There was not much of a tour. Pete got them halfway into the study when a series of mumbles and disgruntled shouts put a halt to the sightseeing. Myka wouldn't normally see out the orders of a total stranger but that booming voice had a way of lighting a fire under her ass.

"My name is Arthur Nielsen. I assume Mrs. Frederic did not elaborate on the specifics of why you are here?"

"You would be correct," H.G. replied with an incline of her head.

Myka shrugged her shoulders. "She didn't mention much."

"Yeah," Pete chimed in, "she does that."

"Before we go any further, Mr. Nielsen, I would appreciate it if we do not go further into the details in front of my eight-year-old daughter."

"Yes, yes of course. Leena!"

At that moment a short, curly haired woman with dark skin and a calming presence swept through. H.G. took one look at her and instantly knew she could trust her daughter with this person. She couldn't explain it, but the gentle eyes and smile put her at ease despite their circumstances of why they had to be there in the first place.

"This is Leena, owner of this bed and breakfast."

"She's in on all the strange voodoo that we got going on," Pete translated.

"I'm a sort of associate," Leena translated back. "I possess special gifts that help our team."

As if anticipating Leena's statement, Pete's laughter let loose. He chatted Myka up on the sidelines. "Not those kind of gifts if you know what I mean."

"Pete!"

"Yeah, right," he muttered, getting back on track. He addressed Christina as she was led to the kitchen. "Try the cookies. They're phenomenal!" Because food was what mattered in that moment.

"Do you always have to act like a child?" Artie asked genuinely. "Even in front of a child?"

Pete's eyes bugged out in affront. "What?" he whined.

"You're going to scare them off before I even have a chance to brief them."

"Well, if they just had a cookie first…"

"This is no time to think with your stomach. I have to remind you…"

"… before you went all Joseph Stalin on them."

"… every time! I can't even count the number of artifact disturbances because of your appetite."

"I mean, look at them. They're staring at us like we've lost our minds."

"You actually thought you could eat "Original" Original Ray's Pizza…"

"And we probably have gone a little loopy as of late seeing as it's just you and I."

"… but never mind that it is 54 years past its expiration date!"

"It's like Warehouse 13 meets The Shining – "

Artie cut him off with a raised finger and dagger eyes.

"Heeeeeeere's –"

"No."

"Just one quote?"

"No." He closed the discussion with a severe, "Behave."

H.G. and Myka watched it all unravel like a tennis match taking place in an episode of The Twilight Zone.

Artie saw the blank stares and the slow backward retreat towards the exit and at once detected their apprehension. He opened his hands in an offering of friendly sanity, adding a smile for good measure. "It's just Pete and I… and Leena here. It's been a while since we've had other agents, or guests."

"A long time," affirmed his colleague with a devastating face.

"Comforting," H.G. muttered under her breath.

"Why don't we just get down to business, shall we?"

The two women took a moment to weigh their options. Under the wild eyebrows and gruff exterior the older man seemed to be a rather stern, paternal figure. Clad in sneakers, pants, and a cardigan he gave off the vibe of someone who put up a disgruntled front to hide his cute, cuddly inner nature. The fellow named Pete was clearly around his 30s yet had the emotional range of a 12 year old. He did not give off the ax murderer vibe, but would certainly quote from various ax murderer flicks. Myka detected a declining stiffness in his posture; perhaps ex-military.

All in all, on first appearance they looked like nice unstable people who just want to help. Myka gave H.G. the nod and they sat down side by side on one of the sofas.

Artie started off with introductions and credentials. He and Agent Pete Lattimer worked at a top secret government facility which housed dangerous artifacts they or others before them have hunted down and retrieved. The life of a Warehouse agent was a hard life; everything work-related had to stay confidential from family, friends, and significant others. Pete mentioned off-handedly that most of their field agents either end up dead, missing, or sent on a one way trip to the loony bin.

It sounded exactly as a top secret governmental agency should – minus the static bags and purple gloves. H.G. filed away her curiosity on the scientific properties of these artifact baggies for later.

As evidenced in the previous two-way conversation, H.G. and Myka struggled to follow. Pete and Artie were the only two agents stationed at the Warehouse. Though equal in their abilities to 'snag, bag, and tag' Artie was the custodian of the facility and 'boss' of Pete. When asked who Artie's superior was his partner spoke up with the smart ass delivery of "Mrs. F," followed by "dun, dun, duuun!"

When Artie arrived at the crucial point of why they were all there, H.G. discreetly pulled the other woman's hand in hers. It was as natural as breathing and leant a bit of comfort as well as assurance that Myka was in the same boat, too. Her head might be swimming with questions and that sofa might be scratchier than the one in Chicago, but she needed to feel something solid, something real in that moment. Because besides Christina, Myka was the only one she trusted.

"I assume you both are familiar with the Rosetta Stone, is that correct?"

H.G. nodded.

"Issued in 196 BC," Myka recalled from memory, "it was the third Memphis decree of King Ptolemy V's accomplishments and the rewards honored by the gods. The order was inscribed on a large slab made of black basalt and weighing in at just under a ton. The three texts are identical, representing two languages, Greek and Egyptian, and three scripts, Greek, hieroglyphic, and Demotic." At Pete's odd stare she explained with a single shoulder shrug, "This is my area of expertise."

Pete shook his head. "Whatever floats your boat."

Myka continued the lecture as if she didn't hear him. She defined the stone's discovery according to date, place, and circumstances. The discovery occurred around a tumultuous period in Egypt when British and Ottoman troops clashed with Napoleon's army in 1799. Not far from the town of Rashid, the stone was uncovered at a temple in the Nile Delta. French archaeologists were the first to conduct tests on the find, verifying its authenticity and spreading the word to European scholars. After the French surrendered, the stone was taken from Alexandria to the British Museum where it was still on display to that day.

