Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone

11 Lightning

ROGER STEPPED INTO THE clearing and stopped so abruptly that Bree nearly crashed into him, and saved herself only by gripping his shoulder.

“Bloody hell,” she said softly, looking past him at the ruin that confronted them.

“That’s … putting it mildly.” He’d been told, of course—everyone from Jamie to Rodney Beardsley, aged five, had told him—that the cabin that had served the Ridge as church, schoolhouse, and Masonic Lodge had been struck by lightning and burned down a year ago, during Jamie and Claire’s absence. Seeing it, though, was an unexpected shock.

The timbers of the doorframe had burned but still stood, a fragile black welcome to the charred emptiness on the other side.

“They took away most of the burnt wood.” Brianna took a deep breath, walked up to the empty doorway, and looked around. “Probably charcoal for smoking meat or making gunpowder. I wonder how hard it is to get sulfur these days.”

He glanced at her, not sure whether she was serious or just trying to keep the conversation light until the shock of seeing his first—his only—church destroyed had passed. The only place he’d been—for a little while—a real minister. His chest felt tight and so did his throat—but he put aside his sense of disquiet for the moment and coughed.

“You’re intending to make gunpowder? After what happened with the matches?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but he could tell now that she was deliberately making light of things.

“You know that wasn’t my fault. And I could. I know the formula for gunpowder, and we could dig saltpeter out of people’s old privies.”

“Well, you can, if digging up ancient privies is your notion of fun,” he said, smiling despite himself. “Did your researches tell you how not to blow yourself up while making gunpowder?”

“No, but I know who to ask,” she said, complacent. “Mary Patton.”

Whether she’d intended it or not, the distraction of her conversation was working. The feeling of having been gut-punched had passed, and if he still felt the pangs of memory, he was able to put them aside to be dealt with later.

“And who’s Mary Patton, when she’s at home?”

“A gunpowder maker—I don’t know if there’s a name for that profession. But she and her husband have a powder mill on the Powder Branch of the Wautauga River—that’s why it’s called the Powder Branch. It’s about forty miles from here,” she said casually, squatting to pick up a blackened chunk of charcoal. “I thought I might ride out there next week. There’s a trail—even a road, part of the way.”

“Why?” he asked warily. “And what are you planning to do with that charcoal?”

“Draw,” she said, and tucked it into her bag. “As for Mrs. Patton … we’re going to need gunpowder, you know.”

Now she was serious.

“You mean a lot of gunpowder,” he said slowly. “Not just for hunting.” He didn’t know how much powder the household had; he was no kind of a shot, so didn’t hunt with a gun.

“I do.” She turned her head, and he saw her long, pale throat move as she swallowed. “I read some of Daddy’s book. The Soul of a Rebel.”

“Oh, Jesus,” he said, and the qualm he’d suppressed at sight of his ex-church came back with a vengeance. “And?”

“Have you heard of a British soldier called Patrick Ferguson?”

“No. Am I about to?”

“Probably. He invented the first effective breech-loading musket. And he’s going to start a fight here”—she waved a hand, indicating their surroundings—“pretty soon. And it’s going to end up at a place called Kings Mountain, next year.”

He searched his memory for any mention of such a place, but came up empty. “Where’s that?”

“Eventually, it’ll be on the border between North and South Carolina. Right now, it’s about a hundred miles or so …” She turned, squinting up at the sun for direction, then stabbed a long charcoal-blackened finger toward a copse of white oak saplings. “… That way.”

“You know the one about how, to an American, a hundred years is a long time, and to an Englishman, a hundred miles is a long way?” he asked. “If the folk hereabout aren’t all Englishmen, they’re definitely not Americans yet. I mean, it is a long way. You’re not telling me ye think we’re going to have to go to Kings Mountain for some reason?”

She shook her head, much to his relief.

“No. I just meant that when I said Patrick Ferguson was going to start a fight here … I meant … here. The backcountry.” She’d pulled a grubby handkerchief from her pocket and was absently rubbing the charcoal smudges from her fingers.

“He’s going to raise a Loyalist militia,” she added quietly. “From the neighbors. We won’t be able to stay out of it. Even here.”

He’d known that. They’d known it. Talked about it, before finally deciding to try to reach her parents. Sanctuary. But even reaching for that sanctuary, they’d known that war touches everyone and everything in its path.

“I know,” he said, and put an arm around her waist. They stood still for a little, listening to the wood around them. Two male mockingbirds were having their own personal war in the nearby trees, singing their little brass lungs out. Despite the charred ruin, there was a deep sense of peace in the little clearing. Green shoots and small shrubs had come up through the ashes, vivid against the black. Unresisted, the forest would patiently heal the scar—take back its ground and go on as though nothing had happened, as though the little church had never been here.

“Do you remember the first sermon you preached here?” she asked softly. Her eyes were fixed on the open ground.

“Aye,” he said, and smiled a little. “One of the lads set a snake loose in the congregation and Jamie snatched it up before it could cause a riot. One of the nicest things he’s ever done for me.”

Brianna laughed, and he felt the warm vibration of it through her clothes.

“The look on his face. Poor Da, he’s so afraid of snakes.”

“And no wonder,” Roger said with a shrug. “One almost killed him.” He felt a lingering shudder himself at the memory of an endless night in a dark forest, listening to Jamie telling him—with what both of them thought would be Jamie’s last few breaths—what to do and how to do it, if and when he, Roger, found himself suddenly in charge of the whole Ridge.

“A lot of things have almost killed him,” she said, the laughter gone. “One of these days …” Her voice was husky.

He put a hand round her shoulder and massaged it gently.

“It’ll be one of these days for everyone, mo ghràidh. If it weren’t, people wouldn’t think they need a minister. As for your da … as long as your mother’s here, I think he’ll be all right, no matter what.”

She gave a deep sigh, and the tension in her body eased.

“I think everybody feels like that about them both. If they’re here, everything will be all right.”

You feel that way about them, he thought. And in fairness, so did he. I hope the kids will feel that way about us.

“Aye. The essential social services of Fraser’s Ridge,” he said dryly. “Your mother’s the ambulance and your da’s the police.”

That made her laugh, and she turned to him, arms about him, smiling.

“And you’re the church,” she said. “I’m proud of you.” Letting go then, she turned back and waved a hand toward the ghostly door.

“Well, if Mama and Da can rebuild from ashes, so can we. Will we rebuild here, or do you want to choose another place? I mean, I don’t know whether people would be superstitious about it being destroyed by lightning.”

He shrugged, feeling warm from her words.

“It’s not supposed to strike twice in the same place, is it? What could be safer? Come on, then; Lizzie and her ménage will be waiting.”

“Surely you mean her menagerie,” Bree said, kilting up her skirts for the hike to the Beardsley cabin. “Lizzie, Jo and Kezzie, and … I’ve forgotten how many children Mama said they have now.”

“So have I,” Roger admitted. “But we can count them when we get there.”

It wasn’t until the forest closed behind them and the path rose before them that he thought to ask. She hadn’t wanted to look beyond day-to-day survival during the worst of their journey, but he was sure that her vision of the present wasn’t limited to washing clothes and shooting turkeys.

“What do you think your own job might be? Here.”

He was following her; she turned her head briefly toward him and the sun touched her hair with flames.

“Oh, me?” she said. “I think maybe I’m the armorer.” She smiled, but the look in her eyes was serious. “We’re going to need one.”

12 Erstwhile Companions

WILLIAM SMELLED SMOKE. NOT hearth fire or wildfire; just an ashy tang on the wind, tinged with charcoal, grease—and fish. It wasn’t coming from the dilapidated house; the chimney had collapsed, taking part of the roof with it, and a big red-tinged creeper shrouded the scatter of stones and shingles.

There were poplar saplings growing up through the buckled boards of the small porch, too; the forest had begun its stealthy work of reclamation. But the forest didn’t smoke its meat. Someone was here.

He dismounted and tethered Bart to a sapling, primed his pistol, and made his way toward the house. It could be Indians on a hunt, smoking their game before carrying it back to wherever they’d come from. He’d no quarrel with hunters, but if it was squatters who’d thought to take over the property, they could think again. This was his place.

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 fresh-cut hickory logs, mingled with the thick smell of blood, fresh meat, smoke, and the pungent reek of drying fish—a small rack of split trout stood beside an open fire. His belly rumbled.

The Indian—he looked young, though large and very muscular—had his back to William and was deftly dressing out the carcass of a small hog that lay on a flattened burlap sack beside the firepit.

“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. The young man’s hair was now little 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 French 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 handshake.

“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 three years before, in Quebec, 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. He’d not been here since he was sixteen.

“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 with his horse on a barge to the Breaks, that stretch of falls and turbulent water on the James River where the land suddenly collapsed upon itself and put a stop to water travel. He’d seen only three people as he rode on 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 smelled of woodsmoke when William embraced him, and the gray in it was the same soft color as smoke, 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?”

MANOKE WAS HIS father’s friend; Lord John had never called him anything else. The Indian came and went as he pleased, generally without notice, though he was at Mount Josiah more often than not. He wasn’t a servant or a hired man, but he did the cooking and washing-up when he was there, kept the chickens—yes, there were still chickens; William could hear them clucking and rustling as they settled in the trees near the ruined house—and helped when there was game to be cleaned and butchered.

“Your hog?” William asked Cinnamon, with a brief jerk of the head toward the covered firepit. He’d seen to Bart, then joined the Indians for supper on the crumbling porch, the men enjoying the soft evening air and keeping an eye on the drying fish, in case of marauding raccoons, foxes, or other hungry vermin.

“Oui. Up there,” Cinnamon said, waving a big hand toward the north. “Two hours’ walk. A few pigs in the wood there, not many.”

William nodded. “Do you have a horse?” he asked. It was a small hog, maybe sixty pounds, but heavy to carry for two hours—especially as Cinnamon presumably hadn’t known how far he’d have to go. He’d already told William that he’d never visited Mount Josiah before.

Cinnamon nodded, his mouth full, and jerked his chin in the direction of the sheds and the ramshackle tobacco barn. William wondered how long Manoke had been in residence; the place looked as though it had been deserted for years—and yet there were chickens …

The clucking and brief squawks of the settling birds reminded him suddenly and sharply of Rachel Hunter, and in the next breath, he found the scent of rain, wet chickens—and wet girl.

“… the one my brother calls the Great Whore of Babylon. No chicken possesses anything resembling intelligence, but that one is perverse beyond the usual.”

“Perverse?” Evidently she perceived that he was contemplating the possibilities inherent in this description and finding them entertaining, for she snorted through her nose and bent to open the blanket chest.

“The creature is sitting twenty feet up in a pine tree, in the midst of a rainstorm. Perverse.” She pulled out a linen towel and began to dry her hair with it.

The sound of the rain altered suddenly, hail rattling like tossed gravel against the shutters.

“Hmmph,” said Rachel, with a dark look at the window. “I expect she will be knocked senseless by the hail and devoured by the first passing fox, and serve her right.” She resumed drying her hair. “No great matter. I shall be pleased never to see any of those chickens again.”

The scent of Rachel’s wet hair was strong in his memory—and the sight of it, dark and straggling in tails down her back, the wet making her worn shift transparent in spots, with shadows of her soft pale skin beneath.

“What? I mean—I beg your pardon?”

Manoke had said something to him, and the smell of rain vanished, replaced by hickory smoke, fried cornmeal, and fish.

Manoke gave him an amused look but obligingly repeated himself.

“I said, have you come to stay? Because if so, maybe you want to fix the chimney.”

William glanced over his shoulder; the vine-shrouded rubble was just visible, past the edge of the porch.

“I don’t know,” he said, shrugging. Manoke nodded and went back to his conversation with Cinnamon; the two of them were speaking French. William couldn’t make the effort to listen, suddenly overcome by a tiredness that sank to the marrow of his bones.

Would he stay? Not now; but maybe later, when he’d done his work, when he’d found either his cousin Ben or absolute proof of his death. Maybe he’d come back. He didn’t know what he’d intended by coming here now; it was just the only place he could go where he could think in peace and wouldn’t be obliged to make constant explanations. His stepmother—though he’d always thought of her as simply Mother Isobel—had left the place to him. He wondered suddenly whether she had ever seen it.

He’d found more of the Virginia militiamen who’d been at Middlebrook Encampment while Ben was a prisoner there. Most of them had never heard of Captain Benjamin Grey, and those few who had knew only that he was dead.

Except he wasn’t. William clung stubbornly to that conviction. Or if he was, it wasn’t from the ague or pox, as reported by the Americans.

He was going to find out what had happened to his cousin. Once he had … well, there were other things to be thought about then. He needed to clear his mind. Make sense of things, decide what to do. First, of course, Ben. But then he’d need to rise up and take action, to make things right.

“Right,” he said under his breath. “Hell and death.” Nothing could be made right.

Rachel was married now, to bloody Ian Murray—a man who was something between a Highlander and a Mohawk, and was also William’s bloody cousin, just to rub salt into the wound. That couldn’t be fixed.

Jane … His mind shied away from his last sight of Jane. That couldn’t be fixed, either—nor erased from his memory. Jane was a small, hard pebble that rattled sometimes in the chambers of his heart.

Nor could the thousand-spiked fact of William’s true paternity be fixed. Brought face-to-face with Jamie Fraser, having spent a hellish night with him in the futile hope of rescuing Jane … there was no possible way to deny the truth. He’d been sired by a Jacobite traitor, a Scottish criminal … a goddamned groom, for God’s sake. But. Ye’ve a claim to my help for any venture ye deem worthy, the Scot had said.

And Fraser had given that help, hadn’t he? At once and without question. Not only for Jane, but for her little sister, Frances.

William had barely been able to speak when they’d buried Jane. Remembered grief clutched him now and he bent his head over the half-eaten chunk of fish in his hand.

William had just thrust little Frances into Fraser’s arms and walked off. And now, for the first time, wondered why he’d done that. Lord John had been there, too, attending at the sad, tiny funeral. His own father—he could certainly have given Fanny safely into Lord John’s keeping. But he hadn’t. Hadn’t even thought about it.

No. No, I am not sorry. The words echoed in his ear, and the touch of a big, warm hand cupped his cheek for an instant. An overlooked fish bone caught in his throat and he choked, coughed, choked again.

Manoke looked briefly at him, but William waved a hand and the Indian returned to his intense Algonquian conversation with John Cinnamon. William got up and went, coughing, round the corner of the house to the well.

The water was sweet and cold, and with a little effort he dislodged the bone and drank, then poured water over his head. As he sluiced the dirt from his face, he felt a gradual sense of calm come over him. Not peace, not even resignation, but a realization that if everything couldn’t be settled right now … perhaps it didn’t need to be. He was twenty-one now, had come into his majority, but the Ellesmere estate was still administered by factors and lawyers; all those tenants and farms were still someone else’s responsibility. Until he returned to England to claim and deal with them. If he did. Or … or what?

It was deep twilight now, one of his favorite times of day here. The forest settled with the dying of the light, but the air rose, shedding the burden of the day’s heat, passing cool as a spirit through the murmuring leaves, touching his own hot skin with its peace.

He would stay here, he thought, wiping a hand over his wet face. For a little while. Not think. Not struggle. Just be still for a little while. Perhaps things would begin to sort themselves in his mind.

He ambled back to the porch, to find both Manoke and Cinnamon looking at him oddly.

“What?” he said, passing a self-conscious hand over the crown of his head. “Have I got burrs stuck in my hair?”

“Yes,” said Manoke, “but it doesn’t matter. Our friend has something to say to you, though.”

William glanced at Cinnamon in surprise. It was too dark to see if the man was blushing, but he rather thought so, given Cinnamon’s hunched shoulders and overall look of belligerent embarrassment.

“Go on,” Manoke urged, nudging Cinnamon gently. “You have to tell him sometime. Now is a good time.”

“Tell me what?” William sat down, cross-legged, to meet Cinnamon’s eyes on a level. The man’s lips were pressed thin, but he did meet William’s eyes straight on.

“What I said,” he blurted. “Before. About why I’m here. I came in case— I thought perhaps—well, it was the only place I knew to start looking.”

“Looking for what?” William asked, baffled.

“For Lord John Grey,” Cinnamon said, and William saw the broad throat move as he swallowed. “For my father.”

MANOKE DIDN’T HUNT much, but was a good fisherman; he’d taught William to make a fish trap, to cast a line, and even to grabble a catfish by boldly thrusting his hand into holes in the banks of the muddy water where they lived, then yanking the fish out bodily when it clamped onto his hand.

An echo of this sensation came back to William now, a brief ripple up his spine and the sense of turbid water rolling cold and sluggish over his head, fingers tingling at thought of the sudden iron clamp of unseen jaws.

“Your father,” he said carefully.

“Yes,” said John Cinnamon. His head was down, eyes focused on the corn fritter he’d been eating.

William looked at Manoke, feeling as though someone had hit him behind the ear with a stuffed eel skin. The older Indian nodded; his expression was serious, but he looked happy.

“Indeed,” William said politely, though his stomach had congealed into a hard mass beneath his ribs. “I congratulate you.”

No one said anything further for several minutes following Cinnamon’s bombshell, Cinnamon seeming nearly as shocked by it as William.

“Lord John is a … good man,” William said, feeling that he really ought to add something.

Cinnamon murmured something inarticulate, bobbing his head, and then reached hastily for a small fried trout, which in his agitation he crammed whole into his mouth, thereafter making only chewing noises, punctuated by small coughs.

Manoke, normally silent, continued to be silent, calmly eating his fried fish and corn fritters with complete disregard for the turmoil in the bosoms of his two companions.

William could barely look at Cinnamon and yet his eyes kept swiveling toward the man in morbid fascination, stealing quick glances before looking sharply away.

Cinnamon clearly bore the marks of mixed blood, though he was handsome enough. And that hair could have come only from a European parent. But those tight, exuberant curls bore no resemblance to Lord John’s thick blond thatch.

Cinnamon rose suddenly from the cracked porch where they’d perched to eat in the growing dusk.

“Where are you going, mon ami?” said Manoke, surprised.

“To tend the fire,” Cinnamon replied, with a jerk of the head toward the smoking pit under the big oak. The burlap covering it was getting too dry, beginning to char and smoke; the stink reached William an instant later.

Cinnamon’s mother was half French. He’d told William that before, when they spent the winter hunting in Quebec. Did Frenchmen often have curly hair?

There was a bucket and a large clay water jug under the tree—William recognized it; it was gray, badly chipped, and painted with two white bands. Lord John had bought it from a river trader when they first came to Mount Josiah. Cinnamon poured water into the palm of his hand, sprinkling it over the burlap, which quit smoking and resumed its quiet steaming, only allowing wisps of smoke from the fire below to seep out under its pegged sides.

Cinnamon squatted and thrust several small faggots into the fire under the rack of drying fish beside the firepit, then rose, his head turning toward the veranda. His face was nearly pale in the gloom. William looked down, crumbling a bit of fritter between his fingers, and felt hot blood rise in his cheeks, as though he’d been caught doing something shameful.

The eyes … perhaps there was something about the shape of the eyes that was reminiscent of Papa— He stopped cold, unable to finish a thought that had the word “Papa” in conjunction with … this …

The thought of it was a blow in the pit of the stomach, every time. Son. Lord John’s son. It was bloody impossible. But there it was, nonetheless.

Manoke never lied. Nor was he a man to be easily gulled. Neither would he ever do anything that might damage Lord John; William was sure of that. If Manoke said that Cinnamon’s story was true … then it was. But … there must be some mistake.

MANOKE’S PRESENCE, WHILE very welcome, had obliterated William’s romantic notion of solitary wandering about the plantation, alone with his thoughts for days on end. John Cinnamon’s revelation had put paid altogether to the notion of retreat. He could walk as far as he liked; he couldn’t escape the reality of the man, big and solid and Indian—and the thought: He’s Papa’s real son. And I’m not.

The fact that William had no blood relationship at all to John Grey had never seemed important to either of them. Until now.

Still, if Lord John had had a casual encounter with an Indian woman—or, God help him, an Indian mistress in Quebec—it was no one else’s business. Cinnamon said his mother had died when he was an infant; it would have been entirely in keeping with Lord John’s sense of honor to see that the boy was cared for.

And just what will Papa do when he sees this … this … fruit of his whoremongering loins?

That was too much. He stood up and walked away.

He’d just wanted a piss and a moment’s privacy to settle his mind, but it didn’t want to settle, and he kept walking, though darkness was falling.

He didn’t care where he was going. Turning his back on the fire, he headed toward the fields that lay behind the house. Mount Josiah had boasted only a score of acres in tobacco when he had known it years before; was the land even cultivated now?

Rather to his surprise, it was. It was too early to harvest the crop, but the sap-thick smell of uncured tobacco lay like incense on the night. The scent soothed him, and he made his way slowly across the field, toward the black shape of the tobacco barn. Was it still in use?

It was. Called a barn for courtesy’s sake, it was little more than a large shed, but the back of it was a large, airy space where the stalks were hung for stripping—there were only a few there now, dangling from the rafters, barely visible against the faint starlight that leaked through the wide-set boards. His entrance caused the few dried, stacked leaves on the broad curing platform at one side to stir and rustle, as though the shed took notice of him. It was an odd fancy, but not disturbing—he nodded to the dark, half conscious of welcome.

He bumped into something that shied away with a hollow sound—an empty barrel. Feeling about, he counted more than a score, waiting. Some old, a few new ones, judging by the smell of new wood that added its tang to the shed’s perfume.

Someone was working the plantation—and it wasn’t Manoke. The Indian enjoyed smoking tobacco now and then, but William had never seen him take any part in the raising or harvesting of any crop. Neither did he reek of it. It wasn’t possible to touch green tobacco without a black, sticky sort of tar adhering to your hands, and the smell in a ripe tobacco field was enough to make a grown man’s head swim.

When he had lived here with Lord John—the name caused a twinge, but he ignored it—his father had hired laborers from the adjoining property upriver, a large place called Bobwhite, who could easily tend Mount Josiah’s modest crop in addition to Bobwhite’s huge output. Perhaps the same arrangement was still in place?

The thought that the plantation was still working, even in this ghostly fashion, heartened him a little; he’d thought the place quite abandoned when he saw the ruined house.

Thought of the house made him glance back. The flicker of firelight shone through the empty front windows, giving the illusion that somebody still lived there. He sighed and began to walk slowly back.

He hadn’t found peace, but the effort his mind made to avoid thinking about his paternity, his title, his responsibilities, the goddamned shape of the rest of his life, and now Lord fucking John’s bloody fucking son had caused it instead to squirm off in the other direction, latching on to the problem of Ben.

Someone had put a stranger with no ears in the grave marked Benjamin Grey, and whomever it was almost certainly knew what had happened to Ben. He’d talked to—at latest count—twenty-three militiamen who’d been in the Watchung Mountains with Washington during the time when Ben had theoretically died. Four of them had heard of Ben and heard that he was dead, but none of them had seen the body or the grave, and he’d swear that none of them were lying.

But. Uncle Hal had received a letter telling him of Ben’s death. It had been passed to him by an aide to General Clinton, who had received the letter from some officer on the American side. Who had written that letter?

“Why the bloody hell didn’t you ask to see it?” he muttered to himself. Because you were too busy being on your high horse about your damned dignity, his mind replied.

That was the logical next thing to do, though. Find out the name of the American officer who wrote the letter and then … find the officer, if he hadn’t been shot, been captured, or died of syphilis in the meantime.

The next step was logical, too: Uncle Hal would certainly have kept the letter—and Uncle Hal (and Papa …) had the sorts of army connections that might allow them to make inquiries about the whereabouts of a specific American officer.

He’d have to go to Savannah, then, and hope that the British army was still holding the city. And that his father and Uncle Hal were still with said army.

MANOKE AND CINNAMON were smoking tobacco on the porch when he came back. The smoke mingled with the rising ground mist, a sweet, cool vapor, smelling of plants.

Evidently they’d been discussing things while he was gone, for Manoke removed his pipe when William sat down.

“Do you know where he is?” he asked directly. “Our Englishman?”

Our Englishman, forsooth, William thought, and glanced at Cinnamon. The Indian’s head was bent, absorbed in stuffing his pipe, but William thought he could see a certain stiffening of the big shoulders.

“No,” William said, but honesty compelled him to add, “The last time I saw him, he was with the army in Savannah. That’s in Georgia.” Manoke nodded, but with a certain blankness of expression that betokened complete ignorance of what or where Georgia might be. Wherever Manoke’s private paths might take him, it evidently wasn’t south.

“How far is that?” Cinnamon asked, his voice casual.

“Maybe four hundred miles?” William hazarded. It had taken him nearly two months to make the journey to Virginia, but he hadn’t been moving with any real sense of intent; he asked questions about Ben as he went, but in reality he was just drifting uncertainly toward the only place where he’d always felt happy and at home since leaving Helwater, his home in the Lake District of England.

If he said no more, presumably Cinnamon would set off for Georgia, leaving William to what peace he could find here. William wiped his face with his sleeve; the smell of smoked meat, fish, and tobacco hung heavy in his clothes; Mount Josiah would travel with him for some time.

He could send a letter with Cinnamon, asking Uncle Hal to make inquiries for the American officer who’d sent the notification of Ben’s death. He could do what he’d come to do: sit and think.

And let Papa meet this fellow without warning? He was honest enough to admit that his disinclination to allow this had nothing to do with the potential embarrassment to Lord John or inconvenience to Cinnamon, but with a mixture of curiosity and … well, simple jealousy. If Lord John was going to meet his natural son as a grown man, he, William, wanted to be there to witness the meeting.

“The army moves a lot, you know,” he said at last, and Manoke smiled at him.

Cinnamon made a soft sound of acknowledgment and bobbed his head, though he kept his eyes fixed on the beaded tobacco pouch on his knee.

“Do you want me to take you to him?” William asked, his voice a little louder than he’d intended it to be. “To Lord John?”

Cinnamon lifted his head, startled, and looked at William for a long, inscrutable moment.

“Yes,” he said at last, softly, and then bending his head again said more softly still, “Thank you.”

Well, what the devil, William thought, taking the pipe Manoke offered him. I can think on the way.

13 “What Is Not Good for the Swarm Is Not Good for the Bee” (Marcus Aurelius)

THE FIRST FLOOR HAD now been walled in from the outside, though much of the inside was still just timber studs, which gave the place rather a nice sense of informality as we walked cheerfully through the skeletal walls.

My surgery had no coverings for its two large windows, nor did it have a door—but it did have complete walls (as yet unplastered), a long counter with a couple of shelves over it for my bottles and instruments, a high, wide table of smooth pine (I had sanded it myself, taking great pains to protect my future patients from splinters in their bottoms) on which to conduct examinations and surgical treatment, and a high stool on which I could sit while administering these.

Jamie and Roger had begun the ceiling, but there were for the moment only joists running overhead, with patches of faded brown and grimy gray canvas (salvaged from a pile of decrepit military tents found in a warehouse in Cross Creek) providing actual shelter from the elements.

Jamie had promised me that the second floor—and my ceiling—would be laid within the week, but for the moment I had a large bowl, a dented tin chamber pot, and the unlit brazier strategically arranged to catch leaks. It had rained the day before, and I glanced upward to be sure there were no sagging bits holding water in the damp canvas overhead before I took my casebook out of its waxed-cloth bag.

“What ith—is that?” Fanny asked, catching sight of it. I had put her to work picking off and collecting the papery skins from a huge basket of onions for steeping to make yellow dye, and she craned her neck to see, keeping her onion-scented fingers carefully away.

“This is my casebook,” I said, with a sense of satisfaction at its weight. “I write down the names of the people who come to me with medical difficulties, and describe each one’s condition, and then I put down what it was that I did or prescribed for them, and whether it worked or not.”

She eyed the book with respect—and interest.

“Do they always get better?”

“No,” I admitted. “I’m afraid they don’t always—but very often they do. ‘I’m a doctor, not an escalator,’” I quoted, and laughed before remembering that it wasn’t Brianna I was talking to.

Fanny merely nodded seriously, evidently filing away this piece of information.

I coughed.

“Um. That was a quote from a, er, doctor friend of mine named McCoy. I think the general notion is that no matter how skilled a person might be, every skill has its limits and one is well advised to stick to what one’s good at.”

She nodded again, eyes still fixed in interest on the book.

“Do you … think I might read it?” she asked shyly. “Only a page or two,” she added hastily.

I hesitated for a moment, but then laid the book on the table, opened it, and paged through to the spot where I had made a note about using gallberry ointment for Lizzie Wemyss’s malaria, as I hadn’t any Jesuit bark. Fanny had heard me talk about the situation to Jamie, and Lizzie’s recurrent ague was common knowledge on the Ridge.

“Yes, you may—but only the pages before this marker.” I took a slim black crow’s feather from the jar of quills and laid it next to the book’s spine at Lizzie’s page.

“Patients are entitled to privacy,” I explained. “You oughtn’t to read about people that are our neighbors. But these earlier pages are about people I treated in other places and—mostly—a long time ago.”

“I prrromise,” she said, her earnestness giving emphasis to her r’s, and I smiled. I’d known Fanny for only a few months, but I’d never once known her to lie—about anything.

“I know,” I said. “You—”

“Ho there, Missus Fraser!” A distant shout from outside interrupted me and I glanced through the window, down at what was becoming a well-marked trail running from the creek to the house. I blinked, then looked again. I knew that tall, thin, shambling figure …

“John Quincy!” I said, and thrusting the casebook into Fanny’s surprised hands hurried outside to meet him.

“Mr. Myers!” I nearly threw my arms around him but was abruptly checked by the fact that he was carrying a large, battered straw basket in his arms, and was surrounded—well, quite covered, in fact—by a swarm of bees, these buzzing so loudly that I could barely make out what he was saying. He saw this and courteously leaned down toward me, bringing the bees into uncomfortably close proximity.

“Brought ye some bees, Missus!” he shouted over the rumbling thrum of his passengers.

“I see!” I hollered back. “How lovely!” Fuzzy striped bodies were bumping and waggling in a brownish carpet over the threadbare homespun of his coat, and streaks and grains of yellow pollen in his beard, this somewhat longer, grayer, and stragglier than when I had first met him on the streets of Wilmington, twelve years ago.

Bree and Rachel—with Oggy—had heard the noise and come from the kitchen. They were staring at Myers in fascination.

“My daughter!” I shouted, pointing and standing on tiptoe in hopes of reaching his ear—Myers stood a good six foot seven in his stocking feet, and towered even over Brianna. “And Rachel Murray—Young Ian’s wife!”

“Young Ian’s woman?” Myers’s smile, always sweet, if half toothless, widened into a delighted grin. “And his young’un, too, I expect? It’s a pleasure, ma’am, a real pleasure!” He reached out a long arm toward Rachel, who went pale at sight of the heaving mass of bees, but swallowed and edged close enough to take his proffered hand, holding Oggy as far behind her as she could with one hand. I hastily stepped aside and took the baby from her, and she took a long breath.

So did I. The noise was making my skin twitch, memories of the sounds I’d heard amongst the standing stones burrowing toward the surface.

“I’m pleased to meet thee, Friend Myers,” Rachel said, raising her voice. “Ian speaks of thee in the warmest terms!”

“Much obliged to him for his good opinion, Missus.” He shook her hand warmly, then turned to Bree, who anticipated him by reaching for his hand herself, a wary eye on the bees.

“So pleased to meet you, Mr. Myers,” she shouted.

“Oh, no need to be ceremonious, ma’am—John Quincy’ll do fine.”

“John Quincy it is. I’m Brianna Fraser MacKenzie.” She smiled at him, then nodded delicately at his living waistcoat. “Can we offer your bees some … er … hospitality, as well as yourself?”

“Got any beer, have ye?” Myers lowered his basket and I saw that it was a stained and ragged bee skep, upside down, with a chunk of dripping honeycomb inside it. This also was crawling with bees, not surprisingly.

“Well … yes,” I said, exchanging glances with Bree. “Of course. Um … do bring them up to the house site. We’ll get them … settled,” I said, watching the swarm warily. They didn’t seem hostile at all; I saw several of them lighting on Bree’s shoulders and hair. She saw them, too, and tensed a little but didn’t swat at them. One sailed lazily past Oggy’s nose; he followed it in a cross-eyed sort of way and made a grab at it, but luckily only got a handful of my hair.

The children had grouped together on the trail above, goggling, but Jem and Mandy had come down to join their mother. Mandy was clinging to Brianna’s leg, but Jem was pressing close, fascinated by the swarm.

“Do the bees drink beer?” he called up at their proprietor.

“That they do, son, that they do,” Myers replied, beaming down at him out of a cloud of bees. “Bees is the smartest kind of bug they is.”

“So they are,” I said, disentangling Oggy’s chubby fingers and taking a deep breath of the honeyed air. “Jem, go find Grandda, will you?”

IN THE END, I found Jamie myself, spotting him coming down through the trees with four rabbits he’d snared.

“Very timely,” I said, standing on tiptoe to kiss him. He smelled of fresh game and damp fir trees. “We’ve company for dinner, and as it’s John Quincy …”

His face lighted.

“Myers?” he said, handing me the bag of rabbits. “Did ye inquire after his balls?”

“I did not,” I said. “But he told me, anyway. Apparently everything is still where I put it. And functioning well, he assures me. He’s brought us a swarm of bees, among other things.”

“Has he? How did he carry them?”

“He wore them,” I said with a shrug.

“Oh, aye,” he said. “What other things did he bring?”

“Letters. He says one is for you.”

Jamie didn’t break his stride, but I caught the faint hesitation as he turned his head to look at me.

“From whom?”

“I don’t know. He was busy divesting himself of the bees, and Jem couldn’t find you, so I came to look for you.” I nearly added, “Perhaps it’s from Lord John,” because for several years it might have been, and a welcome letter, too, reinforcing the bonds of a long friendship between Jamie and John Grey. Fortunately, I bit my lip in time. While the two of them were on speaking terms—just barely—they were no longer friends. And while I would, if pushed, deny absolutely that it was my fault, it was undeniably on my account.

I kept my eyes on the trail, just in case Jamie might catch a wayward expression on my face and draw uncomfortable conclusions. He wasn’t the only person who could read minds, and I’d been looking at his face. I had a very strong impression that when I had said “letter,” Lord John’s name had leapt to his mind, just as it had to mine.

“I’ll have a bit of a wash at the creek before I come in, Sassenach,” he said, touching my back lightly. “Shall I bring ye some cress for the supper?”

“Please,” I said, and rose on tiptoe to kiss him.

As the house came in sight a moment later, I saw Brianna coming up the slope from the Higgins cabin with several loaves of bread in her arms, and I pushed all thoughts of Jamie and John Grey hastily out of my mind.

“I’ll do that, Mama,” she said, nodding at the bag of rabbits. “Mr. Myers says the sun is coming down and you should go and bless your new bees before they go to sleep.”

“Oh,” I said, uncertainly. I’d kept bees now and then, but the relationship hadn’t been in any way ceremonial. “Did he happen to say what sort of blessing the bees might have in mind?”

“Not to me,” she said cheerfully, taking the bloodstained bag from my hand. “But he probably knows. He says he’ll meet you in the garden.”

THE GARDEN STOOD like a small, spiky brown fortress inside its deer-proof palisades. The fence wasn’t proof against everything, though, and as always, I opened the gate cautiously. Once I had caught three huge raccoons debauching themselves amidst the remains of my infant corn; on another the intruder had been a huge eagle, sitting atop my water barrel, wings spread to catch the morning sun. When I opened the door suddenly, the eagle had uttered a shriek nearly as loud as mine before launching himself past my head like a panicked cannonball. And …

A brief, violent shudder went through me as I thought of the beehives in my old garden—knocked over by the flight of a murderer, the scent of honey from the broken combs mingling with crushed leaves and the sweet, butcher-thick smell of spilled blood.

This time, though, the only foreign body inside the fence was John Quincy Myers, tall and ragged as a scarecrow, and looking quite at home among the red-flowered bean vines and sprouting turnips.

“There you be, Missus Fraser!” he said, smiling widely at sight of me. “You’re well come in your time, as the Good Book says.”

“It does?” I had some vague notion that the Bible might include some mention of bees—perhaps John Quincy’s blessing came from the Psalms or something? “Er … Brianna said that I should come and … bless the bees?”

“Fine-lookin’ woman, your daughter,” Myers said, shaking his head in admiration. “Seen precious few women that size, and none of ’em what you’d call handsome. All pretty lively, though. How did she come to wed a preacher? You wouldn’t think a prayin’ man would be able to do right by her—I mean, in the ways of the flesh, as you might—”

“The bees,” I said, somewhat louder. “Do you know what I should be saying to them?”

“Oh, to be sure.” Recalled to the matter at hand, he turned toward the western edge of the garden, where the battered bee skep had been placed on a board atop a rickety stool. To my surprise, he reached into his bulging knapsack and withdrew four shallow pottery bowls made of the soft white glazed porcelain called creamware, which lent a disconcertingly formal note to the occasion.

“For the ants,” he said, handing me the bowls. “Now, there’s a mort o’ folk what keep bees,” he explained. “The Cherokee do, and the Creek and Choctaw and doubtless some kinds of Indian I don’t know the names of, too. But there’s the Moravians, down to Salem—that’s where I got the ant bowls and the skep. And they got their own ways, too.”

I had a vision of John Quincy Myers, clad in a buzzing blanket of bees, strolling down the streets of Salem, and smiled.

“Wait,” I said. “You surely didn’t carry those bees all the way from Salem!”

“Why, no,” he said, looking mildly surprised. “Found ’em in a tree just a mile or so from your house. But when I heard you ’n’ Jamie was back in your place, I had it in mind to bring you some bees, so I was a-looking out for ’em, see?”

“That was a very kind thought,” I assured him, with great sincerity. It was, but a small, disquieting question popped up in the back of my mind. John Quincy was a law unto himself, and if we were being biblical today, one might easily call him a brother to owls. He roamed the mountains, and if anyone knew where he went or why, they hadn’t told me.

But from what he’d said, he’d been coming to Fraser’s Ridge on purpose, knowing that Jamie and I were here. There were the letters he’d brought, to be sure … but the way the backcountry post worked was for letters to be passed from hand to hand, friend or stranger carrying them on, so long as the letters’ direction lay in their own path—and handing them to someone else when it diverged. For John Quincy to come here with the specific intent of delivering letters implied that there was something rather special about them.

I had no time to worry about the possibilities, though: Myers was winding up a brief exegesis on Irish and Scottish beekeepers, and coming to the point at issue.

“I know a few of the blessings folk use for their hives,” he said. “Not that I’d call what them Germans say sounds much like my notion of a blessing.”

“What do they say?” I asked, intrigued.

His bushy gray brows drew together in the effort of recall.

“Well, it’s … what you may call abrupt. Let me see now …” He closed his eyes and tilted up his chin.

“Christ, the bee swarm is out here!

Now fly, you my animals, come.

In the Lord’s peace, in God’s protection,

come home in good health.

“Sit, sit, bees.

“The command to you from the Holy Mary.

You have no holiday; don’t fly into the woods;

Neither should you slip away from me.

Nor escape from me.

“Sit completely still.

“Do God’s will,” he finished, opening his eyes. He shook his head. “Don’t that beat all? Tellin’ one bee to sit still, let alone a thousand of ’em at once? Why would bees put up with something unmannerly like that, I ask you?”

“Well, it must work,” I said. “Jamie’s brought home honey from Salem, many times. Maybe they’re German bees. Do you know a more … mannerly blessing?”

His lips pursed dubiously, and I caught a glimpse of one or two ragged yellow fangs. Could he still chew meat? I wondered, revising the dinner menu slightly. I could dice the rabbit meat small and stir it into scrambled eggs with chopped onions …

“I suspect I remember most of this’n …

“O God, Creator of all critters, You bless the seed and make it profitable … is that right, profitable? Yes, I reckon that’s it … profitable to our use. By the intercession of … well, there’s a passel of saints or somesuch in there, but dang if I recall anybody but John the Baptist—though if anybody should know about honey, you’d think it’d be him, wouldn’t you? What with the locusts and livin’ in a bearskin—though why anybody’d do like that in a hot place like I hear the Holy Land is, I surely couldn’t say. Anyway …” His eyes closed again, and he stretched out his hand, almost unconsciously, toward the bee skep, wreathed in a slow-moving cloud of flying bees.

