Her feet effectively nailed to the floor by Hasi's wards and Sonja's instructions, Ilde-- waits, mostly, because what else is she supposed to do? It's infuriating, this paralytic fear, it makes her useless and she hates it; she hates this helplessness, that Hasi seems barely there and she can do nothing, nothing at all, and she hates that she wants her to wake up because she's lonely and she's afraid as much as anything else because it feels shamingly selfish. She spends hours sitting beside her thinking come back and not saying it, hating the plaintive quality of even her own thoughts.

There's no task and no direction and no nothing, so she takes care of the dogs, and she watches the network, and she watches the torn sky out of the windows, wonders if this is what it looked like when it happened in her world. There weren't any windows to look out of, then; she doesn't know her hands are clenched so tightly (she changed so easily once, what did that to her, could it be taken away) until she moves, black-eyed because there's no one here to look at her, anyway. She could offer it up as a sanctuary, like other people are doing, but she hesitates every time she thinks of it. It's not her place, she rationalizes, it's not like she can ask Hasi and she's pretty sure Ivan intends to put Mitchell in a box somewhere and lock it so it's not like she can ask him how he feels and anyway--

--anyway, she'd rather be lonely and afraid than surrounded by people she doesn't trust, and an open invitation makes it difficult to vet them. She wonders where Katherine is in all this, the vial of blood a weight against her sternum.

For a lack of anything else, she does Mitchell's dishes.