"So you are saying my ex-husband was hiring out tomb raiders to find the Rosetta Stone?" H.G. looked at Artie like his hair was on fire. "I should think he needn't have gone far if it is encased at the British Museum. Lewis was not the brightest lawyer but he was not a complete prat."

Artie's finger wagged in the air. "Except it's not. What lies on display within a clear case for all tourists to see is not the actual Rosetta Stone."

"It's a fake?" Myka gaped. "But that's impossible! The British Museum would know! And there's no way to make a switch. It's only ever left its place twice; once during World War I and again in 1972 to the Louvre for the 50th anniversary of Champollion's Lettre."

Everything in Myka's experience convinced her that this man was a liar. The Rosetta Stone had been in England for decades ever since its delivery from Alexandria. There was no way a copy could have passed unnoticed under the noses of historians, curators, scientists… The stone had undergone hundreds of tests upon its arrival… Radiometric dating would have found discrepancies in isotopes, and decay rates. Preservation measures were taken yearly. It was impossible! Unthinkable!

"In any case, the Rosetta Stone is still out there," Artie rubbed his hands together for the last reveal, "along with its missing piece."

"The top left corner," Myka approved. She stared off trying to picture the larger of the two portions that had broken off – why, no one could explain. It could be that the stone sustained damage in transit to the Rashid temple it was found in, or the decay of years and weather, or perhaps it was mishandled by some naïve treasure hunters before its discovery. No matter the authenticity of the British Museum's stone, Myka would agree that the missing piece was indeed out there – in fragments or very much intact.

"The Rosetta Stone itself possesses properties that are not entirely comprehendible to the public," explained Artie. He nudged a finger to the bridge of his spectacles and continued. "That is how this case started. You see, in 1801 just before the British took the stone from Alexandria the current Warehouse at the time was able to snag it and switch it out with a very convincing copy. The artifact, as we call it, had been held at Warehouse 11 in Moscow until it mysteriously disappeared from the shelves. Its whereabouts have eluded successive agents for years, but every once and a while it pops up. And due to its supernatural capabilities a mysterious occurrence always follows."

"Listen to this," Pete told their guests, dully. "It's riveting."

"Will you let me tell the story?" Artie snapped. He turned his attention back to the patient H.G. and Myka. His fingers met and interlaced before him. "Whoever so touches the stone is imbued with the power to speak any language the stone has acquired. Since its unearthing in 1799 and the subsequent years after it went missing from Warehouse 11 it has changed hands – an insurmountable number of hands." Himself overwhelmed by the likelihood (and he had read the file over a dozen times annually), his hand struck his forehead. "Think of all the languages it contains: I mean… Hebrew, Armenian, French, Portuguese… It could have even passed through the hands of a third century farm laborer before it was even discovered! Pre-Coptic Egyptian!"

His partner crossed his arms as he leaned against the door frame. "Riveting," stated with subdued enthusiasm.

"However, it is not known whether the missing piece has the same power, if any at all. That's what makes this case so dangerous. Anyone in possession of both pieces will be a formidable opponent, even if the missing portion has no power. The Rosetta Stone, completely intact, would result in highly unstable consequences."

Artie took a breath, shifted comfortably on the sofa opposite his guests and continued. "Which brings us to why you're here. The wealthy benefactor who hired your ex-husband has come out from hiding. He or she wants this stone and thinks if they capture H.G. they can get Lewis Webb to talk. This person has help in numbers, I'm sure, and not the friendly kind."

"What makes you – or this mysterious benefactor – think I hold any power over Lewis?" H.G. asked. "We are divorced. We haven't spoken in eight years. How could you know I will be of any real use?"

For the first time since meeting him, Artie looked unsure. "Well, we don't. You see, this case has been ongoing since it's disappearance in 1825. Every Warehouse agent since has been tasked with hunting it down. I myself have been searching many years. And when you were involved in a possible lead Mrs. Frederic entrusted me with your protection. I've been monitoring your location in the event that the artifact revealed itself."

"So you've been clocking my movements ever since I arrived in the U.S.?" H.G. was a bit appalled by the information. She had been in witness protection, so it shouldn't have been a complete surprise how little privacy she had a right to. "Well," she sighed, accepting the past like she always did and subsequently brushing it off like pesky dust, "I suppose it is a pleasure finally meeting my protector, but I still do not quite understand why my presence is necessary. If Chicago was not safe why not relocate my daughter and I to another city? If the artifact is dangerous then this warehouse is the last place we should be."

Fingers fiddling, Artie's eyes shifted slightly. "You are a viable piece to this puzzle we intend on solving."

Tuning out of the conversation, Myka's eyes searched blankly at the floor, working it all out in her highly analytical brain. "You brought H.G. here to lure the suspect into divulging information. It was perfectly safe in Chicago from the beginning," she deduced, the realization dawning on her. The danger that H.G. and Christina had been placed in marched to the forefront. "You bastard," she muttered, her eyes not yet having met the insult's target.

From the rise in his furry brows, Artie appeared quite taken aback by the accusation. He was familiar with such outright contempt, but it had been a while, to say the least.

Pete cautioned with a hand motion and a, "Now, now."

"I was bait?" H.G. scoffed.

"Of course you were," Myka replied, her attention now on the 'bastard', "this was the only way they could track the perpetrator and keep you in their custody." She addressed Artie with narrowed eyes. "But how do you plan on capturing them and acquiring the stone while protecting her in the process? Or is she just collateral damage?"

"All Warehouse agents accept the possible risks of the job."

