He hadn't expected choosing a book to be so fraught. He'd read all of the poetry books he owned already, since he hadn't bought himself anything new since their father had died, but that usually wasn't a deterrent. But it had occurred to him while he contemplated the titles that he was going to be sharing a bedroom with her on their honeymoon, which meant she would see anything he packed. Suppose she wanted to strike up a conversation about the books he'd brought? It seemed entirely likely, which meant he couldn't just grab anything; the selection had to be tactical. Not the Tennyson book with the mournful saga In Memorandum. Something cheerful, maybe. Did he own any books of cheerful poetry?

Sonnets from the Portuguese could not be described as too dour, but he also didn't think he could bring a book with him that was explicitly love poetry. Ostensibly it was perfectly themed for a honeymoon, and if he had just been thinking of her maybe he would have selected it; maybe if she wanted to ask what he was reading they could shyly exchange some thoughts about what the future held, maybe start to feel optimistic about things once they were away from the scrutiny of society. They had both determined to make the best of it, after all. The honeymoon was as good a place as any to start.

But he also had to think about himself, and he didn't know that he could keep a veneer of amiability while reading love poetry. It would all remind him of Tycho, and he was sure there would be enough reminding him of Tycho during the excursion without him dragging along more painful reflections in his suitcase.

Grace's question startled him. He looked over at her, but remained facing the bookcase. "I'm looking for a book," he said, as though that wasn't obvious. Then, with a defensive undercurrent to his tone, "I've never taken a whole week on holiday before. I thought I might want one."

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