The room was different. It wasn't a studio, a seminar hall, or an office. It was a softly lit, circular chamber with sound-absorbing walls the color of dusk. The floor was covered in a deep, plush carpet. In the center lay a wide, low platform strewn with cushions and silks. There were no chairs, no desks, no tools of denial. Only space, and quiet.

Armaan entered, instructed to wear nothing but a black silk robe, loosely tied. He found Ira already there, standing by the platform. She wore an identical robe, open at the front, held closed only by the belt. Her hair was down, a dark cascade over her shoulders. Her expression was not that of a professor, a taskmaster, or an evaluator. It was serene, almost gentle. A guide.