A strong and steady heart. Gleb isn't sure if that's something he can lay claim to or not — if the way she turned his head and his heart and his loyalties, the way he can't seem to get her out of his thoughts or shake these foolish feelings for her that have welled up inside him, is a weakness, or if his resolve in going to his own death so that she might live is a sort of strength all its own. He knows which he would prefer, of course, if only because it's easier than the notion of being a traitor to his own cause, but he supposes it doesn't much matter either way. These things have all happened, become immutable fact, and all he can do is try to pick up the pieces and live with that aftermath. He couldn't take any of it back now even if he wanted to, and he doesn't. That he loves her, like his name and where he was born, is simply something that is; for her to live is worth his death, no matter what form that may have taken.

They've spent more than enough time on that subject for one night, though, especially when it's one they've never addressed outright before. Besides, she sounds too content when she mentions St. Petersburg — it doesn't occur to him to correct her on the name and point out that it's Leningrad now — for him to want to take that away from her. "At least it's one thing that's almost the same," he says, looking back over at her with a faint smile. The reminder of home, albeit not his first home, is indeed a welcome one, however different their surroundings might be. Then again, he doesn't much care where they are. To have her walking beside him is enough, even if it means resisting the temptation to take her hand in his or wrap an arm around her shoulders and draw her close. The chill in the air, mild as it is, might give him an excuse for the latter, but he would know his real motivation, and as such, can't bring himself to act on it. "It must be nice, living out near the water."