Book Nine #DailyLines
#DailyLines #BookNine #JamieAndRoger #Mantalk “How old were you, the first time you saw a man killed?” Roger asked abruptly. “Eight,” Jamie replied without hesitation. “In a fight during my first cattle raid. I wasna much troubled about it.” Jamie stopped quite suddenly, and Roger had to step to the side to avoid running into him. “Look,” Jamie said, and he did. They were standing at the top of a small rise, where the trees fell away for a moment, and the Ridge and the north side of the cove below it spread before them, a massive chunk of solid black against the indigo of the faded sky. Tiny lights pricked the blackness, though; the windows and sparking chimneys of a dozen cabins. “It’s not only our wives and our weans, ken?” Jamie said, and nodded toward the lights. “It’s them, as well. All of them.” His voice held an odd note; a sort of pride—but rue and resignation, too. _All of them_. Seventy-three households in all, Roger knew. He’d seen the ledgers Jamie kept, written with painful care, noting the economy and welfare of each family who occupied his land—and his mind. “_Now therefore so shalt thou say unto my servant David, Thus saith the Lord of hosts, I took thee from the sheepcote, from following the sheep, to be ruler over my people, over Israel_.” The quote sprang to mind and he’d spoken it aloud before he could think. Jamie drew a deep, audible breath. “Aye,” he said. “Sheep would be easier.”
#DailyLines #BookNine #Fanny #Womanhood Fanny was on her narrow bed, curled up tight as a hedgehog, her back to the door. She didn’t look round at the sound of my footsteps, but her shoulders rose up higher round her ears. “Fanny?” I said softly. “Are you all right, sweetheart?” From Jemmy’s obvious concern about the blood, I’d been a bit worried—but I could see only a single small streak of blood and one or two spots on the muslin of her nightgown. “I’m fine,” said a small, cold voice. “It’s juth—_just_—blood.” “That’s quite true,” I said equably, though the tone in which she’d said it rather alarmed me. I sat down beside her, and put a hand on her shoulder. It was hard as wood, and her skin was cold. How long had she been lying there uncovered? “I’m all right,” she said. “I got the rags. I’ll wath—_wash_—my rail in the morning.” “Don’t trouble about it,” I said, and stroked the back of her head very lightly, as though she was a cat of uncertain temper. I wouldn’t have thought she could become any more tense, but she did. I took my hand away. “Are you in pain?” I asked, in the business-like voice I used when taking a physical history from someone who’d come to my surgery. She’d heard it before, and the bony little shoulders relaxed, just a hair. “Not weal—I mean, not _ree_-lee,” she said, pronouncing it very distinctly. It had taken no little practice for her to be able to pronounce words correctly, after I had done the frenectomy that had freed her from being tongue-tied, and I could tell that it annoyed her to be slipping back into the lisp of her bondage. “It jusst feels _tight_,” she said. “Like a fist squeezing me right there.” She pushed her own fists into her lower abdomen in illustration. “That sounds quite normal,” I assured her. “It’s just your uterus waking up, so to speak. It hasn’t moved noticeably before, so you wouldn’t have been aware of it.” I’d explained the internal structure of the female reproductive system to her, with drawings, and while she’d seemed mildly repulsed, she _had_ paid attention. To my surprise, the back of her neck went pale at this, her shoulders hunching up again. “Fanny?” I said, and ventured to touch her again, stroking her arm. “You’ve seen girls come into their courses before, haven’t you?” So far as we could estimate, she’d lived in a Philadelphia brothel since the age of five or so; I would have been astonished if she hadn’t seen almost everything the female reproductive
system could do. And then it struck me, and I scolded myself for a fool. Of course. She _had_. “Yess,” she said, in that cold, remote way. “It means two things. You can be got with child, and you can start to earn money.”
#DailyLines #BookNine #Noitsnotout #Itwontbeoutforalongtime #Imjuststartingit #Breathe #GobackandreadOutlander “Ye healed me of something a good deal worse, Sassenach,” he said, and touched my hand gently. He’d touched me with his right hand, the maimed one. “I didn’t,” I protested. “You did that yourself—you had to. All I did was… er…” “Drug me wi’ opium and fornicate me back to life? Aye, that.” “It wasn’t fornication,” I said, rather primly—but I turned my hand and laced my fingers tightly with his. “We were married.” “Aye, it was,” he said, and his mouth tightened, as well as his grip. “It wasna you I was swiving, and ye ken that as well as I do.” I swallowed, watching the fire-shadows move on the rough-hewn wall and recalling all too vividly the coldness of hard stone against my back and the fireshot, fractured images that had splintered in my mind as his hands had closed around my neck. I cleared my throat by reflex. “It was me at the end,” I said softly, and touched his face with my free hand. “You came back--to me.”
#DailyLines #BookNine #Noitsnotout #Ivejuststartedworkingonit #whileyourewaiting #ReadTheCityStainedRed Jemmy was standing in the dark just outside the door and I nearly crashed into him. “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!” I said, only just managing to say it in a whisper. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you asleep?” He ignored this, looking into the dim light of the bedroom and the humped shadow on the wall, a deeply troubled look on his face. “What happened to Fanny’s sister, Grannie?” I hesitated, looking down at him. He was only ten. And surely it was his parents’ place to tell him what they thought he should know. But Fanny was his friend—and God knew, she needed a friend she could trust. “Come down with me,” I said, turning him toward the stair with a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll tell you while I make more tea. And _don’t_ bloody tell your mother I did.” I told him, as simply as I could, and omitting the things Fanny had told me about the late Captain Harkness’s habits. “Do you know the word ‘whore’—er…’hoor,’ I mean?” I amended, and the frown of incomprehension relaxed. “Sure. Germain told me. Hoors are ladies that go to bed with men they aren’t married to. Fanny’s not a hoor, though—was her sister?” He looked troubled at the thought. “Well, yes,” I said. “Not to put too fine a point on it. But women—or girls— who become whores do it because they have no other way to earn a living. Not because they want to, I mean.” He looked confused. “How do they earn money?” “Oh. The men pay them to—er—go to bed with them. Take my word for it,” I assured him, seeing his eyes widen in astonishment. “I go to bed with Mandy and Fanny all the time,” he protested. “And Germain, too. I wouldn’t pay them money for being girls!” “Jeremiah,” I said, pouring fresh hot water into the pot. “’Go to bed’ is a euphemism—do you know that word? It means saying something that sounds better than what you’re really talking about—for sexual intercourse.” “Oh, _that_,” he said, his face clearing. “Like the pigs?”
“Rather like that, yes. Find me a clean cloth, will you? There should be some in the lower cupboard.” I knelt, knees creaking slightly, and scooped the hot stone out of the ashes with the poker. It made a small hissing sound as the cold air of the surgery hit the hot surface. “So,” I said, reaching for the cloth he’d fetched me, and trying for as matter-offact a voice as could be managed, “Jane and Fanny’s parents had died, and they had no way to feed themselves, so Jane became a whore. But some men are very wicked—I expect you know that already, don’t you?” I added, glancing up at him, and he nodded soberly. “Yes. Well, a wicked man came to the place where Jane and Fanny lived and wanted to make Fanny go to bed with him, even though she was much too young to do such a thing. And…er…Jane killed him.” “Wow.” I blinked at him, but it had been said with the deepest respect. I coughed, and began folding the cloth. “It was very heroic of her, yes. But she—“ “How did she kill him?” “With a knife,” I said, a little tersely, hoping he wouldn’t ask for details. I knew them, thanks to Rachel and Lord John, and wished I didn’t.
