“This.”
Kimia read it, then again.
“Zhat construction is hideous.”
“Yes.”
“People actually say zhis?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“People are under no obligation to make language aesthetically pleasing for duchesses.”
“Zhey should be.”
“No.”
Kalgkur's infrasonic amusement trembled faintly through the table.
Kimia felt herself smiling. A real smile.
Then arguing. Then thinking.
The time passed.
That was all she had wanted from it.
At one point she forgot to want kilcane.
This was better than not taking kilcane while wanting it.
She checked the watch only twice.
One thirteen.
Then one forty-seven.
At one fifty-three Kalgkur began explaining an archaic distinction between two words for obligation.
Kimia listened until she realized she had stopped hearing him.
The craving had returned.
Not gradually. It was simply there.
Whiteblood. Kilcane. Movement. Brightness. Something.
Anything large enough to drown the pressure accumulating beneath her ribs.
Kimia stood abruptly. Kalgkur stopped.
“I need to go.”
The old baxxid regarded her.
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
He continued looking.
Kimia disliked those eyes.
Not because they were alien, because they were kind.
“I'll come back later.”
“Yes.”
She left.
The moment the library doors closed behind her, the desire intensified.
The corridor seemed too long.
Too quiet.
Her own footsteps arrived late.
Kimia wanted to run.
Not toward anything.
Simply run until physical exhaustion replaced mental pressure.
She imagined going back to her chamber, stripping off the kaftan, putting on something light, opening every curtain, sending for music, sending for Vehm, opening the kilcane, finding whiteblood, talking until language ceased being language.
She could feel mania unfolding. It was almost architectural.
Rooms. Plans. Letters to write. People to summon. Ideas whose importance would become obvious only after she began explaining them.
She could reorganize the House archive. She could order a new survey of the eastern estates. She could invite thirty people to dinner. She could take a motorized carriage into the city without escort. She could-
No.
Kimia stopped. Tarkhe nearly walked into her. The indrel stopped before either of them.
Kimia kept her face forward.
Her breathing had quickened.
She slowed it.
In.
Out.
The corridor remained.
A servant passed at the far end carrying folded towels.
Kimia waited until he was gone, then turned toward Tarkhe.
“I’m not doing well.”
The physician's expression altered instantly.
No surprise. No satisfaction at being proven correct. Only attention.
Kimia appreciated him for this and resented the need.
“Describe it.”
“No.”
“Kimia.”
“I don't have time to describe it.”
“You have over an hour.”
“I have enough time to become stupid.”
Tarkhe studied her eyes.
“Kilcane?”
“Yes.”
“Whiteblood?”
“Yes.”
“Both?”
“Yes.”
“Anything taken since last night?”
“No.”
“Are you certain?”