“Barely.”
“You're a terrible ruler.”
“I know.”
Yira turned toward the music.
“Zhe director wants somezhing restrained.”
“What does zhat mean?”
“Exactly.”
Kimia stood and came closer. Yira pointed toward the manuscript.
“Zhey want old Peshtulan influence wizhout sounding like someone just found a folk song and put strings behind it.”
Kimia nodded.
“Zhat makes sense.”
“It does until I try to write it.”
Yira played the phrase.
Six notes.
Pause.
Then another four.
Kimia listened.
Her accelerated mind immediately began finding patterns.
The third note.
Repeat it.
No.
Move lower.
Add something underneath.
She stopped herself. This was not her field.
Yira played it again.
Kimia's foot had begun moving.
Tap. Tap.
She forced it still.
Yira noticed that too.
“What?”
“Nozhing.”
“You're doing zhat zhing.”
“What zhing?”
“Where you're pretending not to move.”
Kimia stared at her daughter. Yira stared back.
There was no accusation in it.
That made lying harder.
Kimia returned to the bed. Sat. Hands together.
“I’m energetic.”
“I can see zhat.”
“Interview went well.”
“Yes.”
“I’m pleased.”
“Yes.”
Yira waited.
Kimia did not fill the silence.
Good.
One of Kalgkur's lessons.
Let silence exist.
The kilcane hated silence.
It wanted to explain.
Kimia could feel explanations forming.
Harmless. Legal. Only half.
No whiteblood. Controlled. A reward.
She rejected all of them.
Yira looked back toward her manuscript, then said: “Did you take somezhing?”
Kimia felt the room become very precise.
Computer hum. Paper. The small scrape of Yira's claw against the pencil. No theatrical shock. No raised voice. Just the question.
Kimia looked at her daughter.
The instinct to deny arrived first. Then the actor arrived. Then the mother. Then the addict. Then the part of Kimia still sitting with the Akalosi philosopher at three in the morning, deciding which internal voice should govern.
She could lie.
Yira would probably know.
That would teach another lesson.
Kimia swallowed.
“A little kilcane.”
Yira's ears lowered.
Not fear.
Disappointment perhaps.
Kimia immediately wanted to withdraw the admission.
Too late.
“How little?”
“Half a tablet.”
“Condensed?”
“Yes.”
Yira looked away.
Kimia felt defensive language gathering.
She killed it before it reached the mouth.
“I wanted somezhing after zhe interview.”
Yira nodded once.
That was all.
Kimia disliked the nod.
“Say somezhing.”
“What?”
“Anyzhing.”
Yira looked back.
“I don't know what you want me to say.”
“Neither do I.”
“Zhen maybe I shouldn't guess.”
That sounded like something Yira would tell a client.
Kimia almost smiled.
Did not.
“I didn't take whiteblood.”
Yira's expression changed.
Kimia heard how pathetic the sentence sounded only after speaking it.
Not whiteblood. Only kilcane. A hierarchy of disaster.
Yira put the pencil down.