“Your daughter,” the comte said hoarsely to the man who called himself Master Raymond. “You were looking for a lost daughter. I’ve found her for you.”
Raymond’s brows shot up, and he glanced at Joan.
“Mine?” he said, astonished. “She isn’t one of mine. Can’t you tell?”
The comte drew a breath so deep it cracked in his throat.
“Tell? But—”
The frog looked impatient.
“Can you not see auras? The electrical fluid that surrounds people,” he elucidated, waving a hand around his own head.
The comte rubbed a hand hard over his face. “I can’t—”
“For goodness sake, come in here!” Raymond stepped to the edge of the star, reached across, and seized the comte’s hand.
* * *
Rakoczy stiffened at the touch. Blue light exploded from their linked hands, and he gasped, feeling a surge of energy such as he had never before experienced. Raymond pulled hard, and Rakoczy stepped across the line into the pentagram.
Silence. The buzzing had stopped. He nearly wept with the relief of it.
“I—you—” he stammered, looking at the linked hands.
“You didn’t know?” Raymond looked surprised.
“That you were a—” He waved at the pentagram. “I thought you might be.”
“Not that,” Raymond said, almost gently. “That you were one of mine.”
“Yours?” Rakoczy looked down again; the blue light was pulsing gently now, surrounding their fingers.
“Everyone has an aura of some kind,” Raymond said. “But only my … people … have this.”
In the blessed silence, it was possible to think again. And the first thing that came to mind was the Star Chamber, the king looking on as they had faced each other over a poisoned cup. And now he knew why the frog hadn’t killed him.
* * *
His mind bubbled with questions. La Dame Blanche, blue light, Mélisande, and Madeleine … Thought of Madeleine and what grew in her womb nearly stopped him, but the urge to find out, to know at last, was too strong.
“Can you—can we—go forward?”
Raymond hesitated a moment, then nodded.
“Yes. But it’s not safe. Not safe at all.”
“Will you show me?”
“I mean it.” The frog’s grip tightened on his. “It’s not a safe thing to know, let alone to do.”
Rakoczy laughed, feeling all at once exhilarated, full of joy. Why should he fear knowledge? Perhaps the passage would kill him—but he had a pocket full of gems, and, besides, what was the point of waiting to die slowly?
“Tell me!” he said, squeezing the other’s hand. “For the sake of our shared blood!”
* * *
Joan stood stock-still, amazed. Michael’s arm was still around her, but she scarcely noticed.
“He is!” she whispered. “He truly is! They both are!”
“Are what?” Michael gaped at her.
“Auld Folk! Faeries!”
He looked wildly back at the scene before them. The two men stood face-to-face, hands locked together, their mouths moving in animated conversation—in total silence. It was like watching mimes but even less interesting.
“I dinna care what they are. Loons, criminals, demons, angels … Come on!” He dropped his arm and seized her hand, but she was planted solid as an oak sapling, her eyes growing wide and wider.
She gripped his hand hard enough to grind the bones and shrieked at the top of her lungs, “Don’t do it!!”
He whirled round just in time to see them vanish.
* * *
They stumbled together down the long, pale passages, bathed in the flickering light of dying torches, red, yellow, blue, green, a ghastly purple that made Joan’s face look drowned.
“Des feux d’artifice,” Michael said. His voice sounded queer, echoing in the empty tunnels. “A conjurer’s trick.”
“What?” Joan looked drugged, her eyes black with shock.
“The fires. The … colors. Have ye never heard of fireworks?”
“No.”
“Oh.” It seemed too much a struggle to explain, and they went on in silence, hurrying as much as they could, to reach the shaft before the light died entirely.
At the bottom, he paused to let her go first, thinking too late that he should have gone first—she’d think he meant to look up her dress.… He turned hastily away, face burning.
“D’ye think he was? That they were?” She was hanging on to the ladder, a few feet above him. Beyond her, he could see the stars, serene in a velvet sky.
“Were what?” He looked at her face, so as not to risk her modesty. She was looking better now but very serious.
“Were they Auld Folk? Faeries?”