“By the intercession of whoever might want to intercede, will You be mercifully hearin’ our prayers. Bless and sanctify these here bees by Your compassion, that they might … Well,” he said, opening his eyes and frowning at me, “it says, abundantly bear fruit, though any damn fool knows it’s honey you want ’em to be abundant with. Still.” The wrinkled lids closed against the dying sunlight again, and he finished, “for the beauty and adornment of Your holy temple and for our humble use.

“They’s a bit more,” he added, dropping his hand and turning to me, “but that’s the meat of it. What it comes down to, I’d say, is you can bless your bees any way as seems fit to you. The only important thing—and you maybe know this already—is that you got to talk to ’em regular.”

“About anything in particular?” I asked warily, flexing my fingers and trying to recall if I’d ever had a conversation with my previous hives.

I probably had, but not consciously. I was, like most gardeners, in the habit of muttering to myself among the weeds and vegetables, execrating bugs and rabbits and exhorting the plants. God knew what I might have said to the bees along the way …

“Bees are real sociable,” Myers explained, and blew one of them gently off the back of his hand. “And they’re curious, which only makes sense, them goin’ back and forth and gatherin’ news with their pollen. So you tell ’em what’s happening—if someone’s come a-visitin’, if a new babe’s been born, if anybody new was to settle or a settler depart—or die. See, if somebody leaves or dies,” he explained, brushing a bee off my shoulder, “and you don’t tell the bees, they take offense, and the whole lot of ’em will fly right off.”

I could see quite a few similarities between John Quincy Myers and a bee, in terms of gathering news, and smiled at the thought. I wondered if he’d be offended at finding out that someone had kept a juicy piece of gossip from him, but on the whole, I doubted that anyone did. He had a gentleness that invited confidence, and I was sure that he kept many people’s secrets.

“Well, then.” The sun was coming down fast now; the damp scent of the plants was strong and rays of light knifed between the palisades, vivid amid the rustling shadows of the garden. “Best get on with it, I suppose.”

Given the disparate examples offered by John Quincy, I was fairly sure I could roll my own with regard to the blessing. We filled the four dishes with water and put them under the legs of the stool, to keep ants from climbing up to the hive, drawn by the scent of honey. A few of these voracious insects were already making their way up the stool’s legs and I brushed them away with a fold of my skirt—my first gesture of protection toward my new bees.

John Quincy smiled and nodded at me as I straightened up, and I nodded back, reached out a tentative hand through the veil of bees coming in to the hive, and touched the smooth twisted straw of the skep. It might have been imagination, but I thought I could feel a vibration through my skin, just below the threshold of hearing, a strong and certain hum.

“Oh, Lord,” I said—and wished I knew the name of the patron saint of bees, for surely there must be one—“please make these bees feel welcome in their new home. Help me to protect and care for them, and may they always find flowers. Er … and quiet rest at the end of each day. Amen.”

“That’ll do just fine, Mrs. Claire,” John Quincy said, and his voice was low and warm as the hum of the bees.

We left, closing and fastening the gate carefully behind us, and made our way down, out of the shadow of the towering chimney and along the eastern wall of the house. It was getting dark fast now, and the cooking fire leapt up as we came into the kitchen, shedding light on my waiting family. Home.

“Speaking of news,” I said casually to Myers, “you said you’d brought letters. If one is for Jamie, who are the others for?”

“Why, one for the boy,” he said, skillfully skirting the hole Jamie had dug for the new privy. “Mr. Fergus Fraser’s boy, Germain, I mean. And t’other for some’un called Frances Pocock. You got somebody here by that name?”

14 Mon Cher Petit Ami

I WAS NO LONGER amazed by the quantity of food required to feed eight people at a time, but seeing vast, steaming mounds of rabbit, quail, trout, ham, beans, succotash, onions, potatoes, and cress vanish within minutes into the bellies of twenty-two gave me a fresh qualm of apprehension about the coming winter.

Granted, it was still summer, and with luck, we would have good weather through the autumn … but that was only three or four months, at most. We had almost no livestock, other than the horses, Clarence the mule, and a couple of goats for milk and cheese.

Jamie and Bree spent half their time hunting, and we had a good supply of venison and pork hanging in the smoke shed at the moment, but even with hunting, trapping, and fishing by all hands, we’d likely need to trade for meat (oh, and butter!) before snowfall—and someone would have to go down to Salem or Cross Creek and bring back oatmeal—lots of oatmeal—rice, beans, parched corn, flour, salt, sugar … Meanwhile, I’d need to plant, pick, dig, and preserve like a mad thing in order to have enough to keep us from scurvy: turnips, carrots, and potatoes in the root cellar, along with garlic, apples, onions, mushrooms, and grapes hung to dry, tomatoes to be preserved by sun-drying or immersion in oil, if the bloody hornworms didn’t get them … oh, Christ, I couldn’t miss a day of the sunflower season; I needed all the seeds I could get, both for oil and for protein … and the medicinal herbs …

My mental list was interrupted by Brianna’s announcement that supper was ready, and I plumped down at the table next to Jamie, suddenly realizing all at once how hungry I was, how tired I was, and grateful for respite as well as food.

The Higginses had all come up for supper in order to hear John Quincy’s news, and with Ian, Rachel, Jenny, and the baby, the kitchen was a solid mass of people and talk. Luckily Rachel’s basket was a generous one and Amy Higgins had provided two enormous game pies made of doves and turkey, as well as the bread, and the pervasive scent of food acted like a sedative. Within moments, the only words heard were muffled requests to pass the corn relish, more pie, or the rabbit hash, and the kitchen worked its everyday magic, providing peace and nourishment.

Gradually, as people became full, conversation began again, but in a subdued fashion. Finally, John Quincy pushed away his empty tin plate with a deep sigh of repletion and gazed benignly round the table.

“Missus Fraser, Missus MacKenzie, Missus Murray, Missus Higgins … y’all done us right well tonight. I ain’t et that much at one sittin’ since last Christmas.”

“It was our pleasure,” I assured him. “I haven’t seen anyone eat that much since last Christmas.”

I thought I heard a muffled snigger behind me, but I ignored it.

“So long as we’ve a crust in the house, ye’ll always eat with us, man,” Jamie told him. “And drink, I hope?” he added, producing a full bottle of something undoubtedly alcoholic from under his bench.

“I wouldn’t say no, Mr. Fraser.” John Quincy belched slightly and beamed benevolently at Jamie. “I cain’t insult your hospitality, now, can I?”

Ten adults. I reckoned quickly through the available drinkware and, rising, managed to sort out four teacups, two horn cups, three pewter cups, and one wineglass, which I set in proud array on the table in front of Jamie.

While I was so occupied, though, John Quincy had opened the ball, so to speak, by producing a handful of letters from somewhere inside his tattered vest. He squinted thoughtfully at them and handed one across the table to Jamie.

“That ’un’s yours,” he said, nodding at it, “and this one here’s for a Captain Cunningham—don’t know him, but it says Fraser’s Ridge on it. He one o’ your tenants?”

“Aye. I’ll see he gets it.” Jamie reached across and took both covers.

“Thank ye kindly. And this’n here is for Miss Frances Pocock.” He waved the remaining letter gently, looking round for its recipient.

“Fanny!” Mandy shouted. “Fanny, you gots a letter!” She was red in the face with excitement, standing on the bench next to Roger, who was clutching her round the middle. Everyone turned, murmuring in curiosity, looking for Fanny.

Fanny herself rose slowly off the barrel of salt fish she’d been sitting on in the corner. She looked about, confused, but Jamie beckoned to her and she reluctantly came forward.

“Oh, so you’re Miss Frances! Why, ain’t you a comely lass, now.” John Quincy unfolded himself from the bench, gave her a low, courtly bow, and put the letter in her unresisting hand.

Fanny clutched the letter to her bosom with both hands. Her eyes were huge and had a look in them like those of a panicked horse on the verge of bolting.

“Hasn’t anybody ever written you a letter before, Fanny?” Jem asked, curious. “Open it and find out who sent it!”

She stared at him for a moment, and then her eyes swiveled to me, in search of support. I set the butter aside and beckoned her to come put the letter down on the table. She did, very gently, as though it might break.

It was no more than a single piece of rough paper, folded in thirds and sealed with a grayish-yellow blob of what looked like candle wax—grease from it had spread through the paper, and a few words showed black through the transparent spot. I picked it up, as delicately as I could, and turned it over.

“Yes, it’s definitely your letter,” I assured her. “Miss Frances Pocock, in care of James Fraser, Fraser’s Ridge, Royal Colony of North Carolina.”

“Open it, Grannie!” Mandy said, hopping up and down in an effort to see.

“No, it’s Fanny’s letter,” I told her. “She gets to open it. And she doesn’t have to show it to anybody unless she wants to.”

Fanny turned to John Quincy and, looking up at him with great seriousness, said, “Who gave you the letter to bring to me, sir? Did it come from Philadelphia?”

Her face seemed to grow a shade paler as she said this, but Myers shook his head and raised a shoulder.

“It ain’t likely from Philadelphia, but I cain’t say for sure where it is from, darlin’. It was give into my hand in New Bern, when I happened to be there last month, but wasn’t the man who wrote it what give it to me. He were just passin’ it on, like, as folk do.”

“Oh.” The tension had left her shoulders, and she breathed more easily. “I see. Thank you, sir, for bringing it.”

She’d at least seen letters before, I thought; she slid her thumb under the fold without hesitation, though she loosened the seal, rather than breaking it, and set it down beside the unfolded letter. She stood close, looking down at it, but I could easily see it over her shoulder. She read it out loud, slowly but clearly, following the words with her finger.

“Wil-yum,” she murmured to herself, her finger touching the letters of his name. Her face had changed in an instant; it glowed with a sort of awed happiness.

Jamie moved slightly, beside me, and I glanced up at him. His eyes were warm with firelight, reflecting Fanny’s glow.

FANNY FLED WITH her letter, and, puzzled, I leaned toward John Quincy.

“Didn’t you say that you’d brought a letter for Germain, too?” I asked under the rising hum of talk.

John Quincy nodded. “Oh, I did, ma’am. I give it to him already, though—met him coming back from the privy.” He glanced round the room, then shrugged. “Reckon he might have wanted to read it in private—was from his mother, I think.”

I exchanged wary looks with Jamie. Fergus had written in the early spring, with assurances that all was well with his family. Marsali felt as well as a woman eight months’ pregnant could reasonably be expected to feel; and he also listed the various objects he was sending north to Cross Creek for us. On both occasions, he’d sent brief but fond wishes to Germain. I had read one letter to Germain, Jamie the other—and on both occasions, Germain had just nodded, stone-faced, and said nothing.

Germain didn’t appear for dessert—slices of Amy’s bread with apple butter made by Sarah Chisholm as payment for my attending her younger daughter’s childbed—and I began to be seriously worried. He might have chosen to eat or stay the night with a friend; he often did, with or without Jemmy, but he was supposed to tell someone when he went visiting, and usually did.

Beyond that … I couldn’t think of any reason why he would choose to be absent when there was a visitor. Any visitor, let alone a colorful one like John Quincy Myers, whose very appearance promised entertaining stories as well as news. People would be coming by to visit for the next few evenings to hear him; I knew he’d be staying for a bit—but for tonight, he was ours alone.

Mandy was curled up on Myers’s lap at the moment, gazing up at him in wonder—though in her case, I thought it was his massive gray-streaked beard that was interesting her, rather than the story he was telling, which had to do with a case of adultery in Cross Creek last month that had resulted in a duel with pistols in the middle of Hay Street, in which the participants had both missed their opponents but had hit, respectively, a public water butt and a horse hitched to a gig, which had—the wound being minor but startling—caused the horse to run away with Mrs. Judge Alderdyce, who was sitting in the gig while her groom fetched a parcel for her.

“Was the poor lady hurt?” Bree asked, struggling to keep a straight face.

“Oh, no, ma’am,” John Quincy assured her. “Madder ’n a wet hornet, though, and that’s pretty mad. When they stopped the gig and helped her out of it, she stomped right down the street to Lawyer Forbes’s rooms and made him write up a lawsuit ’gainst the man that winged her horse, right that very minute.”

The humor in Bree’s face changed in an instant at the mention of Neil Forbes, who had kidnapped her and sold her to Stephen Bonnet, but I saw Roger lay his hand over hers and squeeze. She sucked in one cheek for a moment, but then turned to him briefly and nodded, relaxing.

“Didn’t she take care of the horse first?” Jemmy asked, openly disapproving.

“Jim-Bob Hooper did,” Myers assured him. “That’s Mrs. Judge’s groom, what had been driving. Bit o’ salve and a nose bag—had the poor beast fixed up peart in no more than a minute.”

Jamie and Jemmy nodded as one, satisfied.

Talk turned back to the cause of the duel, but I didn’t stay to hear it. Fanny had come quietly back and was sitting on the end of a kitchen bench, smiling to herself as she listened to John Quincy talk. I bent to whisper in her ear as I passed.

“Do you know where Germain is?”

She blinked, pulled away from John Quincy’s spell, but answered readily.

“Yes’m. I think he’s on the roof. He said he didn’t want company.”

GERMAIN WAS ON the roof. Huddled up on the floor in our second-floor bedroom lean-to, his knees raised, arms crossed over them, and head buried in his forearms, a dark lump against the paleness of the bedclothes behind him.

The picture of woe—and the picture of someone desperate to be asked what the matter was, in hopes of reassurance. Well, I reflected, as Jenny says—what’s a grannie for, then?

I picked my way carefully round the edge of the floor, clinging to the timber studs for balance and thanking God that it was neither raining nor blowing up a hurricane. In fact, the night was calm and starlit, full of the half-heard susurrus of pine trees and night-going insects.

I eased myself carefully down beside him, hands sweating just a little.

“So,” I said. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

“I—” he started, but stopped, glancing over his shoulder, then moved close to me. “I have a letter,” he whispered, putting a hand over his breast. “Mr. Myers brought it for me; it has my name on it.”

That would be startling, I thought. As was the case with Fanny, it was undoubtedly the first personal letter he’d ever received.

“Who is it from?” I asked, and heard him swallow.

“My mam,” he said. “It— I know her writing.”

“You haven’t opened it yet?” I asked.

He shook his head, pressing his hand against his chest as though fearing the letter might fly out by itself.

“Germain,” I said softly, and rubbed his back, feeling his shoulder blades sharp under the flannel shirt. “Your mother loves you. You don’t need to be af—”

“No, she doesn’t!” he burst out, and curled up tight, trying to contain the hurt. “She doesn’t, she can’t … I—I killed Henri-Christian. She c-can’t … can’t even look at me!”

I got my arms round him and pulled him to me. He wasn’t a tiny boy by any means, but I pressed his head into my shoulder and held him like a baby, rocking a little, making soft shushing sounds while he cried, big gulping sobs that he couldn’t hold back.

What could I say to him? I couldn’t just tell him he was wrong; simple contradiction never works with children, even when it’s the obvious truth. And in all honesty, this wasn’t obvious.

“You didn’t kill Henri-Christian,” I said, keeping my voice steady with some effort. “I was there, Germain.” I had been there, and I didn’t want to go back. Just Henri-Christian’s name, and it was all there, surrounding us both: the reek of smoke and the boom of exploding barrels of ink and varnish and the roar of flames coming up through the loft, Germain clinging to a rope, dangling high above the cobblestones. Reaching for his little brother …

It was no use. I couldn’t hold back my own tears and I held him hard, my face pressed against his hair with its smell of boy and innocence.

“It was awful,” I whispered. “So terrible. But it was an accident, Germain. You tried all you could to save him. You know you did.”

“Yes,” he managed, “but I couldn’t! Oh, Grannie, I couldn’t!”

“I know,” I whispered, over and over, rocking him. “I know.”

And slowly, the horror and the grief subsided into sorrow. We sniffled and wept and I found a handkerchief for him and wiped my own nose on my apron.

“Give me the letter, Germain,” I said, clearing my throat. I sat back against the bed. “I don’t know what it says, but you have to read it. Some things you just have to go through.”

“I can’t read it,” he said, and gave a small forlorn laugh. “It’s too dark.”

“I’ll go and get a candle from the surgery.” I got my feet under me and stood up; I was stiff from crouching on the floor, and it was a moment before I could be sure of my balance. “There’s water on the table, there. You have a drink and lie down on the bed. I’ll be right back.”

I went downstairs in that sort of grim resignation one enters when there’s nothing else to be done, and climbed the stairs again, the candle’s glow softening the rough boards of the stairwell, shadowing my steps.

The truth was that while Marsali naturally didn’t blame Germain for Henri-Christian, he was probably right about her not having been able to look at him without being torn apart by the memory of it. That was why, without much being said about it, we had brought Germain with us to the Ridge, in hopes that both he and his family would heal more easily with a little distance.

Now he probably thought that his mother had written to tell him that she didn’t want him back, ever.

“Poor things,” I whispered, meaning Germain, Henri-Christian, and their mother. I was quite sure—well, almost quite sure—that Marsali intended no such thing, but I could feel his fear.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, gripping his knees, and looked up at me with his eyes huge, dark with longing. The letter lay by his side and I picked it up, sat down beside him, and opened it. I made a gesture, offering it to him, but he shook his head.

“All right,” I said, cleared my throat, and began to read.

I paused, both from surprise and because Germain had stiffened.

“Oh,” he said, in a very small voice. “Oh.”

“Oh!” I said myself, suddenly understanding, and my clenched heart relaxed. Mon cher petit ami was what Marsali had called him when he was very small, before the girls had been born.

It would be all right, then.

“What does it say, Grannie? What does it say?”

Germain was pressed up tight against my side, suddenly eager to look.

“Do you want to read it yourself?” I asked, smiling and offering it to him. He shook his head violently, blond hair flying.

“You,” he said, husky. “You, Grannie. Please.”

“Two?” Germain grabbed the page from me and held it as near the candle as he could without setting it on fire. “Did she say two?”

“Yes!” I was nearly as excited as he was to hear it, and bent over the page, shoulder-to-shoulder with him. “Read the next bit!”

He straightened up a little and swallowed, then read on:

“We were all very surprised, as you might think! To be honest, I had been afraid all the time, to think about what the new baby might be. Because I wanted to see a child just like Henri-Christian, of course—to feel as though we had him back—but I knew that couldn’t happen, and at the same time, I was afraid that the new little one might be a dwarf, too—maybe your Grannie has told you that people who are born like that have a lot of troubles; Henri-Christian nearly died several times when he was very small, and Papa told me long ago about some of the dwarf-children he had known in Paris, and that most didn’t live a long life.

But a new baby is always a surprise and a miracle and never what you expect. When you were born, I was so enchanted that I would sit by your cradle and watch you sleep. Just letting the candle burn down because I couldn’t bear to put it out and let the night hide you from me.

We thought at first, when the babies were born, that perhaps we should name one of them Henri and the other Christian, but the girls wouldn’t have it. They both said that Henri-Christian was not like anyone else, and no one else should have his name.

“Papa and I agreed that they were right”—Germain was nodding his head as he read—“and so one of your brothers is named Alexandre and the other one Charles-Claire …”

“What?” I said, incredulous. “Charles-Claire?”

“… for your Grandda and Grannie,” Germain read, and looked up, grinning hugely at me.

“Go on,” I said, nudging him. He nodded and looked back at the page, running his finger along the words to find his place.

“So,” he read, and his voice choked suddenly, then steadied. “So,” he repeated, “please, mon cher fils, come home. I love you and I need you to be here, so the new house will be home again.

“With my love always …”

He pressed his lips tight together, and I saw tears well in his eyes, still fixed on the paper.

“Maman,” he whispered, and pressed the letter to his chest.

IT WAS ANOTHER hour before the children were put to bed—Germain among them—and I found myself once more in our airy bedroom, this time with Jamie. He stood at the end of the open floor, clad in his shirt, looking out over the night below, while I wriggled out of my stays, sighing in relief as the cool night breeze passed through my shift.

“Are your ears ringing, Sassenach?” he said, turning and smiling at me. “It’s been some time since I heard so much talk in such a small space.”

“Mm-hmm.” I came and put my arms round his waist, feeling the weight of the day and the evening slip away. “It’s so quiet up here. I can hear the crickets in the honeysuckle round the privy.”

He groaned and rested his chin on top of my head, letting me hold a little of his weight.

“Dinna mention privies. I’m nay more than half done wi’ the one for your surgery. And if we’ve much more company like tonight, I’m going to have to dig another for the house within a month.”

“I know you know that Roger would do it if you asked,” I remarked. “You just won’t let him.”

“Mmphm. He wouldna do it right.”

“Is there an art to digging privies?” I asked this, teasing, because if Jamie was a perfectionist about anything—and in all truth, he was a perfectionist about quite a number of things, nearly all having to do with tools or weapons—it was digging a proper privy. “Wasn’t it Voltaire who said that the perfect is the enemy of the good?”

“Le mieux est le mortel ennemi du bien,” he said. “The best is the mortal enemy of the good. And I’m sure Voltaire never dug a privy in his life. What would he ken about it?” He straightened up and stretched, slowly and luxuriously. “God, I want to lie down.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“I mean to enjoy the anticipation as much as the lyin’ down. Besides, I’m hungry. Have we any food to hand?”

“If none of the children have found it, yes.” I bent and rummaged under the bed, pulling out the basket I’d secreted during the afternoon against just such a contingency. “Cheese and a wedge of apple pie do you?”

He made a Scottish noise indicating thanks and deep contentment and sat down to wade in.

“Germain’s had a letter from Marsali,” I said. The corn husks in the mattress rustled as I sat down beside him. “Did John Quincy tell you?”

“Germain told me,” he said, smiling. “When I went out to tell the bairns to come in, he was out by the well tellin’ Jem and Fanny about his new wee brothers, and his hair standin’ on end with excitement. He said he couldna sleep for wanting to see his folk, so I gave him paper and ink to write his mam a letter.

“Fanny’s helping him wi’ the spelling,” he added, brushing crumbs off his shirt. “Who d’ye think taught her to write? It’s no a skill likely to be of value in a brothel, surely.”

“Someone has to keep the books and write occasional genteel blackmail letters, but perhaps that’s the madam’s job. As for Fanny, she’s never said, but I think it must have been her sister.”

My heart contracted a little at this reminder of Fanny’s recent past. She never spoke of it, or of her sister.

“Aye,” Jamie said, and a shadow crossed his face at the mention of Jane Pocock. Arrested and sentenced to death for killing a sadistic client who had bought her little sister’s maidenhead, she had killed herself the night before she would have been hanged—only hours before William and Jamie reached her.

He pressed his lips together briefly and then shook his head. “Aye, well. We must send Germain home as soon as we can, of course. I’m afraid Frances will miss him, though.”

I’d bent to scoop up our discarded outer garments, but straightened up at this.

“Do you think we should send Fanny with him? To stay with Fergus and Marsali for a while? She’d be a help with the children.”

He paused, a slice of cheese in hand, then shook his head.

“No. Seven is more than enough mouths for Fergus to feed, and the lass is happy enough here, I think. She’s accustomed to us; I wouldna like her to think we dinna want her—or to feel uprooted, aye? And”—he hesitated, then added in an offhand way—“William gave her to me. He meant me to keep her safe.”

“And you think he might come here to see her,” I added gently.

“Aye,” he said, a little gruffly. “I wouldna want him to come and not find her here, I mean.” He took a bite of cheese and chewed it slowly, looking away.

I patted his arm, then rose and started straightening our discarded clothes, doing the best I could to lay them out in some way that would both prevent them being blown off the roof in case of a high wind but not end up impossibly crumpled. As I laid Jamie’s sporran on top of the pile with my shoes to help weigh things down, I saw the edge of a folded paper peeking out.

“Oh—Myers said he’d brought you a letter, too,” I said. “Is this it?”

“It is.” He sounded wary, as though not wanting me to touch it, and I drew back my hand. He set down the piece of cheese he’d been eating, though, and nodded at it. “Ye can read it, Sassenach. If ye like.”

“Is it disturbing news?” I asked, hesitating. After the emotional upheavals of Marsali’s letter, I didn’t want to ruin the peace of the summer night with something that could wait ’til morning.

“Nay, not really. It’s from Joshua Greenhow—ye recall him, from Monmouth?”

“I do,” I said, feeling momentarily dizzy.

I had been stitching a wound in Corporal Greenhow’s forehead when I’d been shot during the battle, and his appalled face, my needle and ligature dangling absurdly from his bloody forehead, was the last thing I saw as I fell. It wouldn’t be stretching things to say that what happened next was the worst physical experience of my life, as I lay on the ground in a spinning world of leaves and sky and overwhelming pain, bleeding to death and listening to a courier from General Lee trying to get Jamie to abandon me in the mud.

I glanced at the letter, but the light was too poor for me to read it, even if I’d had my spectacles to hand.

“What does he say?”

“Ach, mostly just where he is and what he’s doing—which is none sae much at the moment; just sitting about in Philadelphia. Though there is a bit about General Arnold in there.” He nodded at the letter. “Joshua says he’s married Peggy Shippen—ye’ll remember her, I expect—and he’s bein’ court-martialed for speculating. Arnold, I mean, not Mr. Greenhow.”

“Speculating in what?” I asked, folding the letter. I remembered Peggy, all right: an eighteen-year-old girl, beautiful and knowing it, flaunting herself before the thirty-eight-year-old general like a trout fly. “I can see why he’d marry her—but why on earth would she want to marry him?” Benedict Arnold had considerable charm and animal magnetism, but he also had one leg shorter than the other and—to the best of my knowledge—neither property nor money.

Jamie gave me a patient look.

“He’s the military governor of Philadelphia, for one thing. And her family are Tories. Ye ken what the Sons of Liberty did to her cousin—maybe she’s thinking she’d rather they didna come back and burn her father’s house over her head.”

“You have a point.” The night breeze was beginning to chill me through my damp shift, and I shivered. “Give me that shawl, will you?”

“As for what Arnold’s speculating in,” Jamie added, wrapping the shawl round my shoulders, “it could be anything. Most of the city will be for sale, should the price be right.”

I nodded, looking out at the night, which spread its velvet cloak around us—momentarily spangled by a shower of sparks that shot out of the chimney on the other side of the house, fading to black before they touched down.

“I can’t stop Benedict Arnold,” I said quietly. “I couldn’t stop him, even if he was here right in front of me this minute. Could I?” I turned my head to him, appealing.

“No,” he said very softly, and took my hand. His was large and strong, but as cold as my own. “Come lie wi’ me, Sassenach. I’ll warm ye and we’ll watch the moon come down.”

SOMETIME LATER, WE lay curled together, naked in the cool night, happy in the warmth of each other’s body. The moon was coming down in the west, a sliver of silver that let the stars shine bright. The pale canvas rustled and murmured overhead, the scents of fir and oak and cypress surrounded us, and a random firefly, distracted from its business by a passing wind current, landed on the pillow by my head and sat for a moment, its abdomen pulsing with a regular cool-green light.

“Oidhche mhath, a charaid,” Jamie said to it. It waved its antennae in an amiable fashion and sailed off, circling down toward the distant flicker of its comrades on the ground.

“I wish we could keep our bedroom like this,” I said wistfully, watching its tail light disappear into the darkness below. “It’s so lovely, being part of the night.”

“Nay so much when it rains.” Jamie lifted his chin toward our canvas ceiling. “Dinna fash, though; I’ll have a solid roof on before snow flies.”

“I suppose you’re right,” I said, and laughed. “Do you remember our first cabin, when it snowed and the roof leaked? You insisted on going up to fix it, in the pelting blizzard—and stark naked.”

“Well, and whose fault was that?” he inquired, though without rancor. “Ye wouldna let me go up in my shirt; what choice did I have?”

“You being you, none at all.” I rolled over and kissed him. “You taste like apple pie. Is there any left?”

“No. I’ll go down and fetch ye a bite, though.”

I stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“No, don’t. I’m not really hungry and I’d rather just stay like this. Mm?”

“Mmphm.”

He rolled toward me, then scooted down the bed and lifted himself between my thighs.

“What are you doing?” I demanded, as he settled comfortably into position.

“I should think that was obvious, Sassenach.”

“But you’ve just been eating apple pie!”

“It wasna that filling.”

“That … wasn’t quite what I meant …” His thumbs were thoughtfully stroking the tops of my thighs, and his warm breath was stirring the hairs on my body in a very disturbing way.

“If ye’re afraid of crumbs, Sassenach, dinna fash—I’ll pick them off after I’ve finished. Is it baboons ye said that do that? Or was it fleas they pick?”

“I don’t have fleas” was all I could manage in the way of a witty riposte, but he laughed, settled his shoulders, and set to work.

“I like it when ye scream, Sassenach,” he murmured a little later, pausing for breath.

“There are children downstairs!” I hissed, fingers buried in his hair.

“Well, try to sound like a catamount, then …”

A LITTLE LATER, I asked, “How far is it from here to Philadelphia?”

He didn’t answer at once, but gently massaged my bottom with one hand. Finally, he said, “Ken what Roger Mac said to me once? That to an Englishman, a hundred miles is a long way; to an American, a hundred years is a long time.”

I turned my head a little, to look at him. His eyes were fixed on the sky and his face was tranquil, but I knew what he was saying.

“How long, then?” I asked quietly, and laid a hand over his heart, to feel the reassurance of its slow, strong beating. He smelled of my own musk and his, and a tremor from the last little while echoed up my spine. “How long do we have, do you think?”

“Not long, Sassenach,” he said softly. “Tonight, it’s as far away as the moon. Tomorrow it may be in the dooryard.” The hairs on his chest had risen, whether from chilly air or the conversation, and he grasped my hand, kissed it, and sat up.

“Have ye ever heard of a man called Francis Marion, Sassenach?”

I paused in the act of reaching for my shift. He’d spoken very casually, and I glanced briefly at him. He had his back turned, and the scars on it were a mesh of fine silver lines.

“I might have,” I replied, looking critically at the hem of my shift. Slightly grubby, but it would do for one more day. I pulled it over my head and reached for my stockings. “Francis Marion … Was he known as the Swamp Fox?” I had vague memories of watching a Disney show by that name, and I thought the character’s name had been something Marion …

“He isn’t yet,” Jamie said, turning to look over his shoulder at me. “What d’ye know of him?”

“Very little, and that only from a television show. Though Bree could probably still sing the theme song—er, that’s music that was played at the beginning of each … er, performance.”

“The same music each time, ye mean?” A brow cocked with interest.

“Yes. Francis Marion … I recall him being captured by a British redcoat and tied to a tree in one episode, so he probably was a …” I stopped dead.

“Now,” I said, with that odd qualm of dread and awe that always came when I ran into one of Them. First Benedict Arnold, and now … “Francis Marion is … now, you mean.”

“So Brianna says. But she didna remember much about him.”

“Why are you interested in him, particularly?”

“Ach.” He relaxed, back on firmer ground. “Have ye ever heard of a partisan band, Sassenach?”

“Not unless you mean a political party, and I’m quite sure you don’t.”

“Like Whigs and Tories? No, I don’t.” He picked up the jug of wine, poured a cup, and handed it to me. “A partisan band is much like a band o’ mercenaries, save that they mostly dinna work for money. Something like a private militia, but a good deal less orderly in its habits.”

I’d seen a good many militia companies during the Monmouth campaign, and this made me laugh.

“I see. What does a partisan band do, then?”

He poured a cup of his own and lifted it to me in brief toast.

“Apparently they roam about, troubling Loyalists, killing freed slaves, and in general bein’ a burr under the saddle of the British army.”

I blinked. Walt Disney had apparently decided to omit a few things from the 1950s version of the Swamp Fox, and no wonder.

“Killing freed slaves? Whatever for?”

“The British are in the habit o’ freeing slaves who undertake to join the army. So Roger Mac says. Apparently Mr. Marion took—will take?—exception to this.” He frowned. “I think he’s maybe no doing it yet. I’ve not heard of any such thing, at least.”

I took a mouthful of the wine. It was muscat wine, cool and sweet, and it went down well on a night full of shadows.

“And where is Mr. Swamp Fox doing this?”

“Somewhere in South Carolina; I didna take notice of the details—I was taken up by the notion, ken?”

“Of a partisan band, you mean?” I’d been uneasy since I pulled my stockings on and had the absurd thought that perhaps I should take them off again. No running away from this particular conversation, though.

The fingers of his right hand moved slowly against his thigh, the soundless drumbeat of his thinking.

“Aye,” he said at last, and closed his fingers into a fist. “It’s what Benjamin Cleveland—ken, the great fat Overmountain bugger who tried to threaten me?—was proposing to me—in a roundabout way, but he was clear enough.” He looked down at me, eyes dark and serious in the dim flicker of the night.

“I shallna fight again wi’ the Continental army,” he said. “I’ve had enough of armies. And I dinna think General Washington would have me back, for that matter.” He smiled at that, a little ruefully.

“From what Judah Bixby told me, you resigned your commission pretty thoroughly. I’m sorry I missed it.” I smiled, too, with no less rue. I’d missed it because at the moment Jamie had resigned his commission, writing his resignation on the back of the messenger who’d come to summon him to duty, I was lying on the ground at his feet, in the process of bleeding to death. In fact, Judah—one of his young lieutenants, who had been present—told me that Jamie had actually written his brief refusal with mud soaked through with my blood.

“Aye,” he said dryly. “I didna hear what Washington thought about it, but at least he didna send to have me arrested and hanged for desertion.”

“I imagine he’s had a few other things on his mind since then.” I hadn’t been in any condition to hear—or care about—the progress of the war for some time after becoming one of the final casualties of the Battle of Monmouth. But it wasn’t possible to avoid for long. We’d lived in Savannah when the British invaded and occupied the city—they were still there, so far as I knew. But news, like water, runs downhill and was inclined to puddle in the coastal cities with newspapers, shipping, and the brand-new postal service. Hauling it up into the mountains was a slow, difficult process.

“Am I to deduce that you’re actually planning to start a partisan band of your very own?” I asked, trying to keep it light.

“Oh,” he said, in a similar tone, “I thought I might. Nay so much for the raiding and killing, mind—it’s been a long time since I rode in a raid,” he added, with a distinct note of nostalgia. “For protection on the Ridge, though. And then … as the war goes on, well … it might happen that a wee gang might be of use here or there.” This last was added in such a casual manner that I sat up straight and gave him a narrow look.

“A gang? You want to start a gang?”

He looked surprised at that.

“Aye. Had ye not heard that word before, Sassenach?”

“I have,” I said, and sipped from the cup of wine, in hopes of inducing calm. “But I didn’t think you would have.”

“Well, of course I have,” he said, lifting a brow at me. “It’s a Scottish word, no?”

“It is?”

“Aye. It’s just the men ye gang oot with, Sassenach. Slàinte.” He took the cup from me, lifted it in brief salute, and drained it.

15 Which Old Witch?

MANDY AND I STOOD on either side of the table—she standing on the bench—looking down into the small yellow bowl between us with intense concentration.

“How long, Grannie?”

“Ten minutes,” I replied, and glanced at the silver filigree chiming watch that Jenny had lent me. “It’s only been two. You can sit down; it won’t happen any faster just because we’re watching.”

“Jes it will.” She made this pronouncement with a calm confidence that made me smile. Seeing that, she tossed her head and said, “Jemmy says you gots to watch hard or it gets away.” Realizing that she’d taken her eyes off the bowl, she thrust her head forward and glowered sternly into it, forbidding the yeast to slither over the side and crawl away.

“I don’t think he meant yeast, sweetheart. Probably rabbits.” Still, I couldn’t bring myself to turn away. I sniffed the air over the bowl, and Mandy did the same, with great vigor.

“I’m sure the yeast is good,” I said. “It smells … yeasty.”

“YEEeeestee,” she said, nodding agreement and snorting.

“If it wasn’t still active—still good—” I explained, “it would smell bad.”

I’d wait the full ten minutes, so I could show her the foam that active yeast makes when you mix it with warm sugar-water, but I was sure in my own mind that the yeast was all right—and felt relieved on that account. One could make raised biscuits with soda ash, but it was a good deal more complicated.

“We’ll put some of the yeast in milk,” I said, spooning a large dollop from the small crock in which I kept the starter into a clean one. “To make more for next time.”

Jamie’s head appeared in the doorway.

“Will ye lend me the wee lass for a minute, Sassenach?”

“Yes,” I replied promptly, grabbing Mandy’s hand an inch away from the full—and open—sack of flour on the table. “Grandpa needs you to help him, sweetheart.”

“Okay,” she said affably, and stuffed one of the raisin cookies we’d made earlier into her mouth before I could stop her. “Whaffoont, Gmp?”

“I need ye to sit on something for a moment.” Jamie’s long, straight nose twitched at the scent of butter and raisins, and his hand snaked out toward the tray.

“All right,” I said, resigned. “One. But eat it in here, for God’s sake; if the boys see you with that, they’ll be in here like a swarm of locusts.”

“Wasslocst?”

“Mandy! Have you got another cookie in your mouth?”

Mandy’s eyes bulged as she made a heroic effort and swallowed most of what was in her mouth.

“No,” she said, spraying crumbs. Jamie finished his own cookie and swallowed, somewhat more neatly.

“That’s good, Sassenach,” he said, nodding at the tray. “Ye’ll make a decent cook yet.” He grinned at me, took Mandy by the hand, and headed for the door.

Lacking anything like a cookie jar—could I make one? I wondered. Doubtless Brianna could, once she’d resurrected her kiln—I shoveled the fresh cookies into the smaller kettle and put a large plate on top, then picked up two of the big river stones we kept by the hearth to use as bed warmers when the truly cold weather came and put them on top of the plate. It wouldn’t deter the boys, but it would keep insects and—maybe—marauding raccoons out. The kitchen walls were sound, but there was no glass in most of the windows as yet.

I gazed thoughtfully at the kettle for a bit, envisioning the possibilities, and then lugged it down the hall to the surgery, where I shut it up in the cupboard where I kept distilled spirits, bottles of saline solution, and other items unlikely to attract anyone’s interest. I heard Jamie and Mandy out on the front porch, talking, and went to the front door to see what they were up to.

Jamie was on his knees, scraping the wood of what was clearly meant to be a toilet seat—Mandy-sized. “Try that,” he said, sitting back on his heels. “Sit on it, I mean.”

Mandy giggled, but did.

“Whatsis for, Grampa?”

“Ken the wee mouse that got into your room last week?”

“Jes. You caughts it in your hand. Did it bites you, Grampa?” she asked with sympathy.

“Nay, a leannan, it ran up my sleeve and jumped out my collar and made off across the landing and into our room and hid under your grannie’s good shoes. D’ye no remember that?”

Her small brow furrowed in concentration.

“Jes. You scweamed.”

“Aye. Well, now and again we have wee mice—and other wee beasties—who run to hide in the privy, if something’s frightened them outside. Now, such things mostly willna hurt ye”—he raised a finger at her—“but they might give ye a start. And if one does, I dinna want ye to loose your hold and fall down through the hole into the privy.”

“Eeeeyewww!” Mandy said, giggling.

“Dinna laugh,” Jamie said, smiling. “Your uncle William fell into a privy some years ago, and wasna best pleased about it.”

“Who’s Unca Willam?”

“Your mam’s brother. Ye’ve no met him yet.”

Mandy’s small black brows drew together in a frown.

He glanced briefly up at me and lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “Nay point in not talkin’ about him,” he said to me. “Likely we’ll see him again, before too long.”

“Sure about that, are you?” I said dubiously. True, there hadn’t been any open acrimony the last time Jamie and William had met in the flesh, but there hadn’t been any indication that William had reached a sense of resignation regarding the circumstances of his birth, either.

“I am,” Jamie said, eyes on the hole he was drilling. “He’ll come to see about Frances.”

I heard a tiny intake of breath behind me and glanced round to see Fanny, who had come down the trail from the garden, a basket full of greenery on her arm. Her lovely face had gone pale and her eyes quite round, fixed on Jamie.

“Will he—you think he’ll … come?” she said. “Here? To see me?” Her voice rose and cracked a little on the last word.

Jamie looked at her for a moment over his shoulder, then nodded.

“I’d come back, Frances,” he said simply. “So will he.”

I WENT BACK to the kitchen to check the yeast. Sure enough, there was a dirty-looking foam on the surface of the water—and the watch indicated that it had been eleven minutes. Checking the ingredients for the biscuits, though, I discovered that some miscreant had eaten all the butter from the kitchen crock and we had no lard. No one else was in the house; Jamie and Mandy were still chatting on the porch. Time enough for me to nip up to the springhouse and fetch enough cream to churn more butter while the biscuit dough was rising.

