Morning light streamed in through my window, soft and beautiful, like the faintest hint of a candle. With a yawn, I rolled over on to my side and took a deep breath, reveling in the crisp, clean air of the past. I opened my eyes—just a crack—and smiled slightly at the gorgeous scenery outside. A large oak tree made itself prominent in the front yard and I wondered how old it was—and if it would live to see my time, which, in all honesty, was starting to feel less and less like mine. I mean, don't get me wrong: I missed my studies, my city, my home; but they say home is where you make it—and Hotel 1800s wasn't all that bad. On top of that, it didn't look like I would return to the present any time soon. Might as well make myself comfortable.

Making myself comfortable, it would seem, meant accepting a job from a shopkeeper I scarcely knew. I had to admit: I would miss Henry's library… and—begrudgingly—his company. In the short time I'd spent with him (a grand total of three weeks), I'd actually grown to like him, more or less. He'd certainly proven himself not a total creep. Although I was still skeptical about his motives for helping me, I didn't think too poorly of him, and I couldn't help but feel slightly more… at ease, whenever we talked. He had a certain way of speaking—collected, yet enticing all the same—that made me actually enjoy our conversations. Normally when I spoke to people, I couldn't wait to leave, couldn't wait to get away from the horrors of social interaction. With Henry? The opposite was true.

But like I'd said about a week earlier: my acceptance of Speed's offer didn't mean good-bye. Hell, Henry lived about twenty minutes outside of town and, though he sometimes seemed like a young hermit, I had no doubt that we'd see each other again. Still, I couldn't shake the small trace of melancholy that laced my mind like poison, but I did my best to ignore it as I slid out of bed and stood. The dizziness that had resulted from my wound was finally gone, for which I felt incredibly thankful. Now I could walk without too much of a problem (the gash in my side was still sore from time to time).

I made it about halfway to my door before I realized—hello—I was only wearing a thin, revealing nightgown. Remembering at the last second how important modesty was in the 1800s (and arguably still is in the modern day), I pulled on a simple overdress that went down to my ankles. Thankfully, Henry had stocked my closet with clothes—nothing fancy, but enough that I wouldn't astound the locals—and I refrained from asking where he got them. If they belonged to his wife, which honestly felt a little weird, he didn't say, nor did he mention if he bought them recently. I would have to make it up to him, pay him back once I actually had money of my own.

As I walked down the creaky staircase—gingerly, just in case Henry still slept—and into the kitchen, I noticed that the room was empty. In all honesty, I felt relieved. At least now, I would have some time to myself, some time to relax before going into town to accept Speed's offer. I knew that this moment wouldn't last long, so I figured I should use it to at least start paying Henry back (though, without money for the moment). That being said, I decided to make breakfast.

It wasn't like I didn't know my way around his kitchen; more than once, I'd made tea in the middle of the night. And yet 1800s cooking is kinda (really) different than to what I was accustomed. Nevertheless, I found bacon and eggs relatively quickly, as well as potatoes and bell peppers, and the salt wasn't exactly hidden. The pots, pans, and oil were a little harder to find, but I eventually had everything I needed for a decent meal. And then I hit a roadblock: I had no clue how to cook besides throwing things into a pan and hoping for the best. I mean, I'd watched my grandmother prepare dish after dish and thought I could copy her, but thinking is quite a bit different than doing, and I wasn't going to think the ingredients into an edible meal. There was also the problem that I'd forgotten to light the stove (not that that was too difficult).

While I stood there, staring at the ingredients and pots and pans like Tywin Lannister staring at compassion, footsteps echoed throughout the house, eventually finding their way to the kitchen. I didn't, however, pay that much attention to them, so that was why it was such a surprise that Henry stood right behind me.

"Having trouble?"

I jumped and whirled around to face him, fingers involuntarily tightening against the handle of the frying pan. Willing myself to relax, I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled before forcing a small smile. "What gave me away?"

There was no way in hell that he actually bought my crappy attempt at acting normal, but he didn't say anything about it and instead gestured toward the food. "They usually go inside the pan."

