Kimia remained for another moment.

The giant horned Ivenmoth figure still stood near Ieronim, now speaking quietly with him.

Kimia looked, then stopped herself.

Not today.

She wanted the hotel. She wanted walls.

Vehm.

Something warm. Something that required nothing.

The motorized carriage carried her away from the Diet building.

The Teeth rose beyond the windows.

Val Salia moved around her.

Crowds. Traffic. Electric signs. Televox towers.

Kimia watched without seeing.

By the time she reached the hotel, the duchess had begun loosening at the seams.

She entered the suite.

No announcement. No ceremony.

Vehm occupied the bed. Half awake. Half drunk.

A televox set played at low volume from the cabinet opposite him.

Some news broadcast.

A news anchor discussed political unrest in Baramor beneath a map Kimia did not bother examining.

Vehm lay atop the covers wearing trousers and an undershirt.

One footwrap remained on. The other had disappeared.

A nearly empty vodka bottle stood on the nightstand. Beside it sat a bottle of fruit spirit roughly half full.

Vehm turned his head.

“Ah.”

Kimia closed the door.

“Hello.”

“You're back.”

“Yes.”

“How'd it go?”

“It went well.”

The answer was half true.

Therefore, half a lie.

Vehm knew.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

He did not ask which half.

A food-service trolley stood near the wall.

Someone had ordered it.

Probably Vehm.

Sliced pieces of algae, and an algae sandwich with pieces of gulluk between it that was half-eaten and then forgotten. Fruit. Cold shellfish. Cheese. Something wrapped in paper.

Kimia ate a piece of fruit first, some cheese, and then several pieces of shellfish.

Food before stupidity. Tarkhe would approve.

This annoyed her.

She ate standing.

Vehm watched the televox.

The news anchor had been replaced by footage of a rail station crowded with protesters.

Kimia did not care.

She looked at the fruit-spirit bottle.

There.

Reward.

Again.

The demons had very limited vocabulary.

She took it anyway.

Vehm noticed.

“Careful.”

Kimia looked at him.

“You?”

“Yes.”

“Fascinating.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“Mostly ezhanol.”

“That too.”

Kimia unscrewed the cap and smelled.

Fruit. Sugar. Alcohol.

She drank directly from the bottle.

The first swallow attacked her sinuses with unreasonable ambition.

Kimia shut her eyes and coughed.

“Shit.”

Vehm smiled.

“Good?”

“No.”

She drank again.

Smaller.

The heat moved down, then outward.

A dull warm wall.

Not enough to obliterate. Enough to make the Diet farther away.

The map. The rope. The abattoir.

She stopped.

That thought had returned too easily.

Kimia placed the bottle down.

Enough alcohol.

For the moment.

She went to her luggage and opened the toiletry case.

Not where the main supply was hidden.

A smaller amount lived there now.

Travel required redundancies.

Kimia found some whiteblood.

A tiny quantity.

She looked at it.

Vehm did not say anything.

That was worse than being told no.

Kimia swallowed it.

Not enough for the fever. Not enough for sweat. Not enough to become an event.

Enough to soften.

She put the remainder away immediately.

Closed the case.

Closed the luggage.

Effort.

Rules.

The little rituals by which surrender impersonated management.

Kimia turned.

Vehm had returned his attention to the televox.

Baramor again.

The anchor said something about a minister resigning.

Kimia crossed the room and lay down beside him.

Kaftan still on.

She did not care.

The bed accepted her.

Vehm shifted enough to make room.

Kimia stared at the ceiling.

Ordinary ceiling.

No melting.

Good.

The whiteblood began.

Softness. Warmth. Distance.

Her muscles released one by one.