FIC: "A Game of Puzzles Played Upon a Map," Helen Magnus/Charlotte Benoit, Helen Magnus/HG Wells
Title: A Game of Puzzles Played Upon a Map
Author: geonncannon
Fandom: Sanctuary
Pairing: Helen Magnus/Charlotte Benoit, Helen Magnus/Helena G Wells
Word Count: 4,194
Category: AU, romance, action
Spoilers: Tempus, Monsoon
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me!
Rating: Mature
Author's Notes: Part III of The Present is Theirs; The Future is Mine. It's not entirely necessary to read the other two stories so, if you haven't, a quick primer: When Helen Magnus went back to 1898, she decided to use her unique position to change the timeline for the better. Eventually known as Dame Doctor Helen Magnus, DBE, she works with the members of the Five and H.G. Wells to craft a better world than the one she remembers. The contemporary Helen Magnus becomes an SIS Officer. H.G. Wells, currently in a romantic relationship with Dame Magnus, allowed herself to become impregnated with Helen's ovum and gave birth to Ashley Christina Magnus-Wells who, by 1918, has become a primary member of her mother's team. Also Dame Magnus' two decades in the past has caused unforeseen changes to the world causing her new reality to grow further and further from the world she remembers.
Summary: In which Helen's decision to alter the timeline causes unusual twists of Fate, including the century-early arrival of one Charlotte Benoit, Pinkerton agent.
AO3 link
1925: London
"My memory is playing tricks on me again."
The comment was uttered quietly, just under her breath, but Nikola still heard it from across the room. "Perhaps you are playing tricks on your mind."
Dame Helen smiled and ran her fingers over the shapes of countries carved into the ornate tabletop map. It was relatively new, only five years old, but it contained countries she'd never heard of. Wars and minor skirmishes had been fought in the past two decades. Not the big one that she remembered, but battles just as fierce in their violence. People still died. Arbitrary lines were replaced by different lines. She touched one of the small newfound countries in Eastern Europe and turned away to join Nikola at the other table.
They were in the library, the stately and elegant room of books that stretched the length of her new Sanctuary. It was the heart of the building, as it should be, with a skylight that revealed a three-quarter moon overhead. Helen walked to where Nikola was standing and peered over his shoulder. He was looking at the scroll she had written before the turn of the century, recording her memories of the way things had once been.
"I'm surprised you keep that so near at hand. It hasn't come in useful in ages."
Nikola shrugged. "Certain things could still come to pass. This stock market debacle of the thirties is alarming. If nothing else, your dear Helena can publish it as a novel."
"Mm," Helen said. "An alternate history, postulation of a world that now seems dystopian by comparison. It's hard to believe that my actions have had such a dramatic effect on the world."
"Surprising? Oh, Helen. I'm certain that even in the 'other' timeline you spent a fair amount of your time changing the world. Why would this time around be any different? Blessed with future knowledge, you were bound to cause waves where once you made mere ripples." He smiled at her and Helen touched the small of his back as she stepped away. "Speaking of your contemporary self, have you spoken to her?"
"Not since she traveled to America with Ashley." They were setting up the first in a worldwide network of Sanctuaries, an autonomous entity that would serve all nations of the world rather than being beholden to any one. Helen would never again allow her father's creation to become mired in politics and posturing. It was Helen's choice to remain in London to oversee the centerpiece of her kingdom. James had taken to calling it Camelot and, with a three-decade early apology to John and Jackie, Helen had allowed it to stick.
"How is your twin faring in the new world?"
"Oh, you know Magnus women, Nikola. I'm certain she's staying out of trouble."
Boston, Mass.
SIS Officer Helen Magnus was not impressed with the quality of American prisons. Nor was she particularly fond of the men who occupied them, whether as prisoner or peace officer. With her hands secured behind her back by steel cuffs, her hair tangled from the scuffle she'd caused resisting arrest, and her feet bare so she couldn't inflict any damage with the sharp stilettos of the heel, she was feeling righteously furious. She sat on a bench, her shoulders and back awkwardly angled to allow for the position of her arms as she waited for something.
The specifics weren't important. Ashley would explain the situation and get her free, or the charges would be dropped by the mayor, or the wiesfel she'd come to capture would be spotted and in the ensuing panic she would barter her freedom in exchange for stopping the rampage. She didn't care which happened so long as it happened soon. She had been sitting in the cell for over two hours and she desperately needed to use the powder room.
The jailer's keys made a musical sound as he unlocked the door to the holding cells. Helen rose from her bench and went to the bars, pressing her face against them to watch as he entered. It was the Captain, Joseph Burke, and she smiled. "What's wrong, Captain? Did your men get tired of arguing with me?"
He ignored the question. "We have someone who wants to talk with you, sweetheart. An old friend of the department. Thinks you may have information she needs. Talk to her and I may treat you more sweetly."
Helen batted her eyelashes at him. "Why, my lord, I'm not certain that's possible."
Burke rolled his eyes and turned toward the person who had come in behind him. "Careful with her. She's a sly one. Hardly been in town a month and already I'm having recurring nightmares about her."
"You dream about me?"
