Natasha's lips twitch, her smile momentarily confused—it seems strange, momentarily, to come out for a picnic—but the confusion passes. Why shouldn't she share a meal with her friend? (Is friend the word? And why wouldn't it be?)

"I can't wait," she smiles, studying the garden for somewhere to sit. It's lovely. Idyllic, really.

She chooses a shady spot under an arbor of roses. Waving for Evie to follow, Natasha makes her way toward it.