Natasha sits back on her heels and fans the cold but dry wood above the glowing embers until they begin to smoulder, catch, give off some heat. Someone might see the smoke, but it's late and dark enough, she doubts it. Better than freezing, anyway. Most things are.

There's one candle in a small glass jar offering her its tiny little puddle of light, but the glowing beginnings of the fire make it redundant, and she blows it out. Natasha doesn't particularly want to waste it, and the woman whose life she's slipped on like a second skin would view the waste as an absolute sin. She looks back at her companion, screwing the lid on the jar and setting it aside so she can tuck it back into her bag once the melted wax has set.

Now she's wondering if Wanda will make room for her in the blanket cocoon, but she's not going to push. "There. That should warm the room up soon. I think it's dark enough outside for it to be safe. I've spent enough of my life freezing for lack of fuel already. I'm done with that." Her Sokovian is native speaker levels of perfect, and the accent is damn close. She's never needed it for a cover before, and this is almost entirely from time spent with Wanda overlapping with a natural skill honed to an art form, the ability to create entire lives within her own mind.