Burke cursed under his breath, but his cheeks were red as he ducked out of the room. The woman he'd brought in stepped closer to the bars. Helen took the woman's measure with a quick head-to-toe scan. She wore men's clothing, but more for ease than to make a statement. Her shirt was striped with a high collar but no tie, and she wore braces that hooked onto her wool trousers with large black buttons. Her hair was jet black and bundled at the base of her skull, a bowler hat placed on top of it to shade her eyes. She wore scuffed two-tone saddle shoes, evidence that she wasn't vain about her appearance or scared of doing a bit of legwork when necessary. She had her hands in her pockets, but Helen knew that her fingernails would be blunt or chewed.
"So you're the limey that's gotten every cop in Boston wetting himself."
"I do what I can. Helen Magnus, SIS."
"Charlotte Benoit. Pinkerton."
Helen pursed her lips, feigning that she was impressed. "And what does a private police officer want with little old me?"
"You're stepping on my toes."
"From the looks of your shoes, a far many people have stepped on your toes."
Charlotte stepped closer to the bars. "Wesley Ferrell. What do you know about him?"
"Well, I suppose as of this moment, I know his name and that the Pinkertons are interested in him. Other than that, I'm at a loss."
"I find that very hard to believe, Miss Magnus. Because for the past six years I've searched every nook and cranny of this city for Wesley. And now that I am finally getting close, suddenly you and your son show up and start getting in my way. I want to know why."
Helen took a few seconds to put things together. Ashley was in male garb for this leg of their trip, taking advantage of her unisex name to open doors that would otherwise have remained closed to her. Six years ago was 1919, when Boston was nearly shut down by the police strike. That would explain the Pinkerton interest. And if Helen's search was overlapping with Charlotte's, it meant that the agent was unknowingly hunting an Abnormal.
"Ferrell was a strike organizer, wasn't he? He urged the police to go on strike for better working conditions, and you were brought in to quell the unrest." She turned her head to the side, her mind still working. "Of course. They're pranksters. The revel in discord."
Charlotte narrowed her eyes. "What are you muttering about?"
Helen looked up again. "Ms. Benoit, it's not my intention to step on your toes. We're after the same quarry so I believe we can come to some mutual arrangement that would work for us both."
"And why should I help you?"
"Because in three weeks I've gotten closer to Wesley Farrell than you have in six years. If I were you, I'd certainly take an advantage like that."
London
"It's a question of Fate, I suppose." James twisted his wrist, watching the firelight dance through the liquid in his tumbler. "Certain things are destined to occur, while others are malleable. Ashley's birth in the nineteenth century rather than the twentieth, the sinking of the Titanic on her fourth voyage rather than her first."
"I suppose it is an interesting example of free will versus determinism." Dame Helen turned to look at H.G., who was at her desk under the window. She was near completion of the first draft of a novel called Memory's End. In Helen's own memory, Helena Wells was bronzed at the Warehouse for most of this century and her brother, Charles, continued writing under her name. In forty years he never produced anything that stuck in the minds of the reading public like the famous four. The Invisible Man, War of the Worlds, The Time Machine, The Island of Doctor Moreau... Helen had to confess a certain fondness for the latter, which had been partially inspired by H.G.'s introduction to the Sanctuary.
In this timeline, H.G. was writing for herself. Her brother's very fine The Sleeper Awakes was replaced with Time Askew. She used Helen's own experiences of being tossed backward through time to give the story a much-needed shot of life. She was well on the way to becoming the literary juggernaut she well deserved to be.
Dame Helen looked back at James, who had been watching her observe the writer. Helen sipped her tea and wet her lips. "But what of people? Those I knew or was destined to meet in the future. If there was something Fate had in store for me in 2015 or 2165, must I simply wait an extra century for it to occur? And given how much I've changed the world I once knew already, how can it be certain that the circumstances will still be right when the time does come?"
"I believe," James said carefully, "that the universe is fragile and resilient in the same breath. It requires things so precisely, and yet it corrects itself when it must. If something was writ for Helen Magnus on the page of the gods, you can be certain that it will find a way to bring it about."
Boston, Mass
Helen Magnus followed Charlotte Benoit from the jail, flashing a smile at the officers she passed. They didn't return the expression, but she flicked a goodbye wave with her fingers before stepping out into the sunshine. She unfolded the curled stems of her sunglasses and hooked them over her ears. Once she was out of the stationhouse and no longer viewed as a criminal, an air of respectability seemed to settle over her. She wore a black whalebone corset over a white blouse, the underbust lifting her breasts against the paper-thin satin. Her dress was long and charcoal-gray, brushing the top of her French heel boots.
Helen pressed the round lenses closer to her eyes and examined the black sedan waiting for Charlotte at the curb. Charlotte held the door open for her, only getting inside once Helen was settled against the opposite door. "Where can we pick up your son?"
"Oh, don't worry. Ashley has a way of finding me."
Charlotte told the driver to head north, and then faced Helen. "Okay, Officer Doctor. I got you out of the pokey, so now it's time for your part of the bargain. Tell me where Wesley Farrell is hiding."
"The first thing you must understand, Agent Benoit, is that our prey is not a standard criminal. He's no mere anarchist."
Charlotte held up a hand to stop her speaking. She unfastened the three buttons on her cuff and rolled the sleeve up to her elbow. She turned her hand so that her folded fingers faced the top of the sedan and Helen removed her sunglasses to better see what she was being shown. Three long pink lines ran diagonally across Charlotte's forearm, with a fourth cutting across them like a score mark.
"He gave me that last time I was stupid enough to get close to him. I was lucky, I suppose. He took off my partner's hand."
"I'm sorry," Helen said.
