#this is helena making the decision for herself and so myka can accept it in the moment

[finehs]

You should be safe now.

[apparitionism]

Cover 7

Begun in blustery, bare winter, finished with trees in full leaf... the forbearance of @lady-adventuress​  in the face of my extended timeline for this @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange​ offering should be celebrated with more gifts that I for one have the ability to give. At long last, this clownish circus reaches its somewhat lengthy conclusion (which is of course not an ending in any real sense, given that the Bering and Wells story is, as we know, endless). I refer you to part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, and part 6 for details as to how we got here. The incident that occurred at the end of part 6 was pretty important: an artifact instigated a moment of, shall we say, unexpected intimacy between Myka and Helena, leaving Myka more than a little shook...

Cover 7

Go through the motions.

That’s what Myka tells herself when she has no idea what to do. It usually works.

But now she has a problem: What... what are the motions?

She should start with standing up.

No, she’s already standing. Bad start.

Maybe sitting down?

Success.

She’s gone through one motion.

But that’s as far as she gets, for even though her body might still work, her brain betrays her: she’s overtaken by the ghost of Helena’s soft swift mouth, its fit, followed fast by her own body’s decisive answering rise... “Quit flashing back,” she tells herself, out loud.

Setting up a mental roadblock: Is that a motion? One to be gone through?

Regardless, she should do it.

She sits on the bunk, roadblock in place, and doesn’t flash back. And yet the barrier is shaky, because of course she has to think about Helena; she has to figure out where Helena would go, carrying a heart... carrying a heart and, not incidentally, having just kissed Myka—

Immediately she plows right through the incompetent roadblock.

After suffering (“suffering”) another flashback, Myka determines that she will first try the big top. It’s where the tripping and falling—and, most likely, the artifact-priming—happened.

She stands up. This is another motion. And, thank god, it is not a flashback.

The minute she tells herself it’s not a flashback, it becomes one: now she feels the time-rip of their being brought together, both together and together, creating a perfect fit, of lips but also of heights, the angles they afford, the immediate pressures. The instantaneously correct tilts of head, as if they’d both imagined it, had it and held it in mind so that the realization needed no rehearsal to be technically perfect.

She accepts the sensations... not that she has a choice, because here they are, immersing her. Not exactly against her will, despite the supposed roadblock.

Then she pulls herself together and heads to the big top.

It’s still early, and the space is capaciously empty. A couple of acrobats are practicing in the farthest ring, swinging and hurtling, but that’s the only habitation.

Other than an elegant figure in the center of the center ring, posed devotionally for maximal display: she might be titled “Venus Regarding a Purloined Heart.”

Myka moves toward her as silently as she can, but she’s no cat. Her steps crunch the sawdust, causing Helena to whip her head around, and upon catching sight of Myka, she grips the heart tight, tight and tighter, against her chest. Myka walks determinedly toward her, bracing herself to suffer (“suffer”) another kiss if she has to, in order to get her hands on the artifact.

But Helena, even artifact-addled as she is, must be able to discern Myka’s larcenous intent; she spins and darts away.

Myka takes off after her, figuring that at the very least she has the satisfaction of a prediction fulfilled: she couldn’t have anticipated being proved so literally right, but last night’s performance in fact hadn’t been her last chase.

She runs and she nears, because this is no act, and she has no need to clumsify herself; her long legs enable her to gain quickly on the shorter Helena. Shorter—the thought leads to heights and angles and—no, no, no. A flashback now will make her trip, so she shoves all her mental weight behind the barricade, willing it to hold, even as she prepares to launch her physical self at Helena.

One step, two; two more; two again will put her close enough to aim a flying tackle, and at least sawdust is soft; Myka knows that from experience. It’ll cushion them both.

But in a funhouse-mirror move, Helena trips.

Falls.

Sprawls.

Myka skids to a stop, aborting the launch, nearly collapsing backward as her momentum shifts.

From her precarious stance, she watches Helena right herself and sit up, quick and indignant, like a gazelle affronted by such an ungainly betrayal of her usual smooth agility.

Myka wants to—would—let herself feel tender delight, at the sight and the idea, but she has work to do. Work. Work.

Work, but she knows she won’t be able to avoid, as yet another irresistible flashback, recalling again and again Helena’s face as it looks right now, with its bafflement and, suddenly, yearning, as she looks up at Myka, the yearning all for Myka. She’s the sun now, and Helena’s face the chasing moon.

Helena looks down at her hands, finds them empty, then immediately reaches to grab the heart from the sawdust next to her. Her eyes light up once she does, and she raises her newly shining gaze to Myka. “I have your heart,” she says. “See? It’s mine.” Her voice, too, tells of yearn and chase, but it speaks most strongly of certainty, particularly that “mine.”

Myka sees she’s made the mistake of thinking “on the nose” couldn’t twist again. This is just unacceptable. In all senses of the word.

Now Helena is scrambling up, and is she going to lunge at Myka? Will she aim for another kiss? That’s also unacceptable (though Myka can’t quite get to reasons), so she takes advantage of Helena’s momentary distraction from the heart itself to reach out and pluck the object from her hands. She drops it in the bag she’s brought with her—at least she’d remembered that grabbing gloves and a static bag was one of the motions—and the expected sparks ensue, as does a vestigial dying-oboe honk.

Myka would spare a moment of regret for her erstwhile prop, but: “Funny bit!” yells one of the acrobats, from high above and far away, standing and swinging on a trapeze. “Great effects!”

“Working on it!” Myka shouts back, grateful to expel some of her nervous energy in that bark. “We’ll see where it goes!”

Then she realizes the potential implications of what she’s said. “Or not,” she gruffs out, under her breath.

Not quite enough under: “About that,” Helena says. All of the “mine” certainty is gone. It sounds like regret has set in.

It looks like it too: the change in Helena’s gaze wounds Myka. Inappropriately... but she can’t help wondering how it might feel to continue being the object of such interest. Such adoration. Such interested adoration... Myka puts her shoulder to the barricade again. “Whatever. It’s okay,” she says, with as little affect as possible under the circumstances. Which are not okay, and about which she feels not at all “whatever.” Not at all.

Wordlessly, they walk back to the car.

The silence gives Myka time to think. And think. And think. Helena being right next to her is a provocation, one she can’t acknowledge for what it is. Her appetite has been whetted, yet she has to swallow the blade: right now no one, and certainly not the person walking beside her, can see (can be let see) this sharp, sharp shine.

Think and think and think. She’s visited by the idea of stealing a kiss... not because she would, in this silent moment, but because a first kiss can happen only once, and theirs, hers and Helena’s, has been stolen.

Thanks, artifact.

It’s no longer something to imagine.

And she had imagined. Not actively. Not working on it. But the imagination is unruly...

Now, though, she can no longer imagine first. Now there is only next. That’s not the same thing.

And yet she knows she will imagine next. Having known the first, she certainly will imagine next.

At least it won’t be a flashback, she consoles herself, as if a flash-forward, even an imaginary one, is likely to be less destabilizing.

Helena continues to walk beside her, the embodiment of all the wishes, all the flashes, the backs, the forwards. Time, Myka jeers at herself. Will there be such time when Helena’s perspective on all or any of it is, or can become, less of an obscurity?

The car, as they enter it, is become alien, a space from which Myka is estranged. It happened here. It happened here, and now she’s strangling in the aftermath.

I need to be somewhere else.

Even in situations less fraught than this, she’s sometimes felt a need to escape Helena’s presence, for Helena is so often too much—requiring too much effort, imposing too much pressure, demanding too much attention.

This time it isn’t Helena’s fault; Myka knows that. But of course it’s never really Helena’s fault. Myka is the one at fault, for being unable to exert the effort, bear up under the pressure, supply the correct sort of attention.

Now, whenever; it doesn’t matter who’s at fault. Myka busies herself gathering up items. “I’ll be back in a while,” she says, and she doesn’t meet Helena’s eyes. Will Helena read anything into that? Well, that doesn’t matter either, because Myka is the agent in charge. She doesn’t have to look anybody in the eye if she doesn’t want to. Or need to. Not if it isn’t mission-critical, and how could eye contact be mission-critical?

Her unruly imagination immediately produces a roster of situations in which eye contact would be the very definition of mission-critical.

Looking for a life preserver, needing a taste of rescue, she sets off in search of Nina.

Lawrence had told her which car Nina shares, and the complications involved in pinpointing its location are useful. They take up time. The time supports motions through which Myka can go: walking, looking, trying to find. Such basic tasks. So right-now gratifying, because they require attention. Don’t flash back.

When she locates the car, she leans the stick to the side of its door, outside, like Nina did. Like the echo might give closure.

Nina opens the door. Myka, involuntarily counting the bunks (one two three four, all bigger than the ones Myka and Helena have been sleeping on), considers herself lucky to have found Nina alone.

Nina smiles, and that warms Myka. “I brought you something,” she says. She holds out the biography Artie gave her... that scene, and the questioning and dreading it led to, seems to have happened years ago, to someone else. “Do you know about Grimaldi?” She doesn’t want to assume, one way or the other. History.

“The name? Maybe?” Nina asks, taking the book into her hands, crinkling her nose as she regards its cover. Myka would like to let herself be charmed by that crinkle. Given the Helena difficulties, however... she holds herself away.

“Joey Grimaldi,” she says, reaching over and tapping the made-up face on the book’s cover.

“Oh... right, right. The makeup. That’s this guy’s?”

“It is. Because we were talking about history, and this is a... cautionary tale.” Myka moves her own hands, not to talk so expressively with them as Nina does, but rather to gather up the idea of danger and make sure Nina sees it. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“You really get it,” Nina says, with warmth.

“Maybe.” Myka wishes she could quit hedging, but...

“Your partner doesn’t. She’d hate it if she knew about you being here, talking to me, right?”

“She would,” Myka says. That she feels compelled to tell Nina the truth, even when it might not be a good idea, even when she doesn’t really want to, is... disconcerting.

“You okay with that?”

“She has her reasons,” Myka says. It’s a nonanswer, and she regrets it.

“I bet. How long you been together?”

Together. “Not long.”

Nina crinkles her nose again. “That’s funny.”

“Is it?” It is, in so many ways, but—

“Not funny. I mean you coulda said ten years, and I’d be like ‘that tracks.’ She good to you?”

What a strikingly unanswerable question. “That isn’t the issue.”

Nina’s hands bloom a “so what is?” response.

“She’s... different. Singular.” Myka certainly can’t be more specific than that.

“Hey, I met her, right? She’s got unreal hair, but she’s just a person.”

Myka thinks, She wasn’t, not to me, but I’m becoming more aware that she is. And more aware that I don’t know how to deal, as a person, with the idea that she’s a person. Not “H.G. Wells,” though she’s that person too—but an embodied person, one whose body keeps getting far too close to mine.

“Honestly maybe not even that good at clowning,” Nina adds. As if she needs some negative to counter the “unreal hair” praise.

Myka lets herself chuckle. “I’ll tell her you said so.”

Now the hands flutter out a push-push-push negation. “Wait, what? No, no, she’s totally great, come on, you know it, you know I know it.”

Helena’s opinion matters to everyone. But particularly to Claudia and her cognate, so Myka says, “Don’t worry. Whatever I say, it won’t matter.” That’s entirely untrue, so she tries to clarify, “Wait. No. If I tell her you think she’s no good, it will matter to her. Won’t to you.” Terrible clarification. “Sorry, I’m getting this wrong.” She’s fumbling. It’s incompetent, and it isn’t undercover. “What I really need to tell you is that we’re leaving.”

That stops Nina’s hands. “Fam,” she sighs out.

Her expression—sad yet knowing—cracks open Myka’s emotional capacity. Now, again, she feels a need to be somewhere else, but she allows herself only the time and space it takes to step out and retrieve the slapstick. Her apology.

“About that...” Myka begins. She wants to tell the truth. She likes Nina, even beyond her Claudia-cognate status; even beyond her wish for ethical purity, she doesn’t want to misrepresent or mislead. And yet equally, she doesn’t want to give Nina access to the dreamings that hide deep in the sulci of her brain. Well. Dreamings that hid. In the past. Before today. (Or did they?) To distract herself from telling any of that truth, she grips the slapstick and talks around another: “You may feel like you get a little worse. Don’t let it... deter you.” Then again, the artifact hasn’t been affecting her for long, so maybe its effect isn’t that strong? Hoping, she holds out the slapstick.

“What? Why would I get worse?” Nina eagerly takes it from Myka. “I even got the mojo-maker back! You crazy?”

