You steel yourself, square your shoulders and get a better grip on the knob, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Then, pulse pounding in your ears, you thrust the door open with a mighty "bang!".

... And there is Kanaya, sitting perched in a squashy armchair, with an array of lamps that would be much more appropriate for a darker time of night set around her. Several empty mugs containing the last few remnants of blood-emulsification tea are stacked like sentinels on the sidetable. And in the middle of it all, Kanaya looks up at you like a dear in the headlights, bags under her luminous eyes deep like bruises. In her surprise, she's clutched whatever object she'd been holding tight to her chest. Though most of the book's cover is obscured by her protective pajama sleeves, you can just make out the its title: The Complacency of the Learned.

Most importantly of all, you notice her feet are placed upon the most rickety footrest you have in the whole entire house. If she were kicking her feet as she read, that was surely the source of the mysterious thumping.

You sag against the doorway. It's all you can do to keep from laughing in relief. "Did you even sleep last night?"

> Kanaya: Explain.