Author's Note: I'm sure some of you were disappointed with Savannah's apparent scattered personality, but hopefully this chapter will clarify a few things. Please review, even if you hate it!
Helena scrupulously assessed her lover as Myka stood by the stove, waiting for Savannah's sandwich to heat. Myka had grabbed her cousin's bags from the truck and set them at the foot of the stairs before they had reentered the inn, but Myka had hardly said two words since, and Helena was beginning to distress.
Savannah was caught in a playful debate with Pete over the benefits of American cheese versus cheddar, so Helena subtly made her way to the kitchen, and consequently to Myka's side, before she gently touched her fingers to Myka's back. Myka offered a weak smile in return and shifted further into the caress, but said nothing.
"What has you worried so, darling?" Helena inquired softly, nuzzling her nose into Myka's hair.
"Savannah," Myka murmured, shaking her head. "She's never slept well," Myka sighed. "Not even when she was a kid, but it was never this bad. About a year ago, she started forgetting things, and half the time she can't even think of the words to finish a sentence," Myka anxiously bit her lip. "It's gotten worse since I last saw her. She's forgetting whole days now, where it used to be a couple hours. She went to the doctor around Christmas," Myka explained quietly, and allowed Helena to circle her arms around her waist, resting her chin patiently against Myka's shoulder. "They told her she wasn't getting enough REM sleep and prescribed her some tranquilizers."
"Tranquilizers are quite powerful," Helena frowned thoughtfully.
"Yeah," Myka nodded, flipping the grilled cheese before setting the spatula to rest and tangling her hands through her hair. "But when she doesn't have them, she goes into these… dazes," Myka struggled to find an appropriate word, and then shrugged helplessly at the one that erupted, "and starts saying things that she normally wouldn't. You do have a lovely voice, Helena," Myka smiled tenderly, but then she shook her head, "but Savannah would never have said that to you if she'd had some sleep. She's been very sensitive where people are involved since she was a child, but aside from a few remarks here and there, mostly in private, she rarely shares her observations. Now she can't really seem to help herself. The words just sort of… fall out, and she doesn't even remember it half the time, but it makes her very uncomfortable when she does."
Helena faintly heard Artie gust through the door and gruffly greet Savannah, but she remained still with Myka tucked in her arms.
She was grateful for her time spent in the forensics lab in Wisconsin, as her understanding of the modern medical world had been fairly poor before then. Now, however, she could note the gravity of the situation, and Myka's words had rationalized a number of the oddities that Helena had taken note of during their interaction with the younger woman; she could certainly see how Savannah's dreamy state had alarmed her lover.
"Has she had any follow-up examinations?" Helena queried, tenderly pressing her lips to Myka's temple.
"She goes in once a month to have her prescription refilled," Myka nodded. "But her doctor is concerned that even with the tranquilizer, she's not getting the kind of sleep that she's supposed to."
"Her behavior seems a bit strange," Helena admitted tentatively. "Even when taking the lack of sleep into consideration, my love."
"I know," Myka whispered. "That's why I'm worried. The doctor said that her symptoms strayed a little outside of the norm for the condition, and that was in December, when it wasn't nearly as bad," Myka scraped up the sandwich from the pan and lowered it onto a plate, before she moved just a little from Helena's embrace to reach for a glass and pour some milk into it.
"I'll be right back," Myka promised, turning around to face Helena and pressing a brief, loving kiss against her mouth. "Don't go anywhere, okay?"
Helena nodded in return, a small, compassionate smile curving her lips upward, as Myka shifted toward the doorway. But before Myka could exit the kitchen, Artie stomped through the threshold with a startled Savannah's arm caught firmly in the grip of his fingers.
"Artie!" Myka protested swiftly. "What are you doing?"
"How long has she been going into those trances?" The man demanded urgently.
