“Wait. Allow me to tell you how—”
“How we are going to warm ourselves quickly—and efficiently—and then see whether the ship has crashed close enough to shore to salvage your goods? Excellent.”
He says a few words in French.
“I do not think that was a compliment,” I say.
“Oh, it is, my crécerelle. A compliment wound in a blasphemy, and my mother would be shocked and appalled, but I stand by the sentiment. As for the ship, at this very moment, I am not overly concerned about my goods.”
“Well, I am. So let us warm ourselves and then go investigate.”
The ship has indeed crashed,about a half mile away, on exactly the sort of craggy shoreline we’d feared. We can see her in the darkness, which remains dark enough that we can be relatively certain no one heard or saw the wreck. She’s at the base of a steep cliff, which will help keep her secret until morning.
It is a very long walk. Oh, the shore is flat enough up near the cliff, and now that our underthings have dried, it is not terribly cold. No, the problem is Nicolas. He does not stop talking the entire way, which would not be a problem if I could understand a word he’s saying. He’s speaking French. From the cadence, I presume it is poetry. Reciting French poetry to me, which would be wonderfully romantic if I had the first inkling what he was saying.
“You can stop that anytime,” I say as I pick my way over a rocky portion of the beach.
“I know.”
“Let me rephrase that. Either switch to English or stop that.”
“It does not sound the same in English. You cannot simply translate poetry.”
“Then try some in English.”
“English poetry? Does such a thing even exist?”
I make a face at him.
“I cannot imagine why you should wish me to stop. Have you tired of men wooing you with poetry? I suppose it can become quite dull after a while. All those odes to your golden hair, your soft skin, your... truly exceptional buttocks.”
I glance back to see him gazing at the body part in question. “You’re reciting poetry to my arse?”
“About your arse.” He makes a face. “What a terrible word. Do you see what I mean about the English language?”
“The point is that if I don’t know what you’re saying, I have no idea whether it’s complimentary or not.”
“Ah. I see the problem. I also see the solution. You will have to learn French.”
I turn to him. “Eakingspay ofay arsesay, oursyay isay ulytray ectacularspay.”
His brow furrows. “Is that Latin?”
“Dog Latin.”
“Dare I ask what you said?”
“No, sorry, you will have to learn Dog Latin.”
“There is no such thing. You have made it up.”
When I only continue walking, he jogs up beside me. “What did you say?”
“Something about you.”
“And it was complimentary?”
“Definitely.”