Chapter 1: City In The Sky
Chapter Text
Part 1
"I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones."
Albert Einstein is supposed to have said that.
I wish he had been right.
The setting sun peeks though the door-flap of my makeshift tent at the edge of town. It tints everything I own a warm, lovely orange, but I still go and pull the rough canvas more securely closed. Then, I put on my sleep-jacket and night-hood. It will be getting cold soon. I don't need beauty - I DO need warmth. I touch the anchor of the nuclear collector panel set I've put over the side, making sure it's secure. The polysteel rope snakes under one side of my little shelter - and the guy-ring it's bolted to sits right at the foot of my bedroll. If it comes loose, chances are the recoil will whip around before taking me, my tent, and all my meagre belongings with it. I'm too close to the edge of the City to survive that - our Safnet force shields are far from the best in the Fleet, and at the speed I'd be going, it's more than likely they wouldn't turn on before I'd be plummeting over 100 meters into the radioactive contaminant-laden ocean. And if the fall doesn't kill me instantly, or the RADs overwhelm me, survival time in north-Atlantic waters this time of year is less than four minutes - if you're lucky. And that's if the centimeter-thick wire rope whipping around happens to leave me alive in the first place. Which it wouldn't. My fingers brush the solid lock-knot, and grasp the heavy u-bolt holding it in place. They're both as secure as things get around here. After eight years of war, nothing feels all that secure, actually, but there's nothing I can do about that. The winds will be rising soon, but there's nothing I can do about them, either. The anchor-rope is as steady as I can make it. Tonight, we'll be drifting over some of the most radioactive algal mats this sector of the Atlantic has to offer, and I don't want to miss out on the energy boost. I only have two collector panel sets left, after the fire eight months ago. . .
It had been a night raid - from Rogue City 5, that had been New Tallahassee, they said - and the shrieking Blueblasts woke every person aboard New Oxford. The tiny nuclear bombs were ear-splittingly loud, and they burned hot enough to melt titanium plating. But there were only four bombers, and their fighter-support was laughably sparse. They didn't end up getting much - my house and a half-dozen others, two farm plots, and a waste filter station is all. New Boston sent us backup even faster than expected. Three squadrons of Silverwings roared over from Skycity 28, and rescued us in fifteen minutes flat. Minimal losses overall.
Except for me and my neighbors, of course.
It had been the last raid of the war. At least as far as we in Skycity 15 were concerned. Two months later, the Coalition of Rogue Cities surrendered. And two weeks after that, there was a beautiful peace ceremony and everything, broadcast live from Skycity 2 - New Mumbai. There were doves involved, and lots of confetti. Or so everyone told me. I was too drunk at the time to move from my tent, and I had lost my personal info-screen in the fire. I hardly cared, then or now.
The casualties of war, you know.
Survival is all I care about these days. It has been for so long I barely know what security means anymore.
When it comes to that - survival - I suppose it's a good thing I live on New Oxford. We're one of the oldest Cities, and our power grids aren't the greatest, but, by sheer luck, our filter systems are top-notch. Somehow, we got special treatment in that regard back when first 50 Skycities were built. I doubt even their creators knew just how vital they'd be, but what it essentially means is this - New Oxford has the cleanest water this side of the African archipelago. We can take in twenty complete rafts of our big pod-tanks full of the worst contaminated seawater a day, and in fifteen hours, not only is it potable, it's clear as a bell, cold, delicious, and doesn't even register on the RAD meter. Most Cities can only take in five full rafts of pods every week - and it takes them at least twenty four hours to process it, and their end product isn't nearly as good. Our water is so perfect, we can use it as currency. It means we can support a population nearly three times the size of most other comparably sized Cities. It means we can decontaminate five times the usual amount of Hot Island salvage. It means we can grow ten times the food. It also means that while we were a prime target during the war, it was as a target for capture, not destruction. A little massive damage, of course, but not outright destruction.
All of those things tilted the balance in my favour for survival during the war.
But most importantly - and this was true before the war, and during it, and it is still true now - our water means that most of our people can avoid the more damaging radeformities for much longer.
Mostly. Usually. If you get lucky.
I sigh a little bit, and settle into my bedroll, spreading a few extra scraps of canvas over my feet before wrapping myself tightly in the wadded Wolyn blanket.
Frank hadn't gotten lucky, of course. And Little Frank certainly hadn't. My husband had insisted on naming our tiny, pitifully malformed fetus, even though all he could see was a small patch on the sonogram. Just looking at it was never going to tell him what sex it had been. Even our geneticist hadn't been entirely sure. Some of the samples she'd taken had shown Y chromosomes, and some hadn't, she said. After I'd recovered from the removal, we went back to her for details, and she told us, so very gently, of course, that there had been a problem at the spermatic level, but that my eggs were fine. Frank had said nothing then, but two weeks later, he had suggested that I find a donor, or even a lover, if I wanted - that me, and whatever child I chose to bear, would be enough for him. I'd blown up at him at the time, because I knew, even without asking the doctor, that it was the bombing raids that had caused it. He was foreman of Decon Team 7, the most decorated DC team in our township. He'd volunteered at the start of the war, and hadn't been off duty more than three days at a time ever since. Even with the best AR gel-padded suits available, his RAD exposure had skyrocketed. He knew it, I knew it, and our geneticist must have known it too. There simply was - and is - no other way a citizen of New Oxford would have encountered levels of radiation sufficient to cause such catastrophic birth defects. . .
An unexploded bomb on his next cleanup assignment vaporized Frank, three of his teammates, and seventeen centimeters of the nearby solid steel bulkhead wall.
I never got to apologize for yelling at him.
Oh well. Deaths from Blueblast bombs are nearly instantaneous, and almost certainly painless. At least he got to go quickly.
Unlike me. My heart has been dying by millimeters ever since then.
Of course, I would have the luck to fall in love with a City sanitation technician. My parents hadn't approved. A daughter of the House of Beauchamp should aim higher than that, they said. Try to marry a Township official, maybe. Perhaps even the Mayor's son. But I had always gone my own way. I'd studied Historical Botany in school - one of the most useless degrees I could have taken, just short of Liberal Arts, or, worst of all, Marine Biology. Despite that, I'd managed to get a job in one of the lower Township's hydroponics laboratories, testing crops for root integrity. It was a dull job, but it paid the bills I refused to let my parents pay. I met Frank on one of my tea breaks, when I'd gone outside to get some fresh air. Back behind the lab, a young man was sweeping debris off the rusty alleyway floor. He gave me a look, and a half smile, and asked me out for a drink. A year and a half later, we were married. Three months after that, the CRC declared war on the Planetary Fleet of Sky Cities. I still wasn't clear on why - something to do with a feud between politicians on New Paris and traders on New Beijing, I think. Or maybe it was vice-versa.
It doesn't much matter. It's eight years later, and neither City exists anymore. The same can be said for fourteen other PF Cities, and to nine Rogue ones too.
That it also can be said about my life, hopes, family, and almost my sanity, is a completely predictable and totally inconsequential side effect of war. Or so I tell myself.
My parents only had about two years to hate Frank. Early on in the war New Oxford was blockaded for close to a month. There were at least two bombing raids a day - always hitting the residential areas, always avoiding the farming plots and water distribution stations. Several sheltering and evacuation schemes were tried, but cramming people into the farming buildings was ineffectual at best, and shifting half of our large population to the lower levels ended up taking twice as long as any single bombing raid, and was soon abandoned as a strategy. Eventually, whenever raid sirens went off, a lot of people chose to stay where they were, as an act of defiance.
Stupid? Maybe. But it seemed incredibly inspiring at the time.
My parents lived in Central Township, in the Spire itself, just two levels down from the Mayor's mansion.
By the end of the blockade, the entirety of Central Township had been reduced to twisted scrap metal. They even hit the main power distributor once - thirty levels into Core Township, right below Central.
My parents died two days after the blockade began.
All of us who stood to inherit by the damage - Central Township had been home to all of our richest families, after all - were asked to name the City itself as prime inheritor instead, and put all the resources into rebuilding.
At the time I was proud - no, I'm still proud - that the ridiculous amount of money my parents had went to rebuilding our city. After all, I had Frank at the time, a job, and our house, and the hope of children. Nowadays, on nights this cold, with the jobs so scarce now all the soldiers are back, my home an ash pile, my family dead, and no hope for anything beyond my next meal, well. . . I wish I'd kept enough of my parents' ridiculous wealth to at least keep me from freezing to death while I sleep. . .
A slow, agonizing warmth spreads reluctantly around me, the synthetic wool of my bedroll holding in what little body heat I produce.
A bluish-green glow shimmers off the lowering clouds, and reflects through my small plastic window, brightening one side of my shelter with a sickly, eerie light.
We've reached the algal mats. I reach with a toe to reassure myself the anchor-rope for my energy collector is still secure. I can feel the vibration of the wind through the taut, twisted wire - keening, groaning gusts that threaten rain, or maybe even sleet.
The sharp, mournful sound of it sparks a note of sympathy from my heart, and it is this, for better or for worse, that lets me drift off to sleep.
Chapter 2: The Dream
Chapter Text
In the middle of the field, the air is still. The stones are cool white, and the light is soft and warm. The grass is a strange, rich, deep green, as though the Earth's blood itself went into its colouring. A sweet smell drifts slowly around me, fresh and earthen, dim, still, and ancient. It is the smell of stones, and plants, and the loam of good earthbound soil, dark with clean, cold water.
It is the smell of land - land I've never seen.
There is a mist in the distance, so I cannot see far, but the land rises up around me like the levels of a Skycity, only rounder and greener - softer, smoother. Hills, I think they are called. And the stones are steel-grey, cracked and worn and old. Nothing like the sharp, evenly-sized, pale beige drainage gravel which is the only rock I know.
And away there - and there! - in the mist, fading off into nothingness, there are other things. Rustling, imposing things. Huge, even though they are a long ways away. . . though, not so long as that, now. They rise up before me, up and up. . . not nearly as tall as the Spire, but these things. . . are moving. They sway in the soft, sweet breeze like nothing I have even encountered before. A swishing, whispering, sighing, dancing, hoard of. . . of. . . A word drifts up from my long-ago school days, and falls from my lips in a horrified whisper.
"Trees."
There are so many of them - they surround me. I try to shrink away, to run from them, but all at once I am among the great columns. They close in upon me, a fell multitude of giants, cold green and brown and black. The ground is now a blank, grey surface, and smells harder, colder, more menacing.
What lives here?
