Grace unfolded herself from her seat and stood, letting the crocheted blanket fall to the floor as she walked towards the bookshelf. She paused when she stood at the opposite end, reaching out with one hand to brush her fingertips across the spines. They were a mixture of Ford and Mama's and even some of Noble's books—Grace wasn't much of a reader, but she did like books in theory. The pages and the words, the recorded thoughts and feelings of authors who were probably long dead, the history they painted a picture of. She hadn't finished a novel since she was freshly-graduated; everything else had seemed so much more important since then.

A new marriage definitely seemed more important. She tried to picture Ford holed away in the hotel room with a book in hand while Miss Farley visited the zoo or the beach or whatever else the Sanditon had to offer at this time of year. It didn't seem right.

"I don't think she'd be very pleased if her husband decided to read instead of spend time with her," she reflected, assuming that this was something that had simply slipped his mind. Ford had never seemed like the womanizing type—she couldn't remember a time where he'd flirted with ladies or tried to charm them in a way that made her roll her eyes. She had friends who frequently remarked that their older brothers made an ass of themselves at parties, but Grace could never relate. "Maybe a game? Does she like cards? Chess?"

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