Val rests his chin on the edge of the bunk. Its border has a slight lip, common to ship's accommodations, presumably designed to protect slumbering passengers from tumbling out of bed. His eyes stay narrowed as he continues to consider Wysteria, his wife, in a particular state of less-dressed, with the aforementioned tumble of her unbound and partly uncombed hair, and her shawl settled comfortably and rather matronly around her small shoulders. The ship's lantern makes interesting shadows around her. She could be the subject of a mundane painting.

Certainly this is a close association. How else would one find one's self in this particular situation?

"It could be advantageous," he says. Eventually. "Certainly I have found it so in these past weeks. It is far more convenient to merely cross a passageway to argue with you, when I have found the reason or cause to do so, rather than depart upon the ferry and walk all the way to Hightown and find you within the maze of rooms in your little mansion. And certainly my having a room--or two--within your little house would give further credence to our Arrangement."

Formal Arrangement; capitalized A. There is no need to mention the social and familiar word between them. They both know it.

"Though I should have to have my address changed for all my correspondence, if this arrangement of situation was made."