Familiar, Cade thought. Safe. Unchanging. He knew that table and the scrimshaw art and the nick in that chair-leg. He’d known them all for years.
He hooked a leg over the bench, sat down, said, “Stephen Lowell at the University’s got a book out about North Sea raiding customs, a history, if you want the scholarly background?” Jeremiah smiled at him, and reached over and tucked Cade’s hair behind his ear. Surprised, Cade put a hand up: felt the flicker of auburn strands. He’d let it grow long, following fashion; it tended to tumble into curls when not artificially straightened to a sheer flat waterfall.
“I do like books,” Jeremiah said, and their eyes met, as the world became a single moment. “Especially books about sea-shanty singing pirates. Did you finish your letter?”