Chapter Two: In Silence
A faint sound of a knock shakes me into a state of semi consciousness. I brush it off with a flurry of reasons – I'm asleep, I'm comfortable, I'm off duty, I'm off work, I'm on holiday with Helena. No one should be knocking.
Helena stirs next to me, her skin touching mine; warm, comforting. I am not ready to leave this clam just yet. I take a deep breath and try to settle back into sleep. There is a very rare peaceful silence in our bedroom; her shallow breathing and mine, sunlight casting long lines across the floors through thin cracks in the curtains, familiar scents in the air. It feels wonderful, and I doze off.
The second knock is firmer. Helena responds, exhaling a sleepy groan as she curls up to the other side of the bed. I am now wide awake.
I lift the heavy blanket and lay it down carefully, trying not to make noise, move too much or too fast. I sit up and scan the room for something that would make me presentable fairly quickly. The floor is littered with a variety of clothing items, mostly Helena's ensemble from last night. My dress is nowhere to be seen. It must be at Helena's feet. Putting it on wouldn't be classed as presentable, plus whoever is on the other side of that door, will surely make a snide comment about my still wearing it, anyway.
I opt for the towel hanging on door and wrap it tightly around me.
The third knock is louder and rattles the cabin's door. I mutter friendly curses under my breath because I'm doing the best I can, given the circumstances, damn it.
I tiptoe out of the bedroom closing the door behind me. The key's clanking in the cabin's door is practically deafening, and the cold air flooding in through the open door is an unwelcome addition to a rude awakening.
"About time," Claudia voice whispers from the other side of the door, "I didn't know whether to get worried or…" she falls silent as she acknowledges me, partially hidden behind the door, in an obvious state of half-dress.
"You don't need to get worried, Claud. Just a late night".
"I need to borrow you, dude," she says, her face dons an apologising expression, but her tone is demanding.
"Really?" disappointment is evident in all aspects of my response.
"Ten minutes, tops."
"Can I slip into something a little less comfortable first?"
"Make it snappy, lover, gotta leave to a COBRA briefing in, like, 20," she smiles, but doesn't move.
I push the door to and scramble for whatever I can find in the foyer. There are socks and boots and my raincoat. This will be even creepier than wearing nothing but a towel, but that's what I have to work with, and Claud will forgive me.
"Nice," she nods at me was I walk out, closing the door behind me, "very flasher-y".
I angle a look at her, then a smile. She smiles back. I walk us towards the garden furniture next to the cabin. It's cast iron and cold. Very very cold.
"So we're up to COBRA now," I state, checking progress.
"Yup," she tucks her hands into her coat pockets, "and King's Landing is not my turf, you know. This is entirely yours."
"I honestly didn't think things would move this fast," I share my surprise at the efficiency of the British government.
"None of us did. But fact of the matter is our special friends across the pond are eager beavers and want to jump the bandwagon while it is parked comfortably in their back yard".
"So what do you need me for?"
"I know your answer, but I have to check," she sets it, up her tone creeping higher as she speaks, "any chance I can wrangle you in on this?"
I sigh heavily, confirming the answer she already knows.
"I know, I know," she sighs in return, "marital bliss and all that."
"You know it's not about that," I say, my voice low.
She purses her lips and nods sternly, knowing she misspoke.
I reach for her shoulder to give her a reaffirming brace.
"Okay, so I need to run the strategic flow stuff by you, to make sure I understand this the right way," she says.
"Shoot," I lean my elbows on the table and clasp my hands, preparing for a concentrated bout of brain work.
She starts by laying out the assumptions we are working with about how having a Warehouse presence in Europe will work, and gives an overview of what we've established with removing the Warehouse from under the American Government and on to a global Non-Government Organisation, to which a multitude of parties are contributing resources and manpower.
She then explains what the substation is: a weigh station that is connected to the Warehouse with a gateway – a portal that will be used to transport artefacts, possibly data and maybe even people.
She moves on to detail the benefits, practicalities, risks and restrictions of supporting the Warehouse, and then on to the protocols we have established for hosting a substation and a field office.
"This is where I'm talking about personnel requirements, and am supposed to mention that you will be heading the field office," she says, her eyes searching mine.
I nod.
"…and that H.G. Wells will be manning the gate," she finishes off.
"Yeah," I say incredulously. "Did we ever mention we have the one-hundred-and-sixty-year-old father of science fiction in our midst, who, by the way, is a woman?" I mock ask.
"No, I do not believe you had," she answers, stiff upper lip and posh accent, and we laugh.
"Well, there you have it," I say, laughter dying to a chuckle at the bizarre implication of debriefing people on how endless Endless Wonder actually is.
"So…?" she asks without asking.
"You completely aced it," I beam at her. "Very articulate. Very clear. Very confident."
