He won't insult her by feigning ignorance; they've done well to avoid drawing much suspicion to themselves so far, he believes, but he's cognizant as well of appearances, and of his own ambitions, now that the time has come to begin laying the ground work for them in earnest.

Atticus has conjured an airy, open-windowed apartment overlooking the pearlescent buildings of this dream city, and stands now on the balcony beside Petrana. False moonlight casts everything with a pale blue glow; the air is alive with the sound of night birds, the distant clip-clop of horse's hooves on cobblestone roads.

"Yes," he agrees, and finds he cannot look at her for a moment; whether out of some discomforting uncertainty over what he will read in her face, or what she will read in his, he cannot say. At last, he drops his gaze from the horizon to consider her, expression withdrawn, inscrutable.

At last, he says simply, "This is quite dangerous for you, isn't it." To say nothing of the danger to himself, to his plans.