Kimia remained with Kalgkur until the maritime history ceased being sufficient.

It did not happen all at once.

For another half hour she listened to him describe a dispute between three Minor Houses over an island whose principal economic value had been fresh water and the fact that everyone else's ships needed it. She learned how one corsair captain had maintained two sets of papers and three names. She learned the nuances of how House Ivenmoth had publicly condemned an unauthorized seizure while privately advancing credit to the people auctioning the cargo.

Kalgkur found this amusing. Kimia did too.

Then she stopped.

Not because the history became less interesting. Something else simply grew louder.

Sleep.

Or whiteblood.

Her body seemed unable to decide which one it wanted and presented both demands simultaneously.

Her limbs felt heavy. Her thoughts had begun acquiring the loose quality of things no longer fastened tightly to one another. Yet beneath the fatigue ran the other sensation, the little internal pull toward chemical oblivion.

Not frenzy this time.

Not mania.

Something quieter.

Enough.

That was what the craving said.

You have done enough.

Kimia looked down at the map. Kalgkur was explaining an obsolete insurance practice. She caught every third sentence.

The old baxxid stopped.

“Miss Kimia.”

“Yes?”

“You are no longer here.”

She looked up.

“I am physically.”

“Yes.”

“Zhat should count for somezhing.”

“Some things.”

Kimia smiled faintly.

“I zhink I need to rest.”

“Then rest.”

“You make everyzhing sound obvious.”

“Most things become obvious after someone else says them.”

Kimia pushed the chair back.

“Zhank you.”

“For maritime law?”

“For wasting my time.”

Kalgkur considered this.

“You are welcome.”

She hesitated.

The urge to remain beside him became unexpectedly strong.

If she stayed there, perhaps nothing would happen.

Kalgkur would continue talking. Tarkhe would continue watching. The indrel would continue standing.

She would remain contained within other people's presence until exhaustion carried her somewhere harmless.

That was one possibility. The other possibility waited inside her chamber.

Kimia stood.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Probably.”

“You have a charming relationship wizh certainty.”

“I have lived too long to expect it.”

She left before he could say anything kinder.

Tarkhe fell into step. The indrel followed.

The palace had entered evening without yet admitting it. Only the library seemed to do so until now.

The western windows were filled with orange light. Long shadows crossed the floors. The servants moved more slowly now. Somewhere preparations for dinner produced the distant clatter of crockery and cookware. The air had cooled by a degree or two, enough for the change to be noticed and not enough for it to matter.

Kimia walked toward her chambers.

She concentrated on appearing normal. This required more effort than it had earlier.

The antipsychotic still dulled certain edges, but the day's accumulated fatigue had begun working around it. Her thoughts did not race.

They drifted. That was different.

Perhaps worse.

She passed a servant carrying folded bed linens.

“Your Grace.”

Kimia nodded.

Correct.

Another official passed in the opposite direction.

“Your Grace.”

Another nod.

Correct.

The cravings remained inside. She could feel them.

Whiteblood. Kilcane. Sleep. Whiteblood. Sleep.

Perhaps two, or all three. 

That was the thought she did not want to inspect too closely.

Her chamber corridor appeared ahead.

Kimia slowed.

Tarkhe noticed.

The indrel noticed because it noticed everything.

At the door, Kimia stopped and turned around.

“Go rest.”

Tarkhe stared at her.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Yes.”

“Zhen why ask?”

“How long?”

“A while.”

“That is not a time.”

“Several hours.”

“How many?”

“I don't know.”

Tarkhe's expression tightened. Kimia kept her face composed.

“I am going to sleep.”

“Then I can remain outside.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you have followed me since morning.”