One moment Dama is where she expects to be, and the next moment she is where she least expects to be - an unheard-of street under an astronomically bizarre sky, showing close, green-blue moons and two orange suns, one much closer than the other, glowing through the clouds. It is raining hard; people are bustling past her under various contrivances to keep the rain off. Nobody looks twice at her.
"...I'm glad that works out for them," she says, trying to sound less uncertain than she feels.
Wooooow that's a bad concept. She makes a face.
"Is that a lot of them? How long is a centispan, anyway?"
About a year, then. "Who should I talk to to learn more about this? Once I'm more fluent."
"And policy meetings and so on. It's all different here from what I'm used to."
"Oh, good." Eight years is a long time but maybe she'll find something she's good at before then and if not then at least she'll have time to learn more about governance here.
"Not at all?"
"If there was a library I could just go learn there."
"Are books as easily made as people, here?"
"But what if someone else bought the books I'd need?"
"I can scribe if scribing is in demand."
"Really? I have to t--oh."