Of course Nina thinks Myka’s crazy: she has no idea that Myka’s done anything to hurt her. You wouldn’t be able to look her in the eye, Helena had said; Myka had known its truth then, and she proves its truth now by looking down at the floor as she speaks. “Maybe. But talent, I mean. How it works. There’s natural ebb and flow,” she asserts, as if she knows what she’s talking about, but she can’t sustain it. She collapses into the actual truth: “I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Nina’s hands slow. Her face softens. “You really are sweet.”

“No, I...” She isn’t. But it’s true that she wants Nina to be just as brilliant in the absence of the slapstick. Is that sweet? No, she tells herself. It’s respectful of a fellow professional. A different field, but a fellow professional. Myka certainly wouldn’t want her Secret Service skills to be revealed as not genuinely hers.

“Your partner really hates it here,” Nina says. It’s a taking of pity. “That’s why you’re leaving, right? Was it the tiny car? She hates it in in that car, I could see it.”

“She does, but in her... defense? I think she hates it everywhere.” Myka’s going to have to think on how quickly that came to her, and how accurate it feels, now that she’s said it. She’s going to have to put a wrinkle of her brain to work on what it means that Helena... well, Helena had essentially said it, and then Myka had said it back: Helena doesn’t like the world.

Can Myka give Helena a reason to like even a small part of the world? Or is that too presumptuous an idea... and does it rely too heavily on how Helena has given Myka a reason to like a very new aspect of the world? She touches those new-to-her lips again.

“You okay?” Nina asks, speculative.

Someone “okay” wouldn’t be so unfamiliar with the features of her own face. Nevertheless, Myka goes with, “I’ll just say yes.”

Nina nods, as if she’s long accustomed to accepting the self-protective lies of flummoxed undercover agents. “I get you.”

Myka believes her. Tells her so.

“Thanks,” Nina says. She shrugs and rolls her eyes, again so Claudia. “Yeah, so I like that you were here. For even a minute.”

If the situation were different, Myka  might hug Nina. But that has a flavor of betrayal—of whom, of what, Myka can’t pin down. “I like that I got to see you juggle,” Myka says.

“Only the beginning,” Nina assures her.

Myka believes that too. About so many things.

For instance, it might apply to whatever’s waiting for her back in the car. Then again it might not. Myka has no idea what, or whom, or what version of whom she’ll find.

In the event, to her... surprise? relief?... it’s a businesslike Helena, who reports that Claudia has Farnsworthed about the artifact. “I told her the situation has been resolved.”

“Okay,” Myka says.

“Because of course it has.”

“Okay.”

“In that you neutralized the artifact.”

“I did,” Myka agrees.

At that point, Helena seems to run out of words. No more statements of the obvious are forthcoming.

“Look, it’s fine,” Myka says, trying to tell Helena, without telling her, that her businesslike approach is the right one, at least for now.

With a conspicuously blank expression, Helena says, “What happened. Should we speak about it?”

Speaking about it would be the very antithesis of businesslike, at least from Myka’s perspective. She can’t, e.g., imagine saying the word “kiss” out loud. Or, worse, hearing it said. So she tries to blank back: “It’s fine. Like I said.” She aims for an undercurrent of please hear me this time, even though she’s lying and she knows it. They should speak about it, because it is not fine. But it’s the kind of not-fine that mostly needs thinking through, and given time, she can think it through. All of it: her immediate response, as well as the consequences. What it all should mean. Could mean. And then she’ll be able to take that thinking-through and do something with it.

But there’s no need to rush. There’s time. For once—once in what feels like Myka’s whole life—there’s time.

Helena gives her a quiet nod, one that Myka is drawn to read as “I know”; that motion seems to know everything, everything about the need to think through, everything about what could happen after that. Everything about the luxury of time.

It’s an unexpected comfort. It gives Myka—or rather, enables Myka to give herself—permission to relax. We are not ignoring this. We are letting it rest.

“For the record, I don’t think we need to replace this artifact,” Myka says, trying for business again, but less... blank.

Helena raises an eyebrow. “And yet without it—or rather, without our using it—they once again lack love.”

That’s less blank too. Is she mirroring Myka now, as Myka had mirrored her? “That’s their problem, not ours,” Myka says.

Helena presses her hands together and addresses the heavens: “A problem not ours to solve? At last we are released.” She looks sidelong at Myka. “Are you certain, Ms. Ethical Arbiter?”

Myka smiles. That Helena feels free to tease her? That’s a step. She takes one too: “As certain as I can be, Ms. Elegant Harlequin.”

The sidelong look becomes full-on, surprised, then melts into amusement. Success.

****

They’re on a plane, headed home. Planes are liminal. Words said on a plane might not carry over to another space... but then again they might. It’s a risk.

Given everything, Myka is feeling less risk-averse than usual, or it might be that her risk assessments aren’t correctly calibrated, but regardless, she ventures, “I think it might be art.”

“It,” Helena says. Then, “It?”

“Clowning.” Myka says it in place of the greater risks she can’t quite take.

“I haven’t revised my opinion.”

That could have been petulant. It isn’t, and Myka takes that as salient. “So maybe you will someday.”

“Unlikely.”

“But you can’t completely rule it out.”

“That is correct.”

“So there’s hope,” Myka says, trying now for something vaguely lighthearted.

“You seem to want me to concede the point.” Prissy, but light. Clearly intentionally so.

“Only because that’s what I want.” That’s light too, but still risky, in its pushy insistence on a point of view. A point of view about how she and Helena might be able to interact...

“Far be it from me to deprive you of what you want,” Helena says. After a fleeting pause, she follows softly with, “And so I concede.”

To reward her (though that’s also pushy, even as a thought), Myka says, “Okay. I do too.”

“What?”

“It probably wouldn’t have been worth the downside.”

“Determining whether—now that’s an art. A delicate one.”

“I’ll concede also that as arts go, it’s probably more delicate than clowning.”

But she wonders, thinking back, whether that’s true. Delicacy had been evident in Nina’s hands as she juggled, delicacy as a corollary of precision. And delicacy had imbued the gliding flow of Helena’s entire harlequin-being.

Reading her mind, Helena says, “You don’t really believe that.”

“Depends on who’s doing the clowning.”

Helena twists her mouth into a knowing little smirk—evidence of yet another mind-reading.

****

Leena has just ferried Myka and Helena from the airport, depositing them in the shadowed, late-night foyer of the B&B before leaving “to check one last thing at the Warehouse.”

They’re standing there, unmoored, awkward, the retrieval finished yet lingering, cousin to a hangover. Tequila, Myka thinks, for this is the kind of here-but-not-here displacement an abundance of those shots has always gifted her. Their luggage rests beside them, including the clown-gear case that Myka should have guessed, even at the start, belonged to Artie rather than to the Warehouse.

When Leena had picked them up, she’d said as much: “You really should have known.” In the moment, that had brought Myka up short: what should she have known? Worse, what did Leena think she should have known? “That that was Artie’s suitcase,” Leena went on, nodding her head toward the old valise in the back of the SUV.

A vast relief. “I certainly should have known to ask you about history,” Myka said, thinking to flatter, and thus to introduce the idea that she wants to talk about things Leena knows...

But then Leena said, “And I heard there was a second artifact.”

So much for relief. “A... prop,” Myka said.

“What kind of prop?”

Could she get away with not answering? Of course not. Especially not when Leena was doing the asking. “A heart,” she admitted.

“A heart. What does it do?”

“It honks,” Myka said truthfully. “Well. Honked.”

“I mean its power.”

“I don’t know.” Also truthful.

“I have a theory,” Helena offered from the back seat.

Uh oh.

“I love artifact theories,” Leena said.

I’m pretty sure I don’t. Not when—

“In performance,” Helena said, “the heart gathers the devotional energy offered by its bearer. Should the object of such avidly demonstrated devotion come into contact with that energy... well. You can imagine the fireworks.”

“Can I?” Leena said this with a smile and a glance back at Helena.

“Be my guest,” Helena told her, with just as much of a smile.

Or don’t.

“A slapstick and a heart,” Leena mused. What was she imagining? “Sounds like a romantic comedy to me.”

If only.

Now, in the foyer, Myka asks Helena, “Are you as tired as I am?” It’s anodyne. She’s not thrilled with it as a thing to say to cap the experience... but she is tired. And she wishes she could be drinking tequila.

“I’ve been thinking of a nursery rhyme,” says Helena.

A non sequitur. Sure, that’s better—and of course Helena comes up with the better thing to say. “A nursery rhyme,” Myka says, because, again: sure. Bring on that tequila.

Helena nods. “It began thusly:

This life is but a game of cards Which mortals have to learn, Each shuffle, cut, and deal the pack And each a trump doth turn.”

This knocks Myka sideways, for the simple reason that she’s never before heard Helena speak verse. But knocking her differently—back, forward?—is the way Helena’s voice has shifted again, away from its usual costume, again toward something that speaks of origins and memory.

This time the alteration must have been intentional, for Helena drops back into her customary register to say, “The consequences of each suit’s being trumps for a time are then detailed, connecting each to its obvious metaphorical role: clubs for war, diamonds for riches, hearts for... you can imagine. It escalates to that highest of suits, the spade, which delivers what one might call the lowest metaphorical blow.” Now Helena pauses, apparently to let her words sink in.

“The lowest,” Myka echoes. What is she in for?

Helena shrugs, then intones:

“But the spade! The spade is the last of all When turned by the hand of time— It waits upon each player’s game In every age and clime. No matter how much each one wins No matter how much each one saves The spade will finish up the game And dig the player’s grave.”

As she ends, she flips her right hand, a “ta-da” gesture. Or is it an “over to you”? In either case, how should Myka respond? She starts, “That’s...” But no. She doesn’t know what this is about. Pete had given her the right response: listen.

She waits, and she’s rewarded. Helena drops her hand and says, “‘Shivery,’ that’s what Charles called it. My mother would recite it to us at bedtime, not nightly but often... imagine my horror, later in life, when I heard it emerge from the mouth of a clown.”

Imagine my horror. Horror. Horror? At the sullying of a precious childhood memory? Or, no... at the connection it suggested? Myka tries, “You worried that a clown knowing it, that it said something about your mother?”

“About my mother?” Helena parrots, but satirically, as if there could be no question more ridiculous. Myka scrambles to compose a correctly worded apology, but Helena goes on, “I worried—no, I knew—that it said something about me.”

The way she says “me”—not with anguish but with resignation—slaps Myka in the face: how profoundly she’s failed to understand what Helena had tried to explain before, that origins were untranscendable.

Myka gropes for something that might be right to say. “Does it help at all that the verse isn’t wrong? About the players, in the end? How differences don’t... matter?”

A little tilt-bow of head conveys I see you are trying. But Helena says, “As stated by the lowest of the low? What do you think?”

What do you think. She isn’t walking Myka through it... ergo, she trusts Myka to make her own way.

Myka wants to express out loud her deep, deep appreciation for that. She wants to take that expression and expand it into a full account of what it’s meant, these past few days, to have been partnered with Helena (the phrase “had the honor” comes to mind, and it’s both too much and not nearly enough), to have lived through everything that happened, to have achieved what they set out to do... and more.

But she has to trust Helena to make her own way too. So what she offers is, “See you in the morning.”

Helena says, “What is Pete’s jest? ‘Not if I see you first.’” She gives Myka a small smile, then says, “Suggesting that if I see you first, I become invisible? Thus achieving that literal goal at long last.” She smiles wider, clearly pleased with herself. Then Ms. Elegant Harlequin—that sobriquet now part of the corpus of selves Myka understands “Helena” to comprise—moves to the staircase and step-by-step disappears from view.

“Okay, Claudia,” Myka says to the presence she’s felt lurking ever since Leena left her and Helena in the foyer alone. (Well, “alone.”) “You can come out now.”

Would she have said or done anything differently if they had been truly alone? Yes. No. Maybe? Best not to answer that question, even inside her head. Not yet.

“So is Artie right?” Claudia asks, her voice as tentative as Myka’s very soul.

“About what?” Myka has a good guess, but Claudia really needs to learn to refine her interrogation technique.

“Is she still a bad guy?”

Exactly what Myka had expected. Fortunately, it’s easily answerable, and it has been for some time. “In Tamalpais, she saved me, and she saved you. Wasn’t that dispositive?” Myka wants to believe it is dispositive... that would be so helpful.

“Sure, dictionary. If you say so.”

“She proved her case.”

“Did she prove it in this circus case?”

Myka says, “Two artifacts. We bagged two.”

“And you think that’s deposited?”

“Dispositive,” Myka corrects. “You sound like Pete.”

“Surprise, surprise. Let’s see how you sound after spending three long, long days with him.”

