"There a renaissance fair in town?"

H.G. smirked. Clutching the leather strap fastening front armor to back, she concealed it behind her. The armor had matured through years of corrosion and dents caused from mishandling, but it still gave off a shine. In the middle of a 21st century hotel lobby an antique like this didn't failed to attract curious stares.

"Perhaps we might discuss this in more confidential quarters?" she suggested, eyeing the bustling lobby. It also weighed a god awful ton, so getting the bugger off her hands would be another reason to keep things moving.

Pete scooted off leaving H.G. with the sight of a very anxious looking professor. Myka's arms were firmly at her sides and her hair looked just as wild probably from the fingers that twirled through the vast 30 minutes of waiting.

"Myka," she greeted with a nod.

"Where have you been? Did you get anywhere with your lead? Why didn't you call? I was worried about you. Well, we – we were… worried."

A hand lay upon Myka's shoulder. "All in good time."

H.G. smiled, easing her friend's worry when there was no need for such fretting. In truth, the Wells family reunion was rather unexpected and anxiety inducing, but things were generally left on a good note, which was to say a better one than last time H.G. departed Atlas House. She never anticipated the hug her mother offered nor the swiftness with which it was granted. H.G. did not leave with her father's blessing, but that was expected. Then again, there was a hint of nod at her waving departure, and Joseph Wells never nodded his goodbye's, not to anyone, not even his children.

Finally in the privacy of Pete's room, H.G. dropped her items on the bed with relief. The armor went down heavily while a disposable plate covered by plastic wrap fell about as equally profound.

Nose in the air, Pete zeroed in on the second item like a hungry dog who wanted his bone. "Oo, what are these?"

Myka scrunched her face at the sweets and the man grabbing after them with dedication. "Pete."

"What?"

Holding the semi-disgusted expression she explained, "You just had lunch."

"Welp, I didn' haff desserd." His eyes bulged then. Head jerking back he lifted the cake for a better look. "Mm, hey these are good!"

H.G. smiled. "Courtesy of Mrs. Wells."

"Your mom?" Myka gaped. A pang suddenly hit her at the realization that H.G. went to see her parents and didn't have the mind to tell her. Myka was aware of the fragile relationship. That H.G. didn't need her support was, to say the least, disappointing. Myka wanted to be needed. That H.G. was in the position to be a damsel in distress was archaic and backward, yet somehow impeccably consistent. The single mother had always been in a state of isolation; abandoned by family and deceived by a lover. By her own means H.G. managed. For how much longer no one could know for sure.

They had been friends for months, which in Myka's experience was the longest friendship she ever had and liked. It couldn't be a trust thing for since that night in the park H.G. relinquished the deepest of secrets about herself no one else had the pleasure (or the burden) of knowing. It occurred then between Pete's smacking mouth and H.G.'s frown that Myka had no right to judge. H.G. had her reasons, she always did, and Myka would respect that. "H-how did that go?" she asked softly, knowing it must not have been easy showing up to the parents who disowned you and your daughter.

"An experience not worth noting," H.G. replied. The perplexity in her words opened the door for curiosity but her firm gaze into Myka's shut it immediately.

"I like your mom," Pete declared after swallowing down his third cake. "When can we meet more of these things – I mean, her. When can we meet her?"

H.G. simply glared and shook her head like she would with Christina. "Care to share with the rest of us?"

In his cake-hazed mind, Pete caught the gesture H.G. threw at the dwindling plate of bakery. "Om, sorry." He dropped the half-eaten loaf piece and brushed his fingers against his jacket. Myka scowled and elbowed him.

"It's all right," H.G. said. "I had my fill for 20 some years."

"Must have been a delicious 20 years."

"The grass is greener…" H.G. drawled, eyebrow rising.

Following a knock and a key card beep, Steve passed through the door. "You must be H.G.," he greeted with a smile and an outstretched hand. "I'm Agent Jinks."

Eyes panning from the hand to the new face before her, H.G. narrowed her eyes at the distinguished title. "Agent?"

"Of the FBI."

"Former," Pete droned helpfully.

"I was FBI, until my superiors ordered me to let the Webb case go. Lewis is no longer in U.S. jurisdiction, and the Bureau, apparently, have bigger fish to fry. He's Europe's problem now, that's the official position. Long story short, I didn't exactly agree with that directive. Now I have a permanent red mark in my file. And…" his hands lifted and fell back against his thighs in an expression of 'oh well,' "… here I am. I can assure you that our goal is one in the same. If anyone wants to apprehend Lewis Webb more than you it's me. You can call me Steve."

After giving a nod of comprehension H.G. looked over to Myka who gave her a nod in return. It was the only opinion that mattered.

"Of course," H.G. smiled at her new acquaintance and grasped the hand, "Steve. You may address me as 'Miss Wells.'"

"That's formal," Steve remarked with a nervous laugh, "and a mouthful."

"Only two syllables, in fact. No more than the name my friends have the privilege of speaking."

