Vasilia was curled in bed-- feeling almost as vile as she had felt towards the end of her flu and yet unsure how or why this could be. The pills Martha gave her had worked; she had researched their efficacy. Why was she sick now?

Her first reaction to the knock on the door was to call out 'Go away; I'm indisposed.' But even as she said so, she felt a lessening of the nausea that gripped her.

She staggered to the door, glaring out blearily.

The man on the other side was a stranger, one she had only seen flashes of on the network. He was nearly of a height that she could look him directly in the eye; rare for her, she being rather shorter than average for a Spacer woman. He was not handsome. He reminded her slightly of Fastolfe in the awkward proportion of his face-- though not enough to trigger the wave of conflicted and negative emotions that that lauded individual inspired in her.

Most significant was that somehow her proximity to him made the pain that snarled in her gut fade away.

"What have you done?" she demanded suspiciously.