It wasn't what either of them needed while being locked in a glass jar; however, Sharpe wasn't too fussed. A bewitching woman was enough to keep a man sane through battle. Through missions. Through the emptier hours of the day. But when Sharpe's mind drifted to Jane Gibbons -- that golden-haired creature, trapped up in her uncle's estate -- he found himself soured. She was far away. Unreachable, no matter how she cared to answer his suit.

Molly, though. So alive and here and present. And the way she spoke to him.

Sharpe sniffed. Tapped out a soft tattoo on the mug's ceramic.

"I suppose I picked the habit up a bit too young, Miss Molly." The name and its addition is said with gentle affection, now -- instead of stiff courtesy.