The mist is nearer now, a wall of it in every direction, swirling, flowing, whirling round and round me like the eye of a storm. Through the trees it is all I can see - a pale, heavy fog that tingles against my skin and pricks in my nostrils. There is no way out - the trees go on forever. . .
Then, there is a chime of bells, very far off. I look straight up, and there, a single bright star sits in the middle of a circle of velvet black, even though the mist glows as if the sun is out. Another rushing, whispering sound whips past me in the mist, stirring it to a frenzy, and a smell of some wild flower I do not know breathes in my face.
The mist curls up closer and closer to me - not grasping, which would be bad, but constricting, which is far worse. I look up again, desperately holding on to my one star as the walls of clammy cold close in. It winks and blinks and wavers with the mist - a great eye, unbound by time and space. For a moment I taste blood, and then I scream, and scream, and scream, but there is no sound, the mist has taken me.
I awake, not with a start, but with a sudden creepy feeling of being watched. The air is hard and stifling in my mouth. A distant growling roar sounds all around me.
A sudden stabbing flash of caustically bright white light slices across my vision, and a keening, shrieking howl deafens me.
I nearly cry out before I remind myself. Rain. Lightning. The wind over the algal mats often brings electric storms with it. There is nothing to be afraid of. A nightmare and a storm. Nothing more.
I sit up, carefully. Fat, icy droplets are crawling their way across my little window. There is a slapping sound as another sheet of water pelts my small shelter. I watch the tiny cold black shapes squirm across the plastic, thankful I have this protection, at least.
A faraway bolt of lightening flashes between the clouds, and for a moment, I think I see. . . something.
No.
Someone.
It is the merest glimpse, in the wavering uncertain light of a momentary flash of lightning.
But there was a man. I'll swear to it, even now.
A man. Tall, broad, his arms out in front of him, oblivious to wind, and rain, standing not ten feet away from my tent. The light flashes behind him again, and I swear, he was looking at me.
For a heart-clutching moment, I wonder if I am still dreaming.
Then the lightning flashes yet again, and there is nothing.
I decide it doesn't matter. If I am dreaming, or if I am not, I am going back to sleep.
Another long string of sharp white flashes and clapping rolls of thunder delay my rest for some minutes, but eventually, the rattling, shushing, tap-tap of rain takes hold, and I drift away again, this time sleeping until morning.
Chapter 3: Power Stuff Girl
Chapter Text
It is a wet, pale, dreary morning. The clouds are thin, and high, as though last night's violence drove them away from the surface of the sea. They are enough to obscure the sun, though, and my short walk to the City's edge is grey, and cheerless. I stop a meter and a half from the sharp, rusty rim, and plunk down my electric winch next to the thin steel rope that disappears over the side. The vibration of this finally activates the Safnet field. I jump back about fifteen centimeters - I must have gotten too close again, and the buzzing electric shock of the repulsor shield takes me by surprise. Glittering reddish sparks shimmer in pulsing waves from the contact point, confirming that the Safnet is indeed working this morning. Sluggishly, as usual, but working. Slowly, I push the winch onto the rope, and activate its automatic function. With a soft chunk it latches on to the wire, and begins to crawl along it, nearer and nearer to the force field. A special radio signal from the device parts the force field around it, and it creeps to the very edge, clamping itself to a large rivet-bolt there. The machine whirls, then growls, beginning to slowly reel up my energy collector-panel set.
I back up a step or two, put a scrap of oiled canvas over a reasonably flat, lightly rusted outcrop, and sit down to wait. I dig my hand into the deep pocket of my coat, and rattle the water-tokens there. I scoop them up, and draw them out.
There are only three. One half-liter, and two tenth-liters - round coins of stamped metal, shining on my palm. It's just enough to buy a good breakfast, and maybe a drink of tea later on. If none of my panels charged up, then I'm really in for it. No cooking my own meals. No bathing. I can wash my hands and face for free at the public toilets, of course, but I need this energy-haul to be worth it. . . I would like to eat again sometime within the next week, and my hair desperately needs a steam-rinse. Truth be told, I need a full steam-bath, and have for several weeks. I have thirty full-liter tokens back in my tent, but those are for renewing my salvage license - it's due in ten days, and that's only half of what I need. Not everyone is allowed to pull power right off the sea, after all. . .
My winch beeps loudly, signaling that the collector panels have reached the decon level. Ten or twenty meters down from the edge, hanging from the rim of the city, is an unbroken ring of AR gel vats. Anything brought in from over the side gets bathed in the thick, RAD-absorbing stuff, and then rinsed with high-powered jets of our best distilled water. In fact, the rope I've been winching up has gone though this same process too - it still shines with the damp residue of gel and water. But now the panels must be treated, and the spool rocks slightly as an unseen robot arm catches the rope, and lowers my panels into the nearest vat. A few moments later, the rope hums in time with the heavy, direct streams of water.
At last, the winch stops turning, and begins its slow crawl back up the steel rope to me. The panel set is gradually dragged into view. It is inelegant and bulky - a round steel plate with twelve mismatched rectangles of steel-framed radiation-energy collectors trailing from it - but every one of my panels comes from New Boston itself, Skycity 28 - far and away the best manufacturer of anything and everything silicate-based to be had in this hemisphere. Frank was somewhat more than mildly obsessed with energy salvage, and this isn't the first time I'm glad he was. His hobby is my livelihood now. . .
When everything is finally back though the Safnet, I unhook the panels, and sort them by size.
The smallest two are thick, 15 centimeter squares - so thick they are almost cubes. The dark brown silicon glows yellow with long-term slow-release energy. I'll keep them for charging my space-heater, and slow-powering my cooking pad and comm radio. They'll last me a month or two, if I'm careful.
The next smallest three are the slim, purple-glowing bars of specialty fast-charging panels. They're 60 centimeters long, but only 4 wide. Easy to stick into a skycar's charging port, or a home-generator's battery slot. These are the newest and best quality panels, and all three glow brightly - fully charged. I'll rent them to one of my Central Township customers for an afternoon - each one is worth twenty full-liter tokens, easy.
Maybe I'll be able to afford a full steam-bath after all. . .
The five middle-sized panels are a ragtag group of reddish-orange and pinkish-white glowing squares of various sizes, from 30 centimeters wide to 44 or so. General-use energy, for quick-powering comms and cookers, and everything else that runs on standard batteries. Street value - 30, maybe 35 full-liter tokens total, mostly in smaller change.
Which is nothing to scoff at, of course. I once paid my license fee in nothing but tenth- and fifth-liter tokens.
Cash is cash, and I'll take what I can get.
The real prize, though, are the two largest panels. They are the oldest ones, some of the first Frank ever bought, and they are slow, and worn, clunky and huge at a full 60 by 90 centimeters. But they glow an all-over deep blue-green. Fully charged, with pure industrial-grade energy. I can sell it to any farming or filter station for 40 full-liter tokens each. My contacts at GenTech in Core Township's research quarter might actually pay up to 50. Industry-grade panels are rare, and New Boston-made ones are very hard to come by, even old, hard-to-charge ones like these. I very rarely get a full charge on either, and almost never on both at the same time.
I bless the North Atlantic algal mats, and their legendary radioactivity.
Visions of brand-new tent canvas, an actually comfortable sleeping roll, and, heaven help me, new clothes are dancing in my head as I slide each panel into their protective covers. The fast-charge-sticks and industry panels I'll sell tomorrow. I stow them and the two slow-charging cubes in Frank's father's old footlocker, and close and lock the hasp, before slinging the five midsize squares over my shoulder. Today, all I need is food, and a bath. North-3 Township Market is only a fifteen minute walk from here, and the nearest steamshower station is only two levels down and five streets over from there.
I start in to town, my step lighter and prospects better than they have been in months. For the moment, nightmares and strange fears have no place in me.
Chapter 4: Cost Of Living
Chapter Text
"Charge your batteries! Power for sale! New Boston panels! 100% reliable! Power here! No credit, tokens only! Power for sale!"
I walk through the North-3 market, calling out the usual patter of the power salesman. Of course, I'm luckier than most - I can proudly show off the "28" that starts all the serial numbers etched onto my power panel frames. Proof positive they are all of genuine New Boston manufacture. Not every seller can do so quite as confidently. There's a flourishing trade in forging a 28 serial number, and chances are 50 to 1 a power panel claimed as New Boston make, is nothing of the kind.
Back when power salvage was just Frank's hobby, that sort of thing used to make me furious. But now, well. . . it's just people trying to survive, isn't it? Who am I to say they can't, or shouldn't?
In any case, I have a modest reputation in the field of power-vending now, and when I say I've got a New Boston panel, I mean it.
This early in the morning, most of my customers are working men and women looking to charge their hot-water kettles, and school-age children who need a quick-charge for their info-screens. Two or three Patrolmen stop me too, charging their Stunblaster pistols and making small talk. There is no one for gossip quite like a patrol-officer on their morning round. The byword is that if you punch a Patrolman in the nose, he has to go find someone to tell all about it before he can arrest you. A ridiculous exaggeration, of course, but they're all so amiable with me, I can almost believe it this morning.
I'm down to my final two panels for the day, when a small crowd of pale, ragged figures approach me.
Core-huggers. Homeless casualties of the war - just like me - only they are from the Lower Townships, and they scrounge a living begging and doing odd-jobs near the Core. North-3 market is several levels down, so seeing them here is not drastically unusual, but it's still a sight I don't often witness. They have washed-out, colourless bodies, dressed in drab-grey, patched clothing; their heads are covered with lank, bean-husk coloured hair; and their faces are set with pale, joyless eyes. They speak in the soft, mumbling dialect of the Core, and this group in particular murmurs in it quite unintelligibly until they apparently select a representative. He sidles over next to me and points at my power panels. I nod, and lift one up to a nearby empty market-table. He hands me a heaped palmful of tenth-, fifth- and half-liter tokens, and proceeds to charge up a seemingly endless supply of hand-torches.
I shudder. They probably can't afford the healthier full-spectrum houselamps - and if they've come all the way up here to charge their torches, then chances are this group has been living mostly in the dark. There are still large sections of several Townships without general power, and a home-generator is probably far beyond the means of these people.
I've always lived in a surface Township, even when I worked in Lower South-5. And even now, camping on the Rim, scraping a living from power salvage, I have to believe I've got it infinitely better than Core-huggers. At least I see the sun, and get fresh air.
My life is just hard. It isn't spent literally in the dark.
Of course, they can come up to the surface whenever they want - there's nothing forcing these people to live without fresh air or real light. . .