“I’ve done that. I’m pretty sure I still sound like me.”

“I’m pretty sure that you being just ‘pretty sure’ isn’t dispositive,” Claudia says, with a little flounce.

Myka does chuckle at that, but she’s also thinking that the bagging of two artifacts isn’t dispositive either... but Claudia doesn’t need to know that. “We met a juggler who reminded me of you,” Myka tells her.

“I can’t juggle.” Claudia moves her hands in a vaguely juggly way.

In hand movements, Claudia and Nina are nothing alike. That makes Myka nostalgic for Nina, yet even more affectionate about Claudia. “But you’re very good at what you do, and I’m pretty sure that doing it won’t make you sad. So you’re lucky... no slapstick required.”

“That is great news,” Claudia says, in a very familiar “back away from the crazy lady” mollifying tone. In a clear attempt to shift to something Myka won’t say crazy things about, she asks, “How did that other artifact fit in, anyway? H.G. was really cagey about it.”

Myka goes cagey herself. “Just another prop that got ideas.”

“Sounds like it really was a circus.”

“That’s every retrieval. One way or another.”

“I haven’t been on enough of them to know,” Claudia says, making Myka think she’s about to be subjected to more argumentation designed to establish how ready Claudia is for the field. Instead, Claudia switches gears. She asks, “So was it fun?”

Myka has no idea how she could take that one small word and apply it to everything that happened—everything that she suspects she may never find language to fit.

Then again... why not let one small word contain multitudes?

“Yes,” she answers.

END

...but wait! Let’s not leave this such that the catastrophes of Warehouse 2 and Yellowstone and apples and Boone (god, that’s so many catastrophes) are looming! Let’s travel significantly forward in time, to the present day of 2022...

CODA

The B&B’s breakfast table is a jumble of people, mugs, cups, plates... and phones. The phones are receiving the most attention.

“Huh,” Pete says, looking at his. The syllable is clearly intended to be meaningful.

“What?” Myka asks.

“I’m reading the news.”

“Since when do you do that?”

“Since I got this new phone and haven’t shut off the news feed yet.”

“What’s the rule about new phones?” Claudia demands.

Steve says, immediately, “Hand them to you first.”

Claudia nods and tells Pete, “A lesson Steve learned the hard way.”

“I learned it the hard way as well,” Helena says.

“So what’s wrong with you?” Claudia says to Pete.

He sighs. “I guess I just like the hard way.”

Myka glances at Helena. “I guess we all kind of do,” she says, and she isn’t talking about new phones.

Helena takes Myka’s hand under the table. It’s a subtle-sweet way of saying I know you aren’t talking about new phones. Aloud, Helena says, “But on a positive note, Pete has been informing himself about the news.”

“These days, maybe that note isn’t so positive,” Steve says.

Helena nods. “You make a sad yet reasonable point.”

“I was reading the news myself, and he interrupted that,” Myka says. “So is it positive that he’s informing us that he’s doing it?”

“Knock knock,” Pete says.

Myka sighs. “Who’s th—”

“Interrupting cow. And I’m informing you about something in the news.”

“No you aren’t. Or at any rate, you haven’t yet,” Helena points out. “You can’t wonder at our confusion regarding whether it’s positive.”

“I’m getting there. Remember way back in the beforetimes, when you guys had to dress up like clowns?”

“I seriously doubt that’s in the news,” Myka says, “but of course I remember it.” Then she thinks maybe she shouldn’t have said so, here with everybody. Then she thinks it would have been implausible for her not to have said so. Only then does she, with a sigh, meet Helena’s eyes—which, she’s gratified to note, are sparkling. Helena clasps her hand a bit tighter, and that’s gratifying too.

“Jinksy, you missed that.” Claudia says.

Steve looks at Helena, looks at Myka. Then he asks, of the room, “Am I sorry or relieved?”

“Both,” Claudia tells him, and Helena nods agreement.

Myka thinks on ambivalence. She thinks on how she and Helena have talked through so many events, motivations, actions from those “beforetimes,” because they had to. Only some have they talked through because they wanted to.

In that latter category: a first kiss.

“Did you like it?” Myka had asked, when they were able to talk about it—when Helena had returned for good, when they had begun to deal with the past.

When they had begun to realize the promise of “next” and beyond.

“Did I like it.” Helena had then produced her most exaggerated of eyerolls. “A question on par with ‘Did the sun rise this morning.’” She kissed Myka then, and Myka, even Myka, had lost count of which “next” that was; she welcomed and worshipped all the joy and relief that loss implied. She had to force herself to shift her focus to what Helena said next: “But I confess my enjoyment was tempered at the time with resentment that such a kiss was wrenched from the artifact rather than chosen by me to bestow.”

“I felt that way too,” Myka admitted. “At first. But...” She didn’t want to go on.

“But what?”

Myka did go on, for they were dealing with the past. “If it had happened any other way, I might—no, would—have always wondered if you were trying to manipulate me. But instead it’s clean in my memory. I can look back and like it. Like how it felt. How inevitable. How good.”

“I might—no, as you say, would—have wondered the same thing. I hadn’t thought the word ‘clean.’ But yes. And thus looking back, I too have been able to like it without... reservation.”

Helena’s view, her after-everything view, mirrored Myka’s own. The fact of it caused Myka to think, for the first time, We will get this right.

Now, Pete says, “Anyway the news is that that circus is back. Without animals though. Humane. I get that.”

“I do too,” Claudia says. “Why should animals have to do that kind of work? People make much better dancing monkeys. No offense, you two who actually were dancing monkeys.”

“Goes both ways,” Myka tells her. “A juggling clown we knew called circusgoers ‘audience-monkeys.’”

Helena says, “Hairsplitting. Aren’t we all, at base, monkeys?” Origins. Helena hasn’t really come all the way around on the topic, but in this context, the Darwin hat-tip matters. “So now they lack animals,” Helena continues. “I wonder, however... do they still lack love?”

That’s intended for Myka alone, and she answers in kind: “They lack us, but I hope Nina found someone. She said clubs were always more showstopper with two. Remember?”

“I hadn’t, no more than I had the ‘monkeys’ remark. But... looking back, I wouldn’t withhold that hope.”

“Changed your mind?” Myka asks, treading lightly.

“Now isn’t then,” Helena says.

Myka knows the multitudes of nows and thens that covers.

She reaches out a hand—because she can, even here at the breakfast table, because now isn’t then—and draws a finger down Helena’s cheek. No barrier, no pretext. Hers to touch.

Time has done its easing, smoothing work: slow, implacable water against the rock of what once seemed to be an insurmountable past.

END

NOTE: I’ve once again utilized Bratton and Featherstone’s The Victorian Clown, this time for authentic clownish verse, which was in fact, according to the great-grandson of such a clown, recited by his mother as a nursery rhyme.

[beatricethecat2]

"A road trip? How exciting!" Jeanie exclaims.

"They gave you that much time off?" Warren gruffs.

"I'm still working. Sometimes," Myka explains.

"Often," Helena quips.

"And you're still...doing whatever it is you do? For the Secret Service? You never did explain," Jeanie asks.

"'Secret' and 'in-service of' the government, yeah," Myka answers.

"A-And what do you do, Helena?" Jeanie asks.

"I..." Helena glances at Myka.

"...work at a rare book collection. In Montreal," Myka adds.

"For a private patron, specializing in Victorian tomes," Helena elaborates.

"Dad, you should show her your collection."

"Oh, I don't know," Warren grumbles. "Won't be as fancy as she's used to."

"So you're Canadian?" Jeanie presses.

"No, English," Helena says.

"But you work in Canada?"

"It is a British commonwealth."

"Was," Myka snips. "Was a British Commonwealth."

"Is." Helena shoots Myka a firm glance. "Hence the Queen on their currency. I'm not being—"

"But you are sometimes."

"I'm aware," Helena snaps. "I researched my residence. It was easier to obtain a visa there due to my UK passport."

"You only have a British one?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Why?"

"I thought they'd give you a..." Myka glances at her parents. "Never mind."

A beat passes as the conversation hits a lull.

"How long did you say you've been traveling?" Jeanie inquires.

"A few months?" Myka looks at Helena for confirmation.

"Two and a half."

"And you've been able to leave work that long?" Jeanie asks Helena.

"I've made arrangements."

Jeanie looks between the two of them, wheels turning in her head. "Did you meet in Montreal? When were you there, honey?" she asks Myka.

"We, um, met a few years earlier." Myka's hands twist together on her lap.

The room quiets as both Myka and Helena fail to elaborate.

"Did something happen at work like last time?" Warren throws out.

"No," Myka answers, a little too forcefully and Helena shies away from her shoulder. She looks in Helena's direction, but Helena won't meet her gaze.

"Something else happened. A few things, actually."

"They don't know about your--"

"No. I went looking for you after my surgery. Then this trip happened—"

"Surgery?" Warren blurts.

"Tumor on my ovaries. They thought it was cancer, but it turned out benign. I didn't tell anyone, but Pete knew something was off. He picked me up from my biopsy and a few weeks later, they cut it out."

"Oh, Myka," Jeanie says.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Warren asks.

"Work was so crazy, I didn't have time," Myka says.

"You were still working?" Jeanie asks.

"You should have stayed with us," Warren adds.

"Tracy just had the baby, and I didn't want you to worry—"

"Baby?" Helena looks at Myka, brow raised.

"I told you, didn't I?"

"I think I would have recalled."

"Sorry. He's what," Myka says, looking at her mom, "three, four months old now?"

"Four and a half. Does your sister know any of this? About you being sick?"

"No. I haven't talked to her much—"

"You've not seen your sister's child?" Helena's whole body turns as she glares at Myka incredulously. 

"I-I was recovering. Then I went to find you," Myka says, her tone small. "A-And, it's a baby, right? It just sort of lies there, drooling. I thought I'd wait until he was...walking or something."

"That will take quite some time."

"I saw pictures. I texted I'd see him at Christmas."

Helena and Jeanne share a look of judgement.

"What? I don't get the whole 'having kids' thing."

"You will when you find the right fellow," Warren advises.

"Dad, that's not..." Myka starts, then stops with a breathy grunt. "Helena and I are dating, OK?"

"Oh." Warren's eyes dart to Helena, his expression minimally surprised. "The right woman then."

"You two are dating?" Jeanie asks.

"I thought you could tell."

"You do seem close, which is unusual for you," Jeanie mumbles nodding thoughtfully to herself.

"So surgery and a new beau. Keeping secrets again, Myka? I thought we moved past that," Warren says.

"Helena's not a secre--' Myka's phone rings. "Oh, thank god." She hits accept. "Agent Bering...yes...hang on a sec," she says, striding out of the room.

Helena sits up straighter as all eyes fall on her.

"What's your position on kids?" Warren asks Helena.

"Myka doesn't want them, Warren," Jeanne says, lips pursed.

"Yes, but I'm asking her," Warren points with his eyes to Helena.

"I'm...inclined to agree with Mrs. Bering."

"Oh, Jeanie, please," Jeanie says to Helena. "No need to pressure the poor girl. You have one grandkid already. Be happy with that."

"But Myka's the smart one," Warren says.

"Oh, now you're on her side?" Jeanie quips. "All those years you pushed her—"

"Wells..." Warren interrupts, eyes on Helena. "Myka said your last name is Wells?"

"That is correct."

"Any relation to the author?"

Helena opens her mouth to answer just as Myka swoops in. "Distant," she says and pokes Helena with her elbow as she sits.

"What did they want," Helena asks.

"There's a thing nearby."

"And?" Helena frowns.

"I told them maybe."

"You should have said no. We're otherwise engaged." Helena nods towards Myka's parents.

"You work with Myka at...whatever it is she does?" Jeanie asks.

"She helps out sometimes," Myka explains.

"Often," Helena adds.

"Don't you have to be an agent?"

"She's a former one."

"But she's not American," Warren says.

"It's...a partnership. Of a kind. Not worth explaining."

"Go on," Warren grumbles. "Keep keeping us in the dark."

"You didn't tell me about your cataract surgery."

"We didn't want you to worry," Jeanie says. "They said it was routine."

Myka frowns.

The room quiets again.

"Your shop is quite impressive, Mr. Bering," Helena says, speaking up to fill the pause. "I'm curious about your collection. Myka's told me wonderful things."

"Ach, call me Warren," Warren says, his tone softening. "Let me dig out my Wells first editions. I'll meet you two in the back."

"Sure, Dad," Myka says, watching him leave the room. 

"Be civil with him," Myka whispers to Helena. "This was your idea."

