Ilde sets her glass down on the bar, sliding off the stool-- it's funny, when she talks to Jules, that it veers so sharply between the moments where they understand each other and where the notes are so wrong as to be almost physically jarring. Off key and out of time.

"No," she says, succinctly, like there's something bleeding underneath it; so still as to be both dangerous and self-protective. "We aren't."

She doesn't leave any room for argument. The answer is no, and something about her makes it seem like pushing it would be an act of cruelty.