Except, you know, the need to eat. There is nothing forcing them to stay in the Lower Townships just like there is nothing keeping me out of GenTech's seed library all day.
That's the insidious thing about poverty - to fight it, you must wallow in it. These people must stay where there is work, and a chance of survival. Time off to go visit the sun must hardly ever come their way.
My fingers close around the handful of tokens. My total earnings are a little over 20 full-liter tokens so far today, not counting these. Not a great profit, considering, but adequate. He finishes charging up the torches, and I heft the now empty panel to my shoulder again.
"Wait there," I tell him. I'm walking my route back and forth near the Power and Tech section of the market, and a battery vendor isn't hard to find. I haggle him down as hard as I can, and eventually I get eighteen standard power cells for the handful of tokens - which end up totaling 3 and 7 tenths-liters. It's a good bargain anywhere.
The man's eyes light up when I hand him the power cells, and he mumbles what I assume is thanks in my direction.
"Don't mention it," I say, mustering a smile from somewhere, "Good luck."
He jerks a nod at me, and the whole group fades back into the catacombs of our Skycity.
I hang around for another half-hour, selling most of my last panel to a group of schoolboys charging their hover-scooters, and the final three charges go to a trio of waitresses on break with their e-cigs.
When I leave the market, my total earnings are 29 and 3. Not a bad morning's work at all. At least it will keep me from starving or stinking until I can pay up my license fee.
I'm ravenous by this point, but I still pause at a water distribution station on my way to the nearest caf. This particular station is a big one - two meters wide, and three tall - almost touching the ceiling. The banks of water coves ring the structure at three heights - 50, 100, and 150 centimeters - meaning anyone, of any height, has access to drinking water, hot or cold.
If you have the coin, that is.
I put in two tenth-liter tokens in the nearest middle-cove, rather than one, paying the extra fee for a hot drink. The device pushes out a small steel teacup, hot and sterile from its steam bath. I take it and hold it under the spigot, and a moment later, piping hot tea floods my cup. Exactly one tenth of a liter. I inhale the fragrant steam, and sip it gratefully. It has been over a week since I could afford a hot drink. The cold remnants from every brew are sold as cheaply as plain water, so I seldom denied myself a stimulant, but I have always despised cold tea, even when I had the coin to afford milk and sugar with every cup.
There was a time when my cold tea got poured away down the drain.
I shake my head, and take another sip. Never, never again.
And my parents had been so ridiculously wealthy, they had often had lemons with their tea. Lemons! Every farming station grows them, of course, as well as rosehips, so they can add the required levels of Vitamin C to their ration packs. But each tiny, stunted bush only produces a very few perfect specimens a year. Nearly all of these are sold in Central Township as a luxury food. I've seen them at Central Market, round, golden, fragrant fruits, piled in lumpen pyramids like some dragon's treasure, and priced at the low-low cost of seventy full-liter tokens each. A standard worker would have to labour a month just to afford one. And yet, as a child I remember regularly having candied lemon peel, tiny lemon tarts dusted with sugar, and sweet cakes spread with whipped cream and lemon curd at nearly every tea party. The fact that I know what a lemon-meringue pie even is just goes to show you, doesn't it?
Lemons. Eggs. Sugar. Oil. Flour.
All things only the richest among us can regularly afford to eat.
To tell the truth, I prefer this public distribution station, and my plain, black tea.
I swallow the last of my precious tenth-liter, put the metal cup in the "Return" slot, and then duck in to the nearest caf. They might only sell the exact same thing you can buy slightly more cheaply direct from a farming station - nutrient-balanced, plant-based, protein-and-carb ration packs, and single-servings of the standard small chunks of shelf-stable processed chicken meat - but at least a caf will heat it for you, and arrange it so it looks like food on your plate, not someone's three-day-old sick.
This close to the market, the caf is packed with morning labourers - some peddlers like me, and a sprinkling of businessmen and schoolchildren, but mostly, there are a lot of farm-station workers, and a lot of farm-technicians.
I hand the nearest waitress a half-liter coin, and ask for a hot-breakfast plate. I slip in past the crowd of men and women waiting for their orders, and find one seat left at the end of the caf-counter. After the morning I've had, I breathe a sigh of relief. It may seem odd to some, but there are few places I feel safer than in a public caf, filled with farm-workers, on the morning of a standard work-day. The sense of community is palpable. It's a feeling of shared burdens, and equality of purpose. I love it.
I eat absent-mindedly, my thoughts already on my planned steam-bath before I go back up to my salvage camp on the Rim. The inner pocket of my coat is bulging with tokens - if a woman is in charge at the bath-house I might even be able to afford a laundry day. My trousers and tunic could use a good steam-clean, and my undergarments have desperately needed the same for over two weeks now.
Practically floating on the feeling of a warm, full stomach, I make my way down to the steamshower station. A woman is in charge this morning, and so I trust her with my clothes, boots and coat. I detach my coat's inner pocket, and put it and my empty power panels in one of the metal lockboxes lining the wall behind her. She comes over to hand me the key for it, and promises to give my clothes a complete dry-steam clean by the time I'm done with my bath. I give her an extra fifth-liter token and ask her to take special care with my underclothes. She smiles indulgently at me.
"Naw prob, luv," she says in her pleasant North-3 drawl.
The steam shower is entirely wonderful. The dried sweat, oil and dead skin practically shed off me as the jets of hot, atomized water rake my skin from every angle. Rust and dirt soak out of my hair and from under my fingernails. Foamed lotion-soap covers me for a moment, before being rinsed away by the next deluge of steam. I paid for three rounds of soap today, just because I could. I raise my arms, letting it get everywhere. Utter, utter bliss. These small, private stalls are orders of magnitude better than the large, communal shower I passed across the hall. At least they are to me. And it only costs a tenth-token more to obtain this small bit of privacy. But, as usual, the loud chaffing and cackling audible from the communal stall puts the lie to this opinion. For reasons I have never understood, some people like bathing in public. Perhaps it is my Central Township upbringing, but I simply cannot. All genders are welcome in communal stalls, and all it takes is one less-than-polite patron to drastically dampen the experience for all involved. Pun very much intended.
Oh well. I rub the last deluge of foam into my hair for a minute before letting the steam rinse it all away. It takes all kinds to make a world.
I open the rear door of my cubicle, and enter the drying-stall. A section of the metal halfway up the wall has been polished into a mirror, and a plastic brush and comb hang from a plastic chain bolted next to it. It takes until long after my skin is fully dry to get all the tangles out of my hair. But when I am done, I fluff my wavy curls in the dry, warm air, and tie it back with the braided cord-bracelet Frank gave me on our second date.
The laundress-attendant meets me at the end of the long row of drying-stalls, and hands me my warm and fluffy newly-clean clothes. The sensation of pristine undergarments and a soft, still-warm tunic make me practically purr with content. She even mended the long tear in my trouser leg without me asking her. I try to offer her another half-liter token in thanks - after all, thread isn't cheap - but she waves my offer away with a good-natured, "Naw luv, feed yersel up a titch, hey?"
I suppose the sight of my scrawny arms and prominent ribs told her exactly how often I can afford the luxury of laundry and a bath.
She isn't wrong, either. I haven't been eating as much as I should. And not just because I can't always afford food.
I sigh. Depression. . . is a bitch. And the survivor's guilt sure doesn't help.
I give her the widest smile I can muster, collect my things from the lockbox, and start off on the long walk to South-1. I desperately need provisions, and there is a farming-station there that gives me a special rate on ration packs if I tweak their crop-regulator to overcharge on starches for a week. I can't modify the machine permanently, since that would be noticed, but an extra sack or two of potatoes every day for a week can easily slip through the cracks. That many can earn me 30 or 40 tokens on the black market, even after splitting the profits with the harvesters. A particularly good haul can be worth 50 or 60 tokens if you happen to have good contacts with the 'tillers. Which I do. My nearest neighbor on the Rim runs a distilling concern, and his vodka is justifiably legendary. He could even work for Central Brewery if he wanted to - but he earns just as much, if not more, being a 'tiller. "An' me time's me own," he told me one day, after I'd asked him why an artist like him stayed out on the Rim. He pays top-coin for good potatoes, and he knows I only deliver the best.
But it's a very long walk to South-1, and my empty power panels are heavy. Halfway through East-4, I'm dragging my feet, barely aware of my surroundings. Deliberately, I count how many tokens I have left, figuring out if I can afford another cup of hot tea today, or if I must wait until tomorrow.
I've just decided I'm going to go ahead and splurge today, and hang the consequences, when I look up and see. . . the most normal thing imaginable.
It's a small salvage-shop, nestled 12 or 15 levels down here in East-4, the exact twin of any number of salvage shops you can find in any Township. Decontaminated Hot Island salvage is as common as rust. But still, something in the window of this one catches my eye.
It's a vase. Round and smooth-glazed ceramic, formed in a graceful classic curve, with a little lip. I can imagine a bundle of fruiting roses, or a clump of miniature-apple blossoms sitting in it, as it stands on a white-polished mantle over an elegant little electric-stove.
I shake my head. Ridiculous.
The vase is hideous - grotesquely pink daisies painted over a swirled background of too-vivid green and yellow. . . but, suddenly, I want it. I want it, and all its ugly normalcy. A scrap of salvage to represent the scraps of my life I've managed to salvage from this war.
But I don't have anywhere to put it, nor any flowers to put in it. What good is a vase to me?
And the little tag next to it says it costs 4 and 2.
Slowly, I turn away, and continue on my walk to South-1.
I still wonder, even now, what would have happened if I had bought it. Hang the consequences and taken it back to my tent, to sit unused in my father-in-law's old footlocker, gathering dust as I gathered RADs on Frank's power-panels?
Would it have changed nothing? Or everything?
Or, would it have. . .
But there.
I'm getting ahead of myself.
Chapter 5: Last Resort
Chapter Text
My bouts of depression always seem to hit harder after I've had a string of good luck.
For nearly two weeks, things had gone fairly well. With my energy windfall, I paid up my salvage license, bought some new bedding, stored up some food and power supplies for the approaching winter, got a cheap insulation cover for my tent, a good overcoat, new boots, good gloves, and even managed at least one meal and one hot drink every day. When I recall those two weeks now, I cannot remember any sense of foreboding, nor any feeling that it was the calm before the storm.
It was almost as if the storm had already begun, and I had simply failed to notice it.
Indeed, the only even slightly negative thing that happened to me for a fortnight, was an almost nightly recurrence of that strange nightmare, with trees and fog and grassy hills, and one lone star staring at me from far away.