"How do I play the staffing report?"
I pause for a moment, thinking about how best to put it across. "Mention me, but not Helena," I say eventually. "Say I am the likely candidate, and if anyone asks, you will be confirming my placement before they take the proposal to Parliament."
"Likely candidate," she repeats, squinting, etching my words to memory, "confirmed before Parliament."
"Exactly," I give her two thumbs up.
"So you'll do it?" she asks me.
"The jury is still out," I repeat what I had told Mrs. Frederic last night. "Helena and I need to understand what it means, and the lot of us need to understand what it means." I lean back into the unforgiving, cold, iron seat.
"I think we're good, Myka. There will be an adjustment period, but we'll figure it out."
"Between you and me, as friends," I gesture to the space between us, "it's likely that I'll take the job, but I really don't know what Helena will choose."
"I understand how complicated it is," she answers, her brown eyes piercing mine, and all of a sudden she not Claud, Warehouse 13 The Next Generation anymore. She's not even a Supervising Special Agent Donovan. All of a sudden, she is a Warehouse Caretaker, wise far beyond her years.
"We'll figure it out," I say with a smile.
"You betcha," she stands up, rubbing her hands together while still inside her coat pockets. "I better get shufflin'."
I get up and we hug. "Knock 'em dead," I say as I squeeze her a bit tighter with sisterly pride.
"No way I can entice you to join?" she tries again.
"No." I say with a smile.
"No way I can bribe you?"
"No."
"Coax?"
"Nope."
"Threaten?"
"Mmmm-mmm," I shake my head firmly.
"Kill joy," she mutters.
"My middle name," I stick my tongue at her.
She blows a raspberry as she walks away. "I'll call you later," she waves me off.
I close my eyes and take in the crisp morning air of the Wiltshire countryside. It's cold and damp, and it carries a hint of small-hold farming. The sun is flooding the seating area where I'm standing, caressing my face with golden rays.
If every morning was like this I can definitely get used to it, I think, and a gust of wind reminds me all I'm wearing is a towel and a raincoat.
I enter the cabin quietly, taking off the boots, raincoat and socks. I am feeling positively frozen in contrast to the warm air inside. I tiptoe back into the bedroom, peeling off the towel, watching the blanket intently for movement and slip carefully under it.
I make myself comfortable on my side, breathing in deeply and quietly. The room is far too quiet – Helena is definitely awake. I wait another minute before speaking, softly. "Come on. Spit it out."
She grumbles as she turns around. "I'm struggling to see how such a lovely bunch of very intelligent people drastically fails to understand the fairly basic concept of 'time off'," she inches closer to me, her foot touching my calf, "Heavens, Myka, get out of my bed! Are you intent on freezing us both?"
Someone's abrupt awakening is not boding well with them. "I was hoping you could warm me up," I drag my leg up hers, resting it across her thigh. She squeals in pain and possibly delight.
"Get off!" she pushes me, and we play fight for a few moments.
"Only if you really want me to," I say, fending off her half-arsed attempt of an attack and she falls into my arms, defeated.
"Who was it and what did they want?" she asks as she settles down by my side, her head resting on my shoulder.
"Claudia wanted to run a debrief by me."
"Did she ask about the offer?"
"She did."
"And what did you tell her?"
"That the jury is still out."
She lifts her head and looks at me sternly. "Half the jury is out," she corrects me. "Because you are taking the job."
"That's not how juries work," I say, half jokingly, "and we haven't talked through the implications yet."
"We agreed, Myka, you are taking the job," she prompts herself up.
"We," I emphasise the pronoun, "haven't agreed anything yet."
"We bloody well have," her expression turns adamant. "You want it, I want you to have it, every other bloody person tied to this wants you to have it," she continues, "that's a rather sound confirmation by many logical accounts."
"Are we really going to talk about this now?" I ask.
"Yes," she sits up, pulling the blanket to her chest, leaving me somewhat deprived of it. "Isn't it the reason we are here?"
"Not entirely," I tug at the blanket, pulling it – and her – towards me, but she's resisting. "Can we maybe continue this over breakfast?"
Without answering my question or having registered it to begin with, she launches a barrage of arguments about prospects and commitment and risk. She counts the other possible candidates, their knowledge and experience. She recounts the background for removing the Warehouse from the clutches of government and the idea of creating substations.
She attributes the efforts to Claud – who engineered the gateway through brilliant physics and an artefact to result in a secure means of traveling between substations and the Warehouse; and me – who spearheaded the creation of The New Warehouse and who effectively managed the political and practical transitions, turning the vision to reality.
She continues to talk about the muted power of women in the 21st century as well as the duty and responsibility I have to fulfilling my potential, given everything I've sacrificed.
