Barnaby, for his part, always felt entirely out of time when it came to these reading sessions – not that time meant a great deal to him to begin with, but when they were in the midst of Milton this might be the 1800s or the 1600s or indeed the Garden of Eden itself, before the dawn of anything so constraining on humanity as time.
But he had barely settled in before Greengrass had decided to disrupt the schedule. Barnaby did not mind a little spontaneity, to be sure; but this felt a little suspect, and he narrowed his eyes. “Happier?” he echoed, with some skepticism. What was he supposed to do with happier? He was dead! Where was he going to get the epic Miltonian drama of existence in a little love poem? “Well, are they much good? I did not even know the Portuguese wrote sonnets,” Barnaby remarked, raising an eyebrow idly. (He did not recall any especially famed Portuguese poetry from his own era, at least.)
Nor had he thought Greengrass’ tastes were much inclined that way, to happy love poetry. Maybe it was just the sort of person who worked in the Spirit Division – rather like they had sold away their lives to death prematurely – or the fact that Greengrass was unmarried at what, twenty-four? which in Barnaby’s mind was frankly quite late, seemed like a glaring oversight that he had not; but he had not, in short, expected Greengrass to be a very successful lover.
So this was a mystery indeed.
But he had barely settled in before Greengrass had decided to disrupt the schedule. Barnaby did not mind a little spontaneity, to be sure; but this felt a little suspect, and he narrowed his eyes. “Happier?” he echoed, with some skepticism. What was he supposed to do with happier? He was dead! Where was he going to get the epic Miltonian drama of existence in a little love poem? “Well, are they much good? I did not even know the Portuguese wrote sonnets,” Barnaby remarked, raising an eyebrow idly. (He did not recall any especially famed Portuguese poetry from his own era, at least.)
Nor had he thought Greengrass’ tastes were much inclined that way, to happy love poetry. Maybe it was just the sort of person who worked in the Spirit Division – rather like they had sold away their lives to death prematurely – or the fact that Greengrass was unmarried at what, twenty-four? which in Barnaby’s mind was frankly quite late, seemed like a glaring oversight that he had not; but he had not, in short, expected Greengrass to be a very successful lover.
So this was a mystery indeed.
