Well, this was inevitable. (Open post)

[quatreailes]

If anyone's looking for Joly, he's in his cabin. More precisely; stitting in a large overstuffed armchair, with a blanket thrown around his shoulders and a steaming cup of coffee in one hand. A fascinating (to him) book on late nineteenth-century medicine is open on his lap, but he isn't reading it-- instead he's staring fixedly at his bed as though it's done him some dire injury.

And he's sure he's caught a cold.