Zoya wore a plunging neckline, although, thankfully, her nipples were covered, unlike her companion's. Distracted at wondering how comfortable that top could be, she glanced down at her half-eaten popsicle before peering up at Vi. She cocked her brow. "Does it look like I'm finished with it?"

She hadn't known what it was—still didn't, not quite, other than it clearly being flavoured ice—and while Zoya always liked to exercise caution in neighbouring towns, especially ones that she didn't quite know were friendly toward the Lantsov (now Nazyalensky, she supposed) flag, she always did try the food when offered. Begrudgingly.

But she didn't take to this food begrudgingly now. As if inspired by the question—and such a bold implication—Zoya put it back in her mouth to prove there really was only one answer to her question.

Zoya Nazyalensky was full of spite, and apparently, so was her popsicle.