"I'm aware--"

"Should we order Chinese or are you two not staying for dinner?" Jeanie asks, rising from the couch.

"We have that thing," Myka says, flashing her phone at Helena.

"Which can wait," Helena snips. "We'd be pleased to join you."

"Good," Jeanie says, her expression brightening. "Myka can tell us more about her surgery. I'll get you that moo shu pork you always liked."

"I haven't liked that since I was twelve."

"Oh, that's right...before your 'vegetarian' phase."

"Do tell," Helena says, perking up.

"She's thin now, but you should have seen her then. A beanpole!"

"I was still growing!"

"You lived on lettuce and Twizzlers."

"She still does."

"Hey, I pigged out at that barbecue place. You were the one picking at it."

"I wasn't familiar with the offerings."

"They don't have barbecue in England?" Jeanie asks.

"Not in her day," Myka pokes.

"That never gets old, does it." 

"Nope!" 

Helena scowls as Myka grins.

Jeanie looks on, confused.

"Order whatever, Mom. It'll be fine. We should go meet Dad."

"No, I'll bring you two the menu. I don't want to get the wrong thing. Or maybe we should get pizza? You have that in England, don't you, Helena?"

"Not in my day," Helena snips at Myka.

"Myka!" Warren bellows.

"Coming, Dad!" Myka looks at Jeanie. "Whatever you get is fine. Let's go." She grabs Helena's hand and drags her out of the room.

Jeanie shakes her head but smiles to herself as she watches them leave.

-----------------

Bering and Wells: Travelogged ("Warehouse 13" Season 5 replacement) Season 1: Episode 6 Title: Colorado Springs: Rocky Mountain Way

Summary: Our intrepid pair travel north-east from Mesa Verde, meandering through the Rocky Mountains, hitting spots both familiar and new. As they descend from Pike's Peak, a last minute decision lands them on the Bering and Sons doorstep, with little, if any, prep work put into what meeting Myka's family might entail.

Previously: Episode 1, Episode 2, Episode 3, Episode 4, Episode 5

-----------------

***BONUS SCENE***

"Why don't you allow me to assist," Helena offers, hovering just behind Tracy.

"What's she saying?" Tracy asks Myka.

"Let her make the tea," Myka interprets.

"It's just tea, Myka. I'm not that sleep-deprived."

Helena looks at Myka, her exasperation evident.

"But she's English," Myka explains.

"So?"

"She can make it better."

"It's tea Myka, not rocket science."

"There is a science to it," Helena says, stepping closer to inspect Tracy's setup. "What sort of tea are you serving?"

"The kind with caffeine." Tracy pours water into the teapot and plucks four unlabelled bags from a silver plastic sheath. She plops the bags in the pot and covers it with the lid. "I don't remember the brand. I threw the box out and stuffed them in this one." She hands the box to Helena.

Helena's face droops.

"Helena's kind of a tea expert," Myka explains. "Maybe not as much as Steve--"

"Why didn't you say so! I have the fancy kind." Tracy rustles around the pantry and hands Myka boxes one by one. "Here's Raspberry Zinger and, um, some mint thing, and Sleepytime, but you wouldn't want that now. And I think..." She reaches deep into the cabinet and hauls out a tin. "African Autumn. I won it at a raffle at Kevin's work. But it's loose, not in bags. Such a hassle."

"Yes, indeed," Helena says, her tone slightly mocking. She takes the tin and scours its ingredients.

"How much sleep are you getting?" Myka asks.

"Not much. The kid needs fed all the time, and I'm the milk dispenser." Tracy cups a breast and jiggles it up and down.

Myka wrinkles her nose.

"Too gross for you, huh sis?" Tracy says.

"This ties in nicely to yesterday's conversation with your parents," Helena says.

"Aw, don't..." Myka says.

Tracy twirls around and faces Helena. "Don't listen to her. What did Mom and Dad say?"

"They seemed surprised...no, your father seemed surprised to hear Myka holds no interest in procreating."

"Myka, with kids? Ha! I'd love to see that." Tracy smacks Myka on the arm.

"I could if I wanted to," Myka mumbles, rubbing the smacked area.

"You'd be an excellent mother," Helena says.

 "You think so?"

"A helicopter parent, totally. She'd have a spreadsheet for every little thing. Dinner now. Nap now. And if the kid went off script..." Tracy gives an eye roll and a dismissive wave. "Do you have kids?" she asks Helena.

"Not at present."

"Do you want some?"

"I've made my peace with the subject," Helena says, adding a sage head nod.

"Too old?"

"Ha!" Myka's hand flies up to cover her huge grin.

"In a sense," Helena says, scowling.

A tinny cry directs all eyes to the baby monitor.

"Annnd he's up." Tracy groans. "Let me go grab him. I'll meet you in the living room."

"OK," Myka says, eyeing the teapot. "We'll just--"

"Go. Sit!" Tracy says, looking over her shoulder before leaving the room.

Myka and Helena shuffle off and settle on the couch.

"I'm sorry about all this kid stuff," Myka says.

"Twas I that 'poked the bear' today, so to speak," Helena says, scooting closer to Myka. "Did you not mention the child earlier because you thought it would upset me?"

"Maybe? I think it's more I felt guilty about not being as excited as everyone kept telling me I was supposed to be. So I just blocked it out."

"I see."

"Look, I know you were an uber-mom and everything, but is it ok with you how I feel? I don't want to ruin this." Myka takes hold of Helena's hands.

"I have made my peace with the subject. You saw the shell of a person I became to live out a fantasy of family."

"Yeah, but...and it pains me to say this, part of you was happy there."

"Fleetingly," Helena says, looking down at their intertwined hands, squeezing lightly. "But I do believe I'll make a better partner to you because of it, if that means anything."

"P-Partner?"

"Is that not the correct phrase? I have much to learn about modern terminology."

"It is if you...if you think I'm..."

Myka drifts towards an already leaning in Helena, their lips barely touching when...

"Here we are!" Tracy blurts, smiling down at the baby as she walks in. "Your nephew!" She displays the child to Myka.

"Hey, little buddy!" Myka smiles a toothy, performative smile, her eyes opening wider and rounder than usual.

"Waaahh," the baby cries.

"Did Aunt Myka scare you," Tracy says, bouncing him in her arms as his cries continue.

"All I did was smile!"

"Weirdly," Tracy grumps. "He's fussy sometimes."

"May I?" Helena asks, rising, holding out her hands.

"Knock yourself out," Tracy says, gently laying the baby and blanket in Helena's arms.

Helena cradles the boy and rocks him back and forth. "Shhh," she whispers from time to time. His cries decrease in length and volume until he gurgles and quiets down.

"There you are, little one," Helena says, her broad smile echoing her shining eyes. She shifts him to one side and pokes a finger into his tiny hand.

"Myka, your face!" Tracy blurts.

Myka stares at the scene in front of her. "You're r-really good at that," she says.

"I'd have suggested a nip of gin if he wouldn't quiet. But this one's an angel," Helena says.

"For him or for me?" Tracy asks.

"Perhaps both," Helena says, passing the baby back to Tracy. "He seems a tad peckish."

"Eternally," Tracy grumbles, settling into the rocking chair.

"Are you alright?" Helena asks Myka as she returns to the couch.

"I've never seen you smile like that."

"And it disturbed you?"

"No, it was...nice. Brighter than usual." 

"Brighter than for you?"

"Just...different."

"I do have a soft spot for infants--"

"So you were about to kiss when I walked in. I knew it!" Tracy blurts.

"Mom didn't tell you--whoa!" Myka shields her eyes as the baby latches onto Tracy's breast.

"All mom said was you were here with your girlfriend."

"Y-You couldn't give him a bottle?" Myka says.

"It's natural, Myka."

"But you're my sister, and that's your boob."

"I'm pleased wet nurses are out of fashion," Helena quips.

"Gin? Wet nurses? How old are you?" Tracy asks.

"Ugh," Myka grunts, face wrinkling as she chances a glance at Tracy. "What'd Mom say again?"

"You were here with your girlfriend. I thought she meant bestie."

"No girlfriend." Myka slips her hand into Helena's and smiles triumphantly.

"Leave it to Mom to understate that," Tracy says, her free hand reaching towards the end table but falling inches short of her goal.

"Allow me." Helena springs up and hands the towel to Tracy.

"Thank you." Tracy blots milk off of the baby's face and her chest. "Ugh, I completely forgot about the tea!" she says, looking up at Helena.

"Not to worry, I'll tend to it. Is there anything else you need?"

"A modesty curtain for Myka?" Tracy jokes.

Myka sticks her tongue out. Tracy reciprocates.

"Milk and sugar?" Helena asks.

"Yes, please," Tracy answers.

"Black for you, I know," Helena says to Myka. "Barbarian."

Myka sticks her tongue out at Helena.

Helena smiles and walks into the kitchen.

"Tell me everything," Tracy says once Helena's out of earshot.

"After you put that thing away," Myka says, pointing with her eyes at Tracy's chest.

"Prude."

"Helena would disagree."

Tracy gasps and throws the milk-stained towel at Myka.

"Gross!" Myka says, ducking away.

"Start talking," Tracy says, buttoning up her top with one hand. "Where on earth did you find her?" Becuase I think I want one, too "

END SCENE

-TBC-

NOTES: No artifacts this time, just a glimpse into family dynamics and H.G. and Myka's budding relationship. I rewatched the episode with Myka's parents to see where that was left in-canon and can't imagine it became more resolved over time. I did a tiny bit of research into Victorian breastfeeding practices and was surprised to have turned up some daguerrotypes/tin types from  the 1840's-60's. Apparently, it was a fashion in the US to have your portrait taken while breastfeeding (infant mortality being what is was back then). Look up Hyperallergic's article, "The Victorian-era Daguerrotypes of Women Breastfeeding" for more info. (And yes, nearly everything leads back to photographs somehow with me.) PS: Two more of these and I'll wrap up season one!

[apparitionism]

Helicobacter 4

Here’s what happens in this part: Myka and Helena talk to each other, and then they talk to each other again. At base, that’s it. They also look at nature, sort of, and ponder the past and causality. A couple of plot points tiptoe in... anyway the whole thing will most likely continue to strain credulity and be a talky mess! (I am staying in my lane.) A Bering and a Wells walk into a conference room: that’s how the joke starts, right? And then fate takes over. See part 1, part 2, and part 3 for details.

Helicobacter 4

Helena awoke in what was perhaps the most uncomfortable, yet inevitable, sleeping posture she had ever taken: still sitting in the chair beside Myka’s bed, but with her upper body slumped forward onto that bed. She felt a hand in her hair, petting, smoothing. “Are you awake?” Myka asked.

“Mmph,” Helena said.

“I promise I’m not trying to hurry you. But I think the hospital wants the bed.”

“I want the bed,” Helena mumbled. Movement seemed prohibitively effortful.

Myka’s hand continued its light stroke. “So do I,” she said.

Nice. So nice. A dissolve-into level of nice: exactly where she was, exactly what was happening.

Where she was, what was happening—Helena woke up, sat up. And then the process of Myka’s release from the hospital began. Helena summoned Steve, who, in his lovely way, facilitated everything: even driving Myka to her apartment, where he and Helena both did their best to ensure that she had everything she needed in the near term.

“I’m fine,” Myka assured them. “Really. You’ve done so much for me. Both of you, and I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Just be well,” Steve told her. Such simple, sweet words, and Myka said an equally unadorned “I’ll try” in response.

“Please do,” Helena added, a weak contribution, but it was all she could find.

As Helena and Steve were departing, Myka pulled on her arm. “You made it not a nightmare,” she said, and that too, was simple and sweet. Then she said, “If I’m ever hospitalized again, I want to be engaged to you for it.” She leaned to Helena and kissed her cheek, and receiving such a kiss was the same as delivering it: a surprise of softness and intimacy.

Helena, physically and emotionally flummoxed, said, “So do I.”

Steve asked, later, “Is there anything you need to tell me?”

“Of course not,” Helena said.

The following day, Helena received flowers at the office. A lovely, tasteful arrangement. “Thank you again,” the card said, “for everything.” It was signed, “Yours, Myka.”

She showed the card to Steve, who asked again, “Is there anything you need to tell me?”

This time, Helena answered, “Not that I’m aware of.”

“Interesting choice of words,” Steve said. “Awareness generally has to be cultivated.”

“You know I’m very bad at any such practice,” Helena said.

“You choose not to learn,” he countered.

“That’s your job,” she said. “Very nearly literally. If I were sufficiently mindful, why would I need you?”

“To schedule your appointments. By the way, you have a meeting with Myka next week.”

“I have a... what?”