"Oh, wow, you consider me your friend?" Pete's hand covered his heart as he basked in the unintentional ego booster. "Aw, well that means a lot. Thanks, H.G."

While it was true H.G. never trusted well or fast, Pete was a very stark exception. There was something sweet and innocent in those brown eyes, and he possessed a stamina to protect those he cared about. Steve, however, was a mystery idly waiting to be uncovered. While Pete was open with his emotions this new agent hid behind the mask of his ice blue eyes. The smile may be genuine but until H.G. knew more about this Agent Jinks she would play along from a distance. "I think it's only fair," she shrugged, casting her innocence on the FBI agent, "don't you?"

Wheezing out another chuckle, Steve scratched the back of his neck. He grilled terrorists less difficult than this woman. "Can't argue with that."

"Okay," Myka took a deep breath amid the air heavy with awkwardness, "now that introductions have been made we should probably gather what we know about the case. Steve?"

"Right. It seems my hunch that the antique store owner was hiding something was correct." From his pocket he procured a list of dates and item numbers. "Several pieces were sold to the store on the same day. And they all were shipped from the same location. If I'm good with gut instincts, which you've now seen proven, my guess would be that Webb needed the money. Traveling with the items would draw attention, so he had them delivered to one of his frequent buyers in England."

"Where were the pieces sent from?" Pete asked.

"France. A rural château in La Roque-Gageac."

"Our vacation home," H.G. explained in a fleeting moment of reminiscence. "Wonderfully rustic and cozy, but hardly romantic when your spouse is off doing business the whole trip." Knit brows were a sign of enduring marital frustrations, but the way her face relaxed at the understanding in Myka's eyes revealed that it was all in the past. "It's probably where he kept his most valued relics."

"Didn't Lewis' property get transferred to the Wells estate?" asked Myka.

"Indeed. If Lewis had foreknowledge of my betrayal he would have ensured some of his possessions were kept out of Wells family hands – with the exception of one item in particular. Lewis meant to acquire something from his possessions at Atlas House. He contacted my father to ready the item but never showed up. This phone call took place right around when those pieces were sold to the antique store. As you might deduce, this information further backs up Mr. Jinks' hunch."

"Hence the Mony Python getup." Pete picked up the breast plate for a closer look. He'd wanted to get his paws on it the moment H.G. came waltzing in with it. If only he could see how it looked on his masculine build. Artie didn't have to know. "What would make Lewis want a piece of old rusted armor that bad?"

His Farnsworth buzzed just in time to answer. He flipped the hood in his usual and said, "Greetings, Sir Arthur of Univille!"

"Right," Artie deadpanned. "I hope your investigation has been progressing. Or have you been playing Name That Movie Quote during your costly trip to London?"

"No," Pete replied, squinting with unconvincing certainty.

"Myka?"

"The Godfather, Forrest Gump, Casablanca, and just a little while ago Monty Python."

"Don't forget Star Trek," H.G. piped up with a cheerful grin. She gave an innocent shrug to Pete's glare.

"Traitors."

"Pete, please stay on track. I'm counting on you to keep Dr. Bering and Miss Wells out of harm's way." Artie moved out of the image for a moment and returned with an armful of files. They dropped on his desk with a bang that made Pete jump a bit. "It looks like we have our guy. According to my source in Russia, a man by the name of Gaspard Lallement has a special interest in the Rosetta Stone. He's a very wealthy French businessman and art collector and has spent years searching for the true stone. It's not known how he knew about the copy in the British Museum, but his historical connection would explain how he knows what few know today. Lallement claims to be a descendent of Jacques-François Menou."

"Menou," Myka pulled from a mixture of memory and fresh research, "was a General in the French Army during the Egyptian expedition of 1798. He was one of the first, in fact, to lay eyes upon the stone. The French Officer who found the Rosetta Stone reported its discovery to his superior officer… Menou."

"Correct," Artie said. "Menou safeguarded it in his home in Alexandra. At that time he was a military governor of Rashid, the origin and namesake of the stone. The stone resided in Alexandria and was considered the general's private property for two years until Napoleon ordered it to be taken to Cairo and placed in the Institut National. It is said the Emperor had a great curiosity in the Rosetta Stone. He had many copies made and sent to scholars across Europe. With that many copies flying around you can understand how easy it would be for the Warehouse to swap out the original with a fake. After copies and tests were completed the stone was transferred back to Alexandria in the care of Menou."

"If General Menou considered the Rosetta Stone to be his personal property, then any relation of the Menou family would claim to the same right." Myka paused in her historical ramblings and looked over Pete's shoulder to address the man in the Farnsworth. "Artie, do we know for sure that Lallement is Menou's heir?"

"There's no way of proving it, but it would explain why he knows so much about the stone and is so relentless to rediscover it. If he was a descendent of Menou he would have grown up with stories of the stone and, perhaps, of its power."

"So," Pete began with an exhalation, "we have ourselves a rich snob who thinks he's inherited the most significant find in archaeological history." He stroked his chin, nodding to the challenge. "Swell."

