James' fingers twitch on the rim of the cup. After a moment, he nods. But rather than a yes or a no, he says, "You've never met him."

He offers it thoughtfully, mulling it over as he takes a sip of wine, mulls that over too. It seems strange to him that two of the most influential people in his life have never exchanged a word. Perhaps it's for the best. They might not get on.

"He's away. There's a monastery not far from here." He doesn't give too much away on his face, but a little quirk in his brow gives away a faint, tender exasperation. "He makes a habit of visiting. For spiritual conversation — to have arguments I will no longer have with him, in other words." Beloved, infuriating Thomas. An idiot free-thinking egalitarian Protestant who gets sullen about having to fit in with the prevailing Catholic theology of Spanish Florida. James has begged him to be more subtle, but even after Savannah Thomas doesn't have it in him. And yet he's adored at that damn monastery. Something about Thomas just has that effect on people, however illogical.

Again, James wonders what he and Silver would make of each other. This time, a new and more alarming prospect emerges: they might like each other.

"Is it coincidence that you're here in his absence? Or did you time...whatever this is...to avoid him?"