He sighs. Yes, that sounds about right. He missed bread too, of all things. Fresh bread, with a little butter -- he'd give the rest of his left arm for some bread.

"What do you crave the most?"

Whiskey.

"Bread," he answers. It's a half-truth, but he can't say out loud the thing he really craves. He knows Thomas Jopson, of all people, can see through the lie. "Fresh bread. And the smell of morning rain on grass."

Hell, he even finds himself missing the brackish water smell of the Bann, or the muddied, salty miasma of Greenhithe. Unpleasant smells at the time, but exotic to him now.

"When I was in England I would miss the sea, when I was on the sea I would miss England. That's just the way of things, I suppose. Although we should be certain we're feeling nostalgic for the sake of it." And not because scurvy's taking hold again, god help them all.