"H.G.?" Myka tipped her head at the woman contemplating harder than The Thinker. On the outside her dark eyes roved the floor like it was a puzzle, arms folded, bottom lip caught between her teeth. Behind that was an infinitely complex brain firing off neurons at the speed of light. The image was fascinating to behold, like standing before a constant work of art and a genius in the making. "What are you thinking?"

"It is possible there may be a connection between this Gaspard Lallement and Lewis." H.G. paused, touching her lips over further contemplation. Then she was moving. She grabbed the armor from Pete and held it up to the Farnsworth. "Artie, might you recognize this? If my years spent in a house full of old knick knacks are anything to go by I would say it is 15th century. Full steel plating, 1.6 centimeters thick, no significant markings… I couldn't say what region, though."

Pete threw in sarcastically, "Didn't know the Middle Ages had electronically powered armor."

"The armor is from the Renaissance period," Artie indicated, "but the tech is most definitely recent. Can you see any buttons, switches, dials?"

"No…" H.G. inspected amid the wires, "…oh wait… I feel a silver knob here…"

"Okay, now don't activate the –"

She flipped the switch.

What was a half rusted, 25 pound piece of chest armor turned into a translucent piece of chest armor. Invisible, to be precise.

"What. Did. I. SAY?!"

H.G. managed a smile around the grimace. "Righty-ho, then," she muttered.

"Congratulations, H.G." Pete slapped the woman on the back. "You snagged your first artifact."

"It's invisible armor!" Myka gasped, reaching for it. Her hand smoothed over the invisible solid. It was cool to touch and just as tangible as it was mere seconds ago. "I've never seen anything like it. This is the kind of thing you read about in fairy tales."

"Mm, the Harry Potter fans I have for students would agree."

H.G. hummed to herself as her eyes glazed over the invention. Myka watched her examine it closely and, no doubt, marvel over its effects. There it was, that spark of creativity in H.G.'s eyes. The kind of fascination that would either get her in trouble or grant her vision renowned. The wheels were turning as this physicist worked out the various uses for invisible armor and how to perfect it. Myka smirked, knowing the artifact would become a pet project of H.G.'s in the near future.

"It could do with a few modifications," H.G. surmised to herself, totally unaware she still had an audience. "Instead of plated armor maybe a lighter conductive metal and more fitted to the person like a … vest. Yes, that would work."

The metallic petulance echoing from the Farnsworth broke up the curiosity fest. "Are we done playing with the artifact?"

"This chest armor – this artifact – has been in my father's keeping for eight years. Lewis sought after it, but did not show up to claim it."

"Maybe Frenchie got a hold of Lewis before he even arrived in England," Pete said.

"Lewis has been evading Lallement since his release from prison two years ago. Why was he captured now? And how?"

"Lallement is worth 29 billion dollars," explained Artie, "so you can understand the wealth of his connections. It's possible Webb knew of the artifact's effects. The armor is a crude form of invisibility cloak, one that would render its owner naked to the human eye. Power like this would have aided his escape from Lallement."

"If the artifact was powerful it was worth money," Myka jumped in. "Why wouldn't he keep it with the rest of his treasures in France?"

H.G. thought about it. Ever since she contacted the FBI she had a gut feeling Lewis knew of her betrayal. They had grown distant their last year of marriage, much to H.G.'s encouragement, and Lewis was away on business more often than not. Her ex-husband may have been rich and pompous, but he knew how to protect his treasures – none of which were his own wife. "He would have wanted a backup plan," she replied, "if he couldn't get to his collection in France. By leaving it to Atlas House Lewis had something to fall back on."

"So what now?" Pete asked, hands on his hips and in agent mode. "Lallement probably most definitely has Lewis Webb. And if he has our lawyer pal he also has any information on the location of the Rosetta Stone."

Having hung back for the majority of the briefing, Steve stepped in with input of his own. "I have a friend at the Bureau who owes me a favor. We could tap him for information, anything the FBI has on Lallement."

The bespectacled face of Arthur Nielsen blew to enlarged portions within the two-way communication screen. One thickly untamed brow rose in question. "Who are you?"

Myka stepped to the former FBI agent's side. "He's been very helpful on this case, Artie, and would be a valuable asset. He even saw through my Secret Service cover." Myka shrugged to herself, still rather impressed with Steve's intuition.

The old man slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. "I told you that cover was for your protection! Don't you people listen to me when I say this is dangerous work?"

"It's not her fault," Pete defended. "Jinksy gets vibes just like me."

"Whatever!" Artie waved his hands around as if to air away the ripe smell of immaturity. "He knows, so he stays." He leaned forward again so his grizzly bear-like terror could be seen up close. "Agent Jinks, you better be worth my time. And Myka? I'm trusting your instincts here."

The professor rose on the balls of her feet, somewhat giddy considering their circumstances. Never had she been this excited to please her superior. Then again, this wasn't her usual faculty performance review before the department chairs. "You can count on me, sir."