I was making my way slowly along the path from the springhouse, carrying two heavy pails of cream-laden milk, when I saw a woman approaching the house. She was tall, with a determined step, and wore a black dress with a broad-brimmed straw hat that she held with one hand to prevent it sailing away on the breeze.

Jamie had disappeared, probably to fetch a tool, but Mandy was still on the porch, sitting on her new toilet seat and singing to Esmeralda. She paid no attention to the woman—a more elderly lady than I had thought from her stick-straight posture and easy gait; closer to, I could see the lines in her face, and the gray hair showing at her temples beneath the cap she wore under her hat.

“Where is your father, child?” she demanded, stopping in front of Mandy.

“I dunno,” Mandy replied. “This is Esmeralda,” she said, holding up her doll.

“I wish to speak with your father.”

“Okay,” Mandy replied amiably, and resumed singing. “Ferra JACuh, Ferra JACuh, dormi vooo …”

“Stop that,” the woman said sharply. “Look at me.”

“Why?”

“You are a very impertinent child and your father should beat you.”

Mandy went very red in the face and scrambled to her feet, standing on her new seat.

“You go away!” she said. “I fwush you down the toilet!” She slapped her hand at the air, miming a handle. “WOOOSH!”

“What in the name of perdition do you mean by that, you wicked child?” The woman’s face was growing rather red, too. I had stopped in fascination, but now set down the buckets, feeling that I had better take a hand before things escalated. Too late.

“I put you in the toilet and I fwush you like POOP!” Mandy shouted, stamping her feet. Quick as a snake, the woman’s hand shot out and cracked against Mandy’s cheek.

There was a split second of shocked silence and then a number of things happened at once. I lunged toward the porch, tripped over one of the buckets, and fell flat on the path in a deluge of milk, Mandy let out a shriek that could have been heard as far as the wagon road, and Jamie popped out of the front door like the Demon King in a pantomime.

He grabbed Mandy up in one arm, leapt off the porch, and was nose-to-nose with the woman before I had even got to my knees.

“Leave my house,” he said, in the sort of calm voice that made it clear the only other option was instant death.

To her credit, the lady wasn’t backing down. She snatched off her broad black hat, the better to glare at him.

“The girl spoke rudely to me, sir, and I will not have it! Evidently no one has sought to discipline her properly. No wonder.” Her gaze raked him scornfully up and down. Mandy had stopped shrieking but was sobbing, her face buried in Jamie’s shirtfront.

“Well, speaking of rudeness,” I said mildly, wringing out my wet apron. “I don’t believe we have the honor of your acquaintance, do we?” I wiped a hand on the side of my skirt and extended it. “I’m Claire Fraser.”

Her face didn’t lose its expression of outrage, but it froze. She didn’t say a word but backed away from me, one step at a time. Jamie hadn’t moved, other than to pat Mandy comfortingly; his face was as fixed and stark as hers.

She reached the edge of the path, stopped dead, and lifted her chin toward Jamie.

“You are all,” she said evenly, sweeping her hat in an arc that encompassed me, Jamie, Mandy, and the house, “undoubtedly going to Hell.” With which pronouncement, she tossed a small package onto the porch, turned her back upon us, and sailed away like a bird of ill omen.

“WHO THE DEVIL was that?” Jamie asked.

“Da Wicked Witch,” Mandy answered promptly. Her face was still red, and her lower lip pushed out as far as it would go. “I hates her!”

“Quite possibly,” I said. I bent and gingerly picked up the small package. It was wrapped in oiled silk, tied with an odd-looking cord, with a number of extraneous knots. I lifted it to my nose and sniffed cautiously.

Even through the murky scent of the oiled silk, the bitter smell of quinine was strong enough that I could taste it at the back of my mouth.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” I said, looking at Jamie in wonder. “She’s brought me Jesuit bark.”

“Well, I did tell ye, Sassenach, that if ye mentioned your need of it to Roger Mac and Brianna, likely ye’d get some. And in that case,” he said slowly, looking at the direction in which our visitor had disappeared, “I think perhaps yon woman is maybe Mrs. Cunningham.”

16 Hound of Heaven

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 glassless 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 ban-sithe and tathasg were fluttering round my head, whispering in my ear. Custom said that a ban-sithe howled on the roof when someone in the house was about to die. Well … it wasn’t on the bloody roof, at least, because there wasn’t one …

“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.

“Grandda! 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.

Bree appeared in the door, looking like the Archangel Michael, all flowing white robe and ferocious hair, with Roger’s sword in her hand. Fanny let out a small whimper at the sight.

“What were ye planning to do wi’ that, a nighean?” Jamie inquired, nodding at the sword as he prepared to pull his shirt over his head. “I dinna think ye can run a ghost through.”

Fanny looked goggle-eyed from Bree to Jamie, then sat down on the floor with a thump and buried her head in her knees.

Jem was goggle-eyed, too. “A ghost,” he said blankly. “A ghost wolf?”

I glanced uneasily at the window. Jemmy was old enough to have heard of werewolves … and the word conjured up an unpleasantly vivid picture in my own mind, as a particularly desolate and penetrating moan pierced the momentary silence.

“I told ye, it’s no a wolf,” Jamie said, sounding both cross and resigned. “It’s a dog.”

“Rollo?” Jemmy exclaimed, in tones of horror. “He’s come back?”

Fanny jerked her head up, wide-eyed, Bree made an involuntary noise, and just as involuntarily I grabbed Jamie’s arm again.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, rather mildly under the circumstances, and detached my grip. “I doubt it.” But I’d felt the wiry hairs on his arm bristling at the thought, and my own skin rippled into gooseflesh.

“Stay here,” he said briefly, and turned toward the door. Callously abandoning Bree to deal with the children’s conniptions, I followed him. Neither of us had paused to light a candle, and the stairwell was dark and cold as an actual well. The howling was muffled here, though, which was a slight relief.

“You’re sure it’s a dog?” I said to Jamie’s back.

“I am,” he said. His voice was firm, but I heard him swallow, and a thread of uneasiness tightened down my back. He turned left at the foot of the stair and went into the kitchen.

I let out my breath as the stored warmth of the big room flowed over me. The smoored hearth glowed faintly, showing the comfortably rounded, solid shapes of cauldron and kettle, hanging in their places, the faint gleam of pewter on the sideboard. The door was bolted. Despite the snug feeling of the kitchen, my scalp stirred uneasily. The sound was louder now, rising and falling in a rhythm much at odds with my own breathing. I couldn’t tell for sure, but I thought it was louder, closer than it had been.

Jamie had thrust a faggot into the embers of the hearth; he pulled it out now and blew carefully on the ragged end of the torch until a small flame rose from the glowing wood. His frown relaxed as the fire took, and he smiled briefly at me.

“Dinna fash, a nighean,” he said. “It’s no but a dog. Truly.”

I smiled back, but there was still an uncertain note in his voice, and I quietly picked up the stone rolling pin as I followed him to the door. He lifted the heavy bar and set it down, then lifted the latch without hesitation and pulled the door open. The cold damp of a mountain night swept in, fluttering my nightdress and reminding me that I ought to have put on my cloak. There wasn’t time for that, though, and I bravely followed Jamie out onto the back stoop.

The noise was louder out here, but suddenly seemed less agitated—it settled into something like an owl’s cry. I scanned the hillside that rose behind the house, but couldn’t see anything in the faint flicker of the torch. Despite being so exposed, I felt steadier. Jamie might have his own doubts, but he didn’t think this mysterious dog was dangerous, or he wouldn’t be letting me stand here with him.

He sighed deeply, put two fingers in his mouth, and gave a piercing whistle. The noise stopped.

“Well, come on, then,” he said, raising his voice a little, and gave a second, softer whistle.

The woods were silent, and nothing happened for the space of a minute or more. Then something moved. A blot detached itself from the tomato vines around the privy and came slowly toward us. I heard feet coming down the distant stairs and the muffled sound of voices, but all my attention was focused on the dog.

For a dog it was; I caught a glimpse of golden eyes glowing in the dark, and then it was close enough to see the shambling, long-legged gait and the sinuous curve of backbone and tail.

“A hound?” I said.

“It is.” Jamie handed me the torch, sank onto his haunches, and stretched out a hand. The dog—it was what they called a bluetick hound, with a heavy dappling of blue-black spots over most of its coat—seemed to sink a little as it came to him, head low.

“It’s all right, a nighean,” he said to the dog, his voice low and husky.

“You know this dog?”

“I do,” he said, and I thought there was a note of regret in his voice. He stroked her head, though, and she came up close, tail wagging tentatively.

“She’s starving, poor thing,” I said. The hound’s ribs were visible even by torchlight, her belly drawn up like a purse string.

“Have we a bit of meat, Sassenach?”

“I’m sure we do.” The others were in the kitchen but had stopped talking, hearing our voices outside. They’d be out here in a moment.

“Jamie,” I said, and laid a hand on his bare back. “Where did you see this dog before?”

I felt him swallow.

“I left her howling on her master’s grave,” he said quietly. “Dinna mention it to the bairns, aye?”

THE DOG SEEMED visibly taken aback at sight of so many people flooding out onto the back porch, and turned away as though to flee back into the bushes. But she couldn’t bring herself to leave the smell of food, and kept turning in circles, with small apologetic wags of her long, feathered tail.

At length, Jamie succeeded in quelling the hubbub and making everyone go into the kitchen while he lured the hound close with small pieces of leftover corn bread soaked in bacon grease. I stayed, hovering behind him with the torch. The hound came willingly for the food, ducking her head submissively, and when Jamie reached tentatively to scratch her behind the ears, she let him, picking up the tempo of her wagging.

“There’s a good lass,” he murmured to her and gave her another bit of bread. Despite her hunger, she took it delicately from his hand, not snapping.

“She’s not afraid of you,” I said quietly. I didn’t mean to ask him; never would ask him. But that didn’t mean I didn’t wonder.

“No,” he said, just as softly. “No, she’s not. She only saw me bury him.”

“You’re not … bothered by her? Her coming here, I mean.” Plainly he had been disturbed by the howling; who wouldn’t have been? But I couldn’t tell now; his face was calm in the flicker of the torchlight.

“No,” he said, and glanced over his shoulder to be sure the children were out of earshot. “I was, when I saw her—but …” His greasy hand paused, resting for a moment on the dog’s rough coat. “I think it’s maybe absolution—that she should ha’ come to me.”

INSIDE, THE DOG ate ravenously, but with an odd delicacy, nibbling up the scraps of bread and meat with tiny darts of her head. It didn’t seem quite right, somehow, and I began to watch more closely. The children were entranced, taking turns to hold bits of food in their palms for her to take, but I saw Jamie frown slightly, watching.

“There’s summat amiss with her mouth, I think,” he said after a moment. “Shall we have a look?”

“Oh, let her finish eating, please, Mr. Fraser,” Fanny said, looking up at him, earnest. “She’s so hungry!”

“Aye, she is,” he said, squatting down beside them. He ran a hand gently down the dog’s knobbly backbone and her tail moved briefly, but her whole attention was focused on the food. “Why is she starving, I wonder?”

“Why?” I asked. I glanced at him, careful what I said. “Perhaps she’s lost her master.”

“Aye, but she’s a hound. She can hunt for herself—and it’s summer; there’s food everywhere. Master or no, she shouldna be in this case.”

Curious, I got down on my knees and looked closely. He was right; she was gulping the small bites of food, simply swallowing, with little or no mastication. That might be her personal habit, or perhaps any dog would do that with small bits of food like this, but … there was something wrong. Something not quite a wince, but …

“You’re right,” I said. “Let her finish, and I’ll have a look.”

The hound polished off the last of the scraps, sniffed hungrily for more—though by now her stomach was visibly distended—then lapped water and, after a glance at the assembled company, nosed Jamie’s leg and lay down beside him.

“Bi sàmhach, a choin … ” he said, running a light hand down her long back. Her tail wagged gently and she let out a great sigh, seeming to melt into the floorboards. “Well, then,” he said, in the same soft tones, “come and let me see your mouth, mo nighean gorm,” The dog looked surprised but didn’t resist as he rolled her onto her side.

“She is blue, isn’t she?” Fanny crawled closer, fascinated, and put out a tentative hand, though she didn’t quite touch the dog.

“Aye, they call this kind a bluetick hound—they’re the color o’ mattress ticking. Let her smell your fingers, lass, so as she kens who ye are. Then just move slow, but she seems a friendly bitch.”

Fanny blinked at the word, and glanced at Jamie.

“Have you never had a dog, Fanny?” Bree asked, seeing this little byplay.

“No,” Fanny replied uncertainly. “I mean … I remember a dog. From when I was very little. It—he—I remember petting him.” Her hand touched the dog’s back, and the hound’s tail stirred. “It was on the ship. I sat under the big sail when the weather was good and he’d come and thit—sit—with me and let me pet him.”

Bree exchanged a quick glance with Roger, who was on the settle, holding Amanda, half asleep.

“The ship,” she said to Fanny, her voice light and casual. “You were on a ship. Before you came to Philadelphia?”

Fanny nodded, only half paying attention. She was watching me as I ran a finger along the black inner lip, lifting it away from the dog’s teeth. The gums were all right, so far as I could see by firelight—not bleeding, maybe a little pale, maybe not. It was common to find parasites in dogs, and that could cause pale gums from internal blood loss, but I didn’t know of any parasitic infections that occurred in the mouth …

Jem had sat down on the floor with us and was scratching the dog behind the ears with a practiced hand.

“Like this, Fanny,” he said. “Dogs like to have their ears scratched.” The dog sighed in bliss and relaxed a little, letting me open her mouth. The teeth were good, very clean—

“Why do people say ‘clean as a hound’s tooth’?” I asked, feeling the angles of her jaw, the temporomandibular joints—no apparent tenderness—and the lymph nodes in the neck—not lumpy, but there was some swelling on the side of the lower jaw and she winced and whined at my touch. “Her teeth are clean, but do hounds really have cleaner teeth than other dogs?”

“Oh, maybe.” Jamie leaned forward to look in the dog’s mouth. “She’s a young bitch—maybe nay more than a year or so. Hunting dogs that eat their prey usually have clean teeth, though—from the bones.”

“Really.” I was only half listening. Turning the dog’s head a little more toward the fire, I’d seen the shadow of something. “Jamie—can you bring a candle or something closer here? I think she has something stuck between her teeth.”

“Were your parents with you, Fanny?” Roger’s voice was quiet, barely pitched above the crackle of the fire. “On the ship?” Fanny’s hand stopped for a moment, resting on the dog’s head, but then resumed scratching, more slowly.

“I fink so,” she said, hesitant.

The candle flame wavered as Jamie glanced at Fanny, then steadied.

“Yes, there it is!” It was a small chip of bone, wedged tightly between the dog’s lower premolars. It was evidently sharp; the gum had been cut and was swollen and spongy-looking around the site of the injury. I pressed gently and the dog whimpered and tried to pull her head away.

“Jemmy, run to the surgery and fetch me the little first-aid box—you know the one?”

“Sure, Grannie!” He hopped up and made off into the darkness of the front hall without a qualm.

“Will she be all right, Mithuth—Mrs. Fraser?” Fanny leaned forward anxiously, trying to see.

“I think so,” I said, trying to wiggle the bone chip with my thumbnail. The dog didn’t like it, but didn’t snarl or offer to bite. “She has a bit of bone stuck between her teeth, and it’s made her mouth sore, but if it hasn’t made an abscess under the tooth … You can let her go for a minute, Jamie. I can’t get it out ’til Jem comes back with my forceps.”

Released, the dog leapt up, shook herself vigorously, and then shot off, rushing down the hall after Jem. Fanny rose up on her knees, but before she could get up altogether, the dog came roaring back, paws thundering on the wooden floor. She let out an excited bark at seeing us, ran around the room in circles, and finally leapt on Fanny, knocking her sideways, then stood over her, panting happily and wagging.

“Get off!” Fanny said, giggling as she squirmed out from under the dog. “You thilly thing.” I smiled and, glancing at Jamie, saw him smiling, too. Fanny laughed with the boys, but seldom otherwise.

“Here, Grannie!” Jem dropped the first-aid box on my lap, then dropped to his knees and started boxing with the dog, feinting slaps to one side of her face and then the other. The hound panted happily and made little wuffs, darting her head at Jem’s hands.

“She’ll nip ye, Jem,” Jamie said, amused. “She’s quicker than you are.”

She was, and she did, though not hard. Jem yelped, then giggled. “Thilly thing,” he said. “Shall we call her Thilly?”

“No,” said Fanny, giggling, too. “That’s a thilly name.”

“That poor dog will never get her mouth taken care of if the lot of you don’t stop stirring her up,” I said severely—for Brianna and Jamie were laughing, too. Roger was smiling but not laughing, not wanting to wake Mandy, now sound asleep on his shoulder.

Bree calmed the incipient riot by going to the pie safe and extracting half of a large dried-apple pie, which she distributed to everyone, including a small piece of crust to the dog, who wolfed it happily.

“All right.” I swallowed the last flaky, cinnamon-scented bite of my own slice, dusted crumbs off my fingers—the dog promptly snuffled them up off the floor—and laid out my small splinter-forceps, my smallest tenaculum, a square of thick gauze, and—after a moment’s thought—the bottle of honey-water, the mildest antibacterial I had. “Let’s go, then.”

Once we’d got the dog immobilized on her side—no easy matter; she writhed like an eel, but Jem flung himself on top of her back half and Jamie pressed her down with one hand on her shoulder and one on her neck—it took no more than a couple of minutes to work the bone chip loose, with Fanny carefully holding the candle so as not to drip wax on me or the dog.

“There!” I held it up in the forceps, to general applause, then tossed it into the fire. “Now just a bit of cleanup …” I pressed the gauze over the gum, firmly. The dog whined a little but didn’t struggle. A small amount of blood from the lacerated gum, and what might be a trace of pus—hard to tell, by candlelight, but I brought the gauze to my nose and couldn’t detect any scent of putrefaction. Meat scraps, apple pie, and dog breath, but no noticeable smell of infection.

Once the bone chip was out, interest in my activities waned, and the conversation turned back to dog names. Lulu, Sassafras, Ginny, Monstro (this from Bree, and I looked up and met her eye with a smile, visualizing the toothy whale from Disneyland as plainly as she did), “Seasaidh …”

Jamie didn’t take part in the naming controversy, but he did—for the first time—stroke the dog’s head gently. Did he already know what her name was? I wondered. I rinsed the gum well with the honey-water—the dog lapped and swallowed, even lying down—but most of my attention was on Jamie.

“I left her howling on her master’s grave.” Something too faint to be a shiver ran over me, and I felt the hairs on my forearms lift, stirring in the warm draft from the fire. I was morally sure that Jamie had put the dog’s master in his grave—and that I was the unwilling cause of it.

His face was calm now, shadowed by the fire. Whatever he might be thinking, nothing showed. And his hand was gentle on the dog’s spotted fur. “Absolution,” he’d said.

“What was your dog’s name, Fanny?” Jem said, behind me. “The one you had on the ship.”

“Ssspotty,” she said, making an effort with the “s.” It was only a few months since I had clipped her tongue-tie, and she still struggled with some sounds. “He had a white spot. On his nose.”

“We could call this one Spotty, too,” Jem offered generously. “If you want. She’s got lots of spots. Lots of spots,” he repeated, giggling at the rhyme. “Lots and lots of spots and spots.”

“Now you’re a thilly thing,” Fanny said to him, laughing.

“Maybe you should wait and see if your grandda means to keep her, Jem,” Roger said. “Before you give her a name.”

Plainly, the possibility that we might not keep the dog hadn’t entered the children’s heads, and they were aghast at the notion.

“Oh, please, Mr. Fraser!” Fanny said, urgent. “I’ll feed her, I promise I will!”

“And I’ll take the ticks out of her fur, Grandda!” Jemmy put in. “Please, please, can’t we keep her?”

Jamie’s eyes met mine, and his mouth turned up a little at one side—in resignation, I thought, rather than humor.

“She came to me for help,” he said to me. “I canna very well turn her away.”

“Then maybe you should name her, Da,” Bree put in, quelling Jem’s and Fanny’s exhibitions of relieved delight. “What would you call her?”

“Bluebell,” he said without hesitation, surprising me. “It’s a good Scottish name—and it fits her, aye?”

“Bwoo—Bulubell.” Fanny stroked the dog’s back, and the long plumed tail moved lazily to and fro. “Can I call her Bluey? For short?”

Jamie did laugh then, and rose slowly to his feet, knees cracking from kneeling on the boards for so long.

“Call her anything she’ll answer to, lass. But for now, she needs her bed, and so do I.”

The children coaxed the newly christened Bluebell to come with them, offering more bits of piecrust, and the adults began to gather ourselves, settling for bed. There was a momentary silence as Bree took Mandy from Roger, and as I knelt to smoor the hastily stirred-up fire again, I heard Jem’s and Fanny’s voices on the stair landing.

“What happened to your dog, Spotty?” Jem asked, the question distant but clear. Fanny’s answer was just as clear, and I saw Jamie’s head turn sharply toward the open door as he heard it.

“The bad men threw him into the sea,” she said. “Can Bluey sleep with me tonight? You can have her tomorrow.”

17 Reading by Firelight

THE FRAMING FOR THE second story was done. It would be some time yet before it was completely walled in and a roof put on, but his nights of cool sleeping under the naked stars with Claire were numbered. Jamie felt a slight pang of regret at the thought, but this was at once eclipsed by the cozy vision of them sleeping in a featherbed before a warm hearth, three months hence, the shutters closed against howling wind and plastering snow.

He sank slowly into the big chair by the fire, half enjoying the pain as his joints relaxed, both mind and knees knowing that the bliss of rest was at hand. The household was abed, but Claire had gone to a birthing, near the bottom of the cove. He missed her, but it was a pleasant pain, like the stretch in his backbone. She would be back, likely tomorrow. For now, he had a good fire warming his feet, a glass of soft red wine, and books to hand. He took the spectacles from his pocket, unfolded them, and settled them on his nose.

The house’s entire library stood in two modest piles on the table beside his wineglass. A small Bible bound in green cloth, very much the worse for wear. He touched it gently, as he did every time he saw it; it was an old companion—a friend that had seen him through many bad times. A coverless copy of Roxana: The Fortunate Mistress … he’d best take that one up to the bedroom; Jem hadn’t shown any interest in it yet, but the lad could certainly read well enough to make out what it was about if he did.

A not-bad copy of Mr. Pope’s translation of The Odyssey—maybe he’d read a bit of that with Jem; he’d likely find the ships and monsters interesting, and it would be an excuse to cram a bit of Latin into the lad’s head while they were about it. Joseph Andrews … a waste of paper, that one; he’d maybe trade it to Hugh Grant, who liked silliness. Manon Lescaut, in French and a fine morocco binding. He frowned briefly at that one; he’d not opened it. John Grey had sent it to him, before …

He grunted irritably and, on impulse, took the book at the bottom of the stack—Mandy’s big bright-orange Green Eggs and Ham. The color, the title, and the comical beast on the cover made him smile, and a few minutes with Sam-I-Am eased his temper.

The thump of steps coming down the stairs made him sit up, but it was only Bluebell, who padded up to him, tail wagging gently, sniffed him in case he had any food about his person, gave that up, and went to stand by the back door in a meaningful manner.

“Aye, a nighean,” he said, opening the door for her. “Look out for painters.” She vanished into the night with a swipe of her tail, but he stood for a moment, looking out and listening to the dark.

It was quiet, save for the trees talking among themselves, and he stepped outside and stood looking up at the stars, letting go of the lingering annoyance roused by Manon Lescaut and letting their peace come into him. Took a deep breath of the fresh piney air and let it out slowly.

“Aye, I forgive ye, ye bloody wee bugger,” he said to John Grey, and felt the lightening of soul he’d been unconsciously seeking.

A rustling in the bushes by the privy heralded the dog’s return. He waited for her to finish her industrious sniffing and held the door open for her. She passed him with a brief wag of her tail and bounded softly up the stairs.

He felt more settled in himself, and walked a little way by starlight to the red cedar that grew near the well, to drink water and pluck a twig. He liked the smell of the berries—Claire told him they were used to flavor gin, which he didn’t care for, but the scent was fine.

Inside again, the door bolted and the fire poked up, he went back to the books, the cedar twig making a small fresh smell for him that went well with the wine. He took up one of the small thick books about Hobbits that Bree had brought for him, but even with his spectacles, the print was dense enough to make him feel tired looking at it, and he put it down again, eyes seeking something else in the pile.

Not Manon, not yet. His forgiveness was sincere, but distinctly grudging, and he kent well enough it would need to be repeated a few times before he spoke to John Grey again.

Nay doubt it was the thought of reluctant forgiveness that made him pick up the book Brianna had brought for herself—Frank Randall’s book. The Soul of a Rebel.

“Mmphm,” he said, and drew it out of the stack, turning it over in his hands. It felt strange; a good weight and size, sound binding, but the paper cover was printed with a very peculiar tartan background in pink and green, on which there was a square of pale green with a decent wee painting of the basket hilt of a Scottish broadsword and a bit of the blade. Below the square, the subtitle, The Scottish Roots of the American Revolution. What made it feel odd, though, was the fact that it was wrapped in a transparent sheet of something that wasn’t paper, slick under his touch. Plastic, Brianna had told him when he asked. He kent the word, all right, but not with this meaning. He turned the book over to look at the photograph—he was becoming halfway accustomed to photographs, but it still took him back a bit to see the man looking out at him like that.

He pressed his thumb firmly over Frank Randall’s nose, then lifted it. He tilted the book from side to side, letting light from the fire play over the plastic covering. He’d made a very faint smudge, not visible if you were looking straight at it.

Suddenly ashamed of this childishness, he erased the mark with his shirtsleeve and set the book on his knee. The photograph looked calmly up at him through dark-rimmed spectacles.

It wasn’t only the writer that disturbed him. Hearing bits of what was to come from Claire and Bree and Roger Mac frequently alarmed him, but their physical presence was reassuring; whatever horrible events were to happen, many folk had survived them. Still, he kent well enough that while none of his family would ever lie to him, they did often temper what they said to him. Frank Randall was another thing: an historian, whose account of what was going to happen in the next few years would be …

Well, he didn’t ken exactly what it might be. Frightening, perhaps. Upsetting, maybe. Maybe reassuring … in spots.

Frank Randall wasn’t smiling, but he looked pleasant enough. Lines in his face that cut deep. Well, the man had been through a war.

“To say nothing of bein’ married to Claire,” he said aloud, and was surprised at the sound of his voice. He picked up his wineglass and took a mouthful, holding it for a moment, but then swallowed and turned the book over.

“Well, I dinna ken if I forgive ye or not, Englishman,” he murmured, opening the cover and taking a cleansing breath of cedar. “Or you me, but let’s see what ye have to say to me, then.”

HE WOKE THE next morning to an empty bed, sighed, stretched, and rolled out of it. He’d thought he’d dream about the events described in Randall’s book, but he hadn’t. He’d dreamed, rather pleasantly, about Achilles’s ships, and would have liked to tell Claire about it. He shook off the remnants of sleep and went to wash, making a mental note of some of the things he’d dreamed so as not to forget them. With luck, she’d be home before supper.

“Mr. Fraser?” A delicate rap on the door, Frances’s voice. “Your daughter says breakfast is ready.”

“Aye?” He wasn’t smelling anything of a savory nature, but “ready” was a relative term. “I’m coming, lass. Taing.”

“Tang?” she said, sounding startled. He smiled, pulled a clean shirt over his head, and opened the door. She was standing there like a field daisy, delicate but upright on her stem, and he bowed to her.

“Taing,” he said, pronouncing it as carefully as he could. “It means ‘thanks’ in the Gaelic.”

“Are you sure?” she said, frowning slightly.

“I am,” he assured her. “Moran taing means ‘thank you very much,’ should ye want something stronger.”

A faint flush rose in her cheeks.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t really mean are you th—sure. Of course you are. It’s only that Germain told me ‘thank you’ is ‘tabag leet.’ Is that wrong? He might have been practicing on me, but I didn’t think so.”

“Tapadh leat,” he said, restraining the urge to laugh. “No, that’s right; it’s only that moran taing is … casual, ye might say. The other’s when ye want to be formal. If someone’s saved your life or paid your debts, say, ye’d say, ‘Tapadh leat,’ where if they passed ye the bread at table, ye’d say, ‘Taing,’ aye?”

“Aye,” she said automatically, and flushed deeper when he smiled. She smiled back, though, and he followed her down the stairs, thinking how oddly engaging she was; she was reticent, but not shy at all. He supposed one couldn’t be shy, if raised with the expectation of becoming a whore.

Now he could smell parritch—slightly scorched parritch. He wrinkled his nose, adjusted his expression to one of stoic pleasantry, and went along to the kitchen, casting an eye at the unfinished walls of his study and the barely framed front room. He might get an hour at the study this afternoon, if he was back in time from …

“Madainn mhath,” he said, pausing in the open space where the door would be—next week, maybe—to greet the assembled members of his family.

“Grandda!” Mandy scrambled off her bench, knocking her parritch bowl into the milk jug. Brianna, barely sitting down, lunged forward and grabbed it, just in time.

He caught Mandy and swung her up into his arms, smiling at Jem, Fanny, Germain, and Brianna.

“Mam burnt the parritch,” Jem informed him. “But there’s honey, so you don’t notice so much.”

“It’ll be fine,” he said, sitting down and setting Mandy on his knee. “The honey’s no from Claire’s bees, is it? They’ll need still to settle a bit, aye?”

“Yes,” Brianna said, and pushed a bowl toward him, followed by milk jug and honey pot. She was flushed herself, doubtless from the heat of the fire. “This is part of Mama’s wages from setting Hector MacDonald’s broken leg. Sorry about the porridge; I thought I could make it to the smoke shed and back before it needed to be stirred again.” She nodded toward the hearth, where slices of bacon were just beginning to sputter in the big spider.

“Where’s your man, lass?” he asked, tactfully ignoring her apology and helping himself to a modest drizzle of honey.

“One of the MacKinnon kids came to fetch him, just after daybreak. You were tired,” she added, seeing him frown at the thought that he hadn’t heard the visitor. “And no wonder. Don’t worry,” she said quickly, “it wasn’t really an emergency; old Grannie MacKinnon woke up dying again—that’s the third time this month—and wanted a minister. Oh, the bacon!” She leapt up, but Fanny had already moved to turn the sizzling slices and Jamie’s wame contracted pleasantly at the savory smoke.

“Thank you, Fanny.” Bree sat back down and took up her spoon again.

“Mr. Fraser?” Fanny said, waving the smoke away from her eyes.

“Aye, lass?”

“How do you say ‘You’re welcome’ in Gaelic?”

18 Distant Thunder

I FOUND A SHALLOW, gravelly spot in the creek and hastily wriggled out of my apron and dress, trying not to breathe. Bar gangrenous limbs and long-dead corpses, nothing smells worse than pig shit. Nothing.

Still holding my breath, I wadded the smeared garments into a loose ball and dropped it into the shallows. I kicked off my shoes and waded in after it, holding a couple of large rocks I had snatched up. The dress had already begun to unwrap itself, spreading faded indigo swaths out over the gravel like the shadow of a passing manta ray. I dropped a rock on it, and, spreading out the canvas apron with my bare foot, weighted that down as well.

Crisis managed for the moment, I waded out a little farther and stood calf-deep in the cold, rushing water, breathing gratefully.

Animal husbandry was not really my specialty—unless you wanted to count Jamie and the children—but necessity makes veterinarians of us all. I had been visiting young Elmo Cairns’s cabin to check on the progress of his broken arm when his also-young and immensely pregnant pig began to show signs of difficulty with her first farrowing. This was noticeable, as the pig had been sprawled, her enormous sides heaving sporadically, on the floor at Elmo’s feet, she being—as he explained—“summat of a pet.”

Elmo being incapacitated by his broken arm, I had done the necessary, and while the result was gratifying—a 100 percent survival rate, and a healthy litter of eight, six of them female (one of them mine, Elmo had assured me, “if the sow doesna eat ’em all”)—I hadn’t thought I could make it all the way home wearing the by-products.

It was a hot day, with that heavy stillness in the air that portends thunder, and standing in cold water with cool air rising through my undergarments was pleasant. I decided that removing my sweaty stays would make it pleasanter still, and was in the act of pulling these off over my head when I heard a loud cough from the creek bank behind me.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!” I said, jerking the stays off and whirling round. “Who the bloody hell are you?”

There were two of them: gentlemen, by their rather inappropriate dress. Not that I was in any position to put on airs about appropriate attire, but they did have foxtails stuck in their silk stockings, mud clogged in the buckles of their shoes, and smears of pine pitch on their broadcloth—and one had a large rent in his coat that showed the yellow silk lining.

Both of them looked me over from (disheveled) head to (bare) foot, their mouths slightly open and their gazes lingering on my breasts, which were rather on display, the damp muslin of my shift having stuck to them and the cool air off the water having stiffened my nipples. Inappropriate, forsooth …

I delicately plucked the muslin loose from my skin and dropped it, giving them stare for stare.

The one with the rent in his coat recovered first, and nodded to me, a cautious interest in his eyes.

“My name is Mr. Adam Granger and this”—nodding at his younger companion—“is my nephew, Mr. Nicodemus Partland. Can you tell us the way to Captain Cunningham’s house, my good woman?”

“Certainly,” I said, resisting the impulse to try to tidy my hair. “It’s that way”—I pointed toward the northeast—“but it’s a good three miles. I’m afraid you’ll be caught by the storm.”

They would be, too. A rising breath of air fluttered the leaves of the willows along the creek, and a boil of dark-gray clouds was rising in the west. You could see a mountain storm coming from quite a distance, but they moved quickly.

Moved in part by the requirements of hospitality and in larger part by curiosity, I waded ashore, scooping up my wet clothes.

“You’d better come down to the house,” I said to Mr. Granger as I wrung out my clothes and folded them up in my stays. “It’s quite nearby and you can shelter there until the storm passes. One of the boys can guide you to Captain Cunningham’s place once the rain goes by; his cabin is rather remote.”

They glanced at each other, up at the darkening sky, and then nodded as one and prepared to follow me. I hadn’t liked the way Mr. Partland had eyed my breasts and didn’t want him ogling my bottom while I walked, so I gestured them firmly before me onto the trail, pushed my wet feet into my shoes, and set out for home, dripping.

I estimated Mr. Granger’s age at perhaps fifty, Partland younger, perhaps in his mid-thirties. Neither was fat, but Nicodemus Partland was tall and rangy, with the sort of eyes that looked past you even as they looked at you. He kept glancing over his shoulder, as though to be sure I was still there.

We reached the house within twenty minutes, but the air had already begun to smell of ozone and I could hear thunder rumbling in the distance.

“Welcome to New House, gentlemen,” I said, nodding toward the front door. Jamie appeared on the threshold, holding Adso the cat, who leapt out of his arms and hared past me, pursued by Bluebell, barking happily. She skidded to a halt, seeing the strangers, and started barking at them, with raised hackles and serious intent.

Jamie came down off the porch and took hold of the dog by the scruff of her neck.

“That’ll do, lass,” he said to her, and with a gentle shake let her go. “Your pardon, gentlemen.”

Mr. Partland had drawn back when Bluebell menaced them, and had a hand on his pocket in a way suggesting that he might have a small pistol therein. He didn’t take his eyes off the dog, even when Fanny came out, summoned by Jamie, and coaxed her back into the house.

Mr. Granger, though, had no eyes for dogs. He was staring at Jamie. Jamie noticed this, and offered his hand with a slight bow.

“James Fraser, your servant, sir.”

“I—that is—” Mr. Granger shook his head rapidly and took Jamie’s hand. “Mr. Adam Granger, sir. Are you—are you not General Fraser?”

“I was,” Jamie said briefly. “And you, sir?” He turned to Partland, who was now also examining him as he might a horse he meant to buy.

“Nicodemus Partland, your most obedient, sir,” Partland said, smiling, but with a tone that suggested obedience was the last thing he intended. Or respect, for that matter.

“Your, um”—Mr. Granger, belatedly recalling my presence, turned to look at me—“woman suggested that we might find shelter from the storm here. But if our presence is inconvenient …”

“Not at all.” Jamie’s mouth twitched slightly as he looked me over. “Allow me to introduce my wife, sir—Mrs. General Fraser.”

FANNY APPEARED IN the doorway, coming to see what Bluebell was barking about now, with Brianna behind her. Jamie made the introductions, then motioned the visitors into the house and raised a brow at Bree, who nodded obligingly.

“My daughter will see to your needs, gentlemen. I’ll join ye shortly.”

He waited just long enough for them to go inside before turning to me.

“What the devil have ye been doing, Sassenach?” he hissed.

“Delivering pigs,” I said succinctly, and handed him the bundle of wet clothing, from which the unmistakable scent of porcine excrement still oozed, bearing witness to my story.

“Christ,” he said, holding the bundle out at arm’s length. “Frances, lass, take this, will ye? Soak it in something—or must it be burnt?” he asked, turning back to me.

“Soak them in cold water with soft soap and vinegar,” I said. “We’ll boil them later. And thank you, Fanny.”

She nodded and took the bundle, nose wrinkled.

“Who are these men?” Jamie asked, jerking his chin toward the door where Partland and Granger had disappeared. “And how the devil did ye come to be in their company in nothing but your shift?”

“I was washing in the creek when they turned up,” I said, rather irritated. “I didn’t invite them to join me.”

“No, of course not.” He took a breath and began to calm down. “I just didna like the way the younger one was looking at ye.”

“Neither did I. As for who they are—” I began, but was interrupted by Fanny, who was headed for the side yard and the laundry tub with Bluebell, but turned round at this.

“The young one is an officer,” she said, and nodded in affirmation of her observations. “They always think they can do anything they want.”

I stared after her, nonplussed, as she vanished.

“They don’t look like soldiers,” I said, with a shrug. “The older one called me ‘my good woman,’ though. They probably thought I was your skivvy.”

“My what?” He looked startled, and then offended.

“Oh—it just means a cleaning woman,” I said, realizing that he’d leapt to a not-unreasonable eighteenth-century interpretation of the meaning of “skivvy.” “Anyway, they said they were looking for Captain Cunningham. And as it was about to rain …”

It was. The wind was moving through the grass and through leaves and needles and twigs; the whole forest was breathing and the clouds had covered more than half the sky, big, black, and dangerous with flickering lightning.

Brianna came out, holding a towel, and offered it to me.

“I put those men in your study, Da,” she said. “Is that all right?”

“Aye, fine,” he assured her.

“Wait, Bree,” I said, emerging from the towel as she turned to go. “Would you and Fanny go down to the root cellar and fetch up some vegetables and maybe … I don’t know, something sweet—jam, raisins … We’ll have to feed them, whoever they are.”

“Sure,” she said. “You don’t know who they are?”

“Fanny says the young one is an officer,” Jamie said. “Beyond that—we’ll see. Come along in, Sassenach,” he said, putting an arm about me to shepherd me inside. “Ye need to get dry—”

“And clothed.”

“Aye, that, too.”

THE ROOT CELLAR wasn’t a long walk from the smoke shed, but it was on the other side of the big clearing, and the wind, unobstructed by trees or buildings, rushed them from behind, blowing their skirts out before them and whipping Fanny’s cap off her head.

Brianna got a hand up and snatched the scrap of muslin as it whirled past. Her own hair, unbound, was flailing round her face, and so was Fanny’s. They looked at each other, half-blinded, and laughed. Then the first drops of rain began to fall, and they ran, gasping and shrieking for the shelter of the root cellar.

It was dug into the side of a hill, a rough wooden door framed in with stacked stone on either side. The door stuck in its jamb, but Bree freed it with a mighty jerk and they fell inside, damp-spotted but safe from the downpour that now commenced outside.

“Here.” Still breathless, Brianna gave the cap to Fanny. “I don’t think it’ll keep the rain out, though.”

Fanny shook her head, sneezed, giggled, and sneezed again.

“Where’s yours?” she asked, sniffing as she tucked her windblown curls back under the cap.

“I don’t like caps much,” Bree said, and smiled when Fanny blinked. “But I might wear one for cooking or doing something splashy. I wear a slouch hat for hunting, sometimes, but otherwise I just tie my hair back.”

“Oh,” Fanny said uncertainly. “I gueth—guess that’s why Mrs. Fraser—your mother, I mean—why she doesn’t wear them, either?”

