to ask.
One night, a little over two months after everything with Sykes, Helena puts down her book and just sits, flicking a page with her thumbnail.
“Something on your mind?” Myka asks.
“I’m worried about Pete,” Helena says.
Myka puts down her book. “Oh my god, you noticed it, too? Wait, no, of course you did; look who I’m talking to.”
“He seems to be getting more and more hostile every day. Arthur, too, though to be perfectly frank I’m not sure he’s ever been less than hostile toward me.”
“Helena, stop. Artie likes you now.”
“Yes, he does, doesn’t he? I still haven’t figured out why.”
Myka scoffs. “Why wouldn’t he?” Helena looks at her with such disbelief that Myka has to laugh. She kisses Helena—once, twice—just because she can. “Alright, alright. Message received.”
“I think it has something to do with the bomb,” Helena continues.
“Sykes’s bomb?”
“Yes, don’t you find it a little convenient that Arthur remembered the dhoti so quickly?”
“Well, he had to remember quickly,” Myka reasons. “That’s the whole point of a bomb.”
“But how did he know about the bomb in the first place?” Helena presses. “He not only knew that it existed, but when we went to make sure it was neutralized, he knew exactly where it was in Mr. Sykes’s chair.”
“Well it certainly wasn’t on Sykes himself.”
“Myka, do you recall the case with my time machine?”
“Of course.”
“You were reluctant to entertain the idea of traveling to the past. But you accepted it once the you that was in the past explained, with irrefutable evidence—how you twirled your hair, the way you were standing, that the only logical conclusion was time travel.”
Myka leans back and looks at Helena, really looks, to find some particle of doubt in her eyes. She finds nothing.
“You think Artie traveled back in time?”
“Along with Pete, yes.”
“They used your time machine?”
Helena shakes her head. “No, and that’s what worries me. We would have known if my machine were in use. For one, someone would had to have fixed it, as I recall leaving it in somewhat of a state of disrepair. But my machine requires time to operate it, and we could not afford any if we wanted to dismantle the bomb.”
“What are you saying, Helena?”
“Whatever Arthur and Pete used to alter time is a device unfamiliar to the Warehouse, and one whose side effects are very much unknown. What is the phrase you so often espouse?”
“‘There is always a downside,’” Myka answers. “So what’s this one?”
“I fear we’re about to find out.”
/
The downside doesn’t just hit Pete and Artie. The whole Warehouse gets tense and Mrs. Frederic keeps stopping by, scaring them all half to death. She talks with Claudia and Myka at length, asking them questions about things they’ve noticed. Myka feels more than a little embarrassed when she isn’t able to answer as well as Mrs. Frederic wants her to. But it isn’t anything concrete. Myka notices little things—nothing that would point them to whatever artifact caused the change. She notices feelings and doesn’t know what to do with them. Pete is the one who gets vibes, not her.
Mrs. Frederic talks with Helena, too, and it bothers Myka more than she’d care to admit. From the way they sneak off to chat, she’s pretty sure it isn’t like any of their other talks Helena had mentioned. It feels ominous, and Myka clings to Helena even more. She makes sure they eat as many meals together as they can. She pesters Helena even more about returning to field work.
Helena bristles every time, but Myka just can’t seem to stop.
“Myka!” Helena finally snaps one night. She paces around their room, fingers busy with the locket at her chest. “I would love to return to the Warehouse,” she says, somewhat calmer, “but it is impossible right now.”
“Why?” Myka protests. “Artie’s barely in charge anymore, Pete won’t go on missions. The Warehouse could use an extra set of hands.”
“And it has one. Just not for curiosities.”
Myka runs a hand through her hair and sits on the bed. “This has something to do with the time-traveling artifact, doesn’t it?”
Helena hesitates for a moment, rocking back and forth on her heels before closing the bedroom door. “Irene may have a lead on the artifact, yes.”
“Is it the right lead?”
“I have spent a considerable amount of time with Irene and the amount of resources to which she has access astounds even me.”
“So, yes,” Myka concludes. “What is it?”
“Have you seen Arthur’s pocket watch?”
Myka furrows her brows. “No.”
“He keeps it hidden in his desk; perhaps you’re chasing artifacts too often to notice. We think it belonged to Duarte Barbossa.”
“The captain of Magellan’s ship?”
Helena nods. “It is purported to lead its bearer to the location of Magellan’s astrolabe. An astrolabe which, in turn, can erase time for twenty four hours.”
“And that’s what Pete and Artie used.” Helena nods again. “Why?”
“We don’t know,” Helena shrugs. “Clearly something happened that was so terrible they found it necessary to take such a large risk in order to fix it.”