#DailyLines #BookNine #Noitisntout #Imworkingonit #NoSpoilers #narcolepsy There was not only a quarter of an apple pie and cream to go on it, but a heel of sharp cheese, cold potato pancakes, salt in a twist of paper, and a dish containing the last of the pickled herrings he’d brought from Salem two weeks ago. And a jug of milk. And one of small-beer. And two cups, a knife for the cheese, and a pair of spoons. And an old dish-cloth, in case of spills. I sat down on the bed beside him and spread this tidily over my knees before picking up my own spoon. “Shall I poke up the fire?” I asked. It was a bit chilly in the room, but Jamie was radiating a sleepy warmth, and I liked the irregular glimmer from the smoored hearth; it gave me a pleasantly dream-like feeling, a sense of midnight secrecy. “No on my account, Sassenach. I’ll likely be asleep again, directly I’ve finished my supper.” He gave a sudden huge involuntary yawn, then shook his head as though driving off an imminent threat of sleep. “Do you know a General Lincoln?” I asked. “Benjamin, I think his first name is.” He paused, a bite of cheese halfway to his mouth and blinked once or twice. “I wouldna say he’s a personal friend, but I’ve heard the name, aye. He’s commander of the Southern Army.” He ate the cheese slowly, swallowed, and added, “Why?” “Denzell Hunter told me that the General suffers from narcolepsy. Your yawning just reminded me of it.” He shot me a mildly suspicious look, and reached for a pickled herring. “Do I want to know what that is?” “Probably not. But on the off-chance that you ever meet General Lincoln, it might be helpful to know. It’s a rather fascinating condition wherein the patient falls quite suddenly asleep, no matter what he’s doing.” That interested him; he ate the bit of herring but didn’t reach for another. “No matter what? Even if he should be eating? Or in battle? That might be just a wee bit awkward, aye?” “That appeared to be the possibility that was occupying Denny’s mind, yes.” He yawned again, without warning. “Does it come on suddenly? Or is it contagious? I think I may have caught it. Oh, God.” He yawned again and blinked, eyes watering slightly.
“I doubt narcolepsy is catching, but yawning is,” I said, smothering an involuntary gape. “Will you stop doing that?” He let his head fall back, eyes closed, and gave a faint groan, then straightened up again and reached for the last of the pie. I wasn’t surprised. He’d left at dawn, going after a hog that had been making repeated nightly efforts to root up my garden fence and devour the last of the neeps and yams. He’d tracked the beast for more than two miles before finding and killing it—and had then dragged it back, single-handed. Even gralloched, the thing weighed more than I did, but there were wolves about and he’d been unwilling to leave the carcass long enough to come home and fetch help. He and the hog had finally arrived, dead-tired and dead, respectively, just after nightfall. I’d been of two minds about waking him—but he’d been too tired to eat much supper. And then again, it was apple pie. We finished the meal in a companionable silence, and after rinsing his mouth with water and spitting out the window, Jamie came back to bed like a heavy-eyed homing pigeon. “I think I’ll work for a bit in the surgery,” I said, drawing the quilts up under his chin. His eyes were already half-shut. “I’ll be up in an hour or so.” “Dinna hurry yourself on my account, Sassenach.” He snaked an arm out from under the covers and drew me down, giving me a sweet, pie-scented kiss with undertones of herring. “I willna be much good to ye in bed for another fortnight or so.” “That a promise, is it?” I kissed him gently back. “I’ll circle the date on my calendar.”
#DailyLines #BookNine #NoItIsntOut #BarelyStarted #TryZenMeditation Roger raised his chin and I reached up carefully, fitting my fingers about his neck, just under his jaw. He’d just shaved; his skin was cool and slightly damp and I caught a whiff of the shaving soap Brianna made for him, scented with juniper berries. I was moved by the sense of ceremony in that small gesture--and moved much more by the hope in his eyes that he tried to hide. “You know—“ I said hesitantly, and felt his Adam’s apple bob below my hand. “I know,” he said gruffly. “No expectations. If something happens…well, it does. If not, I’m no worse off.” I nodded, and felt gently about. I’d done that before, after his injury, tending the swelling and the rope-burn, now a ragged white scar. The tracheostomy I’d performed to save his life had left a smaller scar in the hollow of his throat, a slight vertical depression about an inch long. I passed my thumb over that, feeling the healthy rings of cartilage above and below. The lightness of the touch made him shiver suddenly, tiny goosebumps stippling his neck, and he gave the breath of a laugh. “Goose walking on my grave,” he said. “Stamping about on your throat, more like,” I said, smiling. “Tell me again what Dr. MacEwen said.” I hadn’t taken my hand away, and felt the lurch of his Adam’s apple as he cleared his throat hard. “He prodded my throat—much as you’re doing,” he added, smiling back. “And he asked me if I knew what a hyoid bone was. He said—“ Roger’s hand rose involuntarily toward his throat, but stopped a few inches from touching it, “—that mine was an inch or so higher than usual, and that if it had been in the normal place, I’d be dead.” “Really,” I said, interested. I put a thumb just under his jaw and said, “Swallow, please.” He did, and I touched my own neck and swallowed, still touching his. “I’ll be damned,” I said. “It’s a small sample size, and granted, there may be differences attributable to gender—but he may well be right. Perhaps you’re a Neanderthal.” “A what?” He stared at me. “Just a joke,” I assured him. “But it’s true that one of the differences between the Neanderthals and modern humans is that their hyoid bone was much higher;
for a long time, scientists didn’t think they even had a hyoid—it’s quite a small bone, and easily overlooked in burials of such an age--and thus concluded that they must have been mute. You rather need one for coherent speech” I added, seeing his blank look. “It anchors the tongue.” “How extremely fascinating,” Roger said politely. I cleared my own throat, and circled his neck once again.
#DailyLines #BookNine #NoItsNotOut #ItllBeAwhile #IveJustStartedWorkingOnIt #TryTheMethadoneList “Can we wash my dolly’s face, too?” Mandy asked. “Dose bad boys got her dirty!” I listened with half an ear to her mingled endearments to Esmeralda and denunciations of her brother and Germain, but most of my attention was focused on what was going on in the yard. I could hear Jem’s voice, high and argumentative, and Roger’s, firm and much lower, but couldn’t pick out any words. Roger _was_ talking, though, and I didn’t hear any choking or coughing…that was good. The memory of him bellowing at the children was even better. He’d done that before—it was a necessity, children and the great outdoors being what they respectively were—but I’d never heard him do it without his voice breaking, with a followup of coughing and throat-clearing. MacEwan had said that it was a small improvement, and that it took time for healing. Had I actually done anything to help? I looked critically at the palm of my hand, but it looked much as usual; a halfhealed paper cut on the middle finger, stains from picking blackberries, and a burst blister on my thumb, from snatching a spider full of bacon that had caught fire out of the hearth without a rag. Not a sign of any blue light, certainly. “Wassat, Grannie?” Amanda leaned off the counter to look at my upturned hand. “What’s what? That black splotch? I think it’s ink; I was writing up my casebook last night. Kirsty Wilson’s rash.” I’d thought at first it was just poison sumac, but it was hanging on in a rather worrying fashion…no fever, though…perhaps it was hives? Or some kind of atypical psoriasis? “No, _dat_.” Mandy poked a wet, chubby finger at the heel of my hand. “Issa letter!” She twisted her head half-round to look closer, black curls tickling across my arm. “Letter J!” she announced triumphantly. “J is for Jemmy! I hate Jemmy,” she added, frowning. “Er…” I said, completely nonplused. It _was_ the letter “J.” The scar had faded to a thin white line, but was still clear if the light struck right. The scar Jamie had given me, when I’d left him at Culloden. Left him to die, hurling myself through the stones to save his unborn, unknown child. Our child. And if I hadn’t? I looked at Mandy, blue-eyed and black-curled and perfect as a tiny spring apple. Heard Jem outside, now giggling with his father. It had cost us twenty
years apart—years of hearbreak, pain and danger. And it had been worth it. “It’s for Grand-da’s name. J for Jamie,” I said to Amanda, who nodded as though that made perfect sense, clutching a soggy Esmeralda to her chest. I touched her glowing cheek, and imagined for an instant that my fingers might be tinged with blue. “Mandy,” I said, on impulse. “What color is my hair?” “_When your hair is white, you’ll come into your full power_.” An old Tuscarora wisewoman named Nayawenne had said that to me, years ago—along with a lot of other disturbing things. Mandy stared intently at me for a moment, then said definitely, “Brindle.” “What? Where did you learn that word, for heaven’s sake?” “Grand-da. He sayss it’s what color Charlie is.” Charlie was a rather stylishly multi-colored pig belonging to the Beardsley household. “Hmm,” I said. “Not yet, then. All right, sweetheart, let’s go and hang Esmeralda out to dry.”