“Yeah, she called me, to make sure you got the flowers, and to set up an appointment. Tuesday afternoon. And given how you just gasped, you might want to work on some mindful breathing skills between now and then.”

“Mind your own breathing,” she advised him, superfluously.

****

As Tuesday loomed, Helena fretted to Steve, “But how should I behave?”

He didn’t bother to shift his gaze from his computer screen. “Don’t knee her.”

“You’re a great help.”

****

By the time Tuesday at last arrived, however, “don’t knee her” had become Helena’s mantra, reminding her of everything that she should not do or say: don’t bring up anything specific about the hospital unless she does, don’t mention her illness unless she does, don’t presume any sort of intimacy between the two of you, don’t ask about the status of the bid... ultimately it came down to a general dictum against saying any words at all to her. Or, of course, touching her. Or being near enough to touch. “Don’t knee her” meant “be very still and quiet.”

On that fateful day, at the fateful time, Steve showed Myka into Helena’s office. He withdrew immediately, leaving Helena mildly surprised that he didn’t wink as he did so. Myka didn’t say anything, so Helena tried, “Hello.”

“Hi,” Myka said. She smiled.

And for a moment, Helena let herself enjoy that smile, accept it, return it... until such time as her not taking her turn to speak began to seem awkward. She hurried to say something, coming up with, “I thought we’d meet here instead of the conference room this time.”

So much for not kneeing her. Now Myka frowned, a subtle little face-twist that was the obverse of the smiles she’d performed in the hospital. “Scene of the crime,” she said.

“No, no. I just didn’t want you to be upset. It might have bad associations.”

“I’ll admit, they aren’t the best. Although it all started fine.” Now she smiled. “The hellos were really nice.”

“We’ll cling to those. How are you feeling now?”

“Much better. Not going to destroy your desk, I promise.” She fell silent again, and Helena was reassured, or something, by the idea that Myka, too, seemed to be searching for words at the right level of familiarity. “I was thinking,” Myka re-began, with clear determination, “I mean, what I thought, when I was thinking, was that I should tell you in person that I’m not overseeing the project anymore. You’ll be working mostly with Abigail from now on.”

“You were removed for becoming ill?” Helena asked, her dudgeon rising.

“No...” The little slack in Myka’s voice: she’d heard Helena’s indignation, which Helena knew was not her place to have or express or—“I was removed because I told my boss that you stayed with me at the hospital. I thought I was just recounting, factually, what happened that day, but she heard it as, this is going to look bad if anybody finds out about it. It’s going to look like you were trying to get in good with me.”

“The ethics of that,” Helena said, even as she thought, The truth of that.

“The new rules say nobody bidding on city projects can have a personal relationship with anybody who works for the city. Anybody who works for the city who can make decisions, that is. Or even influence decisions.”

“The appearance of impropriety... I suppose I have to applaud the EMT who was caring for you in the ambulance for refusing me information because I had no such personal relationship with you. She did as she should. And so did Rick,” Helena said. “It’s all down to those personal relationships in the end, isn’t it? It wasn’t until he mentioned having been engaged to you that I made my, shall we say, ill-considered decision. To say what I said. To claim what I claimed.”

“I’m sorry for that. My failed relationship, making your life difficult.”

“I’m fairly certain your life has been made more difficult by that than mine has... although failed relationships don’t tend to make anyone’s life easier.” Reveal something, she felt again, as in the hospital. She surprised herself by saying, “I was engaged once myself.” She didn’t tend to disclose that. Didn’t tend to think about it, but lately...

“What happened?” Myka asked, then shook her head. “Sorry. Forget I asked.”

“Aren’t you the one who said ‘too personal’ is off the table? She left me. I don’t blame her; I was—am—far too focused on my work. I had thought being married, or rather, promising to one day be married, would fix things. Or at least push problems into the future, so I could concentrate on what seemed more important in the present. It worked for a while.”

“But then she left you.”

“But then she did. As I say, I don’t blame her.”

Myka took her time in responding to that, which in turn gave Helena time to consider that surprisingly brief conversation for which she did not blame Giselle. “This isn’t working,” Giselle had said, to which Helena had agreed, “No. Not at the present moment.” And she would have explained that that was why she had made promises about the future, but Giselle had continued on, not angry but factual, “This isn’t working because you won’t work at this. You’ll work at your work, all the time, because you can see that it’s worth work, but you won’t work at this.”

And Helena had agreed again: “That is entirely true.” And its truth meant that the promised future would never—should never—come.

She counted the hours, for it was hours and not days, until every physical trace of Giselle was gone from her life. And after those hours, all at once, the present, no longer mortgaged to that promised future, was clean, keen.

When at last Myka spoke, she asked, “Do you miss her?”

Helena wavered. Should she tell the truth? “Before last week, I would have said no.” That was true. “Then I spent a day in hospital.” All right, that was true too.

“When most people say something like that, they mean they were the sick one.”

“Well. Egotistically, I like to think I’m not most people.”

“That’s...” Myka paused, as if searching her mental thesaurus. She shook her head. “That’s true.” That made Helena laugh, which in turn made Myka smile as she said, “I’m sorry, though. For all of it, but even more, if it made you miss her.”

Continue being honest. “It isn’t her as herself so much, I think, as there being something else, or someone else, to pay attention to.”

“But you didn’t. Pay that attention, I mean. To her?”

“I didn’t. But I... I remember that I liked knowing someone was there, even as I didn’t do what I should have, with regard to her.” She stopped. “I hadn’t said it out loud before, not that way. It’s awful.”

“Then I guess you should double not blame her for leaving. But aren’t we all awful like that?” Myka made a face, a grimace-and-eyeroll concoction. “Maybe we’re not. It’s probably wrong to generalize from just you and me.”

“You?” Helena asked. Myka didn’t at all seem the type to be as neglectful as Helena had. As thoughtless. As... offhand.

“With my parents, if no one else. I know they’re there, even if I don’t make the effort I should. Even if I push problems into the future.”

“Given your mother’s apparently desperate wish to see you married off to Rick, I can certainly understand your attitude.”

“She just wants me to be happy,” Myka said.

I can understand that too, Helena thought.

Myka chose that moment to notice that upon the upper right edge of Helena’s desk sat a piece of the neighborhood model, the one piece Steve had managed to salvage in his cleanup. One small building and its landscaping: a curving, balsa-clad little structure with a courtyard featuring two wire trees. It was intended to represent a community center.

Don’t knee her. Helena had meant to hide it away.

Myka picked the building up, turned it in her hands. The swoop of its roof-line rhymed with the curl of each of her fingers. “Time,” she said. “How much of it do we get? I mean you do start to understand why people do things. And maybe there’s forgiveness, or maybe it’s just recognition that it isn’t then anymore. Have you seen her since it ended?”

“No. Like you with Rick, she wanted a clean break. So did I. In fact I quit the job I had, and I started this firm—my attitude was something on the order of ‘Oh, you thought that was work? I’ll show you work.’”

“Interesting response,” Myka said, still focused on inspecting the tiny community center.

“Ill-considered.”

Myka readjusted the wire branches of the trees, such that they now seemed to be fighting against—or accepting and bending to—a current of air. “You say that a lot.”

“I do that a lot,” Helena said. That, too, was true.

Now Myka looked up. “You didn’t cheat on her, did you?”

A reasonable question, given that Helena had revealed herself to be so callous; Myka could not be blamed for imagining Helena capable of that, too. “Only with my work,” Helena told her.

“Better than with another woman.”

“I’m not sure that’s true. The result was the same.”

The little frown again, just a twitch, but visible. “Not for her. Trust me on this one.”

“He cheated on you?” Now Helena was regretting not seeking out surgical implements when she had the chance.

“You don’t have to defend my honor...” Myka said, and there again was the slack, the indulgence. “You’re not engaged to me anymore.”

“Who in their right mind,” Helena fumed, knowing it was inappropriate to fume, yet fuming all the same. How dare he.

“In his defense—not that I really want to defend him, but your face sort of makes me feel like I should—I did spend an awful lot of time at work. Still do. Like you... I mean, so did he, so I guess in that sense we were already cheating on each other. With it. In your sense. He just found somebody he wanted to sleep with, there. Meanwhile I just wanted to sleep.” Myka sighed. “It would have turned out the same way, regardless.”

“Philosophical of you,” Helena said.

“Time. Would yours have turned out differently?”

“No. Not then.”

“Would it turn out differently now?”

“I haven’t changed.” Perhaps her truest statement thus far.

“Maybe you aren’t supposed to.” Myka set the model piece back on Helena’s desk, in the spot it had previously occupied. Then she rotated it so that the “trees” faced Helena. She looked up at Helena as she did so. “I read somewhere that it’s healthy to look at nature. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know... the situation. And to say thank you in person. Also I really need to buy you new clothes and pay for the rest of this poor model. And whatever it cost to have your conference room cleaned. That had to be terrible.”

“I have no idea. I was at the hospital with my fiancée.”

“Seriously, send me a bill.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I wish you would. I do owe you.”

“I’d say it was my pleasure, but that would be slightly untrue,” Helena said. “But only slightly.”

She received a new small smile in response. Helena knew it was new, that it was a variation she had not previously seen, and knowing someone’s smiles would, under other circumstances, mean something. Under these circumstances, however? False intimacy. That was all it was, had been, would be. A strangely affecting day of false intimacy.

“I liked being engaged to you,” Helena ventured to the empty air, after Myka had gone.

****

Over the next weeks, Abigail, clearly an instigator of the first rank, would remark to Helena something on the order of, “You want to ask me about her.”

“The appearance of a conflict of interest,” Helena would respond.

Or Abigail would prod, “I could say hi to her for you, if you want.”

“And we could all lose our jobs as a result,” Helena would “remind” her.

Helena did not put a stop to these exchanges, mainly because they seemed to delight Abigail so thoroughly. Self-preservation: she needed to win the contract as much as she ever had, and there were now two strikes against her. Thus if Abigail enjoyed these good-natured tormentings of Helena, Helena would suffer them.

What she would also do—because Helena didn’t doubt that Abigail was digging at Myka in some similar way, perhaps even by reporting back to her exactly what Helena said—was ignore her own stupidly avid imaginings of the expressions that might cross Myka’s face whenever Abigail delivered any such dig, or any such report.

****

“You won,” Abigail informed Helena, directly after the closed-door city council meeting during which the decision was made. “You’ll get the official letter soon, but I figured you’d want to know ASAP. So get going, project manager. Oh, also, you were exactly right, in that final presentation, to talk about the fountain being optional. They nixed it first thing—but they were raving about your ‘flexibility.’”

Had it not been for the never-children, Helena most likely would not have remembered Myka’s words about the fountain for which the city would not pay... words that led her to adopt her position of supposed “flexibility.” Funny, then, or something: that Myka had influenced the decision after all. In reverse, and not knowing she had done so, but still.

Helena told Steve the good news, told the rest of the staff. Awarded bonuses. Steve’s was smaller than those of the others, but Helena said, in response to his quickly hidden disappointment, “I thought you’d appreciate a permanent rise in salary a bit more.”

“A raise,” he said, and he looked far too grateful about receiving something he had long deserved, so she made him laugh by correcting him: “Rise.” He asked if it would be paid in pounds rather than dollars, she said no, and he claimed the right to call it a raise.

Elation all around, well-earned excitement, a bit of trepidation at the size of the project. All as expected.

All as expected, but for the sharp thorn of regret that Helena could not dislodge from her own reaction to that good news.

It was not that she had been hoping for an alternative outcome. It was not even that she knew with certainty what she would have done, had that alternative outcome come to pass, other than rush to cobble together enough small projects to compensate and continue to make payroll. Whatever else she would have done would now never be known, and would never be done. And that, she was willing to admit to herself—but only as she sat in her office alone, staring at the model-piece—was the root of her regret.

****

On a morning two weeks after the awarding of the contract, Helena answered her telephone with an absent, “Helena Wells.”

“Hi,” she heard, and her immediate recognition of that voice ensured that Helena was no longer absent. “I just wanted to report,” Myka went on, “as someone with whom you have no personal relationship whatsoever would do, that I’m cancer-free.”

Helena was caught so wrong-footed that she managed only a general sound of enthusiasm, an exclamatory ���Ah.”

It seemed to do, however, for Myka said, “Also... one other thing.”

Now Helena offered an interrogatory “Ah?”

“I need your help. Completely separate and apart from anything having to do with the bid and the city. You know how I said we’re not engaged anymore?”

Helena wrenched herself back onto an actual linguistic track. “Yes,” she said, with firm purpose.

“What if that weren’t true, just for one little evening?”