“Well, it’s a little different with Mama,” Bree said, running her fingers through her own long red hair to untangle it. “It’s part of her war with”—she paused for a moment, wondering how much to say, but after all, if Fanny was now part of the family, she’d learn such things sooner or later—“with people who think they have a right to tell her how to do things.”

Fanny’s eyes went round.

“Don’t they?”

“I’d like to see anybody try,” Bree said dryly, and, having twisted her hair into an untidy bun, turned to survey the contents of the cellar.

She felt a rush of relief and reassurance, seeing at once that a good three-quarters of the shallow shelves were filled: potatoes, turnips, apples, yams, and the bright-green ovoids of slowly ripening pawpaws. Two large, lumpy burlap bags stood against the far wall, probably full of nuts of some kind (though surely local nuts hadn’t ripened yet? Perhaps her parents had traded for them …), and the cellar was filled with the sweet-wine scent of drying muscats, hung in clusters from the low ceiling to crinkle into raisins.

“Mama’s been busy,” she said, automatically turning the potatoes on one shelf as she selected a dozen to take. “I suppose you have, too,” she added, smiling at Fanny. “You helped gather all of this, I’m sure.”

Fanny looked down modestly but glowed a little.

“I dug up the turnips and some of the potatoes,” she said. “There were a lot growing in that place they call Old Garden. Under the weeds.”

“Old Garden,” Bree repeated. “Yes, I suppose so.” A shiver that had nothing to do with the chill of the root cellar rose up her neck and contracted her scalp. She’d heard about Malva Christie’s death in the garden. And the death of her unborn child. Under the weeds, indeed.

She glanced sidelong at Fanny, who was twisting an onion off its braid, but the girl showed no emotion about the garden; probably no one had told her—yet, Bree thought—about what had happened there, and why the garden had been abandoned to the weeds.

“Should we take more potatoes?” Fanny asked, dropping two fat yellow onions into the basket. “And maybe apples, for fritters? If it doesn’t stop raining, those men will stay the night. And we haven’t any eggs for breakfast.”

“Good idea,” Bree said, quite impressed at Fanny’s housewifely forethought. The remark turned her mind, though, to the mysterious visitors.

“What you said to Da—about one of the men being an officer. How did you know that?” And how did Da know you would know something like that? she added silently.

Fanny looked at her for a long moment, her face quite expressionless. Then she seemed suddenly to have made up her mind about something, for she nodded, as though to herself.

“I’ve seen them,” she said simply. “Lots of times. At the brothel.”

“At the—” Brianna nearly dropped the pawpaw she’d picked off the upper shelf. Her mother had told her about Fanny’s past, but she hadn’t expected Fanny to bring it up.

“Brothel,” Fanny repeated, the word clipped short. Bree had turned to look at her; she was pale, but her eyes were steady under her cap. “In Philadelphia.”

“I see.” Brianna hoped her own voice and eyes were as steady as Fanny’s, and tried to speak calmly, in spite of the inner, appalled voice saying, Jesus Lord, she’s only eleven or twelve now! “Did … um … Da—is that where he found you?”

Fanny’s eyes welled quite suddenly with tears, and she turned hurriedly away, fumbling with a shelf of apples.

“No,” she said in a muffled voice. “My—my sister … she … we … we wan away togevver.”

“Your sister,” Bree said carefully. “Where—”

“She’th dead.”

“Oh, Fanny!” She’d dropped the pawpaw, but it didn’t matter. She grabbed Fanny and held her tight, as though she could somehow smother the dreadful sorrow that oozed between them, squeeze it out of existence. Fanny was shaking, silently. “Oh, Fanny,” she said again, softly, and rubbed the girl’s back as she would have done for Jem or Mandy, feeling the delicate bones beneath her fingers.

It didn’t last long. After a moment, Fanny got hold of herself—Bree could feel it happen, a stopping, a drawing-in of the flesh—and stepped back, out of Bree’s embrace.

“It’s all right,” she said, blinking fast to keep more tears from coming. “It’s all right. She’s—she’s safe now.” She drew a deep breath and straightened her back. “After—after it happened, William gave me to Mr. Fraser. Oh!” A thought struck her and she looked uncertainly at Bree. “Do you—know about William?”

For a moment, Bree’s mind was completely blank. William? But suddenly the penny dropped, and she looked at Fanny, startled.

“William. You mean … Mr. Fraser’s … Da’s … son?” Saying the word brought him to life; the tall young man, cat-eyed and long-nosed like her, but dark where she was fair, speaking to her on the quay in Wilmington.

“Yes,” Fanny said, still a little wary. “I think—does that mean he’s your brother?”

“Half brother, yes.” Brianna felt dazed, and bent to pick up the fallen fruit. “You said he gave you to Da?”

“Yes.” Fanny took another breath and bent to pick up the last apple. Standing, she looked Bree straight in the eye. “Do you mind?”

“No,” Bree said, softly, and touched Fanny’s tender cheek. “Oh, Fanny, no. Not at all.”

JAMIE COULD SEE at once that the younger man was indeed a soldier. He thought the older one was not. And while the younger man took care to defer to Granger, Jamie thought that Partland had some ascendancy over the older—and richer—man. Or at least he thinks he does, he thought, smiling pleasantly as he poured wine for the visitors in his study. He didn’t much like Partland and was inclined to think the feeling was mutual, though he didn’t know why. Yet.

“Ye’ll stay ’til the morning, Mr. Granger?” he asked, with a wary glance at the ceiling. “Night’s falling, and the storm has the feel of a settled rain about it. Ye’ll not want to be feeling your way about the woods in the dreich dark.” The rain had begun to patter above, and he felt the mingled pride of a man with a sound ceiling built by himself, and the lingering fear that it might be not quite as sound as he hoped.

“We will, General,” Partland answered, “and my uncle and I thank you for your kind hospitality.” He lifted his cup in salute.

Granger looked somewhat taken back by this usurpation of his seniority, but the men exchanged a look, and whatever intelligence passed between them, it was effective. Granger relaxed, murmuring his own thanks.

“Ye’re very welcome, gentlemen,” Jamie said, sitting down behind his desk with his own cup. He’d had to fetch a stool from the kitchen for Partland, having only a single cane-bottomed chair for a guest in his study. At least he’d got the room walled in, so there was a sense of snug privacy, separated from the kitchen, where Claire—decently clad again—was apparently beating a recalcitrant piece of tough venison into edibility with a mallet.

“I must invite ye to call me Mr. Fraser, though,” he added, smiling to avoid any sense of rebuke. “I resigned my commission following Monmouth, and have no present association wi’ the Continental army.”

“Do you not, indeed?” Granger sat up a little, straightening his coat to hide the tear. “That’s modest of you, sir. I have usually found that any man who’s held a military post of any pretension clings to his title for life.”

Partland kept his face carefully blank; Jamie thought it was hiding a smirk, and felt a flicker of annoyance, but dismissed it.

“I canna say but what many officers deserve to keep their titles, sir, as the result of retirement following long and honorable service. I’m sure that’s the case with your friend Captain Cunningham, is it not?”

“Well … yes.” Granger looked somewhat abashed. “I apologize, Mr. Fraser, I meant no offense regarding your own choice in the matter of title.”

“None taken, sir. Have ye kent the captain for some time, then?”

“Why, yes, I have,” Granger said, relaxing a bit. “The captain greatly obliged me some years ago, by rescuing one of my ships from a French corsair, off Martinique. I called upon him with my thanks, and in the course of conversation discovered that we held many opinions in common. We became friends, and have kept up a correspondence for … gracious me, it must be twenty years now, at least.”

“Ah. Ye’re a merchant, then?” That explained the yellow silk lining the man’s coat, which had probably cost as much as the wardrobe for Jamie’s entire household.

“Yes. In the rum trade, mostly. But the present war has caused considerable difficulties, I’m afraid.”

Jamie made a noncommittal noise meant to indicate polite regret and a disinclination to engage in political discourse. Mr. Granger appeared quite willing to leave it at that, but Partland sat forward, putting his cup down on the desk.

“I trust you’ll pardon my impertinence … Mr. Fraser.” He smiled, without showing his teeth. “It’s just my curiosity, to be sure. What was the cause of your leaving Washington’s army, if I may ask?”

Jamie wanted to tell him he mightn’t, but he wanted to know things about Partland, too, so answered equably.

“General Washington appointed me as an emergency measure, sir—General Henry Taylor having died only a few days before the battle, and Washington requiring someone with experience to lead General Taylor’s militia companies. However, most of those companies were enlisted for only three months, and their enlistment expired very shortly following Monmouth. There was no longer any need for my services.”

“Ah.” Partland was regarding him quizzically, trying to decide whether to say what he had in mind. He did say it, though, and Jamie was surprised to find that he had been keeping a mental checklist, on which he now made a mark next to the word “Reckless.” Right under “Greasy as Goose Fat.”

“But surely the Continental army could find continued use for a soldier of your experience. From what I hear, they are scouring the armies of Europe for officers, no matter what their experience or reputation.”

Jamie made the same noise, slightly louder. Granger made an English version of the same thing, but Partland ignored them both.

“I had heard some talk—mere ill-natured gossip, I’m sure”—he waved a hand dismissively—“to the effect that you had left the field of battle before being relieved of your duty? And that this … contretemps? had somehow resulted in your resignation.”

“Gossip is somewhat better informed in this case than it usually is,” Jamie answered evenly. “My wife was badly wounded on the field—she is a surgeon, and was caring for the casualties—and I resigned my commission in order to save her life.”

And that’s all ye’re going to hear about it, a gobaire.

Granger cleared his throat again and looked reprovingly at his nephew, who sat back and picked up his cup with a negligent air, though still with a sidelong look. The muffled, regular blows of Claire’s mallet were audible through the uninsulated wall, somewhat slower than Jamie’s heartbeat, which had sped up noticeably.

Taking a deep breath to slow it down, he picked up the wine bottle, weighing it. Half full; enough to keep them going ’til supper.

“Would ye tell me something of the rum trade, sir?” he said, freshening Granger’s cup. “I worked for a time in Paris, dealing mostly in wine, but with a small trade in spirits as well. That was thirty-five years ago, though—I imagine a few things have changed.”

The atmosphere in the study eased, and the mallet blows stopped. Conversation became general and amiable. The roof wasn’t leaking. Jamie relaxed for the moment, sipping wine. He was going to have to talk to Bobby and Roger Mac about Captain Cunningham. Tomorrow.

BOBBY HIGGINS TURNED up on the doorstep just after noon the next day. He was dressed in a clean shirt and breeches, with his good waistcoat and a lace-trimmed neckcloth, which rather alarmed Jamie. This degree of fastidiousness meant Bobby was worried about something and hoped to placate the fury of the gods by means of plaited hair and starched cloth.

“Amy said Mrs. Goodwin told her that your sister said you wanted to speak with me, sir,” he said at once. He bobbed his head anxiously, eyes fixed on Jamie for any clue as to what might be coming.

“Och, that’s all right, Bobby,” Jamie said, stepping back and gesturing him in. “I only wanted to ask what ye might know about Captain Cunningham. A couple of fellows came by yesterday on their way to visit him.”

“Oh,” said Bobby, relaxing visibly. “The bad guys.”

“The what?”

“That’s what little Mandy called ’em,” Bobby said, holding his hand level by his thigh and about the height of Mandy’s head. “She said they looked like bad guys, and wanted me to go shoot them.”

Jamie smiled, not quite surprised at Mandy’s acute perceptions, but appreciating them.

“What did ye think of them yourself, Bobby?”

Bobby shook his head. “I didn’t see ’em. The little’uns were playing up by the springhouse and saw two strange men go by. They came home and told me, and I wondered aloud who they were, and Germain told me they were looking for Captain Cunningham. So that’ll be the same fellows, I expect.”

“I expect so. Will ye join me in a can of ale, Bobby?”

The ale was remarkably bad—Fanny and Brianna had made it—but it was strongly alcoholic, and they drank it without complaint, talking over the tenants and any concerns Bobby might have.

“I’m thinkin’ it’s maybe time we raised a militia company, Bobby,” Jamie said casually.

To his surprise, Bobby nodded soberly. “Past time, maybe, sir, if you’ll forgive me saying so.”

“I will,” Jamie said, wary. “But what makes ye say so?”

“Josiah Beardsley was by, two days ago, and told me that he’d seen a group of men in the forest between here and the Blowing Rock. Armed men—and he was sure that he’d seen at least one redcoat among them.” Bobby took a swig of beer and wiped his mouth, adding, “It’s not the first I’ve heard of such a group, but these men were closer than any I’ve heard of.”

“Aye,” Jamie said softly. He remembered what he’d told Brianna, when she’d told him about Rob Cameron, and the hairs prickled at the base of his spine. Someone will come. He doubted that these men had anything to do with the wicked buggers that had tried to kill his daughter in her own home and her own time—but these days, someone could be a threat, regardless.

“The sooner the better, then. Make me a list, will ye, Bobby? What kind of arms every man on the Ridge has to hand—whether it’s a musket or a scythe. Even a skinning knife will do.”

IN THE EVENT, it was Rachel who told him all about Captain Cunningham. He’d meant to lend Roger Mac and Richard MacNeill a hand with the rooftree of the new church, and had come by Ian’s cabin to see if the lad would come along. With four men, they could have half the roof on by sunset; it wasn’t a large building.

He found Rachel alone, though, peacefully churning butter on the porch of her cabin, aspen shadows fluttering over her like a cloud of transparent butterflies.

“Ian’s gone hunting with one of the Beardsleys, Jamie,” she told him, smiling, but not missing a stroke. “Thy sister has taken Oggy to visit Aggie McElroy—I think for the purpose of exhibiting him as a terrible example, in hopes of keeping Aggie’s youngest daughter from marrying the first young man who asks her.”

“That would be Caitriona?” he asked, running through his mental map of the Ridge. “She’s nay more than fourteen, surely?”

“Thirteen—but ripe, I believe. She’ll not wait long. No great sense in the girl,” she said, shaking her head. She drew breath and went on, “Though in fairness, it’s as much fear as lust or desire for novelty,” she added, gasping slightly, though her shoulders kept moving evenly. “She is the youngest, and … fears that she will be compelled … to remain unwed in order to care for her parents … as they grow elderly, if she does not escape … before they begin actually to dodder.”

Gordon McElroy was five years younger than himself, Jamie reflected, and Aggie maybe forty-five. He wondered whether he would notice if he was doddering or not.

“Ye’re a keen observer of human nature, lass,” he said, smiling.

“I am,” she said, smiling back. “Though I cannot claim much perception with regard to Caitriona … as she told me of her feelings herself.” Rachel had been working for some time; the day was warm, but sweat darkened the edge of her fichu, and her skin, normally the color of cream with a spoonful of coffee, had taken on a pink bloom.

On an impulse, he stepped up onto the porch beside her and, reaching out, took the handle of the churn, nudging her aside without missing a stroke.

“Sit, lassie,” he said. “Rest for a bit, and tell me if ye ken anything about Captain Cunningham.”

“Thee is much too tall for that churn,” she said, but sat down nonetheless on the edge of the porch, stretching out her legs and shrugging her shoulders with a sigh of relief.

“The butter will come soon,” he said. “Won’t it?” It had been a long time since he’d churned butter himself—perhaps … fifty years? That thought disturbed him, and he churned slightly faster.

“It will,” she said, turning her head to frown up at him. “But not unless thee goes more slowly.”

“Oh, aye.” He obediently slowed to her previous rhythm, enjoying the sense of the heavy liquid moving to and fro in the churn with a soft rhythmic slosh. “Have ye seen the captain at all?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, slightly surprised. “I met his mother a few weeks ago, soon after they came. In the forest, gathering comfrey. We talked for a bit, and I helped her to carry her baskets to her house. Her son was very kind, and offered me tea.” She raised an eyebrow to see whether he appreciated this bit of intelligence, which he did.

“I dinna suppose anyone in the backcountry has even seen tea in the last five years.”

“No,” she said thoughtfully. “He said that he has friends from his naval career who are so kind as to send him a small chest of tea and other dainties now and then.”

“Ye said ‘soon after they came’—when did they come?”

“At the end of April. Bobby Higgins told me that the captain told him that, like Odysseus, he had walked away from the sea with an oar on his shoulder until he came to a place where no one knew what it was—and having found such a place, proposed to stay, if he could.”

Jamie couldn’t help smiling at that.

“Does Bobby ken who Odysseus was?”

“He didn’t, but I told him a bit of the story and explained that the captain had been speaking metaphorically. The captain made Bobby rather nervous, I think,” she added delicately. “But there was no good reason to deny him—and he paid five years’ rent in advance. In cash.”

Any figure of government authority would make Bobby nervous, with the murderer’s brand on his face, this inflicted after a skirmish in Boston, where he was a soldier, had left a citizen dead.

“Seems that people tell ye a great many things, Rachel,” he said. She looked up at him, hazel-eyed and open-faced, and nodded.

“I listen,” she said simply.

She knew a number of small things regarding the Cunninghams, for she stopped now and then at their cabin when she’d been foraging in their vicinity—it was no more than a mile and a half—to share, if she had extra of something. None of the things she knew seemed unusual, though, save that Cunningham had confided to her a desire to preach.

“To preach?” Jamie nearly stopped churning, but a certain resistance reminded him that the butter was coming, and he continued. “Did he say why? Or how?”

“He did, evidently, when he was a sea captain. Preach to his men, I mean, on Sundays aboard his ship. I gather that he found it gratifying, and had a notion, when he retired, of becoming a lay preacher. He has no real idea of how that might be accomplished, but his mother assured him that God would find a way.”

The news of the captain’s desire to preach was surprising, but also something of a comfort. Still, he reminded himself, there were a good many preachers who would call down hellfire in the service of an army, and having a vocation to preach didn’t limit a man’s beliefs in other directions. It wasn’t likely that a retired sea captain of the British navy would have strong tendencies toward independency for the American colonies. And he didn’t think wee Frances’s observations regarding Mr. Partland were in any way mistaken.

“Did ye ken that Roger and Brianna called on them, and were shown the door for their trouble?” he asked. “I think the butter’s come.”

She rose, smoothing her dark hair back under her cap, and came to look. She took the churn handle, worked it a few times, and nodded.

“Yes. Brianna told me. I think,” she added delicately, “that perhaps Roger should try to speak with Friend Cunningham in the absence of his mother.”

“Perhaps he should.” He pulled off the top of the churn and they looked in, to see the flakes and clumps of pale-gold butter swimming in the cream.

19 Daylight Haunting

IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL day, and I had persuaded Jamie—with some difficulty—that the world would not end if he didn’t hang the door for the kitchen today. Instead, we collected the children and walked up through the woods toward Ian’s cabin, bearing small presents for Rachel, Jenny, and Oggy.

“What will ye wager me, Sassenach, that they’ve settled on a name for yon wee man?”

“What odds?” I said, diverted. “And are you betting that they have, or that they haven’t?”

“Five to two against. As to stakes …” He glanced round to see that our companions weren’t within hearing distance and lowered his voice. “Your drawers.”

My “drawers” were in fact the lower half of a planned pair of flannel pajamas, made with an oncoming winter in mind.

“And what on earth would you do with my drawers?”

“Burn them.”

“No bet. Besides, I don’t think they’ve chosen a name yet, either. The last suggestions I heard were Shadrach, Gilbert, and whatever the Mohawk might be for ‘Farts Like a Goat.’”

“Let me guess. It was Jenny suggested that last one?”

“Who would know goats better?”

Bluebell snuffled energetically through the layers of crackling leaves, tail moving to and fro like a metronome.

“Can you train that sort of dog to hunt for specific things?” I asked. “I mean, I know it’s called a coonhound, but plainly she isn’t looking for raccoons right now.”

“She’s no a coonhound, though I suppose she wouldna pass one up. What did ye want her to hunt for, Sassenach?” Jamie asked, smiling. “Truffles?”

“You need a pig for that, don’t you? And speaking of pigs … Jemmy! Germain! Keep an eye out for pigs, and watch Mandy!” The boys were squatting by a pine tree, picking bits of bark shaped like puzzle pieces off it, but at my call they looked vaguely round.

“Where is Mandy?” I shouted.

“Up there!” Germain called, pointing upslope. “With Fanny.”

“Germain, Germain, look, I got a thousand-legger! A big one!”

At Jem’s call, Germain instantly lost interest in the girls and squatted beside Jem, scrabbling dried leaves out of the way.

“Had I better go look, do you think?” I asked. “Millipedes aren’t venomous, but the big centipedes can have a nasty bite.”

“The lad can count,” Jamie assured me. “If he says it’s got a thousand legs, I’m sure it does—give or take a few.” He gave a short whistle and the dog looked up, instantly alert.

“Go find Frances, a nighean.” He flung out an arm, pointing uphill, and the dog barked once, agreeably, and bounded up the rocky slope, yellow leaves exploding under her eager feet.

“Do you think she—” I began, but before I could finish, I heard the girls’ voices above, mingled with Bluey’s excited yaps of greeting. “Oh. She does know who Frances is, then.”

“Of course she does. She kens all of us now—but she likes Frances best.” He smiled a little at the thought. It was true; Fanny adored the dog and spent hours combing her fur, taking ticks out of her ears, or curled up by the fire with a book, Bluebell comfortably snoring on her feet.

“Why do you always call her Frances?” I asked curiously. “Everybody else calls her Fanny—she calls herself that, for that matter.”

“Fanny is a whore’s name,” he replied tersely. Seeing my look of astonishment, though, his expression relaxed a bit. “Aye, I ken there are respectable women wi’ that name. But Roger Mac tells me Cleland’s novel is still in print in your time.”

“Cleland’s … oh, John Cleland, you mean—Fanny Hill?” My voice rose slightly, less in surprise that the famously pornographic Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure was still going strong 250 years on—some things never go out of style, after all—than at the fact that he’d been discussing it with Roger.

“And he tells me the word is a … vulgarism … for a woman’s privates,” he added, frowning.

“Well, it will be,” I admitted. “Or for someone’s bottom, depending whether you come from Britain or America. But it hasn’t got that meaning now, does it?”

“No,” he admitted reluctantly. “But still—Lord John told me once that ‘Fanny Laycock’ is a cant term for whore.” His brow furrowed. “I did wonder—her sister gave her name as Jane Eleanora Pocock. I thought it maybe wasna her real last name, but more a—a—”

“Nom de guerre?” I suggested dryly. “I shouldn’t wonder. Does ‘po’ mean a chamber pot, these days?”

“Pot de chambre?” he asked in surprise. “Of course it does.”

“Of course it does,” I murmured. “Putting that aside—if Pocock wasn’t her real last name, do you think Fanny—er, Frances—knows what the real one is?”

He shook his head, looking slightly troubled.

“I dinna like to ask her,” he said. “She hasna spoken again about—whatever it was that happened to her parents, has she?”

“Not to me. And if she’d told anyone else, I think they’d have mentioned it to you or me.”

“D’ye think she’s forgotten?”

“I think she doesn’t want to remember—which may not be the same thing.”

He nodded at that, and we walked in silence for a bit, letting the peace of the wood settle with the slow rain of falling leaves. I could hear the children’s voices under and over the rustle of the chestnut trees, like the calling of distant birds.

“Besides,” Jamie said, “William called her Frances. When he gave her to me.”

WE WALKED ON slowly, pausing now and then as I spotted something edible, medicinal, or fascinating, which required a stop every few feet.

“Oo!” I said, heading for a slash of deep, bloody red at the foot of a tree. “Look at that!”

“It looks like a slice of fresh deer’s liver,” Jamie said, peering over my shoulder. “But it doesna smell like blood, so I’m guessing it’s one of the things ye call shelf funguses?”

“Very astute of you. Fistulina hepatica,” I said, whipping out my knife. “Here, hold this, would you?”

He accepted my basket with no more than a slight roll of the eyes and stood patiently while I cut the fleshy chunks—for there was a whole nest of them hidden under the drifted leaves, like a set of crimson lily pads—free of the tree. I left the smaller ones to grow, but still had at least two pounds of the meaty mushroom. I packed them in layers of damp leaves, but broke off a small piece and offered it to Jamie.

“One side makes you taller, and one side makes you small,” I said, smiling.

“What?”

“Alice in Wonderland—the Caterpillar. I’ll tell you later. It’s said to taste rather like raw beef,” I said.

Muttering “Caterpillar” under his breath, he accepted the bit, turned it from side to side, inspecting it critically to be sure it harbored no insidious legs, then popped it in his mouth and chewed, eyes narrowed in concentration. He swallowed, and I relaxed a little.

“Maybe like verra old beef that’s been hung a long time,” he allowed. “But aye, a man could stomach it.”

“That’s actually a very good commendation for a raw mushroom,” I said, pleased. “If I had a few anchovies to hand, I’d make you a nice tartare sauce to go with it.”

“Anchovies,” he said thoughtfully. “I havena had an anchovy in years.” He licked his lower lip in memory. “I might find some, next time I go to Wilmington.”

I looked at him in surprise.

“Are you planning to go to Wilmington soon?”

“Aye, I thought I might,” he said casually. “D’ye want to come, Sassenach? I thought ye’d maybe be busy wi’ the preserving.”

“Hmpf.” While it was perfectly true that I ought to be spending every waking hour in picking, finding, catching, smoking, salting, or preserving food (when not grinding, infusing, or decocting medicines) … it was equally true that I ought to be replenishing our stocks of needles, pins, sugar—that was a good point, I’d need more sugar to be making the fruit preserves—and thread, to say nothing of other bits of household ironmongery and the medicines I couldn’t find or make, like ether.

And, if you came right down to it, wild horses couldn’t keep me from going with him. Jamie knew it, too; I could see the side of his mouth curling.

Before I could either gracefully accept his offer or poke him in the ribs, an unearthly yodel sounded through the trees, and Bluebell shot down the hill in front of us, all four children in hot pursuit, likewise baying.

“What was that about raccoons, Sassenach?” Jamie squinted toward the distant tree under which the hound had taken up residence, her front feet on the trunk, pointing her muzzle up into the branches and letting out ear-piercing howls.

Rather to my surprise, it was a raccoon, fat, gray, immense, and extremely irascible at being roused before nightfall. It filled a jagged hollow, halfway up a lightning-struck pine, and was peering out in a belligerent way. I thought it was growling, but nothing could be heard over the wild cries of dog and children.

Jamie hushed all of them—except the dog—and eyed the coon with a hunter’s natural avidity. So, I noticed, did Jem. Germain and Fanny had drawn close together, looking up wide-eyed at the raccoon, and Mandy was wrapped tightly round my leg.

“I don’t want it to bite me!” she said, clutching my thigh. “Don’t let it bite me, Grandda!”

“I won’t, a nighean. Dinna fash yourself.” Not taking his eyes off the treed raccoon, Jamie unslung the rifle from his back and reached for the shot pouch on his belt.

“Can I do it, Grandda? Please, can I shoot it?” Jem was itching to get his hands on the rifle, rubbing them up and down his breeches. Jamie glanced at him and smiled, but then his gaze shifted to Germain—or so I thought.

“Let Frances try, aye?” he said, and held out his hand to the startled girl. I rather expected her to recoil in horror, but after a moment’s hesitation, a glow rose in her cheeks and she stepped bravely forward.

“Show me how,” she said, sounding breathless. Her eyes flickered from gun to coon and back, as though fearing one or both would disappear.

Jamie normally carried his rifle loaded, but not always primed. He crouched on one knee and laid the gun along his thigh, handed her a half-filled cartridge, and explained how to pour the powder into the pan. Jem and Germain watched jealously, occasionally butting in with know-it-all remarks like, “That’s the frizzen, Fanny,” or “You want to hold it up close to your shoulder so it won’t break your face when it goes off.” Jamie and Fanny both ignored these helpful interjections, and I towed Mandy off to a safe distance and sat down on a battered stump, putting her on my lap.

Bluebell and the raccoon had continued their vocal warfare, and the forest rang with howling and a sort of high-pitched angry squealing. Mandy had put her hands dramatically over her ears but removed them to inquire whether I knew how to shoot a gun.

“Yes,” I said, avoiding any elaborations. I did technically know how, and had in fact discharged a firearm several times in my life. I’d found it deeply unnerving, though—the more so after I’d been shot myself at the Battle of Monmouth and understood the effects on a truly visceral level. I preferred stabbing, all things considered.

“Mam can shoot anything,” Mandy noted, frowning in disapproval at Fanny, who was now holding the wobbling weapon to her shoulder, looking simultaneously thrilled and terrified. Jamie crouched behind her, steadying the gun, his hand on hers, adjusting her grip and her sights, his voice a low rumble, barely audible under the racket.

“Go to your grannie,” he said to the boys, raising his voice. His eyes were fixed on the coon, which had fluffed itself to twice the normal size and was hurling insults at Bluebell, completely ignoring its audience. Jem and Germain reluctantly but obediently came to stand beside me, a safe distance away—or at least I hoped so. I repressed the urge to make them move farther off.

The gun went off with a sharp bang! that made Mandy scream. I didn’t, but it was a near thing. Bluey dropped to all fours and seized the raccoon, which had been knocked out of the tree by the shot. I couldn’t tell whether it was dead already, but she gave it a tremendous, neck-breaking shake, dropped the bloody carcass, and let out a high, warbling oo-hooo! of triumph.

The boys scrambled forward, yelling and pounding Fanny excitedly on the back. Fanny herself was openmouthed, stunned. Her face had gone pale, what could be seen of it behind a mottling of black powder smoke, and she kept looking from the gun in her hands to the dead raccoon, plainly unable to believe it.

“Well done, Frances.” Jamie patted her gently on the head and took the gun from her trembling hands. “Shall the lads gut and skin it for ye?”

“I … yeth. Yes. Please,” she added. She glanced at me, but instead of coming to sit down walked unsteadily over to Bluey and fell to her knees in the leaves beside the dog.

“Good dog,” she said, hugging the hound, who happily licked her face. I saw Jamie glance carefully at the dog as he stooped to pick up the blood-splotched carcass, but Bluey made no objection, merely woofling in her throat.

After the noise of the hunt—if one could call it that, and I supposed one could—the forest seemed abnormally silent, as though even the wind had stopped blowing. The boys were still excited, but they settled down to the absorbing business of skinning and gutting the raccoon, insisting that Fanny come admire their skill. With the loud part over, Mandy joined in enthusiastically, asking, “What’s that?” as each new bit of internal anatomy was revealed.

Jamie sat down by me, set the rifle at his feet, and relaxed, watching the children with a benevolent eye. I was less relaxed. I could still feel the echo of the rifle shot in my bone marrow, and was both surprised and disturbed at the feeling.

I looked away and breathed deep, trying to replace the bright smell of fresh blood with the mellower scents of the forest and the musk of fungi. That last thought made me glance down at my basket, where the fleshy raw red of the Fistulina hepatica showed in gashes through the layers of damp leaves. My gorge rose suddenly, and so did I.

“Sassenach?” Jamie’s voice came from behind me, startled. “Are ye all right?”

I was leaning against an aspen tree, gripping the paper-white trunk for support, trying not to hear the noises of disembowelment going on a few yards away.

“Fine,” I said, through numb lips. I closed my eyes briefly, opened them to see a trickle of half-dried sap running from a crack in the aspen’s trunk—the dark red of dried blood—let go, and sat down heavily in the leaves.

“Sassenach.” His voice was low, urgent, but pitched softly so as not to alarm the children. I swallowed heavily, once, twice, then opened my eyes.

“I’m all right,” I said. “A little dizzy, that’s all.”

“Ye’re as white as that tree, a nighean. Here …” He reached into his sporran and came out with a small flask. Whisky, and I gulped it gratefully, letting it fill my mouth and sear away the taste of blood.

Cries and laughter from the children—I glanced over his shoulder and saw that Bluey was rolling ecstatically in the discarded viscera, the white parts of her coat now stained a dirty brown. I leaned over and threw up, whisky and bile coming up the back of my nose.

“A Dhia,” Jamie muttered, dabbing at my face with his handkerchief. “Did ye eat any mushrooms yourself, lass? Are ye poisoned?”

I waved the cloth away, taking deep breaths.

“No. I’m all right. Truly.” I swallowed again. “Can I—” I reached for the flask, and he thrust it into my hand.

“Sip it,” he advised, and rising, went down to the children, whom he sorted in quick order. The meat and skin were packed into my basket, the remnants shoveled behind a tree out of my sight, and the children sent down to the distant creek with firm instructions to wash themselves and the dog.

“Your grannie’s a bit tired from the walk, mo leannan,” he said with a quick glance at me. “We’ll just rest here for a bit ’til ye come back. Amanda, stay by Frances and mind her, aye? And you lads keep a sharp eye out; it’s no a good idea to prance through the woods smelling o’ blood. Ye see any pigs, get the girls up a tree and sing out. Oh—ye’d best have this,” he said, picking up the rifle and handing it to Jem. “Just in case.” He gave Germain the shot pouch and watched as they made their way down the slope toward the sound of water, more subdued now but still giggling and arguing as they went.

“So, then.” He sat down beside me, eyeing me closely.

“Really, I’m all right,” I said—and I did in fact feel much better physically, though there was still a deep quiver in my bones.

“Aye, I can see ye are,” he said cynically. He didn’t push further, though, just sat beside me, forearms resting on his knees, relaxed—but ready for anything that might happen.

“Je suis prest,” I said, trying to smile despite the thin layer of cold sweat that covered my face. “I don’t suppose you have any salt in your sporran, do you?”

“Of course I do,” he said, surprised, and reaching in withdrew a small twist of paper. “Is it good when ye’re peely-wally?”

“Maybe.” I touched a finger to the salt and put a few grains on my tongue. The taste was cleansing, rather to my surprise. I followed it with a cautious sip of whisky and felt remarkably better.

“I don’t know why I asked,” I said, handing him back the twist. “Salt is supposed to lay ghosts, though, isn’t it?”

A faint smile touched his mouth as he looked at me.

“Aye,” he said. “So what’s haunting ye, Sassenach?”

It would have been easy to brush it off, ignore it. But quite suddenly, I couldn’t do that any longer.

“Why doesn’t the dog trouble you?” I said bluntly.

His face went blank for a moment, and he looked away, but only to think. He blinked once or twice, sighed, and turned back to me, with the air of one girding his loins for something unpleasant.

“She did,” he said quietly. “When I heard the howling that first night, I thought—well, ye’ll maybe ken what I thought.”

“That—perhaps her master had come with her? Had—maybe put her on your trail?” My own voice was little more than a whisper, but he heard me and nodded slowly.

“Aye,” he said, just as softly. I saw his throat move as he swallowed. “To think that I’d maybe brought something home …”

I swallowed, myself, but had to say it.

“You did.”

His eyes met mine and sharpened, a dark blue nearly black in the shade of the chestnuts. His mouth tightened, but he didn’t say anything for a minute.

“When she came alone,” he said at last, “and came to me, looking for shelter, for food … and then when the bairns took to her at once, and she to them …” He looked away, as though embarrassed. “I thought she maybe was sent, ken. As a—a sign of forgiveness. And maybe, by taking her in, I could …” He made a small helpless gesture with his maimed hand.

“Make it go away?”

He took a deep breath, and his fists flexed briefly, then relaxed.

“No. Forgiveness doesna make things go away. Ye ken that as well as I do.” He turned his head to look at me, in curiosity. “Don’t ye?”

There were no more than a few inches between us, but the aching distance between our hearts reached miles. Jamie was silent for a long time. I could hear my heart, beating in my ears …

“Listen,” he said at last.

“I’m listening.” He looked sideways at me, and the ghost of a smile touched his mouth. He held out a broad, pitch-stained palm to me.

“Give me your hands while ye do it, aye?”

“Why?” But I put my hands into his without hesitation, and felt his grip close on them. His fingers were cold, and I could see the hairs on his forearm ruffled with chill where he’d rolled up his sleeves to help Fanny with the gun.

“What hurts you cleaves my heart,” he said softly. “Ye ken that, aye?”

“I do,” I said, just as softly. “And you know it’s true for me, too. But—” I swallowed and bit my lip. “It—it seems …”

“Claire,” he interrupted, and looked at me straight. “Are ye relieved that he’s dead?”

“Well … yes,” I said unhappily. “I don’t want to feel that way, though; it doesn’t seem right. I mean—” I struggled to find some clear way to put it. “On the one hand—what he did to me wasn’t … mortal. I hated it, but it didn’t physically hurt me; he wasn’t trying to hurt me or kill me. He just …”

“Ye mean, if it had been Harley Boble ye met at Beardsley’s, ye wouldna have minded my killing him in cold blood?” he interrupted, with a tinge of irony.

“I would have shot him myself, on sight.” I blew out a long, deep breath. “But that’s the other thing. There’s what he—the man—do you know his name, by the way?”

“Yes, and you’re not going to, so dinna ask me,” he said tersely.

I gave him a narrow look, and he gave it right back. I flapped my hand, dismissing it for the moment.

“The other thing,” I repeated firmly, “is that if I’d shot Boble myself—you wouldn’t have had to. I wouldn’t feel that you were … damaged by it.”

His face went blank for a moment, then his gaze sharpened again.

“Ye think it damaged me to kill the man who took ye?”

I reached for his hand and held it.

“I bloody know it did,” I said quietly. And added in a whisper, looking down at the scarred, powerful hand in mine, “What hurts you cleaves my heart, Jamie.”

His fingers curled tight over mine. He sat with his head bent for a long moment, then lifted my hand and kissed it gently.

“It’s all right, mo chridhe,” he said. “Dinna fash. There’s another side to it. And one that’s nothing to do with you.”

“What’s that?” I asked, surprised. He squeezed my hand briefly and let it go, sitting back to look at me.

“I couldna let him live,” he said simply. “Whether he’d forced ye or no. Ye were there when Ian asked me what to do. I said, ‘Kill them all.’ Ye heard me, aye?”

“I did.” My throat was suddenly tight, and there was a band of iron around my chest, the taste of blood clotting my mouth and the fear of suffocation a blackness in my mind. The sense of that night seeped through me like cold smoke.

“I might have done that in rage—I did do it in a black rage—but I would have done the same was my blood as cold as ice.” He touched my face, smoothing back an escaped curl. “Do ye not see? Those men were brigands, and worse. To leave one of them alive would be to leave the root of a poisonous plant in the ground, to grow again.”

It was a vivid image—but so was my memory of that large, shambling man, wandering vaguely among the pigpens at Beardsley’s trading post where I’d seen him, afterward. Seeming so unlike the man who’d come out of the darkness, to smother me with the weight of his body …

“But he seemed so … feckless,” I said, with a helpless gesture. “How could someone like that even begin to assemble a—a gang?”

He stood up suddenly, unable to sit any longer, and paced restlessly to and fro in front of me.

“D’ye not see, Sassenach? Even was he a feckless dolt—he went places. Ye saw him talk wi’ the folk at Beardsley’s, no?”

“Yes,” I said slowly, “but—”

He stopped, glaring down at me.

“And what if he began to talk, one day, about how he’d ridden wi’ Hodgepile and the Browns, the things they’d done? What if he lost himself in drink, and boasted of how he’d—” He choked that off and took a deep breath. “About what he’d done to you.”

I felt as though I’d swallowed something cold and slimy. And still faintly alive. Jamie’s mouth compressed, looking at my face.

“I’m sorry, Sassenach,” he said quietly. “But it’s true. And I wouldna let that happen. Because of you. Because of me. But more … because if it was known that such a thing had happened—”

“It was known,” I said, my lips stiff. “It is known.” None of the men who had rescued me that night could have been in much doubt that I’d been raped, whether they knew which man—men—had done the act, or not. If they knew, their wives knew. No one had ever spoken to me of it, nor ever would, but the knowledge was there, and no way ever to make it go away.

“Because if it was known that such a thing had happened,” he repeated evenly, “and that any man who took part in it had been allowed to live … then anyone who lives under my protection would feel themselves helpless. And rightly so.”

He exhaled strongly through his nose, turning away.

“D’ye no remember that man—the one who called himself Wendigo?”

“Jesus.” Gooseflesh rippled over my shoulders and down my arms. I had forgotten. Not the man himself—he was a time traveler named Wendigo Donner—but his connection with the man we were discussing.

A member of Hodgepile’s gang, Donner had escaped into the darkness when Jamie and his men had rescued me—and months later had come back to the Ridge, with companions, to rob and kill, in search of the gemstones he knew we had. It was his attack on the Big House that had—indirectly—caused the conflagration that burned it to the ground, and his ashes were still mingled with the remains of our lives in that clearing.

