This entire situation was a ludicrous anomaly in the otherwise perfectly predictable and impeccably ordered storyline that was Anastasia's life. The simple notion that she might care enough for this man's wellbeing to extract herself from the warmth and nostalgic comfort of her suite to demand that he shelter himself was a peculiar notion in itself. Even this seemingly minute measure of care had not been exhibited towards another individual in nearly a century, apart from Alexander. Fiercely independent in her very nature, the Russian Duchess was unaccostumed to doting even these small attentions unto anyone unless it was of direct benefit to herself or her creator. She had been made cold by circumstance, by time, and by the myriad cruelties that life had sought to inflict upon her.

With William, however, something was irrefutably and undeniably awry, some insidious ripple had marred what otherwise should have been an admittedly straightforward encounter. What alternate explanation could have possibly been proffered up to explain why she had not simply left him there in the damp, filth-caked alley of the burlesque? Why had she felt, in the depths of her conscience, that she must offer him aide? Why had she risked Alexander's temper, his quite possible disappointment, to help this stranger? All quandaries that, for their enigma, had and were proving rather infuriating.

The auburn-haired damsel merely offers her companion a flat look as token for his rebuttal, though as her lips part to chastise him still further for his blatant disregard for his own health, she is urged to silence by the remark that follows. He had wanted to see her? How could that possibly be the case when, for all appearances, he had wanted little to nothing to do with her continued presence after their intial encounter? Anastasia finds herself at a momentary loss, which proves an opportunity for William to continue to pursue whatever agenda had seen him alit upon the Witchery's doorstep this eve.

An agenda that has her wholly and completely taken aback. Against all reason, all instinct, Anastasia does not withdraw from the tug of his fingertips upon the hem of her coat. Much more ensconced is she within the notion that this man who had sought so vigorously to be rid of her might feel the desire to request her company on a... date? It had been years, far longer than might have been expected to the idle inquirer, that a man had sought to court the Duchess; her icy demeanor and fierce independence oft proving to be traits that were undesirable to many a wayward suitor. Not that this axiom proved troubling to the woman in the slightest for she found it quite adventageous to be left to her own devices. This proposition, however, was met with a rather uncharacteristic response. Nearly a hesitation, of sorts.

"I," she began, a rare moment of equivocation staggering what could have been an otherwise confident response. "I'm not dressed properly, William. I'm hardly suitable to be taken anywhere." Some small, nagging portion of her inner self demanded that she leave the issue at that, to bring this strange occurance to a natural end with this, her refusal. However... "But, if you would be willing to wait a moment I can freshen up." Sage eyes meet his as the minutest, most subtle tracing of a simper curve the edges of her pillowy lips before falling away to that customary and practiced skepticism at his final affirmation. "I shall believe that when I see it."

Anastasia Romanova

Grand Duchess of Imperial Russia