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There is nothing to smile about in this place, and yet Horatio finds himself doing so in quiet moments. He smiles as Matthews and Styles remain steadfast in their belief of him, even though he knows they have every right to question. He smiles as the Duchess persuades him to walk with her and talk of many things, tales of court and tales of kitchens, blushing virgins and cantankerous old maids. He listens to the stories with half an ear - enough to learn them, answer questions - but his eyes always remain on the sea, more beautiful than even the lovely lady beside him. But mostly he finds himself in the dark of the cell, staring down at his friend. Archie is pale and sickly, his body thin and worn, but still there is enough of the man who befriended him on Justinian not that long ago. He sits on the edge of Archie's bed and watches him sleep, sometimes restful, sometimes fitful. Inevitably, as Horatio sinks beside him, Archie stills, and Horatio wonders what emotions must hide within Archie's blue eyes. There is never failure, Horatio thinks as he touches the pale skin of Archie's arm, running his finger across flesh and bone and muscle and sinew. Only a lack of imagination and deduction. They will escape, he is sure of that. And when they do, Archie will go with him.
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