“I suppose they must ha’ been.” His mind was moving very slowly; he didn’t want to have to try to think. He motioned to her to climb and followed her up, his eyes tightly shut. If they were Auld Ones, then likely so was Auntie Claire. He truly didn’t want to think about that.
He drew the fresh air gratefully into his lungs. The wind was toward the city now, coming off the fields, full of the resinous cool scent of pine trees and the breath of grass and cattle. He felt Joan breathe it in, sigh deeply, and then she turned to him, put her arms around him, and rested her forehead on his chest. He put his arms round her and they stood for some time, in peace.
Finally, she stirred and straightened up.
“Ye’d best take me back, then,” she said. “The sisters will be half out o’ their minds.”
He was conscious of a sharp sense of disappointment but turned obediently toward the coach, standing in the distance. Then he turned back.
“Ye’re sure?” he said. “Did your voices tell ye to go back?”
She made a sound that wasn’t quite a rueful laugh.
“I dinna need a voice to tell me that.” She brushed a hand through her hair, smoothing it off her face. “In the Highlands, if a man’s widowed, he takes another wife as soon as he can get one; he’s got to have someone to mend his shirt and rear his bairns. But Sister Philomène says it’s different in Paris; that a man might mourn for a year.”
“He might,” he said, after a short silence. Would a year be enough, he wondered, to heal the great hole where Lillie had been? He knew he would never forget—never stop looking for her—but he didn’t forget what Ian had told him, either.
“But after a time, ye find ye’re in a different place than ye were. A different person than ye were. And then ye look about and see what’s there with ye. Ye’ll maybe find a use for yourself.”
Joan’s face was pale and serious in the moonlight, her mouth gentle.
“It’s a year before a postulant makes up her mind. Whether to stay and become a novice—or … or leave. It takes time. To know.”
“Aye,” he said softly. “Aye, it does.”
He turned to go, but she stopped him, a hand on his arm.
“Michael,” she said. “Kiss me, aye? I think I should maybe know that, before I decide.”
About the Author
DIANA GABALDON is the New York Times bestselling author of the wildly popular Outlander novels, Outlander, Dragonfly in Amber, Voyager, Drums of Autumn, The Fiery Cross, A Breath of Snow and Ashes (for which she won a Quill Award and the Corine International Book Prize), An Echo in the Bone, and the forthcoming Written in My Own Heart’s Blood, and one work of nonfiction, The Outlandish Companion, as well as the bestselling series featuring Lord John Grey, a character she introduced in Dragonfly in Amber. She lives in Scottsdale, Arizona.
Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander novels have captured the imagination of millions of readers—and now that it is the inspiration for a new TV series on Starz, will enthrall millions more.
Read on for an excerpt from the eighth thrilling installment in the series, Written in My Own Heart’s Blood, on sale June 10th, 2014.
CHAPTER THREE:
IN WHICH THE WOMEN, AS USUAL, PICK UP
THE PIECES
No. 17 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia The residence of Lord and Lady John Grey
William had left the house like a thunderclap, and the place looked as though it had been struck by lightning. I certainly felt like the survivor of a massive electrical storm, hairs and nerve endings all standing up straight on end, waving in agitation.
Jenny Murray had entered the house on the heels of William’s departure, and while the sight of her was a lesser shock than any of the others so far, it still left me speechless. I goggled at my erstwhile sister-in-law—though, come to think, she still was my sister-in-law … because Jamie was alive. Alive.
He’d been in my arms not ten minutes before, and the memory of his touch flickered through me like lightning in a bottle. I was dimly aware that I was smiling like a loon, despite massive destruction, horrific scenes, William’s distress—if you could call an explosion like that “distress”—Jamie’s danger, and a faint wonder as to what either Jenny or Mrs. Figg, Lord John’s cook and housekeeper, might be about to say.
Mrs. Figg was smoothly spherical, gleamingly black, and inclined to glide silently up behind one like a menacing ball bearing.
“What’s this?” she barked, manifesting herself suddenly behind Jenny.
“Holy Mother of God!” Jenny whirled, eyes round and hand pressed to her chest. “Who in God’s name are you?”
