Letting the book fall open in his lap, Methos sighed, rubbing at eyes that refused to stay open. Sinking defeatedly back against the pillows, he dropped his chin to his chest, taking a long, deep breath that turned into a helpless yawn. Hours, he'd been at this, skimming from Ptolemy IV to Cleopatra and adjourning from the couch to his bed, but he was left without a clue in sight. So he'd remembered someone's name in a dream. So what? Ptolemy didn't have a damned thing to do with the time he seemed to be remembering, and he'd known it. But knowing it had been a long shot didn't help. Someone apparently thought he had answers, so where were they? Whatever storm was heading for Paris, he had to be ready

source.

Life is randomness