[ Alina's silent for a moment, as if waiting for Nina to continue. She doesn't. The absence of commentary on Genya somehow surprises her. She knows she shouldn't. Genya may boss around a gaggle of the Queen's and other otkazat'sya servants, but among Grisha, she is different.

Alina's mouth sets in a line. ]

They all are.

[ Good. Even Ivan. Alina can recognize that, despite her personal conflicts with him. All Grisha are people who have no place but in the Little Palace. They are myriad neuroses packed into keftas, stepping on each other's toes. She and Ivan step on each other's toes more often.

But he is not the Black Heretic.

She fidgets at the hem of her kefta sleeve, feeling the need to justify herself, the subject change, now that she doesn't have more to say on the matter. She wrestles with it a moment. ] The only real friend I had in the First Army hasn't answered my letters since I left. He never liked Grisha, so I suppose it's not that surprising.

[ It stings to admit, but it gives her protection in the long term. Nina will ask no more injurious questions about her time prior to coming to the Little Palace if it's clear that there's nothing but pain there. Alina stares at the bare, smooth center of her palm, where the scar had been. She closes her hand into a fist and lifts her chin. ]

It's for the best.