“This is Mrs. Figg,” I said, feeling a surreal urge to laugh, despite—or maybe because of—recent events. “Lord John Grey’s cook. And Mrs. Figg, this is Mrs. Murray. My, um … my …”
“Your good-sister,” Jenny said firmly. She raised one black eyebrow. “If ye’ll have me still?” Her look was straight and open, and the urge to laugh changed abruptly into an equally strong urge to burst into tears. Of all the unlikely sources of succor I could have imagined … I took a deep breath and put out my hand.
“I’ll have you.” We hadn’t parted on good terms in Scotland, but I had loved her very much, once, and wasn’t about to pass up any opportunity to mend things.
Her small firm fingers wove through mine, squeezed hard, and, as simply as that, it was done. No need for apologies or spoken forgiveness. She’d never had to wear the mask that Jamie did. What she thought and felt was there in her eyes, those slanted blue cat-eyes she shared with her brother. She knew the truth now of what I was, and she knew I loved and always had loved her brother with all my heart and soul—despite the minor complications of my being presently married to someone else.
She heaved a sigh, eyes closing for an instant, then opened them and smiled at me, mouth trembling only a little.
“Well, fine and dandy,” said Mrs. Figg shortly. She narrowed her eyes and rotated smoothly on her axis, taking in the panorama of destruction. The railing at the top of the stair had been ripped off, and cracked banisters, dented walls, and bloody smudges marked the path of William’s descent. Shattered crystals from the chandelier littered the floor, glinting festively in the light from the open front door, the door itself cracked through and hanging drunkenly from one hinge.
“Merde on toast,” Mrs. Figg murmured. She turned abruptly to me, her small black-currant eyes still narrowed. “Where’s his lordship?”
“Ah,” I said. This was going to be rather sticky, I saw. While deeply disapproving of most people, Mrs. Figg was devoted to John. She wasn’t going to be at all pleased to hear that he’d been abducted by—
“For that matter, where’s my brother?” Jenny inquired, glancing round as though expecting Jamie to appear suddenly out from under the settee.
“Oh,” I said. “Hmm. Well …” Possibly worse than sticky. Because …
“And where’s my sweet William?” Mrs. Figg demanded, sniffing the air. “He’s been here; I smell that stinky cologne he puts on his linen.” She nudged a dislodged chunk of plaster disapprovingly with the toe of her shoe.
I took another long, deep breath and a tight grip on what remained of my sanity.
“Mrs. Figg,” I said, “perhaps you would be so kind as to make us all a cup of tea?”
We sat in the parlor, while Mrs. Figg came and went to the cookhouse, keeping an eye on her terrapin stew.
“You don’t want to scorch turtle, no, you don’t,” she said severely to us, setting down the teapot in its padded yellow cozy on her return. “Not with so much sherry as his lordship likes in it. Almost a full bottle—terrible waste of good liquor, that would be.”
My insides turned over promptly. Turtle soup—with a lot of sherry—had certain strong and private associations for me, these being connected with Jamie, feverish delirium, and the way in which a heaving ship assists sexual intercourse. Contemplation of which would not assist the impending discussion in the slightest. I rubbed a finger between my brows, in hopes of dispelling the buzzing cloud of confusion gathering there. The air in the house still felt electric.
“Speaking of sherry,” I said, “or any other sort of strong spirits you might have convenient, Mrs. Figg …”
She looked thoughtfully at me, nodded, and reached for the decanter on the sideboard.
“Brandy is stronger,” she said, and set it in front of me.
Jenny looked at me with the same thoughtfulness and, reaching out, poured a good-sized slug of the brandy into my cup, then a similar one into her own.
“Just in case,” she said, raising one brow, and we drank for a few moments. I thought it might take something stronger than brandy-laced tea to deal with the effect of recent events on my nerves—laudanum, say, or a large slug of straight Scotch whisky—but the tea undeniably helped, hot and aromatic, settling in a soft trickling warmth amidships.
“So, then. We’re fettled, are we?” Jenny set down her own cup and looked expectant.