Jamie was right. Donner had escaped and come back to try to kill us. To leave the lumpkin who’d raped me at large was to risk the same thing happening again. The realization of it sickened me. I had managed to put most of what had happened aside, dealing with the physical aspects as necessary, firmly quashing or refusing to remember the rest. But it was still there—all of it, turning like an evil prism to show things in a harsh new light. The light, I now realized, that Jamie always saw by.

And seeing now clearly myself, I clenched my belly muscles and forced my voice to be steady.

“What if he wasn’t the last of them?”

Jamie shook his head, not in negation, but resignation.

“It doesna matter, Sassenach. If there were others who escaped … most would be wise enough to leave and stay gone. But it doesna matter—another gang will spring up. It’s the way of things, aye?”

“Is it?” I thought he was right—I knew he was right, in terms of wars, governments, human foolishness in general. I just didn’t want to believe it was true of this place. This was home.

He nodded, watching my face, not without sympathy.

“Remember Scotland—the Watch?”

“Yes.” The Watches, he might have said, for there were many. Organized gangs, who extorted money for protection—but sometimes gave that protection. And if they didn’t get their money—black rent, it was called—might burn your house or crops. Or do worse.

I thought of the cabin Jamie and Roger had found, a burnt shell, with the owners hanged from a tree before the house—and a young girl alive in the ashes, so badly burnt that she couldn’t live. We never discovered who had done it.

Jamie could see the thoughts cross my face. I might as well have a neon sign on my forehead, I thought crossly, and evidently he saw that one, too, for he smiled.

“There’s no law now, Sassenach,” he said. “Not wi’ the government gone.” There was neither fear nor passion in that statement—it was merely the truth of the matter.

“There never has been, up here. None but you, I mean.” That made him laugh, but I was just as right as he was.

“I didna come to rescue you alone, aye? That night?”

“No,” I said slowly. “You didn’t.” All the able-bodied men on the Ridge had answered his call for help and come out to follow him. Very much as his clansmen would have followed him to war, had we been in Scotland.

“So,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Those are the men you mean to … er … gang oot with?”

He nodded, looking thoughtful.

“Some of them,” he said slowly, and then glanced at me. “It’s different now, a nighean. There are men who were with me that night who willna follow me now, because they’re King’s men—Tories and Loyalists. The men who’ve kent me longest dinna mind so much that I was a rebel general—but there are a good many new tenants who dinna ken me at all.”

“I’m not sure that ‘Rebel General’ is a title you can lose,” I said.

“No,” he said, and smiled, though not with much humor. “Not without turning my coat. Aye, well.” He got to his feet and reached down a hand to pull me up in a rustle of leaves. “I’ve been a traitor for a long time, Sassenach, but I’d rather not be a traitor to both sides at once. If I can help it.”

Shouts and barking rang out from the trail above; the children had reached Ian’s house. We hurried after them and said no more of gangs, treason, or fat men in the dark.

20 I Bet You Think This Song Is about You …

NO ONE WENT TO the Old Garden, as the family called it. The people on the Ridge called it the Witch-child’s Garden, though not often in my hearing. I wasn’t sure whether “witch-child” was meant to refer to Malva Christie herself or to her baby boy. Both of them had died in the garden, in the midst of blood—and in my company. She had been no more than nineteen.

I never said the name aloud, but to me, it was Malva’s Garden.

For a time, I hadn’t been able to go up to it without a sense of waste and terrible sorrow, but I did go there now and then. To remember. To pray, sometimes. And frankly, if some of the more hidebound Presbyterians of the Ridge had seen me on some of these occasions, talking aloud to the dead or to God, they would have been quite sure they had the right name, but the wrong witch.

But the woods had their own slow magic and the garden was returning to them, healing under grass and moss, blood turning to the crimson bloom of bee balm, and its sorrow fading into peace.

Despite the creeping transformation, though, some remnants of the garden remained, and small treasures sprang up unexpectedly: there was a stubbornly thriving patch of onions in one corner, a thick growth of comfrey and sorrel fighting back against the grass, and—to my intense delight—several thriving peanut bushes, sprung up from long-buried seeds.

I’d found them two weeks before, the leaves just beginning to yellow, and dug them up. Hung them in the surgery to dry, plucked the dry peanuts from the tangle of dirt and rootlets, and roasted them in the shell, filling the house with memories of circuses and baseball games.

And tonight, I thought, tipping the cooled nuts into my tin shelling basin, we’d have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for supper.

THERE WAS A breeze on the porch, and I was grateful for it on my face after the heat of sun and hearth. Also a little welcome solitude: Bree had gone with Roger to call upon the tenants I still thought of as the fisher-folk—emigrants from Thurso, a dour lot of rock-ribbed Presbyterians who were deeply suspicious of Jamie as a Catholic, and much more of me. I was not only a Catholic but a conjure-woman, and the combination unsettled them to no little degree. They did like Roger, though, in a grudging sort of way, and the liking seemed reciprocal. He understood them, he said.

The children had done their chores and were scattered to the four winds; I heard their voices now and then, giggling and shrieking in the woods behind the house, but God only knew what they were doing. I was just pleased that they weren’t doing it right in front of me.

Jamie was in his study, enjoying his own solitude. I’d passed by, carrying my big basin of peanuts outside, and seen him leaning back in his chair, spectacles on his nose, deeply absorbed in Green Eggs and Ham.

I smiled at the thought, and pulled off the ribbon to loosen my hair so the cool breeze could blow through it.

We’d lost nearly all of our books in the fire that consumed the Big House, but were beginning to build up our tiny library again. Brianna’s contributions had nearly doubled it. Aside from the books she’d brought—and thought of my precious Merck Manual still gave me a small thrill of possession—we had Jamie’s small green Bible, a Latin grammar, The Complete Adventures of Robinson Crusoe (lacking a cover, but retaining most of its vivid illustrations), and Jonathan Swift’s Travels into Several Remote Nations of the World. In Four Parts. By Lemuel Gulliver, First a Surgeon, and then a Captain of Several Ships, plus the odd novel in French or English.

The shells cracked easily, but the dry skins of the peanuts inside were light and papery and clung to my fingers. I’d been brushing them off on my skirt, which now looked as though I’d been attacked by a horde of pale-brown moths. I wondered whether Bree might borrow something interesting to read while she was house-visiting with Roger. Hiram Crombie, the headman of the Thurso folk, was a reading man, though his taste ran to collections of sermons and historical accounts; he thought novels depraved. He did have a copy of The Aeneid, though—I’d seen it.

Jamie had sent a letter to his friend Andrew Bell, an Edinburgh printer and publisher, asking him to send a selection of books, including copies of his own A Grandfather’s Tales and my modest version of do-it-yourself household medicine, applying such monies as might have accrued to us in sales during the last two years toward the purchase of the other books in the order. I wondered when—and whether—those might arrive. So far as I knew, the British still held Savannah, but Charles Town remained in American hands; if Mr. Bell was prompt about it, there was hope of a late ship showing up book-laden before the winter storms.

Footsteps behind me interrupted my literary thoughts and I turned to see Jamie, barefoot and rumpled, tucking his spectacles back into his sporran.

“Enjoying your reading?” I asked, smiling.

“Aye.” He sat down beside me and picked a peanut out of the basin, cracked it, and tossed the nuts into his mouth. “Brianna says Dr. Seuss made a good many books. Have ye read them all, Sassenach?” He pronounced it “Soyce,” in correct German, and I laughed.

“Oh, yes. Many times. Bree had the whole set—or at least as many as were published then. I suppose she and Roger might have bought more for Jem and Mandy, if Dr. Seuss—the Americans say his name ‘Soos,’ by the way—if he went on writing. I don’t know how long he lived—will live,” I corrected. “He was still at it in 1968.”

He nodded, a little wistful.

“I wish I could see them,” he said. “But maybe Brianna will remember some o’ the rhymes, at least.”

“Ask Jem,” I suggested. “Bree says he’s read to Mandy since she was a baby, and he has an excellent memory.” I laughed, thinking of some of the Seuss illustrations. “Ask Bree if she can draw Horton the Elephant or Yertle the Turtle for you, from memory.”

“Yertle?” His face lighted with humor. “That’s no a real name, is it?”

“No, but it rhymes with ‘turtle.’” I cracked another nut and tossed the bits of shell into the grass.

“So does Myrtle,” he pointed out.

“Yes, but Yertle is a boy. No female turtle would have done what he did.”

Jamie was diverted; he paused with his hand in the basin.

“What did he do?”

“Made all of the turtles in Sala-ma-Sond build themselves into a tower so he could be King of all that he saw by sitting on top of them. It’s an allegory about arrogance and pride. Not that females aren’t capable of those emotions—just that they wouldn’t do anything so easily illustrated.”

Jamie picked up a handful of peanuts and crushed them absentmindedly, nodding.

“Aye? And what sort of allegory is yon Green Eggs and Ham?” he demanded.

“I think it’s intended to urge children not to be fussy about what they eat,” I said dubiously. “Or not to be afraid of trying new th— What are you doing?” For he’d dropped his handful of crushed peanuts into the basin, shells and all.

“Helping you,” he said, taking another handful. “You’ll be about that all day, Sassenach, doing it one at a time.” He crushed the second handful and dropped it, debris and all, into the basin.

“But picking all the shells out of there will—”

“We’ll winnow them,” he interrupted, turning and pointing with his chin toward the distant flank of Roan Mountain. “See the wind walkin’ down through the trees? There’s a storm a-boil.”

He was right: clouds were gathering behind the peak; the patches of pale aspen on the slope flickered as the rising wind touched their leaves, and the pines rippled in deep-green waves. I nodded and picked up several nuts to crush between my palms.

“Frank,” Jamie said abruptly, and I stopped dead. “Speakin’ of books …”

“What?” I said, not at all sure I’d just heard him say “Frank.” He had, though, and a small sense of unease coiled up at the base of my spine.

“I need ye to tell me something about him.” His attention was fixed on the basin of peanuts, but he wasn’t being casual about it.

“What?” I said again, but in an entirely different tone. I brushed peanut skins slowly off my skirts, my eyes on his face. He still wasn’t looking at me, but his mouth compressed briefly as he crushed a fresh handful.

“The picture of him on his book—the photograph. I was only wondering, how old was he when that likeness was made?”

I was surprised, but considered.

“Let me see … he was sixty when he died …” Younger than I am now … My lower lip tucked in for a moment, quite involuntarily, and Jamie looked at me sharply. I looked down and brushed away more peanut fragments.

“Fifty-nine. He had that photograph taken for that particular book cover; I remember, because he’d used the same photograph—a different, older one, I mean—for at least six books before that, and he joked that he didn’t want people meeting him for the first time to be looking over his shoulder for a man half his age.” I smiled a little, remembering, but met Jamie’s eyes, feeling slightly wary. “Why do you ask?”

“I used to wonder—sometimes—what he looked like.” He looked down and reached into the basin, but with the air of a man looking for something distracting to do. “When I’d pray for him.”

“You prayed for him?” I didn’t try to hide the amazement in my voice, and he glanced at me, then away.

“Aye. I—well, what else could I do for anybody then, but pray?” There was a tinge of bitterness to this; he heard it himself and cleared his throat. “‘God bless you, ye bloody Englishman!’ is what I’d say. At night, ken, when I thought of you and the bairn.” His mouth tightened for an instant, then relaxed. “I’d wonder what the bairn looked like, too.”

I reached out and closed my hand on his wrist, big and bony, his skin cold from the wind. He stopped crushing nuts and I squeezed his wrist, gently. He let out his breath and his shoulders relaxed a little.

“Does Frank look like you thought he did?” I asked curiously. I took my hand off his wrist and he picked up another handful of peanuts.

“No. Ye never told me what he looked like …” For bloody good reason. And you never asked, I thought. Why now?

He shrugged, and the twitch returned to his mouth, but now with a hint of humor.

“I liked thinkin’ of him as a short-arsed wee man, maybe losing his hair and soft round the middle.” He glanced at me and shrugged. The twitch had returned again. “I thought he was intelligent, though—ye wouldna have loved a stupid man. And I got the spectacles right. Though I thought they’d have gold rims, not black. Horn, are they? Or dark tortoiseshell?”

I gave a small, amused snort. Still, the sense of unease was back.

“Plastic. And no, he wasn’t stupid.” Not at all. And gooseflesh rippled briefly across my shoulders.

“Was he an honest man?” A soft crunch, the patter of peanuts and broken shells into the tin basin. The air was beginning to smell of oncoming rain and the rich, oily sweetness of peanuts.

“In most ways,” I said slowly, watching Jamie. His head was bent over the basin, intent on his work. “He kept secrets. But so did I.” Love has room for secrets—you said that to me once. I didn’t think there was room between us now for anything but the truth.

He made a small Scottish sound in the back of his throat; I couldn’t tell what he meant by it. He dropped the last handful of mangled shell into the basin and looked up to meet my eyes.

“Can I trust him, do ye think?” The clouded sky was still bright, and he was dark against it, wisps of hair flying free around his head. I shivered briefly, and my stomach shrank with the absurd but absolute conviction that someone was standing behind me.

“What do you mean?” I was on edge, and it showed in my voice. “You did trust him, didn’t you? With—us. Me and Brianna.”

“I hadn’t a choice about that, aye? Now I do.” He straightened, rubbing his palms together, and the last fragments of peanut skin whirled away in the strengthening wind.

I drew a deep breath to keep my voice from shaking, and brushed bits of shell off my bodice. “Now you do? You mean you’re wondering whether you can believe what he wrote in that book?”

“I am.”

“He was an historian,” I said firmly, refusing to turn my head and look behind me. “He wouldn’t—he couldn’t—falsify anything, any more than Roger could change what’s in the Bible. Or you tell me a deliberate lie.”

“And you of all people ken what history is,” he said bluntly, and stood up, knees cracking. “As for lying … everyone does that, Sassenach, if not often. I’ve certainly done it.”

“Not to me,” I said. It wasn’t a question and he didn’t answer it.

“Fetch a bowl, aye?”

He picked up the basin and moved out into the yard, where the wind caught at his shirt and belled the cloth out behind him. The clouds were boiling up behind the mountains, and the smell of rain was sharp on the wind. It wouldn’t be long.

I stood, feeling very strange, and turned. The front door was standing open, empty, its canvas covering pushed aside. I felt the wind whoosh past me, moving in my skirts, and heard it go down the hall and into the rooms before me, rattling the small glass jars in my surgery, flapping papers in Jamie’s study.

On my way to the kitchen, I glimpsed Frank’s book, lying on the table in Jamie’s study, and on impulse—glancing involuntarily over my shoulder, though I was quite alone—I stepped in.

The Soul of a Rebel: The Scottish Roots of the American Revolution. By Franklin W. Randall, PhD.

Jamie had left the book open, facedown. He never treated books like that. He would use anything for a bookmark—leaves, bird’s feathers, a hair ribbon … once I had opened a book he was reading to find the small dried body of a skink that someone had stepped on. But he always closed a book, careful of the binding.

Frank stared up at me from the back cover, calm and inscrutable. I touched his face, very gently, through the clear plastic cover, with a feeling of distant grief, regret mingled with—why not be honest now? There was no need to keep secrets from myself—relief. It was finished.

Oddly, the feeling of someone standing behind me had vanished when I came into the house.

I picked the book up to close it, and glanced inside as I did so. Chapter 16, said the title at the top of the page. Partisan Bands.

I fetched the big creamware bowl Jamie had brought me from Salem and took it outside, not glancing at the book—now properly closed on the desk—but well aware of it.

Jamie began the winnowing, taking a handful from the basin, pouring the mix of peanuts and debris from one hand to the next and back again, letting the bits of shell and skin fly away as the heavier peanuts dropped with a small ting-ting-ting! into the bowl. The wind was strong enough—it would be too strong in a bit, and start blowing away the nuts as well. I sat down on the ground by the bowl and began to pick out any last fragments of shell that had fallen with the cleaned nuts.

“You’ve read the book, then?” I asked after a moment, and he nodded, not looking at me. “What do you think of it?”

He made another Scottish noise, shook the last of the peanuts clinking into the bowl, and sat down on the grass beside me.

“I think the bastard wrote it for me, is what I think,” he said bluntly.

I was startled. “For you?”

“Aye. He’s talking to me.” He raised one shoulder, self-conscious. “Or at least I think he is. Between the lines. I mean … it might only be as I’m losin’ my mind. That’s maybe more likely. But …”

“Talking to you … as in, the, um, text seems personally relevant?” I asked carefully. “It couldn’t help but be, could it? Given where and when we are just now, I mean.”

He sighed and twitched his shoulders, as though his shirt was too tight—which it wasn’t; it was billowing over his shoulders like a sail in the wind. I hadn’t seen him do that in a long time, and a crawling anxiety tightened my chest.

“He’s—it’s—” He shook his head, looking for words. “He’s talking to me,” he repeated doggedly. “He kens who I am—who I am,” he said with emphasis and looked at me, his eyes dark blue. “He kens it’s the Scotsman that took his wife from him and he’s talkin’ directly to me. I can feel him, as if he stood behind me, whispering in my ear.” I flinched, violently, and he blinked, startled.

“That sounds … unpleasant,” I said. The tiny hairs prickled along my jaw.

The corner of his mouth turned up. He stopped what he was doing and took my hand, and I felt better.

“Well, it’s a mite unsettling, Sassenach. I dinna mind it, exactly—I mean, surely to God he has the right to say things to me if he likes. It’s only … why?”

“Well …” I said slowly. “Maybe … perhaps … for us?” I nodded toward the distant creek, where Jem and Germain and Mandy and Fanny were evidently catching leeches, with a good deal of shrieking. My lips felt dry, and I licked them briefly.

“I mean—we think, don’t we, that he found out? About you not dying, I mean. And maybe that he knew or guessed that Bree would come back looking for you. Maybe he … found me, too. In history, I mean.” Speaking the words made me feel quite hollow. The thought of Frank discovering something—God knew what—about me in the maelstrom of scattered documents. And making up his mind—while I was still right there with him, dammit!—not to tell me—and to find out more.

“He hasn’t—mentioned me, has he? In the book?” I forced the words out, just above the sound of the wind. A cold drop struck my cheek, and four large dark spots appeared instantly on my apron.

“No,” Jamie said, and rose to his feet, reaching down a hand to me. “Come inside, a nighean, it’s starting to rain.”

We barely made it into the house with the basin, the bowl, and our peanut crop—followed in short order by Germain, Jemmy, Fanny, Mandy, Aidan McCallum, and Aodh MacLennan, splattered with rain and with arms full of wet vegetables from the garden.

What with one thing and another—grinding the peanuts, putting the risen bread to bake, washing dirt from the young turnips, saving the greens in a bowl of cold water to keep them from wilting, handing fresh small knobby carrots out to the children, who ate them like candy, then slicing the fresh bread and assembling sandwiches, while roasting sweet potatoes in the ashes and making a warm bacon dressing for the cooked greens—there was no further conversation between me and Jamie about Frank’s book. And if anyone stood behind me, he was considerate enough to give me elbow room.

IT WENT ON raining through supper, and after ascertaining that the McCallums and the MacLennans wouldn’t be worrying where their boys were, Jamie brought down the mattresses and all of the children bedded down together in a damp, warm heap before the hearth.

Jamie had made a fire in our bedroom, and the scent of dried fir kindling and hickory wood overlaid the lingering turpentine scent of the fresh timbers. He was lying on the bed, clad in his nightshirt and smelling pleasantly of warm animals, cold hay, and peanut butter, and thumbing idly through my Merck Manual, which I’d left on the bedside table.

“Trying the Sortes Virgilianae, are you?” I asked, sitting down beside him and shaking my hair loose from its knot. “Most people use the Bible for that, but I suppose Merck might do just as well.”

“Hadna thought of that,” he said, smiling, and closing the book, handed it to me. “Why not? You choose, then.”

“All right.” I weighed the book in my hands for a moment, enjoying the tidy heft of it and the feel of the pebbled cover under my fingertips. I closed my eyes, opened the book at random, and ran my finger down the page. “What have we got?”

Jamie took his spectacles off and leaned over my arm, peering at the spot I’d marked.

“The symptomology of this condition is both varied and obscure, requiring extensive observation and repeated testing before a diagnosis can be made,” he read. He glanced up at me. “Aye, well, that’s about the size of it, no?”

“Yes,” I said, and closed the book, feeling obscurely comforted. Jamie gave a mild snort, but took the book from me and put it back on the table.

“Ye can take the extensive observations as given,” he said dryly. “Repeated testing, though …” His expression changed, turning inward. “Aye, maybe. Just maybe. I’ll need to think on that.”

“Do,” I said, made slightly nervous by his look of interested contemplation. I had no idea how one might go about testing a hypothesis like his—or perhaps I did. I swallowed.

“Do you … want me to read it?” I asked. “Frank’s book?” The notion of reading The Soul of a Rebel—Frank’s final book—gave me a feeling that I would have formally diagnosed with no tests whatsoever as the heebie-jeebies. And that, without considering Jamie’s notion that Frank had somehow intended the book as a personal message to him.

He looked at me, startled.

“You? No.”

An outburst of giggling and minor shrieking rose suddenly from below. Jamie made a Scottish noise, got up, and pulled his boots on. Raising an eyebrow at me, he stepped out into the hall and walked slowly toward the head of the stairs, clumping loudly. As he reached the fourth stair, the noise below ceased abruptly. I heard a faint snort of amusement, and he went down quickly. I could hear his voice in the kitchen, and a meek chorus of assent from the children, but made out only the odd word here and there. Another minute, and he came briskly up the stairs again.

“Is the MacLennans’ little boy actually named ‘Oogh’?” I asked curiously, as he sat down to take off his boots.

“Aodh, aye,” he said, pronouncing it with a slightly more guttural sound at the end, but still identifiably “Oogh.” “Were we speakin’ English, I expect his name would be Hugh. Here, Sassenach.” He handed me a linen towel from the kitchen, wrapped around what proved to be a delectably fragrant peanut butter sandwich on fresh-baked bread with blackberry jelly.

“Ye didna get your fair share at supper,” he said, smiling at me. “Ye were too busy filling all the wee mouths. So I put one aside for ye, on top of your herb cabinet. Recalled it just now.”

“Oh …” I closed my eyes and inhaled beatifically. “Oh, Jamie. This is wonderful!”

He made a pleased sound in his throat, poured me a cup of water, and sat back, hands clasped about his knees, watching me eat. I reveled in every sweet bite, chunky bits of peanut, blackberry seeds, and chewy, grainy bread included, and swallowed the last of it with a sigh of satisfaction and regret.

“Did I ever tell you that I brought a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with me, when I came back through the stones?”

“No, ye didn’t. Why that?”

Why, indeed?

“Well … I think it was because it reminded me of Brianna. I made her peanut butter sandwiches so often, for her school lunches. She had a Zorro lunch box, with a little thermos in it.”

Jamie’s eyebrows went up. “Zorro? A Spanish fox?”

I waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll tell you about him later. You would have liked him. I didn’t take a lunch box, though; I just wrapped my sandwich in a sheet of—of plastic.”

Jamie’s brows were still raised. “Like the stuff Mr. Randall’s spectacles were made of?”

“No, no.” I flapped my hand, trying to think how to describe Saran Wrap. “More like … like the transparent cover on his book—that’s plastic, too—but lighter. Sort of like a very light, transparent handkerchief.” I felt a pang of nostalgia, remembering that day.

“It was when I came to Edinburgh, looking for A. Malcolm, Printer. I was feeling light-headed—with fright, mostly—so I sat down, unwrapped my sandwich, and ate it. I thought then that it was the last peanut butter sandwich I’d ever eat. It was the best thing I ever ate. And when I finished it, I let the bit of plastic go; there was no point in keeping it.” In my mind’s eye, I could see it now, the fragile clear plastic crumpling, unfolding, rising, and scudding along the cobblestones, lost out of time.

“I rather felt the same way,” I said, and cleared my throat. “Lost, I mean. I wondered, then, whether someone might find it, and what they might think of it. Probably nothing beyond a moment’s curiosity.”

“I daresay,” he murmured, reaching with a corner of the towel to wipe a smear of jelly off my mouth, then kissing me. “But then ye found me, and ye weren’t lost anymore, I hope?”

“I wasn’t. I’m not.” I rested my head on his shoulder, and he kissed my forehead.

“The bairns are settled, Sassenach. Come to bed wi’ me, aye?”

I did, and we made love slowly, by the light of the embers, with the sound of the wind and the rain rushing past in the night outside.

Sometime later, on the edge of sleep, my hand on the warm round of Jamie’s buttock, I thought of Frank’s face; his photograph, drifting through my mind—those familiar hazel eyes behind the black-rimmed glasses. Earnest, intelligent, scholarly … honest.

21 Lighting a Fuse

THEY SMELLED IT FIRST. Brianna felt her nose twitch at the mingled stench of urine and sulfur. Beside her on the wagon bench, reins in hand, her father coughed. With a fine coating of charcoal dust …

“Mama says it’s got medicinal purposes—or at least some people used to think it had.”

“What, gunpowder?” He spared her a sideways glance, but most of his attention was focused on the small cluster of buildings that had just come into view, charmingly situated at a bend in the river.

“Mm-hmm. A little Gun-powder tyed up in a rag, and held so in the mouth, that it may touch the aking tooth, instantly easeth the pains of the teeth. Nicholas Culpeper, 1647.”

Her father grunted.

“That likely works. Ye’d be too busy trying to decide whether to vomit or cough to be worrit about your teeth.”

Someone heard the rattle of the wagon wheels. Two men who had been smoking pipes near the river—a safe distance from the buildings, she noted—turned to stare at them. One tilted his head, estimating, but evidently decided they were worth talking to; he tapped the dottle from his pipe into the water and, putting the long-stemmed clay pipe into his belt, strolled toward the road, followed by his companion.

“Ho, there!” the first man called, waving. Jamie pulled the horses to a stop and waved back.

“Good afternoon to ye, sir. I’m Jamie Fraser, and this is my daughter, Mrs. MacKenzie. We’re seeking to buy powder.”

“I’d expect ye are,” the man said, rather dryly. “Nobody’d come here for any other reason.” Irish, she thought, smiling at him.

“Oh, that ain’t true, John.” His friend, a stocky man of thirty or so, nudged him amiably in the ribs, grinning at Brianna. “Some of us come to drink your wine and smoke your tobacco.”

“John Patton, sir,” the Irishman said, ignoring his friend. He offered Jamie his hand, and having shaken it invited them to drive in beside the stone building nearest the water.

“It’s the least likely to blow up,” the other man—who had introduced himself as Isaac Shelby—said, laughing. Brianna noticed that John Patton didn’t laugh.

The stone building was a mill. A constant dull rumble came through the walls, beneath the plash of the waterwheel, and the smell was quite different here: damp stone, waterweed, and a faint smell that reminded her of doused campfires and rain on the ashes of a burnt place in the forest. It gave her an odd quiver, low in her belly.

Her father got down and set about unhitching the horses; he gave her an eye and tilted his head toward one of the ramshackle sheds higher up the bank, where three people were standing in a group, evidently arguing about something. One of them was a woman, and her posture—arms folded and head bent, but in a way that suggested not submission, but a barely restrained urge to butt her interlocutor in the nose—argued that here was The Boss.

Brianna nodded and set off toward the shed, aware from the sudden silence behind her that either Mr. Patton, Mr. Shelby, or both were eyeing her rear aspect. Not that they’d see much; she was wearing a hunting shirt that came nearly to her knees, but the mere fact that she had on breeches under it …

She heard Shelby cough suddenly, and deduced that he’d just met her father’s eye.

“Jamie Fraser,” she heard Shelby say, trying for nonchalance. “I know a good many Frasers. Would you be from up around the Nolichucky?”

“No, we have a place near the Treaty Line in Rowan County,” her father said. “It’s called Fraser’s Ridge.”

“Ah! Then I’ll know you, sir!” Shelby sounded relieved. “Benjamin Cleveland told me of meeting you. He—”

The voices behind her faded as the group near the shed noticed her. All of them looked startled, but the woman’s look changed almost immediately into a dour amusement.

“Good day to ye, Missus,” she said, openly eyeing Brianna’s hunting clothes. She was about Brianna’s age and wearing a canvas apron, much worn and stained, with small blackened holes where sparks appeared to have fallen. The dark-brown skirt and long-sleeved man’s shirt beneath were rough homespun, though fairly clean. “What might I be doin’ for ye?”

“I’m Brianna MacKenzie,” Bree said, wondering whether she ought to offer a hand to shake. Mrs. Patton—for surely she had to be—didn’t extend one, so Brianna contented herself with a cordial nod. “My father and I are, um, seeking to buy some gunpowder. Are you by chance Mrs. Patton?” she added, as the woman made no move to introduce herself.

The lady in question glanced over her shoulder, then slowly gazed round from side to side, as though looking for someone. One of the young men she’d been arguing with giggled, but shut up sharp when Mrs. Patton’s eye fell on him.

“I don’t know who else I’d be,” she said, but not unpleasantly. “What make of powder are ye after, and how much?”

That stopped Brianna cold for a moment. She knew absolutely nothing about makes of powder—or even how to refer to them. What she wanted to know was how to make the stuff in quantity and with a reasonable degree of safety.

“Powder for hunting,” she said, opting for simplicity. “And maybe something for … blowing up stumps?”

Mary Patton blinked, then laughed. The two young men joined her.

“Stumps?”

“Well, ye could set one on fire, I suppose, if ye touched off a bit of powder on top of it,” the elder of the young men said, smiling at her. The “on top” triggered belated realization, and she smacked her head in annoyance.

“Bloody hell,” she said. “Of course—you’d have to shape the charge. So … more something like a grenade, then.”

Mrs. Patton’s rather square face shifted instantly to surprise, and just as swiftly to wary calculation.

“Grenadoes, is it?” she said, and looked Brianna over with more interest. Then she glanced beyond Bree, and realization came into her eyes.

“Yer father, is it? That him?”

“Yes.” The woman was staring in a way that made Bree turn to look over her own shoulder. Her father had taken the horses down the bank to drink and was standing on the gravel there, talking to Mr. Shelby. He’d taken his hat off in order to splash water on his face, and the sun was sparking off his hair, which, while streaked with silver, was still overall a noticeable red.

“Red Jamie Fraser?” Mrs. Patton looked back sharply at her. “He’s the one they called Red Jamie, back in the old country?”

“I—suppose so.” Bree was flabbergasted. “How do you know that name?”

“Hmp.” Mrs. Patton nodded in a satisfied sort of way, her eyes still fixed on Jamie. “My pap’s older brothers, two of ’em, fought on both sides of the Jacobite Rising. One was transported to the Indies, but his brother went and found him, bought his indenture, and the two of them came to settle here where John and I had land. Those”—she gave a deprecating nod to the two young men, who had retired to a respectful distance—“are their sons.”

“Quite the family concern, isn’t it?” Bree nodded round to the mill and sheds, now noticing that there was a small cluster of cabins and a good-sized house standing perhaps a quarter mile away, inside a copse of maple trees.

“’Tis,” Mrs. Patton agreed, now amiable. “One o’ my uncles spoke often of your pa, fought with him at Prestonpans and Falkirk. He had some bits and pieces kept by, mementos o’ the war. And one thing he had was a broadsheet with a drawing of Red Jamie Fraser on it, offering a reward. A handsome man, even on a broadsheet. Five hundred pounds the Crown offered for him! Wonder what he’d be worth now?” she said, and laughed, with another look at the man in question, this one longer.

Bree assumed this to be a joke, and gave a tight smile in return. Just in case, she noted primly that her father had been pardoned after the Rising, and then firmly returned the conversation to gunpowder.

Mrs. Patton appeared to feel that they were now on friendly terms, and willingly showed her the two milling sheds, noting casually the crude construction of the walls.

“Something blows up, the roof just flies off and the walls fall out. No great matter to put it up again.”

“So these are milling sheds—but surely that’s the mill?” Bree nodded at the stone building, quite evidently a mill, its waterwheel turning serenely in the golden light of late afternoon.

“Aye. Ye grind the charcoal, then the saltpeter—know what that is, do ye?”

“I do.”

“Aye, and the sulfur. Ye do that with water, aye? Melts the saltpeter and ye grind it all together; while it’s wet, it’ll not burn, will it?”

“No.”

Mrs. Patton nodded, pleased at this evident understanding.

“So then. Ye’ve got black powder, but it’s coarse stuff, with bits and pieces of uncrushed charcoal in it, bits o’ wood, bits o’ stone, rat dung, all manner o’ stuff. So ye dry that in cakes—we store those in the other shed—and then at your leisure, so to speak, ye crush and grind it—and that ye do out here in this shed, away from everything else, because it damn well will explode if ye happen to strike a spark whilst ye’re doing that—and if ye’ve made a cloud of it when the spark goes off, God help ye, ye’ll go up like a torch.”

The prospect didn’t seem to concern her.

“Then ye corn it—which means putting it through screens, to divvy it into different sizes. Finest corning is for pistols and rifles—that’s what ye’d want for hunting, mostly. The coarser sizes are for cannon, grenadoes, bombs, that class o’ thing.”

“I see.” It was a simple process, as explained—but judging from the state of Mrs. Patton’s apron and the singe marks on some of the boards in the shed, rather dangerous. She could probably manage to make enough powder for hunting, if they really had to, but dismissed the idea of trying to do it in large quantities.

“Well, then. What’s your price, for the sort of powder you’d use for hunting?”

“Hunting, is it?” Mrs. Patton had pale-blue eyes and gave Brianna a shrewd look out of them, then glanced at Mr. Shelby and her father, still conversing by the river. Why? she wondered. Does she think I need his permission?

“Well, my price is a dollar a pound. I sell for hard cash, and I don’t bargain.”

“Don’t you,” Bree said dryly. She reached into the pouch at her waist and came out with one of the thin gold slips that she’d sewn into her hems when she and the kids had come to find Roger. And she said a silent, absentminded prayer of thanks that they had found him, as she’d done a thousand times since.

“It’s not exactly cash, but it’s maybe hard enough?” she said, handing it over.

Mrs. Patton’s sandy eyebrows rose to the edge of her cap. She took the slip gingerly, felt its weight, and glanced sharply at Bree. To Brianna’s delight, she actually bit it, then looked critically at the tiny dent in the metal. It was stamped, but beyond the 14K and 1 oz., she didn’t think the markings would mean anything to Mrs. Patton, and apparently they didn’t.

“Done,” said the gunpowder mistress. “How many?”

AFTER SCRUPULOUS WEIGHING of both powder and gold, they agreed that one slip of gold was the fair equivalent of twenty dollars, and Brianna shook hands with Mrs. Patton—who appeared bemused but not shocked at the gesture—and made her way back to the wagon, carrying two ten-pound kegs of powder, followed by the two cousins, each similarly burdened.

Her father was still talking with Mr. Shelby but, hearing footsteps, turned round. His eyebrows rose higher than Mrs. Patton’s.

“How much—” He broke off and, pressing his lips together, took the kegs from her and loaded them into the wagon, along with the bags of rice, beans, oats, and salt that they’d traded for in Woolam’s Mill.

Finished, he reached for the sporran at his waist, but one of the cousins shook his head.

“She’s paid already,” he said, and with a brief tilt of the head toward Bree, turned and went back to the milling shed, followed by the other young man, who spared a look over his shoulder, then hurried to catch up with his cousin, saying something to him in a low voice that made the first man glance back again, then shake his head.

Her father said nothing until they were well out on the road toward home.

“What did ye use for money, lass?” he asked mildly. “Did ye happen to bring a bit when ye … came?”

“I had some coins—what I could get without too much fuss and expense—”

He nodded approvingly at that, but stopped abruptly when she withdrew another gold slip—it barely qualified to be called an ingot—from her pouch.

“And I got thirty of these, and sewed them into our clothes and the heels of my shoes.”

Her father said something that she didn’t understand in Gaelic, but the look on his face was enough.

“What’s wrong with that?” she asked sharply. “Gold works anywhere.”

He inhaled sharply through his nose, but the added oxygen seemed to be enough to enable him to get a grip on himself, for his jaw relaxed and the color in his face receded a little.

“Aye, it does.” The fingers of his right hand twitched briefly, then stopped as he shifted the reins a little.

“The trouble, lass,” he said, eyes fixed on the road ahead, “is just that. Gold does work everywhere. That’s why everyone wants it. And in turn, that’s why ye dinna want it to be widely known that ye have it—let alone in any quantity.” He turned his head toward her for a fraction of a moment, one eyebrow raised. “I would ha’ thought … I mean, from what ye told me about yon Rob Cameron … I thought ye’d know that.”

The quiet admonition made a hot flush burn up from chest to scalp, and she closed her fist around the slip of gold. She felt like an idiot, but also unfairly accused.

“Well, just how would you go about spending gold, then?” she demanded.

“I don’t,” her father said bluntly. “I try never to touch what’s hidden. For the one thing, I dinna feel it’s truly mine, and I’ll use it only in case of urgent need, to defend my family or tenants. But even then, I dinna use it directly.”

He glanced over his shoulder, and perforce, so did she. They’d left Patton’s well behind by now, and the road—a well-traveled one—lay empty.

“If I have to use it—and I will have to, if I’m to equip a militia—I shave bits away and pound them into small nuggets, rubbed in dirt and wiped down. Then I send Bobby Higgins, Tom MacLeod, and maybe one or two of the other men I’d trust with my family’s lives, each with a bittie pouchful. Not at the same time, not to the same place, and seldom to the same place twice. And they’ll change it, bit by bit, into cash—buying something and getting back the change in coin, maybe selling a nugget or two outright to a jeweler, changing a bit more with a goldsmith … and the money they bring back, that’s what I spend. Cautiously.”

That “trust with my family’s lives” made a hard nugget in her stomach. It was all too easy to see, now, the risk to which she’d just exposed Jem and Mandy and Roger and all the other inhabitants of the New House.

“Ach, dinna fash,” her father said, seeing her distress. “It’ll likely be fine.” He gave her a half smile and a brief squeeze of the knee. The horses were moving along at a much brisker pace now, and she realized that he was trying to get as far as he could away from the Powder Branch before nightfall.

“Do you …” The words died in her throat, drowned by the wagon’s rattle, and she tried again. “Do you think the men there”—she gestured behind them—“would come after us?”

He shook his head and leaned forward, intent on his driving.

“Not likely. The Pattons ken our business is worth more to them than what we carry. But I’d bet money one or another of the young ones will say something about the braw lassie in men’s clothes wi’ a purse of gold at her belt. It’s just luck whether they say it to anyone who might be moved to come and visit us—and we’ll pray they don’t.”

“Yes.” The first rush of shock and anger was passing, and she felt light-headed. Then she remembered something else that felt like a punch in the stomach.

“What?” Her father sounded alarmed; she’d made a noise as though she really had been punched. He was slowing the horses, and she waved her hands and shook her head.

“I’m—it’s just … they know who you are. Mrs. Patton recognized you.”

“Who I am? I told them who I am.” He’d slowed the horses further in order to hear what she had to say, though.

“She knows you’re Red Jamie,” she blurted.

“That?” He looked surprised but not worried. Slightly amused, in fact. “How the devil did she come to ken that? The lass is younger than you; she wasna born the last time someone called me that.”

She told him about Mrs. Patton’s uncles, and the broadsheet.

“Evidently you still look like you might have done the sorts of things that would get your picture on a Wanted poster,” she said, with a feeble attempt at humor.

“Mmphm.”

He’d slowed the horses to a walk, and the respite from the shaking and noise calmed her. She stole a glance at him; he didn’t look angry anymore—not even upset. Just thoughtful, with an expression she thought might be described as rueful.

“Mind,” he said at last, “it’s nay a good thing to have done the sorts of things that earn ye a reputation as a madman that kills without thought or mercy. But looked at from the other side—it’s nay altogether a bad thing to have such a reputation.”

He clicked his tongue to the horses and they slowly moved into a trot and then faster. The sense of urgency seemed to have left him, though. She watched him, sidelong, relieved that he wasn’t worried about being known as Red Jamie—and more relieved that the fact that he was known seemed to have made him less anxious about the gold.

They went on without speaking further, the silence between them easier. But when they stopped to camp, just after moonrise, they ate without fire and she slept lightly and woke often, always seeing him near her, in the black shadow of a tree, his rifle by his right hand and a loaded pistol on his left.

