Of all possessions a friend is the most precious.
- Herodotus

"I hate my job," Myka said, head bowed and hunched over coffee.

"I imagine that is not entirely true."

"Oh, no. I mean I…" she widened her eyes to express the enormity of her situation, "hate my job. There's no point in looking forward to tenure when everything that has got me to this point has all but given me a migraine induced coma. My colleagues ignore me, my students don't care, and that proposal to continue my independent research in Egypt? The board won't grant me permission. Can you believe that?"

"Not at all!" Emily agreed scandalously. She waved a hand superfluously. "What does it matter you would be dropped in the middle of a revolution?"

"Right? I mean, I am a professional – nay, an academic! No one would shoot an innocent college professor with interest in unveiling the hidden treasures of Egyptian cultural heritage."

Emily cocked her head. "Especially an American."

"Exac –" Myka cut herself off. "Wait, you're humoring me, aren't you?"

The narrowed eyes and mock affront of her friend produced a chuckle from Emily. "Myka, you are the most intelligent individual I have the pleasure of knowing; however, your skills at human perception are lacking. Unfortunately."

"Way to break the news," Myka scoffed lightly, sipping her Americano. "I still hate my job."

Emily brought her cup of gunpowder sweetened with a drizzle of honey to her lips. She shrugged. "So choose another one."

"If all things were that easy, Emily, how would the human race co-exist?"

"Oh," Emily raised her mug up as if to toast to the gods themselves, "how I adore these philosophical discussions!"

"The barista is still staring at us; I think it is pretty safe to assume our lively debates are only appreciated by those around this table."

"And what lovely company this table brings." To prove her point, Emily took the unengaged hand in hers and brought their joined contribution to the center of the table.

A deep red rose to Myka's cheeks. She grinned and examined the patterned flooring.

The barista came to liberate their empty lunch plates and offered to freshen up their drinks.

"That would be great, Frank," Myka replied, still hand-in-hand with Emily, "thanks."

Frank, the head barista and most superior American bon vivant of tea Emily had come across, nodded. He smiled at their hands (a common display of affection seen those past few weeks) before heading back to the counter.

"So, before Mr. Knowledgeable of 423 Modern Clonal Varieties and Strains of the Tea Leaf comes back for refills let's return to the subject at hand."

"Myka, you're not jealous are you?"

"Is that what it sounded like? Because I'm not." An uneasy smile crept up before Myka shook her head and gave a one shoulder shrug. "He's kind of presumptuous."

"He is sweet," Emily insisted. "It also says a great deal about an American who knows the proper steep time for all varieties of tea."

"All of a sudden I'm feeling a surge of inadequacy."

Emily's nose crinkled to the notion.

The scuffing of shoes indicated Frank's return. Myka immediately leaned back in her chair, taking her hand back to stuff under her arm in a display of indifference.

Frank took her folded arms with a dazzling smile and a "Here you go!" Her second Americano was placed before her. "And I didn't forget about you, Miss Lake," he said as a cup of golden tea was deposited, steaming, on the table.

Myka never neglected to catch its perfect wisps of steam rising, probably sweetened with the right quantity of honey – just as Emily liked. Chewing the inside of her cheek, it took a great deal not to glare in her server's direction.

"This second round is on the house. It's not every day my humble café gets the business of two fine women – a charming couple, no less!"

"Presumptuous," Myka mouthed across the table.

There was a scolding look from Emily, though she couldn't hold back the twinkle in her eye. "That is very kind of you, dear Frank," Emily said smoothly with a tip of her head. Her finger slipped into the handle of her tea to raise it. "We shall toast this round to your health."

"Not to my health, dear Miss Lake!" Frank held and hand to his heart as Myka rolled her eyes. "To your own for I would hate to lose my two favorite customers to illness!"

Myka threw in with a megawatt smile, "Spoken like a true capitalist."

Oblivious, uneducated Frank laughed despite Myka's sincerity. He exited none too soon for her liking.

Emily raised a fine brow. "And you call yourself inadequate."

"You just said he was sweet!"

"He is," Emily inclined, "though not possessing of sound mind I prefer to cavort about with."