“What if it weren’t true that we are not engaged.”

“Right.”

“Which would mean that we are engaged,” Helena said, just to make sure they were talking about the same thing.

“Right.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“It’s my mother. She’s going to be in town, and now that she knows Rick’s here, she wants to get together with him. And I don’t want to have to explain to him why you aren’t there too.”

“But doesn’t that mean you’ll have to tell your mother this... untruth?”

“That’s why it’s perfect. It gets her off my back times two: about Rick and about finding someone, period.”

“I suspect she’ll eventually become suspicious when we continue to postpone the wedding,” Helena said.

“I will cross that bridge when it stops buying me short-term peace.”

“If all you want is peace, why haven’t you simply told her an untruth already?”

“You don’t know my mother. She won’t believe things unless she sees them, and she won’t see them unless she believes them—but clearly, you and I are a believable couple, given that Rick bought it.”

He hadn’t, of course, so Helena had no real reason to imagine that Myka’s mother would be taken in. Helena tried, “Rick aside, I’m sure Abigail or anyone else you know would be delighted to pretend to have asked for your hand.” She suspected, in fact, that Abigail would throw herself into such a performance. For the entertainment value alone.

“Okay, I get it. You don’t want to do this, which is completely understandable. You’ve already done so much for me, and this is too much. I get it.”

Helena regarded the wire trees whose branches Myka had so carefully disarranged. She hadn’t touched them, hadn’t altered their windblown aspect since that disarrangement. She also had not reoriented the model-piece. Helena, too, had read that it was healthy to look at nature. “I didn’t say it was too much. But... are you always this duplicitous?”

A pause. Helena imagined the blink of lids over those green eyes. Then Myka said, “In my life, I have never been this duplicitous.”

“Then I’m not certain I should support your behaving in a way that is apparently wildly out of character.”

“I didn’t want to have to bring this up,” Myka said, her tone severe, “but: you started it. You’re the one who told Rick we were engaged.”

“No, you started it. You’re the one who had an unfortunate incident in my conference room and ended up in hospital.”

“Technically, then, I think H. pylori started it.”

“You’re blaming the bacterium,” Helena said, incredulous—and yet not at all incredulous.

“Well, I mean. Causes.”

And Helena thought: She may be the strangest person I have ever met. She is certainly one of the loveliest, both physically and—who can say?—very possibly in every other way as well. And regardless of whether those things have any bearing on the situation, you, Helena Wells, are the one who told Rick not to tell her that he knew. And he has apparently held to that, so you owe him some reciprocal courtesy, in terms of not causing Myka any additional embarrassment or trouble. And if telling this story to her mother would lighten any of the weight she bears...

“All right,” Helena said. “When and where?”

“When” was in three days’ time; “where,” Myka’s apartment. “My mom’s a picky eater,” she explained. “It’s easier to cook than to get restaurants to accommodate her.”

“And no one is likely to see us together.”

“There’s that,” Myka agreed.

TBC

[beatricethecat2]

if/then (2.0) - 12

Sneaking this up at the midnight hour. Typos, yes! Edited a bunch 2/3.

Previously: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11

Read first if you are new! gutted/sorted and wax/wane…if/then is a continuation of those two.

////////////////

Upon Myka's return from abroad, the lack of the push of the sale makes it difficult to ease back into her life again. Without a clear path to London, having time on her hands feel wrong, so much so Helena’s action plan, while controversial, seems more and more viable.

The last night of their trip, their "alone time" was thwarted by Claudia already having plans with friends. They instead cuddled with Christina until she fell asleep in bed then moved to the couch and cuddled together. A steamy make-out session soon commenced and continued for quite some time until it was mutually acknowledged they could go no further clothed. Myka laid her head on Helena's chest while Helena stroked her fingers through her curls and as they lounged, an all-consuming bliss flowed between them.

“I’ve been looking into schools for Christina, and flats near said schools,” Helena said, quietly, as if she knew she was impinging on Myka’s buzz.

“You have?” Myka said, tilting her head back and angling her eyes up to meet Helena's.

“Imagine waking up next to each other in our very own bed.”

“Heavenly,” Myka hummed and snuggled close.

“I spoke briefly with Claudia, and we've devised a plan. I'll use the money I saved to bring you and Christina over. It’s of little use stagnating in a box and Claudia believes she can render it transferrable."

“But that's Christina's college fund."

“There's plenty of time to replenish it before she's off.”

“You're serious?”

“Quite.”

There were a number of things Myka wanted to say then, ranging from, “why didn’t we do that in the first place,” to “yet another thing to go wrong," but Helena continued before she had a chance.

"No more running yourself ragged, remedying my follies. I could support you while you’re finding your feet. And with London as your hub, you’ll source new contacts easily. Your art will thrive, and we'll follow you wherever your travels take you."

“In your dreams," Myka said, smirking coyly, reaching up and patting Helena’s cheek.

“Mind you, not to the extent of Pedram and his wife, but as much as I could manage. And who knows the bounties my future may hold.”

“Where’s all this positivity coming from?”

“From having you near,” Helena answered. She slid Myka’s hand over her lips and kissed the palm. “I’m sick to death of others controlling my circumstances. It’s high time I steered my own ship. For you, for us, for all our futures.”

“But the appeal. You're not worried?” Helena's ideas were plausible, but her sense of excitement was tinted with unease. There must be a snag somewhere.

“Terrified. But I refuse to wave it around as an excuse any longer. You’re what matters to me. Both of you. And for this to work, we must work together. I’ve been sorely lacking in that respect, and it’s completely unacceptable.”

“You're being too hard on yourself." Myka curled closer to Helena, glad she was opening up but sorry they'd lost the intimacy from a few moments ago.

“I'm afraid not. I've been delusional, convinced my associations with Mrs. Frederic would shorten my sentence. There's nothing to be done except move forward. And I do want to move forward.”

Myka wants to move forward too. While Helena's positivity, in the moment, was comforting, she hopes the feeling lasts until they see each other again.

-------

Myka’s first day back in the office, there’s a buzz in the air.

“Hey, Leena," she says as she pops her head in Leena’s office.

“Myka, you’re back!”

“So are you! Everyone’s excited.”

“That's the baby they're excited about. She was here for a minute this morning and charmed the pants off of them.” Leena taps her phone then hands it to Myka. On screen is a photo of Leena, her smile positively glowing, watching Vanessa play with her child. The kid herself the cutest thing Myka’s ever seen, so she can see how charmed everyone must have been.

“Sorry I missed her.”

“She’ll be back, sooner rather than later."

Myka's mouth opens to respond, but a smooth segue eludes her. Christina-aged kid banter she can manage, but small talk about babies not so much.

"Come in. I haven’t seen you in forever."

Myka steps into the room and sits across from Leena.

"How are you?”

“Things are…ok. 'Eventful’ for short.” It's been months since she's seen Leena, how much detail should she go into?

“Something's changed. Definitely." Leena squints while studying a point beyond Myka's head. Myka turns but sees nothing of interest.

“Not behind, above you. I'm studying your aura."

"My what?" Myka swings back to face Leena.

"Your aura. It used to be pinkish-red, but now it's yellow, with a big brown streak down the middle."

“Is that bad?" Myka angles her eyes up but sees no change in color. She respects Leena, a lot, even looks up to her as a mentor, but she'd never struck her as someone with new-age leanings.

“Not the best. A little brown is ok, even expected, but this..." Leena waves a finger as if scribbling over something. "...is coloring everything.”

“Should I aim for pinkish-red again?”

“No. There should be more of a spectrum.”

“Spectrum. Right,” Myka says, rolling her eyes around, wishing she could see what Leena sees.

“I sense you’re overwhelmed, but change, for you, is good. Use this as is an opportunity to find balance. Work on coaxing the colors apart."

“How?” Myka looks back at Leena, who is now grinning like a doctor about to say something she doesn't want to hear.

“Do more things for yourself. Things that aren’t work-related. Something out of the ordinary, with Christina, or go out with friends.”

Myka snorts. “If I still have any."

“Everyone’s busy in New York. Give them a ring."

"I promised Christina we’d take cooking classes, so there’s that.”

"That's good. Very good. Take a few days off now that I'm back."

"That would be...amazing. Are you sure?"

"Positive." Leena looks above Myka's head again and smiles. "The brown's clearing."

Myka looks up but sees nothing, but she’ll take Leena’s word.

---------

“Take this reprieve in stride and care for yourself,” Helena suggested one evening when Myka sounded particularly lost over the phone. Helena's words mirrored Leena's, and combined with Leena’s pep talk, gave her the push she needed to follow through.

She got in touch with Amanda, who happened to be in town for the week, and they met up several times. Amanda was more entertaining than overbearing, though she talked mostly about herself, but the familiarity in their exchanges reminded Myka she had a life before her situational bubble.

Abigail came to stay for a weekend, and her visit was particularly welcome, prompting Myka's first day of leisure since Helena's departure. Christina tagged along, and they toured galleries and walked the High Line, then meandered through the West and East Village until reaching home. Claudia then took over parenting duties so Myka and Abigail could catch up, and Myka an Abigail hopped on the subway to Brooklyn.

They dined near Myka's apartment, and as they waited for their main course, Abigail pressed for details about Myka's trip. Myka was careful, at first, not to disclose sensitive information, but lost sight halfway through their second bottle of wine.

“You keep coming back to the fact Helena’s secretive about her past,” Abigail said.

“Do I? I thought I was better about that.”

“Compared to when?”

“Before this trip.”

“It didn’t bother you this much before your trip. This trip revealed a lot.”

“About Helena?”

“About you both and the way you deal with relationships.”

“Not very well,” Myka mumbled. She twirled the stem of her glass and took a generous sip of wine.

“You���ve both been through major, life-changing events in a very short time. To me, it sounds like you’re starting to come together as a couple.”

“I guess we are. But what about all the stuff I told you that I shouldn't have?”

“Don’t let it overwhelm you. Sure, Helena’s deflecting, but it’s a defense mechanism to cope with change. Keep prodding her; she’ll eventually open up. In the meantime, be proactive. Look for clues she left behind.”

“You mean talk to other people?”

“For a start. Or anything else you can think of.”

“There’s this box of photos and journals at Claudia’s she said I could look through, but I hated to do it when she wasn’t here.”

“She gave you permission, so you have access to her past without her being present.”

“Huh. Maybe.”

“Think about it, then let me know how I can help."

--------

Myka, the ever the diligent researcher, accepts Abigail’s challenge and soon begins her own investigation into Helena's past.

Liam and Steve are her first subjects as they're the easiest to access. She asks questions after school, sipping tea at their kitchen table while Christina and Erica play in the background.

"None of us really know what she went through as a kid. Maybe that’s the key,” Steve says.

“It always felt like she was proving herself to someone, but I’m not sure who. Herself, her family, society...it never quite added up,” Liam says.

They discuss Helena until dinnertime, but they’ve only known her a few years, so nothing particularly enlightening is revealed. But they all agree the path Helena's taken, work-wise, is an odd one, especially with Claudia around, and they think there's more behind Helena's decisions than she's telling.

She next enlists Claudia's help to sort through Helena’s journals and photos, diving in deeper than their earlier peruse.

Myka thumbs through Helena’s journals while Claudia spreads the photos across the bed, arranging them chronologically. As images fall into place, and much to Myka’s dismay, none are from London.

Claudia searches for more images on her computer while Myka scours Helena’s entries. Most are unreadable, scribbly messes until Claudia acts as translator. As Helena mentioned, there are few personal notes, and she finds only the occasional reference to a social life. One entry piques her interest, dated near when she and Claudia went to the festival, but try as she might she can’t decipher what it says.

“Who the heck is X?” Myka says, handing the notebook to Claudia.

Claudia squints at the tiny letters, then reads the entry out loud.

“X left to...uh, I think it says, 'follow her destiny’...yeah, that sounds like H.G....without a word of parting. Henceforth, I’ll not...muolve, no, involve myself with another in such a way again."

Claudia flips through the next few pages, looking for more entries. “That’s it?”

“As far as I can tell.”

Claudia studies the page. “This code we wrote together, so this Ms. X bit was written later. I have no idea who she is."

“Weren’t you with her twenty-four seven?”

“Sure felt like it," Claudia mumbles while examining the text again. "But I was just a kid. I wasn't clued into stuff like that. You gotta ask her who it was."

Myka shakes her head. “She’ll say something wistful about youth and lost love then change the subject.”

“Then I’ll do it.” Claudia reaches for her phone, but Myka grabs her wrist.

“Let's not open old wounds just yet. It sounds like Ms. X was on her way out no matter what. I bet Helena didn’t deal with that very well.”

