An incredulous smile curves itself across John's lips for half a second, as if he is waiting for her to reveal the punchline -- because in truth, he is. 1767. Sailing from Jamaica. John hasn't thought about Jamaica for -- ages. And now...?

The smile slowly peels itself from his face as he realizes that it isn't a joke at all. And all the pieces start to fall into place. All the uncertain, nearly wary looks she had been giving him the whole trip over here, this whole conversation. The confusion he hadn't entirely been able to place.

It's -- impossible.

...but it does make sense.

"Oh -- good Lord," John says, raising his free hand to rub over his forehead, feeling a decided headache coming on.