Desmond showed on his own time. He may have been there to keep Sato company for Murasaki's exhibition, but Divorce knew women in power. She'd be busy with her own overseeing and final touches, too busy to play along in the fun little game they'd been throwing back and forth the past few days. He spent some time researching first, wanting more than his other half's notes and a couple of brief online conversations on hand before he swanned into the gallery, an unknown place with unknown people.
When the God of Divorce arrived, he was pleased with what he found if not actually surprised -- Sato struck him as too much a shark for Desmond to be shocked by a good presentation on her part. The gallery was exquisite, of course. Light and shadow played perfectly, the gleam of stark metal and ornate hilts. For a practiced thread-cutter, so many sharp and shiny cutting tools in one place give him a little shudder of delight.
For once, he kept the fanfare to a minimum. He felt more than one immortal presence when he strolled in without a by-your-leave, and for the sake of other plans, Divorce opted for subtlety. That meant, sadly, no bubble pipe nor smoking jacket as part of the evening's attire. He went with simple but fine, dark blues and charcoal greys -- Divorce in either incarnation was the sort who enjoyed having their hands in everything, and they'd never be caught dead wearing anything which wasn't inherently touchable. There was nothing extravagant about the shoes, trousers, shirt or the occasional accessory. Desmond preferred a bit of flashiness, but for tonight, it'd do.
He let Murasaki's show wash over him, found himself moving from sword to sword with the same itchy hands everyone else was probably feeling. A polite smile here or there, a mental note made on this or that person feeling like something more than mortal. Through it all, dapper Desmond kept to himself with a vague smile and wide eyes, letting his feet take him towards the dream-eater as they would.