The actor was done. The duchess slid away.
Not dead.
Offstage.
Kimia let everything inside her become loose.
Vehm did not ask questions, didn't tell her she had done well, and didn't ask about Tilmuhl.
He simply watched the news at low volume while Kimia relaxed beside him.
The anchor's voice became meaningless.
Baramor. Trade unions. Something about arrests. Weather tomorrow.
Then darkness.
Kimia slept hard.
No dreams she remembered.
Hours passed.
When she woke, the room was darker.
The televox remained on but nearly silent.
Some late-night program had replaced the news, a talk show hosted by an charismatic human man, discussing something with a baxxid guest.
Kimia blinked.
Her mouth was dry. Head heavy.
She rolled onto one side.
Vehm was no longer lying beside her.
He sat at the little hotel desk.
Lamp on. Back bent. A notebook open before him. Pencil in hand.
Kimia watched.
He scribbled.
Stopped.
Looked at the page.
Scribbled again.
The creditor list.
There.
The thought woke her faster.
Names. Amounts.
Perhaps he had finally decided.
Kimia pushed herself upright.
The room shifted slightly.
She waited.
Vehm glanced back.
“Awake?”
“Unfortunately.”
“My condolences.”
Kimia rubbed one eye.
“What are you doing?”
Vehm looked toward the notebook.
“Work.”
She sat straighter.
“Zhe list?”
“What list?”
Kimia stared.
“Creditors.”
“Oh.”
Vehm considered.
“No.”
Disappointment mixed with relief.
“What zhen?”
Vehm looked at the page, then smiled.
Something about the smile warned her.
“No.”
“What?”
“You'll mock me.”
“I will.”
“Exactly.”
Kimia stood.
Slowly.
Walked toward him.
Vehm placed one arm protectively over the notebook.
“Privacy.”
“You are in my hotel suite.”
“Feudalism.”
“Vehm.”
He sighed, then turned the notebook around.
Kimia looked.
A drawing. Crude, drawn with pencil.
It was Vehm, or something intended to be Vehm.
The head was too large. The proportions of the snout were off, and the shelltooth looked considerably smaller compared to how big it was in reality. One ear was longer than the other, and the eyes possessed an expression of serene stupidity. His coat had been rendered with excessive detail, and both hands resembled root vegetables.
Above the figure he had written:
VEHM
As though identification were otherwise impossible.
Kimia stared.
Vehm said: “Behold.”
Kimia's mouth tightened.
Vehm straightened with drunken dignity.
“It is me. Vehm.”
“Clearly.”
“Friend to all in zhe Heart- no, scratch zhat, zhe whole world, regardless of who zhey are or what creed zhey come from, absurd as zhat might be.”
Kimia looked at the drawing.
Vehm continued.
“One of Alsper's countless children.”
He tapped the pencil against the page.
“He holds no ill in his heart.”
Kimia looked at Vehm.
Vehm ignored the skepticism.
“Takes everyzhing life zhrows at him in stride.”
Kimia stared at the drawn Vehm.
The drawn Vehm appeared to have suffered a severe head injury.
She looked at the real one.
“Is zhat really how you see yourself?”
Vehm paused. His performance dropped slightly.
“I don't know.”
There.
He looked down at the page.
“I'd like to zhink so.”
Kimia leaned against the desk.
Vehm's voice became quieter.
“Half of zhe battle is belief.”
Kimia almost said:
You're still drunk.
He was.
Not terribly.
Enough.
The vodka bottle remained nearly empty.
The fruit spirit had not moved since Kimia put it down.
She decided the observation added nothing.
Instead she looked at the picture again.
“Your hands look like tubers.”
Vehm frowned.
“Hands are difficult.”
“Your ears aren't zhe same size.”
“Neizher are yours.”
Kimia touched one ear reflexively.
“Zhey are.”
“Belief.”
“Fuck you.”
Vehm smiled.
Kimia smiled too, then stopped.
Something about the drawing bothered her.
Not badly.
The inscription.
Friend to all. Child of Alsper. No ill in his heart.
A person drawing the self he wanted to be.
An actor.
No.