And the strangest part was that, by the end of the time, it had almost ceased to be a nightmare. The mist and trees and stones I did not know - almost, they had become my friends. I very nearly looked forward to seeing them every night now. Even the star slowly became a beacon trying to guide me home.
The sight and smell of it all, even if it was only a dream, had filled some part me I didn't know was empty. Some primal part of my Human brain that wanted earth and forest, herb and stone, warm, full breezes, and cool, rushing rivers.
I tried to push away the longing of it, and how lonely, how desperately lonely I felt, had felt, ever since Frank had died.
For fifteen days, I put my panel sets out every night, and with good luck and hard work, managed to save up a few extra tokens for a rainy day.
"Rain" comes on day sixteen, which, ironically, happens to be the sunniest morning we've had in over a month.
I wake up, and immediately hate everything. The world, myself, the wind, the sun - everything. I decide not to get out of bed.
That's my first mistake.
Purely black moods don't overtake me all that often - usually, when I spiral downwards, I go kicking and screaming, snide and snippy and snarky and sardonic. Undiluted surrender isn't normally my style - I like some humor with my gallows. But this time, there's just. . . nothing. I'm empty. The hoard has come for me, and I have no reserves of strength to fight it.
For three days, I don't eat. I don't leave my tent. I barely move from my bedroll. When I sleep, I don't dream. Mostly, I just stare at nothing. I have a few bottles of water in my tent now, and warmer bedding, so I manage to stay alive, but I've lost sight of anything I'm working towards - if there ever was anything to begin with. I convince myself there wasn't.
That's my second mistake.
On the fourth day, I wake up with the inevitable fever and chills. I've known it was coming for days now, but couldn't bring myself to care - a low immune system, no sun, lack of nutrients, cold draughts. . . I've got the 'flu.
I suffer through it for two days. Only a Health Inspector making rounds of the Rim camps makes me go see a doctor, and even then, I drag my feet for another twenty-six hours.
That's my third mistake.
People with Inspector's orders to see a doctor must report within twenty-four hours, or their case is bumped up in urgency. Instead of a safe, random doctor from North-3, I have to go see my family's old GP, Dr. Woolsey.
Not that there's anything wrong with him, of course, save that he knows everything about me, my family, and my history.
There's no hiding my condition from him - mental or physical - no waffling, no stonewalling, no faking it.
So I don't try.
That's my fourth mistake.
"Now, I know you're not going to like this, Claire," he says, after his examination, "But I am going to recommend you for special quarantine."
"Special qua. . . quarantine?" I croak, my throat gravelly and sore, "What's that?"
"Well. . ." he pauses, and looks at me sidelong. "It will go through the Central Committee much more quickly if I call it a petition for you to visit your Uncle Quentin."
"Lamb?" I almost growl, confused, "Why would I visit him?"
"You wouldn't, clearly," he says, not without some mild censure, "But I'm sending you to Cold Island 12, and that's final."
Cold Island 12? That's where all the Skycities of the Atlantic send their mental cases, their soldiers with PTSD, their terminally ill and hopelessly senile. It's essentially our loony bin. Uncle Lamb was sent there ages ago, for trying to "excavate a pyramid" on New Reykjavík. Really, he just filled his rooms with trash, and slowly sifted though it until he found the furniture again. Uncle Lamb? More like black sheep. My parents used to threaten me with a visit to him to get me to do my homework or clean my room.
"But. . . why?" I'm depressed, yes, not crazy. Not yet, anyway.
"Because it's a change of scene. And you need one."
I vehemently disagree. But I'm too tired to fight, so I don't.
That's my worst mistake.
Chapter 6: Sick Leave
Chapter Text
Dr. Woolsey is right - the petition he sends to the Council comes back approved in less than two days. A visitation request bundled with a quarantine warning, both with a noted Central doctor's endorsement, must have been quick-lined right to the mayor himself. Certainly, the Passport card I get looks very official - lots of fancy stamps and seals and signatures all over it. Coupled with the equally official-looking Order of Quarantine Dr. Woolsey gave me, there's no way I'm getting out of this. I'm doomed to spend the next three months in the company of my crazy uncle. My things are going to be packed up and stored, my power panels rented by Core Salvage, and I am going to be shipped off with the next cargo run.
Which isn't for another week, so until then I have to sit here and do nothing. On doctor's orders.
The only good part about it is he also gave me a 7-day Doctor's Ticket - meaning I get an all-day heating pad, three single-use packets of menthol salve, ten mint lozenges, a ration of corn bread, two liters of hot chicken soup, two of hot tea, a fifth of spiced rum, and a tenth of lemon syrup, for free, each day. I also get a daily free trip to the nearest steamshower station, with tokens enough for a full twenty minutes in the hot steam. I wish to every deity that may or may not exist that I wasn't actually sick, because Doctor's Tickets can go for hundreds of tokens on the black market. There are usually a few dozen forged ones floating around that no one wants to take a chance on, but mine is tauntingly real. A palm-sized translucent orange plastic card, with a shimmering little computer chip embedded in the center of it, like an insect trapped in amber. A genuine 7-day Ticket from a Central doctor. Sold to the proper black marketeer, it could bathe and feed me for a year, easy. And probably clothe and house me too. The lemon syrup alone is worth 20 or 30 tokens per tenth-liter to a good 'tiller. From day one I can't bring myself to take more than a spoonful of the stuff - it feels too much like I'm wasting a precious resource.
Which, really, I am.
So I pour my daily ration into a capped steel bottle that once belonged to my mother. The outside is enameled all over with colourful vines and flowers - I think it's beautiful, though the enamel is quite worn and chipped now. It's my only relic from her, so I treasure it. By day 5, it's nearly three quarters full. I pour a measure of my hot tea into the latest syrup-cup, dissolving the last dregs of the tangy sweetness. The quarantine order means I can only leave my tent to go to the public toilets, or the steamshower station. Most annoyingly, Dr. Woolsey has made sure there's a day-nurse on duty - she's sitting out there right now, under a portable heat-pavilion less than ten meters away, so I have no way to sneak out. I'm still too weak to try and sneak out at night. There's no chance for me to find a good 'tiller to sell all this syrup to - I'll just have to take it to Cold Island 12 with me.
I manage a small smile at my own absurdity. I'm a power-salvage peddler, camping on the Rim of Skycity 15. I don't have a house. I don't have family. I almost don't have friends. I very nearly don't have clothes. I don't have much of anything, except regret. I just barely make do, and often go hungry. I'm a casualty of WWIV, and my story is hardly a rare one. Was there anyone less likely to have an expedited Passport card to a Cold Island, a lavish 7-day Doctor's-rations ticket while she waits for what amounts to her personal transport to take her there, and bottle full of lemon syrup to keep her company until then?
If I'm being honest with myself, I can hardly believe it, and I'm the one it's happening to.
I smirk as I take a small sip from my fifth-liter flask of spiced rum. Consuming this particular luxury does not feel like a waste, oddly enough, and I've drunk my full ration every day. Normally we only have alcohol on special occasions. Ordinary people can only afford it once in a while, and even the very rich generally prefer to sell most of their liquor shares rather than drink them. This being so, the majority of our official product goes to other Skycities. We're the biggest single food producer in the Atlantic, so that's hardly a surprise, really. But we have a flourishing fraternity of bootleg 'tillers for a reason, is all I'm saying. And anyone who deals on the black market as often as I do nowadays, can hardly help forming contacts with them. This means I am one of the few ordinary folk around here who is more than a little familiar with the term "hair of the dog".
Not that I've ever seen a dog, mind you. But I know what the idiom means.
By day 6, I'm utterly disgusted with sitting idly about, without worries, but without joy either, doing nothing but eating, drinking, and thinking about my impending removal from the only home I've ever known. My fever is better, and my throat is almost normal. I still have a nagging cough, and an ache in my joints, and my nose is still stuffy and gross, but I'm leagues better than I was.
Briefly, I consider asking Dr. Woolsey if I'm well enough to stay, but I quickly dismiss the idea. He made it clear that this was not about my having the 'flu.
I roll over restlessly on my bedroll, trying to get back into the blessedly blank nihilism of my depression, but something about the thought of leaving Skycity 15 has me relentlessly keyed-up.
It's not like I've never traveled before, either. I've visited other Skycities - New São Paulo, New Calais, New Reykjavík, New Toronto, and New St. John's, primarily. I've gone skysurfing with a cloudcar, I've been to Oktoberfest on New Munich, and New Year's on New Osaka. I've seen the Southern Cross, and the Northern Lights reflected in the green glowing sea. I've even suited up and gone salvaging on a Hot Island or two. But I've never even been near a Cold Island. I have no idea what to expect. Well, I have a little bit of an idea, but not much. Hot Islands are grey, or brown, or sickly green and ashen-pale. Hot with fallout, and covered in toxic dust, they are subject to paradoxically freezing winds that has stripped most of them of their topsoil. There are no plants, no animals, no insects - not even bacteria survived on many of them. Only black or glowing pale green stones, burnt stumps of trees, and a few tumbledown buildings remain - the remnants of Human occupancy. Everything about a Hot Island is dead - or very nearly so.
I know this much - Cold Islands are the exact opposite. They are havens for life. Plants, birds, mammals, insects, even fish survive on and around them. They are the few places left on the Earth's surface without toxic levels of radiation, and they aren't particularly cold unless the season or geography says they should be. There are several in the South Pacific, in fact. They aren't necessarily true islands either - Cold Island 3 is a small clump of mountains in what used to be Mongolia, hundreds of kilometers from even the risen ocean. It just happens to be surrounded by vast numbers of contaminated mountains, hence, we call it an island. Cold Islands 17-22 are in what remains of North America's Rocky Mountains, and several portions of them are contaminated too. But plants and people can survive there, so they are Cold Islands.
Cold Island 12 is what used to be the Scottish Highlands. I know it will be green. A strange, deep, living green, totally different than the eerie, wavering, bluish-pale glow of the algal mats, or the acid, sickly green of the ocean's surface. I assume it will have plants, and birds, and rich, wet soil, and high, grey stones.
I wonder if it is the place I have been dreaming of. If it is, I wonder how I knew all that to dream it.
On the morning of day 7, two storage-movers show up, and very politely ask me to gather what belongings I will be taking with me, so they can pack up the rest. I do so easily. My comm radio, my passport, a small bag holding extra food and my few extra clothes. That's all.
