Alfred smiled almost shyly at the expression on her face as she looked around the ship. She wasn't disappointed after all — or else was very, very good at faking these sorts of things. His chest puffed out just ever-so-slightly with a hint of pride as he thought of a million things he could tell her about the ship, and half a dozen little bits of it she might enjoy seeing. The Voyager wasn't the most impressive ship on the waterfront — that honor went to one of the clunky but massive container ships, and he was surpassed as well by the companion vessel, the Ophelia — but it was a grand little ship, in its own way, and he was suddenly very confident that Miss Zelda Fisk would love it.

Before he could say anything or even decide where to start, however, she'd drawn his attention back to his cabin door, and his heart sank a little. Right, the damn sword. It was so much less impressive than the ship had the potential to be, at least in his opinion — but then, he hadn't really ever done much with swords, and boats were sort of his thing, so perhaps he was biased.

"Right, yeah," he said, walking over to the door with resignation. There was a gilded plate below a small porthole window which read J. Alfred Darrow — Captain, which he had been very proud of initially but which had since lost a considerable degree of luster in his eyes. Behind the door the room was small. The luxury of being Captain was that he had three rooms to himself, on a ship where even the senior officers shared quarters with four or five others and the crew slept fifty to a room, but the rooms in question were far from glamorous. The one they entered into was an office that was hardly big enough for a desk and one chair, with three or four feet between the desk and the door for visitors to stand. The desk was wide enough and deep enough to spread charts out on its surface, but at the moment it was empty, which made it look far too large for the room in general. A shelf built in to the wall ringed the room and was stuffed with books, and behind the desk, just below the book shelf, hung the sword.

As cramped as this room may have been, it was the most glamorous of the three; the bedroom through the door to the right was large enough for a bed, a small washstand, and a wardrobe, with a rather narrow walkway to move between those items and reach the door to the bathroom, which, all told, was about the proper amount of standing space for two full-grown men (not that two people would ever be inside it at the same time). There was a shower, of sorts — not the sort with running water but rather a stall in which he could bathe — and the privy itself, and not more than a foot of unoccupied space between the two. At least in the office, there was room for both of them to stand comfortably without being close enough to smell each other's clothing; the same would not be true in either of his other spaces.

"So here it is," he said, moving behind the desk and taking the sabre down off the wall. He wasn't sure what to do with it, so he offered it to her over the desk, hilt-first. "Did you want to hold it?"