It's a question that Gleb doesn't entirely have an answer to, more an instinct, a belief, than anything else. He saw it in her eyes that day in his office, no matter how desperately he tried to ignore the very possibility of it, but he would sound insane, probably, saying so. He could have guessed it at the ballet, seeing her looking so utterly, painfully regal, every inch the picture of someone who belonged in that world. All of that, though, he could have ignored if not for the announced press conference. Even then, he was fully prepared to cast that knowledge aside, to cling to any shred of belief that it wasn't true, to let her remain Anya the street sweeper rather than Anastasia Romanov, the daughter of the dead tsar, who wasn't supposed to have survived. None of them were. If she asked how she could have, he wouldn't be able to tell her. She did, though. That, he knows without a doubt, and the fact of it is torturous.
Maybe it would have been the kinder thing to go back to Russia and meet his fate there. He'd have had neither her life nor her death on his conscience that way; he wouldn't have to live with the knowledge that he'd fallen for the last of the Romanovs. None of that is anything he could tell her, either. She doesn't need to know any of it — not what he willingly accepted as his own future when he decided not to follow his orders and not the way he feels for her. It wouldn't help anything, wouldn't change anything. None of it was ever meant to go this far, anyway. She was a pretty girl he just happened to notice. There should never have been any more to it than that. Instead, he's here, staring at her and hating every word he has to tell her.
"Neither is fine," he says, quick and distant, unconcerned with the tea given the subject at hand. "I — Anya, there was a press conference. You were wearing a gown and a tiara. You knew it then, who you were. You outright said as much."
He falls quiet then, dropping his gaze from hers, unable to look at her as he continues. "I think I knew before then," he adds, softer now. "I just didn't want to believe it."
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Maybe it would have been the kinder thing to go back to Russia and meet his fate there. He'd have had neither her life nor her death on his conscience that way; he wouldn't have to live with the knowledge that he'd fallen for the last of the Romanovs. None of that is anything he could tell her, either. She doesn't need to know any of it — not what he willingly accepted as his own future when he decided not to follow his orders and not the way he feels for her. It wouldn't help anything, wouldn't change anything. None of it was ever meant to go this far, anyway. She was a pretty girl he just happened to notice. There should never have been any more to it than that. Instead, he's here, staring at her and hating every word he has to tell her.
"Neither is fine," he says, quick and distant, unconcerned with the tea given the subject at hand. "I — Anya, there was a press conference. You were wearing a gown and a tiara. You knew it then, who you were. You outright said as much."
He falls quiet then, dropping his gaze from hers, unable to look at her as he continues. "I think I knew before then," he adds, softer now. "I just didn't want to believe it."