#DailyLines #BookNine #inHonorOfMarch6th [March 6th, 1988 is the day I began to write what would eventually become OUTLANDER. I meant to write a practice book, in order to learn how to write a novel. Once I knew how it all worked, I thought, I could write a _real_ novel; one I meant to be published. But I didn’t mean to tell anyone what I was doing, let alone show it to anybody. Things Happen, though, and here we all are, twenty-seven years and fourteen books and a lovely TV show later. Apparently I was right, when I thought (at the age of 8) that I was supposed to be a novelist. And so in celebration, here’s a much larger-than-usual chunk of #DailyLines. Hope you enjoy them!] [In which, Fanny has just started her first menstrual period, and is more upset than might usually be the case, since to her, it’s the signal that she’s just become a marketable sexual commodity.]
“Sweetheart,” I said, more gently, and put a hand under her chin to lift her face. Her eyes met mine like a blow, their soft brown nearly black with fear. Her chin was rigid, her jaw set tight, and I took my hand away. “You don’t really think that we intend you to be a whore, Fanny?” She heard the incredulousness in my voice, and blinked. Once. Then looked down again. “I’m…not good for anything else,” she said, in a small voice. “But I’m worth a lot of money—for…_that_.” She waved a hand over her lap, in a quick, almost resentful gesture. I felt as though I’d been punched in my own belly. Did she really think—but she clearly did. Must have thought so, all the time she had been living with us. She’d seemed to thrive at first, safe from danger and well-fed, with the boys as companions. But the last month or so, she’d seemed withdrawn and thoughtful, eating much less. I’d seen the physical signs and reckoned them as due to her sensing the imminent change; had prepared the emmenagogue herbs, to be ready. That was apparently the case, but obviously I hadn’t guessed the half of it. “That isn’t true, Fanny,” I said, and took her hand. She let me, but it lay in mine like a dead bird. “That’s _not_ your only worth.” Oh, God, did it sound as though she had another, and that’s why we had-“I mean—we didn’t take you in because we thought you…you’d be profitable to us in some way. Not at all.” She turned her face away, with an almost inaudible sniffing noise. This was getting worse by the moment. I had a sudden memory of
Brianna as a young teenager, and spending hours in her bedroom, mired in futile reassurances—_no, you aren’t ugly, of course you’ll have a boyfriend when it’s time, no, everybody doesn’t hate you_—I hadn’t been good at it then, and clearly those particular maternal skills hadn’t improved with age. “We took you because we wanted you, sweetheart,” I said, stroking the unresponsive hand. “Wanted to take care of you.” She pulled it away and curled up again, face in her pillow. “Do, you didn.” Her voice came thick, and she cleared her throat, hard. “William made Mr. Fraser take me.” I laughed out loud, and she turned her head from the pillow to look at me, surprised. “Really, Fanny,” I said. “Speaking as one who knows both of them rather well, I can assure you that no one in the world could make either one of those men do anything whatever against his will. Mr. Fraser is stubborn as a rock, and his son is just like him. How long have you known William?” “Not…long,” she said, uncertain. “But--but he tried to save J-Jane. She liked him.” Sudden tears welled in her eyes and she turned her face back into the pillow. “Oh,” I said, much more softly. “I see. You’re thinking of her. Of Jane.” Of course. She nodded and put her face back in the pillow, small shoulders hunched and shaking. Her plait had unraveled and the soft brown curls fell away, exposing the white skin of her neck, slender as a stalk of blanched asparagus. “It’th the only t-time I ever thaw her cry,” she said, the words only half-audible between emotion and muffling. “Jane? What was it?” “Her firtht—_first_—time. Wif—with--a man. When she came back and gave the bloody towel to Mithess Seacrest. She did that, and then she crawled into bed with me and cried. I held huh and—and petted huh—bu—I couldn’t make her thtop.” She pulled her arms under her and shook with silent sobs. “Sassenach?” Jamie’s voice came from the doorway, husky with sleep. “What’s amiss? I rolled over and found Jem in my bed, instead of you.” He spoke calmly, but his eyes were fixed on Fanny’s shivering back. He glanced at me, one eyebrow raised, and moved his head slightly toward the door-jamb. Did I want him to leave? I glanced down at Fanny and up at him with a helpless twitch of my shoulder, and he moved at once into the room, pulling up a stool beside Fanny’s bed. He
noticed the blood-streaks at once and looked up at me again—surely this was my business?—but I shook my head, keeping a hand on Fanny’s back. “Fanny’s missing her sister,” I said, addressing the only aspect of things I thought might be dealt with effectively at the moment. “Ah,” Jamie said softly, and before I could stop him, had bent down and gathered her gently up into his arms. I stiffened for an instant, afraid that having a man touch her just now—but she turned into him at once, flinging her arms about his neck and sobbing into his chest. He sat down, holding her on his knee, and I felt the unhappy tension in my own shoulders ease, seeing him smooth her hair and murmur things to her in a _Gaidhlìg_ she didn’t speak, but clearly understood as well as a horse or dog might. Fanny went on sobbing for a bit, but slowly calmed under his touch, only hiccupping now and then. “I saw your sister just the once,” he said softly. “Jane was her name, aye? Jane Eleanor. She was a bonny lass. And she loved ye dear, Frances. I ken that.” Fanny nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks, and I looked at the corner where Mandy lay on the trundle. She was dead to the world, though, thumb plugged securely into her mouth. Fanny got herself under control within a few seconds, though, and I wondered whether she had been beaten at the brothel for weeping or displaying violent emotion. “She did it fuh me,” she said, in tones of absolute desolation. “Killed Captain Harkness. And now she’th dead. It’th all my fault.” And despite the whiteness of her clenched knuckles, more tears welled in her eyes. Jamie looked at me over her head, then swallowed to get his own voice under control. “Ye would have done anything for your sister, aye?” he said, gently rubbing her back between the bony little shoulderblades. “Yes,” she said, voice muffled in his shoulder. “Aye, of course. And she would ha’ done the same for you—and did. Ye wouldna have hesitated for a moment to lay down your life for her, and nor did she. It wasna your fault, _a nighean_.” “It _was_! I shouldn’t have made a fuss, I should have—oh, Janie!” She clung to him, abandoning herself to grief. Jamie patted her and let her cry, but he looked at me over the disheveled crown of her head and raised his brows. I got up and came to stand behind him, a hand on his shoulder, and in murmured French, acquainted him in a few words with the other source of
Fanny’s distress. He pursed his lips for an instant, but then nodded, never ceasing to pet her and make soothing noises. The tea had gone cold, particles of rosemary and ground ginger floating on the murky surface. I took up the pot and cup and went quietly out to make it fresh. Jemmy was standing in the dark just outside the door and I nearly crashed into him. “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!” I said, only just managing to say it in a whisper. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you asleep?” He ignored this, looking into the dim light of the bedroom and the humped shadow on the wall, a deeply troubled look on his face. “What happened to Fanny’s sister, Grannie?” I hesitated, looking down at him. He was only ten. And surely it was his parents’ place to tell him what they thought he should know. But Fanny was his friend—and God knew, she needed a friend she could trust. “Come down with me,” I said, turning him toward the stair with a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll tell you while I make more tea. And _don’t_ bloody tell your mother I did.” I told him, as simply as I could, and omitting the things Fanny had told me about the late Captain Harkness’s habits. “Do you know the word ‘whore’—er…’hoor,’ I mean?” I amended, and the frown of incomprehension relaxed. “Sure. Germain told me. Hoors are ladies that go to bed with men they aren’t married to. Fanny’s not a hoor, though—was her sister?” He looked troubled at the thought. “Well, yes,” I said. “Not to put too fine a point on it. But women—or girls— who become whores do it because they have no other way to earn a living. Not because they want to, I mean.” He looked confused. “How do they earn money?” “Oh. The men pay them to—er—go to bed with them. Take my word for it,” I assured him, seeing his eyes widen in astonishment. “I go to bed with Mandy and Fanny all the time,” he protested. “And Germain, too. I wouldn’t pay them money for being girls!” “Jeremiah,” I said, pouring fresh hot water into the pot. “’Go to bed’ is a euphemism—do you know that word? It means saying something that sounds better than what you’re really talking about—for sexual intercourse.”