Artie nodded. "Now, as for Agent Jinks' contact at the FBI… I would strongly suggest against it. No one can know about the true Rosetta Stone, especially the U.S. government. All they ever do is butt in where they're not wanted and make more work for us in the long run."

Steve frowned and then pointed between the three other agents and the talking box. "I thought you guys were the U.S. government."

"Ehh, sort of. You have to understand, Agent Jinks, this case is bigger than you realize. The FBI doesn't know half the intel I do. Just the wealth of information I picked up in my years in the former Soviet Union would make heads spin off."

"You were…?"

Pete shook his head at Steve. "Long story, man. You're gonna want to hold out for the extended edition."

Myka asked, "So what is our next move, Artie?"

"Leena has been doing research on Lallement and tracking down his latest whereabouts. Leena…?"

The bed and breakfast owner and part-time Warehouse agent appeared in the Farnsworth window. "Hey guys. I've been pursuing some of Gaspard Lallement's recent activities: he was recently a keynote speaker at the 30th annual French Finance Association Conference, was honored at a dedication ceremony in Munich for donating 13 paintings to the Academy of Fine Arts…"

"Do-gooder cover story," Pete scoffed. "Sneaky."

"… and attended several high-profile exhibitions in San Francisco, Tokyo, Johannesburg, and Madrid."

"A sneaky globetrotter, at that," H.G. observed.

"All evidence of activities seems to cease for the recent month. In addition to his villas in Italy and Spain, Lallement's permanent residence is located in the south of France – a small castle in Avignon."

"A small castle?" Pete practically choked.

"When you can afford several villas," H.G. drawled, "why not a small castle? Rustic, spacious, makes an impression, not to mention it is the perfect example of living amongst a small piece of history." She quirked a grin at the professor, knowing she would understand the sentiment. Myka took it as an entirely different meaning and turned away with red on her cheeks.

Pete squinted and threw up his hands. "Why doesn't he just buy the Palace of Versailles?"

"Because it's not for sale, dear boy," H.G. quipped with a chuckle.

"If Lallement has been off the map for the past several weeks chances are it's for good reason," Artie said. "I want you all on a flight to Avignon first thing in the morning. If he has captured Webb then the stone may already be in his possession, or at the very least possess information on its true location."

"And if Lewis or the stone are not in Lallement's custody?" asked Myka.

"Improvise."

"Will do," Pete replied. "Kirk and company out."

These moments of solitude were making a more frequent appearance.

H.G. was found alone in her room later that night. Their flight wasn't until the next morning, so there was time to kill. Pete and Steve were still poring over the medieval artifact with boyish curiosity. Like Myka, H.G. had passed the sleepless hours with a mind towards further adventures on the European continent. The constant exploits had a way of transporting one across even greater distances, though, and produced a yearning for those left behind. When Myka heard the ballet music filtering through her hotel room wall, she knew H.G. was suffering from the great body of water between her and her daughter. H.G. was missing Christina and trying to ease the ache of detachment through the girl's favorite melody.

Myka padded in with her stocking feet, flannel bottoms, and a faded Bryn Mawr sweatshirt. H.G. hadn't changed since the morning, but didn't seem to care about appearances – she always looked magnificent, Myka decided. At her visitor's entrances, H.G. turned down the volume on her portable music player. Eyes were dark, sadder than usual, but the hands working the gadget were steady as if preparing to dismantle an explosive device.

"I thought it a foregone conclusion that H.G. Wells would be smug and celebrating – after snagging her first artifact and all."

The smile was for Myka's benefit only. "Assumptions are ghastly things. They are a temptation and a comfort which easily turns to barbs. You will find yourself in trouble one day, Dr. Bering."

"Not before you."

"Always two steps behind."

Myka narrowed her eyes playfully, challenging. She entered the space between the two double beds and took a seat on the one opposite H.G. They were mirror images of one another, two very capable and seeking young women sitting on less than lavish beds. They both sought after what was attainable, yet were left to dream of what could not be had: that of their desire.

The music drifted from the speakers, the string section and the horns, and its pleasant radicalism. When composed in 1924 it was meant to be a revolt against convention. As the title (translated as "No Performance" or "Theatre Closed") suggested, the ballet was a bon mot, a joke that valued nonsense and intuition. It was a shocking spectacle to an audience intent on tradition. It was both a masterpiece and a statement against conformity. The perfect balance of risk and adventure.

Music that is the heart and soul of the Wells girls.

"It is a composition of Erik Satie's for the ballet Relâche. When Christina was just a baby, and when I hadn't the fortitude to try anything else, part of this song always managed to lull her to asleep." H.G. tipped her head fondly, letting the music fill her ears. "It was the only thing that would calm her cries. When I discovered this one night in the roasting heat of my Chicago apartment I never again went without a copy."

"It's beautiful," Myka remarked, lips puckering to a half-smile.

