"Pyotr," she repeats, in the fashion of someone who's committing it to memory. "Fortunately for you, my art cares not whether you believe in it or not, for it exists regardless."

Bringing her hands together, they shift, turn, and as she draws them apart, a deep blue light sparks between them in thin threads - electricity like a net, lightning catching between fingers, crossing over each other, moving and sustaining themselves, as if one could reach forth and twist, collecting it all to play cat's cradle with a force of nature.

It's a trick that will vanish the moment she stops concentrating on it, but on looks alone, she intends to dazzle.