A minor clerk from Core Salvage appears a few minutes later, and then at least a quarter of an hour is taken up with reading and signing documents. When we're finally done, he goes back to Core Township, and takes my power panels with him. The rent agreement is a fair one, I couldn't ask for a better deal, but it's still a wrench to see my last eight months' livelihood carried off by someone else.
While I'm still looking mournfully after him, the two movers have the rest of my belongings packed neatly into a crate. A half-crate. Like I said, I don't have much of anything except regret.
"All done, Miss," says the elder-looking one, kindly, "Could you sign 'ere, please?" He hands me a record-board. I scribble my signature, and press my thumbprint where it indicates.
"Thanks, Miss," says the younger one, cheerfully, "'Ere you go." He hands me a claims receipt, and a keycard. Then he flips up the side of the half-crate, and locks it with a snap.
I jump at the sound, almost as if I was inside the box, not outside it.
"Never you fear, Lady," says the older one, "Ever since them bombs stopped, we hain't lost a crate yet."
I half-smile. "Oh, I wasn't afraid of that."
Whether they believe me or not, I don't notice, for as they go off in the direction of Central Storage, my cargo ship glides out of the sky, a gleaming, gunmetal-grey, busily humming piece of flying technology, and far bigger than I expected.
I shake my head at myself. Of course it's big. It is a cargo ship, after all. . .
Slowly, it docks at the North-3 port. I'm a good ways off, but I can still hear the echoing whoosh-clang as the airlock engages.
I pick up my bag, and begin slowly making my way towards North-3, not knowing if I am walking towards my doom, or away from it.
Either way, I decide I will face it, if not cheerfully, then at least with conviction.
My future is out there, waiting for me, and I am going to take it.
Chapter 7: Island Welcome
Chapter Text
We have to visit several Skycities before we get to Cold Island 12. The Skyforts of New York, New Belfast, and New Bangor One and Two all rely on us for water and food, as does their Sector Control City, New Cardiff. These are all smaller, newer Skycities, heavily armed, and made to be especially maneuverable, but they are only partially self-sufficient. They can all make plentiful weaponry and munitions, of course, but such manufacturing takes up space, and there is little room left on them for farming stations and water filter vats. All except New Cardiff were built during the war, specifically to protect this northwesterly approach to Cold Island 12, since, while most of the north Atlantic had been in the attack range of the Rogue City base in Tasiilaq Bay, essentially the only thing worth fighting for around here was access to a Cold Island. Thus was formed the NASS Contingent. The North Atlantic Skycity Squadron, and its mission was to protect Cold Island 12, at all costs. Skycity 15 had been a proud member since the very beginning of the war, and because several thousand people live on them, these five Fort-class Cities are still under our wartime rations agreement.
A quiet Export Technician shows me to my small stateroom. My Quarantine order means I qualify for a private berth. By the looks of things, there are only three such rooms on this particular ship, tucked away into the bit of wasted space between the superstructure base and the communications tower. They've given me the only stateroom with an exterior view. The whole area is only a few levels up from the round belly of the cargo holds, though, and the porthole is tiny, so I cannot see much of the sea on this bright, glaring morning, but that is all right. I see this particular stretch of ocean nearly every month anyhow - New Oxford's flight route is fairly standardized.
I decide to relax while the cargo ship makes its rounds.
I throw my bag onto the long bench that lines one side of the room, and flop luxuriously onto the soft cot across from it. There is a large info-screen on the short wall across from the foot of the bed, and a door in the opposite short wall that I assume leads to a private toilet. The info-screen is already activated, showing a live-update map of our current position, and the position of anything else of interest near us. At the moment, Skycity 15 is the only thing on the screen.
I sigh, and let myself drift.
I must sleep, for the next thing I know, a PA system is pinging insistently at me.
*ding ding* "This is the Captain speaking. We are approaching Cold Island Airspace. Please turn off all comm-radios and personal info-screens as we prepare to pass the Safnet Screen Line." *ding ding* "Will all passengers please find your landing seats and engage your restraint systems. Thank you." *ding ding* "Approaching Cold Island Airspace. Please find your landing seats." *ding ding*
I sit up, groggily, and look around again. One end of the long bench is equipped with a padded, cord-and-net restraint system. I half-stumble over to it and strap myself in almost by instinct. I'm far from comfortable, but if I twist my neck a little, a can see out of the porthole fairly easily from here. I can't see the Safnet screen yet, but we're probably still too far away. And I'll probably be at the wrong angle to see it when we get there anyway. . .
All Cold Islands are protected by a Land-Grade Safnet system. Unlike the small protective nets we have around the edges of Skycities, these project huge domes of nearly impenetrable force-screens. They're partially-osmotic, meaning air and some water can get through, but very little else can. The nets are strong enough to repel large icebergs, and they extend all the way to the seafloor. Only special signals allow for openings in very specific areas.
A yellow warning light flashes underneath the info-screen, meaning that live-updates have been temporarily turned off so the ship can broadcast the necessary radio signal unimpeded. The ship rocks, and shudders uncomfortably as it banks into its proper approach.
As the ship turns and my side lowers, I can see the edge of the Safnet, and for the first time in my life, I see a wide expanse of clean, uncontaminated ocean.
My jaw drops.
The ship evens out, but rocks some more as it pushes through the relaxed force-screen. I do not notice. From horizon to horizon, there is only the deepest, clearest blue surrounding us, like an enormous, living sapphire, rolling and lapping away far down below. Swathes of a colder ultramarine run like veins though the body of the water, rich and impossible, like Stygian Blue.
For the first time, I understand the phrase from Homer, "The wine-dark sea."
But the colour isn't what shocks me, not entirely, though I wasn't expecting it. No, what's surprising is where we are. According to the info-screen on the wall, we just passed Hot Island 529 - what used to be the Faroe Islands - two hundred or so kilometers to the East of us. We're still three or four hundred kilometers away from the Docking Station at Upper Inverness, still smack dab in the middle of the open ocean.
This is at least double, and probably closer to quadruple, the reported amount of reclaimed sea surrounding Cold Island 12.
I'm not shocked that this isn't common knowledge. I'm shocked that they've managed to do it at all.
Safnet shields only block radiation - they cannot filter it. Antinuclear Reactive gel is the only substance known that can effectively filter radioactive particulates from fluids.
I know this. And yet, for a moment, I wonder. . .
To have reclaimed so much open ocean, to the point that the colour changes so drastically, would take. . . would take. . .
I don't even know what that would take. More AR gel per year than is currently produced annually worldwide, certainly. More labour than the approximately 3 million people who live on Cold Island 12 could provide, for sure. More power consumed by the Safnet screens than the land-based generators can produce, I think. And technology I had no idea even exists and can't possibly imagine, absolutely.
My heart rate increases, and for a moment I lose my breath.
If they can do this here, does that mean there is some hope for the rest of our planet?
I've never dreamed - never even let myself imagine. . .
I turn my face away from the porthole. It's too much to take in.
But I can't keep my eyes away for long - the blue of the clean sea draws my gaze like nothing ever has before. I never knew a colour could draw out your soul with longing, and call to you across space.
I stare at it with a hunger I didn't know existed, and I cannot get enough.
The rest of the trip into Inverness Docking Station is uneventful.
If by uneventful you mean spectacularly, devastatingly beautiful, of course.
Eventually, the blue of the sea fades away behind us, and the greens, browns and greys of habitable land rise up instead. It too is veined and dotted with blue. Lakes. Rivers. Clean, good water flowing over and soaking into dark, sweet land. Slowly, we descend from the sky, and the air becomes warmer, and thicker, and rich with action and light.
I think I even see a bird.
I know what birds look like from pictures, of course, but as the ocean has showed, the real thing is incredibly different from pictures. . .
Our speed falls to almost nothing, and we come to a surprisingly delicate stop. A deep clang reverberates through the whole ship. Airlock engaged.
Slowly, I untangle myself from the restraint nets, and sling my bag over my shoulder. Suddenly it seems an alarmingly meagre set of resources with which to face an entire unknown world. I might be used to having nearly nothing, but being in a place where I know nearly nothing is an entirely new sensation.
I don't think I like it, but I don't know how I do feel about it, either.
It is a long lift ride down from the Docking Station. Then the doors open up into Inverness Port, and I'm out in the wide, active world again.
The air smells like nothing I've ever imagined or dreamed of. Even now, I can't describe it, it was so full.
As I stand there, struck dumb by the lungfuls of life-laden air I'm greedily drawing into myself, a vehicle very like a skycar, only with wheels instead of airfoils, rolls up, and from the front seat, a smiling man in plain brown livery speaks to me.
"Ye'll be the lass from New Oxford, then?"
His voice is cheerful, and his accent is charming. I nod, more curtly than I mean to.
He doesn't seem to notice, but jumps out of the car, and throws open one of the back doors for me.
"Weel then, git in, lass. Yer Uncle sent me for ye. Hop in and we'll be there in time for tea."
Tea, at least, I understand.
As I turn to get in, some nearby children begin swinging a rope, long-ways, side to side. First one, then two of them, start to jump over it as it swings.
The two doing the swinging begin to chant -
"Hey Nonny Nonny,
The Rowan-tree is bonny,
The Mountains are under the Spoon,
The Devil's Eye flashed,
To see such s'port,
And the Witches dance under the Moon."
I've heard children singing such nonsense poems before, of course, but this one, I always thought, was about a cat and a cow, and ended with something about a dish and a spoon. . .
What are they singing about?
I don't have time to find out.
The nice man in livery closes the door behind me, then swings the car around, and we're off, up into the hills.
The rest of the ride is a blur of one beauty after another, trees and houses, plants and stones and people and roads, colour and sound and air.
I have never been a poet, and never wished to be, but during that drive, my soul sings the songs of ancient bards, melodies unwrit and unlearned, yet real nonetheless, timeless and free.
Eventually, we stop at a large house that is a ways beyond the end of a long row of shops and cottages. There are trees and bushes in the yard, and the whole place is so lovely I'm almost afraid to sully it with my presence. But the driver leaps out of the car, and throws my door open again, with such a hearty "Heer we are then, Lassie!", that I can't help but smile back, clutch my bag over my shoulder, and follow him into the house.
I've never seen a house like this, either. There's wood everywhere - paneling, floors, railings, furniture. The richest among us on the Skycities might have a wooden ornament or two, but nothing near to this.
The house might as well be made from solid gold.
The driver leaves me in the hall, and a smiling woman with grey hair greets me there.
"Come with me, dear, he's waiting for you in the library," she says gently, and leads me off down a long hallway.