H.G.'s voice dropped a decibel, foretelling the sadness to come. "I have never been apart from Christina this long. I worry if she's alright." She inhaled sharply, unexpectedly so that Myka flinched. H.G. sniffed up dry tears and looked away. Her words were ragged like the sandpaper touch of the bedspread. "I worry if I am alright."

"Didn't you call her?" At H.G.'s nod Myka asked further, "What did she say?"

"That she was baking cookies with Leena. She also seems to have taken a liking to the piano. Artie has been teaching her scales."

"Our boss, Artie?" Myka asked. "Hardly seems possible a grumpy man like him could be kid friendly."

"Have you met my child?" H.G. with a cynical dip of her chin and rise of the brows. "She could befriend the Boogeyman if she puts her mind to it."

Myka chuckled, the bed creaking beneath her.

"After recent events I wonder…"

"What?"

"I wonder if by leaving my family without an explanation or a phone number or address I took away my daughter's only chance to know her relatives. If I have learned anything of these past eight years and my inevitable return home it is that time does heal some wounds. I hated my mother and father for so long and for so many things. I resented their attitude towards my education and my childish hopes and dreams even when they were just that: childish. I wanted them to be sorry I was never spoiled as equally as my brother. Above all, I could never understand why they gave me up so easily. I was estranged from my deceitful husband, pregnant, and without a home. It is in our desperation that we see who are friends truly are. Troubled times have a way of distinguishing the weak from the faithful. I did not expect my own family to be of the falsehearted kind."

Myka reached over to squeeze a pale, cold hand in hers. The support and compassion the warmth of her grasp afforded encouraged H.G. to push on.

"But things are not as they once were," H.G. said. A brightness strengthened her voice and her cheeks. She grinned softly. "I have a beautiful, intelligent yet headstrong young lady for a daughter. I am grateful for the dear friendship and daily joy a certain professor offers me. Even now it seems like I have more friends than I did 48 hours ago in my humble prison of Chicago. I am blessed by this life and the people in it. I have no need for parents when I already have family that takes care of me." H.G. stopped to shrug her shoulders. Guilt painted her face as she confessed, "But that is me."

"You wonder if Christina is as lucky," gathered Myka. "Perhaps you even regret taking her away from her only living family."

"It is a concern that has kept me awake many a night. In escaping my own prison it occurs to me that I have trapped my daughter. Did I take away a chance for Christina to grow up spoiled by loving grandparents? Was I selfish in the pursuit to punish my family for their betrayal? Should I have tried harder to repair the damage? These are but a few questions that threaten my slumber."

"I'm so sorry, H.G. I didn't know you were going through this." Myka smoothed a thumb across the back of H.G.'s hand. She wished she had detected her friend's misery sooner. H.G. had endured through an eight year burden and to come out on the other side just as encumbered. Myka deflated at her own incompetence. She was supposed to catch these things. She was a stickler for details and the deeper meaning. Why couldn't she see below the surface of H.G.'s pride?

Myka swallowed the hard truth of her ineptness and focused on what she could do in the present. "You are a woman to be greatly admired," she began softly, barely audible. Her eyes were cast down on their joined hands, away from H.G.'s widening eyes as if Myka were confessing the words to herself and no one else. "I honestly can't conceive of how you raise a child all on your own and in a land so far from home. You have a job, an apartment, food and clothing. You created a home and a family – that is something to be proud of. And, I mean, it's inspiring," Myka admitted, wiping under her eye and exhaling over the pressure in her chest, "to someone like me. So don't call yourself selfish. Don't think of yourself as anything less than the amazing woman you are. It's not fair to the rest of us who strive to be on your level." Myka's voice evened somewhat. More than that it hardened with her claim to the point where her tone almost became argumentative. "Christina doesn't need to be spoiled by loving grandparents because she already has you for that. She has all the love in the world from her mother. That's all she needs right now."

H.G. swallowed, as Myka once did, the truth. But this was a different truth. It tugged at her heart like no spoken words could. I made her feel like a heroine in an epic novel, loved and revered. If it carried a burden it was one of living up to expectations. Myka's truth, her proclamation, went down like the perfect cup of English tea. No one put her on a pedestal like Myka Bering, and not without proper cause.

"If the universe could do with only one friend," H.G. turned to flip back her hair or hide the streak down her face, "it would surely be you."

Myka shook her head, saying absolutely, "I don't need the universe."

I only need you.

They shared a moment of silence, H.G. looking down and Myka looking straight ahead. Soon one would break the balance.

H.G. stood, her hand slipping from Myka's, and strode a short distance to the dresser. Her hands lay atop the wood, brushing dust from its surface. She had forgotten how housekeeping in those parts neglected the furniture.

"Can I ask you something?" Myka's question came from far away. "It may sound like crossing a line, but please don't think I ask it lightly."

"Do go on," H.G. replied through the oval mirror above the dresser. The corner of her mouth turned up in its usual coy state. "You have stirred my curiosity."

