A/N: now...let's all breathe for a second and remember one thing: the hundred conflicting little themes I have running in this story have to come together at some point, and they yet.

Also, every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end.

Yeah.


We All Have Our Time Machines

Intermezzo

"What comes next in the series isn't really fit for children."

Helena's head tilted to the side. "You've read these books, yet you do not count them amongst your favorites. I'm curious to know which novels you do enjoy."

Myka smiled. "I'll put together a list of all the good stuff you've missed out on."

The older woman didn't respond immediately. Instead, she closed the book without marking it, as if she were no longer interested in it at all, and placed it on the table beside her. She rose slowly, gracefully, in a series of lithe movements that only she could execute so flawlessly, and crossed to the bookshelf to select another volume. It did not escape Myka's keen notice that, in selecting the old, leatherbound book, there had been no searching, nor did she fail to note that in selecting an open page, there was hardly any flipping. It was as if Helena knew exactly what she was aiming to find.

Satisfied with her selection, the other woman tilted her head to the side slightly as she raised her teacup to her lips.

"Well, then I shall not skip ahead of your suggestions, my dear," she said at last.

The leather couch to Helena's right was vacant, and Myka decided that it simply begged to be occupied. She sat furthest to the left such that she would share the end table with the author, curled her feet below her, and settled in to read her book. It had been her intention to return to her room, to her familiar windowsill, and read in the soft lamplight, but she was overcome with this urge to be near her friend.

"So you selected Shakespeare to tide you over," she said.

"You must have uncanny vision if you can read the title on this book."

Myka laughed lightly. "No, my vision is terrible. I'm just very familiar with that particular book."

"Ah," Helena said, "that explains why it looks so well-read."

The agent smiled. "Which play are you reading?"

"At the moment, I'm reading Act II, Scene 1 of The Tempest."

Myka frowned. "And you went straight to it. Why that play? Why that scene?"

For a moment, Helena was quiet. She offered a small, sad smile before answering.

"A reminder."

Myka was very familiar with that scene: it was a favorite of hers. It demonstrated to the audience how cunning Antonio was, how easy it is for the man to manipulate others into doing things they ought not do. It was the moment in the play where the audience begins to become truly sympathetic with Prospero.

It's also the scene from which one of the most quotable lines in all of Shakespeare's works lay buried in the midst of Antonio's scheming.

It served as a reminder for a great many things, but few of those things were positive.

"Helena…"

Myka was pleased when her friend lifted her head, and even happier that the darkness she occasionally witnessed in the woman's eyes wasn't present in her deep gaze. Instead, there was a sadness, maybe even a longing that threatened to break Myka's heart.

"We are all sea-swallow'd," she started, but Myka reached out and placed her hand against Helena's, stilling the words on her tongue.

"Yes, we all have our seas, and we all flounder in them," Myka started, "but we do not always have to struggle against the tide alone."

"I have never known another way, Myka."

The younger woman sighed, but smiled hopefully.

"What's past is prologue," Myka quoted, squeezing the hand she held in her own. "What to come in yours and my discharge."