It’s the smallest room that Benedict has ever seen, and certainly the most mundane. He imagines his mother would be prone to a fainting spell if she knew he’d stepped into any place so unkempt. He immediately finds it rather charming, in an exciting way.

As Silver collapses on to the bed (a cot, really, more than anything, Benedict thinks), Benedict steps towards the the pistol. He brushes his fingers along it, familiar at least with a pistol, but the cutlass is new. Benedict knows fencing, of course. A gentleman’s sport but the weapons are so childish in comparison and Benedict finds it hard not to wrap his hand around the hilt to see the weight. Thankfully, Silver distracts him with the offer of a drink.

“Thank you.”

He takes a smell, which maybe was a bad idea, and then braces himself as he takes a drink. And makes a face of regret.