"When you told me your story that night in the park you spoke of Lewis and how you found him with that beaten man in your house. You were a witness to your husband's horrifying actions. It frightened you – what he was capable of. I heard it in your voice when you recounted the memory." Myka paused, chewed her lip, and carried on with a new breath. "Christina being eight-years-old must have been conceived well after that night because you never left him until the following year."

"You're asking how I could engage in sexual congress with a man of his nature, much less live with him." H.G. surmised. "If it was consensual and I simply turned a blind eye to what happened behind closed doors or if he forced himself upon me."

"You've thought about this a lot?"

"You thought I'd forget about Lewis just because he's not here? He is always in my thoughts. He is everywhere Christina goes. Lewis is a constant nightmare and the component responsible for molding my daughter to life."

Myka didn't move on the bed. She didn't breath or speak. It was a waiting game to see the ax fall because someone in that room was already hurting and Myka feared she'd be next. In her mind, when H.G. was in pain so was she. It was automatic, like a reflex – the need to protect, to empathize, to bleed as the other bled. She would never voluntary Tesla herself, of course, but if thousands of electrical volts coursed through her friend Myka would feel the shock of fear as well as the taught vibrations of H.G.'s life hanging by a thread. The bond they shared could neither be defined nor managed. It was a puzzle that could only be solved together.

H.G. could see the woman was waiting with baited breath, so she put her out of her misery.

"Who doesn't believe once in their life that people can change? I thought I could force happiness, but, alas, you cannot make a silk purse from a sow's ear. I could not make Lewis love me more than his treasure and I could not make myself forget the man in the chair. But I did manage to live with my poor choices. For months I walked through Webb manor like a ghost, lunched with friends on schedule and slept in the bed I had made for myself. It was a bed of lies and occupied by a man I did not care for, but it was the consequence of my failed intuition."

Myka shot off the bed with a pair of fists at her side and blazing eyes that only saw red. "Why didn't you fight back? Why did you just take it?"

When H.G. turned from the mirror a gasp escaped her. Myka was right there, present as always but so close H.G. almost ran her over. She took an absent step back, hitting the dresser with nowhere else to go. There was no more running. "How on earth could I? I had no place to hide."

"He made you stay."

"He did no such thing."

"He made it impossible for you to be your own person, to be independent from what was expected. He hated your work. He hated you for being better than him."

"Myka…"

"He made you feel sorry that you were a brilliant writer and not the trophy wife he took you for. I mean, my god, H.G., he criticized your writing – called it 'folly,'" she scoffed in disgust, the corkscrews of her hair swinging to and fro, "and threatened to burn it! He had the gall to give you literary advice!"

"Alright!" H.G. cried. Her eyes slammed shut and her hands went to her throbbing temples to keep the eruption of memory at bay. "Bloody hell, alright!" Her scream sent Myka back a few steps as if she was physically battered by the tone alone. H.G. inhaled sharply through her nose and let it out slowly. When she felt the heat drawing from her face she opened her eyes. "I was a coward. You have proven that quite sufficiently. But that does not give you the right to lecture me about my mistakes. I have not been the most trustworthy friend, but I mean it when I say to you, Myka, that I have never spun a lie since that night in the park. I told you everything I could, everything I could possibly give up without shriveling up to ashes."

Her hands shook. Her chest heaved back sobs. H.G. had spent so long perfecting a defense against the very thing Myka's justifications were wrenching out. She was right, of course. Lewis was a monster, but that creature had been buried so far into the recesses of her mind that its reappearance shocked her into a state.

"You can talk about it," Myka assured tentatively. Her eyes were soft as ever just as the smile that was offered. "You can scream and yell, too, if you want. I'll listen. But you can't keep it inside. That past is ugly and black and it will taint you from the inside out if held on to long enough." She drew nearer, not a care for the anger still fueling the cheeks of the woman before her. "I don't want that for you. Please," she begged lowly, breath catching, "please don't shrivel to ashes because I will notice and I might not be able to survive it."

Myka would notice.

It was a strange thing to say. To experience pain was one thing but to witness it must be another. That it was possible to see it as it passed by and acknowledge it never occurred to H.G. And of the billions of billions that peopled the planet that the only person she cared about would notice… What a gratifying experience. To be seen not only for your appearance but for your faults – ill hidden as they were… It felt grand. It actually caused H.G. to breathe easier. Never before was it possible to bounce back this quickly from facing her past. This was new territory. This was an unwritten page in her life story, god grant it became an epic novel. The title? Unknown. The ending? Unforeseeable. Then again, H.G. Wells was a writer and a brilliant one at that. She knew the laws of physics and could see how things worked without touching them. Through verse, action, and sheer instinct H.G. would scribe the rest.

Two women were once alone in a hotel room, one in ratty loungewear and the other with more elegant attire of a blouse and trousers. One had their hands buried in their shirt pocket, fingering a prized treasure while the other's sleeves were rolled to the elbows as if some fiddling project was in order. Both felt the need to close what little space remained between them, but neither had the courage to initiate what could not be taken back. Because once that step was taken it could never be forgotten or waved off devoid of explanation. It was the point of no return.

