Life goes on indeed. Everyone is dealing with something- and Irene is dealing with it by ignoring it, and carrying on. Perhaps she's carrying on while slightly more noticably clinging to company, avoiding being alone as much as possible and vaguely wondering- with no real conviction- whether taking up smoking again is a good idea, but she is carrying on nonetheless.

She's had some time to recover, though. Her nails are no longer bitten to the quick, though they are slightly shorter than usual; her bruises have mostly faded, and the stitches in her arm are nearly absorbed, though there's a visible mark where she was hurt. At the moment, her black fur coat (she checked to make sure it was actually mink before buying it, not liking her chances should she accidentally parade around in something formerly-xenian; the perils of life in Baedal) is hiding it, but the dress beneath it doesn't.

"Charles," she calls as greeting, to a backing track of her clicking heels as she walks closer. Her voice is warm; she's missed him. She isn't exactly worried, but she knows that he's been handling this by doing absurd amounts of work. In some strange way she rather feels it's her job to get him to slow down slightly; well, hasn't he already decided to trust in her to take the burden of the world off his shoulders in other ways? "And all in one piece, as well. What a treat. How have you been?"