[She smiles, and it's odd, because it's a smile he's never gotten to see before. It's not arrogant or smug or cruel. It's just . . . tired. Tired and quietly pleased that he's caught on.

It's the smile of Ros, not Madame Lutece.]

Yes.

[She tips her head, glancing back at him. His form is just a little blurred, softened at the edges thanks to the alcohol. But still Rosalind reaches for the bottle, pouring them both another round with the grace of a woman who was born and bred into it.]

I was . . . mm. Thirty-seven, I believe-- yes. Thirty-seven. October 31st, 1909. We were two weeks in on doing the right thing, for once in our lives. Can you imagine that? Me, acting selflessly. Pouring all my efforts into helping a man I loathed because I owed it to him, and what I got for it was an explosion and a subpar--

[A beat. Her mouth twists into something like a smirk.]

You'll appreciate this, I think. One of the first things I did after waking was find my funeral photographer, just so I could haunt him. I terrified him, of course, but frankly, given the photos he took, he had it coming.

[And so she could tell someone who murdered her, but whatever.]