He starts walking at a pace halfway between a stride and a saunter, apparently entirely at ease.
"My wife," he says simply. "Short, blonde hair. Possibly wearing a mask of some kind." It would not be beyond her. Presumably this is some sort of function relating to those involved in the mathematical intelligentsia. It's dubious he would attend a social gathering for any other reason.
He scrutinizes the scatter of people in the central room but a swift appraising look pinpoints no one matching Gloria's description. He disregards the tingle of unease chasing his spine, the sensation of wrongness that seems like it should be synonymous with her very name.
He shakes the feeling aside. He can think of no reason to worry.
no subject
"My wife," he says simply. "Short, blonde hair. Possibly wearing a mask of some kind." It would not be beyond her. Presumably this is some sort of function relating to those involved in the mathematical intelligentsia. It's dubious he would attend a social gathering for any other reason.
He scrutinizes the scatter of people in the central room but a swift appraising look pinpoints no one matching Gloria's description. He disregards the tingle of unease chasing his spine, the sensation of wrongness that seems like it should be synonymous with her very name.
He shakes the feeling aside. He can think of no reason to worry.