Myka chuckled into her coffee muttering, "Cheeky Brit."

"Don't think you can pigeon hole me, Dr. Bering," Emily warned with a smirk. She tossed back her hair, threw an arm about the back of her chair, and crossed her legs in the only way she knew how: strappingly yet memorably regal. "Back to the business as hand: You hate your profession – or to put it more accurately… you presume to hate your profession."

"You mistake job for profession."

"Do they not mean the same thing?"

"In my case, I like my profession. Hellenistic and Roman Egyptian history has been my specialty for years. The act of carrying on knowledge to those that desire it brings me insurmountable joy. Profession has nothing to do with money – at least not to me. My job is what I hate. The day in and day out monotonous paperwork, the stifling lecture halls and apathetic students that fill them. Not to mention the crappy pay, insufficient grants, and the colleagues who seem to think their work is more superior to mine. That is where my job-related hatred comes from."

"So quit. Exercise your profession in some other capacity."

"This coming from the high school physics teacher who just wants to move to Europe and write novels?"

"We are not talking about my dreams now, are we?" Emily raised a brow that Myka had been trained to heed. "If you are not happy, Myka, you must do something about it."

"Oh," the brunette professor, apparently a bit startled by the assertion, quickly contended, "No… I'm happy."

A pair of brows furrowed to the weak smile. "Now I am confused."

"Yeah, I'm not explaining very well. And I call myself a professor," she joked. Myka drew a deep breath and started, "You know how everyone says you have two lives, your job and your personal life? And other people just have their work and that's it. Well, I used to be that way. My job was my life and any joy I wanted had to stem from that. But now… that's not so much true." Bypassing the specifics, Myka bit her lip in the hopes Emily would understand her meaning. "Here I'm okay. When I'm with my friend… it makes me happy."

"I see." A haughty grin graced Emily's face, making her lunch partner blush. She grinned wider as Myka's eyes roamed anywhere that wouldn't be staring back with… approval. "Though I do not make a habit of declaring confidential data on the seventh encounter I am compelled to say the feeling is mutual."

"Conf - ? Confidential data?" Myka fumbled out with a stretching smile. "Well, if I had known you were this romantic, Emily Lake, my coffee would have found itself in your lap much sooner than it did last month."

Emily's eyes flickered under darkness. Her breath stalled.

"And to think," Myka continued, "a bemused, eccentric woman like you would continue counting after three."

The claim and the giggle that could only come from Myka and Myka alone dashed the thoughts from Emily and sent them back to the caged domain of her mind. "And to think you thought so highly of me," she mocked, chuckling. "I have had a number in mind ever since I clapped eyes on you –after you so humbly gave my novel a good soaking. And until we reach that magic digit I will continue to tally these adventures." Leaning forward on her elbows, chin settled atop overlaying hands, Emily tested with a purr, "I cannot be stopped, Dr. Bering."

An icy chill ran up Myka's spine, but not long enough for it to melt into a liquid heat dripping down the curve of her back. The warmth settled and grew heavy with the humming voice of her challenger.

The establishment elegantly known as Frank's Café was just a few blocks from the waterfront in downtown Chicago. Most of the building was brick, but who could say under all the décor. A disturbing collection leapt from the walls in the form of African tribal masks, voodoo dolls, Native American spears, and, Myka would gather from her interest in historically inaccurate films, various Trojan War shields.

The green upholstered booth cushions smelled of leather, a 'great' combination with the scent of brewing coffee. Tables were unstable, but generally upright. Chairs creaked and floors groaned underfoot creating a musical symphony with every step in one direction or another. No one dared sit in the corner rocking chair for it moved of its own accord by some incorporeal feat. On the off chance that a tourist plunked their sorry behind on it the framed artistic depictions of demonic possession and exorcism would catch the eye and send them bolting from the café entirely. Said chair was probably haunted. It was just one of those places that had yet to make up its mind as to what it wanted to be. The only thing it managed to accomplish was attracting a dependable if not off-beat clientele.

