Not lines memorized. Not entirely performance.

Yira looked at her.

“Was zhe interview bad?”

“No.”

“You said zhat.”

“It was actually.. fine.”

“Zhen why are you zhinking about it?”

Kimia opened her mouth.

There were several answers.

Because millions of people might watch it. Because she had spoken publicly about responsibility while privately unable to control herself. Because the recorded Kimia might look more coherent than the one sitting here. Because the whole thing had gone well and success sometimes frightened her more than failure.

She chose: “I forgot about it.”

Yira waited.

“Completely.”

“Zhat happens.”

“Not to me.”

Yira gave her a look.

Kimia corrected: “Not often.”

“Mozher.”

“What?”

“You forget zhings.”

“I know.”

“Everyone does.”

“Yes.”

Yira glanced toward the terminal.

“What did zhey ask?”

“Peshtul. Chityala. Ivenmozh. Matriarchy. Tilmuhl.”

“Light subjects.”

“Very.”

“What'd you say?”

Kimia considered explaining.

The answers came back in fragments.

People here are not relics. We live now. Hardship is not inherently virtuous. A civil servant with an inherited title.

She felt suddenly pleased with herself.

The kilcane amplified that too.

Careful.

“I told zhem Peshtul isn't a museum.”

Yira looked approving.

“Good.”

“I said people here just live.”

“Also good.”

“I said tradition is what survives modernization long enough to become decorative.”

Yira laughed.

“You said zhat on camera?”

“Yeah.”

“Zhat's going to get quoted.”

Kimia froze.

The thought had not occurred to her.

Quoted. Printed. Repeated. Perhaps attributed beneath photographs.

Kimia felt the speed of her mind trying to build ten future scenarios simultaneously.

No.

She pressed her claws gently into the fabric of the kaftan.

Yira noticed.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes.”

Too fast.

Kimia slowed.

“Yes.”

Yira said nothing.

Kimia could feel her daughter examining her now.

Not like Tarkhe.

Different. Familiar.

Yira had grown up around Kimia's instability without being given an honest vocabulary for it until she was older. Children learned weather before meteorology.

Tone. Movement. Silence. Doors shutting.

Which version of mother had entered the room.

Kimia hated that she had taught her this.

Yira looked at the cup on her desk.

Then back.

“You want water?”
“No.”

Another too-fast answer.

Kimia changed it.

“Actually, yes.”

Yira reached over and picked up a half-full bottle.

She examined it.

“Mine.”

“Obviously.”

“Clean enough.”

“Fine.”

She handed it over.

Kimia drank.

The water did little physically.

It gave her something to do.

Yira watched.

“How much coffee did you have?”

Kimia almost laughed.

“Not zhat much.”

“Because you're very awake.”

There.

Kimia took another sip.

“I slept a lot.”

“Zhat usually makes you less awake.”

“Does it?”

“Yes.”

Kimia looked toward the computer terminal.

“What are you working on?”

Subject change.

Yira recognized it and allowed it.

“A zheater commission.”

“What for?”

“Small production.”

“What kind?”

“Historical drama.”

Kimia groaned.

“No.”

Yira smiled.

“Not everyzhing historical is terrible.”

“What's it about?”

“Some merchant family after zhe Seven Rivers Crisis.”

Kimia searched memory.

“Zhat is barely history.”

“It's two hundred years ago.”