He frowned faintly.
Finally, she said, “And I like stars.”
And then said nothing more.
He was bemused. “What do you like about them?”
“Everything.”
He stared at her.
Wondering why she was tight-lipped about this, of all things.
She cleared her throat, and then confessed, in a low voice, as if relating a crime, “They seem like magic, to me. I mean, aren’t they? When you look up, and when you think about it, how remarkable and almost outlandish it is that twinkling things are just... suspended there in the sky. Imagine anight sky without them. How shocking that would be. I like the lore around them. I love how they are so far away and so beautiful that merely to see them is to yearn, because you can never reach them, and I think maybe that’s why we associate them with wishes. Particularly for things we think we cannot have. I like that they’re everywhere, so that someone a continent away might now be looking up at the same stars we look at here. I like that we’ve learned to navigate by them. That they were used to portend events. I just...” She waved a hand. Somewhat overcome.
He could not imagine why she was blushing. He was, in fact, somewhat peculiarly enthralled by this recitation.
“Stars are all of those things and more,” he agreed cautiously. “Stars are my friends. I’ve learned to navigate by them. Once you know them that way, you can feel at home anywhere in the world.”
Suddenly he wanted to go outside and look at stars with her words running through his head, to see what she saw and feel what she felt.
His life had been a whole pageant: adventure, violence, subterfuge, tragedy and triumph, lust and hunger. He was beginning to feel that the speed and urgency of living might have deprived him of properly savoring textures. And nuances. It made him restless. He realized he’d been assuming a certain superiority of experience a moment ago. It was disconcerting to feel that the world, in fact, might have some dimension he’d overlooked. That she might have something to teach him.
He was tempted to ask her why talking about it seemed to bring her no joy. And yet that seemed to diverge from their current mission, which was to acquire just enough information to be able to perpetuate their little ruse so they could continue enjoying the hospitality of The Grand Palace on the Thames.
And besides the stars were not going to be showing themselves over the next few nights.
She looked relieved at his answer, regardless. “Do you like to read?”
He read slowly. He wrote simply. He’d learned to do both only about a decade ago. He’d paid someone to teach him. It wasn’t yet anything he associated with recreation. Though he did quite enjoylisteningto stories.
He was disinclined to admit any of this to her.
He said, “I’ve a book by the explorer Mr. Miles Redmond I’ve been trying to get through.”
“Mr. Miles Redmond isn’t for everybody,” she sympathized. “But I enjoy his work. It’s very thorough.”
Thoroughly boring, he was tempted to say, but did not. “I’ve traveled to a number of exciting places,” he volunteered. “The Orient, the south seas.”
“I’ve traveled to London, Brighton, Sussex, Dover, and points in-between.”
“All thrilling places.” Especially when one was a smuggler.
She smiled ruefully at this.
“Doyoulike to read?” He suddenly wanted to hear what she had to say about it.
“Oh, yes. A bit of everything, really. Do you have a favorite story?” she tried.
“Oh, I like myths. Lust, murder, kidnapping, revenge, jealousy, obsession, creatures with snakes for hair, blokes getting their livers pecked out, nymphs. The story of my life.”
She took this in with a somber expression. “Mine, too.”
He wasn’t sure whether she was taking the piss. Or if she was just indulging his efforts to rattle her. He smiled, slowly, regardless.
“Go ahead and ask the question you’ve been wanting to ask,” he said.
“The how did you get your scar question, or the what did you do that so upset Captain Hardy question?”