Motions were small, if not calculated, yet they were made from two like minds. Time counted down like minutes, not like the seconds it took to turn up one's head as the other dipped to meet it. They took what seconds they had slowly, hesitantly. They didn't want to destroy the delicate balance of friendship they had come to create. In the span of 15 seconds Myka was mesmerized and H.G. utterly breathless.

"Helena," sighed Myka, eyes closed and lips parted. She did not meet her mouth with the other woman's, but couldn't bear distancing herself from it any further. Her temple rested against H.G.'s as she brought their cheeks together.

H.G. exhaled through her mouth. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to hear you say that. My true name, on your lips. Myka… it is as though that is all I've ever wanted." She nuzzled against Myka, their noses brushing, inhaling each other.

Ever since meeting Myka she had wanted to grant the freedom to speak her given name. For months it had always been Emily. The way it sounded in the professor's mouth was friendly, endearing, and a touch exasperated when the occasion called for it (which was quite often). Yet however it came to her ears it would never be hers to take. Emily Lake was a construction whose only purpose was to fool. H.G. kept up appearances for a long time, and when Myka came along she had to forcibly hold herself back to reinforce the habit, to keep her real name from tumbling out. She wanted her friend to see the real H.G., the mother, the cowardly and abandoned ex-wife of a convict. All the good, all the bad. She wanted to lay bare before Myka as she was, without lies or walls or fake names.

With the evidence on Myka's lips, H.G. could finally rest easy. Myka had figured her out. She had peeled back the layers of Emily Lake to shine a light on the woman waiting beneath.

H.G. stretched out her hand and swept it deep in the brunette curls that were the target of much adoration since their arrival. The pads of her fingers dragged along Myka's scalp, eliciting a shiver and sigh that delighted H.G. to no end.

The familiar scent of H.G. filled the professor's nostrils. It came in aroma of bergamot, lavender, and the yellowed pages of a book. There were other smells, smells she didn't recognize that could have originated from Atlas House (marmalade? paraffin?). Myka's skin tingled with the heat of the woman's proximity. She felt bathed in fingers sliding on the skin of her skull, and the sensation took the air from her lungs in one soft whimper. Her eyes slipped shut as she felt a momentary feeling of arousal. It curled deep inside, making itself welcome without permission. It rose in intensity with a mind to color her cheeks and increase her breath sounds.

Why haven't I felt this before?

Because she has never touched me like this.

What came as swiftly admitted titillation quickly turned to anxiety. This was not her. This couldn't be the person she was. Myka was a breath away from kissing the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen and she'd do it in her stockings and a worn alumni sweatshirt. Was this the romance read in epic tales and seen in Hollywood films? No, it wasn't. It was life – Myka's life. It was the professor in her loungewear, and the beautiful woman she'd ever seen – her best friend.

Myka was frozen by indecision.

Was this a result of what everyone had convinced her of? Had she been experiencing some form of projection? Everyone from Claudia to Pete had told her that H.G. was this great love of hers. They had been telling her how she felt and how to proceed with her own life. And if there is anything Myka despised it was people telling her what to do. She wanted to be in control, giving orders and counter orders. It just made sense that she and she alone implemented color codes to the targets and exits.

But in that moment when Myka's lips were a hair's breadth from H.G.'s she felt anything but in control. Could she go on like this? Could she relinquish control and let someone else take the lead? More importantly, could that person be H.G.? Myka's body and her reactions to the one pressing into it was not her own, but she couldn't help wondering if this is who she wanted to be all along. What else was she to think when her heart was aflutter and her incorporeal existence was seconds from becoming a puddle on the floor?

H.G.'s hands dragged over the woman's shoulders and down her arms. A hand was carefully extricated from a pocket. In its isolation, Myka's fingers were warm and brought such comfort to the pale, seeking one of H.G.'s. It was by joint effort that their fingers weaved together, a bond about as strong as the amity they shared. H.G. seized her bottom lip between her teeth, daunted by the pains being taken. If the contact was broken so would their carefully fortified friendship. There was no telling what would become of H.G., so hopeful and foolish as she stood there hand-in-hand with her heart's and mind's desire. There was no telling how fast the brunette would retreat out the door if one wrong move was made or some tactless syllable uttered. Every precaution was regarded to handle Myka as if she were made of fine china. All patience was obtained and heeded to balance the two extremes – one of idealistic love and the other of erotic love.

Nose to nose and breathing the inches between them, H.G. made one last correction before commencing forward. Myka's hand came willingly from her sweatshirt pocket, but soon the movement roused her wits, and, realizing what was still in her firm clasp she withdrew in one long stride. The warmth abated, all fluttering of hearts came close to a halt.

Myka's eyes widened at the golden, square locket in her palm. The chain, constantly handled to provide the comfort it afforded, was interlaced between her fingers. Before she could conceal it H.G. gave a small gasp.