Though not possessing the feat of tickling Myka Bering's taste buds with its no olives, no feta Greek salad and mightily well done croutons, Frank's was not a hot spot for collegiates. It also did not attract the likes of affluent professors who turned their nose up at institutions suffering from severe identity crisis. Such neutrality made it Myka's favorite place to get some work done.

A month preceding the seventh run in and the debate on Frank the Presumptuous, Myka was walking between tables, juggling books, unworthy thesis proposals, and a gargantuan sized Americano. A misstep on one of the many unruly floor tiles sent a hot spill on the open pages of a novel belonging to one "Emily Lake." Shaking her clumsiness with several apologies Myka's hand was stopped by the stranger's and plucked up from the drenched pages of Candida. Emily's first remark in her smooth, posh British accent was the insistence that "it was rubbish anyway." A connection was made right away, in Myka's case when the stranger first opened her mouth and in Emily's when green eyes revealed themselves.

Introductions were made, awkward glances none too subtly avoided, and common interests were discovered instantly. One refill of Americano and two Greek salads later they were exchanging contact information with the hopes to "bump" into one another soon (preferably without the coffee/book fatalities).

The meet-cute was, for Myka, a chance to experience life outside her work. Emily was a charming escape from her unrewarding life as professor. Emily was dashing (if a woman could be described as such). Her bearing oozed confidence, but none that, with the exception of a blush or two, could ever deter Myka. A beautiful countenance was not mistaken for a weak mind. Emily was quick witted and possessed an extensive vocabulary with the inclusion of a few slang profanities from her native land. For only a bachelor's educated teacher she certainly held up her own against the post-doctorate brunette – in and outside the realm of academia. Debates ranged from the British Museum's legal titles over the Parthenon Structures to whether or not it really was blasphemy to serve parmesan cheese in a Greek salad. "It is all Greek to me," argued Emily with cheek that allowed Myka to relinquish victory over that dispute.

Emily was in every sense of the word magnetizing. Every thought put to words was taken with a fascination Myka had never felt before. Plain and simple: Emily was interesting – the most interesting individual she had ever known. She longed to hear the woman's opinions, her aversions and attractions, the most random thoughts that struck her at the most random times. Emily was magnetizing also in more physical ways. Every breath she took Myka felt herself leaning in, drawn to a quirk or a twist of mouth. Her glowing complexion and swirling brown eyes sparked a curiosity and a pleasant fire.

The meeting was, for Emily, the best possible opportunity to shirk Candida for stimulating conversation and company anyone with a keen sense of inner beauty couldn't wag their finger at. Myka did indeed have inner beauty while she was visually stunning as well. Dark straightened locks fell around a soft, kind face that could be immortalized in marble and lived out its eternity within the walls of the Graeco-Roman Museum of Alexandria. But no splendor should be kept behind closed doors or on display for stuffy tourists. Emily wouldn't have it.

Myka was a beauty with a lion heart and a mind of her own. No sculpture, much less those colleagues of hers, could compare. No one could outdo her riotous laugh, her limitless aptitude. No one could take Emily's breath away just by holding eyes with hers, if only for a second. The sound of her voice, the touch of her hand, it was enough to capture her heart, ignite a flame, all those clichés from Victorian novels Emily used to shake her fist at. Idiosyncrasies meant nothing until Emily locked eyes with Myka.

Almost immediately she began to understand the stranger's penchant for rambling, apologizing, and laughing over the tension. Myka's laugh was a healing one, so if it succeeded in putting her at ease it put Emily at ease, too. Emily had never before perceived an individual like she did Myka. She memorized certain cues in order to anticipate her moods or an innocent change in subject. A nibble at her bottom lip, a flip of her hair, the way her eyes diverted bashfully were all locked away in Emily's memory for the present, for later, perhaps forever.

Both had jobs that called for their constant attention; however, ever since that day an uneven tile instigated a sodden copy of Candida Myka and Emily couldn't go a day without hearing from each other. Taking calls was not ideal in the middle of a classroom setting, so texting was the next best thing. Emily suffered through only a few close calls, once when Andrew Carmichael stopped in the middle of his speech to ask her why she was smiling into her lap and another case when Judy Gilbert snapped her fingers to get her otherwise preoccupied teacher's attention. Because Myka's students couldn't care less about her lessons much less who she was texting, there were no obstacles in her way of carrying a flirtatious and heated debate on Russian psychological realism.

