Sidney perhaps had to admit it to himself now that he had wanted a quarrel. His blood was up, had been up for weeks, to the level that he would have normally sought a boxing match. Instead he drank to bank the beast, and when the beast subsequently still reared, it was now with a throbbing headache.
These past months he had fancied himself a better man. Could that truly be said now? Everywhere he turned, he was trapped. His engagement to Eliza; his duty to his brother; even returning here as he had, with the unworthy but unavoidable motive of seeing Charlotte, had only added depth to the oubliette from which he could no longer crawl out of. How was it possible to continually sacrifice for those around him and still be so unhappy?
Strange pulled him from his thoughts, saved him from sinking into them utterly, by his gesture of fellowship. Sidney arched a bold eyebrow, and accepted the bottle, even going so far as to signal to passing staff that they would soon be in need of another.
"No, I'm afraid the vagabonds Sanditon wishes to attract are of a very different sect," Sidney confirmed, ever meaningful. "But evidently Tom and I are not of an accord. Seeing as my marching orders are confused, I am content to celebrate that confusion here with you."
Sidney was not content—at least not so enviably content as Jonathan Strange, no matter the weather or turn of fortune, ever appeared to be. Barring now, he reflected as he raised a glass.
"What do we drink to? Perhaps you can enlighten me as to what you've been drinking to already?"