John lets out a laugh that sounds -- feels -- more than a little unhinged. Jamaica. She has no memory of any part of their acquaintance since bloody Jamaica.

Why not wipe the slate clean entirely then at that point, he wonders darkly to himself, before raising his cup to his lips and draining the lot of it. No. Now is not the time for him to be maudlin. Though he does wish that he could find a polite way to find something stronger to drink, just now.

"In truth, I'm not entirely certain you honestly wish to know the answer to that question, my dear," John says, sitting forward to put his face in his hands. What a mess. What... What a fucking mess.

In desperation, John raises his face to her. Studying her closely with his one good eye as he asks, "You -- truly don't remember? Anything of the New World?"