"A year, give or take a month or two," Savannah replied, but she followed her statement with a healthy roll of her eyes as she remembered the situation that she'd found herself in, and she promptly snapped her arm from his grasp with a harsh tug. "And would it have killed you to ask nicely?" She murmured, massaging her arm with a pout that Helena fondly acknowledged was very similar to that of her cousin's.
But Artie ignored the dry question and lifted his briefcase to the table with a harsh thunk. He then quickly began to punch the keys with his fingers, so Myka handed the plate and glass to Savannah, and quietly suggested, "Why don't you take this to the table, okay?"
"Mykey – " Savannah frowned.
But Myka shook her head, and rubbed her hands comfortingly over Savannah's shoulders. "We'll talk in a little while, bug. Just give me a few minutes, okay?"
Savannah quietly evaluated her, but after a moment, she nodded her acquiescence, and reluctantly reversed her path.
"Artie!" Myka rounded on the older man. "What were you thinking? You can't just – "
"I was thinking that I've seen that before," Artie interrupted impatiently, twisting his computer screen to face Myka, and when Myka sat down to view it, Helena leaned over her shoulder to get a proper look.
Artie had pulled up an artifact.
The lost manuscript of James Braid, to be more precise, and Helena recognized the name from a past life that seemed far away to her now. The article beside the photo of the text detailed that James Braid had been the surgeon to coin the word 'hypnotist' in the 1800s. He had written a manuscript entitled On Hypnotism, and had sent it by post to a French surgeon three days before his death; the manuscript, upon contact – and in conjunction with the supplementary blank pages that had been mailed along with it – allows the artifact's possessor to submerge victims into a stupor, during which all spoken words are transcribed to the empty sheets. The artifact's owner, for lack of a better word, is determined by whoever happens to be in custody of those voided pages.
"You think Savannah's been in contact with this book?" Myka asked quietly.
"Yes," Artie frowned. "I encountered a man in 1998 who suffered a similar symptom. Has she shown any other indications that – "
"Memory loss," Myka murmured. "She forgets things; she can't remember words, or phrases that I know she knows, and she's losing time. She does better when she has the tranquilizers that the doctor gave her to help her sleep, but it's been getting worse, Artie."
"The manuscript reduces brain plasticity. It becomes difficult to form memories, which explains the blackouts, and it's harder to draw connections to information that's already been retained, which explains the trouble she's having with her speech," Artie pushed his glasses up his nose and regarded her with sympathy. "The tranquilizers most likely allow her brain the uninterrupted time it needs to recover from some of the damage."
Myka stood and folded her arms over her chest. "Just… How do we find it, Artie?" She asked, desperation and nerves melting her words into a tremor.
The muscles in Artie's face tightened as he refocused his attentions back to the manuscript. "According to the database," he began with a hesitancy that Helena found curious, "it's in the Warehouse."
"Wait," Myka halted, holding up her hand abruptly without uncrossing her arms. "Let me make sure I processed right… You're telling me that whoever is doing this to her is someone who has access to the Warehouse?"
"I'm going to go and check the inventory," Artie evaded the question that he had no adequate answer to, shoving his laptop into his briefcase with excessive force. As he turned, though, he informed over his shoulder, "I'll call if…" He trailed off, eyeing her with rare affection and concern.
"Thanks, Artie," Myka mumbled distractedly, scraping her hands through curly locks again, and Helena feared she might tear them from her scalp.
"Myka, darling, I know that this is difficult – "
"Difficult is that I've spent the past year thinking that she's sick, and needs more medical attention," Myka said quietly. "That she was really being affected by an artifact… Helena, that's unbearable." And Helena's heart ached when Myka looked up at her with tearful, grieving eyes. "I should have known, Helena. I should have – "
"Myka," Helena interrupted with a breath, shifting forward to cradle Myka's face in her hands, "you couldn't have known. The fact that Savannah has had no prior contact with the Warehouse makes it extremely unlikely that she'd have come into contact with an artifact. The only probable assumption that could have been made is that it was a medical concern, and you treated it as such. You had absolutely no reason to believe that it was anything different, particularly when the physician diagnosed her with a physical condition that you've been witnessing signs of since Savannah's childhood."