“Oh, _that_,” he said, his face clearing. “Like the pigs?” “Rather like that, yes. Find me a clean cloth, will you? There should be some in the lower cupboard.” I knelt, knees creaking slightly, and scooped the hot stone out of the ashes with the poker. It made a small hissing sound as the cold air of the surgery hit the hot surface. “So,” I said, reaching for the cloth he’d fetched me, and trying for as matter-offact a voice as could be managed, “Jane and Fanny’s parents had died, and they had no way to feed themselves, so Jane became a whore. But some men are very wicked—I expect you know that already, don’t you?” I added, glancing up at him, and he nodded soberly. “Yes. Well, a wicked man came to the place where Jane and Fanny lived and wanted to make Fanny go to bed with him, even though she was much too young to do such a thing. And…er…Jane killed him.” “Wow.” I blinked at him, but it had been said with the deepest respect. I coughed, and began folding the cloth. “It was very heroic of her, yes. But she—“ “How did she kill him?” “With a knife,” I said, a little tersely, hoping he wouldn’t ask for details. I knew them, thanks to Rachel and Lord John, and wished I didn’t. “But the man was a soldier, and when the British army found out, they arrested Jane.” “Oh, Jesus,” Jem said, in tones of awed horror. “Did they hang her, like they tried to hang Dad?” I tried to think whether I should tell him not to take the Lord’s name in vain, but on the one hand, he clearly hadn’t meant it that way—and for another, I was a blackened pot in that particular regard. “They meant to. She was alone, and very much afraid—and she…well, she killed herself, darling.” He looked at me for a long moment, face blank, then swallowed, hard. “Did Jane go to Hell, Grannie?” he asked, in a small voice. “Is that why Fanny’s so sad?” I’d wrapped the stone thickly in cloth; the heat of it glowed in the palms of my hands. “No, sweetheart,” I said, with as much conviction as I could muster. “I’m quite
sure she didn’t. God would certainly understand the circumstances. No, Fanny’s just missing her sister.” He nodded, very sober. “I’d miss Mandy, if she killed somebody and got—“ He gulped at the thought. I was somewhat concerned to note that the notion of Mandy killing someone apparently seemed reasonable to him, but then… “I’m quite sure nothing like that would ever happen to Mandy. Here.” I gave him the wrapped stone. “Be careful with it.” We made our way slowly upstairs, trailing warm ginger steam, and found Jamie sitting beside Fanny on the bed, a small collection of things laid out on the quilt between them. He looked up at me, flicked an eyebrow at Jem, and then nodded at the quilt. “Frances was just showing me a picture of her sister. Would ye let Mrs. Fraser and Jem have a look, _a nighean_?” Fanny’s face was still blotched from crying, but she had herself more or less back in hand, and she nodded soberly, moving aside a little. The small bundle of possessions she had brought with her was unrolled, revealing a pathetic little pile of items: a nit comb, the cork from a wine-bottle, two neatly-folded hanks of thread, one with a needle stuck through it, a paper of pins, and a few small bits of tawdry jewelry. On the quilt was a sheet of paper, much folded and worn in the creases, with a pencil drawing of a girl. “One of the punters dwew—_drew_—it, one night in the salon,” Fanny said, moving aside a little, so we could look. It was no more than a sketch, but the artist had caught a spark of life. Jane had been lovely in outline, straight-nosed and with a delicate, ripe mouth, but there was neither flirtation nor demureness in her expression. She was looking half over her shoulder, half-smiling, but with an air of mild scorn in her look. “She’s pretty, Fanny,” Jemmy said, and came to stand by her. He patted her arm as he would have patted a dog, and with as little self-consciousness. Jamie had given Fanny a handkerchief, I saw; she sniffed and blew her nose, nodding. “This is all I have,” she said, her voice hoarse as a young toad’s. “Just this and her wock—locket.” “This?” Jamie stirred the little pile gently with a big forefinger, and withdrew a small brass oval, dangling on a chain. “Is it a miniature of Jane, then, or maybe a lock of her hair?”
Fanny shook her head, taking the locket from him. “No,” she said. “It’s a picture of our muv-mother.” She slid a thumbnail into the side of the locket and flicked it open. I bent forward to look, but the miniature inside was hard to see, shadowed as it was by Jamie’s body. “May I?” She handed me the locket and I turned to hold it close to the candle. The woman inside had dark, somewhat curly hair like Fanny’s—and I thought I could make out a resemblance to Jane in the nose and set of chin, though it wasn’t a particularly skillful rendering. Behind me, I heard Jamie say, quite casually, “Frances, no man will ever take ye against your will, while I live.” There was a startled silence, and I turned round to see Fanny staring up at him. He touched her hand, very gently. “D’ye believe me, Frances?” he said quietly. “Yes,” she whispered, after a long moment, and all the tension left her body in a sigh like the east wind. Jemmy leaned against me, head pressing my elbow, and I realized that I was just standing there, my eyes full of tears. I blotted them hastily on my sleeve, and pressed the locket closed. Or tried to; it slipped in my fingers and I saw that there was a name inscribed inside it, opposite the miniature. “Faith,” it said.
#DailyLines #BookNine #brothersistersnip “I like goats,” Jenny said, shoving aside a pair of questing lips. “[Shoo, goat.] Sheep are good-hearted things, save the ram-lambs tryin’ to knock ye over, but they’re no bright. A goat has a mind of its own.” “Aye, and so do you. Ian always said ye liked the goats because they’re just as stubborn as you are.” She gave him a long, level look. “Pot,” she said succinctly. “Kettle,” he replied, flicking his grass-stem toward her nose. She grabbed it out of his hand and fed it to the goat.
#DailyLines #BookNine #NoItsNotFinished #BarelyStarted #HauldYourWheesht #JamieAndJenny #AndMurtagh “God, I miss the old bugger,” Jamie said impulsively. Jenny glanced at him and smiled ruefully. “So do I. I wonder sometimes if he’s with them now—mam and da.” That notion startled Jamie—he’d never thought of it—and he laughed, shaking his head. “Well, if he is, I suppose he’s happy.” “I hope that’s the way of it,” Jenny said, growing serious. “I always wished he could ha’ been buried with them, at Lallybroch. Jamie nodded, his throat suddenly tight. Murtagh lay with the fallen of Culloden, buried in some anonymous pit on that silent moor, his bones mingled with the others. No cairn for those who loved him to come and leave a stone to say so. Jenny laid a hand on his arm, warm through the cloth of his sleeve. “Dinna mind it,_ a brathair_,” she said softly. “He had a good death, and you with him at the end.” “How would you know it was a good death?” Emotion made him speak more roughly than he meant, but she only blinked once, and then her face settled again. “Ye told me, idiot,” she said dryly. “Several times. D’ye not recall that?” He stared at her for a moment, uncomprehending. “I told ye? How? I dinna ken what happened.” Now it was her turn to be surprised. “Ye’ve forgotten? “ She frowned at him. “Aye, well…it’s true ye were off your heid wi’ fever for a good ten days when they brought ye home. Ian and I took it in turn to sit with ye—as much to stop the doctor takin’ your leg off as anything else. Ye can thank Ian ye’ve still got that one,” she added, nodding sharply at his left leg. “He sent the doctor away; said he kent well ye’d rather be dead.” Her eyes filled abruptly with tears, and she turned away. He caught her by the shoulder and felt her bones, fine and light as a kestrel’s under the cloth of her shawl. “Jenny,” he said softly. “He didna want to be dead. Believe me. I did, aye…but not him.” “No, he did at first,” she said, and swallowed . “But ye wouldna let him, he said—and he wouldna let you, either.” She wiped her face with the back of her
hand, roughly. He took hold of it, and kissed it, her fingers cold in his hand. “Ye dinna think ye had anything to do with it?” he asked, straightening up and smiling down at her. “For either of us?”
