Put it back.

Behind the cloth. Behind the box.

Then shut the wardrobe.

There.

If she wanted more she would need to stand up, open the door, find the bottle, open it again.

Effort.

A ridiculous defense. A defense nonetheless.

Kimia looked at the tablet.

“No more.”

She broke it in half.

One half went into her mouth.

She swallowed.

The other remained between her fingers.

Kimia stared at it.

For several seconds, she considered putting it somewhere accessible.

No.

She returned to the wardrobe.

Opened it.

Found the bottle.

Put the other half inside.

Closed it.

Returned the bottle.

Closed the wardrobe.

More effort.

Good.

She sat on the bed.

Waited.

Nothing.

Kilcane always possessed that delay.

The body had received the message but had not yet opened it.

Kimia leaned forward with her elbows on her knees.

She counted.

One. Two. Three. Stopped. Restarted.

Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine.

At some point the numbers began arriving faster, then the room sharpened.

Kimia inhaled.

There.

The first wave did not feel like pleasure.

It felt like capability.

Her spine straightened.

The weight behind her eyes withdrew.

The lingering fatigue from interrupted sleep, whiteblood, and the interview didn't vanish, but became irrelevant.

Thoughts began arriving with greater velocity.

Each one felt worth following.

Then another arrived before she finished.

Then another.

Kimia stood.

Too fast.

She caught herself.

The floor remained correct.

Her body felt excellent.

Suspiciously excellent.

She could walk. Run. Write. Read. Rewrite the regional tax code. Call the Herald back and do the interview again better.

No.

Too much.

Focus.

Kimia placed both hands against the bedpost.

Count.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

The mind tried to skip ahead.

She forced it back.

Six. Seven. Eight.

Her heartbeat had become more noticeable.

Not frightening.

Present.

She breathed deliberately.

Yira.

The name entered.

Yira.

Music. Commission work.

That was a real thing.

Contained.

A person.

Go see Yira.

Why?

Kimia needed a reason.

The brain supplied several instantly.

Ask about music. Ask whether she ate. Tell her about the Herald. Ask how she handles clients.

There.

Clients.

Good.

An actual subject.

Kimia looked in the mirror.

Her eyes were brighter.

Perhaps too bright.

She adjusted her hair.

The movement was precise.

Then tail.

Kaftan.

No visible disaster.

The person reflected there looked awake. Very awake.

Kimia practiced stillness for several seconds.

The effort was almost comical.

“Normal.”

The reflection agreed because reflections had no principles.

Kimia unlocked the door.

Tarkhe was not immediately outside.

Good.

Neither was the indrel.

Better.

Kimia entered the corridor.

Walk. Do not hurry.

She had to remind herself twice.

The kilcane made ordinary walking feel inefficient.

Her body wanted to arrive.

Kimia forced herself to remain at the speed expected of a duchess who had nothing urgent to accomplish.

Servant.

Nod.

Corner.

Stairs.

Not too fast.

She thought through the question again.

How do you talk to your clients?

Strange.

Not impossibly strange.

Parents asked children stranger things.

She reached Yira's corridor.

Music did not come through the doorway this time.