Charlotte looked at Helen to make sure she was sincere, then nodded once and rolled her sleeve back down. "After that I got smart. I adjusted my tactics."
"By finding someone else to get close so they would be the ones who suffered if he lashed out again."
Charlotte smiled ruefully. "Call them decoys. It sounds less bloodthirsty."
"Hm." Helen turned to watch the buildings scroll past the window. "I always new Americans were a bit crass..."
"Prisoners," Charlotte said. "I use prisoners, like you. Men who have little more in their future than a visit to Old Sparky or a firing squad. At least my way they get to die trying to do something good. They die for a purpose. And I go on to fight another day. You go after things like this all the time, I assume. Do you do any different?"
"Those who work with me receive training. I don't simply throw them at whatever creature I happen to be hunting at the moment. You'd be better served coating them with offal and tossing them into the water to capture a shark." She looked out the window again. "Tell your driver to turn north at the next intersection. I'll help you capture your prey, Charlotte Benoit, but after that we part ways."
Charlotte took a cheroot from her pocket and pinched it between her lips. "Fine by me, Officer Doctor. Sooner I see the backside of you and this case, the better."
"You smoke?" Helen said.
Charlotte offered her a smile. "Crass American, right?"
"Hardly. I was only hoping you would have another."
Charlotte took a puff, curled her finger around the cigar, and held it out to Helen. Helen took it and placed it between her lips. She hadn't smoked in a while, but her other self, the one a century her senior, told her that she'd suffered no ill effects from her infrequent drug use, so she'd decided to give in a little. She let the smoke waft from her slightly parted lips and handed it back, letting her fingers brush Charlotte's.
"Is that what Americans call smoking the peace pipe?"
"I don't call myself an American." She took a drag and let the smoke out slowly. "I'm Chinese and French."
Helen took a more critical look at her new companion. High cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes... she could definitely see both influences combined in the elegant line of her face. Her small chin and wide mouth were suddenly very inviting, and Helen forced herself to look away before Charlotte noticed her expression.
London
"Time heals all wounds. Perhaps not just our wounds, but those we inflict upon it."
Dame Helen was in H.G.'s bed, the authoress and inventor massaging her tired back. She closed her eyes and considered her brilliant friend's reasoning. "So you theorize that time has a set course, and nothing we do can affect it. We can only delay it for a while before it sets things right."
"Like a river or an ocean. We may displace it by submerging ourselves in it, but the water reshapes and resumes its former path despite our interference."
Helen smiled, eyes closed. "'There is no difference between Time and any of the three dimensions of Space except that our consciousness moves along it.'"
H.G. smoothed her fingers over Helen's deltoid and barely suppressed a snicker. "Must you quote my books at me?"
"They were classics. They will be classics." She adjusted her cheek on her forearm. "That feels wonderful, my dear..."
"Not too hard?"
"No, no." Helen sighed. "Not at all."
H.G. resumed her massage. A minute, perhaps two, passed before she spoke again. "I know why you're concerned. The Great War you prevented, the influenza that James helped end. You fear that by preventing the awful things you remember you're also destroying all the good. But in order for that to be true, you'd have to believe that good things only exist because of the bad."
"I worry that there's a balance. People are still dying, Helena. Thousands are killed in wars I've never heard of. The Titanic still sank. What if one of the people who died went on to do great things? What if their descendant cured a dreadful disease or I caused the death of someone integral to the Moon landing?"
"I still think you're making that one up," H.G. said quietly. "Even if we could, who would be moronic enough to want to go?"
"You're the one who wrote about it," Helen reminded her.
H.G. sighed. "You're playing chess with the entire world, Helen. Two billion lives in the palm of your hand. It's too much. No one can possibly hope to balance so many spinning plates." She slid her fingers under the straps of Helen's nightgown and dug her fingers into the soft, warm flesh. Helen grunted and arched her back, pressing harder against H.G.'s hands. "What I'm about to say to me is almost blasphemous, so I want you to understand how difficult it is for me to say. Give up."
"You're joking."
"Not in the slightest. You've moved through time, Helen. You didn't go back to the past, you moved through time itself. And now here you lie, in another reality that you can shape as you see fit. You were given a playbook and you've made admirable strides. But the world has changed. Your memories are no longer as accurate as they once were. The river is full of ripples, Helen Magnus, and even you cannot predict where they will settle." She smoothed her hands across Helen's shoulders, in the process pushing her straps aside. She bent down and kissed the nape of Helen's neck. "Relax. Stop being reactive and be proactive."
"Mm. Excellent advice, my lovely Helena... in fact, I believe there is a proactive step I could take right now."
"Ah, do tell, Dame Magnus..."
Helen twisted under H.G. and pulled her down for a kiss.
Boston, Mass
The body of the motorbike hung low between the two wheels. Its engine sagged low to the road like a sow's belly, the handlebars jutting up, out and back like the horns of some demonic cattle. Its rider, blonde hair feathering out from beneath a leather cap and eyes hidden behind opaque goggles, dismounted and dusted off his britches before striding over to where Helen and Charlotte sat on the top step of the house. Helen had a cigarette which she was sharing with Charlotte, passing it back and forth twice before Ashley reached them.
"Ferrell?" Ashley asked.
Helen held the cigarette smoke in her mouth for as long as she could, then blew it out through pursed lips. She rubbed the back of her hand under her nose. "We couldn't find him. We're fairly certain he's somewhere... back there." She gestured vaguely over her shoulder.
