“Fish and ships!” Hank’s face was unreadable, while behind him Ruiz snorted.
“I hate you both,” Hawk declared. The plan could wait. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be in my quarters.”
He strode past, towards his cabin, trying to ignore the sounds of womanly tittering behind him, especially the whispers of “My money’s on two more days” and “If he even lasts that long!”
Hawk wasn’t sure if he had a mutiny on his hands or if he had just become the butt of an unknown number of jokes, least of them having to do with an actual whale, and most to do with his whale of a problem.
The door to his cabin stood ajar, the shutters flung open to let in the sunlight. And, somehow, Hawk was not at all surprised to find Silver there, perched in a most peculiar way on a chair, with both his legs folded at the knees under him, and reading what was surely one of Hawk’s books. He was so taken aback by the sight of him - engrossed by the words before him, loose curls hanging over Silver’s eyes as he poured over the pages - that before Hawk realized he'd completely forgotten to be outraged. He supposed, in some way, this had been a relief; at least he hadn’t walked in on the kid doing something untoward.
“Which book do you have there?” he finally asked and Silver’s face shot up as if torn from a reverie.
“Christopher Marlowe,” he replied. “The Troublesome Reign and Lamentable Death of Edward the Second,” he had read from the cover.
Hawk smirked. “That is not exactly some light reading, Mr. Silver.”
“Where I come from, when books such as these come our way, oftentimes they are in very poor condition. Your books are very well cared for. Loved even.” Silver’s hand caressed the leather binding and he flipped to the front of the play again. “As for light or dark, I care not for how it ends, but rather that the story itself be beautiful.”
“And do you find it so? Beautiful?” Hawk asked, sitting down across the desk from his uninvited guest and pouring himself a glass of rum.
Rather than reply, Silver’s finger moved down the page with the gentleness of a lover’s caress, and then he opened his mouth to recite the opening lines of Marlowe’s play.
“My father is deceas'd. Come, Gaveston,
And share the kingdom with thy dearest friend.
Ah, words that make me surfeit with delight!
What greater bliss can hap to Gaveston
Than live and be the favourite of a king!
Sweet prince, I come! these, thy amorous lines
Might have enforc'd me to have swum from France,
And, like Leander, gasp'd upon the sand,
So thou wouldst smile, and take me in thine arms.”
Silver looked up and smiled, forcing Hawk to swallow around the sudden lump that grew inside his throat. Beads of cold sweat peppered his furrowed brow, along with his palms.
“It isn’t the love story that you might think it is,” he finally said, formulating words with difficulty around his parched tongue.
“How can it not be? Listen to this,” Silver insisted and continued his recitation.
“The sight of London to my exil'd eyes
Is as Elysium to a new-come soul:
Not that I love the city or the men,
But that it harbours him I hold so dear,—
The king, upon whose bosom let me lie,
And with the world be still at enmity.”
“It’s not. It isn’t,” Hawk protested becoming acutely aware that his head was beginning to spin. “Because they both die!”
