“Yes.”
“Do you want the emergency sedative?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“What do you want?”
Kimia spoke plainly.
“An antipsychotic. Nozhing that will tire me too much.”
Tarkhe did not immediately move.
“That is not what those are for.”
“I know.”
“You may become slowed.”
“I know.”
“Dizzy.”
“Yes.”
“Your concentration may suffer.”
“Yes.”
“And you still have council.”
“Yes, Tarkhe. Zhat is why I said nozhing zhat will tire me too much.”
The physician stared at her, then opened his leather case.
It contained less than its constant presence suggested.
Several instruments. Bandages. Ampoules. A blood-pressure cuff.
Small bottles placed into fitted compartments.
Tarkhe selected one and checked the label, checked Kimia, and then shook one tablet into his palm.
“Single dose.”
Kimia held out her hand.
He did not give it to her.
“Tarkhe.”
“If you become excessively drowsy, council is canceled.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You don't have zhat auzhority.”
“I have the authority to tell everyone you are medically unavailable.”
“I can countermand you.”
“Then I tell them you are medically unavailable and irrational.”
Kimia stared.
Tarkhe remained a small, balding, bespectacled stick of a human.
He did not move.
Kimia extended her hand again.
“Fine.”
He gave her the tablet and she swallowed it dry.
Tarkhe produced water anyway.
Kimia drank.
“Now?”
“Now we wait.”
“I hate waiting.”
“I know.”
For several minutes nothing happened.
This seemed intolerable.
Then the edges began to withdraw.
Not disappear.
Withdraw.
The thoughts remained but ceased elbowing one another for space. The manic architecture collapsed before construction. Kilcane became an idea rather than a destination. Whiteblood became a word.
Kimia felt heavier. Not sleepy exactly. More grounded.
Her mind had been a room full of people shouting and someone had quietly removed half of them. The survivors were still unpleasant, but they could be counted.
“Better?” Tarkhe asked.
Kimia considered.
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“That isn't a measurement.”
“It is today.”
Tarkhe accepted it.
Kimia looked down the corridor.
Her chamber.
She wanted bed now, but for a different reason.
“I'm going to lie down.”
“Good.”
“Don't sound so pleased.”
“I am a physician. Patients voluntarily resting brings joy.”
“You're unbearable.”
“Rest.”
Kimia did.
The kaftan stayed on.
She lay atop the bedspread with her hands folded against her abdomen and stared at the ceiling.
Nothing moved. This seemed worth noting. She watched the plaster.
Ordinary ceiling. Ordinary cracks. A little discoloration near one corner where rain had entered years ago before repairs.
She wondered how long she had been lying there.
The pocket watch answered.
Two fourteen.
She put it on the table beside the bed.
The medication made time softer. Not slower, but less sharp at the joints.
Kimia closed her eyes.