22 Ashes, Ashes …

I FOLLOWED ROGER THROUGH a growth of immense poplar trees, their canopies so high above the trail we walked that it felt as though we had come into a quiet church, its rafters twittering with birds, rather than bats. Very suitable, I thought, given our mission.

My part, though, was more cloak-and-dagger than diplomacy. I reached through the slit in my skirt to check my pocket for the third time: three good-sized, knobbly ginger-roots at the bottom, and on top of them, a few packets of dried herbs that one wouldn’t find locally.

My job—assuming that Roger managed to make the introductions before we were both hurled out on our ears—was to engage Mrs. Cunningham in prolonged conversation. First, with effusive thanks for the Jesuit bark (accompanied with muted apologies for Mandy’s outburst), then by presentation of my reciprocal gifts, one at a time, with detailed explanations of their origin, uses, and preparation.

All of which should give Roger enough time to lure Captain Cunningham outside, proper men naturally not wanting to hear two herbalists exchanging thoughts on how to make a clyster that would clear the most stubborn case of constipation. After that, it would be up to Roger. He was walking in front of me, shoulders squared in resolution.

We’d passed out of the poplars and were climbing again, into a rocky zone of fir and hemlock, richly resinous in the sun.

“It smells like Christmas,” Roger said, smiling over his shoulder as he held back a large branch for me. “I suppose we’ll do a family Christmas, won’t we? For Jem and Mandy, I mean; it’s what they’re used to, and they’re old enough to remember.” Christmas, as a holiday, was purely religious among the Scots—celebrating was done on Hogmanay.

“That would be wonderful,” I said, a little wistful. The Christmases of my childhood—the ones I remembered—had mostly taken place in non-Christian countries, and had featured Christmas crackers from England, Christmas pudding in a tin, and one year, a crèche festooned with camel bells and inhabited by Mary, Joseph, Baby Jesus, and the attendant kings, shepherds, and angels, all constructed from some sort of local seedpods wearing tiny clothes.

Making a proper Christmas for Brianna every year had been wonderful; I’d felt as though the festivity was for me, as well—the joy of doing things I’d read or heard about, but never done or seen. Frank, the only one of us who had truly experienced the traditional British Christmas, was the authority on menus, gift wrapping, carol singing, and other arcane lore. From the decorating of the tree until it came down after New Year’s, the house was full of excited secrets, with an underlying sense of peace. To have that in our new house, with everyone together …

“I tell you what, though,” I said, coming back to myself just in time to duck beneath the overhang of a blue spruce. “Don’t mention Santa Claus while you’re talking to Captain Cunningham.”

“I’ll add that to my list of things to avoid,” he assured me gravely.

“What’s number one on your list?”

“Well, normally, it would be you,” he said frankly. “But in the present circumstances, it’s a tie between the Beardsleys and Jamie’s whisky. I mean, the Cunninghams are bound to find out about both—if they don’t know already—but no reason they should hear it from me.”

“Odds on, they know about the Beardsleys,” I said. “Mrs. Cunningham gave me the Jesuit bark, I mean. Someone had to have told her I needed it—and very likely, what for. And no one could resist telling her about Lizzie and her two husbands, if they did.”

“True.” Roger glanced at me, a smile in the corner of his mouth. “I don’t suppose you happen to know if … I mean …”

“Both of them at once?” I laughed. “God knows, but there are three small children in that house, and at least two of them are still sleeping in their parents’ bed. They must be very sound sleepers,” I added thoughtfully, “but just the constraints of space …”

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” Roger assured me. “And the weather’s still fine out of doors.”

The trail had widened enough for us to walk side by side for a little. “Anyway, I’m amazed that the old lady made such a gesture, after what she said to Brianna and me about witches, but—”

“Well, she did assure all of us—including me and Mandy—that we were going to Hell.”

That made him laugh.

“Have you seen Mandy imitating Mrs. Cunningham doing that?”

“I can’t wait. How much farther is this place?”

“Almost there. Am I still decent?” he asked, brushing maple leaves off the skirt of his waistcoat.

He’d dressed carefully for the occasion, in good breeches, a clean shirt, and a waistcoat with humble wooden buttons, these hastily substituted by Bree for the bronze ones it normally sported. In addition, Brianna had plaited his hair and Jamie—who had much more experience in such matters—had clubbed it for him, neatly folding up the plait and tying it firmly at the nape with Jamie’s own broad black grosgrain ribbon.

“Go with God, a charaid,” he’d told Roger, grinning. Go with God, forsooth …

“Perfect,” I assured him.

“Onward, then.”

I’d never been as far as the Cunninghams’ cabin. It was a new building, and far toward the southern end of the Ridge. We’d been walking for more than an hour, brushing off the leaves—and with them, gnats, wasps, and spiders—that fell in a gentle green rain from the deciduous trees. The air was very warm, though, and I was beginning to wish that I’d packed some form of liquid refreshment when Roger stopped, just short of a clearing.

Brianna had already told me about the whitewashed stones and the shining glass windows. There was also a large vegetable and herb garden laid out behind the house, but it was evident that Mrs. Cunningham hadn’t yet managed to contrive a fence that would keep deer and rabbits out of it. It gave me distress to see the trampled ground, the broken stems, and the stubby tops of turnips, gnawed and denuded of their greens—but on the bright side, it might make the items in my pocket more desirable.

I took off my hat and hastily tidied my hair, insofar as such a thing was possible after walking four miles on a hot day.

The door opened before I could put my hat back on.

Captain Cunningham started visibly at sight of us. If he’d been expecting anyone, it wasn’t us. My heart sped up a little as I rehearsed my opening lines of gratitude.

“Good afternoon, Captain!” Roger called, smiling. “I’ve brought my mother-in-law, Mrs. Fraser, to call on Mrs. Cunningham.”

The captain’s mouth opened slightly as his gaze shifted to me. He didn’t have a poker face, and I could see him trying to reconcile whatever his mother had been saying about me with my appearance—which was as respectable as I could make it.

“I—she—” he began. Roger had taken my arm and was ushering me quickly up the path, saying something cordial about the weather, but the captain wasn’t attending.

“I mean … good afternoon, mum.” He gave me a jerky bob of the head as I came to a stop and curtsied in front of him.

“I am afraid my mother’s not in,” he said, eyeing me warily. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, has she gone visiting?” I asked. “I’m so sorry; I wanted to thank her for her gift. And I’d brought a few things for her …” I gave Roger a sideways glance that said, Now what?

“No, she’s just gone foraging by the creek,” the captain said, with a vague wave of the hand toward the woods. “She, um …”

“Oh, in that case,” I said hastily, “I’ll just go and see if I can find her. Why don’t you and the captain have a nice visit, Roger, while I look round for her?”

Before he could say anything else, I picked up my skirts, stepped neatly over the line of white stones, and made for the woods, leaving Roger to his own devices.

“AH … PLEASE COME in.” Cunningham yielded to circumstance with some grace, opening the door wide and beckoning Roger inside.

“Thank you, sir.” The cabin was as orderly as it had been on his first visit, but it smelled different. He could swear the ghost of coffee hung invitingly in the air. My God, it is coffee …

“Do sit down, Mr. MacKenzie.”

Cunningham had recovered his composure, though he was still giving Roger sidelong glances. Roger had composed a few opening remarks, but those had been designed to deflect Mrs. Cunningham until Claire could get her oar in. Best just get it out, before either of them comes back …

“I recently had an interesting conversation with my cousin-by-marriage, Rachel Murray,” he said. Cunningham, who had been bending to get a coffeepot that was keeping warm in the hearth, shot up like a jack-in-the-box, narrowly avoiding braining himself on the chimney breast, and turned round.

“What?”

“Mrs. Ian Murray,” Roger said. “Young Quaker woman? Tallish, dark, very pretty? Baby with a loud voice?”

The captain’s face took on a somewhat flushed, congested appearance.

“I know whom you mean,” he said, rather coldly. “But I am surprised to hear that she should have repeated our conversation to you.” There was a slight emphasis on “you,” which Roger ignored.

“She didn’t,” he said easily. “But she told me that you had said something she thought I should know, and recommended that I come and talk to you about it.” He lifted a hand, acknowledging the surroundings.

“She told me that you preached on Sundays to your men in the navy—and that you had found it … ‘gratifying’ was the word she used. Is that in fact the case?”

The flush was receding a bit. Cunningham gave a short, unwilling nod.

“I cannot see that it’s any business of yours, sir, but yes, I did preach when we rigged church, on those occasions when we sailed without a chaplain.”

“Well, then. I have a proposition to put to you, sir. Might we sit down?”

Curiosity won out; Cunningham nodded toward a large wheel-backed chair that stood to one side of the hearth, and himself took a smaller one at the other side.

“As you know,” Roger said, leaning forward, “I am a Presbyterian, and by courtesy referred to as a minister. By that, I mean that I’m not yet ordained, though I have completed all of the necessary studies and examinations, and I have hopes of being ordained soon. You’ll also know that my father-in-law—and my wife, mother-in-law, and children, for that matter—are Catholics.”

“I do.” Cunningham had relaxed enough to show disapproval. “How can you possibly square such a situation with your conscience, sir?”

“One day at a time, for the most part,” Roger said, and shrugged, dismissing this. “But the point is that I am on good terms with my father-in-law, and when he had a cabin built to serve as a schoolhouse, he also invited me to use it for church services on Sunday. We had a small Lodge of Freemasons established at that time—this was more than three years ago—and Mr. Fraser also permitted the Lodge to use this structure in the evenings for their own purposes.”

To this point, he’d been looking earnestly into Cunningham’s face, but now he glanced down into the smoldering hearth as he mentioned Freemasons, to give the man a moment to make up his mind—if there was anything to make it up about.

Possibly there was. The captain’s earlier discomposure and disapproval had receded like a melting glacier—slowly, but surely. He didn’t speak, but his silence had a different quality now; he was eyeing Roger in an assessing sort of way.

Nothing to lose …

“We met on the level,” Roger said quietly.

Cunningham drew a visible breath and nodded, very slightly. “And we parted on the square,” he said, just as quietly.

The atmosphere in the room shifted.

“Allow me to pour you some coffee.” Cunningham got up, fetched cups from a sideboard that looked as though it had been abducted from its London home, and handed one to Roger.

It was actually coffee. Freshly ground. Roger closed his eyes in momentary ecstasy, and recalled what Rachel had said about being served tea. Evidently the captain had kept his seagoing connections. Was that who the two mysterious visitors had been? No more than smugglers?

They sipped in a guardedly companionable silence for a minute or two. Roger took a last, luxurious mouthful and swallowed.

“Unfortunately,” he said, “the cabin was struck by lightning a year ago, and burned to the ground.”

“So Mrs. Murray told me.” The captain drained his own cup, set it down, and raised a brow at Roger, nodding at the coffeepot.

“If you please.” Roger handed over his cup. “Had Jamie Fraser been living on the Ridge at the time, I’m sure he would have rebuilt it—but owing to the … erm, fortunes of war … he and his family were unable to return immediately. But I suppose you know that.”

“Yes. Robert Higgins informed me of that when I made application to settle here.” The shadow of disapproval fell across his face once more. “Mr. Fraser seems a gentleman of unusually flexible principles. Appointing a convicted murderer as the factor of his property, I mean.”

“Well, he thinks I’m a heretic, and he puts up with me. Or perhaps that’s what you meant by ‘flexible principles’?” He smiled at Cunningham, who had choked on his coffee at the word “heretic.” Better take it easy; Masonic brotherhood might have limits …

Roger coughed, giving Cunningham time to finish doing so.

“Now, the proposition I mentioned to you. Mr. Fraser is willing that the cabin be rebuilt on its original location, and used for all of its previous purposes. He’s also willing to supply the raw timber for the building. As I’m sure you know, though, he’s in the process of building his own house, and can’t spare the time or money to complete the cabin until next year.

“So what I should like to propose, sir, is that we—you and I, and Mr. Fraser—should pool our resources in order to accomplish the rebuilding as soon as possible. And once the building is habitable, I propose that you and I take it in turns to preach there, on alternate Sundays.”

Cunningham had frozen, cup in hand, but the outer crust of coldness and reserve had melted. Thoughts were darting behind his eyes like minnows, too fast to catch.

Roger put down his half-finished cup and got to his feet.

“Would you like to go and look at the site with me?”

THE CREEK WAS easy to find. There was no well near the house yet, so the Cunninghams must be carrying water, and that being so … yes, there was a trail going off into a scrim of dogwood bushes, and within moments the sound of burbling water reached my ears.

Finding Mrs. Cunningham might be a little harder. Would she have gone upstream, or down? I tossed a mental coin and turned downstream. A good guess; there was a slight bend in the creek and a muddy spot on the near shore, showing the marks of many feet—or rather, the marks of one or two pairs of feet making frequent visits—and a series of circular marks and scuffs showing where a bucket had been set down.

There had been rain lately and the creek was high; there was thick growth right down to the water on the far side of the creek, and I thought she wouldn’t have tried to cross here; there were stones in the creek bed that one might use as stepping-stones, but most of them were submerged. I made my way down beside the creek, walking slowly and listening carefully. I wasn’t expecting Mrs. Cunningham to be singing hymns as she foraged, but she might be making enough noise that the birds near her would either shriek or fall silent.

In fact, I found her because she had attracted the notice of a kingfisher who took issue with her presence. I followed the long, chittering calls of the bird and saw it, a long-beaked blob of rust, white, and gray-blue riding the breeze on a long branch that reached out over a small pool formed by an eddy. Then I saw Mrs. Cunningham. In the pool. Naked.

Luckily she hadn’t seen me, and I squatted hastily behind a buttonbush, snatching off my hat.

The kingfisher had seen me and was having a fit, its vivid little body swelling with indignation as it shrilled at me, but Mrs. Cunningham ignored it. She was washing in a relaxed, leisurely fashion, her eyes half closed with pleasure and her long gray hair streaming wet down her back. A trickle of sweat ran down my back and another dripped from my chin; I wiped it with the back of my hand, envying her.

For an instant, I had the absurd impulse to disrobe and join her, but quelled it instantly. I ought to have left instantly, too—but I didn’t.

Part of it was just the common interest that makes people look at other people when they’re laughing, angry, naked, or engaged in sexual acts. The rest was simple curiosity. There’s quite a thin line, sometimes, between a scientist and a voyeur, and I was aware that I was walking it, but Mrs. Cunningham was undeniably a mystery.

Her body was still powerful, broad-shouldered and erect, and while the skin of arms and breasts had loosened, she still had visible musculature. The skin of her belly sagged and the marks of multiple births showed plainly. So the captain was not her only child.

Her eyes were closed in simple pleasure, and without the forbidding expression, she was a handsome woman. Not beautiful, and deeply marked by years, experience, and anger, but there was still a strong, symmetrical appeal to her features. I wondered how old she might be—the captain had seemed about forty-five, but I had no idea whether he might be her eldest child or her youngest. Somewhere between sixty and seventy, then?

She squeezed water from her straggling hair and put it back behind her ears. There was a half-submerged log at the far side of the pool, and she leaned her back carefully against this, closed her eyes again, and reached a hand down into the water between her legs. I blinked, and then duck-walked backward as quietly as I could, skirts kirtled up and hat in hand. The line had definitely been crossed.

My heel caught against a protruding tree root and I nearly fell, but managed to save myself, though dropping both skirts and hat in the process. The heavy pocket thumped against my hip, reminding me of my original intent.

I couldn’t very well hang about until she finished what she was doing, came out of the water, and dressed. I’d just go back to the cabin, tell the captain I hadn’t been able to find his mother, and leave the ginger and herbs, with my thanks.

I was putting my own dress back in order when I realized that I’d made very visible footmarks in the damp clay where I’d been lurking. Cursing under my breath, I scrabbled under the bushes behind me, raking out handfuls of dead leaves, twigs and pebbles, and scattered these hastily over my telltale traces. I was rubbing a handful of damp leaves between my hands to clean them when I realized that there was a pebble among the leaves.

I tossed it away, but caught a glimpse of vivid color as it flew through the air, and grabbed it up again.

It was a raw emerald, a long rectangular crystal of cloudy green in a matrix of rough rock.

I looked at it for several moments, rubbing my thumb gently over the surface.

“You never know when it might come in handy, do you?” I said, under my breath, and tucked it into my bag.

“HOW MANY PEOPLE could the original building accommodate?” the captain asked, nodding at the fragile black skeleton of the door.

“About thirty, standing. We didn’t have benches to begin with. The Lodge brothers would each bring a stool—and often a bottle—from home, when we had meetings.” He smiled at the memory of Jamie, passing round one of the earliest bottles of his own distilling, eyeing the drinkers closely in case any of them should fall over or die suddenly.

“Oh,” he said. “That reminds me. You should know that Mr. Fraser is a brother. In fact, he’s the Worshipful Master; he established the Lodge here.”

Cunningham dropped his charcoal fragment, truly shocked.

“A Freemason? But surely Catholics are not allowed to take the oaths of freemasonry. The Pope forbids it …” His lip curled slightly at the word.

“Mr. Fraser became a Freemason while in prison in Scotland, following the Jacobite Rising. And as he would tell you himself, ‘The Pope wasna in Ardsmuir Prison and I was.’” Roger had so far always used his Oxford accent when speaking to the captain, but now he let Jamie’s Highland accent stand behind the statement, and was amused to see Cunningham blink, though whether it was the accent or the enormity of Jamie’s actions, he couldn’t tell.

“Perhaps that’s further illustration of the … flexibility … of Mr. Fraser’s principles,” the captain observed dryly. “Has he any he will stand by, pray?”

“I think it’s a wise man who knows how to be flexible in times such as these,” Roger countered, keeping his temper. “If he weren’t capable of walking between two fires, he’d have been ashes long since—and so would the people who depend on him.”

“You being one?” It wasn’t said with hostility, but the edge was there.

“Me being one.” He took a deep breath, sniffing, but the smell of lightning and the reek of fire were long gone; with a little work, the clearing might once more be ready for peace.

Roger went on, “As for whether there are principles Jamie Fraser will stand by, yes, there are, and God help anyone who stands between him and what he thinks he must do. Do you think we should expand the building? There are a lot more families on the Ridge now.”

Cunningham nodded, looking at the back of his hand, where he’d scrawled their paced-out measurements with a bit of charcoal.

“How many, do you know? And are you familiar with their religious dispositions? Mr. Higgins told me that Mr. Fraser does not discourage settlement by anyone, provided that they seem honest and willing to work. Still, it seems that the great preponderance of the tenants are Scottish.” This last was said with a rising inflection, and Roger nodded.

“They are. He began his settlement here with a number of Scots who were with him during the Rising, and with people who are kin to others he knows from the Piedmont; there are a lot of Scots there,” he added. “Most of the original settlers are Catholic—naturally—but there were a few Protestants among them, mostly Presbyterians—the Church of Scotland. A large party emigrated later from Thurso, and they’re all Presbyterians.” Virulently so … “I’ve only recently returned to the Ridge myself, though; I was told that we have some Methodist families as well. Do you mind if I ask, sir—what brought you to settle here?”

Cunningham gave a brief “hmp,” but one indicating pause for summation, rather than hesitance.

“Like a good many others, I came here because I had acquaintances here. Two of my seamen have settled in North Carolina, as has Lieutenant Ferrell, who served with me through three commissions before being wounded severely enough that he was obliged to leave the service with a naval pension. His wife is here as well.”

Roger wondered whether—and how—the pension might continue to be paid, but it luckily wasn’t his problem at the moment.

“So,” Cunningham continued, meeting Roger’s eye ironically, “that will give me a congregation of at least six souls.”

Roger smiled obligingly, but told the truth when he assured Cunningham that entertainment was sufficiently scarce as to ensure a full house for anyone who was willing to get up in public and provide it.

“Entertainment,” Cunningham said, rather bleakly. “Quite.” He coughed. “Might I ask just why you have proposed this arrangement, Mr. MacKenzie? You seem entirely capable of entertaining any number of people, all by yourself.”

Because Jamie wants to know whether you’re a Loyalist and what you might be inclined to do about it if you are—and luring you out to preach and talk to people in public will probably show him.

He wouldn’t lie to Cunningham, but didn’t mind offering him an alternative truth.

“As I said, more than half the settlers here are Catholic, and while they’ll come to listen to me if there’s nothing better on offer, I imagine they might also listen to you. And given my own unorthodox family situation”—he raised a deprecating shoulder—“I think people should be allowed to hear different points of view.”

“Indeed they should,” said a soft, amused voice behind him. “Including the voice of Christ that speaks within their own hearts.”

Cunningham dropped his charcoal again. “Mrs. Murray,” he said, and bowed. “Your servant, mum!”

Looking at Rachel Murray always lightened Roger’s heart, and seeing her here, now, made him want to laugh.

“Hallo, Rachel,” he said. “Where’s your wee man?”

“With Brianna and Jenny,” she said. “Amanda is trying to make him say ‘poop,’ by which I gather she means excrement.”

“Well, she won’t get far, trying to make him say ‘excrement.’”

“Very true.” She smiled at him, then at Cunningham. “Brianna said thee would be here with the captain, arranging matters for the new meetinghouse, so I thought I should join thy discussion.” She was wearing pale-gray calico with a dark-blue fichu, and the combination made her eyes go a deep, mysterious green.

Cunningham, while gallant, looked somewhat confused. Roger wasn’t, though he was surprised.

“You mean—you want to use the chapel, too? For … um … meeting?”

“Certainly.”

“Wait … do you mean a Quaker meeting?” The captain frowned. “How many Quakers are presently living on the Ridge?”

“Just one, so far as I’m aware,” Rachel said. “Though I suppose I might count Oggy; that’s two. But Friends have no notion of a quorum, and no Friend would exclude visitors from an ordinary meeting. Jenny and Ian—my husband and his mother, Captain—will surely join me, and Claire says she and Jamie will come as well. Naturally, thee and Brianna are invited, Roger, and thee, too, Friend Cunningham, with thy mother.”

She gave the captain one of her smiles, and he smiled back by reflex, then coughed, mildly embarrassed. He was quite flushed. Roger thought the man might be on the verge of ecumenical overdose, and stepped in.

“When would you like to have the place, Rachel?”

“On First Day—thee would call it Sunday,” she explained to Cunningham. “We don’t use the pagan names. But the time of day doesn’t matter. We would not discommode any arrangements you have come to.”

“Pagan?” Cunningham looked aghast. “You think ‘Sunday’ is a pagan term?”

“Well, of course it is,” she said reasonably. “It means ‘day of the sun,’ meaning the ancient Roman festival of that name, dies solis, which became Sunnendaeg in English. I grant you,” she said, dimpling slightly at Roger, “it sounds slightly less pagan than ‘Tuesday,’ which is called after a Norse god. But still.” She flipped a hand and turned to go. “Let me know what times you both intend to preach, and I will arrange things accordingly. Oh—” she added, over her shoulder. “Naturally we will help with the building.”

The men watched her disappear among the oaks in silence.

Cunningham had picked up another fragment of charcoal and was rubbing it absently between thumb and forefinger. It reminded Roger of going with Brianna once to an Ash Wednesday service at St. Mary’s, in Inverness; the priest with a small dish of ashes (Bree had told him they were the ashes of palm fronds left over from the previous year’s Palm Sunday) rubbed a thumb through the black and then made a rapid cross on the forehead of each person in the congregation, swiftly murmuring to each, “Remember, Man, that thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return.”

Roger had gone up for his turn, and could vividly recall both the strange gritty feel of the ashes, and the odd sense of mingled disquiet and acceptance.

Something like now.

23 Trout-fishing in America, Part Two

THE FLY FLUTTERED 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 rod, 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.

Roger hastened to correct himself. “The Reverend, I mean. He was really my great-uncle, though—he adopted me.”

“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 a little more than a year 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 standoffish, 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.

“My sister’s showing her how to comb goats.”

“Aye?”

“For the hair. I want it to mix wi’ the plaster for the walls.”

“Oh, aye.”

Roger nodded, threading a stringer through the fish’s dark-red gill slit.

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 a dozen casks of smoked and salted fish already put away in the cold cellar, 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 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 lines, 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 Mount Helicon some years before.

The question itself was straightforward, 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,” Roger 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 two months past, 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.”

“Grandda! 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-père? Mrs. Wilson said she won’t be able to, once 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, relive 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—and how. Maybe I shouldn’t have.”

Jamie’s face was completely in shadow, but Roger could feel those blue eyes on his 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 he 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?”

Jamie moved on his rock, facing Roger directly. The sun was all but down, no more than a nimbus of bronze in his hair; his features were dark.

“You’re a priest, Roger Mac,” he said, in the same tone he might have used to describe any natural phenomenon, such as a piebald horse or a flight of mallard ducks. “It’s plain to me—and to you, I reckon—that God’s called ye so, and He’s brought ye to this place and this time to do it.”

“Well, the being a minister part is clear,” Roger said dryly. “As for the rest … your guess is possibly no better than mine. And a guess is the best I’ve got.”

“That would put ye well ahead of the rest of us, man,” Jamie said, the smile evident in his voice. He rose to his feet, a black shadow with rod in hand, stooping for the rush-woven creel. “We’d best start back, aye?”

There was no real passage between the shore of the trout pond and the deer trail that led along the lower slopes of the Ridge, and the effort of scrambling up through boulders and heavy brush in the fading light kept them from speaking much.

“How old were you, the first time you saw a man killed?” Roger said abruptly to Jamie’s back.

“Eight,” Jamie replied without hesitation. “In a fight during my first cattle raid. I wasna much troubled about it.”

A stone rolled under his foot and he slid, snatching at a fir branch in time to save himself. Getting his feet back under him, he crossed himself and muttered something under his breath.

The smell of bruised fir needles was strong in the air as they moved more slowly, watching the ground. Roger wondered whether things really did smell stronger at dusk, or whether it was that with your sight fading, you just paid more attention to your other senses.

“In Scotland,” Jamie said, quite abruptly, “in the Rising, I watched my uncle Dougal kill one of his own men. That was a terrible thing, though it was done for mercy.”

Roger drew breath, meaning to say … what, he wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter.

“And then I killed Dougal, just before the battle.” Jamie didn’t turn round; just kept climbing, slow and dogged, gravel sliding now and then beneath his feet.

“I know,” Roger said. “And I know why. Claire told us. When she came back,” he added, seeing Jamie’s shoulders stiffen. “When she thought you were dead.”

There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing and the high, thin zeek! of hunting swallows.

“I dinna ken,” Jamie said, obviously taking care with his words, “if I could bring myself to die for an idea. No that it isn’t a fine thing,” he added hurriedly. “But … I asked Brianna whether any o’ those men—the ones who thought of the notions and the words ye’d need to make them real—whether any of them actually did the fighting.”

“In the Revolution, ye mean? I don’t think they did,” Roger said dubiously. “Will, I mean. Unless you count George Washington, and I don’t believe he does so much talking.”

“He talks to his troops, believe me,” Jamie said, a wry humor in his voice. “But maybe not to the King, or the newspapers.”

“No. Mind,” Roger added in fairness, pushing aside a pine branch, thick with a pungent sap that left his palm sticky, “John Adams, Ben Franklin, all the thinkers and talkers—they’re risking their necks as much as you—as we—are.”

“Aye.” The ground was rising steeply now, and nothing more was said as they climbed, feeling their way over the broken ground of a gravel fall.

“I’m thinking that maybe I canna die—or lead men to their own deaths—only for the notion of freedom. Not now.”

“Not now?” Roger echoed, surprised. “You could have—earlier?”

“Aye. When you and the lass and your weans were … there.” Roger caught the brief movement of a hand, flung out toward the distant future. “Because what I did here then would be—it would matter, aye? To all of you—and I can fight for you.” His voice grew softer. “It’s what I’m made to do, aye?”

“I understand,” Roger said quietly. “But ye’ve always known that, haven’t you? What ye’re made to do.”

Jamie made a sound in his throat, half surprised.

“Dinna ken when I knew it,” he said, a smile in his voice. “Maybe at Leoch, when I found I could get the other lads into mischief—and did. Perhaps I should be confessing that?”

Roger brushed that aside.

“It will matter to Jem and Mandy—and to those of our blood who come after them,” he said. Provided Jem and Mandy survive to have children of their own, he added mentally, and felt a cold qualm in the pit of his stomach at the thought.

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.” Then, abruptly, “Frank Randall—his book, it says the war is coming through the South, not that I needed him to tell me that.

“But Claire, Brianna, and the children—and them—I canna shield them, should it come close.” He nodded toward the distant sparks, and it was clear to Roger that by “them” he meant his tenants—his people. He didn’t pause for a reply, but resettled the creel on his shoulder and started down.

The trail narrowed. Roger’s shoulder brushed Jamie’s, close, and he fell back a step, following his father-in-law. The moon was late in rising tonight, and sliver-thin. It was dark and the air had a bite in it now.

“I’ll help you protect them,” he said to Jamie’s back. His voice was gruff.

“I ken that,” Jamie said, softly. There was a short pause, as though Jamie was waiting for him to speak further, and he realized that he should.

“With my body,” Roger said quietly, into the night. “And with my soul, if that should be necessary.”

He saw Jamie in brief silhouette, saw him a draw a deep breath and his shoulders relax as he let it out. They walked more briskly now; the trail was dark, and they strayed now and then, the brush catching at their bare legs.

At the edge of their own clearing, Jamie paused to let Roger come up with him, and laid a hand on his arm.

“The things that happen in a war—the things that ye do … they mark ye,” he said quietly. “I dinna think bein’ a priest will spare you, is what I’m sayin’, and I’m sorry for it.”

They mark ye. And I’m sorry for it. But he said nothing; only touched Jamie’s hand lightly where it lay upon his arm. Then Jamie took his hand away and they walked home together, silent.

24 Alarms by Night

ADSO, DRAPED LANGUIDLY AS a scarf over the table, opened his eyes and gave a small inquisitive “mowp” at the scraping noise.

“Not edible,” I said to him, tapping the last glob of gentian ointment off the spoon. The big celadon eyes went back to slits. Not all the way closed, though—and the tip of his tail began to stir. He was watching something, and I swung around to find Jemmy in the doorway, swathed in his father’s ratty old blue calico shirt. It nearly touched his feet and was falling off one bony little shoulder, but that clearly didn’t matter; he was wide-awake and urgent.

“Grannie! Fanny’s took bad!”

“Taken,” I said automatically, corking the jar of grease to keep Adso out. “What’s the matter?”

“She’s rolled up like a sow bug and grunting like she’s got the bellyache—but, Grannie, there’s blood on her night rail!”

“Oh,” I said, taking my hand off the jar of peppermint leaves I’d been reaching for and reaching instead for a small gauze package on the highest shelf. I’d had it made up for the last two months, in readiness. “I think she’s fine, sweetheart. Or will be. Where’s Mandy?” The children all shared a room—and often enough, a single bed; it was common to come in late at night and find a mattress ticking on the floor, and all four of them sprawled in a sweetly moist tangle of limbs and clothes on top of it. Germain had gone hunting with Bobby Higgins and Aidan—Jemmy being prevented because he’d cut his foot yesterday—but Mandy was here, and I didn’t think her insistent curiosity and voluble opinions would be of help in the present situation.

“Asleep,” Jem answered, watching me drop the gauze packet of herbs into a clay teapot and pour boiling water over it. “What’s that potion for, Grannie?”

“It’s just a tea made with ginger-root and rosemary,” I said. “And a bit of yarrow. It’s an emmenagogue.” I spelled that for him, adding, “It’s to help with a woman’s courses. You’ve heard about courses?”

Jemmy’s eyes went quite round.

“You mean Fanny’s on heat?” he blurted. “Who’s going to breed her?”

“Well, it doesn’t work quite that way with people,” I said, adding craftily, “Ask your mother to explain it all to you in the morning. Right now, why don’t you go and crawl in with Grandpa, and I’ll take this up to Fanny.”

Before leaving the surgery, though, I pulled the box of river stones out from under the table and picked out my favorite: a weathered chunk of gray calcite the size of Jamie’s fist, with a thin, vivid green line of embedded emerald showing on one side, reminding me of the emerald I’d picked up by the creek. I’d added that one to my medicine bag—my amulet. I laid the stone in the hearth and shoveled hot embers on top of it, just in case heat should be required.

The candle was lit in the children’s room and Fanny was on her own narrow bed, uncovered and 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 night rail, the rusty brown of first menstruation.

“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 slender 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 at the word “uterus,” she had paid attention.

To my surprise, the back of her neck went pale at this, her shoulders hunching up again. I glanced over my shoulder, but Mandy was snoring in the quilts, dead to the world.

“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 astounded 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 seen everything.

“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.”

I took a deep breath.

“Fanny,” I said, “sit up and look at me.”

She stayed frozen for a moment, but she was used to obedience, and after a moment she turned over and sat up. She didn’t look at me, but kept her eyes fixed on her knees, small and sharp under the muslin.

“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, her 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 Mrs. Abbott. 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 doorjamb. 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 women’s 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, he had bent down and gathered her gently up into his arms. I stiffened for an instant, afraid of having a man touch her just now—but she turned in to 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 Gàidhlig 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 hiccuping now and then.

“I saw your sister just the once,” he said softly. “Jane was her name, aye? Jane Eleanora. She was a bonnie 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 still out, 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 shoulder blades.

“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 nine. 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? Or the chickens?”

“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-of-fact 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 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 men 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?”

Fanny handed me the locket and I turned to hold it close to the candle. The woman inside had dark, softly curly hair like Fanny’s—and I thought I could make out a resemblance to Jane in the nose and set of the 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.

I COULDN’T GO to sleep. I’d given Fanny her tea, provided her with suitable cloths—not at all to my surprise, she already knew how to use them—and talked gently to her, careful not to raise any more of her personal ghosts.

When Fanny had come to us, Jamie and I had agreed that we wouldn’t try to question her about any of the bits of memory she dropped aloud—like the bad men on the ship and what had happened to Spotty the dog—unless she seemed to want to talk about them. I thought she would, sooner or later. Bree and Roger had agreed as well, though I could see how curious Brianna was.

Fanny had mentioned Jane now and then, offhandedly, but in a way designed—I thought—to keep a sense of her sister alive. Seeing her distress tonight, though … Jane was much closer to her than I’d thought. And now that I’d seen Jane’s face … I couldn’t forget it.

Knowing only what I did know about the girls’ lives in the brothel in Philadelphia was upsetting; I really hadn’t wanted to find out how they’d come there. I still didn’t … but I couldn’t keep the worm of speculation at bay; it had burrowed into my brain and was squirming busily through my thoughts, killing sleep.

Bad men on a ship. A dog thrown into the sea. A pet dog? A family—if Fanny and Jane had been with their parents on a ship that encountered pirates … or even a wicked captain, like Stephen Bonnet … I felt the hairs rise on my forearms at thought of him, but with remembered anger, not fear. Someone like him could easily have taken a look at the two lovely young girls and decided that their parents could be dispensed with.

Faith. Our mother, Fanny had said. I’d looked more than once at the miniature in the locket—but it was too small to show anything more than a young woman with dark hair, maybe naturally curly, maybe curled and dressed in the fashion of the times.

No. It can’t be. I rolled over for the dozenth time, settling on my stomach and burying my face in the pillow, in hopes of losing myself in the scent of clean linen and goose down.

“It can’t be what, Sassenach?” Jamie’s voice spoke in my ear, sleepily resigned. “And if it can’t, can it not wait ’til dawn?”

I rolled onto my side in a rustle of bedding, facing him.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and touched him apologetically. His hand took mine automatically, warm and firm. “I didn’t realize I’d said it out loud. I was … just thinking about Fanny’s locket.”

Faith.

“Ach,” he said, and stretched himself a little, groaning. “Ye mean the name. Faith?”

“Well … yes. I mean—it can’t possibly … have anything to do with …”

“It’s no an uncommon name, Sassenach.” His thumb rubbed gently over my knuckles. “Of course ye’d … feel it. I did, too.”

“Did you?” I said softly. I cleared my throat a little. “I—I don’t really do it anymore, but for a time, just—just every now and then—I’d think of her, of our Faith—out of nowhere. I’d imagine I could feel her near me.”

“Imagine what she might look like—grown?” His voice was soft, too. “I did that, sometimes. In prison, mostly; too much time to think, in the nights. Alone.”

I made a small sound and hitched closer, laying my head in the curve of his shoulder, and his arm came round me. We lay still, silent, listening to the night and the house around us. Full of our family—but with one small angel hovering in the calm sweet air, peaceful as rising smoke.

“The locket,” I said at last. “It can’t possibly have anything whatever to do with—”

“No, it can’t,” he said, a cautious note in his voice. “But what are ye thinking, Sassenach? Because ye’re no thinking what ye just said, and I ken that fine.”

That was true, and a spasm of guilt at being found out tightened my body.

“It can’t be,” I said, and swallowed. “It’s only …” My words died away and his hand rubbed between my shoulder blades.

“Well, ye’d best tell me, Sassenach,” he said. “Nay matter how foolish it is, neither one of us will sleep until ye do.”

“Well … you know what Roger told me, about the doctor he met in the Highlands, and the blue light?”

“I do. What—”

“Roger asked me if I’d ever seen blue light like that—when I was healing people.”

The hand on my back stilled.

“Have ye?” He sounded guarded, though I didn’t know whether he was afraid of finding out something he didn’t want to know, or just finding out that I was losing my mind.

“No,” I said. “Or not—well, no. But … I have seen it. Felt it. Twice. Just a flash, when Malva’s baby died.” Died in my hands, covered with his mother’s blood. “But when Faith was born, when I was so ill. I was dying—really dying, I felt it—and Master Raymond came.”

“Ye told me that much,” he said. “Is there more?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “But this is what I thought happened.” And I told him, about seeing my bones glow blue through the flesh of my arms, the feeling of the light spreading through my body and the infection dying, leaving me limp, but whole and healing.

“So … um … I know this is nothing but pure fantasy, the sort of thing you think in the middle of the night when you can’t sleep …”

He made a low noise, indicating that I should stop apologizing and get on with it. So I took a deep breath and did, whispering the words into his chest.

“Master Raymond was there. What if—if he found … Faith … and was able to … somehow bring her … back?”

Dead silence. I swallowed and went on.

“People … aren’t always dead, even though it looks like it. Look at old Mrs. Wilson! Every doctor knows—or has heard—about people who’ve been declared dead and wake up later in the morgue.”

“Or in a coffin.” He sounded grim, and a shudder went over me. “Aye, I’ve heard stories like that. But—a wee babe and one born too soon—how—”

“I don’t know how!” I burst out. “I said it’s complete fantasy, it can’t be true! But—but—” My throat thickened and my voice squeaked.

“But ye wish it were?” His hand cupped the back of my head and his voice was quiet again. “Aye. But … if it was, mo chridhe, why would he not have told ye? Ye saw him again, no? After he’d healed ye, I mean.”

“Yes.” I shuddered, momentarily feeling the King of France’s Star Chamber close around me, the smell of the King’s perfume, of dragon’s blood and wine in the air—and two men before me, awaiting my sentence of death.

“Yes, I know. But—when the Comte died, Raymond was banished, and they took him away. He couldn’t have told me then, and he might not have been able to come back before we left Paris.”

It sounded insane, even to me. But I could—just—see it: Master Raymond, stealing out of L’Hôpital des Anges after leaving me, perhaps ducking aside to avoid notice, hiding in the place where the nuns had, perhaps, laid Faith on a shelf, wrapped in her swaddling clothes. He would have known her, as he’d known me …

Everyone has a color about them, he said simply. All around them, like a cloud. Yours is blue, madonna. Like the Virgin’s cloak. Like my own.

One of his. The thought came out of nowhere, and I stiffened.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ.” What if—all right, I was insane, but too late for that to make a difference.

“What if he—if I, we—what if Master Raymond is—was—somehow related to me?”

Jamie said nothing, but I felt his hand move, under my hair. His middle finger folded down and the outer ones stood up straight, making the sign of the horns, against evil.

“And what if he’s not?” he said dryly. He rolled me off him and turned toward me so we were face-to-face. The darkness was slowly fading and I could see his face, drawn with tiredness, touched with sorrow and tenderness, but still determined.

“Even if everything ye’ve made yourself think was somehow true—and it’s not, Sassenach; ye ken it’s not—but if it were somehow true, it wouldna make any difference. The woman in Frances’s locket is dead now, and so is our Faith.”

His words touched the raw place in my heart, and I nodded, tears welling.

