Helena Wells was sitting in a hotel lobby bar, sipping a shandygaff and drowning in nostalgia when a muffled ping sounded from the recesses of her handbag. She replaced the round-bellied glass on a complimentary napkin, whose stamped hotel logo smeared under the condensation, and rummaged through the bag in search of the device Mrs. Frederic had labeled a burner phone and had given her before her untimely departure from the Warehouse. Helena hadn't heard from the woman in months, but had dutifully kept the phone charged and on her person at all times, per her instructions. September was a little more than halfway over and the trees that lined the street outside had begun to turn. Helena's gaze slid over them before she turned to the phone's bright screen.
Yellowstone National Park. Old Faithful. Friday. 4:30.
Its brevity gave it urgency. Its familiarity gave it weight. All as if the woman knew Helena wouldn't be able to ignore it, couldn't ignore it, no matter what feelings had transpired in the inordinate amount of time that had passed. Mrs. Frederic could certainly be a daft coot sometimes. Perish the thought she say exactly what was going on anymore.
Helena wanted to believe Mrs. Frederic had no knowledge of certain, ah, recent reconnaissance trips, but no one was telling Helena anything, and she was nothing if not determined. Determined to find out what the bloody hell had happened to the Warehouse, to the team, to…Myka.
Oh, Myka, she thought miserably. It had been a year and a half. After Mrs. Frederic's parting words, well-intended though they were as she sent Helena off with the astrolabe, she hadn't come close to trusting anyone as much as she had trusted Myka Bering. Not that she always felt the need to trust anyone. It was easier not to, in fact. It was better to simply give the impression of trust; let the other person open up, reveal their intentions, understand how that affected one's own plans. Use, improve upon, discard. No real trust, no hard feelings.
Or at least, that was how it felt after MacPherson. After the decades spent in a bronze coffin.
But not after Myka.
After Myka, everything was different.
Had to be. Helena wouldn't accept anything less of herself now. She supposed that was a good thing, not that the Regents had given her that much mind.
Side-eying the white-whiskered bartender, she lent serious thought to changing her order. Time for a stiffer upper lip. If Mrs. Frederic was messaging her now, then there was no mistaking her intent. At least, that's what Helena thought. Time to strap on those proverbial big-girl pants Agent Lattimer once spoke of. "Whiskey neat, please."
The bartender paused infinitesimally before replying with a short nod, and set a shot glass in front of her, saying nothing as he poured the amber liquid and left her to it.
She brought the drink to her lips, her nose assaulted with rich notes of leather and tobacco. Her heart ached.
"Righty-ho, then," she murmured and tossed it back.