Charlotte pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, snickering with the cigarette clutched between her first two fingers. Soot was smeared across her cheek and brow, and her bowler was cocked back on her head to reveal waves of dark curls that fell over her forehead. Her shirt was unbuttoned far enough to see the scoop neck of a tank top underneath.
Ashley scanned the detritus. What had once been a rather elegant estate was now nothing but ruins. The porch on which Helen and Charlotte sat was the only thing left standing, the top of it missing so that the pillars seemed oddly truncated and wholly useless. The dust from the building's collapse was still wafting through the air, and Ashley could hear the sirens of the fire brigade approaching.
Helen sobered slightly and brushed off her skirt. "We'll stay here and explain the situation to the officials. And we'll observe the excavation just to be certain Mr. Ferrell didn't remain in his natural form when he died. Charlotte... oh. This is Pinkerton agent Charlotte Benoit. Charlotte Benoit, my son. Ashley."
Charlotte waved her hand vaguely. "Charmed, I'm sure."
"Charlotte," Helen continued, "has connections with the city government. We'll arrange for the corpse, in whatever state it's in, to be taken to a place of our choosing." She took the cigarette from Charlotte, took a drag, and squinted at Ashley through the haze. "You do realize I've been doing this for a long time. You don't have to check up on me."
"Uncle John asked me to be sure--"
Helen sneered. "Uncle John." She glanced away to get her emotions under control. She sighed heavily. "You're certain it wasn't Dame Helen?"
Ashley sighed. "I don't want to fight. They just noticed you've been a little more reckless lately." A long pause as the goggles turned back to the former home, the destruction reflected in the lenses. "I can't say they're exactly wrong."
"I'll be fine. Now be a good lad. Go back to the hotel and send them a telegraph. Let them know that we've accomplished our mission."
Ashley hesitated, but then turned and walked back to the bike without another word.
Charlotte watched Ashley go, eyeing the motorbike until it was out of sight. The fire brigade arrived moments later, forcing Helen and Charlotte to stand up and move off the porch and out of their way. They were ordered not to leave the site, but also not to venture too close to the building until it had been secured. They lingered in the limbo of suitable distance, silent until the cigarette burned itself out. Charlotte whispered "ow" before she dropped it and crushed the ashes under her boot heel.
"So." She crossed her arms under her small breasts. "Your... son."
"Yes. A fine young man."
"Hm." It was partially a laugh, partially a challenge that Helen didn't take up. "So Dame Helen?"
Helen exhaled sharply through her nostrils. "An... older sister who excels at everything she puts her mind to, who is ideal in every way. Smarter, faster, stronger, prettier, more relaxed in every situation. I'm not petty or vain, but sometimes that woman's smugness irritates the hell out of me."
Charlotte narrowed her eyes. "You and your sister are both named Helen?"
"Yes."
No explanation was given, so none was requested. Charlotte watched the fire brigade pick through the remains of Ferrell's house. They wanted to bring him in peacefully but he'd resisted. He'd tried to take them out by going full-animal, and the result was catastrophic to his property values. Helen had managed to subdue him, putting a bullet in the soft spot of his skull and sending his bulky carcass crashing to the floor. Charlotte had dragged Helen out of the house moments before the building crashed down around their ears.
"Now what?" Charlotte said softly. Helen looked askance at her, and Charlotte shrugged. She gestured at the house, keeping her chin out as she spoke. "I've spent six years looking for his man. Now he's dead. Six years of my life. I relocated to find this bastard. I risked everything I had to bring him down. Now he's down, I won, and I have no idea what I'm going to do tomorrow morning."
"You can make me breakfast."
Charlotte looked at her. "That sounded like an indecent proposition, Officer Doctor."
"Then I said it correctly. Don't tell me you only fancy men."
Charlotte faced forward again. "Women are fine," she said, letting the words hang so that she wouldn't be misunderstood. "It's cheeky British bitches I have a problem with."
Helen laughed. "Well, it was only an offer. I'd hate myself in the morning had I not taken the chance."
Charlotte reached up and adjusted her hat, looking past the destruction at the rest of the neighborhood. "Have you ever felt like your entire life was wrong? Like you were supposed to be somewhere else, doing something else, and you were just waiting for the moment when it all clicked into place?"
Helen's expression became serious. "I do."
"Yeah." Charlotte sighed and faced Helen. "Thank you for your help, Officer Doctor."
"Please. Helen." She took Charlotte's hand, squeezing it just a touch harder and holding it a moment longer than absolutely necessary. Then, she brought the hand to her mouth and kissed the knuckles. "If you're ever in New York, we're starting something. Something large. Perhaps it could be the thing that clicks you into place. Be well, Agent Benoit."
"Charlotte."
"Charlotte," Helen repeated. "Thank you for getting me out of jail, and for assisting me with this mission. I'd have been in dire straits had you not been there. Thank you." She turned and walked away, holding her skirt up just enough that it didn't brush the ground. Charlotte thought about pointing out that the fire brigade had asked them to stay, but she doubted it mattered to Helen. Typical cocky British bitch. Charlotte looked at the house and then jogged down the driveway to catch up.
"Hey, Officer Doctor." Helen stopped and turned, watching as Charlotte hurried toward her. "Tell me more about New York."
