A Kind of Blindness: Chapter Four
A Kind of Blindness
Fewthistle
Warehouse 13
Myka/H.G.
Disclaimer: Property of Syfy and other foolish souls who squandered the wonder that is Helena and Myka. I would never have been so unwise.
Rating: R, probably
Chapter 4/?
Words: 3,754
Author’s Note: This is a sequel to By the Pricking of My Thumbs. While it is not absolutely necessary for you to have read it, I would suggest you take a gander, if only to know what in the world is going on, since I veered completely away from canon into my own much happier world. Besides, my greedy little Muse insists on pointing out that it’s not too bad and who doesn’t enjoy a good read? *bg*. My eternal gratitude to darandkerry for finding all those missing words, removing all those extra spaces, and keeping me ever vigilant. You are the best, Tex-Ass!! Love ya!
The use of Millville, California and surrounding area is entirely accidental and wishes no harm to that lovely part of the country. I just liked the name.
A/N 2: The title of this piece comes from here: have a listen. Wait
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Redding, California
“So,” Pete said around a large mouthful of pancakes, “you’re sure that we shouldn’t run this whole Nero thing by Artie?”
Myka glanced sideways to meet Helena’s eyes. They were sitting in a booth at the Black Bear Diner and both women were watching in fascination as Pete mowed his way through an enormous plate of pancakes, eggs and bacon called The Volcano. Helena simply grinned, a bit awed at the amount of food that he had devoured in a relatively short period of time.
“We think we should probably wait until we have something substantial to report,” Myka replied, taking a sip of coffee and fiddling with a piece of toast.
“In other words,” Helena broke in, “until we have something that isn’t reliant solely upon my opinion. I think that we can all safely assume that as soon as we say that I believe that it might be the lyre, Artie will completely disregard the suggestion and attempt to steer us in another direction.”
“Aw, come on now, Artie wouldn’t ignore it just because it came from you,” Pete asserted, his confidence dwindling quickly at the disbelieving expressions on Myka and Helena’s faces. “Okay, so maybe he would.”
“Yeah, he would,” Myka agreed. “So, let’s see if we can come up with anything concrete to give him. Helena and I will go back and talk to Mrs. Chambers’ grandson…”
Pete interrupted, his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk preparing for winter. “Hey, maybe I should talk to the kid. You know ‘de hombre a hombre’.”
“Pete, he’s eleven. I don’t think that qualifies as an hombre,” Myka laughed. “Although, considering you have the maturity level of a thirteen year old boy, kid to kid might work.”
Helena chuckled over the top of her coffee cup, eyes crinkled in amusement. “He may be right. The young man might actually feel more of a kinship with Pete than with the two of us.”
Myka hesitated a moment, catching her bottom lip nervously between her teeth. “You sure you don’t mind? I mean, with the smell and everything?”
Pete’s shoulders squared, his chin tilting up slightly as he nodded. “Absolutely. I’ll be fine. It’s just a little smoke, right?” He turned his attention back to his pancakes, spearing part of a stack with a vengeance.
His demeanor reminded Helena forcefully of her brother, Charles, a sharp stab of loss piercing her chest. When they were young, she had dared him to make the leap into the cold waters of the River Cray near Joynson’s Mill. She had known that he was frightened, uncertain of his abilities to swim in the deep, swirling waters.
He had stood on the edge of the bank, his shirt stripped off, his chest narrow and startlingly white, a six year old boy trying desperately to be a man. He had ended up with a broken leg and she with a feeling, part guilt at her treatment of him, part satisfaction that she had emerged from the water triumphant and unfettered.
It was a feeling with which she had become reacquainted many times over the years, her sense of having conquered obstacles few other women had dared approach tempered by an odd, fleeting feeling of guilt that she was not what her mother had hoped she would be, that she had failed to fit into the mould of the proper Victorian woman.
The guilt had always been overshadowed by the achievement, but traces of it stuck in her mind, like nearly invisible splatters of paint in the corner of a room; traces that left her wondering in the middle of the night if she was worthy of the woman sleeping beside her.
The same woman who now sat beside her, forehead creased in a concerned frown that the traumas of Pete’s childhood would make the interview too painful. “Yeah? Okay, well, if you’re sure, then why don’t Helena and I drop you off in Millville and we can drive out to the camp and see if we can find anything out there?”
“Don’t suppose that Claudia has come up with anything?” Pete asked, wiping up the last of the syrup on his plate with his finger. He glanced up to meet two pairs of disapproving eyes. “What? It’s real maple syrup. Do you know how many poor maple trees gave their lives so I could have this syrup?”
“They don’t cut the trees down, Pete,” Myka rolled her eyes, her tone that of a kindergarten teacher. “They take a peg and drill a small hole and tap the tree so that the sap runs out.”
“And you don’t think that hurts?” Pete asked cheekily, his finger taking another pass along the thick ceramic plate. “How’d you like it if someone tapped you? Oh, wait, that’s already happening, isn’t it?”
Pete doubled over with laughter at both the expression of annoyance on Myka’s face and the clearly puzzled look on Helena’s.
“Clearly I have missed some new denotation for that word,” Helena stated questioningly.