As much as I adore her intellect and her passion, sometimes I can't stand her for them. It's pointless to try and talk to her when she's like this, and while it sometimes feels like she's being condescending, I know she doesn't mean it. She's just being her.
I know I won't win this, and I want breakfast, so I get out of bed and get dressed hoping she'll follow – and she does, not losing her train of thought or a single breath in her pathos-filled speech, even while brushing her teeth. I manage to squeeze a few words in here and there, but this isn't a conversation. She's standing firmly on a soapbox, unloading what has been playing on her mind.
I wait for her by the door, in the foyer, holding both our coats.
"…it would simply be foolish to pass on an offer such as this," she summarises. "They so rarely present themselves in any organisation and even more so in secret ones that have so few members."
"You know it drives me crazy when you talk at me like this," I hand her her coat.
"I do, but I do not wish for you to pass on this opportunity for whatever sense of loyalty you have for the Warehouse and its operatives. Including me for that matter."
"God, Helena," I shake my head, "it is my choice."
"It doesn't soun—" she starts again.
"And I've already made it, Okay?" my voice is slightly raised as I cut into her words. "I just want to make sure it works before I sign the dotted line," I calm myself down, I really don't want this to become a bigger issue than it is. "I just want to make sure it all works." I open the door and we walk out, towards the priory.
"What do you think is not working?" she asks.
I know she means well, but a part of me doesn't have the patience for this, so I roll my eyes at the question. I also know that this is important, so I dig deep to consider her question seriously. "For starters, there will be one less senior agent in The States, which will make training and coordination more difficult."
She nods. "Difficult, but manageable. You've already handed most of that over."
"Recruitment from US government agencies will need to be cut back and I will need to build these networks from scratch here in Europe."
She nods again, "A big effort, many variables, not to be sniggered at."
"The gateway and all the technology still need a lot of testing, and there will be a lot of Business As Usual stuff going on at the same time."
"You have staff whose purpose is to deal with just that," she responds.
"I won't have Pete or Claudia to balance me out."
She is quiet for a handful of seconds. "You'll have me," she offers.
"Will I?"
/ /
We walk into the priory in silence, make our way to the dining room. It is rather late is the day and the head waiter seats us at the far end of the room, under a window, at a table they had already set out for lunch. The priory's lavish gardens stretch in front of us.
I realise now where and when I had been here before. The priory used to belong to a Lord who supported John Ambrose Fleming when he was researching the possible applications of his newly invented vacuum tube. John and I shared many heated conversations on the balcony, just outside this very window, hypothesising the revolutions wireless communication will bring with it. If only he knew then what I know now...
I realise I am distracting myself from answering a difficult question. I haven't answered Myka yet, her question weighing heavily on my mind. I want to say, 'always, darling, you will always have me', but both of us know that life is too cruel and unpredictable to allow us the keeping of such promises.
The waiter arrives again and takes our drinks orders, gives us instructions on breakfast options, menus.
She can so easily put me in my place now, ask me to admit that my silence hides the very many reasons I hadn't accepted – or declined – the offer yet. She can, but she does not. And while I would admit to my silence's purpose if she were to challenge me, I know I will be reluctant to admit the reasons it hides. If I were in her shoes, I would be angry with me now. "Why are you not angry with me, Myka?"
"Because I know this isn't straight forward," she says so very calmly.
"I'd be furious with me by now," I reach for my teapot.
She looks at me, into me, a mysterious grin on her face. "How fortuitous we aren't one and the same, Ms. Wells."
I smile back at her, appreciating that she chooses to appease me in my own language. "This must be why they chose you," I say under a hushed smile. "You have such patience."
"I can't believe you just... You exasperate me sometimes, you know?" she exhales, a cocky half smile across her face.
Our drinks arrive with toast and we busy ourselves with them for a few quiet moments.
"I want to say that you will have me," I say somewhat distractedly, while buttering a slice of toast, "and I'm confident I will find ways to occupy myself in the UK, even if I were not to come back to the Warehouse."
"You and I know that one of the main reasons why we have been working so well is because you have work wears you out. Work that you and I can share because it's yours. Because it's not the Warehouse."
"I can work here."
"It took you—"
"Us," I correct her.
"—us five years to build your practice. I don't think I will have it in me to build it again here, on top of the substation."
She is blunt with her response. Blunt, and honest, and correct.
"We will have the gateway," I say.
"That's an option," she bites into her slice of toast noisily.
The waiter arrives with our hot breakfast and we tuck in, in silence. I can feel scenarios unravelling and branching in my mind – a multitude of options and consequences of what may and may not happen if I were to move to the UK with Myka, or she were to stay in the US with me. Or if we were to separate. The unfurling of these sleepy branches stirs something in me.