“I know,” I whispered.

“I know, too,” he whispered, and held me while I wept.

25 Voulez-vous Coucher Avec Moi

THE WEATHER WAS STILL fine in the daytime, but the smoke shed stood in the shade of a rocky cliff. No fire had been lit in here for over a month, and the air smelled of bitter ash and the tang of old blood.

“How much do you think this thing weighs?” Brianna put both hands on the shoulder of the enormous black-and-white hog lying on the crude table by the back wall and leaned her own weight experimentally against it. The shoulder moved slightly—rigor had long since passed—but the hog itself didn’t budge an inch.

“At a guess, it originally weighed somewhat more than your father. Maybe four hundred pounds on the hoof?” Jamie had bled and gralloched the hog when he killed it; that had probably lightened his load by a hundred pounds or so, but it was still a lot of meat. A pleasant thought for the winter’s food, but a daunting prospect at the moment.

I unrolled the pocketed cloth in which I kept my larger surgical tools; this was no job for an ordinary kitchen knife.

“What do you think about the intestines?” I asked. “Usable, do you think?”

She wrinkled her nose, considering. Jamie hadn’t been able to carry much beyond the carcass itself—and in fact had dragged that—but had thoughtfully salvaged twenty or thirty pounds of intestine. He’d roughly stripped the contents, but two days in a canvas pack hadn’t improved the condition of the uncleaned entrails, not savory to start with. I’d looked at them dubiously, but put them to soak overnight in a tub of salt water, on the off chance that the tissue hadn’t broken down too far to prevent their use as sausage casing.

“I don’t know, Mama,” Bree said reluctantly. “I think they’re pretty far gone. But we might save some of it.”

“If we can’t, we can’t.” I pulled out the largest of my amputation saws and checked the teeth. “We can make square sausage, after all.” Cased sausages were much easier to preserve; once properly smoked, they’d last indefinitely. Sausage patties were fine, but took more careful handling, and had to be packed into wooden casks or boxes in layers of lard for keeping … we hadn’t any casks, but—

“Lard!” I exclaimed, looking up. “Bloody hell—I’d forgotten all about that. We don’t have a big kettle, bar the kitchen cauldron, and we can’t use that.” Rendering lard took several days, and the kitchen cauldron supplied at least half our cooked food, to say nothing of hot water.

“Can we borrow one?” Bree glanced toward the door, where a flicker of movement showed. “Jem, is that you?”

“No, it’s me, Auntie.” Germain stuck his head in, sniffing cautiously. “Mandy wanted to visit Rachel’s petit bonbon, and Grand-père said she could go if Jem or me would take her. We threw bones and he lost.”

“Oh. Fine, then. Will you go up to the kitchen and fetch the bag of salt from Grannie’s surgery?”

“There isn’t any,” I said, grasping the pig by one ear and setting the saw in the crease of the neck. “There wasn’t much, and we used all but a handful soaking the intestines. We’ll need to borrow that, too.”

I dragged the saw through the first cut, and was pleased to find that while the fascia between skin and muscle had begun to give way—the skin slipped a little with rough handling—the underlying flesh was still firm.

“I tell you what, Bree,” I said, bearing down on the saw as I felt the teeth bite between the neck bones, “it’s going to take a bit of time before I’ve got this skinned and jointed. Why don’t you call round and see which lady might lend us her rendering kettle for a couple of days, and a half pound of salt to be going on with?”

“Right,” Bree said, seizing the opportunity with obvious relief. “What should I offer her? One of the hams?”

“Oh, no, Auntie,” said Germain, quite shocked. “That’s much too much for the lend of a kettle! And ye shouldna offer anyway,” he added, small fair brows drawing together in a frown. “Ye dinna bargain a favor. She’ll ken ye’ll give her what’s right.”

She gave him a look, half questioning, half amused, then glanced at me. I nodded.

“I see I’ve been gone too long,” she said lightly, and giving Germain a pat on the head vanished on her errand.

It took a bit of force, but I’d been lucky—well, skilled, let us say in all modesty—in placing the saw, and it took only a few minutes to haggle the head off. The last strands of muscle fiber parted and the massive head dropped the few inches to the tabletop with a thunk, limp ears quivering from the impact. I picked it up, estimating the weight at something like thirty pounds—but of course that included the tongue and jowls … I’d take those before setting the head to seethe for brawn … that could be done overnight, though, in the kitchen kettle … I must set the oatmeal to soak the night before, then I could warm the porridge in the ashes … or perhaps fry it with some dried apples?

I was sweating lightly from the work, a welcome relief from the chill. I got the feet off, tossed them into a small bucket to be pickled, then set aside the saw and chose the large knife with the serrated blade; even untanned, pig hide was tough. I was breathing heavily by the time I’d got the carcass half flayed, and, pausing to wipe my face on my apron, I lowered it to discover that Germain was still there, sitting on a cask of salt fish Jamie had got in trade from Georg Feinbeck, one of the Moravians from Salem.

“This isn’t a spectator sport, you know,” I said, and motioned to him to come and help. “Here, take this”—I gave him one of the smaller knives—“and pull back on the skin. You don’t really need to cut much, just use the blade to push the skin away from the body.”

“I ken how, Grannie,” he said patiently, taking the knife. “It’s the same as skinning a squirrel, only bigger.”

“To a point, yes,” I said, taking his wrist to readjust his aim. “But a squirrel, you’re skinning all of a piece, for the pelt. We need to take the hog’s hide off in pieces, but make sure the pieces are big enough to be useful—you can make a pair of shoes from the leather off one haunch.” I traced the line of the cuts, round the haunch, down the inside of the leg, and left him to it whilst I negotiated the forequarters.

We worked in silence for a few minutes—silence being rather uncharacteristic of Germain, but I thought him absorbed in his task—and then he stopped.

“Grannie …” he began, and something in his voice made me stop, too. I actually looked at him, for the first time since he’d come in, and I set down my knife.

“D’ye ken what voulez-vous coucher avec moi means?” he blurted. His face had been white and strained but flooded with color at this, making it fairly evident that he knew.

“Yes,” I said, as calmly as possible. “Did someone say that to you, sweetheart?” Who, I wondered. I hadn’t heard of a French-speaker anywhere in miles of the Ridge. And one who might—

“Well … Fanny,” he blurted again, and went purple. He was still holding his skinning knife, and his small knuckles were white from gripping it. Fanny? I thought, stunned.

“Really,” I said carefully. Reaching out slowly, I took the knife from his hand and set it down next to the half-flayed hog. “It’s a bit close in here. Let’s go outside for a breath of air, shall we?”

I didn’t realize just how oppressive the atmosphere in the smoke shed was until we stepped out into a whirl of wind, fresh and full of yellow leaves. I heard Germain take a deep, gasping breath, and breathed deep, too. In spite of what he’d just told me, I felt a bit better. So did he; his face had gone back to something near its normal color, though still pink in the ears. I smiled at him, and he smiled uncertainly back.

“Let’s go up to the springhouse,” I said, turning toward the path. “I fancy a cup of cold milk, and I daresay Grandda would like some cheese with his supper.

“So,” I went on casually, leading the way up the path. “Where were you and Fanny when she happened to say that to you?”

“Down by the creek, Grannie,” he said readily enough. “She got leeches on her legs and I was pullin’ ’em off for her.”

Well, that’s quite the romantic setting, I thought but didn’t say, envisioning Fanny sitting on a rock with her skirts hiked up, long coltish legs white and leech-spattered.

“See,” he went on, and came up beside me, now anxious to explain, “I was teachin’ her le Français, she wants to learn it, so I was telling her the words for leech, and waterweed, and how to say things like, ‘Give me food, please,’ and ‘Go away, ye wicked sod.’”

“How do you say, ‘Go away, you wicked sod’?” I asked, diverted.

“Va t’en, espèce de méchant,” he said, shrugging.

“I’ll remember that,” I said. “Never know when it might come in handy.”

He didn’t respond; plainly the matter occupying his mind was too serious for diversion. He’d been badly shocked, I saw.

“How did you happen to know what voulez-vous coucher means, Germain?” I asked curiously. “Did Fanny tell you?”

He hunched his shoulders and blew out his cheeks like a bullfrog, then shook his head, letting his breath go.

“No. Papa said it to Maman one night, whilst she was cooking supper, and she laughed and said … something I didna quite hear …” He looked away. “So I asked Papa next day, and he told me.”

“I see.” He probably had, and very directly. Fergus had been born and grown up in a Paris brothel, to the age of nine, when Jamie had inadvertently collected him. He dealt with his past by being honest about it, and I didn’t suppose it would have occurred to him to evade his children’s questions, no matter what they asked.

We’d reached the new springhouse, a squat little stone-built structure straddling a likewise stone-lined ditch through which the water from the House Spring flowed. Buckets of milk and crocks of butter were sunk in the water, keeping cold, and wrapped cheeses sat quietly hardening on a shelf above, out of the reach of occasional muskrats. It was dim inside, and very cold; our breath wisped out when we stepped inside.

I took down the gourd dipper from its nail, squatted, and took the lid off the bucket that held the morning’s milk. I stirred it to mix the risen cream back in, drew a dipperful, and drank. It was cold enough to feel it sliding down my gullet, and delicious. I took a last swallow and handed Germain the dipper.

“Do you think Fanny knew what she was saying?” I asked, watching him as he squatted to draw his own milk. He didn’t look up, but he nodded, the top of his fair head bobbing over the dipper.

“Aye,” he said at last, and stood up, turning away from me as he reached up to hang the dipper on its nail. “Aye, she kent what it meant. She—she … touched me. When she said it.” Dim as it was, I could see the back of his neck darken.

“And what did you say?” I asked, hoping I sounded entirely calm.

He swung round and glared at me, as though it were somehow my fault. He had a mustache of cream, absurdly touching.

“I said awa’ and bile your heid! What else?”

“What indeed?” I said lightly. “I’ll talk to Grand-père about it.”

“You’re no going to tell him what Fanny said to me, are ye? I didna mean to get her in bother!”

“She’s not in trouble,” I assured him. Not the sort he meant, at least. “I just want your grandfather’s opinion about something. Now cut along”—I made a shooing gesture at him—“I have a hog to deal with.”

By contrast with what he’d just told me, three hundred pounds of pork chops, lard, and rotting intestines seemed trivial.

26 In the Scuppernongs

BRIANNA PULLED A HANDFUL of grapes off their stems and rolled them with one finger, flicking away any that were split, withered, or badly gnawed by insects. Speaking of insects—she hastily blew several ants that had crawled out of her grapes off the palm of her hand. They were tiny, but fierce biters.

“Ow!” She’d missed one of the little buggers, and it had just bitten her in the web between her middle and ring fingers. She tossed the grapes into her bucket and rubbed her hand hard on her breeches, momentarily easing the burn.

“Gu sealladh sealbh orm!” Amy said at the same moment, dropping a handful of grapes and shaking her hand. “There’s hundreds o’ the wee a phlàigh bhalgair in these scuppernongs!”

“They weren’t nearly as bad yesterday,” Bree said, trying to rasp the ant bite between her fingers with her front teeth. The itch was maddening. “What’s brought them out, I wonder?”

“Och, it’s the rain,” Amy said. “It always brings them up from the—Jesus, Mary, and Bride!” She backed away from the vine, shaking her skirts and stamping her feet. “Get off me, ye wicked wee blatherskites!”

“Let’s move,” Brianna suggested. “There are a ton of grapes out here; the ants can’t be in all of them.”

“I dinna ken so much about that,” Amy muttered darkly, but she picked up her bucket and followed Brianna a little farther into the small gorge. Bree hadn’t been exaggerating: the rocky wall was thick with muscular vines that clung and writhed up into the sun, heavy with pearly-bronze fruit that gleamed under the dark leaves and perfumed the air with the scent of new wine.

“Jem!” she shouted. “We’re moving! Keep track of Mandy!”

A faint “Okay!” came from above; the kids were playing at the top of the rocky cleft where a stream had split the stones and left small outcrops studded with vines and saplings that made fine castles and forts.

“Watch for snakes!” she shouted. “Don’t get under the vines up there!”

“I know!” A redheaded form appeared briefly above, brandished a stick at her, and disappeared. She smiled and bent to pick up her buckets, one satisfyingly heavy, the other half filled.

Amy made a sudden hoof! of startlement, and Brianna turned.

Amy wasn’t there. The grapevines swayed against the cliff face and she saw a dark splash on the rock.

“What …” she said, registering the sharp smell of blood and reaching blindly for the first thing to hand, the half-filled bucket.

A flash of white, Amy’s petticoat. She lay on the ground ten feet away; there was blood on her clothes and a bear had her head in its mouth, making a low gargling noise as it worried at her.

Brianna flung the bucket in reflex. It hit the cliff face and fell, scattering bronze grapes over Amy and the ground. The bear looked up, blood on its teeth, and growled, and Brianna was scrambling up through the vines, shrieking at the children to get back, get away, run, branches cracking beneath her weight, giving way, one broke and she slipped and fell, hit the ground on her knees, scrabbled back, away, away … God, God … staggered to her feet and leapt for the vines again, sheer terror for the kids driving her up the rock in a shower of leaves and crushed grapes and bits of earth and rock and ants.

“Mam! Mam!” Jem and Germain were leaning far out from the edge, trying to catch hold of her, to help.

“Get back!” she gasped, clinging to the rock. She risked a glance below and wished she hadn’t. “Jem, get back! Get Mandy, get the others back! Now!”

Too late to stop them seeing; there was a chorus of screams and a crowd of small, horror-stricken faces at the top of the cliff face.

“Mama! MAMA!”

It was that word that got her the rest of the way, torn and bleeding. At the top of the cliff, she crawled, grabbing wailing children, pulling them back, gathering them into her arms. Counting. How many, how many should there be? Jem, Mandy, Germain, Orrie, little Rob …

“Aidan,” she gasped. “Where’s Aidan?” Jem looked at her, white-faced and wordless, turned his head to look. Aidan was at the top of the cliff, starting to let himself down into the vines, to get to his mother.

“Aidan!” Germain shouted. “Don’t!”

Bree shoved the other children at Jem.

“Keep them,” she said, breathless, and lunged after Aidan, catching him by the arm just as he vanished over the edge. She hauled him up by main force and clutched him hard against her, struggling and weeping.

“I got to go, I gotta get Mam, let go, let me go …!” His tears were hot on her skin and his skinny body writhed like a snake, like the rusty grapevines, like the biting ants.

“No,” she said, hearing her own voice only faintly through the roaring in her ears. “No.” And held him tight.

I WAS SHOWING Fanny how to use the microscope, reveling in her shocked delight at the worlds within—though in some instances, it was plain shock, as when she discovered what was swimming in our drinking water.

“Don’t worry,” I assured her. “Most of them are quite harmless, and your stomach acid will dissolve them. Mind, there are nasty things in water sometimes, particularly if it’s had excrement in it—shit, I mean,” I added, seeing her lips silently frame “excrement.” Then the rest of what I’d said struck her and her eyes went round.

“Acid?” she said, and looked down, clutching her midsection. “In my stomach?”

“Well, yes,” I said, careful not to laugh. She had a sense of humor but was still very tentative in this new life, and feared being laughed at or made fun of. “It’s how you digest your food.”

“But it’s …” She stopped, frowning. “It’s … thr—strong. Acid. It eats right through … things.” She’d gone pale under the light tan the mountain sun had given her.

“Yes,” I said, eyeing her. “Your stomach has very thick walls, though, and they’re covered in mucus, so—”

“My stomach is full of snot?” She sounded so horrified that I had to bite my tongue and turn away for a moment, under the pretext of fetching a clean slide.

“Well, you find mucus pretty much all over the insides of your body,” I said, having got control of my face. “You have what are called mucous membranes and serous membranes; those secrete mucus wherever you need a bit of slipperiness.”

“Oh.” Her face went blank, and then she looked down below her clutching hands. “Is it—is that what you have between your legs? To make you … slippery when …”

“Yes,” I said hastily. “And when you’re pregnant, the slipperiness helps the baby come out. Here, let me show you …”

I’d told Jamie what she’d said to Germain. He’d raised his eyebrows briefly, then shaken his head.

“Little wonder, given where she’s been,” he said. “Let it bide. She’s a canny wee lass; she’ll find her way.”

I was drawing pictures of goblet cells on the back pages of my black book when I heard rapid footsteps on the porch and an instant later Jem skidded into the surgery, wild-eyed and white-faced.

“Mrs. Higgins,” he gasped. “She got kilt by a bear. Mam’s bringing her.”

“Killed,” I said automatically, and then, “What!”

Fanny uttered a tiny, wordless scream and threw her apron over her head. Jem’s knees gave way and he sat down on the floor with a thump, panting.

I heard voices outside in the distance, urgent, and grabbing my emergency kit I ran to see what was happening.

Brianna had evidently met Jamie on her way; he had Amy Higgins in his arms, bringing her down the hill as fast as he could manage, Bree stumbling behind him, moving like a drunk. All three of them were covered in blood.

“Oh, Jesus,” I said, and ran up the hill to meet them. There was a lot of noise—children were everywhere, crying and wailing, and Bree was trying to explain, chest heaving for air, and Jamie was asking sharp questions. He saw me, and at my frantic gesture squatted and laid Amy on the ground.

I fell to my knees beside her, seeing the tiny, rhythmic spurt of blood from a severed vessel in her temple.

“She’s not dead,” I said, and pulled rolls of bandage and handfuls of lint out of my pack. “Yet.”

“I’ll fetch Bobby,” Jamie said quietly in my ear. “Brianna—see to the weans, aye?”

FIRST, STOP THE BLEEDING. And the best of British luck to you, I added grimly—and silently—to myself. A good portion of the left side of her face had simply been torn away. The scalp was lacerated, one eye had been gouged from its socket, the orbit and cheekbone splintered, and the white bone of the broken jaw exposed, seeping blood welling up around the remaining scarlet-stained teeth and dribbling down the side of her neck.

She lay oddly, crookedly, and I realized that her left shoulder had been crushed; her dark-green bodice and sleeve were black, sodden with blood. I whipped a tourniquet around the upper arm, feeling the broken ends of bone grate as I moved it. Pressed a towel as gently as I could to the shattered side of her face and saw the cloth darken at once, soaked through. And with a sense of utter futility, I pressed my thumb against the tiny spurting artery in her temple. It stopped.

I looked up and saw Mandy, dead white and shocked into silence, clinging fiercely to little Rob, who was whimpering and struggling, trying to get to his mother.

She was still alive; I could feel the tremor of her flesh under my hands. But so much was lost—so much blood, so much trauma, so much shock—that I knew she’d lose her grip soon. And with that realization, I made the shift. I couldn’t heal her. All I could do now was stay with her and try to ease her.

She was making a soft coughing noise, and bubbles of blood appeared at the visible corner of her mouth. One hand rose in the air, searching vainly for something to hold on to. Roger ran across the grass, fell to his knees on the other side of her body, and grasped the drifting hand.

“Amy,” he said, short of breath. “Amy. Bobby’s coming; I hear him, he’s almost here.”

Her eyelid lifted, shivered shut against the light, opened cautiously, just a crack.

“Mammaidh!” “Mama! Mam!” The shrieks of her children came thin and piercing and her ruined mouth twitched and fell open, struggling to answer them.

“Stay with me, Orrie. Aidan—Aidan, no!” Bree was kneeling on the grass, clutching Aidan by the wrist as he fought to go to his mother, little Orrie terrified, clinging to Bree’s hunting shirt.

The blood wasn’t spurting anymore; it was spreading, fast and silent, soaking the ground. My hands were red to the wrist.

“Amy! Amy!”

Bobby, wild-eyed, charging up the slope, Jamie behind him. He stumbled and half-fell to his knees, chest heaving for air. Roger grabbed his hand and put Amy’s in it.

“No,” Bobby said, fighting for breath. “No. Amy, don’t, please don’t go, please!” I saw her fingers twitch, move, tighten on his for an instant, no more.

“Jesus,” Roger said. “Oh, God.” He looked at me for a moment and read everything in my face. He lifted his head and looked across to Bree and the children, and I saw his face change in sudden decision.

“Bring them,” he said, raising his voice enough to be heard over the crying and shouting. “Quick.”

Brianna shook her head briefly, her eyes fixed on the ruin of Amy’s face. Should the boys remember their mother like that?

“Bring them,” Roger said, louder. “Now.”

She gave a small jerky nod and let go of Aidan, who dashed to his mother and fell on the ground beside Bobby, clinging to him and sobbing. Bree came after him, holding Orrie and Rob by their hands, tears sheeting all their faces.

Roger took the little boys, held them in his arms, close to their mother.

“Amy,” he said, through the sobbing. “Your sons are with you. And Bobby.” He hesitated, looking at me, but at my nod let go of Orrie and laid his hand gently on her chest. “Lord God, be merciful unto us,” he whispered. “Be merciful. Hold her in the palm of Thy hand. Keep her always in the hearts of her children.”

Amy moved. Her head turned a little, toward the boys, and she opened her one eye, slowly, so slowly, as though it was an effort equal to lifting the world. Her mouth twitched once and then she died.

27 Cover Her Face

THERE WAS NO TIME for delicacy. The men had brought Amy’s body down to the house and at my direction laid her on the table in my surgery. The day was hot and she was still very warm to the touch, but her body had a disconcerting inert heaviness, like a burlap bag filled with wet sand. Rigor would soon be separating her from the soft elasticity of life; I’d have to undress her before she got too stiff.

But first, I covered her face with a linen towel. There was time for that much delicacy, I thought. I was glad I’d taken the time, too, when I turned at the sound of a step on the threshold and saw Bree, still in her bloodstained hunting shirt, her face much whiter than the old sheet folded over her arm. I nodded at the counter behind me.

“Put that down and go sit with the children outside in the sun,” I said firmly. “They need someone to hold them. Where’s Roger?” She shook her head, unable to take her eyes off the table. Amy’s fichu had been pulled halfway out of her bodice and was hanging down, soaked with rapidly drying blood that left faint smears on the table. I pulled the cloth loose and dropped it into the bucket of cold water at my feet.

“Roger’s with Bobby,” she said, her voice colorless. “Fanny’s minding Mandy and the little boys for a minute. You—you’ll need help, won’t you? With—” She broke off and swallowed audibly, looking away.

“Someone will be here soon,” I said, and took a little comfort in the thought. I was familiar with death, but that didn’t mean I’d got used to it. “Your father sent Germain running for Young Ian; Rachel and Jenny will come down, too. And Jem’s gone for Gilly MacMillan. His wife will gather up the women who live along the creek.”

She nodded, seeming a little calmer, though her hands were still trembling, the folded sheet bunched between them.

“Why is Da sending for Mr. MacMillan?” she asked.

“He has two good hunting dogs,” I said evenly. “And a boar spear.”

“Holy Lord. He—they—they’re going to hunt the bear? Now?”

“Well, yes,” I said mildly. “Before it gets too far away. Where’s Aidan?” I added, realizing that she’d said “the little boys.” Aidan was twelve, but still qualified, in my book. “Did he go with Jem?”

“No,” she said, her voice sounding odd. “He’s with Da.”

AIDAN WAS WHITE as milk and he kept blinking his swollen red eyes, though he’d stopped greeting. He hadn’t stopped shaking. Jamie put a hand on the lad’s shoulder and could feel the tremble coming up from the earth through Aidan’s flesh.

“I-I-I’m c-c-coming,” Aidan said, though his chin wobbled so much you could scarce understand him. “T-to hunt the b-bear.”

“Of course ye are.” Jamie squeezed the fragile shoulder and, after a moment’s hesitation, let go and turned toward the house. “Come with me, a bhalaich,” he said. “We’ll need to fettle ourselves before we go out.”

Every instinct he had was for avoiding the house, where Claire and the women would be laying Amy out. But he’d been younger than Aidan was now when his own mother died, and he remembered the desolation of being shut out, sent away from the house while the women opened the windows and doors, covered the mirror, and went purposefully about with bowls of water and herbs, completing the secret rituals of taking his mother away from him.

Besides, he thought bleakly, glancing down at the blanched wee lad stumbling along beside him, the boy had seen his mother dying in her blood little more than an hour ago, her face torn half away. Nothing he might see or hear now would be worse.

They stopped at the well and Jamie made Aidan drink cold water and wash his face and hands, and Jamie did likewise and said the beginning of the Consecration of the Chase for him:

“In name of the Holy Threefold as one,

In word, in deed, and in thought,

I am bathing my own hands,

In the light and in the elements of the sky.

“Vowing that I shall never return in my life,

Without fishing, without fowling either,

Without game, without venison down from the hill,

Without fat, without blubber from out the copse.”

Aidan was breathing hard from the shock of the cold water, but he could talk again.

“Bears have fat,” he said.

“Aye. And we will take it from him.” Jamie scooped water in his hand and, dipping three fingers into the puddle in his palm, made the Sign of the Cross on Aidan’s forehead, breast, and shoulders.

“Life be in my speech,

Sense in what I say,

The bloom of cherries on my lips,

’Til I come back again.

“Traversing corries, traversing forests,

Traversing valleys long and wild.

The fair white Mary still uphold me,

The Shepherd Jesu be my shield.

“Say that last bit wi’ me, lad.”

Aidan drew himself up a little and piped along,

“The fair white Mary still uphold me,

The Shepherd Jesu be my shield.”

“Well, then.” Jamie pulled out his shirttail and wiped Aidan’s face and his own. “Will ye have heard that prayer before?”

Aidan shook his head. Jamie hadn’t thought he would; Aidan’s real father, Orem McCallum, might have taught him, but Bobby Higgins was an Englishman, and while a good man in himself, he wouldn’t know the auld ways.

As though the thought had conjured him, Aidan asked seriously, “Will Daddy Bobby come with us to hunt the bear?”

Jamie sincerely hoped not; Bobby had been a soldier, but was no hunter, and in his grief and distraction might easily get himself or someone else killed. And there were the little lads to think of. But he said, “If he feels he must, then he shall. But I hope he will not.” Roger had taken Bobby, looking completely destroyed, back to the Higgins cabin.

He set the bucket on the well coping and laid a hand on Aidan’s shoulder again; it was firmer now, and the bairn’s chin had stopped quivering.

“Come on, then,” he said. “We’ll fetch my rifle and set things in order. Ian Òg and Mr. MacMillan will be here soon.”

“GO,” I SAID to Bree, but more gently. I came and took the sheet that she was still clutching, set it down, and put my arms around her.

“I understand,” I said quietly. “She’s your friend, and you want to do what you still can do for her. And you don’t know why it’s her lying there and you standing here, still alive, and everything’s come apart at the seams.”

She made a small sound of assent and caught her breath in a sob. She clung tight to me for a moment, then let go. Tears were trembling on her lashes, but she was holding on to herself now, not me.

“Tell me what to do,” she said, straightening up. “I have to do something.”

“Take care of Amy’s children,” I said. “That’s what she’d want you to do, above all things.”

She nodded, pressing her lips together in determination—but then glanced at the still figure on the table, smelling of urine, feces, and the thick reek of torn flesh. Flies were beginning to come through the window; they flew in lazy circles, scenting opportunity, seeking a place to lay their eggs. On the body. It wasn’t Amy anymore, and the flies had come to lay claim to her.

Brianna was nearly as good as Jamie at hiding her feelings when she had to, but she wasn’t hiding anything now, and I saw the fear and anguish underneath the shock. She couldn’t bear to deal with Amy’s shattered body—and so had come to do so. Fraser, I thought, moved by her bravery as much as by her grief.

I picked up the other towel and slapped it on the counter, killing two flies that had been unwary enough to land near me.

“Someone will come,” I repeated. “Go. Take Fanny with you.”

28 Math-ghamhainn

IAN, NOT SURPRISINGLY, APPEARED first, walking in through the open front door. Jamie heard the soft tread of his moccasins a moment before Ian spoke to Claire in the surgery. There was a brief exclamation of shock—Germain would have told him what was to do, but not even a Mohawk would be unmoved by the sight of Amy Higgins’s body—and then his voice dropped in a murmur of respect before the soft tread came on toward the kitchen.

“That’ll be Ian,” Jamie said to Aidan, who was very slowly and painstakingly filling cartridges on the kitchen table, tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth as he poured gunpowder from Jamie’s flask. He stopped at Jamie’s words, looking toward the door.

Ian didn’t disappoint the lad. He was carrying his own long rifle, with shot pouch and cartridge box, but had also brought a very large and wicked-looking knife, thrust through his belt unsheathed, and had a strung bow and a birch-bark quiver over his shoulder. He was shirtless, in buckskin leggings and loincloth, but had taken a moment to say his own prayers and apply his hunting paint: his forehead was red above the eyebrows and a thick white stripe ran down the bridge of his nose, with another on each side, running from cheekbone to jaw. White, he’d told Jamie, was for vengeance, or to commemorate the dead.

Aidan—who knew Ian quite well in his Scottish person—had never seen him in purely Mohawk form before. He made a small whoof noise, awed. Jamie hid a smile, picking up his own dirk and the oilstone on which to sharpen it.

“Ach, Ian,” he said, suddenly noting his nephew’s bare chest. “D’ye maybe ken where my claw’s gone? The bear claw the Tuscarora gave me, I mean.” He hadn’t thought of the thing in years. He’d lent it to Ian some time back, to wear on a hunting trip. But it maybe wouldn’t be a bad thing to have with him just now, if it was handy.

“Aye, I do.” Ian had sat down to fold up Aidan’s cartridges, quick and neat, and didn’t look up. “I gave it to my cousin William.”

“Your cou— Oh.” He considered Ian, who still didn’t look up. “And when was this?”

“Ach. Some time ago,” Ian said airily. “When I got him out o’ the swamp, ken. I told him ye wanted him to have it.” He did glance up then, one thin eyebrow raised, just like his father. “I wasna wrong, was I?”

“No,” Jamie said, feeling a sudden warmth, though the hairs prickled on his neck. “No, ye weren’t.”

Bluebell, who’d been nosing round the back door, suddenly turned and shot toward the front of the house, barking. A chorus of deep-voiced baying answered her from the bottom of the slope before the house.

“That’ll be Gillebride, then,” Jamie said, and sheathed his dirk. “Are we fettled, lads?”

I’D GOT AMY’S stays off, and her skirt. The skirt wasn’t torn; it would do, with washing. Amy had no daughter who might use it, but there was always need of clothes and cloth. Someone on the Ridge would welcome it. I put it aside to wash later. The stays were badly torn at the shoulder and stiff with blood. I put them to the other side; I’d salvage the tin ribs, then put the fabric in the fire. The shift … that was torn, too, though it might be mended, or used for patching or quilting. I couldn’t see her buried in it, though; it was bloody and befouled. She had on only one light petticoat and her stockings—wash those, then, and …

I heard the baying of Gillebride’s dogs in the near distance, and the thunder of Bluebell’s feet as she raced down the hall to meet them. They should be all right together; the MacMillan dogs were both male. Bluey was a female and not in heat, and as Jamie had told me in a wry moment, dogs don’t bite bitches.

“Doesna always work the other way round, mind,” he’d said, and I didn’t quite smile at the memory, but felt the air press less heavily on me for a moment.

Then I heard a step in the hallway and looked up, thinking it was Gillebride. It wasn’t, and the air suddenly thickened in my chest.

“Mrs. Fraser.” It was the tall black figure of Mrs. Cunningham, bony and stern as the Grim Reaper, with a folded cloth over one arm. She hovered awkwardly on the threshold, and I just as awkwardly motioned her in.

“Mrs. Cunningham,” I said, and stopped, not knowing what the hell else to say to her. She cleared her throat, glanced at Amy’s half-clad corpse, then quickly away. Even though the head was covered, the mangled arm and shoulder were in plain sight, cracked and shattered bones showing sharp through the still flesh.

“I was by the creek. Your grandson passed me on his way to MacMillan’s and told me what was a-do. So I went along to Mr. Higgins and asked for his wife’s shroud.” She lifted the cloth slightly in illustration, and I saw the embroidered edges, done in greens, blues, and pinks.

“Oh.” That Amy would have her shroud already prepared hadn’t occurred to me at all—though it should have. “Er … thank you, Mrs. Cunningham. That was very thoughtful of you.”

She lifted one shoulder in a faint shrug and, taking a visibly deep breath, walked up to the table. She looked the situation over deliberately for a moment, exhaled through her nose, then reached to untie the ribbon of Amy’s shift.

“If ye’ll hold her steady, I’ll roll it down.”

I opened my mouth to protest that I didn’t need help, but then shut it again. I did, and plainly she’d had some experience of laying out the dead; any woman of her age would. We rolled the shift off Amy’s shoulders and I got one hand solidly into the bare right oxter, the damp hair there feeling disconcertingly warm and alive, and then, with an uncontrollable sense of squirm, threaded my fingers under the wet mess of the left shoulder, finding enough to grip.

So close, the odor of the bear on her was strong enough that I felt an atavistic shiver down my spine. Mrs. Cunningham did, too; she was breathing audibly through her mouth. She got the petticoat untied, though, and pulled shift and stockings off with steady hands.

“Well, then,” she said, and looking round saw that I’d put the skirt aside to wash, and added the rest of the clothes to the pile. “When the other women come, we’ll have them launder those at once,” she said, in the tone of one accustomed to give orders and have them obeyed. “We’ll not want the smell of …”

“Yes,” I said, with a perceptible edge that made her glance sharply at me. “Right now, we’ll need to clean her. Will you go into the kitchen and fetch a bucket of hot water? I’ll tear that up”—nodding at the worn-thin sheet Brianna had brought—“for binding strips.”

She compressed her lips, but in a way that suggested grim amusement at my feeble attempt to exert authority rather than offense, and left without a word.

There was a good bit of barking out front, and I heard Gillebride—his name meant “Oystercatcher,” he’d told me—calling to the dogs. I ripped the worn sheet into wide bands; we’d fasten her legs together, and her arms at her sides—insofar as was possible; I eyed the left shoulder dubiously—cloth binding her body into seemliness before we braided her hair and put her into her shroud.

Mrs. Cunningham reappeared with her sleeves rolled up, a bucket of steaming water from the cauldron in one hand and a hammer in the other, a quilt from my bed over her arm.

“There’ll be men coming to and fro in a moment’s time,” she said, with a jerk of her head toward the hallway.

“Ah,” I said. I would have closed the surgery door, save that there wasn’t one yet. She nodded, set down the bucket, took a handful of tenpenny nails from her pocket, and hung the quilt over the open doorway with a few sharp raps of the hammer.

There was plenty of light coming in at the big window, but the quilt seemed somehow to muffle both light and sound, casting the room into something like a state of reverence, despite the growing noises outside. I took a handful of dried lavender and rubbed it into the hot water, then tore sweet basil leaves and mint and tossed them in as well. To my slight surprise, Mrs. Cunningham looked over the jars on my shelves, took down the salt, and threw a small handful into the water.

“To wash away sin,” she informed me crisply, seeing my look. “And keep her ghost from walking.”

I nodded mechanically at this, feeling as though she’d dropped a pebble into the small pool of calmness I was hoarding, sending ripples of uneasiness through me.

We managed the cleansing and binding of the body in silence. She moved with a sure touch, and we worked surprisingly well together, each conscious of the other’s movements, reaching to do what was needed without being asked. Then we reached the head.

I took a breath through my mouth and lifted the towel away; there were blood spots on it, and it stuck a bit. Mrs. Cunningham jerked a little.

“I was thinking that we might just keep her head covered,” I said apologetically. “With a clean cloth, I mean.”

Mrs. Cunningham was frowning at Amy’s face, the wrinkles in her upper lip drawn in like an accordion.

“Can ye not do a bit to tidy her?”

“Well, I can stitch what’s left of the scalp back in place and we could pull some of her hair over the missing ear, but there’s nothing I can do about the … er … the …” The dislodged eyeball hung grotesquely on the crushed cheek, its surface filmed over but still very much a staring eye. “That’s why I thought … cover her face.”

Mrs. Cunningham’s head moved slowly, side to side.

“Nay,” she said softly, her own eyes fixed on Amy. “I’ve buried three husbands and four bairns myself. Ye always want to look upon their faces, one last time. Nay matter what’s happened to them.”

Frank. I’d looked at him, and said my last goodbye. And was glad that I’d had the chance.

I nodded and reached for my surgical scissors.

“GERMAIN TOLD ME where the bear came upon them,” Ian said. “I went along there, quick, on my way down, and I could see where it had gone through the vines, out the end o’ the wee gorge. We’ll start there, aye?”

Jamie and MacMillan nodded, and MacMillan turned to say something reproving to his dogs, who were sniffing industriously from one end of the kitchen to the other, thrusting their broad heads into the hearth and nosing the lidded slop bucket.

“Speaking of Germain,” Jamie said, suddenly aware that his grandson was missing, “where the devil is he?” It was completely unlike Germain to be absent from any interesting situation. He was much more often right in the middle of—

“Did he go with ye to look for the bear’s track?” Jamie asked sharply, interrupting Gillebride’s recriminations. Ian looked blank for a moment, recollecting, but then nodded.

“Aye, he did. But … I was sure he was just behind me as I came down …” He turned involuntarily and glanced behind him now, as though expecting Germain to spring up through the floorboards. With a deep foreboding in his heart, Jamie swung round to face Gillebride.

“Did Jem come back with ye, Gilly?”

MacMillan, a tall, soft-spoken man, took off his hat and scratched his bald pate.

“Aye,” he said slowly. “I suppose so. He ran ahead, though, whilst I was gathering the dogs. Didna see him again.”

“Crìosd eadar sinn agus olc.” Jamie made the horns against the Devil and crossed himself hurriedly. “Christ between us and evil. Let’s go.”

HOW OLD WAS Mrs. Cunningham? I wondered. She looked older with her clothes on. Three husbands, four children—but death was a casual and frequent visitor in these days. Her hands were old, with thick blue veins and knobbed joints, but still agile; she blotted the blood away with a damp cloth, brushed the soft brown hair from the intact side of Amy’s skull, and, arranging it carefully to hide as much damage as she could, braided it into a single thick plait that she laid gently on Amy’s breast.

I’d taken care of the eye—it was sitting on the counter behind me; I’d wrap it discreetly and tuck it into the shroud—and inserted a small wad of lint into the crushed socket, stitching the lid shut over it. There was no concealing that Amy had died by violence, but at least her family would still be able to look at her.

“Mrs …. do you mind if I call you by your Christian name?” I asked abruptly.

She glanced up from her contemplation of the corpse, slightly startled.

“Elspeth,” she said.

“Claire,” I said, and smiled at her. I thought a smile touched her own lips, but before I could be sure, the quilt hanging over the doorway twitched violently and one of Gillebride’s big bear dogs shouldered his way in, sniffing eagerly along the floor.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” I asked. The dog ignored me and made a beeline for the counter, where he rose gracefully onto his hind legs, gulped the eye, and then dropped and ran out in answer to his master’s annoyed call from the hallway.

Elspeth and I stood in frozen silence as the hunting party departed noisily through the front door, the dogs yelping in happy excitement.

As the house fell quiet, Elspeth blinked. She looked down at Amy, peaceful and composed in the embroidered shroud she had woven while expecting her first child. It was edged with a trailing vine, with pink and blue flowers and yellow bees.

“Aye, well,” she said at last. “I dinna suppose it matters so much whether a person’s eaten by worms or by dogs.” She sounded dubious, though, and I suppressed a sudden insane urge to laugh.

“Being eaten by dogs is in the Bible,” I said, instead. “Jezebel.” She raised one sparse gray brow in surprise, evidently at the unexpected revelation that I’d actually read the Bible, but then nodded.

“Well, then,” she said.

JAMIE’S SENSE OF grim urgency was growing more urgent—it was midafternoon already—but there was the one more thing that had to be done. He had to tell Bobby Higgins what they were about and hope that the man was either too shattered to insist on coming, or wise enough not to—and convince him that it was right for Aidan to go. He should have paused to scoop up the wee boys; they were the best reason for Bobby to stay put—but he hadn’t thought of it in time.

His anxiety was eased a good bit by the sight of Jem, loitering outside the Higgins cabin. His relief at finding the lad, though, was immediately tempered by Jem’s impassioned desire to join the hunting party.

“If Aidan can go—” Jem said, for roughly the fourth time, chin jutting out. Jamie bent down and grabbed him by the arm, speaking low so as not to upset Aidan.

“Your mother wasna eaten by a bear, and she’ll no be pleased if you are. Ye’re stayin’.”