I have been so impressed with the sight and smells of this new place, I've forgotten to be nervous about meeting Uncle Lamb. All of the anxiety slams into me now.
He's mad. Insane. He was sent here because of it.
What on Earth am I going to do?
The grey-haired woman escorts me into a room where the walls are covered with what I later learn are books. Apparently, they used to be made of wood pulp.
But now, they are so much uninteresting background, because in this room, I will have to face my uncle. . .
A tall and elegantly dressed gentleman rises from the desk near the window, and advances to me, a delighted and eminently sane expression on his face.
"Ah, here you are, my dear. Got here safely, I see." He pats my shoulder and gives me a dry peck on the cheek. "I'll tell Mrs. Graham to take your bag up to your rooms."
I consciously unclench my fingers from around my bag's shoulder strap, my paradigms shifting so much and so rapidly that I'm liable to be swallowed by the avalanche of them.
"Th-thank you, Uncle Lamb," I manage, somewhat faintly.
He grips me gently by both shoulders, and looks down at me happily.
"I'm very glad you're here, Claire," he says, sincerely, softly patting my cheek. Then he walks to the door and calls the woman back.
Mrs. Graham takes my bag from me, and in a daze I follow her up to the rooms allotted for me. A minute later, I am sitting on the edge of a giant four-poster bed, looking bewilderedly at the pale blonde paneling that lines the room.
Nothing, nothing, is like I thought it was. Not Uncle Lamb, not Cold Island 12, not me, not the world itself.
I wonder what it means to be mad, in a world gone sane.
Chapter 8: Redux
Chapter Text
Eventually, I shake myself from my stupor. There is a bowl and pitcher in one corner of the room, with a clean cloth laid next to them. I make a guess that this is how basic sanitation works here, and I turn out to be right.
I wash a little bit more thoroughly than I need to, not knowing if they have a private steamshower here or not. I hope they do - I can see myself spending the majority of my time here outdoors. Among all those plants and soil and stones. . .
I draw a deep breath. Indoors the air isn't nearly so shockingly fresh, but there is still a tang of fullness to it - a savour of blooming fungus and the mould of leaves, mingled with a million things I've never smelled before. I yearn to be outside again, surrounded by things I've only read about. My fingers itch to explore, to sort pebbles and sketch leaves, to see tree bark, and flowers, and herbs, and fruit, and mushrooms, and even insects. Do they have rodents around here, I wonder? Amphibians? Snakes? Fish? Mammals? After the expanse of clean ocean I've witnessed, I figure anything is possible. The world of this Cold Island is so enormous, I've never felt so small.
For some reason, that comforts me a little.
I have to look a long time at the little washing station to realize that underneath the shelf that holds small rolled cloths, there is a large jar - and it takes me even longer to realize that it is meant to hold the greywater. Blushing at my own ignorance, I dump the rinsing bowl out into it. Then I pause for a minute, wondering if I can afford to wash my feet. I shrug. I have to assume water is at least somewhat cheaper here, so I pour nearly a half-liter more into the rinsing bowl. It's been a couple of days since I've had my boots off, and after all, I don't know what sort of clothing - or even behaviour, come to think of it - will be expected from me here.
I was more than half expecting to be cooped up in a hospital for the duration of my time here. . . and now that it's clear Uncle intends nothing of the kind. . . well. . . I feel at quite a loose end.
I don't know exactly how I'm supposed to be feeling, and my actual emotions are even more confused. . .
I'm just drying my feet when Mrs. Graham knocks briefly at my door, and then walks in.
"Oh, good, I was hoping you'd still be washing," she smiles, and holds out a small pile of clean, soft cloth, "I don't know if these will fit you, dearie, but I thought they might be more comfortable for you than. . ." she trails off, unable to politely say anything more, even though she has obviously looked over my worn, patched and threadbare clothes, and found them woefully wanting. I find I have to agree with her.
"I'm sure they will be, thank you, Mrs. Graham."
I take the little pile of neatly folded things. At my first touch, I gasp. These are no ordinary clothes.
"Ohhh, linen!" I exclaim, "Marvelous!"
"You know linen?" she says, eyes brightening.
I lightly run the hem of the pale blue tunic between my fingers, "Oh yes, I studied Historic Botany in school. I know all the natural plant fibres. Hemp, sisal, cotton, jute. . ." I throw off my dark brown tunic, and slip into this one. She needn't have worried that it wouldn't fit. If anything, it hangs a little loosely on my underfed body. The cloth is fresh, smooth, and almost infinitely more comfortable than my old Tyfon-cloth things. "But I've never worn anything like this," I say, stepping into the dark blue cotton trousers. They are thicker-woven than the thin tunic, and not as smooth or soft. But I can fit into them, and at the moment, that's all that matters.
At the bottom of the pile, there's a pair of soft little knitted house-slippers. These also fit reasonably well.
"Thank you again, Mrs. Graham," I say, a great deal comforted.
"Well, I'll tell my daughter her clothes went to a good use. Now ye'r expected downstairs for tea," she smiles and gestures gently.
"Oh!" I start, suddenly remembering myself, "I nearly forgot! You may not want me to be eating with you. . ." I dive into my discarded trouser pocket to fish out my Quarantine Order, "I've just gotten over this season's 'flu. I might still be contagious."
She barely looks at the little plastic square before waving it away, "Nae, dearie, there's nothing wrong with you a few good meals and warm bed at night couldn't cure, that's certain."
Reluctantly, I tuck the card away in my bag, "But. . . if you or Uncle catch it. . ."
She laughs, "Oh, no dear, we won't get it! Our immune systems develop better on the ground, and anyway, we were inoculated two weeks ago."
"We?" I take a brush from a nearby table and hastily tie back my hair.
"The whole island, dear. Now come and have tea. I've made a few extra special treats for you. . ." she chats away gently as she escorts me out.
Halfway down the hall, I remember something again, "Oh! I'm sorry, I forgot!" I say, interrupting her chatter, "I meant to bring my bottle of lemon syrup to tea. I wanted to. . ." I stammer slightly, "Well. . . W-wanted to contribute as much as I can. . . I mean, it's little enough, of course. . ."
Mrs. Graham pats my arm, then grips it to prevent me turning around, "No, no, dearie, you're a guest this time, nothing owing." She cocks her head and smiles, "But lemon syrup you say? I've never heard of it, but it sounds an ideal thing to have with our supper tonight. I'll go and get it, no worries, dearie."
I half smile back, still slightly unsure with all the newness of this place. "It's in my mother's old enamel bottle. . ." I mention, cautiously.
"Be sure I'll be careful as the day, dearie."
I smile fully, already liking this small grey-haired person more than I have anyone in years, "You can call me Claire, Mrs. Graham."
"Oh, bless ye, Claire, child," she says, smiling and patting my arm again, "I've a feeling we're going to be friends." She stops in front of the door to the library. "Here we are, then. Enjoy yer tea."
I enter my uncle's library with considerably less trepidation than I did half an hour ago.
Chapter 9: Lambing Season
Chapter Text
As it turns out, I don't understand tea. Not what it apparently means here, anyway.
When I walk in, Uncle is facing away from me, bent over the tea-tray on his desk, compounding a gigantic pot of tea using spoons and tins and strainers and boiling water and a cozy, and several heaping spoonfuls of actual loose leaf tea.
I didn't know anyone did that anymore. . .
His mind is so absorbed in this task that he doesn't greet me, or look up, or acknowledge my presence at all.
His mind.
Uncle Lamb is not crazy. I tell myself this a few more times, until I can unclench my fists, and walk deeper into the room.
While I'm not afraid of him any longer, I know even less what to expect now than I did this morning. I feel like some wary hesitation is more than a little justified.
But, it's just tea. Surely I can get through a simple meal without. . .
A long, low table that was invisible from the door comes into view, and all my other thoughts stutter to a halt.
From Mrs. Graham's excited chatter about "special treats", I had expected this to consist of, perhaps, sweet corncakes with whipped cream and fortified fruit paste for starters, baked potatoes and gravy to follow, and maybe bone broth consommé or chicken pâté to end on - things like what my mother used to serve for tea when we had company, but on a smaller scale, of course.
And here I find myself looking down at a more than two-meter long table positively stuffed with food. There are four whole cakes - one walnut, one battenburg, one Victoria sandwich, and one tall, pink-and-white frosted thing, with what looks like an entire tin of preserved whole cherries heaped on top. There are piles of tiny scones next to them, flecked with reddish-pink and brown and smelling of fruit and roasted nuts. After that there are five. . . no, six, pots of differently coloured spreads. I sniff delicately, and they smell chiefly of fruit, and range in colour from dark purple-black, to bright amber and ruby, to light golden brown. There is a bowl of white stuff that looks too thick to be whipped cream. Briefly, I wonder what it is. Next to it is a yellow mound of something that looks like a particularly good quality margarine, and a huge ceramic jug of chilled milk. Then there is a large tart filled with what looks like scrambled eggs. . . reaching far, far back in my memory I can just recall that my parents would sometimes have slices of a similar thing. . . called. . . I think. . . quiche? I cannot be sure. Then there are three different thick, squidgy, whitish disks cut into thin wedges, next to a tray of fancy wheat-flour crackers sprinkled with seeds, and two bowls filled with fruit - one with dark, dusky-purple grapes, and one with tiny jewel-like things I think might be red currants.
And then there are the sandwiches. All open-faced, on the most expensive looking wheat-flour bread I've ever seen, and all of them utterly mysterious. I don't even know what to call them. . .
There is one platter of very savoury-smelling green and red circles, one of a thick brown paste that smells strongly of the ocean, one of a thinly sliced translucent pink thing sprinkled with green sprigs of chives and nameless small dark green spheres, one of thinly sliced white squares and dark green circles, and one of a thick yellow paste with generous amounts of tiny white cubes mixed through it.
Not even the most lavish of my parents' tea parties ever came close to this.
Slowly, I sit on the nearby sofa, open-mouthed, not even knowing where to begin.
I'm not shocked they have such varied abundance here, not exactly. . . I'm just stunned they did all this. . . for me.
A teacup and saucer are pushed into my hand, and a smiling Uncle Lamb sits down next to me.
"Cold Island food takes some getting used to, doesn't it?" he says, a twinkle in his eye.
I pull myself together, "You. . . you mean it's like this every day?"
"Well. . . not quite," his lips twist wryly, "We usually only have one kind of cake, Mrs. Graham almost never makes five kinds of sandwiches, and she certainly doesn't bring out her famous rowanberry jam for just anybody."
