Lilia is not stalling.
It's only that it takes a while to seep tea as dark as Minako prefers—"I blame that English tour," Minako says, "now give me tea with taste over delicacy!"—and a while more to offer to return to bed until
the rink closes Minako better appreciates her tongue. This is a mistake: Minako's nostrils draw high with suspicion. Then Lilia has to protest they are on vacation, they have fled especially from the Katsuki-Nikiforovs until their exhibitionist phase passes, isn't this work—"As though you would be scared if this were work," Minako says, dismissive hair toss; bundle up in clothing suitable for the public consumption of Prima Lilia Baranovskaya; proclaim that of course, here we turn left, when they both know Lilia can't navigate anything larger than a theater; and pick over the rental skates until they find one with edges sharper than Minako's coat.
As the inner rink door closes behind them, it at least curtails the smell of decades of hockey players and their superstitiously unwashed gear. Lilia looks doubtfully at her skates. They have far too many teeth in the front and far too little support in the ankles. "Minako, I will step on my blades. This is not a dignified place to rest."
"I don't think Yuuri was being literal when he said the Americans called it the click of death," Minako says.