Helen smiled and fell into step with Charlotte as she slowed from a trot to a walk, casually going back to Charlotte's waiting sedan as Helen laid out what she had in mind.
Author: geonncannon
Fandom: Sanctuary
Pairing: Helen Magnus/Charlotte Benoit, Helen Magnus/Helena G Wells
Word Count: 4,194
Category: AU, romance, action
Spoilers: Tempus, Monsoon
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me!
Rating: Mature
Author's Notes: Part III of The Present is Theirs; The Future is Mine. It's not entirely necessary to read the other two stories so, if you haven't, a quick primer: When Helen Magnus went back to 1898, she decided to use her unique position to change the timeline for the better. Eventually known as Dame Doctor Helen Magnus, DBE, she works with the members of the Five and H.G. Wells to craft a better world than the one she remembers. The contemporary Helen Magnus becomes an SIS Officer. H.G. Wells, currently in a romantic relationship with Dame Magnus, allowed herself to become impregnated with Helen's ovum and gave birth to Ashley Christina Magnus-Wells who, by 1918, has become a primary member of her mother's team. Also Dame Magnus' two decades in the past has caused unforeseen changes to the world causing her new reality to grow further and further from the world she remembers.
Summary: In which Helen's decision to alter the timeline causes unusual twists of Fate, including the century-early arrival of one Charlotte Benoit, Pinkerton agent.
AO3 link
1925: London
"My memory is playing tricks on me again."
The comment was uttered quietly, just under her breath, but Nikola still heard it from across the room. "Perhaps you are playing tricks on your mind."
Dame Helen smiled and ran her fingers over the shapes of countries carved into the ornate tabletop map. It was relatively new, only five years old, but it contained countries she'd never heard of. Wars and minor skirmishes had been fought in the past two decades. Not the big one that she remembered, but battles just as fierce in their violence. People still died. Arbitrary lines were replaced by different lines. She touched one of the small newfound countries in Eastern Europe and turned away to join Nikola at the other table.
They were in the library, the stately and elegant room of books that stretched the length of her new Sanctuary. It was the heart of the building, as it should be, with a skylight that revealed a three-quarter moon overhead. Helen walked to where Nikola was standing and peered over his shoulder. He was looking at the scroll she had written before the turn of the century, recording her memories of the way things had once been.
"I'm surprised you keep that so near at hand. It hasn't come in useful in ages."
Nikola shrugged. "Certain things could still come to pass. This stock market debacle of the thirties is alarming. If nothing else, your dear Helena can publish it as a novel."
"Mm," Helen said. "An alternate history, postulation of a world that now seems dystopian by comparison. It's hard to believe that my actions have had such a dramatic effect on the world."
"Surprising? Oh, Helen. I'm certain that even in the 'other' timeline you spent a fair amount of your time changing the world. Why would this time around be any different? Blessed with future knowledge, you were bound to cause waves where once you made mere ripples." He smiled at her and Helen touched the small of his back as she stepped away. "Speaking of your contemporary self, have you spoken to her?"
"Not since she traveled to America with Ashley." They were setting up the first in a worldwide network of Sanctuaries, an autonomous entity that would serve all nations of the world rather than being beholden to any one. Helen would never again allow her father's creation to become mired in politics and posturing. It was Helen's choice to remain in London to oversee the centerpiece of her kingdom. James had taken to calling it Camelot and, with a three-decade early apology to John and Jackie, Helen had allowed it to stick.
"How is your twin faring in the new world?"
"Oh, you know Magnus women, Nikola. I'm certain she's staying out of trouble."
Boston, Mass.
SIS Officer Helen Magnus was not impressed with the quality of American prisons. Nor was she particularly fond of the men who occupied them, whether as prisoner or peace officer. With her hands secured behind her back by steel cuffs, her hair tangled from the scuffle she'd caused resisting arrest, and her feet bare so she couldn't inflict any damage with the sharp stilettos of the heel, she was feeling righteously furious. She sat on a bench, her shoulders and back awkwardly angled to allow for the position of her arms as she waited for something.
The specifics weren't important. Ashley would explain the situation and get her free, or the charges would be dropped by the mayor, or the wiesfel she'd come to capture would be spotted and in the ensuing panic she would barter her freedom in exchange for stopping the rampage. She didn't care which happened so long as it happened soon. She had been sitting in the cell for over two hours and she desperately needed to use the powder room.
The jailer's keys made a musical sound as he unlocked the door to the holding cells. Helen rose from her bench and went to the bars, pressing her face against them to watch as he entered. It was the Captain, Joseph Burke, and she smiled. "What's wrong, Captain? Did your men get tired of arguing with me?"
He ignored the question. "We have someone who wants to talk with you, sweetheart. An old friend of the department. Thinks you may have information she needs. Talk to her and I may treat you more sweetly."
Helen batted her eyelashes at him. "Why, my lord, I'm not certain that's possible."
Burke rolled his eyes and turned toward the person who had come in behind him. "Careful with her. She's a sly one. Hardly been in town a month and already I'm having recurring nightmares about her."
"You dream about me?"
Burke cursed under his breath, but his cheeks were red as he ducked out of the room. The woman he'd brought in stepped closer to the bars. Helen took the woman's measure with a quick head-to-toe scan. She wore men's clothing, but more for ease than to make a statement. Her shirt was striped with a high collar but no tie, and she wore braces that hooked onto her wool trousers with large black buttons. Her hair was jet black and bundled at the base of her skull, a bowler hat placed on top of it to shade her eyes. She wore scuffed two-tone saddle shoes, evidence that she wasn't vain about her appearance or scared of doing a bit of legwork when necessary. She had her hands in her pockets, but Helen knew that her fingernails would be blunt or chewed.