Myka started to explain, her mouth opening and closing a few times, an embarrassed flush coloring her cheeks, only to be interrupted by Pete’s loud guffawing. Finally, she simply picked up her phone, and after a few moments of scrolling, handed the phone to Helena.
Helena’s dark eyes moved quickly over the screen. She glared dangerously at Pete. “You really are a Neanderthal, aren’t you?”
Pete laughed again, although this time there was a trace of nervousness as Helena continued to shoot daggers his way. “Oh, come on, you two. You gotta admit, it was a little funny. Tap, tree, syrup, tap, Myka. I should shut up now, shouldn’t I?”
“That would be a very wise decision on your part,” Helena said warningly, the smile gracing her full lips holding more menace than mirth.
Myka leaned back against the red vinyl of the booth and smirked at Pete’s discomfiture.
“Alrighty then, I say we get out of here and head back to Millville,” Pete said, his voice just a tad higher than usual as he smiled tentatively at Helena, edging away from the table. “I’ll just take care of the check.”
“I would say that is the least you can do.” As soon as Pete was out of earshot Helena began to chuckle, turning to meet Myka’s amused smile. “I do believe I still make him a bit nervous.”
“That’s good. A little fear is a wonderful thing,” Myka grinned, slipping her hand under the table to run it along Helena’s thigh. “I can see why you liked it when I defended your honor. It’s kind of sexy.”
Helena’s breathing stuttered for a moment as Myka’s fingers traced along the inner seam of her pant leg. “Quite sexy, darling. However, if you don’t stop doing that with your fingers, there will no doubt be many people besides dear Peter who will be aware of who is tapping whom.”
“Only you could make a rather vulgar slang term sound classy,” Myka laughed, rising from her seat to offer Helena her hand. The older woman slid elegantly out of the booth. “Let’s drop Pete off and see if we can find any sign of our mad fiddler at the camp.”
Camp Kanuga, Outside Millville, California
Helena wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but the collection of dilapidated buildings resembled more of a barracks than a place one would send one’s child for a summer of fun and adventure. There was a rusted gate across the rutted dirt road that led to the camp entrance, secured by an equally rusted padlock and chain. Large “No Trespassing” signs hung on either post, the paint dull and chipped. Myka parked the SUV in front of the gate, bending down to examine the lock.
“This thing hasn’t been opened in years, so that means our mysterious camper must have walked in,” Myka said thoughtfully, her eyes scanning the ground for signs of recent footprints, but the earth was too hard-packed for any trace to remain.
“Over the top, then?” Helena asked, even as she placed one booted foot on a thick metal bar, grasping hold of the gate and in a single graceful leap, vaulting to the other side to land with a mute thud.
Myka stood in admiring wonder for a moment before following Helena’s example and climbing to the other side of the fence. They walked in silence down the dirt lane, the ground hard as cement beneath their feet. The air was cold and damp, the clouds an endless flat plain of grayish-white wool. Helena pulled her leather coat tighter, cinching the belt around her waist and turning up the collar. She could smell the snow that she knew must be falling on Mt. Shasta, the scent of it mingling with the spicy aroma of the firs and pines that lined the road and shaded the cabins.
The buildings were little more than shacks, tin roofs pitted and rusted, the paint so faded that the color was now indistinguishable, a flat, lifeless gray all that remained. The smaller cabins formed a semi-circle around a larger building, or what had been a larger building. There was nothing left but the dark outline, drawn in ash and charcoal and the sooty debris of what remained of the roof. Myka stepped gingerly through the rubble, bending down to examine the ground at what had been the center of the building.
“This looks like where the fire started,” she said, rubbing the white ash between her fingers. “It probably spread pretty quickly. It may have just been someone camping out here. He or she started a fire to keep warm and it got out of control.”
“If that’s true, darling, then why are none of the other buildings even singed? Aside from the gaping hole where this cabin used to be, nothing else shows the slightest sign of fire damage,” Helena asked, her gaze sweeping around the grounds.
“Okay, so maybe he put it out?” Myka hypothesized, looking around for any source of water and seeing nothing, not even a hose. “Or not.”
“These buildings are so old and ramshackle I’m surprised they’re even standing,” Helena stated, walking towards the nearest cabin. “Look at this wood. Rotted, termite ridden, a veritable tinderbox awaiting a spark.”
“So, you’re saying that whoever our firebug is, he had control of the fire,” Myka said slowly, her eyes meeting Helena’s as the implications set in.
“Yes. If I’m right about the lyre, and I truly believe that I am, then the person playing it has complete control over the flames. The fire literally dances to the tune being plucked on the strings. He can make it do anything he wishes, go anywhere he wishes,” Helena responded. “The legend of the lyre says that as Nero played, it became imbued with all the corruption, all the moral decay of his court.”
“He had his mother killed, didn’t he?” Myka asked, lips thinned in an expression of distaste.
“Among others,” Helena answered. “The Warehouse has been searching for the lyre for centuries. If I recall correctly, the last known sighting, for lack of a better word, was in London in September of 1666.”
“The Great Fire of London: Samuel Pepys wrote about it in his diary. I remember reading it in high school,” Myka mused, stepping through the doorway of the old cabin. “So no one has seen or heard of it since?”