“Well, Pete is pretty emotional, but the only thing Artie would risk that much for is the—”
“The Warehouse, yes,” Helena finishes. “I can only conclude that in this alternate version of reality, we failed to save the Warehouse.”
“So far I’m not seeing the downside to using this thing.”
“The astrolabe creates an unknown evil in whoever uses it,” Helena explains. “An evil that is uncontrollable and absolute. Robespierre used the astrolabe in 1793 and created the Reign of Terror. The only bit of luck in this situation is that Pete and Arthur have split the evil between them, making it a little less potent.”
“If we’re so lucky, why don’t you look relieved?”
Helena joins Myka on the bed and takes her hand. “Irene and I have found only one solution to this problem. There is a dagger, first owned by Francesco Borgia, that has the ability to separate good from evil when used on an afflicted person.”
“And by used, you mean…?”
“Pete and Arthur must be stabbed,” Helena says, confirming Myka’s worst fears. Myka often appreciates Helena’s tendency toward candor. Today she wishes for a little sugar-coating.
“Okay.” Myka swallows, pushing down her feelings and looking at the situation objectively. “So where is it?”
“I don’t know.” Helena averts her eyes. “Irene, once again, has more than a few suspicions, and she has entrusted me with the task of finding it.”
“Helena…”
“I don’t want to leave you, darling, but think of what might happen should I stay.”
“We can all go. It’ll be faster if we have four people searching at once.”
“And what do you think Pete and Arthur would get up to if they were left unsupervised for an extended period of time?”
“You shouldn’t have to do this alone, Helena.”
“I don’t intend to, darling.” She leans forward and kisses Myka—soft, full of promises and fears and love. Helena has a great capacity for love. Myka feels lucky to finally experience it in full. “I must ask that you stay behind and keep an eye on everything for me. They will be suspicious, and they cannot realize our plan.”
“But—”
“I am not leaving you,” Helena promises, and kisses her again. “I have no intention of leaving you. I will find the dagger and we will cure Arthur and Pete. Wrongs will be righted and the Warehouse will come back to full working order.”
“Bering and Wells,” Myka smiles. “Solving puzzles—”
“And saving the day, yes.” Helena smiles, too. “As it always will be, darling.” She gets up and opens the top drawer of her nightstand, pulling out a well-worn notebook. “I love you dearly, Myka. If you should need a reminder while I’m gone, please give this a look.”
“Okay.”
“Come to bed, love. There is still time for rest before I embark on another great adventure.”
“I love you too, Helena.”
“I know.”
/
Myka spends four weeks reading Helena’s stories over and over again. They are stories of Myka; of Claudia; of an old man who is grumpy in the most familiar way. Helena writes with poise and wit and heartbreaking elegance. Myka tries to reconcile these stories with the classic novels of the past. H.G. Wells wrote about fantasies and impossible machines.
Helena Wells writes about people.
She can say she isn’t a wordsmith all she wants. Myka knows the truth.
/
The day Helena comes back, Myka can’t concentrate. Claudia and Steve are in Maryland, chasing Clara Barton’s nurse’s cap, which renders the wearer insusceptible to harm. They grumble all the way through the umbilicus about Civil War artifacts.
The last time Myka saw them, Pete and Artie were going to do inventory near the bronze sector. Which is why she is so alarmed when the computer dings with an artifact displacement in the IRS Quartum.
“That doesn’t sound good,” Helena says from behind her.
“Jeez, Helena!” Myka jumps. “Stop spending so much time with Mrs. Frederic.”
Helena points to the screen. “What is that?”
“The IRS Quartum,” Myka explains. “I think it’s where stuff from Warehouse 8 is kept.”
“The time of the Romans?”
“Yeah.”
Helena inhales sharply. “Myka, we must get down there immediately.”
“But—”
“I have the dagger. Run.”
They opt for the zipline instead, covering the last bit of distance on foot. Pete and Artie are waiting for them, Teslas aimed at their heads.
Myka puts her hands up in surrender immediately. “Pete, Artie, come on. You don’t want to do this.”
“We know what you’re here for,” Artie says. He shakes a handful of papers at her; Myka can make out Francesco Borgia’s name at least five times. It is written in Helena’s hand.
“It isn’t what you think.” She turns to Helena. “How did they get these?”
Helena sighs. “I left research with Leena. I didn’t want to take it all with me, and I still didn’t have all the answers. Once again, it seems I have underestimated the agents of this Warehouse.”
“Don’t listen to her, Mykes. There’s stuff going on that you don’t know about.”
“Pete, you’ve been affected by—”
“No, you’re not listening!” Pete yells. “Brother Adrian’s coming after all of us and he wants us to use the astrolabe again—”
“Who’s Brother Adrian?” Myka murmurs.