"So you're the limey that's gotten every cop in Boston wetting himself."
"I do what I can. Helen Magnus, SIS."
"Charlotte Benoit. Pinkerton."
Helen pursed her lips, feigning that she was impressed. "And what does a private police officer want with little old me?"
"You're stepping on my toes."
"From the looks of your shoes, a far many people have stepped on your toes."
Charlotte stepped closer to the bars. "Wesley Ferrell. What do you know about him?"
"Well, I suppose as of this moment, I know his name and that the Pinkertons are interested in him. Other than that, I'm at a loss."
"I find that very hard to believe, Miss Magnus. Because for the past six years I've searched every nook and cranny of this city for Wesley. And now that I am finally getting close, suddenly you and your son show up and start getting in my way. I want to know why."
Helen took a few seconds to put things together. Ashley was in male garb for this leg of their trip, taking advantage of her unisex name to open doors that would otherwise have remained closed to her. Six years ago was 1919, when Boston was nearly shut down by the police strike. That would explain the Pinkerton interest. And if Helen's search was overlapping with Charlotte's, it meant that the agent was unknowingly hunting an Abnormal.
"Ferrell was a strike organizer, wasn't he? He urged the police to go on strike for better working conditions, and you were brought in to quell the unrest." She turned her head to the side, her mind still working. "Of course. They're pranksters. The revel in discord."
Charlotte narrowed her eyes. "What are you muttering about?"
Helen looked up again. "Ms. Benoit, it's not my intention to step on your toes. We're after the same quarry so I believe we can come to some mutual arrangement that would work for us both."
"And why should I help you?"
"Because in three weeks I've gotten closer to Wesley Farrell than you have in six years. If I were you, I'd certainly take an advantage like that."
London
"It's a question of Fate, I suppose." James twisted his wrist, watching the firelight dance through the liquid in his tumbler. "Certain things are destined to occur, while others are malleable. Ashley's birth in the nineteenth century rather than the twentieth, the sinking of the Titanic on her fourth voyage rather than her first."
"I suppose it is an interesting example of free will versus determinism." Dame Helen turned to look at H.G., who was at her desk under the window. She was near completion of the first draft of a novel called Memory's End. In Helen's own memory, Helena Wells was bronzed at the Warehouse for most of this century and her brother, Charles, continued writing under her name. In forty years he never produced anything that stuck in the minds of the reading public like the famous four. The Invisible Man, War of the Worlds, The Time Machine, The Island of Doctor Moreau... Helen had to confess a certain fondness for the latter, which had been partially inspired by H.G.'s introduction to the Sanctuary.
In this timeline, H.G. was writing for herself. Her brother's very fine The Sleeper Awakes was replaced with Time Askew. She used Helen's own experiences of being tossed backward through time to give the story a much-needed shot of life. She was well on the way to becoming the literary juggernaut she well deserved to be.
Dame Helen looked back at James, who had been watching her observe the writer. Helen sipped her tea and wet her lips. "But what of people? Those I knew or was destined to meet in the future. If there was something Fate had in store for me in 2015 or 2165, must I simply wait an extra century for it to occur? And given how much I've changed the world I once knew already, how can it be certain that the circumstances will still be right when the time does come?"
"I believe," James said carefully, "that the universe is fragile and resilient in the same breath. It requires things so precisely, and yet it corrects itself when it must. If something was writ for Helen Magnus on the page of the gods, you can be certain that it will find a way to bring it about."
Boston, Mass
Helen Magnus followed Charlotte Benoit from the jail, flashing a smile at the officers she passed. They didn't return the expression, but she flicked a goodbye wave with her fingers before stepping out into the sunshine. She unfolded the curled stems of her sunglasses and hooked them over her ears. Once she was out of the stationhouse and no longer viewed as a criminal, an air of respectability seemed to settle over her. She wore a black whalebone corset over a white blouse, the underbust lifting her breasts against the paper-thin satin. Her dress was long and charcoal-gray, brushing the top of her French heel boots.
Helen pressed the round lenses closer to her eyes and examined the black sedan waiting for Charlotte at the curb. Charlotte held the door open for her, only getting inside once Helen was settled against the opposite door. "Where can we pick up your son?"
"Oh, don't worry. Ashley has a way of finding me."
Charlotte told the driver to head north, and then faced Helen. "Okay, Officer Doctor. I got you out of the pokey, so now it's time for your part of the bargain. Tell me where Wesley Farrell is hiding."
"The first thing you must understand, Agent Benoit, is that our prey is not a standard criminal. He's no mere anarchist."
Charlotte held up a hand to stop her speaking. She unfastened the three buttons on her cuff and rolled the sleeve up to her elbow. She turned her hand so that her folded fingers faced the top of the sedan and Helen removed her sunglasses to better see what she was being shown. Three long pink lines ran diagonally across Charlotte's forearm, with a fourth cutting across them like a score mark.
"He gave me that last time I was stupid enough to get close to him. I was lucky, I suppose. He took off my partner's hand."
"I'm sorry," Helen said.
Charlotte looked at Helen to make sure she was sincere, then nodded once and rolled her sleeve back down. "After that I got smart. I adjusted my tactics."