#DailyLines #BookNine #NoNotYet #ItllBeAwhile #ImSlowYouKnow #JamieAndJenny #Andacoupleofgoats #andmaybeabear “There’s a bear up here, is there?” Jenny asked, turning back to him. “Shall I take the goats back down?” “It might be. Jo Beardsley saw it a few days ago, here in the meadow, but there’s no fresh sign.” Jenny thought that over for a moment, then sat down on a lichened rock, spreading her skirts out neatly. The goats had gone back to their grazing, and she raised her face to the sun, closing her eyes. “Only a fool would hunt a bear alone,” she said, her eyes still closed. “Claire told me that.” “Did she?” he said dryly. “Did she tell ye the last time I killed a bear, I did it alone, with my dirk? _ And_ that she hit me in the heid wi’ a fish whilst I was doin’ it?” She opened her eyes and gave him a look. “She didna say a fool canna be lucky,” she pointed out. “And if you didna have the luck o’ the devil himself, ye’d have been dead six times over by now.” “Six?” He frowned, disturbed, and her brow lifted in surprise. “I wasna really counting,” she said. “It was only a guess. What is it, _a graidh_?” That casual “_O, love_,” caught him unexpectedly in a tender place, and he coughed to hide it. “Nothing,” he said, shrugging. “Only, when I was young in Paris, a fortuneteller told me I’d die nine times before my death. D’ye think I should count the fever after Laoghaire shot me?” She shook her head definitely. “Nay, ye wouldna have died even had Claire not come back wi’ her wee stabbers. Ye would have got up and gone after her within a day or two.” He smiled. “I might’ve.” His sister made a small noise in her throat that might have been laughter or derision. They were silent for a moment, both with heads lifted, listening to the wood.
The dripping had ceased now, and you could hear a treepie close by, with a call exactly like a rusty hinge opening. Then there was a loud _quah-quah_ as a magpie called from somewhere behind him, and he saw Jenny look up over his shoulder wide-eyed. “Just one?” he said, keeping his voice calm, but feeling a tightness between his shoulder-blades. _One for sorrow_… She held up a hand, silencing him, and sat listening, her eyes combing the branches for a second bird. _ Two for mirth_… Her face lightened as a long, shrill _quahhhhhhh_ came from the left and he swung round to see the second magpie clinging to a swaying pine branch, a beady eye fixed on the ground. He relaxed and drew breath. So did Jenny, and taking up the conversation where she’d left it, asked, “D’ye hold it against me, that I made ye marry Laoghaire?” He gave her a look. “What makes ye think ye could make me do_ anything_ I didna want to, ye wee fuss-budget?” “What the devil is a fuss-budget?” she demanded, frowning up at him. “A bag of nuisance, so far as I can tell,” he admitted. “Jemmy called Mandy it last week.” A sudden dimple appeared near Jenny’s mouth, but she didn’t actually laugh. “Aye,” she said. “Ye ken what I mean.” “I do,” he said. “And I don’t. Hold it against ye, I mean. She didna actually kill me, after all.”
#DailyLines #BookNine #TellingBeads #brother/sister “Oh, ye’ve got your beads after all,” Jenny said, surprised. “Ye didna have your rosary in Scotland, so I thought ye’d lost it. Meant to make ye a new one, but there wasna time, what with Ian…” She lifted one shoulder, the gesture encompassing the whole of the terrible months of Ian’s long dying. He touched the beads, self-conscious. “Aye, well…I had, in a way of speaking. I…gave it to William. When he was a wee lad, and I had to leave him at Helwater. I gave him the beads for something to keep—to…remember me by.” “Mmphm.” She looked at him with sympathy. “Aye. And I expect he gave them back to ye in Philadelphia, did he?” “He did,” Jamie said, a bit terse, and a wry amusement touched Jenny’s face. “Tell ye one thing, _a brathair_—he’s no going to forget you.” “Aye, maybe not,” he said, feeling an unexpected comfort in the thought. “Well, then…” He let the beads run through his fingers, taking hold of the crucifix. “I believe in one God…” They said the Creed together, and the three Hail Marys and the Glory Be. “Joyful or Glorious?” he asked, fingers on the first bead of the decades. He didn’t want to do the Sorrowful Mysteries, the ones about suffering and crucifixion, and he didn’t think she did, either. A magpie called from the maples, and he wondered briefly if it was one they’d already seen, or a third. _Three for a wedding, four for a death_… “Joyful,” she said at once. “The Annunciation.” Then she paused, and nodded at him to take the first turn. He didn’t have to think. “For Murtagh,” he said quietly, and his fingers tightened on the bead. “And Mam and Da. Hail Mary, full o’ grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women and blest is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.” “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.” Jenny finished the prayer and they said the rest of the decade in their usual way, back and forth, the rhythm of their voices soft as the rustle of grass. They reached the second decade, the Visitation, and he nodded at Jenny—her turn. “For Ian Òg,” she said softly, eyes on her beads. “And Ian Mòr. Hail Mary….”
#DailyLines #BookNine #NOitsnotoutyet #dontbesilly #itllbealongtime #goreadLordJohn #gowatchEps1-8 #takeupanewhobby The fly spiraled down, green and yellow as a falling leaf, to land among the rings of the rising hatch. It floated for a second on the surface, maybe two, then vanished in a tiny splash, yanked out of sight by voracious jaws. Roger flicked the end of his rod sharply to set the hook, but there was no need. The trout were hungry this evening, striking at everything, and his fish had taken the hook so deep that bringing it in needed nothing but brute force. It came up fighting, though, flapping and silver in the last of the light. He could feel its life through the line, fierce and bright, so much bigger than the fish itself, and his heart rose to meet it. “Who taught ye to cast, Roger Mac?” His father-in-law took the trout as it came ashore, still flapping, and clubbed it neatly on a stone. “That was as pretty a touch as ever I’ve seen.” Roger made a modest gesture of dismissal, but flushed a little with pleasure at the compliment; Jamie didn’t say such things lightly. “My father,” he said. “Aye?” Jamie looked startled, and Roger hastened to correct himself. “The Reverend, I mean. He was really my great-uncle, and by marriage at that.” “Still your father,” Jamie said, but smiled. He glanced toward the far side of the pool where Germain and Jemmy were squabbling over who’d caught the biggest fish. They had a respectable string, but hadn’t thought to keep their catches separate, so couldn’t tell who’d caught what. “Ye dinna think it makes a difference, do ye? That Jem’s mine by blood and Germain by love?” “You know I don’t.” Roger smiled himself at sight of the two boys. Germain was two years older than Jem, but slightly built, like both his parents. Jem had the long bones and wide shoulders of his grandfather—and his father, Roger thought, straightening his own shoulders. The two boys were much of a height, and the hair of both glowed red at the moment, the ruddy light of the sinking sun setting fire to Germain’s blond mop. “Where’s Fanny, come to think? She’d settle them.” Frances was twelve, but sometimes seemed much younger—and often startlingly older. She’d been fast friends with Germain when Jem had arrived on the Ridge, and rather stand-offish, fearing that Jem would come between her and
her only friend. But Jem was an open, sweet-tempered lad, and Germain knew a good deal more about how people worked than did the average eleven-year old ex-pickpocket, and shortly the three of them were to be seen everywhere together, giggling as they slithered through the shrubbery, intent on some mysterious errand, or turning up at the end of churning, too late to help with the work, but just in time for a glass of fresh buttermilk. “Ach, the poor wee lassie started her courses last night.” Jamie lifted a shoulder in an economical shrug that conveyed acknowledgement of the situation, regret, and resignation. “She’s no feeling just that well in herself.” Roger nodded, threading the stringer through the fish’s dark-red gill slit. He knew what Jamie meant. Jem’s arrival hadn’t stopped Fanny’s friendship with Germain—but this might. Or alter it irrevocably, which would likely come to the same thing, so far as Fanny was concerned. There was nothing to be done about it, though, and neither man said more. The sun came low through the trees, but the trout were still biting, the water dappling with dozens of bright rings and the frequent splash of a leaping fish. Roger’s fingers tightened for a moment on his rod, tempted--but they had enough for supper and next morning’s breakfast, too. No point in catching more; there were were a dozen casks of smoked and salted fish already put away in the coldcellar, and the light was going. Jamie showed no signs of moving, though. He was sitting on a comfortable stump, bare-legged and clad in nothing but his shirt, his old hunting plaid puddled on the ground behind; it had been a warm day for (September, October?) and the balm of it still lingered in the air. He glanced at the boys, who had forgotten their argument and were back at their poles, intent as a pair of kingfishers. Jamie turned to Roger then, and said, in a quite ordinary tone of voice, “Do Presbyterians have the sacrament of Confession, _mac mo chinnidh_?” Roger said nothing for a moment, taken aback both by the question and its immediate implications, and by Jamie’s addressing him as “son of my house”—a thing he’d done exactly once, at the calling of the clans at Mt. Helicon some years before. The question itself was straight-forward, though, and he answered it that way. “No. Catholics have seven sacraments but Presbyterians only recognize two: Baptism and the Lord’s Supper.” He might have left it at that, but the first implication of the question was plain before him. “D’ye have a thing ye want to tell me, Jamie?” He thought it might be the second time he’d called his father-in-law ‘Jamie’ to his face. “I can’t give ye