“Rumors here and there, but nothing reputable upon which to rely,” Helena confirmed with a smile, pleased at Myka’s wealth of knowledge. She followed Myka inside, stepping carefully over the splintered doorframe.
As her eyes adjusted to the light, Helena’s gaze was caught by a small, round object lying against the battered baseboard. She reached down and picked it up, rolling it gently between her fingers, her expression wistful.
“What is it?” Myka asked, stepping closer to see what the other woman held.
“A marble,” Helena said softly. “Although it wasn’t a common toy for a little girl, Christina loved marbles. I think it was the colors and patterns in the glass more than anything.”
“May I ask you something?” Myka’s voice was hesitant, her expression uncertain.
“Darling, you don’t have to inquire as to whether you can ask me something,” Helena chided gently, closing her fist around the marble and slipping it into her pocket. “You should know you may ask me anything.”
There was a long pause and Helena could see Myka trying to formulate how to say the words. Finally, with a deep sigh, she asked quietly, “Who was Christina’s father?”
Helena gave her a half-smile. “I’m afraid I don’t know.”
“You don’t….you don’t know who fathered your child?” Myka stammered, eyes wide with shock at Helena’s answer.
“I don’t actually know who her mother was either,” Helena replied, stepping closer to take Myka’s hand in her own, surprised at how cold her skin felt. “Goodness, darling, your hands are freezing. We should get back to the car.”
“Wait a minute,” Myka said, eyebrows almost to her hairline, her tone a little sharper than she intended. “What do you mean, you don’t know who her mother was either?”
“I adopted Christina when she barely a week old,” Helena explained, taking both Myka’s hands between her own and rubbing them gently, willing the warmth back into them. “She was left on my brother’s doorstep. Literally. You must understand, darling, that England in my day was a very different place. Poverty was overwhelming and rampant; there were thousands of orphans wandering the streets of London. There were few child labor laws and those that did exist were not enforced.”
“I’ve read Oliver Twist,” Myka responded, her thoughts clearly confused as she focused her gaze on the movement of Helena’s hands.
“Ah, yes. Good old Charlie. He did paint quite the picture,” Helena smiled fondly, her smile fading as she continued. “A very grim picture. The treatment of the poor was appalling, particularly women and children. You must realize, Victorian morality did not allow for unwed mothers. In fact, women were not supposed to possess any sexual feelings. And the laws passed by a government of old men created an incredibly harsh environment for women who found themselves in the family way with no husband. Men were given leave to father as many children as they liked with absolutely no consequences. The law laid all the burden on raising the child solely on the mother.”
“So, you never got married? You adopted Christina?” Myka asked, biting her lip nervously. She could see the frost in the air as she exhaled, lingering in a cloud of moisture between them.
“Yes, I adopted Christina. I suspected at the time that perhaps my brother had some role in her conception, although of course he denied it. One of the maids in his house, a Gladys Rogers, suddenly quit one day. She was very young, a rather attractive girl, and my brother did have a roaming eye. Seven months later a baby appeared on the doorstep,” Helena recalled, her expression softening as she spoke, the planes of her face shifting. “I took one look at her, her tiny hands bunched up into fists, a shock of black hair on her head, her eyes wide open and gazing fiercely at the world and I fell in love. Completely, hopelessly in love with her. I may not have given birth to her, but she was my daughter, my Christina.”
Myka suddenly grasped the hands rubbing hers, entwining her fingers with Helena’s and pulling the other woman close to her. Helena leaned her forehead against Myka’s shoulder, overcome with the rush of memories. At length she raised her head, her dark eyes shining with tears. Myka raised her hand and captured them one by one, her thumb raking gently across Helena’s cheeks.
“I’m so sorry,” Myka said tenderly. “I didn’t mean to make you cry. I’ve just…I’ve been curious but I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to upset you.”
“You haven’t upset me, darling. I want to share these things with you, but it’s difficult to talk about. Losing Christina was the worst thing that has ever happened to me, and no matter how much time passes, or what I do, or where I go, that will never change. I miss her, every moment of every day, but I have realized that I must go on with my life. For a very long time I wasn’t certain that was true. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to go on, that I could bear a world without her in it. But now I know that I can bear it, that I can go forward with my life.
“And no, I never married, Myka,” Helena continued. Despite the tumult of emotion coursing through her mind, a warm glow washed over her as she saw the tension leave Myka’s face at her words. “My parents, of course, tried to arrange for a suitable husband for me, but I would have none of it. I know that my mother was horribly disappointed in me. I was far from the proper lady for whom she had so hoped. Still, I couldn’t contemplate spending my life with someone I didn’t love, someone I might not even like. In truth, I had never met anyone with whom I would even consider marriage. Until now.”
Helena watched as her words finally registered in Myka’s brain, watched as her mouth formed a perfect “o”, her eyes as wide as tea-saucers. She knew that she had crossed a line, that these were words that she couldn’t take back, and yet, she couldn’t manage even an inkling of regret. Whatever happened, she was not going to lose this time by not playing the game. Cards on the table, all her chips in, winner take all. Anything less wasn’t worthy of this love she felt. Wasn’t worthy of this woman she loved.
