Natasha has somehow acquired a coat— sky-deep grey and overlarge. She does not seem to be bothered by the cold, but it would be a mistake to say she looked warm.

"Do you think of escape?" She recognizes the look. She has been to prison before, and worse. Worse places than this, anyway. Beyond, the horizon looms, high as a mountain, white as death. Beautiful, in its way. Natasha shakes her head. "It will not do."