Excavations took months — if not years of steady and careful work. One odd discovery had the potential to extend the length of the dig exponentially. Hell, Jo had resided in Venezuela for over seven months and they had only just started making real headway the last few weeks. It pained her immensely to leave, but there was no negotiating with the news she received. Aaron was dead, Mars needed her. (When had Mars ever needed her?) For now, archaeology needed to be on the back burner. For now, it had to exist only in her joyful memories. "Perhaps so." Jo returned wistfully.

With her legs curled beneath her, Jo leaned into the corner of the sofa as she further took in the meager room. Having never seen his ship (or, if she had that day on the docks she hadn't taken note of it enough to commit it to memory) she had no frame of reference for his wealth, but she would've believed an author and captain to be more comfortable than this. Sailing hadn't ever seemed as a particularly lucrative industry, she supposed. Not that she had a leg to stand on herself, being a bloody archaeologist. Any money she made was put into further travel expenses. Still, shouldn't a captain have some sort of profit?

"A bottle is fine, I'm not fancy." She called back. A drink sounded great right about now. How could he fund an expedition as expansive as charting magical isles if his income was this low? No wonder it took years to arrange.