“He is part of a secret society that takes care of the astrolabe,” Helena answers.
“—he wants us to undo what we changed and I can’t do that,” Pete continues, oblivious to any interruptions. “And now we can’t even focus on stopping him because your girlfriend is trying to kill us.”
“I don’t want to kill you, Pete,” Helena says. “Your mind is addled from the astrolabe.”
“My mind is fine, H.G. You’ve got all these plans for me and Artie and this knife. What else am I supposed to take away from that, huh?”
“The truth.”
“Mykes,” Pete pleads. “Mykes, you gotta listen to me. She’s obviously working with Brother Adrian. Don’t let her get to you, too.”
“Pete, put the Tesla down and I promise we’ll talk.”
“Do you know why we used the astrolabe? You died, Mykes. Claudia got arrested and everyone died. Brother Adrian stabbed you in the gut, and now he wants to undo everything we’ve fixed. I can’t let him do that.”
“I—” Myka swallows against the lump in her throat, shakes her head a little to clear away the tears. “Everyone died?”
“Yeah. Sykes blew up the Warehouse and H.G. sacrificed herself to save us from going with it, but then we went to Italy to find the astrolabe and Brother Adrian stabbed you in the Vatican. We had to use it, Myka.”
“Okay.” Myka nods, thinking. “Okay, well, if you had died I probably would have used it, too. But, Pete, there are consequences that you didn’t know about, and they’re putting you in danger.”
“I’m the one trying to stop the danger, Mykes.”
“I know you think that, but—”
“Myka, I don’t want to have to shoot you.”
“We can talk about this, Pete.”
“Please, just get out of my way so I can fix this.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
Suddenly there is a scuffle behind Myka. Helena runs past her. “I cast you out!” she screams, and then she stabs Artie.
Myka is just as stunned as Pete is.
“You—” He growls and turns his Tesla away from Myka, pointing it at Helena’s back.
“No!” Myka yells, running in front of Helena.
“I will shoot you, Mykes.”
“So shoot me,” she challenges.
He does.
/
(The last time she invited someone to shoot her, Myka won.
Losing hurts a lot more than she thought it would.)
/
She wakes a few hours later. Someone has deposited her onto her bed and left aspirin and a glass of water with a note.
Sorry, it says in scratchy capital letters. Myka recognizes Pete’s handwriting right away.
“He’s alright. A little embarrassed, but physically fine.”
Helena is watching her again from her favorite perch by the window. Myka smiles and reaches for the aspirin.
“And Artie?”
“Good as new.”
“He isn’t mad at you?”
“He’s furious.”
“So we’re back to normal, then.”
“It would appear so.” Helena grins and gets up, stretching as she does. Myka takes a moment to appreciate her reach. It is a good, long reach.
“Did you…?”
“Pete and Arthur have matching knife wounds in their right shoulders. They should heal completely in a few weeks.” Helena lies next to her on the bed, resting her cheek against Myka’s side. “I had to make a very quick decision, darling. Forgive me for not rousing you before incapacitating your partner.”
“Forgive you? I don’t think I’ll ever run out of ways to thank you.”
“That sounds wonderfully enticing.”
Helena laughs and leans up for a kiss. Myka stays for three.
“You know,” Myka says, running a hand through Helena’s hair, “it seems to me that whether or not the Warehouse is exploding, you’re always the one saving my life.”
“Or the one ruining it.”
“We’re all past that, Helena. Artie, me, Pete—we’ve all forgiven you. You don’t have to dwell on it anymore.”
“I know. But that doesn’t mean I should forget it either.”
“Just as long as you don’t also forget how good you are.”
“It seems that you are quite intent on constantly reminding me.”
Myka laughs. “Yeah, you should get used to that.”
“I would love to.”
“Have you talked to Steve and Claudia?”
Helena shakes her head, rustling her hair against Myka’s shoulder. “No, I haven’t called them yet. Perhaps—”
She moves to get up but Myka pulls her back down. “Later, Helena. Things will be just as okay when they get back as they are now.”
“Later?”
“Later,” Myka confirms.
“Alright,” Helena mumbles, settling back against Myka. “Tell me about later. Tell me about tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
Myka tells tales of artifacts and mishaps; of Pete and his shenanigans; of Claudia and her wonderful brain. She tells tales of what the future holds for all of them. Myka stumbles over words that Helena would find in a second, laughs through prepositions and one too many conjunctions. She tells stories about the brave squad entrusted with protecting the world, and they always win the day, and they always survive.
In her arms, Helena sleeps.
There is a world outside of the bed and breakfast, full of dangers and wonders and adventures.
Myka presses a kiss to Helena’s temple.
The world can wait.