I bit back a 'no shit, Sherlock' and managed: "Aren't you the master chef."

As much as I wanted to be a sarcastic ass (which, arguably, I already was), I didn't want to accidentally offend Henry and part on bad terms. Coupled with the fact that the Sherlock reference would be lost on him, it just wasn't a good idea. Thankfully, however, he didn't seem to mind—actually appeared to enjoy the banter—and smirked, extending his hand toward the frying pan. "May I?"

The words 'it's your kitchen' played on my lips, but I instead argued: "Compromise: you teach me how to make this into something edible, and I'll teach you how to light the stove right."

"That works just as well," he easily replied, crossing to the various ingredients I'd gathered. Grabbing a rather large knife, he beckoned me closer and swiftly chopped one of the bell-peppers in half. "You should start here. Bell-peppers have seeds that need to be taken out first and foremost." He gutted the first one and then handed me the knife. "Try the next one."

I gripped the handle and mimicked his actions, surprised when I didn't make a huge mess. Henry, despite his best attempts to cover it up, looked borderline shocked as well and as I glanced up at him, a triumphant grin on my face, he blinked and leaned against the counter.

"Good to know I can at least use a knife," I said, setting the blade aside and moving the bell-pepper pieces out of the way. "Bonus: I didn't slice my fingers off."

The rest of the preparations were relatively easy. Henry was patient enough whenever I made mistakes, and I caught on quickly to the techniques. When it was my turn to light the stove, I showed him the proper way of doing so, and he emulated my actions almost perfectly—on the first damn try. As much as I wanted to be bitter about that, I felt more happy than angry, mainly because it meant that a: I was an adequate teacher; and b: Henry respected me enough to actually listen to and learn from me. And in the 1860s? That truly said something about his character.

Suffice to say, breakfast was well underway by about seven a.m., and we set the table together before sitting down to eat. We kept the conversation light. Apparently, neither one of us wanted to address the subtext that every sentence conveyed. When we finished the meal (or, rather, lack thereof), I helped Henry wash the dishes and put them away. Again, there wasn't much conversation, but neither one of us seemed to mind. In a way, the silence was… comforting—certainly better than feigned small talk.

As I put the last plate back in the cupboard, Henry leaned against the counter and absently drummed his fingers against it, a vacant expression on his face. Frowning, I opened my mouth to ask what was wrong, but quickly shut it again, not wanting to pry. I couldn't deny, however, that there was a hint of something in his eyes, something that I could only identify as melancholy. A sigh escaped me and I mimicked his posture, the wooden edge of the counter digging somewhat uncomfortably into my back.

"Anything going on?" I questioned, finally working up the nerve to say something, and he blinked and shook his head.

"Not a thing," he responded easily, too easily for me to believe.

"Ye-ah, I'm not buying that." My lips curved into a small smirk. "Usually when someone gets an expression like that, something's wrong."

He returned my smile—albeit, reluctantly—and then met my eyes. "I assure you, Miss Armstrong: I'm quite alright."

You're a rotten liar, I thought, somewhat amused, but instead chose to mutter: "If you say so."

Some unspoken agreement passed between us, and we chose to leave the conversation at that. I walked back up to my unofficial-official room and began to pack my belongings (which, if we're being serious, most of them weren't actually mine). Deciding against wearing anything that looked too elaborate, I chose a simple blouse and skirt that thankfully didn't scream 'I'm-from-the-future.' When everything was shoved into a couple of suitcases, I carried them downstairs and met Henry by the front door. He offered to take one of the bags, but my pride demanded that I hold on to both (because seriously: would I ever need a man to do anything for me? Ah, no).

The walk into town felt longer than usual, and the two of us did our best to fill it with conversation that didn't seem idle. Despite that he could come across as a humorless, broody gentleman, Henry actually knew how to joke around. Thankfully, this (relatively new) side of him kept our discussion from turning too serious, though when we were about halfway toward town, the subject turned to me—which, in case you haven't noticed, I couldn't stand.

