Victor's first glance renders little in the way of information. His eyes skim over her briefly, drawn back to the light, but his visual receptors pick up on more cues than he can process a moment later as he affords a double-take, eyes flickering over her form as the shocked awe manages to lose the awe and wallow in mere shock. She's certainly not one of London's girls, not even by the port. Not even in the darkest alleyways.
She looks almost like she belongs in the theatre, in the Tempest and Victor thinks wryly that this is a sprite, like Ariel, come to meet him after a storm has left him without a compass. "1891," is his automatic response, his gaze now successfully torn from the light, though he gestures to it loosely with one finger. "That, up there. I haven't seen electrical currents burn that brightly outside of one disastrous experiment," he says, thinking that in this case, at least it had not been his own. "What sort of conduction materials does it use, I wonder," he says, addressing the room more than his spirit acquaintance.
no subject
She looks almost like she belongs in the theatre, in the Tempest and Victor thinks wryly that this is a sprite, like Ariel, come to meet him after a storm has left him without a compass. "1891," is his automatic response, his gaze now successfully torn from the light, though he gestures to it loosely with one finger. "That, up there. I haven't seen electrical currents burn that brightly outside of one disastrous experiment," he says, thinking that in this case, at least it had not been his own. "What sort of conduction materials does it use, I wonder," he says, addressing the room more than his spirit acquaintance.