“I have no idea what I'm going to say.”
“Answer questions?”
“Brilliant.”
“Zhank you.”
“I could just have Kalgkur do it.”
“Kalgkur?”
“He can talk their ears off about anyzhing.”
Vehm considered this.
“True.”
“I love zhat damned old baxxid, but if zhey ask him what Peshtul is like, he'll begin in zhe 'zhird century and somehow still be explaining agricultural land tenure after sunset.”
“Also true.”
Kimia continued walking.
Vehm followed.
“It would look bad if I refused.”
“Would it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I am zhe matriarch.”
Vehm nodded as though this answered everything.
Perhaps it did.
“What are you going to do?”
Kimia drew out the pocket watch.
Four twelve.
More than eight hours.
Enough time to become afraid many times.
“Haven't decided.”
Vehm waited.
Kimia closed the watch.
“I'll probably do it.”
“Good.”
“Don't.”
“Sorry.”
“I might sleep after breakfast.”
“Zhat sounds sensible.”
“Zhen find Kalgkur.”
“Also sensible.”
Kimia looked toward him.
“You're being unusually agreeable.”
“My headache is preventing creativity.”
That made sense.
They separated not long afterward.
Vehm went toward his rooms with the gait of someone who had accepted that the rest of his morning would be punishment.
Kimia went toward hers.
Tarkhe would eventually appear.
Breakfast would eventually appear.
The interview would eventually appear.
Time moved whether she cooperated or not.
The next eight hours passed without becoming distinct.
A shower. Hot water. Clean fur. Kaftan. Hair. Tail. The small rituals by which the body was turned back into public property.
Tarkhe appeared while Kimia was fastening the last buttons.
He knocked once and entered after she answered.
He looked better than he had the previous night.
Rested. Fed. Still judgmental.
Kimia watched him through the mirror.
“You're back.”
“Yes.”
“Vehm is coming to zhe Passage.”
Tarkhe paused.
“Why?”
“To help.”
“With?”
“Me.”
Tarkhe considered that.
“I see.”
“You don't approve.”
“I did not say zhat.”
“You made a face.”
“I have a face.”
“You weaponize it.”
Tarkhe ignored her.
He looked instead at the color beneath her eyes.
Then the set of her ears.
Then whatever else physicians extracted from people by pretending merely to look.
“How much sleep?”
“Several hours in zhe archive.”
“That was not bed.”
“It was horizontal enough.”
“You were sitting.”
“Spiritually horizontal.”
Tarkhe sighed.
Kimia continued combing the end of her tail.
The breakfast room was quieter than the day before.
Kimia ate more.
Not much.
Enough.
Fruit. A gulluk egg. Shellfish. A little soft root mash. Water. Then coffee.
Tarkhe did not comment.
This was probably praise.
Afterward Kimia went to the library.
Kalgkur was there.
Naturally.
He had changed tables again.
Today the papers concerned something she could not identify from a distance.
She approached.
“Kalgkur.”
The old baxxid lifted his head.
“Miss Kimia.”
“You're here early.”
Kimia stopped.
“You're always here.”
“Yes.”
“So how do you know?”
“Because you are here before your ordinary arrival.”