"Oh," I say faintly, taking a sip of tea to fortify myself. It's delicious, and makes me realize exactly how hungry I am. "Which. . . one is that?"
With a knowing grin, he takes me through everything on the table I don't know. The cherry cake, the raspberry and almond scones, the butter, the clotted cream, the sloeberry, rowanberry, and blackberry jams, the spiced apple butter, and pear preserves, and honey.
"Honey?" I turn to him, very surprised, "I thought bees were extinct!"
He chuckles slightly, "Oh, they very nearly are. We're one of only two Cold Islands that have any bees to speak of. There's a hearty strain of them here though." Then he turns back to the table.
Next, he explains the three kinds of soft cheese sitting next to the crackers, the mushroom and rocket quiche, and the ruby currants, and then he pours me a glass of the goat's milk, insisting I taste it.
I do. I hardly know what to think. I'm used to peanut milk. This is wildly different.
"What is a goat?" I ask, blushing with my ignorance, "Is it anything like a cow? I had forgotten about cows. . . I had forgotten about cheese! And butter. . . and real cream! They taught us about them in school, but I. . ."
Uncle smiles indulgently, "Yes, Skycity life does make you forget many things, doesn't it? A goat is nothing like a cow, but we raise both here - you'll soon learn the difference."
"I hope so."
I sigh a little, wishing I could know everything at once.
"Anything else you want to know what it is?"
"Those sandwiches are baffling me, Uncle Lamb."
"Well, we can't have that, can we?" He smiles, and takes an empty plate, then recites what each sandwich is while serving me one of each. "Let's see. . . today it looks like we have. . . cucumber and tomato, salmon and anchovy paste, smoked salmon with chives and capers, cheese and pickle, and deviled quail's egg." He hands me the plate so insistently I have to put my teacup down in order to take it. "And now, you mustn't stand on ceremony. Have just exactly what you like, my dear."
I oblige, recklessly heaping my plate with a bit of everything until it is so full I have to stop. Uncle doesn't chide me for greediness, though. In fact, he looks immensely pleased.
He fills his own plate, then settles himself in a tall, very comfortable-looking armchair.
"Now," he says, cheerful but somehow also very serious, "I expect you have a whole army of questions, hm?"
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, since my mouth is currently full. With currants, as it happens.
"Good," he says, taking a large bite of buttered scone, "Fire when ready."
I blink a little. I wasn't expecting such blunt honesty.
I chew contemplatively. There are any number of places I could begin. . .
"Are there. . . any hospitals around here?" I ask, finally.
Uncle blinks and sits forward like he wasn't expecting me to ask that first thing. "Well, yes. In fact, there are three. Two in Inverness itself, and one just down the road here." He nods towards the road at the front of the house. "Why? Was there someone you wanted to visit?"
"No. . . I . . . I thought. . ." I chase a grape around my plate for a few seconds, "I thought that's where I'd be visiting you."
His brows knit in confusion for a long few seconds before his face clears, and his head goes back in a long, delighted peal of laughter.
"Ha! You remember that do you? Ha-Ha!" A moment later I assume he remembers his dignity, and he settles down to an occasional chuckle for the next several minutes.
"I was only eleven," I say, suddenly feeling a need to defend my childhood misconceptions, "And it was my first visit to Skycity 39. I only caught one glimpse you - wild eyes, wild hair - but I saw what you did to your rooms. . . and. . ." I look him straight in the eyes, begging him to understand. "It frightened me."
"Well, you always were a noticer." He lightly pounds a fist on the near corner of the table. "Marvelous. Simply marvelous. No, Claire dear, I'm not mad. Never have been. A touch eccentric, of course, but then any descendant of your Great-grandfather Beauchamp could hardly help being that."
"But. . . then. . ."
"Why?"
"Yes!" I almost yell, "Why?"
He helps himself to a slice of walnut cake, "Tell me dear, how many people, do you think, would like to live here on this island?"
I pause in the middle of one of the smoked-salmon sandwiches. I've never had fish before, and I'm quite enjoying it. "Well. . . everybody, I imagine. . ."
"Precisely. Now imagine everyone who wanted to live here, trying to live here. If all of them flooding in didn't cause chaos on its own, we'd very quickly run out of space, and things for them to do, and places for them to live, and even if we put them all to work farming and building houses, how long do you think our endemic animals and plants would survive?"
I put down my half-eaten slice of quiche, "Oh. . . I see."
"I'm sure you do," he says, kindly but firmly, "I know it all seems abundantly prosperous here - and it is - but it is also true that we are, in fact, a very tenuous outpost. An island indeed. And a beleaguered one. We have to be intensely careful. And so, no outsiders are allowed past the Port except for medical reasons, and all the food we export is exactly the same as the kind grown on the Skycities - the same hybrid fruits and grains, the same genetically altered chickens, the same line-bred potatoes and sugar beets. Even though we grow it all using soil and not hydroponics. We must maintain the illusion that we are merely radiation-free, and that living here is almost exactly the same as living on a Skycity. A nice place to visit if you need to, yes. But not Utopian or Edenic. Not an infinitely superior place to live."
I sigh, "So the only visitors you allow are the old, or sick, or mentally ill."
"Nearly all, yes," he nods.
"Which means you can control what they see. And eat."
"Yes."
"And so. . . all those years ago. . . you pretended. . ."
"Pretended to be mad, yes. So I could have an ongoing illness and an excuse to give to the world as to why I stayed here."
I drizzle some honey on a scone, "But. . . that doesn't explain why I'm here. . ."
He sighs sharply, "Claire, dear, I wanted to see you," his face sobers heavily, "After all, I never got to see Henry again, and. . ." He blinks rapidly, and takes an unreasonably large gulp of his tea. "Old Woolsey had to contact the Council here to approve your visit, of course, and since I'm friends with the lot of them, and Beauchamp being such an uncommon name. . ."
I give him a wry half-smile, "And what were you planning on doing about my finding out just how extraordinary it is here?" I pop the last of a bit of goat cheese and cracker into my mouth, to illustrate my point.
"Oh, there was some trifling arrangement about the Council making you sign some sort of Non-Disclosure agreement before you leave, but that's a small enough price to pay, isn't it?"
"I suppose. . ." I trail off, as another question occurs to me.
"Uncle-"
"Call me Lamb, dear," he interrupts, "Everyone does."
I nod, and continue, "Lamb. . . why. . . why did you. . . I mean. . . pretending to be mad is one thing. Needing to do it is quite another. What. . . what could possibly. . ." I growl, exasperated with both him and myself, "Besides, if you aren't mad then why. . . why did they let you. . ." I shrug, feeling quite incoherent, "Just. . . why?"
He doesn't say anything for a long time.
I'm scraping up the last crumbs of my slice of cherry cake, and washing it down with the very last of the pot of tea when he finally murmurs quietly, "Are you done eating, dear?"
I nod, and get up to put my cup and saucer neatly back on the tea-tray.
Lamb also gets up, and takes a walking stick from a stand in the corner.
"Then follow me."
The late afternoon sun slants the shadows dramatically across the library furniture as Lamb opens both sides of a big double-leaved door, and gestures imperiously for me to follow him. The breeze nips cold on my nose and ears, and I take a moment to grab the long mackintosh coat Lamb left laying on his desk. I throw it around me before I join him.
He is making a brisk pace across the stony, grassy fields, and it is quite an effort for me to keep up with him.
It isn't until we reach a largish stand of trees that he slows down at all. In fact, he stops, and stands still to watch a display of something I've never seen, and don't at all understand.
It is worth watching, though, I cannot deny that.
Fluttering clouds of small, winged, golden creatures are flying in all their glory across the field. They swoop and dive and soar all around, a silent, swirling, bright-yellow hurricane, speckling the grass and sky and trees around us with bits of colour stolen from the dying light.
Insects. Clearly. But I'm still confused, and look a sharp question over at Lamb.
He interprets my look, and laughs a little, his eyes still following the fluttering yellow wings, "Brimstone moths, my dear," he says softly, "Now's their hour. They swarm nearly every twilight this time of year."
"Brimstone? Swarm? You make then sound so dangerous!" For the first time in what feels like decades, I smile without effort.
"Not at all. It's like calling a big man "wee". The name is appropriate because it's precisely the opposite of true."
"Oh, Lamb, that doesn't make any sense." I reach out a hand, hoping one of the lovely creatures will land on it. None do.
He sighs a little, and watches one moth as it descends to a blade of grass, and sits there, slowly flapping its wings. "I had forgotten just how literal you are in the Skycities." He barks a joyless laugh, "Who would have thought that when the Human race finally reached heaven, they would lose all their sense of humour?"
I link my arm through his, "The Skycities are hardly heaven, Uncle Lamb - though I appreciate the imagery - and eight years of war is enough to make just about anyone a bit grumpy, you know. . ."
"You are right dear," he says somewhat abstractedly, "You must forgive the foibles of an eccentric old man, I'm afraid. . ."
Then, with deep sigh, he turns away from the moths, only to gesture grandly at a hill some hundred meters away from us.
"There it is, my dear. Why I am here."
It is a small hill, but crowned with trees and a collection of large, slender grey stones standing upright. The last rays of the sunset are just glinting from the edges of them, setting them as though with jewels of fire.
A pang of perfect beauty strikes me. I am incapable of speaking in anything but a reverent tone.
"What. . . is it?" I ask.
"A power generator." Lamb's tone is as solemn as my own.
"It looks like. . . well, to me it looks like a bunch of upright stones, but. . ."
"And so it is." Lamb nods, "Just standing stones. Nothing more."
"So. . . what power does it generate?"
"The power of infinite potential."
For the briefest of moments, I wonder if he really is mad after all. . .
Then, the golden light leaves the structure entirely, and somehow the spell is broken. Lamb's next words are spoken quietly, but with his usual cheerful confidence.
"It is remarkable what Humanity lost when we decided the Earth could be conquered, my dear."
"I'm. . . sure you're right," I say, uncertain how to respond to the non sequitur.
"And the only way to regain our heritage, is to be subject to the Earth again."
"That. . . may be."
"Certainly. It may." He turns us around and we start back to his house, this time at a much slower pace. "I'm sorry I cannot explain more, Claire, dear, not tonight. And anyway, we must get back home, Mrs. Graham will have our supper waiting."
I let the conversation drop. There's no telling what Mrs. Graham has made for our supper, but I can hardly wait.
Chapter 10: Sassenach
Chapter Text
Bacon.
The smell spills out of the open kitchen door, and beckons me toward the bright, inner warmth. I've only ever had bacon once, years and years ago, but the scent is as unforgettable as it is unmistakable.