I am sitting in a booth at the Univille Diner on Main Street. I am facing the door, Irene Frederic is sitting opposite me. The air is hot, dry and still. Summertime in South Dakota is not a forgiving place for an Albion refugee, who strongly prefers drizzle, fog and mist.
My heart is pounding in my chest and my head feels heavy. It could be the heat or the onset of dehydration. Or it could be because the door that dominates my field of vision will open any minute now and she will walk through it.
Or so I hope.
Irene sips her tea and I sip mine - in silence. She wears an expression that is uniquely hers, revealing nothing about her state of mind or intentions. I am rather relieved it is her opposite me and no other Warehouse representative. Irene truly values silent reflection. Not many Warehouse associates value it as much as she does. I have strong evidence to support this observation as I've grown to know so many of them more intimately than I ever wished to.
After the troubles with Sykes and Paracelsus, the regents realised that I am an artefact: my knowledge, skills and mere existence too dangerous to be left loose in the world. As such, a means of containing, monitoring or governing me must be put in place. The Janus coin proved too risky a method; the use of Bronze has been put into question, as have the uses and the consequences of other mystical means of confinement.
With physical confinement as a last resort, much to my mirth, the regents experimented with other means of securing me: first it was surveillance, then regular handling meetings - which frequencies increased - until I had been effectively chaperoned. Each new phase introduced me to another regent's aide, then another regent. All said arrangements became intolerable for all parties involved rather quickly.
After two and a half years of regent supervision, which tallied a handful of messy incidents and a fistful of messier near-misses, it was clear that I had to be handled by a more capable Warehouse representative. I was told I am being handed over to an agent.
This is new territory for them and for me; neither of us are entirely clear about the meaning of being handled by an agent. I just know that there is one agent whose company would be much preferable to any other.
I look into my teacup, swirling the dregs in slow circles when the bell above the door rings. I look up and see her face for the first time in nearly three years.
I stand up to greet her, whispering her name.
She walks over, sure stepped, straight backed, agent-like.
"Helena," she says. "Mrs. Frederic".
"Myka," Irene calls her by her first name. "Please sit," she gestures to the seat opposite her – next to me.
I scoot down in the booth to sit closer to the wall and Myka smiles at me as she sits down. For the second until she settles I study every detail in her profile, comparing it to the details in my memory. She hadn't changed much.
"I appreciate the both of you being here," Irene starts. "I realise this is, perhaps, slightly awkward given the history you two share, but it is because of your… history… that we believe this will be the easiest way to formulate how an arrangement such as this could work."
Myka presses her lips in a tense smile and looks down.
"What's your expectation?" she asks when she raises her head.
"The same as that of a Warehouse agent, Myka," Irene answers calmly. "Protect the Warehouse and its artefacts, and by that, protect the world from their danger."
She nods.
Irene is quiet, looking intently at Myka, then me, then Myka again.
"We always said we should meet for coffee," I start somewhat clumsily attempting to break the silence.
She turns to meet my eyes. "Yes," she smiles crookedly. "Coffee."
As if possessing magical timing, the waitress comes along and pours Myka a cup.
"I'll be honest, though," she chuckles and waits for the waitress to return to her station, "if the purpose of us getting together was coffee, I'd've picked someplace that serves better stuff."
We've shared many silences in our time, Myka and I, none quite as awkward as this one. Irene has long since disappeared, it's just her and me now.
"So…" she starts without intending to finish.
"So." I answer. "What would you like to do now?"
She frowns, considering the limited options Univille has to offer. She then tilts her head and fires a sideways glace in my direction. "Do you wanna walk on it?" she asks, nudging her head towards the door.
I nod excitedly and get up. She leaves the table and I leave a twenty Dollar bill on it. We walk out in silence. The sunlight is harsh and I wish I had some protection from it. Myka, ever ready and a proper local, has sunglasses on.
We walk the length of three blocks, nearing the end of Univille's shopping precinct, when she speaks: "I'm really glad to see you, Helena." She stops and turns to me. "Even though it may not feel like I am."
I look at her and smile, adjust the strap of my shoulder bag and point in the direction of the riverside park. We head towards it.
"They chose you?" I ask tentatively
"I volunteered." She responds, somewhat coldly, giving very little away.
"They convinced you?" I try again.
"I volunteered."
"How did they persuade you?" I press harder, with considerable less patience.
"I volunteered," she asserts.
"Myka, be honest with me," I look at her, pleading, "that's the only way this is going to work."
"God, you are so stubborn, it's tiring," she grabs hold of my right arm with her left and turns me so we are squarely in front of each other. She pushes her sunglasses up and past her forehead until they rest in her curls, a dark tiara. She bends down slightly so her eyes are level with mine: they bear a greyish tint and her pupils are small in the bright light of day. Their size reveals them to be encircled by a ring of gold. "I volunteered," she enunciates. "And honesty only works when we trust each other."