A shy, sweet, breathtaking smile slowly spread across Myka’s face. The frigid air that surrounded them became infused with a rush of warmth as she pulled Helena to her, sliding her arms around Helena’s waist and pressing her body firmly against her own. She tilted her head down and brushed her lips once, twice, three times across Helena’s mouth, the barest of caresses, her nose nuzzling gently along the elegant line of Helena’s jaw.
With her lips pressed against the smooth skin of Helena’s cheek, Myka asked softly, “Did you just propose to me?”
Helena laughed, burying her face in the thick fall of Myka’s hair, the fragrance of her shampoo and the faint, lingering scent of smoke tickling her nose. “It is possible that I might have suggested that at some point in the future it’s something we could consider doing.” Helena admitted, amazed at the sudden sense of terror that gripped her; terror not at her own answer but at what Myka’s response might be.
“If I had, in fact, suggested that we might, in the future, contemplate making that kind of commitment, would you be amenable to such an offer?” Helena asked, trying to keep her tone level and matter-of-fact and failing miserably.
“In the future? Would I think about considering your suggestion that we might contemplate that kind of commitment?” Myka grinned, pulling back to meet Helena’s eyes. “In other words, when you finally make up your mind that I’m not going anywhere and that you absolutely deserve to be loved like this and ask me to marry you, will I?”
Helena’s breath left her in one gasp, the cloud of frost rising like steam into the air. In Myka’s eyes there was no mockery, no teasing, only sincerity and love. The filthy cabin, the lingering scent of mildew and damp and the faint whisper of smoke all faded away. For just a moment, there was no artifact to locate, no mad arsonist sending music and flames dancing through the winter nights. There was just the two of them and Helena felt anew the miracle of it all. Somehow, in the mad, meandering workings of the universe, she had lost everything she held dear, only to find the one thing she had ever needed. The irony of it did not escape her.
“Will you?” Helena whispered, stunned by the weight of what was happening, by the import of these few words. The surrealness of the situation slammed into her, knocking the air from her lungs. They had come here looking for clues that would lead them to Nero’s lyre. How they had ended up like this, a few inches separating them, the promise of a lifetime balanced precariously in their hands was more than she could absorb right now.
“Helena, when you’re ready, ask me. Then I’ll say yes,” Myka said solemnly, the hint of a dimple appearing in her cheek as she continued, “Of course, we’ll have to move to Massachusetts. Or Vermont. There’s also Iowa, but somehow, I can’t picture you in the Hawkeye State. Way too much corn.”
“I love you.” Helena sighed, blinking rapidly in an attempt to stem the flood of tears building up behind her eyelids.
“I know,” Myka said just as softly. “I love you, too. I just need for you to believe it.”
“I’m trying. It may take me a while. Can you be patient with me, my love?” Helena asked, eyes closed as she leaned against Myka’s shoulder again.
“Always,” Myka promised.
They stood in the silence, the chill of the air beginning to seep in under the thickness of coats. Helena shivered as a gust of wind barreled through the small room.
“We should get out of here,” Myka urged, tugging Helena’s hand and drawing her outside. Above them, the sky had grown darker, the clouds so thick and low that it seemed one had only to reach up a hand and pull them down. “It’s going to start snowing. We should get Pete and get back to the hotel before it settles in. Hopefully, Claudia has found some connection between the fires.”
They trudged back to the SUV, the wind sharp and bitter against the bare skin of their faces. As they climbed back over the fence the first flakes of snow tumbled to the ground. They quickly climbed in the truck and headed back towards Millville. They didn’t see the figure that emerged from the shadow of the cabin they recently vacated to stand watching, motionless and silent, a grim, contemplative smile on his face.
TBC
A/N: The status of women and the poor in Victorian England is well-documented. Laws of the 19th century were incredibly punitive towards unwed mothers, as was the opinion of society in general. Given these commonly held beliefs, it has been somewhat inconceivable to me that Helena would have been an unmarried mother. Middle class women of her era simply did not have children out of wedlock, and if they did, faced terrible censure and public ostracizing. Given that by the 1890’s H.G. Wells was a successful novelist, despite the assertion on the show that Helena’s brother was the actual “face” of the author, I cannot believe that she could have had a child out of wedlock and been able to continue her collaboration with her brother.
I focus on the out of wedlock aspect of this because at no time in the canon portion of the show was a marriage or husband for Helena discussed. In fact, on several occasions, the opportunity arose to include the reference to a husband: in “When and Where”, when Helena was telling Claudia about the murder of her daughter and referred to herself as a “single mother, in today’s parlance”; in “Buried”, when Pete is mocking Helena, Claudia and Myka as possible sources of information on relationships, she merely mentions that, “many of my lovers have been men”, not “I was married, you know” or anything to that effect. Given this lack of any reference to marriage, and also, given the extreme taboo against unwed motherhood in Victorian times, it seemed more realistic and reasonable to write Helena as an adoptive mother. Thousands of children were adopted during this time. In fact, there were no real adoption laws in England until the 1920’s. I also felt that in some ways it gives added depth to her characterization.
