Movement resumes; she busies herself finding chicken broth, silken tofu, white rice, turmeric, olive oil, here's that pepper and there should be fresh dill...here. All right. It's a soothing occupation, even in a kitchen as alarmingly red-and-black as hers is now, and she lets herself fall into familiar rhythm so she can think more clearly on what to do next.

“I value my privacy as you do,” she says, then, in a frank reminder of all those times she's obliged him in not asking. “Do I lose it, if I wish to help?”