"But I am no such thing!" H.G. contended. "I am a lowly, now American citizen who is supposed to be in hiding from an apparently very dangerous object. I am not equipped nor authorized to deal with any of this!"

"Which is why Mrs. Frederic thought it was a good idea to grant both of you the position of temporary agents." The idleness in Artie's voice showed how averse he was to the plan.

"What?" Myka and Pete gaped simultaneously.

H.G. was just as disturbed. "Do we even have a choice?"

"Well, yes. Technically, I do not have the authority to force provisional access to the Warehouse on you," he tipped his head and drawled, "however, both of you are in possession of knowledge that would be quite useful in solving this case. If you decline then coming here was for nothing, essentially."

Myka almost threw up her hands. "Mrs. Frederic couldn't tell us this in Chicago?"

"There are procedures," Artie replied with a simple shrug.

"When were you going to tell me this, Artie?"

Artie's glare locked the man up instantly. "Not now, Pete."

Chewing her lip in thought, Myka was struck by a technicality that had been bugging her since they arrived. "Why isn't the FBI involved in this? Wasn't it they who struck the deal with H.G. and brought her here for her safety?"

"You should know by now, Dr. Bering, they were never involved in the first place. Would you trust the FBI with this information?"

Pete hands made a wide sweeping motion to make his boss's point clear. "Supernatural artifacts aren't exactly under the purview of the FBI… or any other government anagram."

Myka looked over at Pete. "Isn't 'purview' an overwhelming word usage for you Agent… Lattimer, is it?"

"It is," Artie cut in gruffly before Pete could reply. "Anyway, the Warehouse is more knowledgeable and superiorly equipped to handle effects of this nature. You are safer here than in any location approved by the FBI." Artie leaned forward slowly, anticipating his guests would accept the offer. "The choice is entirely up to you."

The two women fell silent. It was a lot to sink in. It was a lot of crazy to sink in and H.G. was an imaginative writer who specialized in the original. Myka, however, was a realist and serial skeptic. She couldn't trust the information because her experience told her it was impossible. They just met these weirdoes, after all; how could she expect these agents had their best interests or would keep them from harm? The only person she could trust was sitting less than a foot away and whose hand was comfortably warm and tangible in her own. H.G. was something she could see and touch. That was something worth believing.

"Well," H.G. sighed, sharing an honest look with Myka, "we were told this would be an adventure."

Myka's hand was steadfast in H.G.'s throughout the whole briefing. She stayed like she did that night in the park, offering a thumb's caress when the raven-haired woman appeared stiff with ire and a squeeze when all seemed hopeless.

Pete and Artie shared their own look before the unspoken language going on. When Myka added her consent to H.G.'s Artie let out a breath he didn't know was being held back.

"Now, Pete and I have some preliminary research to do before any crucial strategy is put in place. Your assistance is not necessary at this time, so you are free to settle into your rooms for the time being."

H.G. and Myka nodded dumbly. The stress of the trip and the abundant information just dished had quite a numbing effect.

"Come along, Agent Lattimer."

Pete dragged his heels behind his boss, shoulders sagging and stomach grumbling (again). "All work and no play makes Pete a dull boy."

The contents of Myka's suitcase found a place in the dresser drawers of her assigned bedroom. It was a temporary solution because Myka loathed the sight of wrinkles in her shirts and this was, after all, going to be a short stay. There was nothing to back up that supposition, though. If anything, time spent with the Warehouse agents would be indefinite. Hunting down an artifact that shouldn't be acquirable, luring a wealthy and powerful art thief, these were just two objectives on their docket and objectives that required extensive research and travel.

Travel.

Myka had always wanted to travel. In her college years she was granted the rare opportunity to study in Greece, but that was before she chose a path of scholarly research. Despite the circumstances (dangerous as they were) Myka would finally get the chance to see the world. And she would do so with the most worthwhile companion, H.G.

Her lips drew into a wide smile. She liked traveling with H.G. Alone, the trip would have been a sullen thing marked by stale pittances for peanuts, a dreadful selection of inflight films, and pillow stealing seatmates. H.G., however, provided many distractions, and she was no pillow moocher. On their flight from Chicago they had played a quiet game of chess. Truly a test of wills, the semi-egomaniacal H.G. closed three out of four games. She continued her wicked streak over Mason City, Iowa with a game of gin rummy. Myka could only imagine the challenges the woman posed on subsequent trips.

Fingers touched her mouth and Myka realized her smile only grew. She immediately clamped down on the expression.

What is wrong with me? This is no time for fun and games. This is dangerous.

Time was bided. She unpacked, unsuccessfully attempted a nap, and twiddled her thumbs before knocking on the door next to hers.

A head, waist high and darkened with smooth hair, popped out. "Myka!"

"Hey, I just wanted to see how you guys were doing with unpacking."

"I'm all done!" Christina revealed proudly. "But Mummy does not wish to leave the room… unaccompanied or otherwise."

"Christina!" came the reprimand from within.

The girl rolled her eyes and opened the door wider for Myka.

Assumed on the bed were stacks of clothing in order of color and size (the larger belonging to mother and the smaller to daughter). H.G. was not one for methodology. She felt the symmetry too constricting to her boundless imagination. There was never a time or place H.G. would subject her unrestricted mind to the measured, tedious life of order. Or so she thought.

Though Myka did not know it, H.G. had been folding, sorting, and refolding garments, and trying out various sites for their belongings. The stress of travel, of their safety, of imminent doom disguised as adventure had gotten to the woman so much so that the anxiety seeped to her very bones. She had to keep herself busy, or else the genuineness of their situation would sink in further.

The second their eyes met Myka detected the vexations behind her friend's unusual behavior. H.G.'s face was pale in spite of the buzzing about, paler than her usual ivory glow. Worry lines framed her eyes, listless as they were. H.G. looked as if she had been put through the wringer and then back again.