absolution—but I can listen.” He wouldn’t have said that Jamie’s face showed anything in the way of strain. But now it relaxed and the difference was sufficiently visible that his own heart opened to the man, ready for whatever he might say. Or so he thought. “Aye.” Jamie’s voice was husky and he cleared his throat, ducking his head, a little shy. “Aye, that’ll do fine. D’ye remember the night we took Claire back from the bandits?” “I’m no likely to forget it,” Roger said, staring at him. He cut his eyes at the boys, but they were still at it, and he looked back at Jamie. “Why?” he asked, wary. “Were ye there wi’ me, at the last, when I broke Hodgepile’s neck and Ian asked me what to do with the rest? I said, ‘Kill them all.’” “I was there.” He had been. And he didn’t want to go back. Three words and it was all there, just below the surface of memory, still cold in his bones: black night in the forest, a sear of fire across his eyes, chilling wind and the smell of blood. The drums—a _bodhran_ thundering against his arm, two more behind him. Screaming in the dark. The sudden shine of eyes and the stomach-clenching feel of a skull caving in. “I killed one of them,” he said abruptly. “Did you know that?” Jamie hadn’t looked away and didn’t now; his mouth compressed for a moment, and he nodded. “I didna see ye do it,” he said. “But it was plain enough in your face, next day.” “I don’t wonder.” Roger’s throat was tight and the words came out thick and gruff. He was surprised that Jamie had noticed—had noticed anything at all on that day other than Claire, once the fighting was over. The image of her, kneeling by a creek, setting her own broken nose by her reflection in the water, the blood streaking down over her bruised and naked body, came back to him with the force of a punch in the solar plexus. “Ye never ken how it will be.” Jamie lifted one shoulder and let it fall; he’d lost the lace that bound his hair, snagged by a tree branch, and the thick red strands stirred in the evening breeze. “A fight like that, I mean. What ye recall and what ye don’t. I remember everything about that night, though—and the day beyond it.” Roger nodded, but didn’t speak. It was true that Presbyterians had no sacrament of Confession—and he rather regretted that they didn’t; it was a useful thing to have in your pocket. Particularly, he supposed, if you led the sort of life Jamie had. But any minister knows the soul’s need to speak and be understood, and that he could give.
“I expect ye do,” he said. “Do ye regret it, then? Telling the men to kill them all, I mean.” “Not for an instant.” Jamie gave him a brief, fierce glance. “Do ye regret your part of it?” “I—“ Roger stopped abruptly. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t thought about it, but… “I regret that I had to,” he said carefully. “Very much. But I’m sure in my own mind that I did have to.” Jamie’s breath came out in a sigh. “Ye’ll know Claire was raped, I expect.” It wasn’t a question, but Roger nodded. Claire hadn’t spoken of it, even to Brianna—but she hadn’t had to. “The man who did it wasna killed, that night. She saw him alive last month, at Beardsley’s.” The evening breeze had turned chilly, but that wasn’t what raised the hairs on Roger’s forearms. Jamie was a man of precise speech—and he’d started this conversation with the word “confession.” Roger took his time about replying. “I’m thinking that ye’re not asking my opinion of what ye should do about it.” Jamie sat silent for a moment, dark against the blazing sky. “No,” he said softly. “I’m not.” “Grand-da! Look!” Jem and Germain were scrambling over the rocks and brush, each with a string of shimmering trout, dripping dark streaks of blood and water down the boys’ breeks, the swaying fish gleaming bronze and silver in the last of the evening light. Roger turned back from the boys in time to see the flicker of Jamie’s eye as he glanced round at the boys, the sudden light on his face catching a troubled, inward look that vanished in an instant as he smiled and raised a hand to his grandsons, reaching out to admire their catch. _Jesus Christ_, Roger thought. He felt as though an electric wire had run through his chest for an instant, small and sizzling. _He was wondering if they were old enough yet. To know about things like this._ “We decided we got six each,” Jemmy was explaining, proudly holding up his string and turning it so his father and grandfather could appreciate the size and beauty of his catch. “And these are Fanny’s,” Germain said, lifting a smaller string on which three plump trout dangled. “We decided she’d ha’ caught some, if she was here.” “That was a kind thought, lads,” Jamie said, smiling. “I’m sure the lassie will
appreciate it.” “Mmphm,” said Germain, though he frowned a little. “Will she still be able to come fishin’ with us, Grand-pere? Mrs. Wilson said she wouldn’t, now she’s a woman.” Jemmy made a disgusted noise and elbowed Germain. “Dinna be daft,” he said. “My mam’s a woman and she goes fishin’. She hunts, too, aye?” Germain nodded, but looked unconvinced. “Aye, she does,” he admitted. “Mr. Crombie doesna like it, though, and neither does Heron.” “Heron?” Roger said, surprised. Hiram Crombie was under the impression that women should cook, clean, spin, sew, mind children, feed stock and keep quiet save when praying. But Standing Heron Bradshaw was a Cherokee who’d married one of the Moravian girls from Salem, and settled on the other side of the Ridge. “Why? The Cherokee women plant their own crops and I’m sure I’ve seen them catching fish with nets and fish-traps by the fields.” “Heron didna say about catching fish,” Jem explained. “He says women canna hunt, though, because they stink o’ blood, and it drives the game away.” “Well, that’s true,” Jamie said, to Roger’s surprise. “But only when they’ve got their courses. And even so, if she stays downwind…” “Would a woman who smells o’ blood not draw bears or painters?” Germain asked. He looked a little worried at the thought. “Probably not,” Roger said dryly, hoping he was right. “And if I were you, I wouldn’t suggest any such thing to your Auntie. She might take it amiss.” Jamie made a small, amused sound and shooed the boys. “Get on wi’ ye, lads. We’ve a few things yet to talk of. Tell your grannie we’ll be in time for supper, aye?” They waited, watching ‘til the boys were safely out of hearing. The breeze had died away now and the last slow rings on the water spread and flattened, disappearing into the gathering shadows. Tiny flies began to fill the air, survivors of the hatch. “Ye did it, then?” Roger asked. He was wary of the answer; what if it wasn’t done, and Jamie wished his help in the matter? But Jamie nodded, his broad shoulders relaxing. “Claire didna tell me about it, ken. I saw at once that something was troubling her, o’ course…” A thread of rueful amusement tinged his voice; Claire’s glass
face was famous. “But when I told her so, she asked me to let it bide, and give her time to think.” “Did you?” “No. “ The amusement had gone. “I saw it was a serious thing. I asked my sister; she told me. She was wi’ Claire at Beardsley’s, aye? She saw the fellow, too, and wormed it out of Claire what the matter was. “Claire said to me—when I made it clear I kent what was going on—that it was all right; she was trying to forgive the bastard. And thought she was makin’ progress with it. Mostly.” Jamie’s voice was matter-of-fact, but Roger thought he heard an edge of regret in it. “Do you…feel that you should have let her deal with it? It _is_ a—a process, to forgive. Not a single act, I mean.” He felt remarkably awkward, and coughed to clear his throat. “I ken that,” Jamie said, in a voice dry as sand. “Few men ken it better.” A hot flush of embarrassment burned its way up Roger’s chest and into his neck. He could feel it take him by the throat, and couldn’t speak at all for a moment. “Aye,” Jamie said, after a moment. “Aye, it’s a point. But I think it’s maybe easier to forgive a dead man than one who’s walkin’ about under your nose. And come to that, I thought she’d have an easier time forgiving me than him.” He lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “And…whether she could bear the thought of the man living near us or not—I couldn’t.” Roger made a small sound of acknowledgment; there seemed nothing else useful to say. Jamie didn’t move, or speak. He sat with his head slightly turned away, looking out over the water, where a fugitive light glimmered over the breeze-touched surface.” “It was maybe the worst thing I’ve ever done,” he said at last, very quietly. “Morally, do you mean?” Roger asked, his own voice carefully neutral. Jamie’s head turned toward him, and Roger caught a blue flash of surprise as the last of the sun touched the side of his face. “Och, no,” his father-in-law said at once. “Only hard to do. “ “Aye.” Roger let the silence settle again, waiting. He could feel Jamie thinking, though the man didn’t move. Did he need to tell it to someone, re-live it and thus ease his soul by full confession? He felt in himself a terrible curiosity, and at the same time, a desperate wish not to hear. He drew breath and spoke abruptly.
