Not for the first time, Gleb wonders what she would tell him if he asked about what and how much she recalls. At first, what feels like so long ago now, when he was sent after her, he'd considered that perhaps her claiming to be no one was just a story, a way of dodging suspicion. He remembers too well the way she'd reacted the day he arrived here, though, saying that she wasn't Anastasia, telling him that he was wrong for believing so. There's no reason for him to doubt the veracity of that. Something happened to her that night so long ago. He'll probably never know what; perhaps she doesn't know herself. Whatever it was, it must have made her believe she was someone else until the truth finally came to light.

Now that he knows, it's hard to see how anyone could have missed it, but he's glad they did. He may never have met her otherwise. Someone else might have made a different choice than he did.

Talking about the past, or at least that part of it, seems off-limits, though. If nothing else, he shouldn't be the one to bring it up. The last thing he wants is to ruin what's become a perfectly nice evening, Anya close beside him as they walk, that quiet laugh of hers so small and yet so worth savoring. "The 1940s in 2018," he says, shaking his head as he speaks. "A strange idea for a party, I'd think." He's never been much for nostalgia, though, looking forward rather than back. In theory, he'd think it must be nice, having something from long ago to celebrate, but mostly it reminds him of the Russians he saw in Paris, stubbornly clinging to a way of life that no longer existed. If tonight was anything like that, then it really is a good thing that he didn't go. "There's too much to catch up on, anyway. I don't know what happened in the 1940s."