"I brought some music along," Myka told Christina, "why don't you go to my room, sweetie, and pick something out for later. We can give it a listen to before bed."

"Really? Oh, I can't wait!"

H.G. didn't so much as look up from the already pristine blue button-down before prompting, "Christina."

"Oh, right," the girl turned back to lob a gracious "thank you, Myka," before scurrying next door.

Chuckling to the door slamming closed, Myka placed a hand atop her breast, sensing how big her heart grew every time that child so much as spoke her name.

Silence followed, the only reprieve being the rustling of clothes and blow to wayward black strands.

"You don't want to leave," Myka echoed Christina's words.

Hands did not stop fumbling. H.G. shrunk as if under the weight of a storm shadowing her pale features. She did not reply. Words were a fickle thing when they were awash in foreboding.

"Stop." Myka's hand lay upon the frantic folding. H.G.'s hand stilled. "Christina's gone. There's no one here you have to put up a front for."

"I cannot let you…"

"What? See you freak out? I think it would be an appropriate reaction considering."

H.G. relinquished her methods with a sigh. "I lived in the same location for eight years with the knowledge that it was not only my home but would one day be my final resting place. I am little prepared for this, Myka."

"But you're not alone. You have Christina," Myka said. Her heart sped up. She hid the palms that were no doubt collecting perspiration "And you have me."

"I am so glad of it. Myka, you do not fully realize what your company means to me, and not just at present." H.G. took in her new bedroom with relief now that Myka was a fixture of it. "Your support in this is everything. I do not often come across individuals worthy of my trust. It is a difficult thing when the name you go by is not your own and the past is nothing but a memory of mistakes influenced by unfaithful friends. That my reservations perish at the mere sight of you makes you quite unique."

"I was not expecting that." Myka scratched her forehead, feeling slightly out of place in the conversation. People's praise always made her develop a case of unease. It was a rare and almost unseemly gift. Her head cocked and she gazed oddly. "Although my image of you is not as it once was. It's changing, and so are my expectations."

"So you are…?"

It took a moment for Myka to grasp what was not spoken, but like all things with H.G. understanding eventually came easy. "Freaking out? Yeah," she snorted. "You think this is easy for me? My life has been as reclusive as your eight years in Chicago. Do you think the trip here was a comfortable one? We've hardly shared a conversation lasting more than five sentences. I haven't known what to say after that night in the park."

"But you do now?" Myka's chin dipped in approval. H.G. smirked at the woman's plot and drawled, "That is why you've baited my daughter with opera and are standing there prepared to share your discomforts."

"Actually, there is nothing I've felt the past 24 hours that comes close to discomfort. And the Puccini collection I packed is hardly bait. Christina was itching to get out of this room."

What an unfamiliar feat.

Since she could walk the girl was like a magnet to the booted heels of H.G. There was nothing up until now that would have lured little Christina from her mother's side. "Yes, I'm sure."

Crossing her arms, Myka raised a brow. "That's not what I meant."

"She thinks this a vacation. Her first, in fact. And I wish it was a mere trip out of town. I wish I could say there will be theme parks and sightseeing, dinners out and sleeping in till afternoon… but I cannot. I must tell her why we left home and will probably never return. I have to tell my own daughter why I've lied to her for her whole life."

"And when you tell her you did it to protect her she will understand. Christina is a smart girl, the brightest child I have ever met, and she loves you so much. She can take this," Myka affirmed, nodding.

"This is not just about Christina," H.G. said quietly. "I was guarding my daughter's safety by not revealing why we had to leave her father, but I was protecting you by…"

"By what?"

"I… I knew I could have told you," H.G. confessed with the fluttering of lids. It was an implied apology, yet she couldn't help but anticipate backlash and so she hugged her arms for her own worthless protection. "I wanted to, in fact. There were so many times when I thought I'd lose control and come out with it all. But that did not happen. I purposely hid the truth because when you found out – and I knew you would figure it out, eventually – you would feel betrayed and leave. The truth is not a sure thing, Myka. My truth is not a sure thing and it is unsafe. I am not safe, not anymore. I … I should appreciate it if you would do me a favor."

Myka replied before a breath was taken. "Anything."

"I should like it if you would take Christina."

"… What do you mean?" Myka's face contorted in misunderstanding. H.G was starting to scare her. A lot. "What do you mean take her, Emily?"

"My name is not Emily!" H.G. burst out, arms straightening to her sides and ending in fists. "It is Helena, or H.G., or Ms. Wells. Emily is not my name. It never was." The fire in her eyes extinguished. They were pleading now. Her mouth slack, face growing paler, H.G. was actually pleading. "Take Christina away from here. Keep her safe until this is all over. I don't know when that will be. I just need to know she is with someone I trust."

Myka was already shaking her head. "I can't believe we are having this conversation. I can't believe you are asking this of me. Do… do you really think I am capable of taking care of a child? A-and she hates me! It took forever for her to warm up to me and even now… I don't know what kids are like! Their feelings can change on a dime if you so much as take away their… their toy or whatever!" Myka sputtered. She was grabbing fists-fulls of her hair in worry. The sudden realization hit her that she was actually freaking the hell out.

"She loves you, Myka. Don't you see it? She will not go with anyone else."

Wincing at the gentle tone and the words that came with it, Myka waved her hand at the logic. "No, I'm not taking her. I'm not qualified and I'm not her mother. You are, so step up and be that for her. Get over this irrational fear of abandonment and stop pushing away the people who want to help."

What needed to be said felt stuck in Myka. It was difficult to grasp the concept because she spent years keeping it buried. Time did not heal wounds; it just opened them up with every blundering phone call and holiday visit lasting shorter than promised. Myka knew that through and through, and H.G. had to be told the same.

