“Where?”
The answer arrived.
Ghi'cha's.
Of course.
Somewhere respectable enough that a duchess could be seen there without producing scandal. Disreputable enough that nobody would ask why she had come after dark.
She straightened.
“Tarkhe, you're dismissed for zhe day.”
His face changed.
“Kimia.”
“I mean it.”
“You are not medically-”
“I’m leaving for a while. Less ways for me to get tempted.”
“You are planning to drink.”
“Possibly.”
“That is not less temptation.”
“It is if the alternative is staying here.”
Tarkhe opened his mouth, then stopped. Kimia watched him think through the objection.
He knew the palace too.
He knew her.
That was the difficulty.
Finally: “You are taking security.”
“Yes.”
“Your indrel.”
Kimia glanced toward the soldier.
“Yes.”
“And someone else.”
“Two personal guards.”
Tarkhe's expression softened slightly.
“Food first.”
“I'll eat zhere.”
“Water.”
“Yes.”
“No whiteblood.”
“I won't bring any.”
“That was not what I said.”
Kimia looked at him.
“No whiteblood.”
“No kilcane.”
“No kilcane.”
“If you begin feeling disoriented again-”
“I'll leave.”
“You call me.”
“I'll leave and I'll call you.”
Tarkhe studied her for several seconds, then nodded.
Not approval. Recognition of terms.
Kimia felt unexpectedly grateful.
This annoyed her.
“Go rest,” she said.
“I already did.”
“Do it more.”
“You have no medical authority.”
“I own zhe building.”
“That does not qualify you.”
Kimia smiled faintly. Tarkhe closed his case.
At the doorway, he stopped.
“Do not make me come retrieve you.”
“I would never.”
Tarkhe looked at her.
Kimia corrected: “I will try not to.”
“That I believe.”
He left.
Kimia watched him disappear into the corridor.
The indrel remained.
Of course.
She turned toward it.
“Find Vehm.”
The soldier's head moved.
“And summon two from my personal guard. Plain clozhes.”
Click.
“Meet me in zhe foyer.”
The indrel stood there another second.
Kimia wondered whether it was processing the instructions or merely judging their practicality, then it moved.
Its huge body passed through the doorway with surprising quietness.
Kimia was alone.
Truly alone now.
Only for a moment.
She picked up the empty water glass. The kitchen lay on the way.
That was justification enough.
When Kimia entered, the evening staff had begun reducing the room toward night. Copper pots hung above cleaned worktables. Several sinks were full. The smell of cooked meat, detergent, fruit rind, hot metal, and damp cloth lingered in layers.
A kitchen assistant glanced at Kimia.
“Your Grace?”
“Just returning zhis.”
She held up the glass. The assistant looked at the sink, then at Kimia.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Kimia placed the glass into the nearest empty basin.
Done.
She turned.
Another sink beside it was full nearly to the rim with hot soapy water. A great copper cooking pot rested within, submerged halfway. Steam moved over the surface.
Kimia stopped.
There she was.
Not clearly.
The water broke her apart.
Red fur became orange fragments. Her kaftan became a black field warped by bubbles. Her eyes existed for an instant between ripples and then disappeared when a drip fell from the faucet.
Kimia stared.
The reflected face reconstructed itself.
Nothing terrible emerged.