“It’s a start.” I took a deep breath and gave her a précis of recent events.
Jenny’s eyes were disturbingly like Jamie’s. She blinked at me once, then twice, and shook her head as though to clear it, accepting what I’d just told her.
“So Jamie’s gone off wi’ your Lord John, the British army is after them, the tall lad I met on the stoop wi’ steam comin’ out of his ears is Jamie’s son—well, of course he is; a blind man could see that—and the town’s aboil wi’ British soldiers. Is that it, then?”
“He’s not exactly my Lord John,” I said. “But, yes, that’s essentially the position. I take it Jamie told you about William?”
“Aye, he did.” She grinned at me over the rim of her teacup. “I’m that happy for him. But what’s troubling his lad, then? He looked like he wouldna give the road to a bear.”
“What did you say?” Mrs. Figg’s voice cut in abruptly. She set down the tray she had just brought in, the silver milk jug and sugar basin rattling like castanets. “William is whose son?”
I took a fortifying gulp of tea. Mrs. Figg did know that I’d been married to—and theoretically widowed from—one James Fraser. But that was all she knew.
“Well,” I said, and paused to clear my throat. “The, um, tall gentleman with the red hair who was just here—you saw him?”
“I did.” Mrs. Figg eyed me narrowly.
“Did you get a good look at him?”
“Didn’t pay much heed to his face when he came to the door and asked where you were, but I saw his backside pretty plain when he pushed past me and ran up the stairs.”
“Possibly the resemblance is less marked from that angle.” I took another mouthful of tea. “Um … that gentleman is James Fraser, my … er … my—” “First husband” wasn’t accurate, and neither was “last husband”—or even, unfortunately, “most recent husband.” I settled for the simplest alternative. “My husband. And, er … William’s father.”
Mrs. Figg’s mouth opened, soundless for an instant. She backed up slowly and sat down on a needlework ottoman with a soft phumph.
“William know that?” she asked, after a moment’s contemplation.
“He does now,” I said, with a brief gesture toward the devastation in
the stairwell, clearly visible through the door of the parlor where we were sitting.
“Merde on—I mean, Holy Lamb of God preserve us.” Mrs. Figg’s second husband was a Methodist preacher, and she strove to be a credit to him, but her first had been a French gambler. Her eyes fixed on me like gun-sights.
“You his mother?”
I choked on my tea.
“No,” I said, wiping my chin with a linen napkin. “It isn’t quite that complicated.” In fact, it was more so, but I wasn’t going to explain just how Willie had come about, either to Mrs. Figg or to Jenny. Jamie had to have told Jenny who William’s mother was, but I doubted that he’d told his sister that William’s mother, Geneva Dunsany, had forced him into her bed by threatening Jenny’s family. No man of spirit likes to admit that he’s been effectively blackmailed by an eighteen-year-old girl.
“Lord John became William’s legal guardian when William’s grandfather died, and at that point, Lord John also married Lady Isobel Dunsany, Willie’s mother’s sister. She’d looked after Willie since his mother’s death in childbirth, and she and Lord John were essentially Willie’s parents since he was quite young. Isobel died when he was eleven or so.”
Mrs. Figg took this explanation in stride, but wasn’t about to be distracted from the main point at issue.
“James Fraser,” she said, tapping a couple of broad fingers on her knee and looking accusingly at Jenny. “How comes he not to be dead? News was he drowned.” She cut her eyes at me. “I thought his lordship was like to throw himself in the harbor, too, when he heard it.”
I closed my own eyes with a sudden shudder, the salt-cold horror of that news washing over me in a wave of memory. Even with Jamie’s touch still joyful on my skin and the knowledge of him glowing in my heart, I relived the crushing pain of hearing that he was dead.
“Well, I can enlighten ye on that point, at least.”
I opened my eyes to see Jenny drop a lump of sugar into her fresh tea and nod at Mrs. Figg. “We were to take passage on a ship called Euterpe—my brother and myself—out o’ Brest. But the blackhearted thief of a captain sailed without us. Much good it did him,” she added, frowning.
Outlander Novella [01] The Space Between Page 12