Few
Fewthistle
Warehouse 13
Myka/H.G.
Disclaimer: Property of Syfy and other foolish souls who squandered the wonder that is Helena and Myka. I would never have been so unwise.
Rating: R, probably
Chapter 4/?
Words: 3,754
Author’s Note: This is a sequel to By the Pricking of My Thumbs. While it is not absolutely necessary for you to have read it, I would suggest you take a gander, if only to know what in the world is going on, since I veered completely away from canon into my own much happier world. Besides, my greedy little Muse insists on pointing out that it’s not too bad and who doesn’t enjoy a good read? *bg*. My eternal gratitude to darandkerry for finding all those missing words, removing all those extra spaces, and keeping me ever vigilant. You are the best, Tex-Ass!! Love ya!
The use of Millville, California and surrounding area is entirely accidental and wishes no harm to that lovely part of the country. I just liked the name.
A/N 2: The title of this piece comes from here: have a listen. Wait
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Redding, California
“So,” Pete said around a large mouthful of pancakes, “you’re sure that we shouldn’t run this whole Nero thing by Artie?”
Myka glanced sideways to meet Helena’s eyes. They were sitting in a booth at the Black Bear Diner and both women were watching in fascination as Pete mowed his way through an enormous plate of pancakes, eggs and bacon called The Volcano. Helena simply grinned, a bit awed at the amount of food that he had devoured in a relatively short period of time.
“We think we should probably wait until we have something substantial to report,” Myka replied, taking a sip of coffee and fiddling with a piece of toast.
“In other words,” Helena broke in, “until we have something that isn’t reliant solely upon my opinion. I think that we can all safely assume that as soon as we say that I believe that it might be the lyre, Artie will completely disregard the suggestion and attempt to steer us in another direction.”
“Aw, come on now, Artie wouldn’t ignore it just because it came from you,” Pete asserted, his confidence dwindling quickly at the disbelieving expressions on Myka and Helena’s faces. “Okay, so maybe he would.”
“Yeah, he would,” Myka agreed. “So, let’s see if we can come up with anything concrete to give him. Helena and I will go back and talk to Mrs. Chambers’ grandson…”
Pete interrupted, his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk preparing for winter. “Hey, maybe I should talk to the kid. You know ‘de hombre a hombre’.”
“Pete, he’s eleven. I don’t think that qualifies as an hombre,” Myka laughed. “Although, considering you have the maturity level of a thirteen year old boy, kid to kid might work.”
Helena chuckled over the top of her coffee cup, eyes crinkled in amusement. “He may be right. The young man might actually feel more of a kinship with Pete than with the two of us.”
Myka hesitated a moment, catching her bottom lip nervously between her teeth. “You sure you don’t mind? I mean, with the smell and everything?”
Pete’s shoulders squared, his chin tilting up slightly as he nodded. “Absolutely. I’ll be fine. It’s just a little smoke, right?” He turned his attention back to his pancakes, spearing part of a stack with a vengeance.
His demeanor reminded Helena forcefully of her brother, Charles, a sharp stab of loss piercing her chest. When they were young, she had dared him to make the leap into the cold waters of the River Cray near Joynson’s Mill. She had known that he was frightened, uncertain of his abilities to swim in the deep, swirling waters.
He had stood on the edge of the bank, his shirt stripped off, his chest narrow and startlingly white, a six year old boy trying desperately to be a man. He had ended up with a broken leg and she with a feeling, part guilt at her treatment of him, part satisfaction that she had emerged from the water triumphant and unfettered.
It was a feeling with which she had become reacquainted many times over the years, her sense of having conquered obstacles few other women had dared approach tempered by an odd, fleeting feeling of guilt that she was not what her mother had hoped she would be, that she had failed to fit into the mould of the proper Victorian woman.
The guilt had always been overshadowed by the achievement, but traces of it stuck in her mind, like nearly invisible splatters of paint in the corner of a room; traces that left her wondering in the middle of the night if she was worthy of the woman sleeping beside her.
The same woman who now sat beside her, forehead creased in a concerned frown that the traumas of Pete’s childhood would make the interview too painful. “Yeah? Okay, well, if you’re sure, then why don’t Helena and I drop you off in Millville and we can drive out to the camp and see if we can find anything out there?”
“Don’t suppose that Claudia has come up with anything?” Pete asked, wiping up the last of the syrup on his plate with his finger. He glanced up to meet two pairs of disapproving eyes. “What? It’s real maple syrup. Do you know how many poor maple trees gave their lives so I could have this syrup?”
“They don’t cut the trees down, Pete,” Myka rolled her eyes, her tone that of a kindergarten teacher. “They take a peg and drill a small hole and tap the tree so that the sap runs out.”
“And you don’t think that hurts?” Pete asked cheekily, his finger taking another pass along the thick ceramic plate. “How’d you like it if someone tapped you? Oh, wait, that’s already happening, isn’t it?”
Pete doubled over with laughter at both the expression of annoyance on Myka’s face and the clearly puzzled look on Helena’s.
“Clearly I have missed some new denotation for that word,” Helena stated questioningly.