"It's not what you think." Myka cleared her throat, perplexed by the husky tenor it shaped. "I would never steal it. I know it means a great deal to you."

Before they departed South Dakota Christina had pulled the woman aside to beg for forgiveness of her rude actions and also to entrust something precious to Myka. The locket was an antique yet its luster and sliding hinge evidenced the care it received over the years. Though a treasured keepsake, H.G. had a tendency to misplace her belongings (a trait which her daughter inherited). Christina found it lying around so often that she began to hold onto it for sporadic periods of time. What contained the smiling profile of a dark haired little girl was joined by the photo of her mother, crafty likeness, wispy silk locks, and all. And so over the years the Wells girls came to an unspoken pact to share the locket; nurtured in the hands of Christina when her mother was mentally absent and H.G. when her daughter decided to give it back.

Myka thought it a touching story from the very beginning, but felt a moment's hesitation when tasked with the responsibility to preserve the locket. It didn't feel right to take such a personal family keepsake if only for a little while. Such a duty was flattering, but carried the heavy weight of accountability if it were lost or misplaced as it was so often in the Wells' hands. Christina insisted with her put-upon, puppy eyes and idle threats about eating all the cookies before they returned. It was enough for Myka to consent. She left with a promise to guard the locket with her life and ever since then had felt the metal heat to her hand's ministrations whenever she felt lonely or misplaced in the world herself.

H.G.'s stare was glued to the locket, but she still wouldn't take it even though Myka was clearly offering to return it. Several memories flashed before her eyes, all of which were of Myka fingering the inside of her pocket at different intervals since leaving Univille. The professor obviously had a private affinity for something so small as to fit in her pocket, but the identity of the possession remained a mystery. Until now.

"I meant to give it back," Myka babbled on, eyes fluttering nervously. Her muscles seized at the thought that her betrayal upset H.G. To keep a precious thing from your best friend… it was about as criminal as a lying about your true identity. "I really did," she squeaked out.

"Myka…"

"It didn't feel right wearing it." Myka went to touch her neck as if some weight hung about it, but there was only skin and that somehow disappointed. "But I couldn't just leave it anywhere. I wanted to keep it close by. I wanted to protect it without disgracing its power."

"Power?"

"Well, I mean," Myka's lips fumbled over her lazy tongue because the way H.G. was staring at her with that sanctimonious expression did undefinable things to her body, "it's special to you and Christina. It absorbs all the love you two feel for each other."

"It sounds as if this warehouse business has gone straight to your head, darling," H.G. quipped, mouth fighting the urge to break into a wide grin. "All this talk of supernatural absorption of emotion sounds a bit like you believe my locket is an artifact."

"You never know." Myka shrugged at her own idiocy.

"Regardless, it is not getting doused in purple sludge. I will succumb to whatever downside just as long as it remains as powerful as you claim."

She must think I felt all that love from the locket.

Well, you kind of did, Bering.

"I feel I should be flattered by your persistence to keep my locket in such close quarters." H.G.'s eyes dragged leisurely down the professor's body to the pockets of a sweatshirt. "You would have to be smitten by its contents to do so."

A stuttering reply was managed. "Y-yours is not the only photo in it." And as H.G.'s brose rose higher Myka wished herself dead at realizing the confession, however unintentional it was. While it was true the face of the author occupied much of her devotion, H.G. didn't need to know that. The woman already had enough ammunition to tease her, the last thing she needed was a nuclear missile of Myka's adoration.

She probably thinks I'm obsessed with her.

Damn it.

H.G. chuckled at the way the professor jerked her head back and winced (what could be interpreted as her own internal reprimand). The display was quite amusing. In the months they had known each other Myka's idiosyncrasies and timid charm were a delightful reprieve from the friends made or otherwise brief lovers taken by H.G. during her confinement in Chicago. It was a welcome gift that Myka's shy, quirky actions were a response to this newly instated flirtation. H.G. found herself as breathless then as she was when they were touching. It would seem that Myka was not the only smitten party in the room.

Oh, Myka.

What have you done to me?

Two women were once alone in a hotel room, one in shabby nightwear and the other improving a work-worn blouse and trousers. The evening would be remembered by both as the evening of balance.

The event stood as one where lips almost met and boundaries very nearly broken, yet their dear friendship was as judiciously protected as a treasured locket. They parted the night as friends and as two women who craved more. One left to her own room, assured that this indeed was who she wanted to be and that the woman next door wished to pursue greater than vestal feelings for this Myka Bering. The other sat, humming to Relâche and thankful she hadn't fumbled glass, delicate, timid, and stunning in its unique representation.

What was mistaken to be the point of no return was actually a new beginning. Whether the path would be ventured…. Only time would tell.

Note: Although Jacques-François Menou is a historical figure and had indeed taken the Stone into his personal possession upon its discovery, his "relative" Gaspard Lallement is not. Lallement is a fictional character of my own making.