But their relationship was not based solely on academics. They talked only briefly of their pasts; general particulars about parents, siblings, pets, the occasional romance that ended before it began, where they grew up, what schools they attended, and how they arrived to where they are now. Most of all they discussed their future – not their future because they were neither presumptuous like Frank nor had their friendship reached the stage for the subject to arise – as individuals.

Emily never went into great detail, but the way she talked about Paris, Rome, Amsterdam and all the little towns in between convinced Myka that the world really was this woman's oyster. She longed for adventure and the thrill of finding new places and the treasures hidden there. Emily was a writer, fiction because world building and painting the unforeseeable future was just one of her literary strengths. To do so she had to immerse herself along the finest streets and the furthest back alleys of Europe – places that drew the most paramount of artists in their search for inspiration.

Myka longed for a similar getaway, maybe not as permanent as Emily suggested but to the same Europe that was the source of their wildest dreams. Growing up in rural Colorado, Myka was no stranger to the fantasy of leaving home for adventure. As a child she would gaze outside her window, imagining the pyramids rising from her dusty backyard or crawl under the bleachers during her sister's soccer game like a female Indiana Jones would through the crypts beneath Notre Dame. Though she had taken a travel study to Greece during her junior year of college, Myka had since only gone as far as Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania to earn her MA.

The physical side of their relationship was strictly platonic. That did not mean there was room for subtle touches, a hand graze here, a second-too-long stare there. They held hands occasionally for comfort or reassurance. Neither possessed expectations because they were so comfortable with their rapport as friends. They didn't think to dream of what could come from more of those coffee meet-ups. They didn't consider the opportunity to take up hand holding a little longer or secure Frank's insinuations to heart. They never thought what they had could mean more. Never when it was already subconsciously believed.

There was a cheery jingle as the door to Frank's Café opened to the ladies' departure. As per their usual itinerary, lunch was followed by a stroll to the park where they would skirt discussion for quiet company. They enjoyed the comfortable silence, the sunshine, nature, and the extraordinary humdrum of passersby with their leashed dogs.

A long brown jacket flapped in the Chicago breeze when they turned a corner. Shivering to the autumn chill, Emily looped her arm in the professor's as a gentleman would a lady's. Myka, hands stuffed suitably in her coat pockets, smiled at the concrete passing under their booted feet. Though cold on the outside their blood pumped warm and excitedly beneath the surface, hearts beating hale and hearty behind weakening walls.

"So," Emily drawled against the wind, "where exactly does this aggravation towards your students stem from? You are such a patient, charismatic woman; I find it hard to believe you do not connect with them on that teacher/student level."

"I used to think college students took a course because they wanted to, not because they had to. Half my students stare at the wall like it holds Vatican secrets to the Library of Alexandria," Myka grumbled and then shrugged a shoulder indifferently, "or the location of the next big kegger."

"Have you reached that chapter on Alexandria, yet?" Emily asked off-handedly.

"No, that's next week. We'll see how spellbinding those walls look after I've finished my lecture on the trials and tribulations of Ptolemy II's legacy."

"Oh, I do so hope I am able to sit in on that lecture."

Myka chuckled. "If it gets me at least one attentive listener then I can slip you a visitor's pass."

"No, no, I just want the satisfaction of creeping up on one of those daydreamers and giving their ear a good flick."

Not that she hadn't thought about it herself, Myka inclined her head and responded, "That would be called harassment."

"Oh," Emily made a face, "pish posh. Sister Margareta had no qualms about cracking me across the hand."

Myka glanced over with a wry smile. "What did you do?"

"That's not the point," Emily waved her hand. "The point is, not all pupils have your thirst for knowledge, nor do they possess your ambition."

"I would much rather prefer active adults who at least pretend to humor me in discussion."

Though she knew the answer Emily asked anyway. "So you wouldn't like teaching children?" Her eyes squinted in the sunshine, mouth twisting a smirk.