"I spend every day around these artifacts, Helena. And I didn't see it," Myka lamented, shaking her head before she tilted it upward to fight off the tears that welled in her eyes. "And how the hell did she come across them to begin with?" Myka asked, a fury in her words that sheltered the fear and self-recrimination.
"I have a difficult time believing that a woman with no previous knowledge of the Warehouse has stumbled upon two such dangerous artifacts purely by chance," Helena confessed quietly, tipping her forehead until it touched against Myka's.
"So do I," Myka muttered. "God, I don't even know how I'm going to explain all of this to her."
"Tequila," Helena heard, and shifted around so that she could face the slender, petite brunette that had just trailed into the kitchen. Savannah placed a fifth of the aforementioned spirit onto the smaller table that resided in the cooking area, and offered with a small quip, "Never travel without it, right, Mykey?"
Myka laughed and nodded, though the tears behind the humor were unmistakable. "Right," she agreed fondly.
Helena took a small step away from her out of respect for the present company, lightly drifting her fingers down Myka's neck in a soothing caress before she did.
"Also," Savannah added, "I need you to make me another sandwich, please." She sheepishly continued, "I gave mine to Pete so that he'd go away. He's a nosy one, isn't he?"
"He can be quite inquisitive," Helena smiled softly in answer, moving for the stove to relieve Myka of her grilled cheese task, and spreading butter over a couple slices of bread before she added the cheese and tossed it onto the still-warm pan. "His intentions, however, are generally honorable."
"He's worried," Myka enlightened, reaching for three shot glasses from the cupboard, and moving to the refrigerator to muster up the limes that Pete kept well-stocked, for the rare occasion that Steve indulged him with key lime pie.
"That seems to be a theme around here," Savannah noted thoughtfully. "Everyone's so worried, Mykey. I've never seen you so tense."
Myka sighed, but nodded as she poured the liquor into the small glasses. She passed one over her shoulder to Helena, with a lime clipped around the edge, but Helena was unsure if she should stay while Myka and her cousin discussed the present circumstances.
"It gets complicated, bug," Myka cautioned, before pushing a shot toward the younger woman.
"It always does," Savannah said, tendering a wide smile. She then sobered, and requested softly, "Talk to me, Mykey."
"I will," Myka assured, running her hands through her hair another time. "But I'd like for Helena to stay, unless you'd rather – "
Savannah shorted the ensuing rant by placing her hand over Myka's arm, while Helena overturned the sandwich in the pan. "It doesn't take superb gifts of observation to see that she calms you, Myka," Savannah disclosed with feigned secrecy and a grin. "If you'd like her to stay, I have no…"
"Objections," Myka filled in with an agonized whisper, when Savannah couldn't provide the word on her own.
"Mm," Savannah hummed, pleased with the assistance that Myka offered. "Yes, those," she said playfully. "I have none."
Helena shifted toward Myka to tighten her fingers over her lover's shoulder in a gesture of comfort. Myka's hand reached up to touch hers, instinctively, and the clandestine smile that Savannah ducked her head to conceal did not escape Helena's notice, but she leaned down to press a kiss to the crown of Myka's head, anyway, before she ambled back to the stove and lowered the sandwich to a plate.
"Okay," Myka said, nodding determinedly. "So – "
"Wait, wait," Savannah insisted. "Drink first!"
Myka laughed resignedly as Helena placed Savannah's food on the table. "Thanks, doll," Savannah smiled her gratitude. "Come on, take a seat. We're drinking now."
Helena offered an amused lift of her eyebrows before she retrieved her drink from the counter and complied with the request.
After adding salt to the curve of her wrist, and patiently waiting for Myka and Helena to do the same, Savannah lifted her glass, and dryly remarked, "To South Dakota," before she fluidly tossed the shot back.
And Helena sat in quiet as Myka drew into the lengthy discussion about the Warehouse and the work that they performed for it.