The bookstore had been empty all day, but finally there was one solitary customer stood staring at the shelves. Looking up from my book, I realized that I had heard the bell ring once, heralding their arrival, but they'd neither left the store, nor bought anything. Standing, and moving round the counter towards the entrance to the shop, my breath caught in my throat at the slight figure in front of me. I stood, for a moment, leaning against a bookcase, one hand hanging halfway to my mouth.
"Helena," I said, voice flat, and even I myself could not tell what that tone meant but if you had pressed me, in that moment, for my opinion, I would have said it sounded like a warning. The woman in front of me turned, smiling, away from the display, book in hand.
"An HG Wells display?" she asked, one eyebrow raised. "I do believe I should be flattered." She was so real, so solid, absolutely really there and I wanted to run to her, hold her close, slap and scream at her, cry and sob and shoot my anger away. I did none of those things.
"My father's idea," I said, gesturing to the display, "a different author every month. This just happens to be HG Wells' turn." She smirked, tossed her hair over her shoulder, advanced on me. Her grin let me know she did not believe me, and I reminded myself that I could never lie to her, not successfully, and tried to cover my blush by speaking again. "What do you want?"
Better, I told myself. That sounded better, stronger, more convincing. What wasn't so convincing was my continued retreat, losing ground to every step of hers, her slow relentless push forward. Finally, I bumped against a shelf, feeling the edges of books press against my back, and stepped a half-step forward to avoid crushing the bindings. The step brought me right up to her, pressed almost flush together. I moved to retreat, to give myself space, but her hand wound into my hair, curling it between her fingers, anchoring me to the spot.
"Myka, darling," she breathed, her voice low and calling, "I had to see you." Her hand tugged at my head, closing the gap between us until a hair's breadth was all that remained. "I've missed you." Our eyes locked, and she kissed me, or I kissed her – hard to tell, really – lips sliding together, my hands coming up to rest around her waist, eyes slipping closed. That kiss, that I had known was coming since almost our first meeting, was everything I had imagined it to be, everything I had ever wanted it to be. I had read, my whole life, books based on love stories and thought them fairytales, fantasy – a pleasant diversion from life's grittier points – but stood there, eyes closed, her lips on mine, I thought perhaps I could come to understand. There was a moment, then, of perfect happiness, of complete and wonderful ignorance of the world outside, and then I realized that she'd pulled back, away from me, and was looking at me, biting her lip.
"I'm sorry, Myka," she began, untangling her hand and backing away, eyes flickering nervously over the assembled books. "I never set out to hurt you, but grief, a long time to think and access to artifacts are dangerous bed fellows." Her words sank through my stomach, cutting easily through my haze, allowing the anger to seep back in. After all, this was the woman who had threatened the entire world, with me in it, who had ruined my career, taken away my happiest place, and – worst of all – I couldn't even hate her for it.
"You can't be here," I said. That, in and of itself, opened a whole new can of worms. "How are you even here? The Regents took you away – I saw them." She looked away, as if embarrassed, but her tone and expression were anything but.
"Well, this is not an official visit," she said, mischief dancing in her eyes.
"Jesus, Helena." I came home, to the bookstore, because I needed my life to be simple, for once. Yet there she was, grinning and staring about her, drinking in the shop, the time-travelling, mass-extinction-threatening, magical fugitive that I'm terribly in love with. "They'll know you'll come here. It can't be safe."
"When I say 'not official'," she said, "I don't mean I have escaped my prison. I'm still there, corporeally."
I was stumped, for a moment. Then I remembered.
"Artifacts." The word stuck in my throat, its weight foreign to me now. She nodded.
"I'm sure there'll be an official trip here at some point," she said, "they don't like having you retired, and think I have some kind of influence over you." I laughed, bitterly. By now, I thought, everyone at the Warehouse must have realized how I feel about Helena G. Wells, must have figured out exactly how much power she has over me. Of course, then, it was only a matter of time before they turned that to their advantage. "But their trips will, I'm sure, be tightly chaperoned, and I'm afraid I find Mrs Frederic decidedly unconducive to romantic declarations."
"Romantic declarations?" My tongue felt slow, heavy and stupid, my voice detached from my head somehow. That look in her eyes was back, and I wonder how I could never decipher it, before; how I never realized by feelings might be returned. I wondered, then, had I declared myself sooner, whether I could have changed the way things went, but I did not wonder long for her lips were descending again on mine, pressing me to her, as if she could crush me into her, take me with her, extract a piece of my soul with her kiss.
"Darling, I have to go," she murmured against my lips, "I – "
Her words are cut off, as her image flickers and fades, and Helena disappears. I was left alone in the bookstore, empty again, as if nothing had happened. I moved forward, back to the counter, and my foot hit against a book, carelessly abandoned on the floor.
It wasn't one of ours, and I picked it up, curious. The author's name on the cover came hardly as a surprise, but the title, The Wonderful Visit, was less familiar. I let the book fall open in my hand, revealing an inscription in flowing handwriting on the flyleaf.
"I should have paid attention to my own stories.
Love, HG."
I returned to my seat behind the counter, and started to read. There's a noise behind me, and my father emerged.
"Who were you talking to?" he asked. I traced her name on the cover lightly with my fingertips, then held up the closed book to show him.
"HG Wells," I said, and we both smiled.