Ragnar laughed softly. "My mother used to throw shoes at me. I was quite a naughty boy. But I like the Irish accent. I found the French and the Germans always sound angry even when they are sweet talking you."
A couple walked passed them, holding hands, not really looking at the exhibition. He didn't mind, of course. They seemed happy.
"Academics usually find their company in themselves. My friend Atticus is taking me to view some books soon. Perhaps when I have seen them I can take you, too. That is where we find our solace, no? Knowing that someone loved something as much as we did that they dedicated so much effort to explaining it to other people. It is a beautiful thing."
Ragnar looked up at the ship, and he thought about his own brother. Like everyone else he had loved in his normal life, the memory of him was vivid. They had sailed in something like this together. It made him ache with nostalgia.
"I don't have neighbours," he heard himself murmuring his distracted reply, then realised he was probably being rude. "I mean, they haven't made themselves known. They don't disturb things. But I am sure they are here. I don't know if they are vikings, or if they attached at another time. That is possible, no?"