Myka started to explain, her mouth opening and closing a few times, an embarrassed flush coloring her cheeks, only to be interrupted by Pete’s loud guffawing. Finally, she simply picked up her phone, and after a few moments of scrolling, handed the phone to Helena.
Helena’s dark eyes moved quickly over the screen. She glared dangerously at Pete. “You really are a Neanderthal, aren’t you?”
Pete laughed again, although this time there was a trace of nervousness as Helena continued to shoot daggers his way. “Oh, come on, you two. You gotta admit, it was a little funny. Tap, tree, syrup, tap, Myka. I should shut up now, shouldn’t I?”
“That would be a very wise decision on your part,” Helena said warningly, the smile gracing her full lips holding more menace than mirth.
Myka leaned back against the red vinyl of the booth and smirked at Pete’s discomfiture.
“Alrighty then, I say we get out of here and head back to Millville,” Pete said, his voice just a tad higher than usual as he smiled tentatively at Helena, edging away from the table. “I’ll just take care of the check.”
“I would say that is the least you can do.” As soon as Pete was out of earshot Helena began to chuckle, turning to meet Myka’s amused smile. “I do believe I still make him a bit nervous.”
“That’s good. A little fear is a wonderful thing,” Myka grinned, slipping her hand under the table to run it along Helena’s thigh. “I can see why you liked it when I defended your honor. It’s kind of sexy.”
Helena’s breathing stuttered for a moment as Myka’s fingers traced along the inner seam of her pant leg. “Quite sexy, darling. However, if you don’t stop doing that with your fingers, there will no doubt be many people besides dear Peter who will be aware of who is tapping whom.”
“Only you could make a rather vulgar slang term sound classy,” Myka laughed, rising from her seat to offer Helena her hand. The older woman slid elegantly out of the booth. “Let’s drop Pete off and see if we can find any sign of our mad fiddler at the camp.”
Camp Kanuga, Outside Millville, California
Helena wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but the collection of dilapidated buildings resembled more of a barracks than a place one would send one’s child for a summer of fun and adventure. There was a rusted gate across the rutted dirt road that led to the camp entrance, secured by an equally rusted padlock and chain. Large “No Trespassing” signs hung on either post, the paint dull and chipped. Myka parked the SUV in front of the gate, bending down to examine the lock.
“This thing hasn’t been opened in years, so that means our mysterious camper must have walked in,” Myka said thoughtfully, her eyes scanning the ground for signs of recent footprints, but the earth was too hard-packed for any trace to remain.
“Over the top, then?” Helena asked, even as she placed one booted foot on a thick metal bar, grasping hold of the gate and in a single graceful leap, vaulting to the other side to land with a mute thud.
Myka stood in admiring wonder for a moment before following Helena’s example and climbing to the other side of the fence. They walked in silence down the dirt lane, the ground hard as cement beneath their feet. The air was cold and damp, the clouds an endless flat plain of grayish-white wool. Helena pulled her leather coat tighter, cinching the belt around her waist and turning up the collar. She could smell the snow that she knew must be falling on Mt. Shasta, the scent of it mingling with the spicy aroma of the firs and pines that lined the road and shaded the cabins.
The buildings were little more than shacks, tin roofs pitted and rusted, the paint so faded that the color was now indistinguishable, a flat, lifeless gray all that remained. The smaller cabins formed a semi-circle around a larger building, or what had been a larger building. There was nothing left but the dark outline, drawn in ash and charcoal and the sooty debris of what remained of the roof. Myka stepped gingerly through the rubble, bending down to examine the ground at what had been the center of the building.
“This looks like where the fire started,” she said, rubbing the white ash between her fingers. “It probably spread pretty quickly. It may have just been someone camping out here. He or she started a fire to keep warm and it got out of control.”
“If that’s true, darling, then why are none of the other buildings even singed? Aside from the gaping hole where this cabin used to be, nothing else shows the slightest sign of fire damage,” Helena asked, her gaze sweeping around the grounds.
“Okay, so maybe he put it out?” Myka hypothesized, looking around for any source of water and seeing nothing, not even a hose. “Or not.”
“These buildings are so old and ramshackle I’m surprised they’re even standing,” Helena stated, walking towards the nearest cabin. “Look at this wood. Rotted, termite ridden, a veritable tinderbox awaiting a spark.”
“So, you’re saying that whoever our firebug is, he had control of the fire,” Myka said slowly, her eyes meeting Helena’s as the implications set in.
“Yes. If I’m right about the lyre, and I truly believe that I am, then the person playing it has complete control over the flames. The fire literally dances to the tune being plucked on the strings. He can make it do anything he wishes, go anywhere he wishes,” Helena responded. “The legend of the lyre says that as Nero played, it became imbued with all the corruption, all the moral decay of his court.”
“He had his mother killed, didn’t he?” Myka asked, lips thinned in an expression of distaste.
“Among others,” Helena answered. “The Warehouse has been searching for the lyre for centuries. If I recall correctly, the last known sighting, for lack of a better word, was in London in September of 1666.”
“The Great Fire of London: Samuel Pepys wrote about it in his diary. I remember reading it in high school,” Myka mused, stepping through the doorway of the old cabin. “So no one has seen or heard of it since?”