Myka wrinkled her nose at the thought of temper tantrums, snack time, and even teenage hormones. "Not my cup of tea, no offense. My social circle doesn't exactly call for engaging with people under the age of 21."

Taking a deep breath and nodding, Emily steered them into the fenced park. The heels of their boots sank into the damp soil from yesterday's rainfall. For a Wednesday afternoon the park was a mass of activity. Dogs barked and chased everything that moved, children squealed and laughed on the playground, old couples watched and reminisced from their benches, while truant teenagers remained glued to their laptops.

"I apologize if you feel pushed by my incessant inquiry about your students."

"There's no need to apologize," Myka assured. "You've held up your fair share of questioning from me. If you want to know something about me I'm happy to oblige."

"I just had to know before…"

"Before what, Emily?"

Emily took pains to hide the shiver. Desperate to shock life into the numbness she took her hand from around Myka's arm and wrung it with the other. Turning over and over, her hands made an anxious motion Emily was not aware of. Too many thoughts, too many plaguing fears prevented her from attending to outside stimuli. The only thing that could break through that concrete thick wall was the voice of a dark-haired beauty sporting a pair of dated aviators.

The disquiet was starting to eat away at Myka's patience. And she was a very patient person. "Emily?"

Another shiver. Her smile was too stubborn to reach her eyes.

"Myka," Emily's voice cracked but did not break completely, "I feel I have been taking advantage of your loyalty. I have not been completely honest, and I mean to make up for that. Even in light of your recent… statements about your students, I still hope there is room to make alterations."

The longer she talked the more flustered she looked. At the end of her speech she just nodded firmly (to herself it seemed) and motioned for a frowning Myka to follow.

Not far off a young girl brushed her knees after a journey down the slide. The sides of her long silken black hair were tied back with a bow and bouncing to her skips. Spotting the equally raven-haired woman, she made a detour from the monkey bars towards them.

"Mummy!" she cried, a beaming smile on her face.

Though slightly taller than most her age, she dove into her mother's waiting arms. She wrapped hands about the brown jacket, burying her face in the blouse that smelled of lavender, ink, and the stale pages of an old book. To the girl, it smelled like home.

Using the girl's momentum, Emily spun them in circles above the dewy grass. "My Christina," she greeted lovingly. Their giggles rose above the barking dogs before their welcome hug slowed and Emily set the smiling child down.

"Christina, there is someone I would like to introduce you to." Emily took her hand and walked them over to the brunette. "She's a very good friend of mine."

Myka blinked, tilted her head, and then blinked again. The resemblance was uncanny. Their brilliant smiles were so identical it was as if the girl was a flashback of young Emily herself. Hair carried a soft sheen, tumbling over their shoulders, eyes were keenly attentive, their skin a pale yet unblemished quality. Just by looking at them Myka could see where this Christina inherited her poised temperament. Every detail in her stride – the raised chin and haughty smirk came from her mother. Despite the overwhelming shock setting in Myka felt her lips tugging in a smile.

"Myka, this is Christina, my daughter."

"Christina Lake," the child corrected, raising her chin further.

Emily chuckled. "Well, Miss Lake, this lovely woman here is Myka Bering. She is a professor at the university."

"You are a teacher as well?" surged Christina. She stuck out her hand. "How do you do?"

Mouth parting and then closing in a characteristic sign Emily knew to be apprehension, Myka gave a breathy chuckle and took the hand. "Very well," she answered, "thank you. And you?"

What Myka didn't expect was strict candor. Then again, she was the daughter of Emily Lake.

Christina cast a glance to Myka, then her mother and back again. "Not fine, unfortunately. One would think to assume a bit of freedom at a park, but I am on constant watch by my sitter." The button nose scrunched. Her head cocked to the side. "And my mummy does not make a habit of befriending professors."

The way 'professors' was accentuated caused the brunette's muscles to tense. At a loss for a response, Myka's head lurched back. "Oh?"

"Mummy says teachers are society's gift to progress and perseverance…"

"She would say that."

"… but professors are the bottom feeders to those who do the real work in educating new generations of genius."

Both women's mouths fell open, Myka at the child's boldness and Emily at her own crumbling image. Emily shot an apologetic smile at the other woman, a tinge of red in both their cheeks.

