Two weeks had passed since the arrival of the Tempest in Sunderland waters again, limping at a crawl with her sails stowed; it had been three days since Talbot had woken up in the flat he called home with the ridiculous totem still clutched in his hand like a child with its teddy bear. In the golden morning light pouring in through his windows the totem glowed pale pink-beige, as delicate a shade as one could imagine, and the bow that someone had presumably tied around its neck was still crisp. It was made of damask, he observed dispassionately. Who on earth had gone into the Wardwood with such a ridiculous notion?
He had blinked at it for some moments before quickly rising and putting the thing away in the worn sea-chest at the foot of his bed, frowning down at it and then taking especial care to secure the brass locks to either side with what seemed at the time finality. He would not have to worry about it again. He could get on with seeing the Tempest repaired. Every day spent in Palisade meant more red marks across his ledgers, and he already owed Paul cargo.
He felt horrid. Glancing at himself in the mirror proved him to be right: underneath his untidy grey-streaked hair was a face painted all in broad strokes of tan and purple: tan skin, with dark circles under his eyes, drawn cheeks, and two days' worth of stubble at his jaw, which made him look far older than his age. He ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the sandpaper grit underneath, and made for the shower. A shave would make him feel better. Not to mention that his shoulder was still bandaged underneath layers of gauze and padding. Peeling that off revealed a puckered hole in his chest, just underneath his collarbone; there was a similar one on his back, where a musket-ball had punched its way through him.
Before leaving the apartment, however, Talbot would retrieve the totem, unable to leave the delicate thing left in his sea-chest with old ledgers and clothes in need of mending. He tucked it into his breast pocket: out of sight, out of mind.
---
His wanderings into Palisade proper brought him into a cafe, where he ate his lunch and consumed what was likely an unseemly amount of wine. This behavior would last near to a week: mornings woken up in despair over the totem, afternoon and evening blurred by wine. While the Tempest's repair was coming along on schedule, he couldn't distance himself from thinking about the damned totem. The ship should have been the foremost thought on his mind, and getting his account straight with Paul -- but it wasn't. The totem was.
Talbot sighed, sat back in his chair, and had another glass of wine.