“I told Brianna. That I’d killed Boble—and how. Maybe I shouldn’t have.” Jamie’s face was completely in shadow, but Roger could feel those blue eyes on own face, fully lit by the setting sun. With an effort, he didn’t look down. “Aye?” Jamie said, his voice calm, but definitely curious. “What did she say to ye? If ye dinna mind telling me, I mean.” “I—well. To tell the truth, the only thing I remember for sure is that she said, ‘I love you.’” That was the only thing he’d heard, through the echo of drums and the drumming of his own pulse in his ears. He’d told her kneeling, his head in her lap. She’d kept on saying it then; “I love you,” her arms wrapping his shoulders, sheltering him with the fall of her hair, absolving him with her tears. For a moment, he was back inside that memory, and came to himself with a start, realizing that Jamie had said something. “What did you say?” “I said—and how is it Presbyterians dinna think marriage is a sacrament?”
#DailyLines #BookNine #HealingTouch #ParentalTheology #NOitsnotfinished #Ittakesalongtime #Yougotabooklastyearforheavenssake “Does my touch feel warm to you now?” It should, I thought; his skin was cool from the evaporation of shaving. “Yes,” he said, not opening his eyes. “But it’s on the outside. It was on the inside when MacEwan…did what he did.” His dark brows drew together in concentration. “It…I felt it…here—“ Reaching up, he moved my thumb to rest just to the right of center, directly beneath the hyoid. “And….here.” His eyes opened in surprise, and he pressed two fingers to the flesh above his collarbone, an inch or two to the left of the suprasternal notch. “How odd; I hadn’t remembered that.” “And he touched you there, as well?” I moved my lower fingers down and felt the quickening of my senses that often happened when I was fully engaged with a patient’s body. Roger felt it, too—his eyes flashed to mine, startled. “What--?” he began, but before either of us could speak further, there was a high-pitched yowl outside. This was instantly followed by a confusion of young voices, more yowling, then a voice immediately identifiable as Mandy in a passion, bellowing, “You’re bad, you’re bad, you’re _bad_ and I hate you! You’re bad and youse going to HELL!” Roger leapt to his feet and thrust aside the makeshift gauze screen that covered the window. “Amanda!” he bellowed. “Come in here right now!” Over his shoulder, I saw Amanda, face contorted with rage, trying to grab her doll, Esmeralda, which Germain was dangling by one arm, just above her head, dancing to keep away from Amanda’s concerted attempts to kick him. Startled, Germain looked up, and Amanda connected full-force with his shin. She was wearing the stout half-boots Jamie had bought for her from the cobbler in Salem, and the crack of impact was clearly audible, though instantly superceded by Germain’s cry of pain. Jemmy, looking appalled, grabbed Esmeralda, thrust her into Amanda’s arms, and with a guilty glance over his shoulder, ran for the woods, followed by a hobbling Germain. “Jeremiah!” Roger roared. “Stop right there!” Jem froze as though hit by a death-ray; Germain didn’t, and vanished with a wild rustling into the shrubbery. I’d been watching the boys, but a faint choking noise made me glance sharply at Roger. He’d gone pale, and was clutching his throat with both hands. I seized his arm.
“Are you all right?” “I…don’t know.” He spoke in a rasping whisper, but gave me the shadow of a pained smile. “Think I—might have sprained something.” “Daddy?” said a small voice from the doorway. Amanda sniffled dramatically, wiping tears and snot all over her face. “Is you mad at me, Daddy?” Roger took an immense breath, coughed, and went over, squatting down to take her in his arms. “No, sweetheart,” he said softly—but in a fairly normal voice, and something clenched inside me began to relax. “I’m not mad. You mustn’t tell people they’re going to hell, though. Come here, let’s wash your face.”
#DailyLines #BookNine #WilliamByPopularRequest #YouCantGoHomeAgain #ButIfYouDoTheyHaveToFeedYou #MountJosiah #SPOILERS #YouHaveBeenWarned William carried his pistol loaded, but not primed in case of accident. He took an instant to prime it now, thrusting it back into its holster before walking around the corner of the house. It _was_ Indians—or one, at least. A half-naked man squatted in the shade of a huge beech tree, tending a small firepit covered with damp burlap; William could smell the sharp scent of fresh-cut hickory logs, mingled with the tang of blood and char. The Indian—he looked young, though large and very muscular--had his back to William and was deftly stripping the carcass of a small hog, slicing off ragged strips of meat and tossing them into a pile on a flattened burlap sack that lay beside the fire. “Hallo, there,” William said, raising his voice. The man looked round, blinking against the smoke and waving it out of his face. He rose slowly, the knife he’d been using still in his hand, but William had spoken pleasantly enough, and the stranger wasn’t menacing. He also wasn’t a stranger. He stepped out of the tree’s shadow, the sunlight hit his hair, and William felt a jolt of astonished recognition. So did the young man, by the look on his face. “Lieutenant?” he said, disbelieving. He looked William quickly up and down, registering the lack of uniform, and his big dark eyes fixed on William’s face. “Lieutenant…Lord Ellesmere?” “I used to be. Mr. Cinnamon, isn’t it?” He couldn’t help smiling as he spoke the name, and the other’s mouth twisted wryly in acknowledgement. The young man’s hair was no more than an inch long, but only shaving it off entirely would have disguised either its distinctive deep reddish-brown color or its exuberant curliness. A mission orphan, he owed his name to it. “John Cinnamon, yes. Your servant…sir.” The erstwhile scout gave him a presentable half-bow, though the “sir” was spoken with something of a question. “William Ransom. Yours, sir,” William said, smiling, and thrust out his hand. John Cinnamon was a couple of inches shorter than himself, and a couple of inches broader; the scout had grown into himself in the last two years and possessed a very solid hand-shake. “I trust you’ll pardon my curiosity, Mr. Cinnamon—but how the devil do you come to be here?” William asked, letting go. He’d last seen John Cinnamon two years before, in Canada, where he’d spent much of a long, cold winter hunting and
trapping in company with the half-Indian scout, who was near his own age. He wondered briefly if Cinnamon had come in search of him, but that was absurd. He didn’t think he’d ever mentioned Mount Josiah to the man—and even if he had, Cinnamon couldn’t possibly have expected to find him here. “Ah.” To William’s surprise, a slow flush washed Cinnamon’s broad cheekbones. “I—er—I…well, I’m on my way south.” The flush grew deeper. William cocked an eyebrow. While it was true that Virginia was south of Quebec and that there was a good deal of country souther still, Mount Josiah wasn’t on the way to anywhere. No roads led here. He had himself come upriver on a barge, then obtained a small canoe in Richmond and paddled on above the Breaks, that stretch of falls and turbulent water where the land suddenly collapsed upon itself. He’d seen perhaps three people during his time above the Breaks—all of them headed the other way. Suddenly, though, Cinnamon’s wide shoulders relaxed and the look of wariness was erased by relief. “In fact, I came to see my friend,” he said, and nodded toward the house. William turned quickly, to see another Indian picking his way through the raspberry brambles littering what used to be a small croquet lawn. “Manoke!” he said. Then shouted “Manoke!”, making the older man look up. The older Indian’s face lighted with joy, and a sudden uncomplicated happiness washed through William’s heart, cleansing as spring rain. The Indian was lithe and spare as he’d always been, his face a little more lined. His hair smelt of woodsmoke when William embraced him, and the gray in it was the same soft color, but it was still thick and coarse as ever—he could see that easily; he was looking down on it from above, Manoke’s cheek pressed into his shoulder. “What did you say?” he asked, releasing Manoke. “I said, ‘My, how you have grown, boy,” Manoke said, grinning up at him. “Do you need food?”
