Dinner shift was merely another of saying "forced solitude," which was just as well. More time to herself--or at least more time away from others.

Again, Yomi avoided the food, opting merely to sit at her desk with a glass of water. Her katana sat across her lap, balanced with a hand on the tsuba. It was the only weapon she would really need when the lights lowered. Living and dying with a sword in hand, that was what she’d been trained for.

The sesshouseki hadn’t been part of her original plan, but it was there as well, sending tingles over her flesh as it worked to heal her. If she was going to die again, she supposed it wouldn’t be because she was carrying the sesshouseki with her. So long as it remained unwarded, it would do everything it could to keep her alive.