Constance rested with her back against the railing of the ship, her head turned from the others while she rubbed her finger around the rim of a glass as if she was disinterested by their presence or perhaps just distracted by the beautiful blue sky. Neither were truly the case; in fact, they were both quite the opposite. She was worried that the others might be watching her (funny, considering how normally she was worried that they weren’t), and feared that the slightest grimace would make it appear as if she was badly pained and should be kept bedridden like some sickly child. She could hardly bear the thought of being restricted in her comings and goings, and so she silently prayed that the shade cast upon her face from her hat was enough to hide her expression—which, as the boat rocked gently, was twisted into the face one normally made when they had just unexpectedly taken a drink of water only to find out it had been vodka. 

Although, she wouldn’t mind a surprise like that now, considering her glass was now nothing more than tonic water and the slightest hint of salt. Officer Raoul had made it clear that until the set of stitches in Constance’s side were ready to be taken out she would have to avoid any kind of hard spirits; apparently, he was under the impression that they would interfere with the healing process. Constance was tempted to call him on his quackery, but she was able to show some restraint, much like how she was now showing restraint by engaging in dreadful temperance—and it wasn’t just because she was worried that Luna had been sent by the medical officer to make sure that she had listened to his orders. She wanted her wounds to heal properly; she didn’t need any more scars. 

Yet whenever Edward flickered on that mystical map of his anyone would be able to notice how quickly Constance’s eyes darted over to the object only to jump away almost immediately as if she was a bashful lovestruck teen. Truth be told, she coveted the map. By all right it should’ve been hers: she was the one who had gone into the cave first (willingly), and it had been her gunshots that had drawn Conway and the others to them (thankfully). She could only imagine what sort of information it had on it, but with Ed constantly fussing with it she could make neither heads or tails of the flashes she saw. Constance was tempted to snatch it right out of his hand; she wasn’t above just taking what she wanted, after all. 

Fortunately, Ed had said something that managed to stop her from doing anything drastic, as well as almost immediately drew her out of her silent state of concentration. She turned to the others, tucking a bit of windswept hair behind her ear as she beamed at them, any hints of pain completely erased from her face. It was as if Ed had reached over and flipped a switch on Constance to start her up like an engine when, in the end, he had just given her an excuse to talk about her most favorite thing in the entire world: herself. 

“Eddy! I’m not going to tell you how to do your job, but normally doesn’t the reporter do a bit more than just ask for a story to show up?” she asked, waving her hand dismissively to show that she was teasing. “Fortunately, darling, I have the utmost respect for those in your profession and I can hardly bare the thought of you being stuck in a rut. Let’s see, a story…” She tilted her head and pressed a finger to her cheek, her eyes wandering up to the brim of her hat as if she had written tales of her exploits on it like a crib sheet. “Well, before I start would you want a happy one or a sad one?”