Unmistakably, out of all the places, H.G. always ended up in one place. In the mornings, after lunch, before bed, she resided in the bed and breakfast library, a place for the disciplines of study, reading, and writing.

There was nowhere else to go. Due to Artie's mistrust, the Warehouse was off limits. Leena's house was spacious enough to fill one's time. The library in particular promoted a peace H.G. was relieved to fall back on. It carried her to worlds she had visited before and some only imagined. Shelves were lined with fantasy novels, scientific romance, mystery, tales from realism, naturalism, gothic romanticism. There were books on psychology, herbology, anatomy, and (to H.G.'s great delight) theoretical physics.

Upon first visiting the library H.G. noticed the missing books in the history section and smiled at their liberator's insatiable curiosity. Having spent a great deal of time among these particular sources of literature, she came to ignore the spaces between The Six Syrian Wars and Hypatia: Mathematician and Martyr not to mention the possessor's whereabouts. There was no point in boding.

After recounting everything she had been doing every minute of the day since they left and after a proper instruction in piano scales, Christina was regaled with H.G.'s and Myka's adventures. They censored the obvious grown-up situations and encounters that would have given the girl nightmares. And through an unspoken accord, Myka and H.G. decided not to reveal their declaration of love. It was still so fresh in their minds and accepted so recently in their hearts it took some getting used to themselves.

H.G., Christina, and Myka continued to board at the bed and breakfast even though they were not on the services of the Warehouse. Leena graciously granted beds, food, and company while giving them time to decide their affairs.

Myka was spending a lot of time with Christina, and it didn't take a rocket scientist like H.G. to figure out why. It was a scene that harkened back to a time before the Warehouse when the only crime committed was keeping one's true identity secret. Much like those times Myka and the newly grateful Christina cooked in the professor's apartment and sang along off-key to overtures of Verdi, it filled her heart with tenderness seeing the girls together, laughing, holding hands, or reading comics to one another. Myka was not a graphic novel fan, but it was clear from the arm around the girl and the permanent smile on her face that it wasn't about her derision for the Iron Shadow.

It was bittersweet; H.G. knew it from the moment of Myka's indecision. Myka was spending as much time with Christina before they left her. That or she was attempting to test the waters of a possible future. Myka was not mother material, she knew that and so did H.G. What brought both to pause was the ease with which the professor let the girl into her life, her heart. She was quick to soothe when a plate broke against the floor, more than generous in her smiles, and a solitary but sweet kiss to the forehead before bedtime was carried out without hesitation. Myka may not be a mother but she had it in her to become one. It was realizations like that which took hold of H.G. in a sordid mix of elation and melancholy. Sometimes it was just too much to bear, watching the girls play family, that H.G. flew from their sight to the privacy behind a closed door. If Myka was undecided about her future, H.G. was undecided on whether her tears were of joy or sorrow.

And poor Christina. She had fallen in love with the professor. When Myka and H.G. had returned there was never a time when Christina was not three steps behind the brunette. Idolization was not reserved for wide-eyed adults, but children too. Christina hung on her every word, started imitating her body language, and introduced more Twizzlers into her diet. Most of it was unintentional, a result of imprinting and living in domestic proximity. When it wasn't, Christina genuinely strove to prove her love to Myka in her piano skills, second grade knowledge of mummies and pyramids, and her keen interest in self-defense (even though H.G. pointed out that it wasn't of such importance before).

It was a kind of obsession not easily diminished. She was at the age when memory became an immovable thing. Myka's words, her expressions and displays of affection would be lodged in the girl's mind as the measures to a new song or the conjugations of a new language would. Christina was a smart girl for her age, so she could comprehend the enormous impact Myka had on her life and possibly that of her mother's. As much as H.G. wanted to protect her own heart, she feared more for her daughter's. It would not be easy, tearing the girl away from the only person she ever loved (aside from her own mother). The attachment ran so deep there was no telling how a young heart would cope when the line was severed. Taking her daughter away from grandparents and an errant father was one thing. Taking her away from a woman whom she shared a bond with… it was a decision H.G. hoped Myka would not force her to make.

