Nadya studies the exchange, silent, like a very young child.  "We are supposed to be here," she says with velvet touch, thought whether a simple statement of fact or some obtuse proclamation of philosophy, it's unclear.  She continues to sing softly, wordlessly.   She looses the thin-worn cloak and lets it open from the dangling black whip at her side, staring once more at the spiraling tower's disappearance into the sky.