She lets go of me and we continue walking. I contemplate her words and their meaning for a few moments: when we trust each other.
"Well, not nearly as glad as I am to see you, Agent Bering," I say and pick up the pace, overtaking her. "And I am not stubborn." I throw back.
A small smile spreads across my lips as I recall our reunion. So awkward those silences were, in the first few days, reticence flanked by stop-start conversations and stiff banter until we found our footing in discourse. It took us nearly a month to find our pace, to be able to enjoy exchanges with each other that did not revolve around to the most recent impending doom.
As for trust – trust is a gift she surprises me with every day we share, a gift I have been learning to reciprocate ever since that afternoon walk in Univille.
It is time to reciprocate. I must stop hiding behind my silence and place trust in us being able to come up with a suitable solution. "I would like to try working at the Warehouse again," I say.
"Okay," she lays her utensils down. "You know you don't have to."
"I know," I lay mine down as well. "I know that there is an inherent danger in stepping back in to the Warehouse, being beholden to its powers," I pause to ponder which powers I was beholden to when working in warehouses in the past, "and the powers of memories, possibly more so than those of the Warehouse itself."
She notices the shift in my demeanour and reaches her hand across the table to hold mine.
"You don't have to, Helena."
"Will you let me try?" I pick her hand up and look at her.
A smile and a light blush blossom across her lips and cheeks. Her smile widens, stretching to an impish grin.
"What?" I ask.
"You realise that if you do come back, you will be an agent under me."
"Ugh, Myka Bering," I throw her hand back at her, "you're incorrigible."
We spend the rest of breakfast talking about the different options we have if I were to join the Warehouse again. We discuss working part time, a fixed number of hours or days in a week, with and without on-call or retrieval duties. We consider a phased approach, whereby I will be a dedicated resource at the substation for a length of time, and then draft up additional phases as required. We consider full time Warehouse engagement and the duties I will undertake thereof.
We head outside for a stroll in the gardens and continue the conversation – rather practically – onto living arrangements.
"It has not escaped me that one of the reasons why this is so difficult is because this will be the first time since our involvement that we may need to be apart for considerably longer periods of time," I say.
She chuckles. "Last night I was thinking about how issues that come up in our relationship are so similar to ones other couples have, but for us the context and implications are so different."
Her comment makes me curious. "How do you mean?"
"Tracey and Kevin were in a similar situation a few years back," she picks up a fallen yellow leaf from the side of the path, twirling it backwards and forwards between her thumb and index finger. "He got promoted which meant he needed to be at HQ for so many days in a month."
"Ah," I exclaim an understanding, "a long distance marriage, spanning Colorado Springs and Cincinnati".
"Their conversations very quickly revolved around not seeing the kids enough or seeing too much of them," she shrugs. "Or who brings home the metaphorical versus the physical bacon."
I quirk an eyebrow at her phraseology.
"But for us, it is altering a delicate working arrangement of protection and guardianship of an extraordinary person and artefact that took us years to create," she takes a breath, holding it in and contemplating how to continue. "Tracey and Kevin got to a point where they lost confidence," she says after a while.
"Lost confidence?"
"Because they weren't seeing each other as much, they found other people to fill the roles they used to have for each other. For us, though," she pauses again, "what and who we are for each other is part of what makes this –," she gestures between us, "– us – work, you know? We do what we do for a reason. We are close for a reason," she falls silent again. "And it's been going really well. Anything we choose to do will change the—," she is searching for the right words, "—balance of proximity we worked so hard to perfect," she pauses again, letting the leaf fall from her grasp. "It scares me."
"Why?"
"Because part of my role in your life is to help with your—" Myka's closes her eyes, searching for words again.
"Darkness," I provide.
"Darkness," she repeats, thankful.
As if to contrast the word, she looks up at ceiling the trees are forming above us, a tunnel of shimmering sunlight, filtering through leaves of red and orange. So very opposite to darkness.
"I'm not sure that—," she starts and stops. "I don't feel—," and starts and stops.
She is sparing my feelings. "Out with it, Myka. No need to mince your words." I urge her gently.
She takes a deep breath in, "I think this darkness will always be a part of you, it will never go away," she says with a harsh exhale, "and I'm not sure that you will be able to manage it on your own," she looks at me briefly, then lowers her head. The implicit conclusion Myka is making is that I will always need a person with whom to share my darkness. Painful as it is to do so, I concur.
"Mrs. Frederic was right, you know? It is because of our history…" she pauses again, stops walking and turns to face me. "I've seen your darkness up close, Helena. I know your darkness. That why I can share it."
My heart goes out to her, I have never seen Myka exert so much effort in choosing her words. I feel her struggle rippling in me and I want to be able to come to her aid. I want to be able to agree, to say what is going through my mind; but I am not as brave as she is. I never was.
