The drawing of Vehm looked upward.

Friend to all in the world. Child of Alsper. Terrible hands.

Kimia almost laughed again, but didn't.

She moved toward the bathroom.

Changed.

Windbreaker. Trousers. Toque.

Off.

Back into the luggage.

She remained in her underclothes.

No kaftan.

No authority.

Nothing heavy.

She washed her face.

Looked in the mirror.

Kimia.

Just Kimia.

Perhaps.

She returned.

Vehm stirred once.

Did not wake.

Kimia lowered herself onto the bed.

The televox host interviewed his guest.

Something about a new film. A production problem. An animal refusing to perform.

The audience laughed.

Kimia watched.

For ten minutes she understood everything being said, then five minutes passed during which she heard words without retaining them.

She lay on one side.

Head supported by one hand.

Still awake. Not chemically warm. Not high. Not especially sober in any grand spiritual sense either.

Just awake.

The night pressed against the windows.

There was temptation.

Of course.

Her luggage contained whiteblood.

Kilcane.

The fruit spirit remained on the nightstand.

Vodka too.

All within reach.

Kimia knew their locations without looking.

Her mind offered them one after another.

Not commands.

Options.

That distinction mattered.

She breathed.

Televox.

Vehm snoring faintly.

Air-conditioning.

A motorized carriage somewhere below.

She did nothing.

The host made another joke.

Audience laughter.

Kimia smiled without knowing why.

Perhaps the joke had been funny. Perhaps she was merely tired enough to borrow other people's reactions.

Her mind returned to the bridge, then the aircraft lights. 

Tiplod milk. Pastry. Cashier. Fire hydrant.

Nothing had happened.

That was the best part.

She had walked through Val Salia and nothing had happened.

Nobody asked what Peshtul thought about Tilmuhl. Nobody asked whether she was fit. Nobody asked how House Chityala understood its responsibilities.

A man sold her milk and junk food. Young people wasted municipal water. An aircraft crossed the sky. The entire evening had failed to become important.

Kimia found herself almost grateful.

The televox volume seemed louder now.

She reached for the remote control on the nightstand.

Lowered it.

Not off. Just lower.

Vehm moved.

Mumbled something.

Kimia listened.

No words.

He settled.

She looked toward him.

The absurd drawing sat on the desk beyond.

A person drawing the self he wanted.

A person believing halfway toward becoming.

Kimia thought of the Herald recording.

The Diet.

The neurologist.

Yira.

All the versions of herself.

The duchess. The addict. Mother. Patient. Traveler. Woman buying a bad pastry during the night. Actor.

Perhaps none needed to eliminate the others.

The philosopher had said something like that.

She could not remember the exact wording.

Good.

Maybe forgetting philosophy was healthy.

Kimia rolled onto her back.

Ceiling. Hotel ceiling. White. Unmelting.

She watched.

Nothing happened.

The desire to check whether anything would happen rose.

She refused.

The televox continued.

Some musical guest now.

Soft strings.

Kimia's body felt tired but not ready for sleep.

The old yinglet rhythm.

Naps. Bursts. Wakefulness arriving at inconvenient hours because her biology had been designed for some other world of danger, foraging, and communal sleep that no longer existed for most.

Eight hundred years of civilization had changed schedules more quickly than bodies.

Kimia wondered whether office clocks counted as mass egregores.

Probably.

Stop.

No philosophy.

She turned onto her side again.

The temptation came back.

Whiteblood.

A small amount. Enough to sleep.

No.

She could sleep eventually.

Or not.

Neither would kill her tonight.

Kilcane.