The moment that she had boarded that final train in St. Petersburg, she had started her farewell to Russia. Gnawing on her lower lip, Anya tries to reel this mess of feelings back in, tries to sort through them even as she just wants to let them explode. A stiff upper lip isn't exactly Russian, but neither is bemoaning this fate. Things already were so different with Dmitry, since she had pushed him away, told him that the position he had put her in wasn't fair. That loving someone shouldn't be an ultimatum.

She doesn't know the way that she loved Dmitry, just knows that she did, just as she was frustrated by him. It wasn't the same way that she loves Gleb. So much confusion over something that should be easy, something that she hadn't given much notice to before. What she wouldn't give for one of her sisters to guide her.

As if sensing that something isn't quite right, Pushkin comes and brushes against her shins. The feel of his fur makes her crack a faint smile despite herself. "I shouldn't be burdening you like this," she admits, looking up at Gleb and reaching out to touch his cheek. "I'm not good at losing things, that's really it. I haven't had something to lose in a long time and this caught me by surprise. Thank you, for coming when I asked."