She smiles stiffly as she looks down. "Maybe it all boils down to jealousy and proximity," she whispers, tucks her hands in her pockets and looks at me again. "It scares me because I don't want to know what it will feel like if someone else were to share your darkness with you."
Clouds drift across the sun, depriving us of its warmth. The temperature drops around us instantaneously, turning her words tangible and fragile as her breath becomes visible.
I must say something, I owe her as much. Go on, Helena, once more into the breach; I try to motivate myself to speak. But there are too few strands of thought for me to pick at, to start with. Too few, and they are all painful, thin and fragmented.
"Nor I," is the best start I find, and for a while, all I can gather.
Myka and I have agreed that I am to, as she puts it, get off my cross with regards to my transgressions. Oh, bollocks to Victorian wordsmithery: Myka forgives me the Minoan Trident and holding a gun to her head, forgives my betrayal, forgives me MacPherson and the others – collateral damage incurred on my rampage. She forgives my disappearing, my absence. And while I trust in her forgiveness, I do not trust in my own.
"You are right. Darkness will always be a part of me. All this time, and I still struggle to reconcile who I am with who I was. I still struggle to appease the part in me that was so angry and lost it sought to bring about the world's end," it is I who needs a pause for breath, the damp chill in the air passing through me like a ghost. "All this time, and it is you who steadies me in this struggle, Myka. You who makes it surmountable." I look back at her. "My fear is that there is no one else who could share my darkness other than you. I fear no one else forgives me other than you. Do you see how dangerous this is?" There is one final fear that weights on me, I must give it form. I speak, but the words come out a faint mumble. "I fear what I am without you, Myka. I fear what I may become."
While the study of the human psyche is a fascinating field which I had found myself vigorously studying over the past few years, right this minute, its school that upholds the motto "better out than in" feels rather moronic. It most definitely does not feel better right now, neither in nor out. It feels exposed, heavy and uncomfortable. To ease the discomfort, I start walking again and she joins me, close enough for her arm and my shoulder to brush against each other.
The silence is tense but not with anger. It is tense with anticipation. I am frantically thinking of ways to solve this, to design a way in which we could keep what we have achieved so far while moving forward.
I arrive at a hotel on the outskirts of Ottawa late on a Tuesday evening following a full day's work in a client's office – a technology firm that hired me to improve sales and marketing.
I walk into my room, a tidy black and cream affair, rather lacking in character. Yet, what it lacks in uniqueness, it makes up for in comfort. I throw my suitcase on its designated rack and throw myself on the armchair in the far corner of the room. I kick my boots off and straighten my legs, reaching for an ottoman that's a bit too far for my reach, so I slouch in the seat and groan at the newly found, quasi-horizontal comfort.
I can't help but groan with every exhaled breath, as the adrenalin of the first day is wearing off: my limbs start to pulse with stress and my head is heavy with information, conversations and sensations.
I reach for my back pocket to fish out a small notebook and pen and rest them on my thigh. I straighten myself in the chair, pull the ottoman closer and place my feet on it, my knees bent. I flick through the notebook and scribble additional thoughts summarising the day, making connections between facts and observations, connections that are only visible from the vantage point of a day's end.
A violent vibration followed by a high pitched ring disrupt my analysis. I reach for my other back pocket to find my wretched mobile. Myka's name flashes on the screen and a smile flashes across my lips. I swipe the screen to answer it.
"Hello darling," I chirp.
"Hey," she replies jovially. There is little background noise on her side of the call, far too quiet for an airport, where I assume she would be, given the time. "Count to twenty and open your door."
"Where are you?" I ask.
"Make it fifteen," she says and hangs up.
I do as I am bid, with the exception of opening my door: I do so when I've reached ten. I cast a look down the hall, in the direction of the elevators, leaning against my room's door to prop it open. Not two seconds from having taken post at my door, the ones at the end of the corridor swing open and Myka walks through, her suit slightly crumpled, her shirt pulled out from her trousers. Her coat in one hand, a small duffle bag in the other. She reaches me by the count of fifteen. She walks right up to me, stops short of our bodies touching. She leans in and kisses me chastely on my cheek.
"You opened at ten, didn't you?" she speaks low, looking at me with a smile.
I reach my hand up to the lapel of her jacket. "You know me too well."
She walks into the room and I walk in after her. In a matter of a minute she has shaken her jacket off and piled it atop her bag and coat by my suitcase; and has fallen into the armchair much like I had earlier. I beam at her.
"You are a sight for sore eyes," I sit on the ottoman in front of her.
"You sure know how to make a girl feel wanted, but I can guarantee this sight can be much improved," she unfastens the top three buttons of her top.
"Bad journey?"
