Abby, looking at him, grunts with no clear feeling behind it. Makes sense.

She wants to ask if a significant rifter presence at the Conclave will tug upon the Divine's curiousity– but what's the point in knowing the answer. Flint probably doesn't (realistically, how could he), and Abby is going to go no matter what that answer actually is– so she pockets the letter.

"Okay. Talk to you later," will be her parting remark instead.