Where Christina and Myka spent innumerable hours together in the bed and breakfast, out in the garden, and on the streets of Univille, H.G. and Myka kept their distance from one another. H.G. did not wish to make it any more difficult. She would not pressure Myka nor guilt her into the decision. They shied away from displays that would have made things harder, kisses and caresses all through the day and night. Dreams could only sate the want, and even then they woke to an empty bed.

They dreamt themselves into a fever, over satisfying their ghost-like selves in endless flesh, sheets twisted, cries echoing. The declarations spawned from these shadowed and passionate nights remained behind their eyes, in their minds, and ran wild in their sleep. It was why their physical displays of emotion could be restrained, but their eye contact could not. Across a room, the seconds while passing one another in the hall, their love was spoken through green and brown windows. One dive into those dark pools was all it took to grasp the idea of just what impulses were fulfilled in those fantasies.

H.G. had bided as along as she could while Myka still deliberated over Mrs. Frederic's offer. She insisted on waiting because she needed an answer more than Mrs. Frederic or even Myka herself did. She needed to know where home was for Myka before she and Christina left for Chicago. Not knowing was torture, then again, hearing one choice over the other could be the death of her. H.G. could not say what would happen to their friendship if Myka chose the Warehouse. She could not say any more than she could of their love for one another. The future was unwritten, and, going by experience, H.G. feared it would be one marked by obstacles no matter what Myka chose.

When Myka's decision finally came it was five days after their return from Egypt. It arrived on a beautiful morning filled with butterflies, rays of sunshine, and the smell of a fully stocked library. In the midst of processing Stefan Zweig's morose frustrations with a generation, H.G. had been graced by a beautiful interruption, unprepared for its outcome.

After H.G. was granted an answer, the day transformed from fresh opportunity to grey devastation. Hope turned to dread and the scent of books became ash. The beauty in expectation slipped through her fingers as russet curls did between the same.

Even the kiss that came with the verdict did nothing to satisfy her. Myka's lips which had become those past few days a dream of a treasure to be caressed diminished to superfluous apparition. In hindsight, Myka's kiss was passionate and carried with it every measure of love she felt for the Englishwoman. She communicated every extent of it the best she knew how, in hands stuffed with an Oxford blue blouse, barely uttered whimpers, and heavenly seconds for record.

However, in much a catatonic state H.G. was rendered unresponsive to the advance. Mentally and physically she could not process the mouth on hers or the tongue stroking eagerly to forgive her… perhaps even to change her mind. H.G. was taken, not by arousal but by meltdown, not fully grasped and suspended like a guillotine before the plunge.

Myka's explanation was heartfelt. She was not crude or uncaring. H.G. deserved the truth, deprived of a coddling hands or stillborn promises. Myka couldn't go back to Chicago. She couldn't be stifled by a life that gave her nothing in return. It would have been different, certainly, with H.G. and Christina by her side; however the void would always remain. She would have happiness and family, but there would still be job dissatisfaction and constant wonder about that life she could have had at the Warehouse. Myka loved H.G. She loved Christina. But it would never be enough. Somehow, H.G. always had a niggling fear that she and her daughter were not be made of the stuff that filled voids.

"You know I want to come with you."

H.G. nodded, busying her hands by patting down the professor's shirt color. Myka didn't have to explain further. The raging storm in her eyes said enough.

"You know…" Myka's chin ducked to search for it, "… I…" she looked up with fresh tears in her eyes and cocked her head, locking her lips together because she just couldn't.

H.G. nodded again. It was all she could muster.

Myka shared the motion with a quick dip of her head. She breathed out of her smile, an awkward, measly thing. "Okay," she settled. It was unsteady and certainly not okay.

"Christina and I should be on our way. I wouldn't want her to miss any more school than necessary."