Scrambling for the words, she fixed her stern, emerald eyes on H.G. and unearthed some sound advice. "Sending her away will not fix anything," she calmly instructed, "and it sure as hell will not ease the guilt. If your solution is to keep her from your true self then Christina will come to resent you, trust me. It would ruin your relationship with your daughter. I know that's not what you want."

"I must tell her," she stared off at the wall and the little girl behind it, "don't I?"

"Your world will not end, H.G." The other woman sighed at the way Myka said her name – her real name – for the first time. She couldn't help but notice how relief finally settled in for H.G. after the two syllables were spoken, and how right they felt on her own lips. "It will just be beginning."

When Myka told Christina that her mother wanted to speak with her the girl went obediently. There was no need to wish her luck or warn her to go easy on H.G. no matter how frustrating the news sounded. Since meeting Christina, Myka instantly recognized where H.G.'s motherly nature came from. The two were inseparable. They loved each other to a point where it couldn't be measured. It was hard to imagine them apart much less arguing. It was what gave Myka the strength to not worry herself into a frenzy.

I'm not worried. I'm not worried. I'm not worried.

Myka paced on the patio outside the B&B. The nail she was biting was getting shorter with each passing minute. She was worried, but not for Christina. H.G. had an ego the size of the Grand Canyon. She carried herself with such poise and grace; there was no crack or barb capable of deterring her.

But where H.G. excelled in self-confidence, she lacked in self-discipline. Her emotions stretched far and wide and if not controlled meant careless results. When Christina suffered her asthma attack, H.G. went on a rampage, cursing the store manager's "lollygagging" in hailing a timely rescue and threatening to file a lawsuit for gross negligence. It was by sheer luck that the man decided not to sue the distressed mother for pinning him to the wall by the scruff of the neck. Her rage was understandable. She was a mother protecting her baby, which made her all the more reckless. H.G. did not know her own limits. Myka did, as evidenced by her nail trimming faux pas.

The shrill ring jerked Myka back to the present and her anxious fingers flew from her lips to her cell phone.

"Oh my god! You picked up! Are you hurt? Did you get in a car accident? Are you stranded? Myka? Are you there? Ohmygodshe'sdead!"

"Claudia, calm down! I'm not dead!"

There was a relieved sigh and then a cough from the other line before, "Clearly."

"I'm sorry I didn't call you when we arrived. You're in my office, aren't you?"

"I'm keeping your computer warm until you get back," Claudia rushed out. "On to what matters… How have things gone in this secret, undisclosed location?"

"It's been kind of crazy around here. That's kind of the reason I forgot to check in."

"Busy crazy or psych institution kind of crazy?"

"Well, our hosts do not seem to be all there, then again what would I expect from people who… well, people whose work is completely out there?"

"Wow, Mykes, you're going to have to be a tad more specific."

"I'm afraid I can't. Confidential government stuff."

"Ooo, top secret? Let me guess… you are in Nevada, behind the fence that warns, 'No Trespassing. Restricted Area Number 51.'"

Myka laughed. "Not even close, Claud."

"I see, I see. Kicking it back with the Pope at the Vatican Archives?"

"I wish."

"Come on," Claudia groaned in anguish. "Tell me, please? Confidential is my middle name, homes!"

"Out of the question. It's not even safe for us as it is."

"Hold up, I thought this little vacay was to get you guys TO safety? It was the whole reason why you insisted on tagging along; you didn't even trust this Frederic lady alone with Christina and Emily – whoops, H.G."

"Mrs. Frederic isn't the only one I'm worried about. There are more players in this than we realized, and I have a feeling they're going to be more of a problem than the people who are helping us."

"Sooo," Claudia dragged out, and Myka could imagine her smart ass mind at work, "you're telling me leaving Chicago was for nothing?"

"Not exactly," Myka managed. She squinted through her explanation. "I mean, I am getting to know Em – H.G. – a little better. The real H.G. Now that we're stuck here with each other my understanding of her has come easier."

"You know, it's very big of you to forgive H.G. for serving you a pack of lies."

"It was a harmless white lie," Myka defended.

"Yeah, a harmless white lie that just happened to encompass her whole reason for escaping trust funding mummy and daddy and convict husband. Do you see where I'm going with this?"

"She's been through a lot, Claudia, and I don't blame her for a fabricated life which was created to protect her and her daughter. She didn't say anything for my sake as well."

"How do you see that?"

"Well…" Myka bit her lip in thought, memorizing what H.G. had said and the way her honesty shown through in steady eye contact and a clear voice while saying it. "She thought the hurt of betrayal would be less painful than the harm that would have come to me if I had known from the start. I'm not saying I would have taken the information and sought justice, but she was right that I would have been reckless enough to do something about it."

"And now you're in the thick of it. Either way, with or without the truth, it would lead you to this same exact position. If H.G. told you from the get-go I'm sure you would have hunted that ex-husband down and kicked his ass, attracting his wealthy pals, and, thereby, putting you in some serious jeopardy. Kind of ironic, isn't it? How inevitable you two are?"

"Have you been hanging around Frank, lately?"

"Why? Am I being presumptuous?"

Myka could practically hear the grin. "There is nothing romantic about witness protection and wealthy black market thieves who want someone's head on a plate."

"Did I say romantic? I did not say romantic."

"Claudia," the professor warned severely.

"Sounds like someone has romance on the brain. Have you told H.G. yet?"

"Told her what?"

"Mykes! Do I have to make a freaking PowerPoint?" The sound of typing echoed in the background and there was a chime of a new document being opened. "Because I will. You know I will."

"I'm playing dumb. Spell it out for me."

"You love her."

