Oh, it is certainly a piece of Vanya's soul. For as long as she's known the truth about herself, she's wondered how much of her relationship to music was an accident. It's a neat little fantasy, the idea that Vanya was drawn to music because a part of her could not be suppressed. Despite her father's control of her memory, her heart couldn't forget the feeling of rightness in sound, in controlling it.

These days, she wonders if people notice she's magic, that the air in the room changes when she and her violin become one instrument. This one doesn't seem to have, and he's proven himself to be sharper than many.

"That is a very nice thing to say," Vanya says, just like one of her therapists taught her. On the rare occasion (though it happens more and more these days) someone pays her a compliment, she has no idea what to do with herself. Thank you seems arrogant. Saying nothing is worse. She does like to hear it, though, and that's a whole other shame convection.

Vanya doesn't shift to look at him until he suggests a detour. Being a woman, a formerly-ordinary being among her powered family, being small and unassuming, Vanya finds herself anxious. Still, her feet carry her forward, and her voice says quietly, "okay."

He doesn't seem like a creep, but her judgement has not been sound before. All she can do is hope she isn't put in a situation where she can hurt him.