Pretending to be someone that she's not is an easy enough thing. It's less dangerous here than it was when she said as much to him in his office back in Russia. Perhaps it had been an innocent enough fantasy, despite the fact that all that she'd been pretending, had come to believe and then disavowed, is actually the truth. That she is a little lost princess, that her father and mother once ruled Russia. She can picture the floorboards of that house in Yekaterinburg, can smell the rough soap, the breeze in the walled in garden that was never enough. Over the past few nights, ever since Gleb arrived and told her that all she'd wanted to believe and didn't want at once was true, she's thought of the close of the gates. The young man her eyes with the serious expression. How she'd hoarded the images of those outside, made up stories of their lives and what she'd say to them when given the chance.

None of that matches what she actually said to him. But she hadn't known who she was then. He had just been a man in a uniform offering her aid. Another cold wind blows sending a shiver down her spine as it tugs at the fabric of her coat and silvery dress. It was such a pretty thing she hadn't been able to resist it. It's not the most practical garment for the weather.

"I think it is," she says with an assertive nod of her head. There is only one person ahead of them now, perfect timing with midnight being five minutes away. "What are you going to drink?"