“Then Aidan shouldn’t go! His da won’t like it if he gets eaten, will he?”

That was a thought that had been gnawing at Jamie, but he didn’t repent allowing the boy to come.

“His mother was eaten by a bear, and he’s the right to come and see her avenged,” he said to Jem. He let go of the lad’s arm, took him by the shoulder, and turned him toward the cabin. “Go get your da; I want to talk to him.”

The other members of the hunting party were restive, and he told Ian to go on ahead with Gillebride and the dogs, see if they could get upon Germain’s track. Aidan looked wild, still white-faced, his black hair stood on end, and Jamie took hold of him again to quiet him.

“Stay by me, Aidan. We willna be more than a minute, but we must tell your da what’s ado.”

It was much less than a minute before Roger came out of the cabin, blinking in the sunlight, with Jem behind him, looking excited but solemn. Roger Mac bore the same traces of shock that they all did, though he had himself well in hand, and his face relaxed a little, seeing Jamie. Then it tightened again as he saw the rifle.

“You’re—”

“We are.” He motioned the boys firmly away and dropped his voice. “I need to tell Bobby, but I dinna want him to come. Will ye help me talk him round?”

“Of course. But—” He glanced toward Aidan and Jemmy, slouched at the side of the cabin. “Ye’re not taking them?”

“I willna take Jem if ye say no—that’s yours to say. But I think Aidan must come.”

Roger gave him a look of intense skepticism, and Jamie shrugged.

“He must,” he repeated stubbornly. All the reasons why not were clustering like flies round his head, but the remembered sense of an orphaned boy’s helpless despair was an iron splinter in his heart—and that weighed heavier than the rest.

THE FIRE HAD gone out. In the cabin, and in Bobby, too. He sat hunched and sagging in the corner of the settle by his cold hearth, head bent over his open hands as though he sought some meaning in the lines on his palms. He didn’t look up when they came in.

Jamie sank down on one knee and laid his hand over Bobby’s; it was cold and flaccid, but the fingers twitched a little.

“Robert, a charaid,” he said quietly. “I am going now to hunt the bear. With God’s help, we will find it and kill it. Aidan wishes to come with us, and I think it is right that he should.”

Bobby’s head rose with a jerk.

“Aidan? You want to take Aidan after the bear that—that—”

“I do.” Jamie took hold of Bobby’s other hand and squeezed them. “I swear on my own grandson’s head that I willna let any harm come to him.”

“Your—you mean Jem? You’re taking him as well?” Confusion showed briefly through the deadness in Bobby’s eyes, and he looked over Jamie’s shoulder at Roger Mac. “He is?”

“Aye.” Roger’s Mac’s voice broke on the word, but he said it, bless him. Inspiration blossomed in Jamie’s mind, and with an inward prayer, he rolled his dice.

“Roger Mac will come as well,” he said, hoping he sounded completely sure of it. “He’ll mind both lads and see them safe.” He could feel Roger Mac’s eyes burning a hole in the back of his head, but he was sure it was the right thing. Blessed Michael, guide my tongue …

“My nephew Ian and Gillebride MacMillan will be with me, with dogs. The three of us—and three dogs—will have the upper hand of a bear, no matter how fierce. Roger Mac and the lads will be there only to bear witness for your wife. At a safe distance,” he added.

Bobby sat up, pulling his hands free, and looked to and fro, agitated.

“But—but I should go with you, then. Shouldn’t I?”

Roger, recognizing his cue, cleared his throat.

“Your wee lads need ye, Bobby,” he said gently. “Ye’ve got to mind them, aye? Ye’re all they’ve got left.”

Jamie felt those words strike suddenly and without warning, deep in his own wame. Felt again a bundle of cloth clutched hard against his breast, feeling the tiny pushings of the hours-old babe inside, himself shaking with terror at what he’d just done to save the boy—his son.

That’s what he’d thought. The only thought that came through the haze of fear and shock: His mother’s dead. I’m all he has.

And he saw it happen for Bobby, as it had for him. Saw the life fight its way back into his eyes, the bones of his body, melted with grief, begin to stiffen and form again. Bobby nodded, lips pressed tight together. Tears still ran down his face, but he rose from the settle, slow as an auld man but moving.

“Where are they?” he asked hoarsely. “Orrie and Rob?”

“With my daughter,” Jamie said. “At the house.” He lifted a brow at Roger Mac, who gave him an old-fashioned look but nodded.

“I’ll go up with ye, Bobby,” Roger Mac said, and to Jamie, “I’ll catch ye up. You and the lads.”

THE WOMEN WERE coming. I could hear their voices, faint in the distance, coming up from the creek. That would be Gillebride’s wife, with her eldest daughter, Kirsty, and Peggy Chisholm, who lived nearby, with her two eldest, Mairi and Agnes, and Peggy’s ancient mother-in-law, Auld Mam, who was Not Right in the Head and therefore couldn’t be left alone. Then there were nearer female voices and steps in the hall, and Fanny came in, solemn-faced, with Rachel and Jenny. She glanced at the quilt-hung doorway and then averted her eyes.

I let out my breath at sight of them, and with it, the sense of being keyed up to meet something dreadful that had been with me since Jem had stumbled breathless into the surgery to tell me what had happened.

Jenny put down her basket, hugged me, quick and hard, then ducked without a word beneath the hanging quilt into the surgery. Rachel had a basket, too, and Oggy in her other arm. She detached the baby and handed him to Fanny, who looked relieved to be given something to do.

“Is thee all right, Claire?” she asked softly, then glanced at Mrs. Cunningham, who had taken up a station beside the covered surgery door, hands folded at her waist. “And thee, Friend Cunningham?”

“Yes,” I said. The odd sense of being in an intimate bubble with Elspeth Cunningham had burst at once with the advent of friends and family, but the experience had left me feeling oddly moist and exposed, like a half-opened clam. Elspeth herself had closed her shell tightly but nodded to the new arrivals. Her own near neighbors would be coming down as soon as the news reached them, but it would take some time; the Crombies’ and Wilsons’ several cabins were at least two miles from us.

Jenny was praying softly in Gaelic. I couldn’t catch the words clearly enough to know what she said, but the distinctive lilt of mourning was in it.

“Come aside,” Rachel said softly to me, and drew back the quilt a little, beckoning me with a sober nod of the head that simultaneously summoned me and indicated that no one else need follow.

Jenny had just finished her prayer. She put out a hand and rested it very gently for a moment on Amy’s white-capped head. “Biodh sith na Màthair Beannaichte agus a mac Iosa ort, a nighean.” she said quietly. May the peace of the Blessed Mother and of her son, Jesus, be on you, daughter.

Rachel looked at Amy’s body and swallowed, but didn’t flinch or look away.

“Germain said it was a bear,” she said, and I saw her eyes slide toward the pitiful pile of tattered, bloodstained garments. “Was thee … present, Claire?”

“No. Brianna was with her when it happened, picking grapes. Some of the children were there, too. Jemmy, Germain, and Aidan. The little boys. And Mandy.”

“Dear God. Did they see it?” Rachel asked, shocked.

I shook my head.

“They were up above, playing. Bree and Amy were picking muscats in that little gorge beyond the creek. She—Brianna—got the children away and then ran for Jamie. She—Amy—was just barely alive when I got to her.” My throat tightened, seeing the small pale hand, limp in Roger’s, the twitch at the corner of her mouth as she’d tried to bid her children farewell. Despite my determination, a small hot tear slid down my cheek.

Rachel made a small sound of distress and smoothed my hair away from my cheek. Jenny cleared her throat, reached into her pocket, and handed me a clean handkerchief.

“Well, the front door was open when we came in,” Jenny said, ticking off a mental checklist. She glanced at the huge, glassless surgery window, open to the day. “And ye’ll not need to open the windows.”

This tinge of dry humor, small though it was, relieved the tension and I felt a small crack between my shoulder blades as my spine relaxed, for what seemed the first time in days, not hours.

“No,” I said. I blotted the tears and sniffed. “What else—mirrors? There’s only the hand glass in my bedroom and it’s already lying facedown.”

“No birds in the house? I see ye’ve got salt …” A few grains had spilled on the counter when Elspeth had thrown salt into the water. “… and bread willna be a worry.” She cocked a still-black eyebrow in the direction of the kitchen. I could hear the voices of women as they greeted new arrivals, unpacked baskets, made things ready. I wondered if I should go and organize things, tell them where to place the coffin … Ought it to be in the front room, or in the much bigger kitchen? Oh, God, a coffin; I hadn’t even thought of that.

“Och,” said Jenny, in a different voice. “Here’s Bobby a-coming up the hill wi’ Roger Mac.” As one, we all glanced at Amy’s body, then looked at one another, questioning. We had made her as seemly as we could, but could we leave Bobby alone with her? That didn’t seem right, but neither did a crowd of women, likely to set each other off if one burst into tears—

“I’ll stay with him,” Rachel said, swallowing. Jenny glanced at me, eyebrow raised, then nodded. Rachel had a gift for stillness.

“I’ll mind our wee man,” Jenny said, and, kissing Rachel affectionately on the forehead, went out. Elspeth Cunningham had already vanished, presumably to help the women now murmuring in the kitchen, busy but subdued, the sound of them like termites working in the walls of the house.

I waited with Rachel to receive Bobby, mentally compiling a list. There was a full cask of whisky and a half-empty one in the pantry, but no beer. Caitlin Breuer might bring some; I should send Jem and Germain up to ask … And perhaps Roger would go speak to Tom MacLeod about the coffin.

Footsteps in the hall, and the sound of choked breathing. Bobby appeared in the doorway, but to my surprise, it was Brianna, not Roger, supporting him. She looked nearly as destroyed as Bobby did, but had her arm firmly round his shoulders. She was four inches taller than he was, and despite her obvious distress stood solid as a rock.

“Amy,” he said, seeing the white shroud, and her name was no more than an anguished breath. “Oh, my God … Amy …” He looked at me, in red-eyed appeal and silent despair. How could I have let her die?

Nothing could have saved her and we both knew it, but I felt the sting of helplessness and guilt, nonetheless.

Bobby began to cry, in the awful, wrenching way that men do. Brianna had been pale and blotchy with grief and shock; now she flushed, her own eyes welling.

Rachel moved near my shoulder, and next thing I knew, she’d taken Bobby from Bree as easily as she might have accepted a fresh egg in her hand, careful of him, but calm.

“Let us sit with thy wife for a bit,” she said softly, and guided him to a stool. She cast a quick look over her shoulder at Brianna, and nodded to me before sitting down beside Bobby.

I walked Bree out of the surgery and straight out of the house, thinking that she wouldn’t want the other women to see her so distraught. I must give her something for the shock, I thought, but before I could suggest anything, she’d turned and gripped me by the elbow, wet eyes blazing through her tears.

“Da’s gone,” she said. “And he’s taken Roger and Jem and Aidan with him! To hunt that bloody bear!”

“Oh, aye,” Jenny said behind me, before I could speak. She laid a hand on Brianna’s arm and squeezed. “Dinna fash, lass. Jamie’s a hard man to kill, and Ian’s painted his face. And I said the blessing for them both—the one for a warrior goin’ out. They’ll be fine.”

ROGER CAUGHT UP with Jamie and the two boys—he was glad to see that they’d met Germain along the way—just short of the opening to the small gorge where the grapevines grew in abundance. They’d heard him crashing along and had paused to wait for him.

He stopped, breathing heavily, and nodded toward the rocky wall where the vines rippled and quivered in the light breeze. “This is where it happened?” The smell of ripe muscats was strong and sweet above the rough, bitter smell of the leaves, and his stomach growled in response; he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Jamie reached into his sporran and handed him half a crumbling bannock, without comment.

“Farther on, Dad,” Jemmy said. “We were over there, up on top of the cliff. Mam and Mrs. Higgins were down below—see where that big shadow is, that’s where—” He broke off abruptly, stared, then shrieked. “The bear! The bear! There it is!”

Roger dropped the bannock and his staff and seized Jemmy by one arm and Aidan by the collar, dragging them back. Jamie and Ian didn’t move. They looked down the length of the gorge, looked at each other, then shook their heads.

“Dinna fash, a bhalaich,” Jamie said to Aidan, kindly. “It’s no the bear.”

“Ye’re … sure of that, are ye?” Roger felt as though the breath had been knocked out of him. He could see what Jemmy’d seen: a small growth of hemlocks on the left rim of the gorge cast deep shadow over the vines on the right, and something was moving in that shadow.

“Foxes,” Ian said, with a one-shouldered shrug. “Come to—ah—” He broke off, noticing Aidan, who was breathing like a steam engine.

“Sanguinem culum lingere,” Jamie said tersely. “Bluebell! Come to me, a nighean.”

All the dogs were interested in the foxes, tugging at their leashes and whining, but not barking.

To lick the blood. Roger’s mind made the Latin translation and rapidly readjusted itself to events, presenting him with a stomach-dropping sense of what had happened here, only a few hours ago.

Jamie was talking to Ian and Gillebride in Gaelic now, gesturing along the ridge. Jem and Aidan clustered close to Roger, silent and big-eyed. The breeze had changed direction, and he heard the squealing and barks of the foxes.

“Did you see what happened to Mrs. Higgins?” Roger asked Jem, low-voiced.

Jem shook his head. “Mandy did,” he said. “Mam came up the grapevines and got us. Like Tarzan,” he added.

“Like what?” Ian had picked that up and turned to look down at Jem, puzzled. Roger made a dismissive gesture, and Ian turned back to the discussion. This lasted no more than a few moments, and they set off along the edge of the gorge, the dogs sniffing eagerly to and fro.

29 Remember, Man …

“GO,” HER MOTHER HAD said firmly. “You need to move, and someone needs to go and tell Tom MacLeod that we’ll be needing a coffin. As soon as possible.” Her mother cast a quick, haunted glance back into the house. “If we can have it by tonight, for the wake …”

“So soon?” Brianna had thought she was numbed by the shocks of the day, but this was a fresh one. “She’s—she—it was only a few hours ago!”

Her mother sighed, nodding.

“I know. But it’s still warm out.”

“Flies,” Mrs. Cunningham added baldly. She had come to the door, presumably looking for Claire. She nodded bleakly at Brianna. “I’ve been to wakes in hot weather where there were maggots dropping from the shroud and wriggling across the floor. At least if there’s a coffin, they—”

“We’ll put her body in the springhouse for now,” her mother said hastily, with a reproachful look at Elspeth Cunningham. “It will be all right. Go, darling.”

She went.

TOM MACLEOD BOASTED that he was the only coffin maker between the Cherokee Line and Salem. Whether this was true, Brianna didn’t know, but as he told her, he did usually have at least one coffin a-building, in case of sudden need.

“This one’s near finished,” he said, leading Brianna into an open-sided shed smelling of the fresh wood shavings that covered the floor. “Higgins, you say … not sure I know which lady that might be. How big would you say …?”

Brianna mutely held a hand at the level of her chest, and Mr. MacLeod nodded. He was old, leathery, and mostly bald, with a half-sprouted gray beard and shoulders stooped by constant bending over his work, but he exuded a sense of calm competence.

“This’ll do, then. Now, as to when …” He squinted at the half-finished coffin, balanced on wooden sawhorses. Pine planks in different stages of preparation leaned against the walls. She could hear the rustle of what were probably mice in the shadows, and found it oddly soothing, almost domestic.

“I could help you,” she blurted, and he looked up at her, startled.

“I’m a good builder,” she said. There were tools hanging on one wall, and she stepped across and took down a plane, holding it with the confidence of one who knows what to do with it. He saw that, and blinked slowly, considering. Then his eyes passed slowly up her body, taking in her height—and her bloodstained clothes.

“You’re Himself’s lass, are ye not?” he said, and nodded, as though to himself. “Aye, well … if ye can drive a nail straight, fine. Otherwise, ye can sand wood.”

ROGER SAID A silent prayer as they passed through the gorge. One for the soul of Amy Higgins, and on its heels another for the safety of the hunting party. The boys walked soberly, keeping near him as they’d been told to, glancing to and fro as though expecting the bear to leap out of the grapevines.

Perhaps a half hour later, the walls of the gorge spread apart and flattened into forest, and they walked into the shadow of tall pines and poplars, the dogs shuffling shoulder-deep in the fallen leaves and dry needles, forging the way. Ian was in the lead; he stopped at the bottom of a steep slope and nodded to the other men, pointing upward.

“Is the bear up there?” Aidan whispered to Roger.

“I don’t know.” Roger took a firmer grip on his staff. He had a knife on his belt, but it wouldn’t begin to penetrate the hide and fat of a bear.

“The dogs do,” Germain observed.

They did. One of the bear hounds threw up his head and made a deep, eager arrooo, arrooo sound, and lunged forward. Gillebride loosed him at once and he shot up the slope into the trees, followed by Bluebell and the other hound, the three of them swift as water, calling as they went.

And they were all running then, the dogs and the men after them, as fast as they could through the crunching leaves. Roger’s chest began to burn and he could hear the boys gulping air and panting, but they kept up.

All the dogs had the scent and were baying with excitement, long tails waving stiff behind them.

Ian and Jamie were swarming up the slope, long-legged, hurdling fallen logs and dodging trees. Gillebride was laboring alongside Roger, now and then finding enough breath to shout encouragement to the dogs.

“Sin e! An sin e!”

Roger didn’t know which man had shouted; Jamie and Ian were well out of sight, but the Gaelic words rang faintly through the trees. There! There it is!

Aidan made a high choking noise, put his head down, and began to run as though his life depended on it, plowing his way up the slope. Roger grabbed Jemmy’s hand and followed with Germain, jabbing his staff hard into the ground to help them along.

They crested the slope, lost their balance, and slid and tumbled down into a small dell, where the dogs were leaping like flames around a tall tree, yammering and howling at a large—a very large—dark shape thirty feet off the ground, wedged in the crotch between two trunks.

Roger scrambled to his feet, shedding dry leaves and looking for the boys. Aidan was nearby; he’d got halfway up and was frozen on his hands and knees, looking up. His mouth moved, but he wasn’t talking. Roger looked round wildly for Jemmy.

“Jem! Where are you?”

“Right here, Da,” Jem said from behind him, through the noise of the dogs. “Is Aidan okay?”

He felt a thump of relief at sight of Jem’s red head; his plait had come undone and his hair was full of pine needles. There was a scrape on his cheek, but he clearly wasn’t hurt. Roger patted him briefly and turned to Aidan, crouching down beside the boy.

“Aidan? Are ye all right?”

“Aye.” He seemed dazed, and no wonder. He’d not taken his eyes off the bear. “Will it come down and eat us?”

Roger gave the bear in the tree a wary look. It bloody well might, for all he knew.

“Himself and the others ken what to do,” he assured Aidan, rubbing the boy’s small, bony back in reassurance. He hoped he was right.

“If it comes for ye, hit it across the snout as hard as ye can,” Jamie had told him. “If it makes to bite, drive your stick down his throat …”

He’d lost his staff, tumbling down. Where—there. He scrambled down the slope, keeping an eye on the bear, a solid black blob against the blue sky. It didn’t seem disposed to move, but he felt much better with the stick in his hand.

The hunters had gathered together a little way off and were regarding the bear, narrow-eyed. The dogs were ecstatic, leaping, clawing the tree, barking and yelping and plainly willing to keep doing it for as long as it took.

“Come on.” Roger gathered the boys and led them up the slope, behind Jamie and the others. Now that he’d got them safely in hand, he had a moment to actually look at the bear. It was moving its head restively from side to side, peering down at the dogs and clearly thinking, What the hell …? He was surprised to feel a sense of sympathy for the treed animal. Then he remembered Amy and sympathy died.

“… canna get a decent shot,” Jamie was saying, sighting along his rifle. He lowered it and glanced at Ian. “Can ye move him for me?”

“Oh, aye.” Ian unslung his bow, unhurried, and with no fuss at all, nocked an arrow and shot it straight into the bear’s backside. The bear squealed with rage and backed rapidly halfway down the trunk, gave the dogs a quick glance, and then with an amazing grace jumped to another tree ten feet away, grabbing the trunk.

The men all shouted and the dogs instantly swarmed the new tree, just as the bear started down. The bear, the arrow sticking absurdly out behind it, went back up, looked to and fro for a better idea, and not finding one, jumped back to its original tree. Jamie shot it, and it thumped to the ground like a huge sack of flour.

“Crap,” said Jemmy, awed. Germain grabbed his hand. Aidan gave a howl of rage and lunged toward the fallen bear. Roger lunged, too, and grabbed Aidan’s collar, but the worn shirt ripped and Aidan ran, leaving a handful of cloth in Roger’s grasp.

“Fucking stay there!” Roger shouted at Jem, who was staring openmouthed, and went after Aidan, crashing through fallen branches and twisting his ankles and scraping his shins on stumps and deadfalls.

The other men were all shouting and running, too. But Aidan had got the knife from his belt and was roaring in a high treble as he stumbled the last few feet toward the bear. The dogs had already reached it and were snapping and tearing at the carcass—if it was a carcass.

Gillebride was belting down the slope, spear in both hands and bellowing at the dogs. The bear rose suddenly, swaying, and swatted Bluebell away. She crashed against a tree with a yelp and fell and Aidan stabbed his little knife into the bear’s side, screaming and screaming, and then Roger had him, grabbed him round the middle and flung himself away with Aidan beneath him and heard behind him the thunk! of the spear and a long, long sigh from the bear. Leaves flew up as the bear hit the ground. They touched Roger’s face and one of the dogs galloped across him, its nails digging into his back as it launched itself at the dead bear.

“Dad! Dad! Are you okay?” Jemmy was pulling at him, yelling. He dimly heard Gillebride and Ian beating the dogs away from the carcass and felt a big, hard hand under his elbow, pulling him upright, and the forest spun.

“The dog’s all right,” Jamie was saying, and Roger wondered whether he must have asked without realizing it, or whether Jamie was just making conversation. “She’s maybe cracked a rib, nay more. The wee lad’s fine, too,” he added. “Here.” He took a small flask from his sporran and wrapped Roger’s hands around it.

“Daddy?” Jem was kneeling by him, anxious. Roger smiled at him, though his face felt like melted rubber, unable to hold its shape for more than a few seconds.

“It’s all right, a bhalaich.”

The strong smell of the bear mingled with the scent of whisky and dead leaves. He could hear Aidan sobbing and looked for him. Ian had him, an arm round the boy, cuddled against his side as they sat in the yellow leaves against a fallen log. He saw that Ian had thumbed some of the white paint mixed with bear fat from his own face and streaked it across Aidan’s forehead.

Jamie and Gillebride were by the bear, examining it, Germain peeking cautiously from behind his grandfather. With a great effort, Roger got to his feet and held out a hand to Jem.

“Come on.”

It was a beautiful thing, in spite of the wounds. The softness of its muzzle, the colors of the body, and the perfect vivid curves of claws, pads, huge rounded back, brought him close to tears.

Jamie knelt by the bear’s head and lifted it, the heavy skull moving easily as he turned it and thumbed the lip away from the big teeth, fingers moving along the jaw. He grimaced and, reaching gingerly into the bear’s maw, drew out a tiny scrap from between the back teeth—something that looked like a fragment of some plant, something dark green. He spread out his palm and touched the thing, spreading it open, and Roger saw that it was a scrap of dark-green homespun, tinged black at one edge. The wet black seeped out onto Jamie’s palm, and Roger could see that it was blood.

Jamie nodded, as though to himself, and tucked the fragment of Amy’s bodice into his sporran. Then he stood, with a definite intent of body that made Ian stand up, too, leading Aidan to come and stand with them all, while Jamie said the prayer for the soul of one fallen in battle.

THEY CAME DOWN to the Big House at sunset, Brianna and Tom MacLeod carrying the coffin between them, he at the head and she at the foot.

She watched the back of his head as they negotiated their way through the long tree-shadows, and wondered how old he might be. His hair was thin and mostly white, tied back in a wisp, and his skin scaly and brown as a turtle’s. But his eyes were bright and fierce as a turtle’s, too, and his broad hands knew wood.

They hadn’t exchanged more than a dozen words during the afternoon, but they hadn’t needed to.

At first, she’d felt deep sorrow at thought of a coffin; Amy being buried, put away, separated. But her soul had settled in the work, fear, shock, and worry fading with the concentration needed in the handling of sharp objects, and she’d begun to feel a sense of peace. This was a thing she could do for Amy: lay her to rest in clean wood. Her hands were rough now with sanding and her clothes full of sawdust; she smelled of sweat and fresh pine, and the balsam firs perfumed the coffin trail. Incense, she thought.

IT WAS NEARLY dark by the time Brianna left Tom and the coffin in the yard and went upstairs to make a hasty toilet and change her clothes. They fell off, heavy with sweat and sawdust, and she felt a moment’s relief, as though she’d shed some small part of the day’s burden. She pushed the discarded clothes into a corner with her foot and stood still, naked.

The house below hummed like her mother’s beehive, with intermittent bangs and callings-out as people came through the open door, the voices instantly hushing in respect—but only momentarily. She closed her eyes and ran her hands very slowly over her body, feeling skin and bone, the soft swing of the damp, heavy hair that hung down her back, unbraided.

She thought she should feel guilty. She did feel guilty, through the fog of exhaustion, but as her mother had said—more than once—the flesh has no conscience. Her body was grateful to find itself alive in a cool, dark room, being soothed and sponged and combed by candlelight.

A soft knock at the door, and Roger came in. She dropped the petticoat she’d been about to put on and went to him in her shift and stays.

“What did you do with the bear?” she mumbled into his shoulder, some minutes later. He smelled of blood.

“Gralloched it, put ropes on it, and dragged it home. I think your da put it in the root cellar, to keep things from getting at it. He says he and Gilly MacMillan will skin and butcher it tomorrow. It’ll be a lot of meat,” he added.

A faint shudder went down her back and into her belly. He felt it and hugged her closer.

“You okay?” he said softly into her hair. She nodded, unable to speak, and they stood together in silence, listening to the subdued rumble of the house below.

“Are you okay?” she asked, at last letting go. She stepped back to look at him; his eyes looked bruised with tiredness and he’d just shaved. His face was damp and blotched from scraping and there was a small cut just below his jaw, a dark line of dried blood. “Was it awful?”

“Aye, it was—but really wonderful, too.” He shook his head and stooped to pick up the fallen petticoat. “I’ll tell ye later. I’ve got to put on my gear and go speak to people.” He’d straightened his shoulders as he spoke; she could see him reach beyond his own emotion and tiredness and grasp his calling as another man might grip his sword.

“Later,” she echoed, and thought fleetingly that maybe she should learn the words of the blessing for a warrior going out.

IT TOOK HER some time to pull herself together enough to leave the sanctuary of her bedroom and go down.

Amy’s coffin had been placed on trestles in the kitchen, as the crowd come to wake her would never fit into the small parlor. Everyone brought food; Rachel and the two eldest Chisholm girls had taken charge of unpacking the baskets and bags and laying things out. Brianna drew in a hesitant deep breath as she entered the room, making her stays creak, but it was all right; if there was any smell of bear or decay, it was masked by the scents of burning firewood, candle wax, berry jam, apple cider, cheese, bread, cold meat, and beer, with the comforting ghost of her father’s whisky floating through the crowd.

Roger was by the hearth, dressed in his black broadcloth with the minister’s high white neckcloth, greeting people quietly, clasping their hands, offering calm and comfort. He caught Brianna’s eye and gave her a warm look, but was engaged with Auld Mam, who stood on tiptoe, balancing with her hand on his arm, shouting something into his ear.

She glanced at the coffin. She must go and pay her respects—find a few words to say to Bobby.

Yeah, like what? I can’t just say, “I’m so sorry.” Tears had come to her eyes, just looking at him.

The bereaved husband was making a valiant effort to keep upright and to respond to a rush of sympathy that threatened to swamp him. Her father had taken up a station standing beside Bobby, keeping an eye on him, fielding the more exigent outpourings—and keeping Bobby’s cup topped up. He sensed Brianna’s gaze on him and looked toward her, caught her eye, and lifted one heavy brow in an expression that said clear as day, “Are ye all right, lass?”

She nodded and made her best effort at a smile, but a sense of panic was rising in her and she turned abruptly and made her way out into the hall, breathing fast and shallow. As she made her way down the chilly hallway, she seemed to hear a slow, heavy tread behind her and the scrape of claws on wood.

Her mother had told her that the smaller children had been fed and put to bed in the surgery, safe behind the hanging quilt. Brianna paused, listening, and even though all was quiet within, she pulled back the edge of the quilt and looked into the room.

Small bodies were curled and sprawled in cozy heaps under the big table, beside the hearth—though the fire had been smoored and the fire screen brought in from the kitchen, to prevent accidents—and in every corner of the room, sleeping on and under their parents’ outer garments and their own; she saw Mandy in one pile, limbs spread like a starfish. Jem would be somewhere else, out with the older boys. The whole room seemed to breathe with the deep slow rhythms of sleep, and she longed suddenly to lie down beside them and abandon consciousness.

She glanced for the dozenth time at the big window. That had an Indian trade blanket tacked over it, to keep out cold drafts. The hair lifted on her nape, looking at it; it wouldn’t keep out any of the things that walked at night.

“It’s all right, Bwee. I’m he-re.” The soft voice startled her and she jerked back, looking round. The voice had come from the corner by the hearth, and peering into the shadows, she made out Fanny, sitting cross-legged, Bluebell on the floor beside her, sound asleep, the dog’s muzzle laid on Fanny’s thigh, the muslin bandages round Bluey’s ribs a soft white patch in the dark.

“Are you all right, Fanny?” Bree whispered back. “Do you want anything to eat?”

Fanny shook her head, neat white cap like a mushroom poking through soil.

“Mrs. Fraser brought me supper. I said Bluey and me would stay with Orrie and Rob,” she said, careful with her r’s. “If they wake up—”

“Not likely,” Bree said, smiling despite her disquiet. “But you can come get me, if they do.”

A little of the sleeping children’s peace stayed with her as she left the surgery, but it vanished the moment she stepped back into the kitchen, hot and teeming with people. Her stays felt suddenly tighter and she lingered by the wall, trying to remember how to breathe from the lower abdomen.

“Does Bobby own his cabin?” Moira Talbert was asking, her eyes fixed speculatively on the little knot of people surrounding Bobby Higgins. “Himself built it, and I ken his lass and her man dwelt there for a time, but Joseph Wemyss told Andrew Baldwin as how Himself had given Bobby and Amy the place, but he didna say was it the house and land by deed, or only the use of it.”

“Dinna ken,” Peggy Chisholm replied, her own eyes narrowing in speculation. She glanced toward the far side of the room, where her two daughters were helping to cut and lay out slices of a vast fruitcake soaked in whisky that Mandaidh MacLeod had brought down. “D’ye think maybe that Himself has it in mind to wed his wee orphan lass to Bobby, though? If it was her, he’d see Bobby right for the cabin, sure …”

“Too young,” said Sophia MacMillan, shaking her head. “She’s but a maid yet.”

“Aye, and he needs a mother for his wee lads,” Annie Babcock put in dismissively. “That one couldn’t say boo to a goose. Now, there’s my cousin Martina, she’s seventeen, and—”

“Even so, the man’s a murderer,” Peggy interrupted. “I dinna think I want him for a son-in-law, even with a good hoose.”

Brianna, stifled by amazement, found her voice at this.

“Bobby’s not a murderer,” she said, and was surprised to hear how hoarse she was. She cleared her throat hard and repeated, “He’s not a murderer. He was a soldier, and he shot someone during a riot. In Boston.”

A small jolt ran through her at the word “Boston.” The Old State House behind her and the smell of traffic, with the big round bronze plaque set into the asphalt at her feet. Her fifth-grade classmates clustered around it, all shivering in the wind off the harbor. The Boston Massacre, the plate read.

“A riot,” she said, more firmly. “A big group of people attacked a small group of soldiers. Bobby shot someone to save the soldiers’ lives.”

“Oh, aye?” said Sarah MacBowen with a skeptical arch of her brow. “So why is it he’s got yon M on his face, then?”

The scar had faded in the ten years since, but was clearly visible now; Bobby sat by the coffin, and the pale glow of the candle showed the mark of the brand, dark against the whiteness of his face. She saw that he was still gripping the edge of the pine coffin, as though he could keep Amy from going from him, refusing to acknowledge that she was already gone.

Brianna had to go to him. Had to look at Amy. Had to apologize.

“Excuse me,” she said abruptly, and pushed past Moira.

A small group of Bobby’s friends were clustered about him, murmuring gruff words and giving him an occasional consoling squeeze of the shoulder. She hung back, awaiting an opening, her heartbeat thumping in her ears.

“Och, Brianna!” A hand clutched her arm, and Ruthie MacLeod leaned in to peer at her. “Are ye all right, a nighean? They’re sayin’ as how ye were with Amy when the wicked beast took her—is it so?”

“Yes,” she said. Her lips felt stiff.

“What happened?” Beathag Moore and another young woman were clustering behind Ruthie, eyes bright with curiosity. “How close were ye to the bear?”

As though the word “bear” had been a signal, heads turned toward Brianna.

“As close as I am to you right now,” she said. She could barely hear her own words; her heart had speeded up and … oh, God. It burst into a violent flutter in her chest, as though a flock of sparrows were trapped inside her, and black spots swam at the edges of her sight. She couldn’t breathe.

“I—I have to—” She made a helpless gesture at the avid faces, turned, and lurched out of the room, half-running for the stairs.

She was pulling at her bodice as she reached the landing, and all but ripped it off as she stumbled into the bedroom and pushed the door closed behind her.

She had to get out of the stays, she couldn’t breathe … She tore the straps off her shoulders and squirmed out of the half-fastened corset, gasping for air. Threw off her skirt and petticoat and leaned against the wall, heart still galloping. Air.

Sweating and trembling, she flung open the door and started up the stairs to the open air of the unfinished attic.

ROGER SAW BRIANNA go white, then turn and stumble out of the kitchen, knocking into the propped-open door so it swung heavily shut behind her.

He made his way through the crowd as fast as he could, but she was gone when he pushed out into the hall. Maybe she’d just needed air—God knew, he did; the night-chilled breeze rushing in from the yard was a huge relief.

“Bree!” he called from the doorstep, but there was no answer—only the shuffle and murmur of visitors making their way up the slope by the flickering of a pine torch.

The surgery, then—she must have gone to look at the children …

He found her, finally, in the house. High up in the open air, clinging to one of the uprights of the timbers framing the unfinished attic, a white shadow against the night sky.

She must have heard him, though he tried to tread lightly; only a single layer of boards served (for the moment) as both the ceiling of the second floor and the floor of the attic. She didn’t move, though, save for the flow of her hair and her shift, both rippling in the unsettled air. There was a late thunderstorm in the neighborhood; he could see a mass of steely cloud boiling up behind the distant mountain, shot with constant vivid cracks of lightning. The smell of ozone was strong on the wind.

“You look like the figurehead of a ship,” he said, coming close behind her. He put his arms gently round her, covering her from the chill. “Ye feel like one, too—you’re so cold, ye’re hard as wood.”

She made a sound that he took as an indication that she was glad to see him and acknowledged his feeble joke but either was too cold to talk or didn’t know what to say.

“Nobody knows what to say when something like this happens,” he said, and his lips brushed a cold white ear.

“You do. You did.”

“Nah,” he said. “I said something, aye, but God knows—and I mean that, by the way—whether it was the right thing to say, or if anything ever could be, in a situation like that. You were there,” he said, in a softer voice. “Ye got help, ye took care of the bairns. Ye couldn’t have done more.”

“I know.” She turned to him then, and he felt the wetness on her cheek against his own. “That’s what—what’s so terrible. There was nothing to—to fix it, to make things better. One second she was there, and then …” She was shaking. He should have thought to bring a cloak, a blanket … but all he had was his own body, and he held her as close as he could, feeling the solid life of her trembling in his arms, and felt a terrible guilt at his relief that it hadn’t been—

“It could have been me,” she whispered, her voice shaking as much as her body. “She wasn’t ten feet away from me. The bear could have come from the other side, and—and Jem and Mandy would be or-orphans t-tonight.” She let out a small, suffocated sob. “Mandy was right by my feet, five minutes b-before. She—it could have—”

“You’re freezing,” he whispered into her hair. “It’s going to rain. Come down.”

“I can’t do it. We shouldn’t have come,” she said. “We shouldn’t have come here.” And letting go of the upright, she bent her head on his shoulder and cried, pressing hard against him. The cold had seeped from her body into his, and the cold pellets of her words lay like frozen buckshot in his mind. Mandy.

He couldn’t tell her it would be all right. But neither could he leave her to stand alone here like a lightning rod.

“If I have to pick ye up, I’ll likely fall off the roof and we’ll both be killed,” he said, and took her cold hand. “Come down, aye?”

She nodded, straightened, and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her shift.

“It’s not wrong to be alive,” he said quietly. “I’m glad you are.”

She nodded again, raised his hand to her cold lips, and kissed it. They made their way down the ladder in the dark one after the other, each alone but together, toward the distant glow of the hearth below.

30 You Should Know …

WE BURIED AMY THE next day, in the small, high meadow that served the Ridge as a graveyard. It was a peaceful, sunny day, and every step through the grass revealed some flash of color, the purples and yellows of asters and goldenrod. The warmth of the sun on our shoulders was a comfort, and Roger’s words of prayer and commendment held something of comfort, too.

I found myself thinking—as one does, at a certain age—that I’d rather like to have a funeral like this. Outdoors, among friends and family, with people who’d known me, whom I’d served for years. A sense of deep sorrow, yes, but a deeper sense of solemnity, not at odds with sunlight and the deep green breath of the nearby forest.

Everyone stood silent as the last shovelful of dirt was cast on the heaped grave. Roger nodded to the children, huddled mute and shocked around their father, each clutching a small bouquet of wildflowers. Brianna had helped them pick the flowers—and Mandy had of course insisted on making her own bouquet, a loose handful of pink-tinged wild clover and grass gone to seed.

Rachel stood quiet, next to Bobby Higgins. She gently picked up his limp hand and put a small bunch of the tiny white daisy-like flowers of fleabane into it. She whispered something in his ear, and he swallowed hard, looked down at his sons, and then walked forward to lay the first flowers on Amy’s grave, followed by Aidan, the little boys, Jem, Germain, and Fanny—and Mandy, frowning in concentration on doing it right.

Others stopped briefly by the grave, touching Bobby’s arms and back, murmuring to him. People began to disperse, drifting back toward home, work, dinner, normality, grateful that for now, death had passed them by, and vaguely guilty in their gratitude. A few lingered, talking quietly to one another. Rachel had appeared again beside Bobby—she and Bree had been taking it in unspoken turn not to leave him alone.

Then it was our turn. I followed Jamie, who didn’t say anything. He took Bobby by the shoulders and tilted his head so they stood forehead-to-forehead for a moment, sharing grief. He lifted his head then and shook it, squeezed Bobby’s shoulder, and stood aside for me.

“She was beautiful, Bobby,” I whispered, my throat still thick, after all the tears already shed. “We’ll remember her. Always.”

He opened his mouth, but there weren’t any words. He squeezed my hand hard and nodded, tears oozing unheeded. He’d shaved for the burying, and raw spots showed red and scraped against his pallid skin.

We walked slowly down the trail toward home. Not speaking, but touching each other lightly as we went.

As we neared the garden, I paused.

“I’ll—get some—” I waved vaguely toward the palisades. What? I wondered. What could I pick or dig up, to make a poultice for a mortal wound to the heart?

Jamie nodded, then took me in his arms and kissed me. Stepped back and laid a hand against my cheek, looking at me as though to fix my image in his mind, then turned and went on down.

In truth, I didn’t need anything from the garden, save to be alone in it.

I just stood there for a time, letting the silence that is never silent sink into me; the stir and sigh of the nearby forest as the breeze passed through, the distant conversations of birds, small toads calling from the nearby creek. The sense of plants talking to one another.

It was late afternoon, and the sun was coming in low through the deer palings, throwing dappled light through the bean vines onto the twisted straw of the skep, where bees were coming and going with a lazy grace.

I reached out and put a hand on the hive, feeling the lovely deep hum of the workings within. Amy Higgins is gone—is dead. You know her—her dooryard is full of hollyhocks and she’s got—had—jasmine growing by her cowshed and a good patch of dogwood nearby.

I stood quite still, letting the vibration of life come into my hand and touch my heart with the strength of transparent wings.

Her flowers are still growing.