Conocer, to know someone; somehow an understatement and an overstatement at the same time. Once the initial shock of her presence washed over him it occurred to him to be surprised by how quickly he recognized her. He hadn't seen her in years; hadn't spoken to her or written to her in all the time since they'd separated. They hadn't been together long, in the grand scheme of things — he'd been sleeping with Efrieda Yaxley longer than the entire time he'd known Ana, from start to finish. He didn't really know her, and she didn't know him, because at the time when they'd been together they'd both been barely adults, newly forming. He hadn't known himself then, so how could she have known him? How could he know her?

He'd thought of her more lately than he usually did; maybe that was why he recognized her so quickly. Much as he tried to avoid them, there were conversations he had with Valencia, moments he shared with her, that mirrored his time with Ana. He'd taken her all the way to England before he'd gotten cold feet. He'd told her earnestly that he would devote his life to her happiness. After something like that, it was impossible to ever properly be strangers again, no matter how it ended.

He put on a tight, everything is fine smile. He wished he were wearing more clothing. He wished he remembered how to swear in Dutch. "Un pocito," he told Valencia; a bit. Then, tone and expression entirely hardening, he turned his attention to the woman at the door. "Ana."

They hadn't spoken in years; she could really only be here to ruin things.

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