“H.G. was a total downer by the end of that semester. Lady love must have harshed her buzz.”

“She broke her heart. Which is interesting, in the scheme of things,” Myka says.

“Why? Chicks followed her around with puppy dog eyes all the time. But ‘part of her charm’ was she'd never 'give them the time of day.'"

Myka scowls.

“She was real snotty back then, on her high horse about everything. It was hil-arious at the time. You wouldn’t have liked her then.”

"I don’t doubt it."

"She's mellowed a lot, that’s for sure. But this chick breaking up with her must've pushed some buttons."

“It's just…there was the festival, right? And then, um…Christina happened.”

Claudia gasps. “You think she got pregnant to piss off Ms. X?”

“Not directly. She was hurting and careless, that's all," Myka says. She takes the journal back from Claudia and looks over the entry again. "What I don't understand is why she's never said anything. Whoever she is, she's long gone by now. It happened years ago.”

“'Feelings’ aren’t her thing.”

“Then like you said, her writing this down was a big deal.”

“Ok, sure. But why does matter now?”

Myka stares the page and tries to connect Ms. X to something tangible, but her mind comes up blank. “It doesn’t. I’m just…surprised.”

“Because she tells you everything?”

“Because she tells you everything.”

“Oh come on. I beat things out of her even now. You think things were different back then?”

"I don't know. Maybe," Myka answers, knowing full well Claudia's right.

Claudia scowls, and Myka looks away, then scans at the spread of photos on the bed.

"Let's clean up. I think we've done for today."

----------------

Myka picks up where she left off a few days later and revisits earlier tomes, searching meticulously for any further mention of Ms. X. When she finds none, nor any evidence of additional lovers, she concludes that down the line, Helena dating Giselle was a bigger deal than she'd implied. And then it hits her; she needs to talk to Giselle, as Giselle’s a reliable source of information.

There's precedent for small talk as Giselle occasionally asks about Helena the mornings she drops Christina off at school. But questions she wants to ask are not school-appropriate, so she musters up the courage to invite her out for coffee.

When the date arrives, Myka’s nervous beyond belief; why she ever thought this was a good idea is now a mystery to her. Giselle arrives on time and on the phone, speaking in Spanish faster than Myka can keep up with.

“Boys,” Giselle grunts, rolling her eyes as she hangs up. She sets her bag on the chair and rifles through, plucking out her wallet. “You want anything?”

“No, I’m good,” Myka answers and adds a small smile for lack of a better greeting.

Giselle nods and walks toward the counter.

Myka watches her flag down the barista and studies the swirl of tattoos poking out from her wide-necked top. They mimic the curls falling casually out of her updo, a departure from her usual tight bun at work, the coif dignified yet rebellious at the same time. Her wide belt, resting just above her hips, is studded, as are her boots, adding fuel to her punky aesthetic. But even in a loose t-shirt and tight jeans, she commands an air of authority, as the boy at the counter snaps to attention like her students.

“So...what’s up?” Giselle asks upon return, blowing on her drink as she sits. “Pretty ballsy of you, asking me out."

“Yeah, that’s me. Ballsy,” Myka says, flashing a shaky smile. More like crazy, she thinks, as she sips timidly on her latte.

“Something up with you and Helena?”

“No, we’re good, considering the circumstances.”

“Christina?”

“She’s ok. We've visited twice, but it’s hard tearing them apart."

“It’s always hard on kids when their parents have visa problems. They think it’s their fault their parents left when they’ve done nothing wrong. I see it all the time, and it drives me nuts. She's lucky she's able to visit, as most kids can't.”

Giselle’s phone buzzes and she scowls at the screen. “Sorry, I…” She trails off while furiously tapping on letters.

Myka relaxes back into her chair; this is less awkward than she thought. But before complacency sets in, she better cut to the chase. She'd hate to blurt out something Giselle’s not privy to.

“So I wanted to ask, but you don’t have to answer,” Myka says as Giselle finishes up. “Why did you and Helena break up?”

“Having second thoughts?”

“No, it’s just...it sounded like she invested a lot in your relationship. Meeting your family must have been a big deal for her.”

"Ah, I get it. You want to introduce her to your folks, and you're worried it'll spook her."

"No, I...well, maybe." That day may never come, if she has any say in it, but it’s actually a good topic to talk through.

"She didn't have a choice with me. They’re nosy as hell and to be honest, I paraded her around like a prize. Not my finest moment,” Giselle says, then takes a generous sip of her beverage. “Have you talked to her about it?”

“I’ve tried, but…you know how she explains things, and you don’t realize until later that she didn’t really explain anything at all?”

“Hell, yeah.”

“She was like that with you?”

“I figured it was a self-preservation thing because I was such a hot...mess.” Giselle looks at her phone as it buzzes again. “Damn it,” she mutters and grabs the device.

“What went wrong?” Myka prods.

Giselle glances up, then sends a quick text, and takes a second to compose herself before answering.

“I pushed too hard, too fast. Helena nursed me through some tough times, but...you know how she has a thing for damsels in distress?"

"I, um, guess?"

"So when you came along, I was like, ’there she goes again.’ But it’s different with you. With you, she fell hard."

“She loved you, too. She was going to move in with you."

“That was never going to happen. It was a rumor we started to piss off Fernando. There’s no way she’d leave that shitty apartment for me.”

"So you weren't going to marry her so she wouldn't be deported?"

Giselle stiffens in her chair. “Where’d you hear that?”

“S-Steve and Liam."

Giselle scowls in a way that makes Myka genuinely scared about proceeding.

“I-I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Water under the bride," Giselle says and waves a dismissive hand. She looks off into the distance, and Myka wishes she hadn't brought it up.

"Hang in there, mija," Giselle says, the words sounding as if they're more for herself than Myka. "If anyone can get through to her, it's you. And Christina thinks the world of you, which is half of the battle.”

“I think the world of her, too."

“You've got something special, you two. I’m rooting for you."

Another text pops up, and Giselle grunts disapprovingly at her screen. “Gotta jet,” she says. "But some advice. If you decide to have kids, don’t have boys. Unless you want an ulcer."

Giselle downs the rest of her coffee and gathers her bag, then taps call on her phone. She leaves as she entered, shouting at someone on the other end, but waving goodbye to Myka as she goes.

Kids with Helena? Would Helena want more? It’s not something she'll bring up voluntarily, probably ever.

-----------

As days stretch into weeks, a well-worn pattern emerges, one that rebuilds Myka's sense of self. She shares Christina duties with Claudia as before, but keeps on top of after-school activities and enrolls she and Christina in a one-day cooking workshop. She’s even carved out time to paint, sometimes at Claudia’s, but mostly in Brooklyn and occasionally brings Christina along to stay the night. Either way, she’s pleased her art’s become a priority again as her show in Warsaw is quickly approaching.

It's been hard to connect with Helena, but not for lack of trying; Helena's schedule's packed beyond belief. She's working overtime at the bar to earn time off for Thanksgiving, and between that and school, she's scrambling from dawn until midnight.

When they have connected, it’s been upbeat and open, and things feel like they're finally moving in the right direction. Helena approached Mrs. Frederic about finding a place for Myka on her team and has even disclosed what she can about the appeal. She always manages a goodnight call to Christina, no matter the circumstances, even while music's pumping in the background at the bar.

Everything was chugging along fine until one night, after Christina was asleep, Claudia arrived home guns blazing.

“Dude, you were right! You’re never going to believe this,” Claudia barges into the room and drops down on the couch next to Myka. She yanks out her laptop and clicks away on keys, then flashes a self-satisfied grin while handing it to Myka.

“What am I looking at exactly?” Myka says, shaking her head.

“Waay in the back,” Claudia says and clicks a combination of keys to enlarge the photo.

Myka leans closer to the screen. The photo looks like it's at an auction house, but she’s unsure which one. “That looks like Mrs. Frederic. And Theodora, the woman I met with in Italy."

“Look who’s standing next to her.”

Myka studies the pixellated woman, her face in three-quarter view with her back turned. A black baseball cap covers her brownish-blonde hair, but her jawline seems familiar. She reads the caption for confirmation of identity but finds only a date.

“That can’t be her. This is from seven years ago."

Claudia minimizes that photo clicks on another. Myka's insides cringe at the same dark blonde staring back at her.

“Who’s Janis Eisner?"

“Right?” Claudia bounces in her seat. "So I kept digging, using facial recognition software, and maaaybe hacking a firewall or twelve."

“Claudia!"

“I’m a big girl. I covered my tracks." Claudia taps on keys, and as a new page loads, Myka’s stomach knots.

"Morgana Kurlansky? No way. That’s got to be fake.” Myka leans towards the screen and reads the text closely.

“It’s legit. From Interpol’s database."

"Seriously?"

"Yep."

"Do you think Helena knows?"

“How’d she get that job again?"

“She’d overheard someone at school talking about being understaffed."

“Sketchy, but not totally whack. Maybe Babezilla’s keeping an eye on her."

“Why? Helena's already cooperating with Mrs. Frederic."

"Maybe she’s keeping an eye on both of them."

“Oh..." Myka's eyes widen as she looks at Claudia. Could Helena's meetings with Mrs. Frederic be considered shady by the authorities? Or is Mrs. Frederic in under surveillance because she's using Helena for information? “Sally said she thought Mrs. Frederic was up to something. She said she was close to figuring it out."

“Figuring out what?"

“Something big if Interpol’s involved.” Myka stares at the woman pictured, internalizing in her sober, confrontational gaze. Whatever's going on, Helena better not be in more trouble with the law.

“One more thing. And this one's kinda wild,” Claudia says, clicking on another image. “Morgana Kurlansky was at Stanford around the time we were. Her transcript says she was on a cross-enrollment ROTC scholarship, so she took a bunch of classes at Berkley. She joined the Navy; then, I guess skipped over to Interpol.”

There, on the screen, is a young Bonnie Belski, smiling brightly on her Stanford ID.

“D-Did Helena know her? Could they have been…could she be...” Myka can’t even say it out loud. Her hand slowly rises to cover her mouth, her heart sinking further than before.

Claudia tilts her head, mulling it over. “It’s possible, I guess, but I don’t think we would have crossed paths. She graduated before we did and it’s a pretty big school. Plus we lived in our lab.”

“Right,” Myka says, still staring at the photo.

“Should we warn H.G.?”

“Warn her about what? That we think Bonnie’s spying on her?”

“Yeah.”

“If I told her I told you about her meetings with Mrs. Frederic, she’d never trust me again.”

“Good point,” Claudia says, fishing a thumb drive out of her bag and sticking it in a port. “I’ll give you this stuff to look over.”

Myka's phone rings and she jumps. She doesn’t recognize the number but picks up anyway, still stunned by all this information.

“H-Hello?” she says and slides her computer towards Claudia, stiffening as the caller speaks. “Mrs. Frederic?”

Mrs. Frederic gets right to the point, giving only the necessary details, telling Myka more is forthcoming in an email.

“I understand,” Myka says, nodding as if Mrs. Frederic could see her. The call ends as abruptly as it began.

“What’s up?” Claudia asks, yanking her memory stick from Myka’s computer.

“I’m on a red-eye to Berlin tomorrow. I’m back on the sale."

-TBC-

[beatricethecat2]

if/then - 7

I've been fussing over the mechanics of the next few chapters for a while now, figuring out when and where to drop clues, as some pushback will happen in the upcoming arc. I apologize for the lack of Helena in this chapter, but she'll reappear, fully formed, in chapter 8. Also, I admit I know nothing about Italian, so I hope the little I've dotted into this isn't horribly wrong. This is still clunky, but I'd rather put it out and move forward than get stuck on form. (editied 8/18).

Previously: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6

Read first if you are new! gutted/sorted and wax/wane…if/then is a continuation of those two.

//////////////////////

“Nothing so far is even remotely what Mrs. Frederic’s looking for.”

Myka’s annoyed, both at the man sitting in front of her and her clusterfuck of a morning, which began the minute she stepped foot in Italy.

“Scusa?” the man says as his overly smiley face droops beyond that of a practiced salesman.

“This is what I’m here to see.” Myka sets down her expresso then taps her tablet awake and slides the device across the table.

Myka stretches her neck as the man flicks through inventory then rubs the bridge of her nose in hopes of minimizing the headache she’s had since landing. Clearly, her lack of sleep is catching up with her, yet she doesn’t regret that promises of “later” were fulfilled, rather pleasantly, once her application was complete. Hence she downs the rest of her coffee and considers ordering another; if she has to wait while this guy compares their notes, she might as well be over-caffeinated.