“Rumors here and there, but nothing reputable upon which to rely,” Helena confirmed with a smile, pleased at Myka’s wealth of knowledge. She followed Myka inside, stepping carefully over the splintered doorframe.
As her eyes adjusted to the light, Helena’s gaze was caught by a small, round object lying against the battered baseboard. She reached down and picked it up, rolling it gently between her fingers, her expression wistful.
“What is it?” Myka asked, stepping closer to see what the other woman held.
“A marble,” Helena said softly. “Although it wasn’t a common toy for a little girl, Christina loved marbles. I think it was the colors and patterns in the glass more than anything.”
“May I ask you something?” Myka’s voice was hesitant, her expression uncertain.
“Darling, you don’t have to inquire as to whether you can ask me something,” Helena chided gently, closing her fist around the marble and slipping it into her pocket. “You should know you may ask me anything.”
There was a long pause and Helena could see Myka trying to formulate how to say the words. Finally, with a deep sigh, she asked quietly, “Who was Christina’s father?”
Helena gave her a half-smile. “I’m afraid I don’t know.”
“You don’t….you don’t know who fathered your child?” Myka stammered, eyes wide with shock at Helena’s answer.
“I don’t actually know who her mother was either,” Helena replied, stepping closer to take Myka’s hand in her own, surprised at how cold her skin felt. “Goodness, darling, your hands are freezing. We should get back to the car.”
“Wait a minute,” Myka said, eyebrows almost to her hairline, her tone a little sharper than she intended. “What do you mean, you don’t know who her mother was either?”
“I adopted Christina when she barely a week old,” Helena explained, taking both Myka’s hands between her own and rubbing them gently, willing the warmth back into them. “She was left on my brother’s doorstep. Literally. You must understand, darling, that England in my day was a very different place. Poverty was overwhelming and rampant; there were thousands of orphans wandering the streets of London. There were few child labor laws and those that did exist were not enforced.”
“I’ve read Oliver Twist,” Myka responded, her thoughts clearly confused as she focused her gaze on the movement of Helena’s hands.
“Ah, yes. Good old Charlie. He did paint quite the picture,” Helena smiled fondly, her smile fading as she continued. “A very grim picture. The treatment of the poor was appalling, particularly women and children. You must realize, Victorian morality did not allow for unwed mothers. In fact, women were not supposed to possess any sexual feelings. And the laws passed by a government of old men created an incredibly harsh environment for women who found themselves in the family way with no husband. Men were given leave to father as many children as they liked with absolutely no consequences. The law laid all the burden on raising the child solely on the mother.”
“So, you never got married? You adopted Christina?” Myka asked, biting her lip nervously. She could see the frost in the air as she exhaled, lingering in a cloud of moisture between them.
“Yes, I adopted Christina. I suspected at the time that perhaps my brother had some role in her conception, although of course he denied it. One of the maids in his house, a Gladys Rogers, suddenly quit one day. She was very young, a rather attractive girl, and my brother did have a roaming eye. Seven months later a baby appeared on the doorstep,” Helena recalled, her expression softening as she spoke, the planes of her face shifting. “I took one look at her, her tiny hands bunched up into fists, a shock of black hair on her head, her eyes wide open and gazing fiercely at the world and I fell in love. Completely, hopelessly in love with her. I may not have given birth to her, but she was my daughter, my Christina.”
Myka suddenly grasped the hands rubbing hers, entwining her fingers with Helena’s and pulling the other woman close to her. Helena leaned her forehead against Myka’s shoulder, overcome with the rush of memories. At length she raised her head, her dark eyes shining with tears. Myka raised her hand and captured them one by one, her thumb raking gently across Helena’s cheeks.
“I’m so sorry,” Myka said tenderly. “I didn’t mean to make you cry. I’ve just…I’ve been curious but I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to upset you.”
“You haven’t upset me, darling. I want to share these things with you, but it’s difficult to talk about. Losing Christina was the worst thing that has ever happened to me, and no matter how much time passes, or what I do, or where I go, that will never change. I miss her, every moment of every day, but I have realized that I must go on with my life. For a very long time I wasn’t certain that was true. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to go on, that I could bear a world without her in it. But now I know that I can bear it, that I can go forward with my life.
“And no, I never married, Myka,” Helena continued. Despite the tumult of emotion coursing through her mind, a warm glow washed over her as she saw the tension leave Myka’s face at her words. “My parents, of course, tried to arrange for a suitable husband for me, but I would have none of it. I know that my mother was horribly disappointed in me. I was far from the proper lady for whom she had so hoped. Still, I couldn’t contemplate spending my life with someone I didn’t love, someone I might not even like. In truth, I had never met anyone with whom I would even consider marriage. Until now.”
Helena watched as her words finally registered in Myka’s brain, watched as her mouth formed a perfect “o”, her eyes as wide as tea-saucers. She knew that she had crossed a line, that these were words that she couldn’t take back, and yet, she couldn’t manage even an inkling of regret. Whatever happened, she was not going to lose this time by not playing the game. Cards on the table, all her chips in, winner take all. Anything less wasn’t worthy of this love she felt. Wasn’t worthy of this woman she loved.
