Thalatha blinked once, then again—tiny, frantic shutters that did nothing to clear the fog rushing her skull. The world had turned sideways—no, upside-down—then frozen in the most compromising tableau an officer could imagine.
She became aware of heat first: a feverish band hugging her face where it pressed against something coarse and wool-rough. Breath, hot and a little sweet, gusted over the strands of hair plastered to her cheek. Each exhale lifted a lock, let it fall, lifted, fell—like the flutter of a tiny flag announcing emergency.
That's not my breathing.
Her vision steadied on a thread-bare coat collar. Discolored threads poked out in a dozen directions, each one glinting like tiny silver fishing lines. Mikhailis's ridiculous embroidery, her mind supplied, half-helpful, half-hysterical.