The surprising thing was Myka's silence. There didn't seem to be evidence at hand to disprove, yet she was at a loss to maintain the bold statement. Instead, she kept her eyes on the backyard and the walnut trees, deciphering their susceptibility to high winds. The nut it bore came in numerous quantities; an unseemly amount to offer whatever life form that needed the sustenance. It puzzled Myka that one tree could produce many fruit, but only one seed was needed to plant another Juglans niga of its kind. A dozen or so fruit lay inconsequential in the grass. Myka felt sorry for them.

But if evolution ran a different course, if one black walnut tree bred one solitary nut, then that nut would be consequential. That one nut would have to be handled with care and knowledge of its every seam, swell, and dip. Such a rare and precious gift was not given lightly.

The lack of a quick rebuttal boosted confidence in Claudia's matchmaking skills. The music of a creaking chair swinging forward and back was like that of a giddy college temp fulfilling her diabolic plan.

"Claudia, I have to go."

"NOW you have to go?"

"Yeah, I want to be around when H.G. gets done with Christina. I don't know how she will react to her mother's explanation, but I'd like to be here to support her. It can't be easy – for either of them."

"If you're trying to convince me you feel nothing for H.G., you're doing a really bad job of it."

"Not now, Claudia. This is just not the right time."

"When is it ever?" A heavy sigh ran through the line followed by the creaking of a chair. "Alright, I'll give you a pass – this time. But sooner or later you and H.G. need to lay all the cards on the table. No one is just friends with a stunningly beautiful physics teacher and part-time writer. They're just not. I know you, Dr. Bering, and you don't hang out with kids unless their parent is something grand, if you know what I mean. Now, I'm going to sign off and leave you to your Twizzlers and thoughts of romance."

The Twizzler halted midway to Myka's mouth. Claudia certainly knew her better than she did.

"Take care Myka."

"I will," Myka replied to the sincere farewell. She smiled. "Thanks Claudia."

"Kirk out!"

Myka chuckled into the dead line and put her phone away.

The call was definitely a rallying one. Claudia had always been a good friend, that support system only found in family. In all honesty, they were each other's only support system. The 22-year-old didn't have family; she grew up as an orphan after the disappearance of her brother. Claudia didn't know it but Myka once spied her doing research on the young man and came to the conclusion that this lost girl had yet to give up hope. Half out of sympathy, half out of the need for company, Myka invited Claudia over for Thanksgiving. It was a tradition they both took to heart, Myka, thrilled that she wouldn't have to spend the weekend in Colorado with her parents and Claudia touched that someone finally took her in without questioning her sanity (literally). Neither one for deep, emotional conversation, they learned to trust one another without asking too many questions. It was an unspoken promise that they would love and carry each other through difficult times no matter what. They had their backs through thick and thin and till the end.

Yet the question, nay the statement, that Claudia suggested took Myka's voice prisoner.

How could Claudia deduce that I… more than like H.G.?

Myka was not alike a woman wooed or wooed by others. There was no longing or loving between the hours of night and day. Tears were dry, smiles were innocent, and daydreaming was an absurd notion reserved for the gentlest of hearts.

Myka Bering was not a gentle soul. She was a goddamned professional who worked 80 plus hours a week and ate undergrads for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Myka was not a gentle soul. She was no romantic. Yes, she appreciated the written word and would gladly cite her favorite Shakespeare sonnet… but when you get to the nitty gritty of love, Myka just didn't have it in her. She wouldn't. She couldn't.

And love for H.G.?

I shouldn't love her. That's… no. I shouldn't.

Any further delusions of love or the lack of it were interrupted by the sound of the patio door opening. Leena, owner of her own bed and breakfast, stepped through like a gentle breeze.

She was the epitome of tranquility. Not a single wrinkle or concern marred that beautifully smooth face. Framing her stillness were ringlets of hair fashioned to a bob. She possessed strong round cheeks, full pink lips, and a fiercely persistent gaze that could quite possibly see through your very soul.

Like H.G., Leena had a motherly aura as evidenced by her ability to keep Christina occupied and delightfully content. Cookies may have had something to do with it. She must have been quite the tolerant landlord if she boarded up the likes of Agents Nielsen and Lattimer.

"Looks like you could use some food. You're pale as a sheet," Leena observed. Myka leaned back a bit at the forwardness, and subsequently leaned headlong towards the smell of freshly baked cookies. Her host noticed this and smiled. "Must have been a long drive from the airport."

The bait was placed on the glass table with a clink. It took Myka all of five seconds to weigh the pros and cons of taking food from a stranger before her hand snatched up a warm, mouthwatering cookie. The lure was gobbled up, crumbs and all.

Without asking (because it was her property after all) Leena sat a fair distance from her guest. "Stress eater, huh?"

"Isn't that a rude question to be asking someone you just met?"

"I offended you." The barely-there smile indicated the opposite.

Myka paused, chewing her cookie slowly. "Maybe," she responded weakly.

"The cookies must be good," Leena notices as the brunette snags another.

"They make up for the stress eating question."

"So you and the Wells', how long have you known them?"

"Four months."

"I wouldn't have guessed. You seem like family."

Myka wasn't in the mood for sharing. Instead she diverted inquiry to the hostess. "How long have you owned this bed and breakfast?"

"A few years. It has been in my family for generations, since the early 1900s."

Myka caught the scarab amulet hanging from the woman's neck and the history buff in her made a note to ask about it later.

"And has it always boarded Warehouse agents?"

"Yes, since the Warehouse moved to America in 1914. I became owner of the house after my father got sick."

"I'm sorry."

