“That is not an answer.”

“It is zhe one you're getting.”

The physician studied her. Kimia could see suspicion developing.

Not certainty.

Suspicion.

She hated him for earning it.

She softened her voice.

“Tarkhe.”

He waited.

“Go eat somezhing. Sit down. Take off your shoes. Read a book zhat isn't about agricultural pumps.”

His mouth twitched. Kimia continued.

“I’m exhausted. I want to sleep wizhout knowing you're sitting outside counting how many times I move.”

“I don't do that.”

“You would if you zhought of it.”

“No.”

The indrel's mask clicked. Kimia looked toward it.

“You too.”

The enormous soldier did not react in any readable way.

“Rest.”

Its head tilted. Kimia wondered whether if that was confusion.

“Go. Whatever you do when I'm not in front of you. Eat. Sleep. Stand in a dark room. I don't know.”

Another click.

Tarkhe looked at the soldier, then Kimia.

“I’ll return in two hours.”

Kimia's answer came too quickly.

“No.”

Tarkhe heard it. She knew he heard it.

“Three.”

“I said several.”

“Three is several.”

“Four.”

The physician studied her.

Kimia regretted bargaining. Bargaining suggested motive.

“Four,” Tarkhe said.

“Fine.”

“If you feel worse-”

“I know.”

“Kimia.”

“I know.”

“Do not take anything else.”

There.

The sentence remained between them.

Kimia looked directly at him.

The lie came easily enough to frighten her.

“I’m going to sleep.”

Tarkhe said nothing.

She opened the door. The indrel remained where it was.

Kimia glanced back.

“Go.”

This time the soldier moved. Slowly. Reluctantly, perhaps.

It followed Tarkhe away.

Kimia watched until the corridor emptied, then she entered her chamber, closed the door, and locked it.

She stood with one hand still on the key.

Silence.

Her breathing sounded too loud.

The room had become private.

Immediately the cravings changed character.

They no longer needed to whisper.

Whiteblood. Kilcane.

Kimia closed her eyes.

“Sleep,” she said.

The word sounded inadequate.

She opened her eyes again.

The bed waited.

So did the wardrobe.

She went to the wardrobe.

Not quickly.

That mattered to her.

She wanted the sequence to feel deliberate. Choice rather than compulsion.

She opened the door.

The kaftan brushed against her hand.

Behind the hanging clothes, on the upper shelf, lay a folded sheet of thin clear plastic.

Kimia took it down.

She unfolded it over the bed.

Once, then twice.

The material crackled.

She smoothed it.

One corner hung lower than the others.

Kimia adjusted it, then again.

The plastic covered the upper half of the bed.

Not enough.

She pulled it toward the foot.

The left edge wrinkled.

She smoothed that too.

This mattered.

Whiteblood was messy.

Sweat. Secretions. The peculiar sweet-metallic odor that clung to cloth or fur.

Kimia had learned.

There were rituals around intoxication now.

Cleanliness. Water. Fresh sheets afterward. Containers placed where they could not be knocked over.

The organization helped her pretend that what followed remained under organizational authority.

She removed the kaftan.

Carefully.

Buttons first. Then shoulders.

She folded it over one arm and returned it to the wardrobe.

The dark blue cloth disappeared among the others.

The duchess went with it.

Kimia stood in her underclothes.

Red fur. Thin shoulders. Tail low.

She looked smaller without the kaftan.

More truthful perhaps.

She did not like that word.

Her hand moved toward the back corner of the wardrobe, reaching behind a small wooden box.

There.

Glass touched claw.

Kimia withdrew several narrow vials.

White labels. White contents. Small chopped pieces. Whiteblood.

Prepared. Measured.

She took two, then stared at the rest.