Greta winces at the observation. It's occurred to her, too, that 'Abbie' and 'Bea' sound practically identical, which could either be considered appropriate - for twins - or just clumsy. Honestly, the more she thinks about it, the less comfortable she feels with the entire arrangement. But her discomfort only makes her more determined to stick with it, because the alternative is ROMAC taking the twins away and doing goodness knows what with them.

"I... I don't know," she replies with a startled blink. The twins seem far too young to remember much, which is one of the ways she's excused not being firm in her name use (for all that it runs contrary to her other excuse about not wanting to confuse them; if they won't remember any of this, then it doesn't matter what she calls them). Regardless, it's hard to judge whether they're ever responding to their names or just the sound of someone's voice.

And with her own son, it was never something she felt the need to question.

"They're quite a few months away from talking, at any rate," she says with a bit more confidence as she settles Abbie down in the crib. When she straightens, it feels as if she's set down more than just the baby's eight pounds or so, and she stretches a bit in silent relief before rejoining the Balladeer in the kitchen.

As she rummages for tea, she gives him an assessing look, trying to decide if she ought to go for something caffeinated or not. He could probably use the boost. He could also probably use a nap. Well, he came to visit, not doze off on her couch, so she goes for something green. "No busking today?" she asks.