"Well," Emily laughed through the stern look she shared with Christina, "aren't we propulsive today? What did I tell you about reading philosophical text?"

"Mummy, you know I don't like to read."

"As you do so like to remind me."

"And it wasn't written." Her eyes fluttered as she explained quite unapologetically, "I rather heard it from you."

Myka's brows rose higher even after the shaking dismissal from Emily

"What did Mummy say about eavesdropping?" Emily laid a firm hand on her shoulder, but the girl's gaze just rose to the sky. "We shall discuss your mutiny later. Say farewell to Myka and run along to Angie, now."

Christina sighed heavily. "It was lovely to meet you, Miss Bering." Her smile was less than genuine. "I must be off or Angie will surely scold me for making her labor about in search."

With a smile more than genuine Myka nodded goodbye to the girl whose black hair traveled on the wind.

Despite the echo of park noises Emily felt she and Myka were locked in a soundproof glass house with nothing but the buzzing in her ears and the pounding in her chest. The silence was constant and so very unbearable that the empty corners of the house filled with doubt.

"She misunderstood what I had said…" Emily said, feeling compelled to correct her daughter's bold remarks.

"Of course," Myka's smile dwindled slightly as she explained, "she's a child."

"Yes, she is. Eight years old to be exact."

"And her father…?"

"Not the paternal type. " Nor husband material, Emily thought. She pulled at the sleeves of her jacket and examined Myka's reaction. "He is not in the picture – now or ever."

There was a nod and a sigh of what could have been relief.

"She doesn't like to read," Myka stated. The fact seemed to surprise her and concern her at the same time. She couldn't imagine any child of Emily's being anything less than a bibliophile.

"I thought you might zero in on that particular detail," Emily surmised. "The Lake's ardor for literature has regrettably skipped a generation. She is partial to fairy tales and stories of stranded princesses in castles, but other than that…" She shrugged sadly at the idea of late night discussions on their favorite works, an idea that would never spawn into reality. Christina was a bright child and interested in many subjects, but none of them having to do with her mother's love of literature. "She enjoys the opera and the romantic classics of Chopin and Mendelssohn."

"So not a complete disappointment," Myka quipped optimistically.

"No," Emily smiled, "not at all disappointment."

Myka shifted, sucking her lip in silence. There was much to process and to be doing so under the guise of Emily was a bit nerve-wracking. Never before had she been put off or pressured by the woman, yet presently she was feeling herself shrink like Alice Liddell herself and losing all rank as the special someone in Emily's life. No, Myka wasn't jealous of a child. She couldn't be.

A hand fidgeted for another's. Emily longed to take Myka's hand, squeeze it, caress it, and pour her every affection into the hand. She wanted to instill a contact that Myka could believe in and trust implicitly. In the end, her hand stayed to receive the constant twist of the other.

After a moment of silence and deafening thoughts they finally locked eyes.

Myka started hesitantly, "This is a little… sudden."

There it was. Emily stepped forward, her hand out in reassurance. "My intention was not to throw you off, nor bait your regards. I just want you to know my family and understand that Christina is part of that family." Emily looked away to blush. "I am not familiar with some American customs. I do not claim to know the proper time in confessing one's occupation as a parent. I was afraid if I spoke too soon you would scare off; too late and you would leave without my loyalty intact."

"Emily, I'm not mad. I appreciate your honesty. It couldn't have been easy entrusting such a precious thing to a total stranger. I just need time to process this."

Emily smiled wryly. "We are hardly strangers in a park, Myka. But time I can give you. It is the least I can do after springing the existence of my daughter upon you."

"She's very precocious."

"Translation: she is a handful," Emily said with a chuckle.

Myka loved when she laughed. It revitalized her brown eyes and brought out such a tranquil diversion to a once tense conversation.

"She's you," whispered Myka.

The laughter tapered off gradually. Emily's eyes grew softer in the light of Myka's green. She drank up the joy and promise that the sentiment brought, thinking she might not be in Barney as she once thought.

Note: This was written a god awful long time ago, so that should explain the reference to the January 25th Revolution.