She took the book from his hand and turned it over, feeling the weight of it in her palm and drawing comfort from it. She knew which one he’d chosen before she’d even read the spine, which she did aloud anyway. 

“Gulliver’s Travels.” She said into the soft dimness of her cabin.

She knew all her books, having read and adored them all too some degree else they would have been stashed in her larger collection which was held by her representative. The one’s she kept with her were the ones she couldn’t live without, or hadn’t moved to her library yet. She wondered if he’d already read it or was simply curious about it but she didn’t feel compelled to ask. The silence between them was fine. The warmth of the liquor in her belly helped ease her, rounding off the broken bits of her and helping her to forget what shattered her this evening. That didn’t mean she was good at chattering or that it would take much for it all to come screaming to the forefront of her mind. No words but those of someone else’s design, that was just fine with her. 

She shifted on her bed, just a platform that could be folded up to provide more room, with a mattress and blankets and pillow. It was enough for a person and not much more, though with creativity more might have worked. But the familiar comfort of that mattress under her, coupled with the sway of the ship she loved, further eased her. She kicked off her boots, making him wait eager like a kid on Christmas morn before she settled back, heels to bottom, book perched on her knees, bottle right beside her for easy access. She began. 

[i]“My father had a small estate in Nottinghamshire: I was the third of five sons. He sent me to Emanuel College in Cambridge at fourteen years old, where I resided three years, and applied myself close to my studies; but the charge of maintaining me, although I had a very scanty allowance, being too great for a narrow fortune, I was bound apprentice to Mr. James Bates, an eminent surgeon in London, with whom I continued four years.”[/i]

Her honeyed voice was made for reading, low and sweet, the accent making even the simplest of words exotic and exciting. It gave hints and secrets where there were none and made one think there ought to be a few. She did not do voices, but she didn’t need to, not with that voice and not with the passion and inflection with which she read. She read as if she’d lived it and were simply telling the tale and soon she too was lost in the story, pausing every now and then to drink. 

She made it through the first chapter and felt pleasantly soft and warm. She looked up and with an eyebrow raised, held up the book. 

“Shall I continue or do you wish a turn?”