Kimia frowned.

“Was it?”

“Yes.”

“I have no idea what I said.”

“You will when you see it.”

“I don't want to.”

Eliane laughed.

“I hear that often.”

The crew began disconnecting cables.

The voxcameras became machines again.

Harmless.

Kimia stood.

Her knees felt slightly weak.

Tarkhe noticed.

Of course.

Kalgkur approached slowly from where he had remained.

Kimia looked at him.

“Well?”

The old baxxid paused.

“You did not embarrass Peshtul.”

Kimia stared.

“High praise.”

“Yes.”

“Anyzhing else?”

“You spoke honestly.”

“Mostly.”

“That is enough for broadcasting.”

Kimia thought about the camera.

Millions.

Eventually.

Not now.

The frightening part had been compressed into twenty feet of room and one interviewer.

Kalgkur had been right.

She hated when that happened.

Tarkhe came closer.

“You need food.”

Kimia looked at him.

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

“Nap?”

“After.”

Kimia considered resisting.

Did not.

Vehm would need to hear that she survived.

The Diet still waited two days away.

Tilmuhl remained a rope under tension.

The Herald now possessed an hour of Kimia carefully pretending she was not pretending.

And somewhere inside the voxcameras, the duchess had been converted into electrical impressions, magnetic information, something that could be copied and transmitted and watched by people who would never meet the animal whose face appeared on the screen.

Kimia looked toward the primary camera as a technician folded its tripod.

For one second she imagined the future image of herself.

Composed. Clear-eyed. Dark kaftan. Talking about endurance. Talking about responsibility. Talking about Peshtul as a place where people simply lived. 

The thought did not frighten her as much as expected.

Perhaps because she knew the trick now.

The woman on the recording would not be false. She would simply be one of them. One Kimia among several.

The public one. The useful one. The actress who had known her lines only after someone asked the question.

Kimia put one hand into her kaftan pocket and touched the watch.

Still there.

Time moving.

The Diet coming.

Everything coming.

She looked at Kalgkur.

“Food first.”

The baxxid inclined his head.

“Tarkhe will be pleased.”

“Don't tell him I agreed.”

“He is standing beside you.”

Kimia looked toward Tarkhe.

The physician raised one eyebrow.

“Alsper-damn it.”

For the first time since dwelling over the interview that just finished, she laughed, and with the interview behind her, Kimia felt better.

Not well.

Better.

There was an important distinction.

The Herald crew had packed their cameras, wound their cables, thanked her for her time and carried a version of Kimia away with them on magnetic recording stock. Nothing catastrophic had happened. She had not frozen. She had not said anything so foolish that House Chityala would spend the next month explaining it. She had answered questions about Peshtul, about Ivenmoth, about matriarchy, about Tilmuhl, and somehow the words had arranged themselves into something coherent.

Kalgkur had helped.

The old baxxid had given her enough structure to prevent the mind from treating the interview as an encounter with millions of people at once. One interviewer. A few machines. Answer the person.

It had worked.

Mostly.

Kimia walked away from the salon carrying the peculiar exhaustion that followed a successful performance. The fear was gone and in its place came the old argument.

Reward.

She had done well. She deserved something.

The thought entered so naturally that several seconds passed before Kimia noticed who had authored it.