"Not bad, just long," she leans back and closes her eyes. She is alluding to her most recent mission in central Siberia, chasing a prehistoric caldron that produces food that alters the mind of its consumers, the basis of the biblical myth of Esau and Jacob. She left for this mission 4 days ago and we arranged to meet in Ottawa, once the object was secure.
"I take it the mission was a success?" I ask.
She nods wearily. "Yes. Fairly easy retrieval, politics was tricky, though."
"You seem to be collecting a lot of experience in this arena of late."
"Yeah…" she muses the observation. "I think I'm beginning to prefer schmoozing politicians to chasing bad guys."
"So long as they keep you amused."
She laughs. "How was your day?" she opens her eyes again.
I reach for my notebook and groan dramatically, noisily flicking through the pages and pages of notes I've collected.
"One of those, huh?" she leans forward, her hands reaching for my shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze. I swing around on the ottoman so that my back faces her. She takes her queue and starts rubbing my shoulders rhythmically, as I regale my notes to her.
She challenges my observations and assumptions, helps me clarify priorities. I draft up a set of milestones to work with and test them with her. She is a rapt and participatory audience and doesn't let me get away with anything.
It has been more than an hour since she got in by the time we put work matters to bed. Looking at her, slightly slumped in the armchair, I think it might be time to put her to bed as well. I push the ottoman until it reaches the armchair and lean back into her. She wraps her arms around me.
"You must be knackered," I roll my head against her shoulder.
"Only a bit," I can feel her heartbeat slowing against my ear.
"What time is your flight tomorrow?"
"Ten thirty."
"Will you have time for breakfast?"
She nods. "You're back in Featherhead on Thursday?"
"I am."
"Wonderful," she says and tightens her embrace.
We both shower and fall into bed, picking at a few topics of news: Claudia's progress with the new Hawking section at the Warehouse, a development in the field of quantum computing, latest tensions in the middle east, sustainable end-to-end coffee launched by Starbucks and Myka's change of hair care products.
We kiss goodnight and I'm sure she's asleep before our lips part. I rake stray curls from her forehead and kiss her again before settling next to her. Sleep does not dawdle taking hold.
We wake up late because neither of us had the presence of mind to set an alarm the night before. We don't have time for breakfast.
I rush to put clothes on, knowing I am expected at the office in less than thirty minutes. Myka hangs back, giving me the space I need to get organised, which also wins her another quarter of an hour in bed.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and she sits up. I rush up to her and lean down for a kiss. She reaches her hand up, holding me to her for another second, pushing my hair behind my ear.
"Once more into the breach?" she half questions, half states.
"See you Thursday," I say.
"I can't wait," she replies.
I kiss her again and head out the door.
"A happy ending depends on when you choose to end the story," she says quietly, ending minutes' long silence.
"Paraphrasing Welles?"
"The other Welles," her tone sounds lighter. "Maybe it's just time to write the next chapter," she looks at me. "It's been an awesome read so far, and will have a happy ending if we stopped writing now."
"But not the time to stop just yet," I reiterate.
It is understandable that we will be apprehensive about changing our lives so drastically, the impact it will have on us; on me; on her. I am in full agreement, though. It is high time we started another Bering and Wells adventure. "Once more—"
"—into the breach" she finishes with me.
/ /
By the time we make our way back to the priory it's nearly dinner time. We are exhausted, physically and mentally. The afternoon was good for us, though, to be out in the fresh air, to talk about things, think about them. We haven't reached any concrete solutions or made any concrete plans, but there is definitely progress: Helena is coming back to the Warehouse, to work with me on building the substation.
It was hard bringing up Helena's darkness. Maybe I need to give it a name so it's easier for me to refer to it. Pete calls it The Dark Side of the Force or Dark Side of the Moon and makes Darth Vader or Pink Floyd noises accordingly. I think he is the only person who can make me laugh when I'm talking about Helena's villainous potential.
I hate bringing it up because I know this darkness. I know it because I was at the sharp end of it, but also because I think I have it in me too: following a vein of harsh determination to achieve what my moral compass deems as truth could have easily consumed me at various points in my life.
I also hate bringing it up because Helena is a good person. A wonderful person, actually. Bringing it up puts a dampener on how wonderful she is. It's like a disclaimer: Helena is only a good person as long as... Thing is, though, she was punished for what she had done, and she'd fought and sacrificed her way back into all of our good graces twice over, if not more.
But her darkness is there, and it is like a black hole in her universe that – if she's not careful – she could simply trip over the event horizon and fall into its oblivion. And if that happens, no God can help us.
Sometimes I wish that she and I were more like Tracey and Kevin. That we could kiss it out, have wild sex and forget all about it, exclaim our never-ending love and walk into the sunset in a tight embrace. But she and I have been through too much, apart and together, to trust that love will fix us. We are too worldly and, frankly, too cynical.
