The fine arch of a perfectly manicured brow beckons forth the explanation for Gregory's absolute insistence that the Russian woman see to her uncle's preoccupation for the benefit, she presumed, of his entire household. The mostly playful discord betwixt Fae and warlock having long ago fostered an undercurrent of amusement in the Hunter, much as siblings might bedevil at one another. The plush cushions of her lips pitch as the sage of her eyes flick towards her uncle once more. "Politicians deserve far worse than to be kept waiting." And then, bringing the delicate brim of her wineglass to her lips and partaking in another appreciative sip... "Did you win?" The look she imparts upon him is knowing, perhaps nodding towards impish, for she knows of what had distracted him from his judicious responsibilities in the same manner that she knew nearly everything else. It was her gift.

A moment of easy, contented silence passes between uncle and niece as the elder Fae busies himself with the cornucopia of delectable treats he then moves to fill the vacant space between them. It is much like bearing witness to a perfectly choreographed dance, such is her uncle's talent in the kitchen. He is a culinary artisan, a skill Anastasia, despite the fervency of her continued efforts, had heretofore failed to master to such a degree as this.

The soft white caps of the pastilas capture the Duchess' attention near immediately, beckoning to her as some manner of small, sugary siren all but pleading to be tasted. A benevolent grin creases the edges of her austere features as she moves to pluck a particularly enticing morsel from the board before her. Her eyes fall to a close for a moment, the softest of hums echoing in her chest as the sweetness of the apple paste envelopes her taste buds. Pastilas had been a favorite of Anastasia's for as long as memory would allow, the innocent little squares having seen her much younger self pursued from the palace kitchens by one or more irate chefs far more times than should have been permitted. "You spoil me, Matteo," she coos softly, imparting upon him a lighthearted glance. "Alexander would not approve."

It is the mention of Russia's war against Ukraine, and of her subsequent actions, that sees their conversation stricken with a tinge of somberness. Her otherwise delicate nose crinkles at the mention of France's "sanctions". "Da, the entire world seems to have imposed their sanctions, as if Putin and his minions will be swayed by such things. This brand of politics means nothing to them." The young Hunter nurses the dark crimson libation settled before her before eyeing her uncle with an alluringly dark and knowing glance. "The mortar is crumbling and the bricks are loose... give me time, sweet uncle."

The Russian woman readies herself for a secret that, if Matteo's history with such things was to be believed, would prove no less than superbly entertaining. Especially given that the subject of such a furtive conversational morsel was her beloved otets. The proverbial meat of his offered revelation, though, sees Anastasia pause, the pastila nearly poised upon her tongue before being withdrawn. "Chto?" What? The query is, at least partially, rhetorical as her Fae counterpart continues with what is a positively absurd recounting.

A long pause wafts into the distance between them at the close of her uncle's tale, before a gale of girlish laughter bubbles from within the traditionally composed royal. "Net, surely not!" She manages the words through hitches of laughter before petering off to a breathy chortle. "We have let him to his own devices in that city for too long, Matteo. I fear he may be going mad!"

Anastasia Romanova

Grand Duchess of Imperial Russia