"By finding someone else to get close so they would be the ones who suffered if he lashed out again."
Charlotte smiled ruefully. "Call them decoys. It sounds less bloodthirsty."
"Hm." Helen turned to watch the buildings scroll past the window. "I always new Americans were a bit crass..."
"Prisoners," Charlotte said. "I use prisoners, like you. Men who have little more in their future than a visit to Old Sparky or a firing squad. At least my way they get to die trying to do something good. They die for a purpose. And I go on to fight another day. You go after things like this all the time, I assume. Do you do any different?"
"Those who work with me receive training. I don't simply throw them at whatever creature I happen to be hunting at the moment. You'd be better served coating them with offal and tossing them into the water to capture a shark." She looked out the window again. "Tell your driver to turn north at the next intersection. I'll help you capture your prey, Charlotte Benoit, but after that we part ways."
Charlotte took a cheroot from her pocket and pinched it between her lips. "Fine by me, Officer Doctor. Sooner I see the backside of you and this case, the better."
"You smoke?" Helen said.
Charlotte offered her a smile. "Crass American, right?"
"Hardly. I was only hoping you would have another."
Charlotte took a puff, curled her finger around the cigar, and held it out to Helen. Helen took it and placed it between her lips. She hadn't smoked in a while, but her other self, the one a century her senior, told her that she'd suffered no ill effects from her infrequent drug use, so she'd decided to give in a little. She let the smoke waft from her slightly parted lips and handed it back, letting her fingers brush Charlotte's.
"Is that what Americans call smoking the peace pipe?"
"I don't call myself an American." She took a drag and let the smoke out slowly. "I'm Chinese and French."
Helen took a more critical look at her new companion. High cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes... she could definitely see both influences combined in the elegant line of her face. Her small chin and wide mouth were suddenly very inviting, and Helen forced herself to look away before Charlotte noticed her expression.
London
"Time heals all wounds. Perhaps not just our wounds, but those we inflict upon it."
Dame Helen was in H.G.'s bed, the authoress and inventor massaging her tired back. She closed her eyes and considered her brilliant friend's reasoning. "So you theorize that time has a set course, and nothing we do can affect it. We can only delay it for a while before it sets things right."
"Like a river or an ocean. We may displace it by submerging ourselves in it, but the water reshapes and resumes its former path despite our interference."
Helen smiled, eyes closed. "'There is no difference between Time and any of the three dimensions of Space except that our consciousness moves along it.'"
H.G. smoothed her fingers over Helen's deltoid and barely suppressed a snicker. "Must you quote my books at me?"
"They were classics. They will be classics." She adjusted her cheek on her forearm. "That feels wonderful, my dear..."
"Not too hard?"
"No, no." Helen sighed. "Not at all."
H.G. resumed her massage. A minute, perhaps two, passed before she spoke again. "I know why you're concerned. The Great War you prevented, the influenza that James helped end. You fear that by preventing the awful things you remember you're also destroying all the good. But in order for that to be true, you'd have to believe that good things only exist because of the bad."
"I worry that there's a balance. People are still dying, Helena. Thousands are killed in wars I've never heard of. The Titanic still sank. What if one of the people who died went on to do great things? What if their descendant cured a dreadful disease or I caused the death of someone integral to the Moon landing?"
"I still think you're making that one up," H.G. said quietly. "Even if we could, who would be moronic enough to want to go?"
"You're the one who wrote about it," Helen reminded her.
H.G. sighed. "You're playing chess with the entire world, Helen. Two billion lives in the palm of your hand. It's too much. No one can possibly hope to balance so many spinning plates." She slid her fingers under the straps of Helen's nightgown and dug her fingers into the soft, warm flesh. Helen grunted and arched her back, pressing harder against H.G.'s hands. "What I'm about to say to me is almost blasphemous, so I want you to understand how difficult it is for me to say. Give up."
"You're joking."
"Not in the slightest. You've moved through time, Helen. You didn't go back to the past, you moved through time itself. And now here you lie, in another reality that you can shape as you see fit. You were given a playbook and you've made admirable strides. But the world has changed. Your memories are no longer as accurate as they once were. The river is full of ripples, Helen Magnus, and even you cannot predict where they will settle." She smoothed her hands across Helen's shoulders, in the process pushing her straps aside. She bent down and kissed the nape of Helen's neck. "Relax. Stop being reactive and be proactive."
"Mm. Excellent advice, my lovely Helena... in fact, I believe there is a proactive step I could take right now."
"Ah, do tell, Dame Magnus..."
Helen twisted under H.G. and pulled her down for a kiss.
Boston, Mass
The body of the motorbike hung low between the two wheels. Its engine sagged low to the road like a sow's belly, the handlebars jutting up, out and back like the horns of some demonic cattle. Its rider, blonde hair feathering out from beneath a leather cap and eyes hidden behind opaque goggles, dismounted and dusted off his britches before striding over to where Helen and Charlotte sat on the top step of the house. Helen had a cigarette which she was sharing with Charlotte, passing it back and forth twice before Ashley reached them.
"Ferrell?" Ashley asked.
Helen held the cigarette smoke in her mouth for as long as she could, then blew it out through pursed lips. She rubbed the back of her hand under her nose. "We couldn't find him. We're fairly certain he's somewhere... back there." She gestured vaguely over her shoulder.