The mention of the little girl brought Myka's shoulders to sag. Her features ran down, melting into a devastating frown. "She must miss her friends," Myka said. "And her routine. Kids can be attached to those things." Her laugh was wobbly and awkward.

H.G.'s grunt was uncertain, yet it came with as much agreement as could be made. Myka did not know the extent of attachments any more than she knew how children operated. Being educated of someone's 'experience' in a succinct nutshell caused H.G. to bristle.

"I should really get along," the Englishwoman declared. She stood straighter, her gaze hardened as concrete as her resolve. "Must not intrude any further on Leena's hospitality."

She swept past Myka without a glance or a goodbye. With a swift exit, the heels of her boots clomped up the stairway and a door closed.

Her mouth was still parted open as if it would speak. Myka's eyes were wide and glassy as she froze, staring at the place her love had vacated.

The bed and breakfast library lost a fine patron indeed, though not as much as Myka had just lost.

"You'll call, right?" Christina's brown eyes pleaded. "Promise?"

"Would you like that?"

"Oh, yes!"

Myka broke out into a wide smile. "Then I promise."

"And you'll call Mummy?"

"I'm sure you both will hear from me."

"Good. I will expect nothing less."

"Bossy thing," Myka sassed, her index finger brushing affectionately against the girl's cheek.

Kneeling down in the foyer, she suddenly felt something pierce past her ribs to the source. She shivered, breathing in unsteadily like hyperventilation was just around the corner. Wetness teased the corners of her eyes. Refusing to blink, Myka cleared her throat. The little girl's coat bunched in a pair of fists which clenched and unclenched.

"Bundle up. It's getting cold out there." Her fingers grappled once, twice, three times until they finally pinched the zipper and dragged it up, clicking as it went. "Be good in school. Listen to your mom." Myka ducked down so her voice would not carry. "And don't indulge her story time so often. Read as many Iron Shadow issues as you please."

If the giggle said anything it was that Christina sure liked that. It called for such disobedience and unrestrained independence and Myka just understood her so well, more than any adult even tried. Looking as small as a turtle in its shell, Christina beamed within her parka. Not one for warnings, the girl ambushed Myka with a hug. She practically climbed the professor like a tree frog, locking anything with limbs around the startled figure, nuzzling into russet curls, and plastering their cheeks together.

Myka gasped. The sob which was only a miniscule syllable was thankfully stifled into the fur lining of the parka, but she felt it vibrate through her very bones. The hug was welcomed and returned. Her nails dug into the back of Christina's coat and Myka hoped (fleetingly) that she wasn't hurting the poor thing. She refused to meet H.G.'s watchful gaze like she refused to move her welling eyes.

Compared to the aftermath of Myka's verdict, H.G. had looked remarkably put together. Where she was borderline unresponsive the night before, the following morning marked a change. Her smiles came easier and without tears. Patience was exercised in packing, saying goodbye, though if she had her way she would have skipped off in the middle of the night. H.G. hated goodbyes but she couldn't do that to her daughter. Christina deserved closure, and, she supposed, so did Myka.

After a lovely breakfast of bacon and eggs with the bed and breakfast tenants (sans Artie) Myka was starting to think H.G.'s pleasantness were a front. The shadows under her eyes and the way her heels dragged a centimeter longer than typical… H.G. was weary. She wanted to go back home and return to tedious life in Chicago. She wanted to be a single mother, work the livelong day, and eat tiramisu whenever she damned well pleased. She wanted to forget.

The attitude that everything ran a-okay was a service to Christina and, perhaps, to Myka. As the professor had stolen looks across the table she was beginning to resent the attitude. It was all fine and well to act civil, like everything in the world was bloody famous because that is what an eight-year-old child wanted to hear and that's how they see it, through rose-colored glasses. But as an adult, Myka knew better. The world was not a flawless sphere peopled with rich minds and kind hearts. It was ugly and domineering and sometimes turned your heart black. Sitting at a circular table of friends and loved ones that's what Myka wanted; turmoil. Strike her fists on the table, throw a fork through the window, scream and shout, beg for a reaction, any reaction that would make her feel sorry for choosing the Warehouse over… what? Home? Love? What were those things if not constructs of the mind?

