Kima took hers and unfolded the napkin.

Little accommodations. She appreciated this more than she expected.

Civilization sometimes consisted of someone having noticed the shape of another person's hand.

She took the spoon and began eating. 

The broth was hot. Too hot.

Kimia sipped some anyway.

It hurt.

Good.

Then flavor.

Gulluk meat had cooked until nearly falling apart. The broth was rich without being over seasoned. Root vegetables softened beneath the spoon. Greens.

Nothing extravagant. Nothing clever. Food built to enter the body and remain there.

Kimia ate faster than dignity recommended.

Vehm watched.

“Hungry?”

“Yes.”

“When did you last eat?”

“Earlier.”

“Zhat is not a time.”

“Tarkhe says zhat too.”

“Tarkhe is occasionally right.”

“Don't tell him.”

“Never.”

Kimia continued eating.

The heat spread through her chest.

A different kind of warmth.

Food warmth.

Not intoxication. Not fever.

She realized how much she had needed it.

Halfway through the bowl, she stopped, took water, then allowed Vehm to fill her vodka glass again. Only partly.

She looked at it.

Small. Acceptable.

She drank.

Slower this time.

The alcohol did not strike.

It arrived.

A quiet additional softness.

Kimia followed it with water.

Vehm looked mildly offended by the procedure.

“You drink like an accountant.”

“I spent an hour wizh one zhis morning.”

“Tragic.”

“He was Dinnish.”

“Zhen worse.”

Kimia smiled.

They ate.

The restaurant filled further as evening deepened.

More people came in.

The respectable dinner crowd began overlapping with the people who had been waiting for night.

Workers still in clean shirts after shifts. Merchants. Minor officials. A group of young aristocrats pretending nobody recognized them. Two sailors. A baxxid whose garment carried embroidered merchant insignia. Three yinglets sharing something fried and arguing over cards.

The room became warmer.

Smoke gathered beneath the ceiling despite the ventilation.

Ghi'cha remained behind the bar.

Occasionally, he moved through the room.

When he did, people noticed without appearing to.

Not fear.

Institution.

He had become part of the architecture.

Kimia finished the soup.

Every drop.

She set the spoon inside the bowl.

Vehm was still eating.

Slower.

He always drank quickly and ate as though food might be needed later.

Kimia leaned back.

Her stomach was warm.

Full enough.

The alcohol floated on top of food rather than falling into emptiness.

Better.

The world had moved farther away.

Not disappeared.

Farther.

She watched Vehm finish, then he pushed the bowl away.

“Excellent.”

“You say zhat about everyzhing here.”

“Yes.”

“Because it's good?”

“No. Because Ghi'cha frightens me.”

From across the room, the artificial eye turned toward Vehm.

Vehm stopped.

Kimia saw it happen.

One cluster of luminous optical elements adjusted. Focused.

Vehm slowly picked up his water.

Kimia began laughing.

She tried not to.

This made it worse.

Vehm whispered: “See?”

Ghi'cha returned his attention to someone else.

Kimia covered her mouth.

Her shoulders shook.

The laughter was small. Real. Not manic. Not chemically explosive. Just funny.

For several seconds, she forgot to inspect it. That itself became precious.