Leena shook her head. "When I took over the duties as housekeeper, cook, and assistant to the Warehouse, the people whom I served became family. Artie has always been kind to me. I am treated as any other agent; I know the cases, the effects of various artifacts. I am even granted Warehouse access to conduct tasks for Artie. So you see, my duties are not simply limited to this fine bed and breakfast," a dazzling smile graced her lips, "although my ability to get dinner on the table at a reasonable hour is a highly respected feat around here. My family has served the Warehouse for decades and will continue to do so until it finds a new home elsewhere."

"It sounds like you wouldn't have it any other way," Myka noted, spirits growing brighter in the shadow of the bed and breakfast. "Although I can't imagine it is easy living with the likes of Agents Nielsen and Lattimer."

"Contrary to what you may think upon first meeting them, Artie and Pete are harmless. They do not make great first impressions, but once you get to know them you will understand their humor and witness their sensitive sides."

"You're driving a hard bargain," Myka asserted, smirking. She settled back in her wicker chair and got comfortable. "You mentioned Mr. Niesen was working around the time you became proprietor."

"Artie originally worked as a cryptographer for the NSA. Not much is known about his life before the Warehouse, and he doesn't like to talk about it. But like all agents his past is left where it is. The Warehouse is a clean slate for many of us. A new beginning. Artie has been custodian for a while. It was hard, being the only field agent in service to the Warehouse. But when Pete came along… well, he just made things more interesting."

"I may have just met him, but he sure doesn't give the impression of the typical government field agent."

"Yeah," Leena mused, chuckling with Myka, "you're correct, in a way. Pete served as a Marine in Afghanistan and later became a Secret Service agent. He has the training, just not the discipline you'd find in your average government intelligence agent. From what Artie's told me he's a great partner to have in the field. He has your back no matter what and can get you out of a tight jam. Oh, and he's great fun to watch movies with," Leena gushed unapologetically, "unless you're not a fan of the classics."

"Did someone say movies?!"

The pair of heads turned towards high pitch screech and the exuberant girl it belonged to.

"I didn't see a television," Christina remarked in a hushed tone, suddenly ill at ease from the attention. Though a respectably excitable child, she fidgeted under the spot light. "I don't watch a lot, but my mum and I like the old ones."

"Pete has a big flat screen TV in his room," Leena explained with a smile. "He always invites Artie and I over for movie nights with the only admission being any sweet or salty snacks for sharing."

"Mummy doesn't allow me to indulge after eight o'clock," Christina stated with downcast eyes and a watering mouth.

"Christina…" Myka put her hands around the tiny waist of the child approaching and hugged her between her knees. She rubbed with her thumbs, soothing any anxiety Christina may have endured from the unveiled truth. "Sweetie, did your mom explain everything to you? Are you okay?"

"Yes," she replied, "I'm fine."

"You seem quite sure," Myka frowned, discerning for any uncertainty. "Did she tell you… everything?" A creeping sensation ran through her spine. If there was any possibility that H.G. revealed anything less than the truth, than they had a problem. Correction, Christina's mother had a problem.

Christina nodded. "My name is Christina Wells now. I kind of like it. I was never keen on Lake." Leena stifled her laugh with her hand, though Myka couldn't help but let a chuckle escape. "And my father wasn't a very nice man. He went to prison."

Myka tensed. "Do you feel bad at all? You can talk about it, you know. And not just with me. There are other people who can help you adjust if it seems like a lot to take in."

"No, that's okay. I never thought about my father much anyway. I like the way things are now." Christina smiled and playfully swung Myka's hand with her own as if to reinforce the statement.

"So you're really okay." Myka exhaled softly, shoulders relaxing. "Everything's fine?"

"Yes, Myka, everything is quite alright," Christina insisted with a condescending smirk and a haughty eye roll inherited straight out of the Wells' gene pool. "My mother may need a hug, though. She seemed a bit torn up."

"Where is she?"

"Still in her room." Christina's eyes fell on the plate of treats. She licked her lips subtly. "May I have one?"

"It's not after eight," Myka feinted contemplation before nodding, "so I think it would be okay." The wide, toothy smile that resulted went straight to Myka's heart. She looked over at Leena and if it had not been for their recent conversation (or mild interrogation) she would not be asking. "Can you look after her for a while?"

"It's not every day this place gets the pleasure of children's laughter. I'd love to. Go on. We'll be right here eating cookies and taking in the view. Right, Christina?"

Little legs swinging to and fro from her perch on the chair, Christina swallowed a morsel and responded with a stirring, "Right!"

When Myka thought of H.G., the word that did not come to mind was 'despondent.' As a writer her home was made on the keys of a typewriter. She had her moments of solitude when she demanded a room of her own and a darkness to fill her thoughts in. Those times Myka simply left her alone. While it was possible to make a plea for privacy, the same could not be said for inspiration. Leave the inventive mind for what it's good at and something extraordinary will result.

But to say H.G. was a miserable human being would just be, as a cheeky English lady would say, "codswallop." There was an unending fortitude that held H.G.'s chin high and had her laughing in the face of doom or smirking to a condemning review. A flick of her wrist was all it took to cast away the negative, making room for her own prerogative. Woebegone may be a part of her extensive vocabulary, but it was not in her nature.

So when Myka found a raven-haired head against the windowpane and body hunched over like the heavens themselves were bearing down, she was, to put it simply, surprised.

The door pushed closed, causing the head to rise. H.G.'s eyes were red-rimmed, though showing no sign of the source. A breath rattled as she took it in. "Christina?"

"She's out on the patio with Leena. Don't worry, I talked with her and she seems reasonably well-balanced. Though if you want more convincing I could ask Claudia to do a background and credit check."

There was nothing in H.G.'s expression that read amusement. Her head simply fell soundlessly back against the window, eyes closing.

