After finishing up his
grindylow study, a sodden Lupin shuffled off to his private quarters for a hot shower and a change of clothes. He was starting to nurse a perverse fondness for
Stephen's hideous coat - it was comfortable and smelled rather nice, and certainly was no more appalling than some of the clothing he'd worn in the 1970's. (That
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He looked at the Darwin with interest. "Charles Darwin? I had thought for sure you meant Erasmus Darwin, fine man, wrote the Zoonomia. 1859 would put him rather out of my range, true. I was born in 1775; my contemporaries are all, at the moment, in the year of our Lord 1816, with the exception of myself and Jack."
The book was very, very interesting. Pirate rum was not conducive to understanding the finer points of evolutionary theory, to say nothing of reconciling said points with one's Catholic sensibilities. "I may need to find a copy of this in the library, I think. Forgive me." More rum!
((I've had to fudge Stephen's chronology a bit for the reason that Patrick O'Brian had more plot than he did time, and therefore set a whole slew of books in the year 1813 each of which probably ought to have taken a ( ... )
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He had overcome his urge to crawl under his desk (and how Freudian was that, considering that Stephen had given him the desk?). He looked at Stephen steadily, or as steadily as he was able. "You and I are very much alike. In another universe, in another situation, there might have been some... connection. I think some part of us knows that, and that was why, you know, all of that happened. But as it is... well." He shrugged and finished off his glass.
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