"You mentioned a while ago that you were looking to move to San Francisco," he suddenly stated, glancing at me from behind his dark sunglasses. "Why didn't you?"

I have to admit: the question caught me off guard. On one hand, I didn't particularly feel like relaying every aspect of my life's story to Henry right then (or ever, for that matter). On the other hand, however, part of me considered telling him everything. Why, I have no idea, but it was all I could do to keep my mouth shut and not blubber about, well, my life.

"I, uh, didn't have enough money," I stammered, hoping that he would take a hint. And, in all honesty, it wasn't a lie—just not the whole truth.

Thankfully, Henry could tell that I was slightly uncomfortable and immediately changed the subject to something lighter. The conversation remained that way for the rest of the trip into town. Oddly enough, it didn't feel fake—just shy of content—and I actually didn't want it to end. Walking into Speed's store, however, immediately cut it off, and I barely managed to keep myself from groaning when the shopkeeper practically bounded over to me.

"Miss Armstrong," he warmly acknowledged, tightly gripping my hand with both of his and shaking it. "It's wonderful to see you again."

Despite his overly dramatic greeting, I smiled and lightly returned the handshake. "Happy to be here, too, Mr. Speed," I managed before pulling away, fingers minutely throbbing. "I—"

He laughed—a big, booming sound—and released my hand to run his own through his hair. "How about we agree that there's no need for formalities, yeah? Just Speed'll do."

"Fine by me," I agreed, throwing a sly glance over at Henry. "In that case, call me Olivia. The whole Miss Armstrong thing kinda doesn't feel right."

To give him credit, Henry didn't bristle like I thought he would—a testament to his composure and sense of humor (or lack thereof). "Would you care to show her around the shop?" He casually asked, though I could practically hear his desire to say something more, and Speed shot him a half-hearted glare.

"Of course." The shopkeeper gestured for me to follow him. "Though you've already seen most of it once before."

For the better part of a half hour, he pointed out various aspects of store: where certain items were contained, what was for sale, what needed to be rotated, the list went on and on. I paid as much attention as I could, listening to what I felt were the important parts and ignoring the rest. If he noticed that I wasn't really listening, Speed didn't say anything (though I suspected he was completely oblivious), for which I was thankful. I didn't really feel like getting called out, didn't really want the embarrassment. Save that for a different occasion.

More than once, I glanced over at Henry, who trailed behind Speed and I with an absent expression on his face. Although he seemed the epitome of self-control, I could just barely detect a hint of—bitterness? No, that felt wrong; Henry could brood better than anyone I'd ever met, but he wasn't necessarily a bitter person. What was it, then? Anger? Sorrow? All of those seemed too powerful, too serious.

And then it hit me, a sudden realization like the white around a yellow star in a Van Gogh painting: Henry was going to miss me. And truth be told? I was going to miss him. A lot.

For a moment, we locked eyes, but I almost immediately looked away. I was being an idiot. An overdramatic, complete idiot. It wasn't like I was moving across the damn planet; I was moving into a shop twenty minutes away from him. So yeah, I would miss him, but if I really wanted to, I could knock on his front door any time. Problem solved.

About three quarters of the way through the tour of the store, I spied the revolutionary cutlass and was pretty sure that my face began to glow. Completely ignoring what Speed was saying, I walked over to the blade and grabbed the hilt, pulling it out of its sheath a moment later. The shopkeeper stopped talking and gaped at me as I immediately stepped into the 'en-garde' position. A quick glance over my shoulder revealed a small smile from Henry.

"Judging by your form, I'd say you know how to use that quite well," he deduced, folding his arms across his chest. "Impressive."

I shrugged, a blush creeping on to my cheeks. "I'm alright with it… More used to a foil, but this works too."

He was about to say something else, but the bell above the door rang, signaling that someone was entering the shop. Half expecting that bitch Vadoma, I turned around, ready for another round of insults—

—only to come face to face with Mary Todd Lincoln.