Charlotte pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, snickering with the cigarette clutched between her first two fingers. Soot was smeared across her cheek and brow, and her bowler was cocked back on her head to reveal waves of dark curls that fell over her forehead. Her shirt was unbuttoned far enough to see the scoop neck of a tank top underneath.
Ashley scanned the detritus. What had once been a rather elegant estate was now nothing but ruins. The porch on which Helen and Charlotte sat was the only thing left standing, the top of it missing so that the pillars seemed oddly truncated and wholly useless. The dust from the building's collapse was still wafting through the air, and Ashley could hear the sirens of the fire brigade approaching.
Helen sobered slightly and brushed off her skirt. "We'll stay here and explain the situation to the officials. And we'll observe the excavation just to be certain Mr. Ferrell didn't remain in his natural form when he died. Charlotte... oh. This is Pinkerton agent Charlotte Benoit. Charlotte Benoit, my son. Ashley."
Charlotte waved her hand vaguely. "Charmed, I'm sure."
"Charlotte," Helen continued, "has connections with the city government. We'll arrange for the corpse, in whatever state it's in, to be taken to a place of our choosing." She took the cigarette from Charlotte, took a drag, and squinted at Ashley through the haze. "You do realize I've been doing this for a long time. You don't have to check up on me."
"Uncle John asked me to be sure--"
Helen sneered. "Uncle John." She glanced away to get her emotions under control. She sighed heavily. "You're certain it wasn't Dame Helen?"
Ashley sighed. "I don't want to fight. They just noticed you've been a little more reckless lately." A long pause as the goggles turned back to the former home, the destruction reflected in the lenses. "I can't say they're exactly wrong."
"I'll be fine. Now be a good lad. Go back to the hotel and send them a telegraph. Let them know that we've accomplished our mission."
Ashley hesitated, but then turned and walked back to the bike without another word.
Charlotte watched Ashley go, eyeing the motorbike until it was out of sight. The fire brigade arrived moments later, forcing Helen and Charlotte to stand up and move off the porch and out of their way. They were ordered not to leave the site, but also not to venture too close to the building until it had been secured. They lingered in the limbo of suitable distance, silent until the cigarette burned itself out. Charlotte whispered "ow" before she dropped it and crushed the ashes under her boot heel.
"So." She crossed her arms under her small breasts. "Your... son."
"Yes. A fine young man."
"Hm." It was partially a laugh, partially a challenge that Helen didn't take up. "So Dame Helen?"
Helen exhaled sharply through her nostrils. "An... older sister who excels at everything she puts her mind to, who is ideal in every way. Smarter, faster, stronger, prettier, more relaxed in every situation. I'm not petty or vain, but sometimes that woman's smugness irritates the hell out of me."
Charlotte narrowed her eyes. "You and your sister are both named Helen?"
"Yes."
No explanation was given, so none was requested. Charlotte watched the fire brigade pick through the remains of Ferrell's house. They wanted to bring him in peacefully but he'd resisted. He'd tried to take them out by going full-animal, and the result was catastrophic to his property values. Helen had managed to subdue him, putting a bullet in the soft spot of his skull and sending his bulky carcass crashing to the floor. Charlotte had dragged Helen out of the house moments before the building crashed down around their ears.
"Now what?" Charlotte said softly. Helen looked askance at her, and Charlotte shrugged. She gestured at the house, keeping her chin out as she spoke. "I've spent six years looking for his man. Now he's dead. Six years of my life. I relocated to find this bastard. I risked everything I had to bring him down. Now he's down, I won, and I have no idea what I'm going to do tomorrow morning."
"You can make me breakfast."
Charlotte looked at her. "That sounded like an indecent proposition, Officer Doctor."
"Then I said it correctly. Don't tell me you only fancy men."
Charlotte faced forward again. "Women are fine," she said, letting the words hang so that she wouldn't be misunderstood. "It's cheeky British bitches I have a problem with."
Helen laughed. "Well, it was only an offer. I'd hate myself in the morning had I not taken the chance."
Charlotte reached up and adjusted her hat, looking past the destruction at the rest of the neighborhood. "Have you ever felt like your entire life was wrong? Like you were supposed to be somewhere else, doing something else, and you were just waiting for the moment when it all clicked into place?"
Helen's expression became serious. "I do."
"Yeah." Charlotte sighed and faced Helen. "Thank you for your help, Officer Doctor."
"Please. Helen." She took Charlotte's hand, squeezing it just a touch harder and holding it a moment longer than absolutely necessary. Then, she brought the hand to her mouth and kissed the knuckles. "If you're ever in New York, we're starting something. Something large. Perhaps it could be the thing that clicks you into place. Be well, Agent Benoit."
"Charlotte."
"Charlotte," Helen repeated. "Thank you for getting me out of jail, and for assisting me with this mission. I'd have been in dire straits had you not been there. Thank you." She turned and walked away, holding her skirt up just enough that it didn't brush the ground. Charlotte thought about pointing out that the fire brigade had asked them to stay, but she doubted it mattered to Helen. Typical cocky British bitch. Charlotte looked at the house and then jogged down the driveway to catch up.
"Hey, Officer Doctor." Helen stopped and turned, watching as Charlotte hurried toward her. "Tell me more about New York."
Helen smiled and fell into step with Charlotte as she slowed from a trot to a walk, casually going back to Charlotte's waiting sedan as Helen laid out what she had in mind.