Inara sat on the bed and Kaylee knelt behind her, brushing her hair. The gentle rhythm soothed and relaxed her, though she knew it was reducing her well-defined waves to fluff and frizz. Every now and then, she heard Kaylee sniffle and felt a warm tear splash onto her scalp. It was all Inara could do not to burst into tears herself, and she was glad Kaylee was absorbed enough in her own sorrow not to notice.

They were three days out from Beaumonde and Mal had made no mention of her breaking down and crying on his shoulder. He’d also stopped mentioning the stalking ships, since they’d slunk off after the second day. Their conversations didn’t stray far from small talk and the occasional worried note on Kaylee. Though still grieving, the young mechanic had finally taken an interest in her own healing. When they’d sat down to supper last night, she’d not only cleaned her plate, but went back for seconds. She and Inara had spent the night reminiscing about Simon and River and Inara was grateful for the excuse to shed a few tears.

There was no clock in the passenger dorm where Inara was staying. The drab, yellow room made her feel sterile and aged. The feeling permeated from the inside out. Her entire Companion life had been drab walls concealed by ornate tapestries and ruled by a clock. She had a specific set of hours in which to greet, seduce, sex and dismiss a client. Methodic grace and allure perfected to the minute so she could receive maximum payment and ensure maximum satisfaction. Repeat customers (or repeated solicitations) reflected well on her standing in the Guild. And she was once admired for her skill.

She hadn’t told anyone on Serenity yet, but she wasn’t a Companion any more. Not since the day she’d set off that flash bomb in the Training House. Despite all her explanations, the Alliance had branded her a terrorist, the Guild had questioned her social standing, and that was the end of it. She’d given up her life and livelihood to protect two friends – two friends who had died.

Inara had spen