2 June 1892 — Dempsey Estate, Ireland

Oz hadn't bothered to ask Sina if she wanted to take a week or more off of work to cruise the continent with him before he'd written Dash back that morning. He presumed to know her mind on this. In his estimation, leaving her hospital work behind and laying around eating exotic breakfasts and drinking by lunch would make her feel restless. He wasn't in the habit of asking for anything if he expected to take no for an answer.

He'd pulled out a sheet of parchment to write a second letter — this one to a woman — and hesitated. Before he filled her seat on the trip, perhaps he should at least mention it to her. The chances that he'd assumed incorrectly were slim in his estimation, but there was always a chance.

He waited until they'd found themselves in the same room for several minutes, then threw the comment out casually. "I'm going to the continent with Dash soon. You were invited."

---

Sina was off today, which mostly meant that she was lurking in various locations of the Dempsey estate and vaguely waiting for entertainment. She ought to be glad that Ozias found her with the absurd concept of a continent trip with Dash, as if he were still eighteen.

"I haven't received an invitation," Sina said drily, quirking an eyebrow at her husband. She was surprised by the invite, but she did not want to show her surprise. "Are you entirely sure I was considered?"

---

Oz shot her a look at the comment that she hadn't received an invitation. Dash wasn't exactly the sort to invest in sending out embossed save the date cards for his upcoming sprees, and even if he had been, one invitation ought to be sufficient for the pair of them. Even people who assumed they never spoke to each other outside of arguments at parties only sent one invitation.

"You were invited," he repeated, just as dry as Sina. "I sent your regrets."

Not that he had phrased it that way, but the point was the same.

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Sina's eyes narrowed. "Disinterested in my company? Shocking," she said, with a wave of one hand.

---

The corner of his mouth tipped down, but he didn't allow a full frown. She was sort of implying that she might have said yes, had he asked, but this felt like a trap. If he did ask, she would turn him down.

"It's not exactly your type of holiday," he said, shifting his eyes back to the newspaper in his hands though his focus was still on her. "And I expected you'd be spending most of the week elbow deep in someone's bodily fluids."

---

Sina raised her eyebrows at him. "And what is my sort of holiday?" she asked; maybe she would rather spend the week dealing with the hospital, but she still wanted to hear what he thought. Perhaps it would lead to an argument, and really get her blood pressure up!

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"Oh, I don't know," he said flippantly. He shifted the newspaper slightly lower in his hands. "I didn't think your sort took holidays."

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Sina clapped her hands together. "My type?" she said, tone hostile. (There was a spark of mischief in her eyes, if one was looking for it.)

---

"You're the very picture of eloquence today, aren't you?" he returned, rolling his eyes. She must have been distracted today, because she was making this too easy. Maybe he'd try to see if anything was bothering her, later, if he could find a way to ask that didn't let on that he cared about the answer. In a pinch he could try and send one of his sisters to talk with her, but this was a flimsy tactic; in the past when he'd employed it they only managed to report back things of no consequence, and left out anything that would have been telling. They didn't know her as well as he did.

"Women who work," he continued, with a shrug that seemed to say you can't be cross with me for telling the truth. "You find a career because without one you aren't interesting enough to carry a conversation at parties. If I deprived you of your work for a week I'm afraid you'd run out of things to talk about by Tuesday afternoon." He shuffled the newspaper in his hands, mostly for the sound effect of the rustling papers than for any actual purpose. "It's not entirely your fault, of course. Not everyone is born with charm or wit."

---

Sina rolled her eyes. "Well, your sort only goes on holidays so as to have anecdotes no one cares about to bore debutantes with at parties," she accused. "At least my stories require actual skill." Greece and Italy and France and all that, and he was going to — cavort around with Dash and hopefully not make any decisions she would be secretly upset about.

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"I go on holidays because it's fun," he retorted. Having stories that would make the eyes of impressionable and underprivileged young women pop out of their heads was simply a pleasant side effect. "You ought to try it sometime. Having fun."

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"It's not my fault you can only have fun when shiny things are involved," Sina snapped.

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Oz's brow creased. "What's that supposed to mean?"

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"That you only like things that are new," Sina offered.

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This statement did bruise his ego slightly, but of course he was determined not to show it. Oz puffed out his chest and tried to think of how he could spin that as a positive trait, since arguing that it wasn't true would only have been letting on that this criticism was getting to him. He couldn't quite manage it, so opted for turning the barb around on her instead.

"I wouldn't say that at our next event," he said with a shrug; he wore indifference like a cloak, tossing it about himself with flourish. "It comes too close to admitting you're old and plain."

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Thomasina quirked an eyebrow at him. "I have empirical evidence that I am not too old and plain for you," she said mildly.

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