Kimia regarded this as favorable.

Several hours after the neurologist departed, she ate dinner in the smaller dining room with Vehm and Yira. Tarkhe appeared long enough to satisfy himself that food was physically entering Kimia and then had the courtesy to occupy another table with a book.

The meal was tiplod pot roast.

The palace cook had prepared the meat slowly enough that it separated beneath the fork. Algae had been pressed and cooked into green blocks intended to occupy the culinary role of tubers, absorbing gravy without ever fully convincing anyone that they were anything except algae. There was morkva, dark greens, xiphl mushrooms, and tsybulya around the roast.

Kimia ate.

Not eagerly.

Reliably.

That mattered.

Vehm ate as though the previous thirty hours had been an extended assault on his body and dinner had arrived as reparations. Yira came late, carrying a pencil in the pocket of her shirt, sat without apologizing and spent the first several minutes staring into the middle distance while apparently continuing to compose something inside her skull.

There was very little conversation.

This was comfortable.

Kimia did not ask Yira about the music. Yira did not ask Kimia about the neurologist. Vehm did not mention his creditors.

The silence between them was not hostile. It contained the particular familiarity of people who had all seen portions of one another they had no intention of converting into dinner conversation.

Kimia finished most of the roast.

Left some algae.

She drank water, then sat with her hands around the glass.

There was something she wanted to say.

The sentence felt ridiculous before she spoke it.

This was perhaps why she should.

“Zhanks for putting up wizh my shit.”

Yira stopped chewing. Vehm looked up.

Kimia immediately regretted having said anything.

Vehm pointed his fork toward her.

“Any time.”

Yira swallowed.

“Zhat is a very broad commitment.”

Vehm thought about it.

“Reasonable.”

Kimia looked at her daughter.

Yira gave the smallest shrug.

“You put up wizh mine.”

Kimia glanced around the room.

“I don't zhink dirty dishes are comparable.”

“You haven't seen all of zhem.”

Vehm smiled.

Kimia felt something in her chest release.

Not enough to become emotion.

Enough.

She stood.

“Good night.”

Vehm raised his water.

Yira said: “Sleep.”

Kimia looked at her.

“Eventually.”

“Zhat wasn't permission.”

Kimia left before either could improve upon the exchange.

The next several days possessed no stable shape.

When Kimia remembered them afterward, they existed as rooms.

The library. Her chamber. Vehm's room. The dining room. A shower. A corridor. Kalgkur's table.

Each contained a different Kimia.

In the library, she prepared for the Diet.

Kalgkur helped.

They went through the nations of the Heart that were likely to raise objections.

Dinnlan. Beletam. The Green Reach. Akalos. Baramor, and Eastwall, all tied together in a great political machine with Val Salia at the forefront. 

Kalgkur knew histories Kimia had forgotten.

He knew insults that had survived five generations without anyone remembering the original sentence. He knew which territorial disputes were truly territorial and which were pretexts for tariffs, rail access, marriage, pride, or the stubborn persistence of dead men through living institutions.

Sometimes Kimia listened. Sometimes she stared at the papers while the meaning slid off them. Sometimes she asked Kalgkur to repeat himself.

He always did.

In her chamber, she attempted maintenance.

Food. Water. Sleep. Bathing. Medication.

Self-imposed rules.

Then there were the failures.

Whiteblood. Plastic over the bed. Heat. Sweat.

Hours rendered soft enough that the self could not injure itself against its own edges.

Sometimes she lay beneath the shower afterward until the toxins washed from her fur and the hot water became the only thing happening anywhere.

Other times she went to Vehm.

Sometimes they slept together. Sometimes nothing sexual occurred, or they made love again.

A body beside another body.

Warmth. Weight. Breathing.

Proof that one had not disappeared. This distinction felt more important than what others imagined.

Vehm sometimes drank. Kimia sometimes did not. Kimia sometimes used whiteblood. Vehm sometimes told her not to.

This was rich coming from Vehm.

She told him so.

He agreed.

The approaching Diet gradually became a physical object.

Documents accumulated. Luggage appeared. Travel papers. Security schedules. House credentials.

Invitations stamped with the red-and-gold seal of Ivenmoth.

Kimia's clothing was inspected by servants who understood that fabric could apparently become geopolitically consequential if worn before enough important people.

The morning of departure arrived without drama.

Kimia woke. Showered. Ate. Dressed.

She selected a different kaftan.

Still Peshtulan. Still severe enough to carry authority, but slightly brighter than the dark blue one.

Deep red-brown with restrained gold stitching along the sleeves, collar, and cuffs, enough color to complement her fur without making her look festive.

Festivity would have been dishonest.

She stood before the mirror.

The duchess looked ready.

Kimia did not.

Close enough.

Packing took longer.

Clothing. Correspondence. Pocket watch. Personal documents. Medication. A small volume of Alsperite prayers she rarely admitted carrying.

And the vices.

Those required greater care.

Whiteblood. Kilcane tablets. Small quantities. Hidden. Not in the obvious toiletry case. Not somewhere Tarkhe would encounter accidentally.

Kimia wrapped them in cloth and placed them inside an inner compartment beneath folded garments.

She stared at the arrangement.

The absurdity was obvious.