Arthur nods, and in the same moment, realises that nobody in this world... knows Faroe. At all. Back in their world she still had a grandfather, and distant relatives who'd remember her, but here? If something happened to Arthur that he didn't come back from, any memory of her would be gone.

The realisation somehow terrifies him. His hands grip and tighten on the sofa seat, and a long moment drags itself by.

"She was four and a half."

His voice is low, but steadier than you might expect.

"She was so clever. Sweet and gentle, and as pretty as her mother. Could walk before she was one; ran me and my housekeeper ragged. She loved to be read to. She loved The Owl and the Pussy-Cat, a-and ah, and The Hunting of the Snark. She would bring her dolls to the dinner-table and tell me all about them and what they liked to eat. Sometimes if I, I was taking dinner in my office, she would come and hand me a doll with this- this very serious look on her face, and if I put it down she'd put it back into my hands again, as if- as if she'd decided I needed company." Now his voice is coming thicker, and he stops and takes a heavy breath, in and out, his face drawn.

He wishes he could see Crichton's expression. See whether his fumbling description is even scratching the surface of what it's like to have known her.

"This past eleventh of March would have been her ninth birthday."