I barely stifled a shriek and immediately sheathed the cutlass, scrambling to put the whole thing away before she noticed me. When it was back where it belonged, I spun to face her again and tightly clasped my hands in front of me, my face an unflattering shade of red. Speed and Henry watched me with amused expressions, but I didn't care, all my attention focused on—hello—the president's wife.

Much to my relief, she didn't see me (that I know of) until a few seconds later. A smile, albeit a slightly confused one, curved her lips as she took a step to the side so that she was out of the doorway. Not two seconds later, a tall, broad-shouldered man walked into the room, and I nearly lost my shit. Abraham. Lincoln.

I'll admit, I had no freaking clue how to react. Part of me wanted to fall into fangirl mode and scream whilst frantically jumping up and down, while the other part of me knew that I needed to remain (relatively) calm. In the end, all my emotions cancelled one another out, so I just stood there, awkwardly twiddling my thumbs and chewing on my lips. I tried throwing a helpless look over at Henry, but he merely smirked in response as if to say, 'Sorry, not helping.'

Ass, I thought, but immediately directed my attention back to the couple in the doorway when Lincoln began to speak.

"And you must be Miss Armstrong," he warmly acknowledged, striding forward with his hand outstretched. "I've heard so much about you."

As I (nervously) gripped his hand, something in his tone and eyes registered in my mind, and with a sudden jolt, I realized that—holy shit—he knew. He knew that I didn't belong here, knew that I was from the future. Terrified, I looked over at Henry—silently asking him if I was right—and his chin dipped ever so slightly.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

It took me a moment to realize that the president was waiting for a response, and I immediately snapped out of my internal panic attack. "It's, ah," I stammered, barely able to form a coherent sentence. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. President."

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, causing me to relax a little. Okay… okay. He may be the president of the United States, but that didn't mean he wasn't a human being. I clamped down on the anxiety threatening to explode in my chest and willed it to go away. I could do this. I could do this.

"Henry tells me that you're to run Speed's shop from now on. Tell me: how did Speed manage to drag you into that?"

Holy shit, I couldn't do this!

"I…" I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. "I'm still trying to figure that out."

Lincoln laughed—a warm, excited laugh—and I found myself smiling despite my nerves. At least he wasn't beyond human emotions.

Another glance in Henry's direction revealed that he was smirking ever so slightly, and I reluctantly returned it, out of spite more than anything. Lincoln let go of my hand to beckon his wife over. As she came closer, I felt my inner fangirl begin to scream again. Here was a woman—possibly one of the strongest in the history of the United States—who would live to bury two sons and (eventually) a husband. The thought of that morbid situation suddenly snapped me out of my reverie. Who was I to fangirl when Mary Todd Lincoln actually had to experience those horrors?

"Might I introduce Mrs. Mary Todd Lincoln," the president proudly stated, causing me to blink rapidly to expel the moisture in my eyes. "Mary, this is Miss Olivia Armstrong. She's… a business associate of Henry's."

Well, that's one way to tell a lie.

"It's a pleasure," Mrs. Lincoln said with a friendly smile, and I immediately deduced that she was being sincere, unlike that bitchy Vadoma. "I trust Mr. Sturges has been treating you well?"

As much as I wanted to joke around, something told me to act serious. "Yes, very well… Nice guy."

The couple didn't stay for long, both apparently having a prior engagement, and when they left, Speed and Henry tagged along. Which, in essence, left me all alone in a general store in the goddamned 19th Century. Leaning against the counter toward the front of the shop, I slowly sank to the floor and murmured a quiet 'holy shit' before rising and getting to work.

Ye-ah. Definitely the start of something interesting.

I am so sorry for not updating this story on time! From now on, I will do my best to have a weekly update!

Also, in case anyone is interested, I will be regularly posting updates/news for Dark Doesn't Always Mean Evil on my tumblr, Conversationkiller4531 . I'm also considering turning Dark Doesn't Always Mean Evil into a comic, if anyone is interested :D I need to work on my art as well as my story-telling skills lol.

Until next time,

-Nopride