#DailyLines #BookNine #NOitsnotfinished #BarelyStarted #HauldYourWheeshtOK ? #JamieAndJenny #TellingBeads #ForFathersDay [Here are Jamie and Jenny in a meadow above the Big House. They’ve been having a serious conversation about all kinds of things, but Jenny had mentioned bringing her rosary because she liked to pray while watching her goats.]
They sat for a little while, not speaking. The sun had come well above the treetops by now, and while the air was still fresh and sweet, there was no longer any chill in it. “Aye, well,” he said, at last, standing up. “Do ye still want to pray?” For she still held the pearl rosary, dangling from one hand. He didn’t wait for her reply, but reaching into his shirt and drew out the wooden rosary that he wore about his neck. “Oh, ye’ve got your beads after all,” she said, surprised. “Ye didna have your rosary in Scotland, so I thought ye’d lost it. Meant to make ye a new one, but there wasna time, what with Ian…” She lifted one shoulder, the gesture encompassing the whole of the terrible months of Ian’s long dying. He touched the beads, self-conscious. “Aye, well…I had, in a way of speaking. I…gave it to William. When he was a wee lad, and I had to leave him at Helwater. I gave him the beads for something to keep—to…remember me by.” “Mmphm.” She looked at him with sympathy. “Aye. And I expect he gave them back to ye in Philadelphia, did he?” “He did,” Jamie said, a bit terse, and a wry amusement touched Jenny’s face. “Tell ye one thing, _a brathair_—he’s no going to forget you.” “Aye, maybe not,” he said, feeling an unexpected comfort in the thought. “Well, then…” He let the beads run through his fingers, taking hold of the crucifix. “I believe in one God…” They said the Creed together, and the three Hail Marys and the Glory Be. “Joyful or Glorious?” he asked, fingers on the first bead of the decades. He didn’t want to do the Sorrowful Mysteries, the ones about suffering and crucifixion, and he didn’t think she did, either. A raven called from the maples, and he wondered briefly if it was one they’d already seen, or a third. _Three for a wedding, four for a death…_
“Joyful,” she said at once. “The Annunciation.” Then she paused, and nodded at him to take the first turn. He didn’t have to think. “For Murtagh,” he said quietly, and his fingers tightened on the bead. “And Mam and Da. Hail Mary, full o’ grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women and blest is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.” “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.” Jenny finished the prayer and they said the rest of the decade in their usual way, back and forth, the rhythm of their voices soft as the rustle of grass. They reached the second decade, the Visitation, and he nodded at Jenny—her turn. “For Ian Òg,” she said softly, eyes on her beads. “And Ian Mòr. Hail Mary….” The third decade was William’s. Jenny glanced at him when he said so, but only nodded and bent her head. He didn’t try to avoid thinking of William, but he didn’t deliberately call the lad to mind, either; there was nothing he could do to help, until or unless William asked for it, and it would do neither of them good to worry about what the lad was doing, or what might be happening to him. But…he’d said “William,” and for the space of an Our Father, ten Hail Marys and a Glory Be, William must perforce be in his mind. “_Guide him_,” he thought, between the words of the prayer. “_Give him good judgment. Help him to be a good man. Show him his way…and Holy Mother… keep him safe, for your own Son’s sake_… world without end, Amen,” he said, reaching the final bead.
#DailyLines #BookNINE #NOitsnotfinished #HardlyStarted #MoonlightAndHowling #SPOILERS #thoughsurelyanybodycouldfigurethatout I was somewhere deeper than dreams, and came to the surface like a fish hauled out of water, thrashing and flapping. “Whug—“ I couldn’t remember where I was, who I was, or how to speak. Then the noise that had roused me came again, and every hair on my body stood on end. “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!” Words and sense came back in a rush and I flung out both hands, groping for some physical anchor. Sheets. Mattress. Bed. I was in bed. But no Jamie, empty space beside me. I blinked like an owl, turning my head in search of him. He was standing naked at the window, bathed in moonlight. His fists were clenched and every muscle visible under his skin. “”Jamie!” He didn’t turn, or seem to hear—either my voice, or the thump and agitation of other people in the house, also roused by the howling outside. I could hear Mandy starting to wail in fear, and her parents’ voices running into each other in the rush to comfort her. I got out of bed, and came up cautiously beside Jamie, though what I really wanted to do was dive under the covers and pull the pillow over my head. That _noise_… I peered past his shoulder, but bright as the moonlight was, it showed nothing in the clearing before the house that shouldn’t be there. Coming from the wood, maybe; trees and mountain were an impenetrable slab of black. “Jamie,” I said, more calmly, and wrapped a hand firmly round his forearm. “What is it, do you think? Wolves? A wolf, I mean?” I _hoped_ there was only one of whatever was making that sound. He started at the touch, swung round to see me and shook his head hard, trying to shake off…something. “I—“ he began, voice hoarse with sleep, and then he simply put his arms around me and drew me against him. “I thought it was a dream.” I could feel him trembling a little, and held him as hard as I could. Sinister Celtic words like “_bansidhe_” and _tannasq_ were fluttering round my head, whispering in my ear. Custom said that a _ban-sidhe_ howled on the roof when someone in the house was about to die. Well…it wasn’t on the bloody roof, at least… “Are your dreams usually that loud?” I asked, wincing at a fresh ululation. He hadn’t been out of bed long; his skin was cool, but not chilled.
“Aye. Sometimes.” He gave a small, breathless laugh, and let go of me. A thunder of small feet came down the hallway, and I hastily flung myself back into his arms as the door burst open and Jem rushed in, Fanny right behind him. “Grand-da! There’s a wolf outside! It’ll eat the piggies!” Fanny gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth, eyes round with horror. Not at thought of the piglets’ imminent demise, but at the realization that Jamie was naked. I was shielding as much of him from view as I could with my nightgown, but there wasn’t a great deal of nightgown and there was a great deal of Jamie. “Go back to bed, sweetheart,” I said, as calmly as possible. “If it’s a wolf, Mr. Fraser will deal with it.” “_Moran taing, Sassenach_,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. _Thanks a lot_. “Jem, throw me my plaid, aye?” Jem, to whom a naked grandfather was a routine sight, fetched the plaid from its hook by the door. “Can I come and help kill the wolf?” he asked hopefully. “I could shoot it. I’m better than Da, he says so!” “It’s no a wolf,” Jamie said briefly, swathing his loins in faded tartan. “The two of ye go and tell Mandy it’s all right, before she brings the roof down about our ears.” The howling had grown louder, and so had Mandy’s, in hysterical response. From the look on her face, Fanny was all set to join them.