She curses herself for believing him when he'd insisted everything was in order as she sees him now for what he is: a kid. His baby face hides under his short, sharp beard and his spotted bow tie and pocket square try a little too hard to be professional. He’s probably an intern recently promoted to sales, the only one free to meet her at such short notice.

She feels genuinely bad for Floriana, the woman she was meant to meet, as this morning her son was hit by a motorcycle on his way to school. He’s ok, they’ve learned recently, no broken bones or anything, but the painful reality of a child being hurt must be overwhelming. If that had been Christina—her heart races at the thought—Helena would be inconsolable; she’d hop on a plane and sneak into the country just to be by her side.

As she sips her empty expresso, she considers the fact she’s never worried over a child like that and imagines Helena’s day to day worry must be tenfold. She kind of checked out when she got to London, allowing work and Helena to envelop her; she assumed Christina’d be fine since responsible adults were there to care for her. She should really check in unprompted and send some photos, tonight from the hotel...

“Signora Bering,” the man says, “this is not what Signora Stukowski has given me.” He points to her tablet and hands over his.

As Myka flips through inventory, her nostrils flare: wrong period, wrong category, wrong everything. “When did you get this?”

“Questa mattina. You were in the air.” He points his eyes upward.

Myka breathes in a deep, cleansing breath and closes her eyes, telling herself to stay calm. Of course, Sally sent the wrong files, because if Sally could, she would. It’s happened before, and it's happening again. In fact, she’s beginning to think she does it on purpose just to trip her up. But this time around it doesn't make any sense. Sally needs this client to stay on Mrs. Frederic’s good side; Myka has the advantage of the private sale.

But it is possible Mrs. Frederic changed the roster last minute, while she was in the air. And while she’s checked her messages a million times, Sally's not the most communicative; she could have easily sent the files assuming Myka was already in the loop.

“Let me call Sally,” Myka says, whipping out her phone and scrolling through to her number. When the line goes straight to voicemail, she tries the front desk and learns the entire staff's in an impromptu meeting with Mrs. Frederic. No one's sure when it will end.

“Fortuna?” the man asks as Myka sets her phone on the table.

“No,” Myka says, shaking her head. She looks down at his tablet and flicks through a few pages. “Could we continue with these and see my list later?”

As he flips through Myka's images, the man's cheeks puff out comically as he slowly blows out a breath.

“I'll try Sally again later.”

“Si,” he says, nodding his head slowly as he stares at the device. “We can do."

“Grazie,” Myka says, with genuine apology: it’s not his fault they’ll be working overtime. “Let me buy you another coffee. And some lunch,” she adds, eyes wandering behind him, towards the counter.

The man looks over his shoulder and smiles at the menu on the wall. “Si, si, manga,” he says, “Let us ‘regroup,' Signora Bering.”

“Myka,” she says. “Call me, Myka."

------------------

As she stretches to her full-length on the bed, her muscles groan in relief, their release from gravity long overdue. She and Maritzo managed to view everything on both lists but didn’t finish until well after dinner. In the end, she's glad he was her guide and knows she's lucky he was young was eager to please.

Sally, when reached, confirmed Myka’s list was correct, but there was little apology in her apology over the confusion. If she had the energy, she’d have been angry, but she knew it wasn't worth her time. If this private sale works out, she most likely won’t be working with Sally any longer. In fact, Mrs. Frederic emailed her today, asking, tentatively, if she’d represent the gallery in the pre-sale showing, details to be discussed upon her arrival back in London.

The thought occurs to her she needs to go over her newest “anonymous source” email but admits to herself she’s wiped; it will have to wait until morning. She peels herself off the bed and showers, then texts Helena good night and is out like a light before Helena has a chance to respond.

-------------

Though they’ve met once before and emailed frequently, Myka's nerves surge as she enters Theodora’s gallery, as she’s learned Theodora’s not your average widowed retiree. Her anonymous source clued her into some history: back in the day, Theodora and her husband rubbed elbows with both Mrs. Frederic and James Macpherson, chasing down impossible finds like the one she’s been researching.

Theodora's space is intimate and classically European, boasting elaborate white moldings and intricate parquet floors. The front room is filled with contemporary sculpture she recognizes from Vanessa’s roster, while the back holds unique curated treasures. As she passes through to the office, she walks up to a lectern where an illuminated manuscript sits. It’s in pristine condition, which is unusual for its age, and she wonders where a self-proclaimed “humble gallerist” might stumble upon such a rare find.

She’s put at ease by Theodora’s warm welcome, and when their business is tied up sooner the expected, Theodora insists she stay for lunch. Myka’s flight isn’t until three, so gladly accepts and truthfully, she’d like to get to know Theodora better.

After a short walk down a picturesque cobblestone street, she's soon sipping wine in a charming outdoor cafe, listening intently as Theodora waxes poetic about the old days when she was partnered with Mrs. Frederic.

“What was she like back then?” Myka asks.

“The same as she is now,” Theodora answers and motions to the waiter for more wine. “Always pushing the envelope."

“I’ve only met her once. In her office. It was pretty formal.”

“I’ll tell you this: her intentions are always above board, but not everything goes to plan.” Theodora swirls the wine in her glass, studying it as it spins, then tilts her head back, downing the last swig.

“She likes you,” she says, pointing her newly empty glass at Myka.

“She does?”

“She wouldn’t have sent you here otherwise. And I’m sure she already has you working on something special.”

The waiter returns with a fresh bottle of wine and fills both glasses. Myka watches the liquid pour with reservations, already feeling tipsy.

“I think I even know what she’s got you on if the rumors are true. Henry and I chased it years ago, but never found hard proof it existed."

Myka opens her mouth to answer but hesitates; as a confidante of Mrs. Frederic, she should be able to tell Theodora what she’s researching, but it could be a test, to see what it would take to loosen her tongue.

“Oh, it’s hush-hush, I know, no need to fret. It’s just…”

Theodora stares at Myka as if sizing her up. Myka wonders if she wants to hear what she has to say.

“I seem to recall you have a daughter.”

“I, uh...." Not where Myka thought this conversation was going, but it's interesting she remembers her mentioning Christina. "Christina’s Helena’s daughter, not mine. Helena's my…girlfriend." Partner is the correct word here, and she knows it, but if Theodora knows what the private sale is for, she may very well know of Helena’s connection to Macpherson. It might be best to stay a step back until she learns where Theodora is going with this.

“Ah, yes. Now I remember,” Theodora says, siping her wine. “She’s in London because of a visa ’situation.' She and her daughter are why you’re doing all of this. Correct?”

Myka slides her hands off the table and clasps them together on her lap. How much does Theodora know beyond what she’s told her? Maybe she needs to be careful with what she says.

“Um...yeah.”

“Remember that, as you make decisions moving forward.”

“Remember what?”

“Your motivations.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

That very moment, their food arrives. Theodora thanks the waiter then turns her attentions back to Myka.

“Do you love her?” she says, pointing her fork at Myka before tucking into her meal.

“More than anything.”

“And her daughter?”

“Of course.”

“Then remember, the most important thing in life to nurture is family. Family's what’s left when everything else falls flat.”

“Why would everything fall flat?” If Theodora knows something about this sale or Helena that she doesn’t, she wants to know.

Theodora sets down her fork and straightens her posture, then dabs the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Henry and I did what you’re doing for a lot of years. When we had our kids, it complicated things. We both wanted them, but neither of us was ready to settle down. So we compromised by taking turns, one of us staying with the kids while the other was in the field.”

Does she think Helena’s still working? She must know that’s impossible after the trial. “Do you regret not settling down?”

“I regret not spending more time with the kids and Henry together. Especially when they were little.”

Myka looks on, still confused.

“How old is Helena's Christina?"

“Eight. Eight and a half if you ask her in person.” Myka smiles at the memory of the day Christina told her about her birthday. They were filling out the calendar with Helena’s schedule, but the calendar only went through December, so she wrote out the months following on the last page.

“I know you’re just starting out, and you're excited about your projects, but let me give you a piece of advice. When you’re with Helena and Christina, try to live in the moment, take stock of what you have. It seems silly at your age; you always think they’ll be time later, then suddenly, there’s no time at all.”

Theodora’s gaze drifts off into the distance, and her eyes glass over. Myka reaches across the table and places her hand on top of Theodora’s.

“A-Are you ok?"

“I'm fine," Theodora says, with a small sniff. “When the melancholy kicks in, I tend to babble; another reason why I keep to myself these days.”

“You miss him.”

“Most days.”

Henry must linger in Theodora's memories like Helena's family does in hers.

“Thank you, for the advice. I appreciate it.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll all be fine. I forget times have changed, with technology and all.”

Theodora slides her hand from underneath Myka’s and places it on top, then squeezes it slightly. Myka smiles at the gesture.

“I'll tell you, Irene only pushes those she deems worthy, but she’ll push until they break. Make sure you push back before that happens."

“I will,” Myka says, nodding as she slides her hand back across the table. She fingers the stem of her glass and takes a generous sip, wishing she felt more flattered than worried by Theodora’s words.

--------------

Her concentration’s a bust on the plane back to London; emails left unanswered as Theodora’s words swirl through her head.

Her warnings were overkill, weren’t they? As she said, she's just starting out, trying to fix what’s broken. If she looks at things logically, Helena rescued her in her time of need, and she’s returning the favor, though the stakes are higher now since they’re together. But four or five months of rocky coupledom does not add up to a family, per se, not in the sense Theodora was describing.

In fact, the word “family” leaves a sour taste in her mouth; she'd turned her nose up at the notion with Sam; having more important things to accomplish before settling down. She's aware the word is a trigger as babies and marriage were always Tracy’s domain; she’d roll her eyes when Tracy incessantly talked about both when they were teenagers. But as the oldest, she’d been expected to tie the knot first, expected to produce; luckily that bullet was dodged by Tracy taking the lead, lessening the pressure on her.

But “family” is the best word to describe Helena, Christina, and Claudia, and when applied to them it warms her heart. She’s proud to have joined them along their journey. She smiles at the memory of Christina’s drawing, scribbled in crayon, still hanging on the fridge, depicting her holding hands with Helena. Even at that early stage, she was welcomed with open arms into their fold.

And while she trails behind Claudia in the responsibility department, that dynamic will change when she, Helena and Christina live together. Once their situation stabilizes, everyone’s roles will shift towards the traditional. Is she really ready for that? She's not sure.

She’s been so focused on getting to London she hasn’t thought much about what happens after. Theodora must have seen glimmers of her own lack of vision in Myka, of starting a family but never fully embracing change. She should heed her advice and learn work with it, not fight against it. Easier said than done, but she vows to take Theodora’s words to heart.

--------------

After a quick stop to freshen up, Myka speeds off to her work mixer, coincidentally located at the same restaurant Helena had scrambled to get reservations earlier. This seemed odd to her, out of all the restaurants in London, but Helena assured her it was a popular choice with the “in" crowd.

The table is packed when she arrives, with a mass cheer rising as she approaches; it’s clear everyone’s been letting loose. When all eyes move behind her then forward to meet her own, she’s hit with a wave of awkwardness. Helena's expected to have tagged along tonight, but she's clearly not present.

She apologizes for Helena’s absence, explaining she didn’t know until she stepped off the plane Helena had to work last minute. Everyone’s been eager to meet her "black sheep” girlfriend since the day Helena met Mrs. Frederic and emerged unscathed. In fact, Helena’s reputation has even tinged Myka with an air of mystique around the office, which she thinks is quite amusing.

A coworker motions for her to sit next to them, saying they’ve saved her a seat and she does as instructed. Her heart sinks at the sight of Helena’s empty spot next to her; disappointed Helena chose to work over her. She knows sacrifices must be made to keep the weekend free for Christina and Claudia, but she was really looking forward to introducing Helena to the group, both to put an end to the rumors and to show Helena off.

Wine flows freely during every course of the meal, and as the table fills with stories and laughter, she leans back and takes stock, recognizing a lightness in her chest she hasn’t felt for ages. She’s having a really good time with these people, an even mix of folks older and younger than her, and is pleased the discussion stays on topics unrelated to kids and school. The evening feels like coworker gatherings in Chicago and Seattle, and it’s reaffirming to be reminded of who she was all those years ago on her own.

As the woman sitting next to her checks her phone, Myka stiffens as she asks the time. Helena begged her to meet for a nightcap at the bar to make up for missing dinner and Myka reluctantly agreed, but at this rate, it will close before she gets there.

“Sorry, I have to go,” she says, rising so abruptly her chair nearly topples backward. “I’ll see everyone tomorrow."

-TBC-