carrying a crate. “Our new intern, Thoey Amassian,” Elena said.
“Oh? I didn’t know we were hiring anyone.” His bushy eyebrows furrowed.
“An unpaid position.”
Pomeroy relaxed. “Fine! Welcome, uh, Zoe. Elena, get me a coffee and we’ll discuss my trip.”
Elena switched off her laptop and followed. Harmothoe frowned, then began attacking the crate with a crowbar. When Elena returned an hour later, the Amazon asked, “Why must you stop your work for him? Is your work of lesser value?”
“It’s easier to do what he wants,” Elena said. “I still get my job done. Now—what’s in the crate?”
Harmothoe couldn’t read, but she had an unfailing memory of every discussion that took place in the office. “Bulldog’s daughter, Budgie, collected items relating to one General Napoleon. A soldier’s kit, a partial uniform, a box of coins, a rifle with bayonet, and two letters—one allegedly from Napoleon himself.”
“If the letter’s real, it’s a great find. Napoleon was a mighty conqueror about two centuries ago. Pomeroy will be pleased.”
Harmothoe sniffed. “I do not seek his approval, but yours.”
That was the start of the busiest—and most enjoyable—year Elena ever spent. During the day, they worked through the collections, Harmothoe discussing provenance, family history, and, in the case of the antiquities, original use. “That is not a serving fork,” she said, studying treasures Bulldog found in Anatolia. “It was a hair ornament for a noblewoman.”
“Well, old Bulldog was bald as an egg. There’s his portrait.”
“Hmm. His voice was hairy.”
At night, Elena taught Harmothoe how to read and explained the modern world. In return, Harmothoe described life in Amaseia. The Mothers’ Council, the battle strategies, the traditions and schooling! This would make a great book, Elena thought, but how do I cite my source?
Harmothoe also got her exercising. “Too much sitting here!” she complained. The next thing Elena knew, they were taking classes (free, at the community center) in aerobics and swing dance with Ian. She drew the line at fencing, afraid Harmothoe would insist on using her akinakes. The weapon, obviously, went everywhere with the Amazon, tucked inside the messenger bag.
Not surprisingly, Harmothoe’s favorite modern topic was the position of women in the twenty-first century. She appreciated what women could do in America, but hearing about oppression elsewhere got her blood boiling. “These barbarians who are frightened by the idea of women attending school! I would like to show them what I learned as a girl!”
“Unfortunately, they’ve got AK-47s.”
“So I have seen. But truly, if I could do anything in this world, I would help such schools. That would be in keeping with the traditions of my tribe.”
Elena had a vision of Harmothoe charging through Afghanistan and Nigeria, setting up girls’ schools and taking out terrorists’ nests. “I’d like to help, too, but that takes money.”
“Money. Bah.” Money hadn’t even been invented in her lifetime.
Elena’s salary was barely enough for one to live on, let alone two. Ian helped, as did Elena’s dad, but they still didn’t have enough for the immigration papers. Fortunately, Harmothoe didn’t object to peanut butter and ramen noodles. She also didn’t complain when Elena began dating one of Ian’s coworkers. “Mitchell is . . . what is the word? Hot!” said Harmothoe with a distinctly modern grin.
One warm night in August, Elena came back late after a weekend in Boston with Mitchell. She was pleased that Igor wasn’t around, though he hadn’t been so horrible since his thumping. She climbed the stairs, eager to describe her weekend to her roomie. Then she noticed the window had been jimmied open.
She tried the door—unlocked! Making as much noise as possible, she barged in. “Hey, Thoey, what’s up?” Silence. She looked around the front room. Her bag’s usually on the kitchen chair . . . near that window . . .
Feeling sick, she opened the bedroom door. A bronze statue lay under a blanket on the futon.
Okay. Think. “Smash-and-grab” is Igor’s style. He wouldn’t stick around long enough to face Harmothoe. Steeling herself, she walked down to Igor’s apartment and peered through the broken shutters. A beam from the street light illuminated the bag, tossed in a corner. I need back-up—I can’t take him on alone. She looked around in desperation. Fortunately, there were lights in Manny’s apartment. If Igor made Elena nervous, Manny terrified her. But if anyone could break down the door, he could. And he didn’t like Igor.
Gulping down her fear, she knocked.
“What the hell do you want?” he rumbled. “I’m almost at Level Sixty-two.”