And – as we have spectacularly struggled to express over the past few hours – have too much to lose if this doesn't work.
We arrive back on the grounds of the priory through a back path that leads us straight to our cabin.
"What do you want to do about dinner?" I ask her, pinching the bridge of my nose as I try to muster an ounce of mental energy for making decisions.
She reaches for my hand, gently wrapping it in her palm to ease my motion. "Let me take care of that," she says.
"Thanks," I whisper and turn into the cabin, as she walks up to the priory.
I get in and take my shoes and coat off. I'm feeling cold and tired. All I want to do right now is curl up in a ball under the blanket with a book and not talk to another human being for about 48 hours. I strip down and change into my antisocial uniform: ski socks, yoga pants and an oversized South Dakota U sweatshirt.
I am about to give in to my plan - shutting the world out - but my phone starts making a litany of noises, celebrating its return to cell reception, wifi and all. I would have switched the damn thing off, but I know Claud is out there, waiting for a sign from me.
I scan through emails and text messages, none are from her. I compose a quick text to her: Just got reception back, been a long day, probably not as long as yours. Let me know how much ass you kicked. M ; then throw the phone on the nightstand and pick up a random book from the pile of books the cabin sports – a Dean Koontz novel I've read before, but will provide perfect escapism for the evening.
I head towards the bed and my phone goes off – it's Claudia.
"Hello there," I say, trying to sound as supportive and positive as I can.
"Geez Louise, you were not kidding about it being a long day," she answers. Evidently, I'm not very good at hiding my exhaustion.
"So?..." I ask excitedly. "How did it go?"
"I spent the past five minutes trying to pun about putting some part of COBRA in COBRA that would demonstrate how this debrief was aced, but I got nothin'."
I laugh. "It went well, then?"
"It did," she says. "Me thinks the force is with us on this one."
I hear the door to the cabin open and shut.
"That's fantastic news, Claud. See? You don't need me."
"Steady there, Bucko. I'm not ready to give you up."
Helena walks through the bedroom door, carrying a hessian bag.
"Were there any questions? Was there feedback?" I ask.
She begins giving me a near-as-damn-it blow by blow account of who asked what and what she came back with, as Helena mouths to me "who is it?"
I mouth back "Claudia".
"How did it go?" she mouths emphatically.
"I can hear you two having a conversation, you know," Claud remarks mid-sentence. "Put me on speaker," she orders and I follow.
"Hello Claudia," Helena greets her lovingly. "I hear today went well?"
"It did indeed," she says. "Warehouse Custodian: 1; British DEFCON team: nil."
"It's superb to have good news," she says. "I'll let you and Myka finish off."
I switch the speaker off and bring the phone to my ear. "What next?"
"Well, there is even more paperwork and more audits – as if that was even possible. Most of these are on this fair island, though, so it looks like someone will need to make themselves comfy on the home front," she hints rather blatantly. "Any news about your end?"
"Yes."
"Are you gonna make me ask?" she drawls.
I catch Helena's attention and look her straight in the eye as I speak "You will have both of us, but I'm not entirely sure about the configuration."
Helena nods back at me, reassuring me that my presentation of the situation is apt.
"Yay!" she squeaks. "Colour me fifty shades of excited – it will be so amazing to have you both on this."
"Consider the colouring done," I respond.
"I'll see you guys tomorrow for breakfast, we can talk details?"
"Sure thing, Claud."
"Oh, and wear something less creepy, will ya?"
"Just for you," I say.
"'Gator," she chortles.
"Croc," I chuckle back and hang up.
I silence my phone and look in Helena's direction. She has arranged a picnic of cheeses, bread and wine on the coffee table. And a game of Risk.
She walks over with a glass of wine in one hand, and a slice on brie on a bit of torn bread. She stands over me, handing me the glass. Once I hold it, she combs her fingers through my hair, cradling the base of my skull in her palm, tilting my head back slightly.
My mouth falls open and she rewards me the bread and cheese. My jaw is stiff, so I wince as I chew on it, but the taste is divine, and – boy – am I hungry.
She pulls my head towards her, resting it across her belly, caressing my face, my hair.
"Better?" she asks once I've swallowed.
"Much," I respond, feeling as though I've caught a second wind. "Much better, Helena," I look up at her. "Thank you," I smile, and feel as though she recharges me with every touch of her hand.
"Darling Myka," her eyes glisten as she looks at me. "You are welcome," her hands not letting me go. "You will have me."
"Thank you," I say and wrap my arms around her waist, careful not to spill the wine.
She reaches her hand behind her back and takes my hand. She me pulls towards the coffee table, where we sit down, indulge ourselves on truly decadent cheeses and wines, and play a game of Risk (which she wins this time) until it's time to sleep today off.