She snorts at that, her mouth twisting cynically for a moment. Then it's all pleasant neutrality as they walk in, as she requests a table, as she's offered murmured condolences as they are seated at one of the very few tables left.

She says, "Thank you," and her knuckles are briefly white as she curls her hand around the cutlery. Then, slowly, she forces her hand to relax.

The table is against a wall, near the kitchen, and the room is loud, hot, too many people and she knows half of them, and it's hard to breathe, and-

"Any new plays in Moscow?"