A shy, sweet, breathtaking smile slowly spread across Myka’s face. The frigid air that surrounded them became infused with a rush of warmth as she pulled Helena to her, sliding her arms around Helena’s waist and pressing her body firmly against her own. She tilted her head down and brushed her lips once, twice, three times across Helena’s mouth, the barest of caresses, her nose nuzzling gently along the elegant line of Helena’s jaw.
With her lips pressed against the smooth skin of Helena’s cheek, Myka asked softly, “Did you just propose to me?”
Helena laughed, burying her face in the thick fall of Myka’s hair, the fragrance of her shampoo and the faint, lingering scent of smoke tickling her nose. “It is possible that I might have suggested that at some point in the future it’s something we could consider doing.” Helena admitted, amazed at the sudden sense of terror that gripped her; terror not at her own answer but at what Myka’s response might be.
“If I had, in fact, suggested that we might, in the future, contemplate making that kind of commitment, would you be amenable to such an offer?” Helena asked, trying to keep her tone level and matter-of-fact and failing miserably.
“In the future? Would I think about considering your suggestion that we might contemplate that kind of commitment?” Myka grinned, pulling back to meet Helena’s eyes. “In other words, when you finally make up your mind that I’m not going anywhere and that you absolutely deserve to be loved like this and ask me to marry you, will I?”
Helena’s breath left her in one gasp, the cloud of frost rising like steam into the air. In Myka’s eyes there was no mockery, no teasing, only sincerity and love. The filthy cabin, the lingering scent of mildew and damp and the faint whisper of smoke all faded away. For just a moment, there was no artifact to locate, no mad arsonist sending music and flames dancing through the winter nights. There was just the two of them and Helena felt anew the miracle of it all. Somehow, in the mad, meandering workings of the universe, she had lost everything she held dear, only to find the one thing she had ever needed. The irony of it did not escape her.
“Will you?” Helena whispered, stunned by the weight of what was happening, by the import of these few words. The surrealness of the situation slammed into her, knocking the air from her lungs. They had come here looking for clues that would lead them to Nero’s lyre. How they had ended up like this, a few inches separating them, the promise of a lifetime balanced precariously in their hands was more than she could absorb right now.
“Helena, when you’re ready, ask me. Then I’ll say yes,” Myka said solemnly, the hint of a dimple appearing in her cheek as she continued, “Of course, we’ll have to move to Massachusetts. Or Vermont. There’s also Iowa, but somehow, I can’t picture you in the Hawkeye State. Way too much corn.”
“I love you.” Helena sighed, blinking rapidly in an attempt to stem the flood of tears building up behind her eyelids.
“I know,” Myka said just as softly. “I love you, too. I just need for you to believe it.”
“I’m trying. It may take me a while. Can you be patient with me, my love?” Helena asked, eyes closed as she leaned against Myka’s shoulder again.
“Always,” Myka promised.
They stood in the silence, the chill of the air beginning to seep in under the thickness of coats. Helena shivered as a gust of wind barreled through the small room.
“We should get out of here,” Myka urged, tugging Helena’s hand and drawing her outside. Above them, the sky had grown darker, the clouds so thick and low that it seemed one had only to reach up a hand and pull them down. “It’s going to start snowing. We should get Pete and get back to the hotel before it settles in. Hopefully, Claudia has found some connection between the fires.”
They trudged back to the SUV, the wind sharp and bitter against the bare skin of their faces. As they climbed back over the fence the first flakes of snow tumbled to the ground. They quickly climbed in the truck and headed back towards Millville. They didn’t see the figure that emerged from the shadow of the cabin they recently vacated to stand watching, motionless and silent, a grim, contemplative smile on his face.
TBC
A/N: The status of women and the poor in Victorian England is well-documented. Laws of the 19th century were incredibly punitive towards unwed mothers, as was the opinion of society in general. Given these commonly held beliefs, it has been somewhat inconceivable to me that Helena would have been an unmarried mother. Middle class women of her era simply did not have children out of wedlock, and if they did, faced terrible censure and public ostracizing. Given that by the 1890’s H.G. Wells was a successful novelist, despite the assertion on the show that Helena’s brother was the actual “face” of the author, I cannot believe that she could have had a child out of wedlock and been able to continue her collaboration with her brother.
I focus on the out of wedlock aspect of this because at no time in the canon portion of the show was a marriage or husband for Helena discussed. In fact, on several occasions, the opportunity arose to include the reference to a husband: in “When and Where”, when Helena was telling Claudia about the murder of her daughter and referred to herself as a “single mother, in today’s parlance”; in “Buried”, when Pete is mocking Helena, Claudia and Myka as possible sources of information on relationships, she merely mentions that, “many of my lovers have been men”, not “I was married, you know” or anything to that effect. Given this lack of any reference to marriage, and also, given the extreme taboo against unwed motherhood in Victorian times, it seemed more realistic and reasonable to write Helena as an adoptive mother. Thousands of children were adopted during this time. In fact, there were no real adoption laws in England until the 1920’s. I also felt that in some ways it gives added depth to her characterization.
Few