"Is it?" Anya has never worn something truly red, bright and vivid like the color of blood. Dark red shading towards burgundy or paler shades like rose, she has worn, but not that red. That red is too similar to the color of the Bolsheviks, too similar to the horrors that haunt her dreams. Wearing it might make her look like a ghost.

But she can appreciate it on others. Smiling curiously at the woman, she considers having a single color to call one's own. "I think my wardrobe is more brown and blue on accident rather than preference or a flattering nature," Anya confesses. With a regal dismissive wave of her hand, she shakes her head. "No, do not worry your own accent sounds familiar to me as well. As if you are from Russia, but not quite."