Her smile brightens a little for him, as a congratulations for being brave and using a tongue that his not his favored. She gives his shoulder a gentle touch, fingers tips light.

"Hello, Ivan," she responds pleasantly. She doesn't speak unduly slow for him, but she's clear and kindly. "It's a pleasure to meet you too. My name is Catherine Saint Croix, but you can call me Mary. I am from Louisiana, where are you from?"

It may bee too much, if he was only taught that one greeting, but she will continue to be friendly to him, no matter what language, no matter the quality of reply. She had a daughter of her own once, but Mary prefers not to think about that. It's difficult on a day like today, a day for souls like the one she lost, but perhaps that was why she had allowed herself to be drawn to this little boy. It was a distraction, something to warm her heart when it was otherwise shivering with the cold dread of what she had done; what she had become.