She had settled for scrambled eggs over answers. The stolen looks were not returned and Myka was left to wonder and to simmer in a potage of falsity.

The farewells were quick. Pete had to get Steve to the Warehouse for his 'Initiation ceremony.' No one really knew what it would entail, save for Pete's uncontrollable snickering and the mention of something called a 'Gooery.' Leena gave the departing girls a hug and a kiss on the cheek before following after the other agents as Steve's support system.

Mrs. Frederic was kind enough to lend her personal chauffer who would drive the mother and daughter to the airport. Christina was already out the door and settling in her seat when Myka faced the inevitable.

How do I say goodbye to the only person I've ever allowed myself to love?

"I won't call you unless you want me to." Myka shifted uncomfortably, her hands were planted to her hips, thumbs hooked into blue jeans.

"I was hoping you would."

It shocked like 1,000 volts of electric pressure – the anticipation in her voice, the swift certainty of wanting someone, not anyone, to call on her. It jerked Myka's chin up and caused her to blink in confusion.

"There's this place," H.G. started, swallowing hard but fixing her eyes on the professor, "in Galicia, Spain. There's a beautiful cottage, fireplace, fully-stocked kitchen and all. That is…" she frowned and cleared her throat, "there are other tourist sites. Many… buildings of sorts, lovely Atlantic coast, the country side…" She paused, thinking better of her rambling and settled for a conclusion just to put herself out of her misery and Myka's wide-eyed astonishment. As clearly as her voice was capable, H.G. hoped and finished, "Perhaps I will show you one day." Though it wasn't planned, her head tipped gently to the side and her mouth provoked into a smirk.

Myka breathed, "Oh?" No promises could be made.

The Englishwoman's answer came in the form of a kiss on the back of the professor's hand. Soft, most witty lips parted to breathe on the hairs of a limp hand. That was before they caressed for a matter of seconds. The gesture stole the air from the room, leaving its inhabitants nearly gasping for oxygen.

"Don't ever change, Myka Bering."

Don't let the Warehouse change you.

The Wells' departed. The end was almost like the final scene in a play, curtains closing but no applause. Just… silence. The leaving was like a prolonged tearing of the heart; one half deserting the other. Comprehension was a guillotine, its angled blade released for a lethal nosedive. But unlike the swift 18th century execution device, leaving Myka was anything but humane.

H.G. didn't know. She didn't see it, but her inventive mind imagined the tires kicking up gravel in the car's wake, the quaint Victorian bed and breakfast shrinking in the distance, and a shadow behind a screen door. A set of eyes, steely, green, and ardent eyes that would be the subject of endless love watched and bled.

H.G. didn't know. She didn't see it. But that didn't mean it never happened.

Myka's shoulder met the doorframe and nearly the entirety of her weight with it. When the vehicle disappeared from view, she turned and raced up the stairs. Myka retreated to one of the bedrooms, her bedroom now, and instead of collapsing on the bed like anticipated she sat properly on its edge. Her eyes searched and found a spot on the vacant walls. She stared, and she stared. She sat and stared like that as the minutes ticked by.

After a while of stillness, the corner of her eye caught a glint. A borrowed copy of Candida now under the ownership of one Dr. Bering rested on the bedside dresser looking much at home. Its beaten corners and coffee colored pages stuck out like a sore thumb, but it was a sight for Myka's sore eyes. What glinted atop the book seized a gasp.

It was without a note, but Myka understood. The damn woman knew she would. No message save for a whisper. The whisper came from a growing distance, but it reached her like a touch of lips to her ear.

Keep it. You can owe me.

The cry pierced through the stillness like the connotation of a locket penetrated behind her ribcage. She could not return it any more than she could return her love.

Clutching the thing in her palm until its corners pierced her skin, Myka fell back in sobbing devastation. The bed broke her fall yet she didn't feel it. All she felt was the biggest mistake of her life.