The man's face grows even more pinched, nostrils flaring slightly, and he doesn't return the greeting.
"I suppose this was only to be expected," he sniffs, his voice lowered -- but not quite too low to be heard by any nearby interested parties. "Swanning around the wormhole nexus over the past few years like a born galactic --"
"Which I am," she agrees cheerfully, abandoning both her earlier choices and picking up a candied orange segment.
"Which you evidently are." Vorcharkov sounds much less cheerful about it. "Too much to hope that five decades on Barrayar would have taught you some notion of propriety, if not instilled any natural shame. The old Count your husband not five years gone --"
"Eight," she corrects, her voice still light but with a sudden steel core to it. "Eight years. And two months, and ... twelve days. But who's counting."
no subject
"I suppose this was only to be expected," he sniffs, his voice lowered -- but not quite too low to be heard by any nearby interested parties. "Swanning around the wormhole nexus over the past few years like a born galactic --"
"Which I am," she agrees cheerfully, abandoning both her earlier choices and picking up a candied orange segment.
"Which you evidently are." Vorcharkov sounds much less cheerful about it. "Too much to hope that five decades on Barrayar would have taught you some notion of propriety, if not instilled any natural shame. The old Count your husband not five years gone --"
"Eight," she corrects, her voice still light but with a sudden steel core to it. "Eight years. And two months, and ... twelve days. But who's counting."