Enough.
Two.
Enough for today.
No kilcane.
She said it aloud.
“Enough for today. No kilcane.”
The room did not answer.
Kimia returned the other vials, closed the wardrobe, opened it again to make certain she had, and closed it once more.
There.
She sat on the plastic-covered bed.
The first vial rested in one hand, the second in the other.
She looked at both.
There was still time not to.
The thought arrived without conviction.
Kimia opened the first vial.
The smell was faint.
Bitter. Animal. Chemical.
She tipped the pieces into her mouth and swallowed.
The second followed.
No hesitation this time.
Glass clicked against the bedside table.
Kimia sat. Waited.
Nothing happened.
Of course.
She hated this interval.
The body receiving a command and taking its time to obey.
She lay backward. Plastic crackled beneath her. Her eyes remained open.
Ceiling. Same ceiling. Water stain. Crack. Ordinary. One minute. Two. Perhaps five.
Then something loosened.
Not a dramatic shift.
The room simply moved farther away. The ceiling remained where it was but ceased possessing urgency.
Kimia inhaled.
The breath went deeper.
The thorn came out.
That was how it always felt.
A thorn she had forgotten was embedded in her side until someone pulled it free.
Not happiness.
Absence of abrasion.
The mind stopped rubbing against itself.
The whiteblood spread.
Warmth entered her arms, then chest, then face.
Kimia closed her eyes.
There.
Yes.
Nothing mattered enough.
Not the revenue figures. Not Tilmuhl. Not Ivenmoth. Not her council. Not Vehm. Not Tarkhe. Not Kimia.
Especially not Kimia.
The body became warm, then hot.
Her ears flushed first.
She could feel heat beneath the skin and through the fur. Whiteblood toxin began gathering along her neck and ribs, and her feet and hand pads sweated heavily.
Whiteblood had always possessed this ugly physical honesty.
Whatever peace it gave the mind, the body announced the transaction.
Kimia rolled onto one side.
Plastic whispered beneath her.
Her saliva tasted wrong.
Sweet and metallic.
She swallowed.
Soon the toxins would begin leaving through every route her yinglet physiology permitted.
Sweat. Saliva. Skin secretions.
An ancestral defense mechanism repurposed for recreation.
Some remote forebear had discovered the ability to consume poisonous organisms and remain alive long enough to make any attacker regret their decision.
Centuries later, a duchess used the same mechanism to stop feeling sad.
Progress.
Kimia almost laughed.
The thought floated away before becoming sound.
Her limbs spread. One arm above her head. One leg bent. Tail loose beside her.
Heat continued rising.
The fur on her body became damp with toxin and started to soak through her underclothes. The plastic beneath her trapped warmth and moisture, but she did not care.
That was the point.
Not caring.
Kimia stared toward the window. The curtains were partly open.
Orange sunlight entered.
Dust moved through it.
Beautiful.
No.
Not beautiful.
Nothing required classification.
The dust existed. The light existed. Kimia existed enough.
Her eyes closed.
She did not remember deciding to sleep.
The boundary failed gently.
One moment the room was there, then something without images, then nothing.
Time passed. Two hours, perhaps three.
The palace continued without her.
Doors opened. People ate. Documents moved from one desk to another. Somebody searched for a missing key. Someone else complained about dinner.
The world performed admirably in the duchess's absence.
Kimia woke with her face pressed sideways against one forearm.
For several seconds she experienced only warmth, then smell.
Whiteblood.
Strong.
She opened her eyes.
The room was darker. Orange light had thickened toward red.
Her body felt excellent. This was immediately suspicious.
Kimia lay still.
No dread. No pressure. No internal machinery grinding against itself.