The joke fell flat and Myka cringed at its hurtling demise. She took a few tentative steps from the door. "Your bossy daughter asked me to check in on you," Myka tried again. "I don't think she likes to show it, but she's worried about you."

As am I.

"Are you sure you don't want some air? You've been holed up in this room since we got here."

Don't be condescending, Bering. You're not her mother.

The bed sagged under Myka's weight. Her hands gripped the edge of its quilt comforter. She was just two feet from the windowsill but still miles from H.G.

"I used to look out my window as a kid," Myka said, her eyes piercing through the panes as well. "My favorite pastime… I'd imagine every Seven Wonder of the Ancient World in my backyard and all from that one window, everything from the Lighthouse to the Hanging Gardens. My parents don't travel. They used to, but with a bookshop and two daughters it was a lot to juggle – in that order. Now that –" She paused midsentence and cocked her head at her previous mention of Seven Wonders. Myka let out a chortle, explaining, "I had a big backyard."

A crack of a smile lasted mere seconds until lips pursed it shut. The change did not go unnoticed by Myka who laughed at the woman's failing efforts.

"Oh, Myka," groaned H.G. "why must you do that? I was profoundly set on crying against this window and now you come and instead of shedding tears I'm seeing the Great Pyramid of Giza!"

Myka grinned slyly. "What's done is done."

"You are proving to be quite the master manipulator."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Take it as you will, but I shall have my day of moping. You owe me that much."

"Put it on my tab."

"I should think it is a much useless list." H.G. puzzled over the mere idea. "How is it that you owe me anything?"

Myka, puzzled over the need for the question, worked out her own version of an answer. Her shoulders rose and then dipped. "I guess… I'm grateful to have your trust. True friends who are present in the moment, the ones who remember things short of a cheat sheet aren't easy to come by in these days of social networking. I suppose I owe you because my life would be pretty dull without you."

Realizing what she just said, the sincerity and precision, and how her pulse sped caused Myka's mouth to freeze awkwardly, eyes staring blankly ahead. Talk about her lack of filter.

H.G. said, "You talk of our friendship as if I never put it in jeopardy."

"I hardly think holding my lemon meringue hostage is the same as endangerment."

"This is no time to be droll," H.G. rebuked with a hurt frown. She swiveled so her feet met carpet. "I value this friendship as much as you do, yet you pass over my betrayal like it is a mere trifle. Why are you not as torn up as I?"

"Because," Myka's voice didn't shake, "people do what they have to do in order to survive. No matter what you think, no matter what insignificant voice in your head tells you, Christina doesn't hate you. Just like I could never hate you. Some lie to deceive. Others lie to protect. You were right to keep your past from me. If it protected you and Christina I'm glad I was kept in the dark. Holding such an immense secret from those close to you… it was a very brave thing to do."

Her reasoning was pushed away by a scowl.

"I don't understand. How is it you are so forgiving of me? How can you see me as anything less than insignificant when you have been dealt a lie ever since we met?" H.G. shot up and started pacing. She ran a hand through her hair, fingers slipping through too quick for a reprieve, too soon before an examination of prudence was met. Before her filter caught up she snarled, "I am Helena Wells, not Emily Lake! I am a deceiver of the worst kind! I lied to my best friend and let her believe I am someone I am not." Tears previously held back when pride demanded spilled over and down porcelain cheeks. Speech became a struggle; her unending strength reached its limit. "H – how could you forgive that? How do you look at me same as you did after the day we met?"

Myka had never been good at cheering people up and worse at physical contact. She did not come there expecting a woman slouched against a window and on the verge of tears. She was not expecting a landslide of feelings and emotions. Nothing could have prepared her for what she was about to do. It was a deed, though quite uncommon in their relationship, imagined more exhaustively than they would admit themselves. H.G. was a mess and everything in Myka was telling her to go to the woman.

It was easier to hug the woman when she wasn't a moving target. Without a word, Myka clutched H.G. into circling arms. H.G. froze at the initial contact and then started to struggle. She twisted and pushed but Myka wouldn't let her shrug away. Chin on a dainty shoulder, the Myka held on with equal rigidity.

It was an odd feeling. Neither knew what to expect from meeting their bodies in a snug fit and, therefore, were at a loss for what to say or how to describe the sensation licking at their skin like flames. This nuance in their relationship had taken them both by surprise and left them reeling in each other's very arms. One thing was for sure, though… nothing about what they were doing felt wrong.

"I don't care what you call yourself. You are far from insignificant. I don't care about names or the past. I just want to be able to call you my friend."

The struggle ceased within a warm embrace. H.G. let out a heavy, pained exhalation and once it was out the security of Myka pressing into and around her did the rest. Forgiveness was accepted wordlessly. It was as inevitable as Claudia said.

Relinquishing the hold she never got a chance to fully return, H.G. wrested her wet cheek from quite forgiving brunette hair.

"Christina seemed well downstairs," Myka brought up. She diverted her gaze and endeavored to find home for her hands. Pockets were a winner. "I assume she took it well?"

H.G. nodded as her fingers pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "As she often does: with an inscrutable mien and the seasoned comeback of a politician." The laugh was joyous to H.G.'s ears. "Why does it feel as if I dodged a bullet?" she muttered, only half-kidding.

"Children are resilient."

"Speaking from experience?"

"I wish I was. Then I could say I had forgiven my father for the years of emotional abandonment."

H.G. tipped her head, eyes narrowing with a curiosity that wrote novels. "You will have to tell me that story one day."

"We have time," Myka proclaimed.

Their shared smiles were only the beginning.

We have all the time in the world.

Note: Everything mentioned here on out about the Rosetta Stone (with the obvious exception of its supernatural effects and the British Museum possessing a fake) are historically accurate.