Mrs. Graham must be frying bacon. . .
Suddenly, tea feels like it was years ago, and my stomach rumbles. The walk back from the hill with the standing stones has been unexpectedly strenuous. I'm starving. I eagerly pull away from Uncle, and almost trip on the slippery stone cobbles of the walk. The soles of my house slippers are wet through with damp, and my toes are numb from stubbing them repeatedly against rocks I cannot see in the dark.
"Whoa!" Lamb exclaims, re-taking my arm and steadying me before handing me up the few steps into the kitchen. "Not again, Claire, really. . ."
"Sorry," I say, shivering slightly, "I'm just not used to the ground being uneve-"
"Lamb!" Mrs. Graham interrupts, snapping a cloth sharply against my uncle's shoulder, "Tell me you didnae take this girl out for a walk, in the cold, and the wet, in house slippers? And her just ower the 'flu! Tell me ye didnae!"
Her accent deepens as she grows more upset.
Uncle suppresses a smile, and shrugs lightly, "Very well. I didn't." He sits down at the kitchen table and pours something steamy from a large jug, "She wanted to go."
Mrs. Graham makes a grumpy, wordless sound that is somehow far more expressive than any words she could have said. In thirty seconds flat, she has my slippers off, hung them over the oven door to dry, and has put my feet in a bowl of steaming hot water, a warm blanket around my shoulders, and a positively massive mug of what I now see is spiced milk in my hand.
For a minute I'm dazed with the speed of her actions - I'm sitting at the table without any clear memory of having gotten here - but then the twin glows of a foot-bath and a hot drink reawaken my senses. I wiggle my toes and sip from the mug, deciding to be content with what I cannot change.
The smiling liveried man who drove me this morning is sitting across from me, chuckling.
"T'missus is verra pa'ticular. Verra pa'ticular." He grins fondly in her direction, "'Specially aboot the damp."
"Mr. Graham, I presume?" I ask, slightly breathless still.
"Aye," he nods, then looks past me to his bustling wife, "Dinna fash yersel' so Mary - this wee Sassenach may not look it," he inclines his head briefly towards me, "But I ken she's as tough as old shoo leather."
Mrs. Graham exclaims again, looks me up and down with a sort of loving exasperation, and then goes back to tending the array of sizzling pans on the cooking station.
From my warm cocoon, I glance between her and Uncle, hoping for some sort of explanation of the last few minutes. When none is forthcoming, I ask, hesitantly, "Sassy. . . neck?"
Mr. Graham explodes in a roar of jubilant laughter, I see Mrs. Graham's shoulders shake, and even Uncle smiles behind his mug of spiced milk.
"No dear," says Lamb, clearly amused, "Sassenach." His accent is far off from how Mr. Graham pronounced it, but that doesn't make it sound any more familiar to my ears. "It means 'English', or, I suppose more accurately, 'outlander'. I'm one too, if that makes you feel any better."
"English?" I say, only more confused at this point, "We're not English. There hasn't been an England for over a hundred and fifty years. After the Unity War, and WWIII, there weren't even countries anymore, let alone-"
"Yes, yes," says Mrs. Graham, descending on the table with three loaded, steaming plates, which she distributes to each of us, "But, you see, dearie, you don't live on land anymore, do ye? "Outlander" is a perfectly accurate title for you Skycity folk."
"Well. . . I suppose so, but. . ."
She adds another boiling hot half-liter to the bowl at my feet, and tops up my mug with freshly steamed milk. "That it's also the traditional Scottish name for people who aren't us is neither here nor there at this point."
"Well, technically. . ." Uncle starts, then quickly silences as Mrs. Graham snaps her hand cloth at his shoulder again.
"Technically it's supper time," she sets a plate mounded with butter and a small crystal pitcher filled with my lemon syrup in the middle of the table. "Now eat yer oatcakes and bacon, the havering lot of you."
Then she plunks down her own plate, and with a triumphant look round the table that practically dares any of us to say anything at all, she puts words to action, and starts to eat her supper.
Chapter 11: Lies In The Hand
Chapter Text
For a brief, stomach-dropping half-second, I don't know where I am.
Then the world coalesces into a warm, comfortable, curtained bed, bigger in itself than my whole tent back home. The angle of the draperies echo its rough canvas, but in such a refined, tempered way that even my first wild moments of confusion seem pleasant by contrast. The solid, richly carven wooden posts leave my old FlexiTen construction so far behind I wonder that I ever found the tent acceptable in the least.
Until this moment, I never realized just exactly how much I hate that ugly old canvas tent. Not for what it is, but for what it means. That I have nothing, and no one. That all I love is dead - and the only thing left is bare survival. No growth, no development, no joy, just plain, plodding, soul-sucking drudgery, forever and for all time.
I've only spent one night away from it, and already it's unthinkable to ever go back.
I push the thought away, putting off that paradigm shift for sometime when I'm fully awake.
I've scarcely ever slept as well as I did last night. I barely had time to settle in between the clean, dry sheets before I was dead to the world.
No matter. I'm awake now. I sit up, and look about me with considerably more interest than I did yesterday. Whatever I may feel about the last nine months, I've retained the habit of getting up at dawn, so everything in the room is still somewhat shadowy and amorphous. I think I can make out a desk, a large cupboard, a table, two chairs, and a couch to one side of me, and the washing station, a dressing table, and three more chairs to the other. There are several minor things I cannot make out in the gloom. And there are two banks of full shelving across from me, with a door in between them. I remember just noticing them last night - no more than that. Now, in the bluish-grey light of early morning, I can't help but wonder what the slim rectangles that populate the shelves are, or where the door leads.
I shake my head at myself.
"Curiosity killed the cat," I murmur, and instantly wonder if there are any cats on this island. I've only seen cats in pictures - I wouldn't mind seeing one in real life. . .
I shake my head again, and then slip from underneath the heavy covers, and go in search of the toilet facilities.
Maybe that's what is behind the door.
And it turns out it is, but I stand in the doorway staring for several minutes before I find what need. A huge freestanding vat sits at one end of the long, narrow room, on an expanse of gleaming white tiles. Half the wall to my left is covered in shelves full of bottles, jars, brushes of all shapes and sizes, tubes of things I've never seen before, coloured bricks of sweet-smelling stuff, multi-coloured plastic boxes, tiny mirrors, jewel-toned spheres in glass cylinders, see-through bags of puffy bits of cotton, and a myriad of strange devices I don't know the uses for. Beside them is another dressing table, this one stacked with fluffy, neatly folded lengths of cloth. Directly ahead is a wall of full-length mirrors, and to my right is a wide archway that leads to an enormous walk-in closet. My mother had such a closet - a much smaller one - that was her pride and joy. Only in Central Township is space ever wasted in such a way.
And then I spot it, between the full-length mirrors and the big empty vat - another door, sitting small and plain, almost like an afterthought. In there is the device I need, and, thanks be, it is the same VacuSan composting model as we have on the Skycities - no strange buttons or pull-cords, or fancy fripperies like scented sprays or heated seats. The DriWash sanitation tissue is even the same floral scent we have on Skycity 15. The familiarity is quite relaxing.
The cold white tiles around the vat strike a chill across my bare feet, both walking to the tiny side-room, and coming back out again.
I pause, briefly, to wonder what such a large vat could be for. Surely, this isn't an AR gel decon room, is it? Right across from the closet? Surely not. But I'm at a loss as to what else an empty vat could be used for, in a community that grows its food in soil instead of specially treated water. If this was a lab, now, or a farming station, there would be any number of uses for it, but this is a toilet station and dressing room that is also used for. . . First aid? Display? Storage? Magic potion. . . ing? I realize I don't actually know that it isn't a lab of some sort - those bottles and jars could contain anything, really.
But next to the toilet station and clothing storage? Why?
I also wonder where the steamshower station is, but there's time enough to ask about that. My feet are beginning to ache with cold.
I throw on the long ÆXo-cloth hooded overcoat I brought with me, and pull on the house slippers - which are perfectly dry from yesterday, thanks to Mrs. Graham - and go in search of a hot cup of tea.
Unsurprisingly, I find one in the kitchen, along with Mrs. Graham herself.
"Now why am I not at all shocked to see you up and about so early?" I ask, teasingly cheerful, but still subdued in the large quiet of this house at dawn.
"Oh, I'm not usually," she says mildly, pouring me a cup of tea before I can ask for one, "It's just the time year, you know."
I don't know, but I don't ask, either.
"So, you like working for Uncle?" I say. It's less a question and more an invitation. If ever there was a woman who emphatically does exactly what she chooses to do, it's her.
"Oh, Lamb's a dear," she says, sitting down across from me, "But I worked here long before he ever came to the island. This was the old manse, you know."
"Oh?" I say, as though I have any idea what a manse is, "Was it?"
She nods, and by her expression, she is remembering some wonderful days gone by. "Yes. And Reverend Wakefield was a dear, dear man. He's gone over forty years ago, now, bless his soul. He had no children, more's the pity." She sighs a little, in regret or happy remembrance it's impossible to say. "But he looked after Ben and me - left us legacy enough so's we could set up our Beth in her own little shop in town, and more than that, we've a permanent place here, so long as the house stands," she chuckles softly, "And they can't tear it down - it's an official historical building now!" She sips her tea, placidly, "Yes, the old Reverend thought of everything." She turns her twinkling eyes back to me, "But here I am, maundering on. What do you think of the house, dearie?"
"I think it's the most beautiful place I've ever been in," I say, sincerely, "Wood paneling, drapery, lamps and mirrors everywhere! I've only ever read about such things. You must have an exceptionally good house-generator. All of the lights in this place!" I nod in the direction of her square-meter sized cooking pad, atop the full-size baking/warming oven, "And that cooking station must take as much energy as a skycar, at least. Not to mention heating the whole house must be a nightmare and half. I can't imagine keeping it all clean. . ."
Mrs. Graham smiles wryly, "It is something of a chore, that's true enough. . ."
"But I'm talking nonsense. Of course you have a good generator. I saw it last night. Though why you keep it so far from the house I don't know. . ."
Her brows knit in confusion, "Our. . . generator?"
I nod, "Yes. Those stones on the hill? Uncle said they were a power generator. I didn't quite understand what he meant. But, of course, with a house this size-"
"He didnae!" she interrupts, very angry, but clearly not at me, "The first night he takes ye thear! Of all places, on yer first day! The numptie! He might at least have let ye have a night's rest first!" She puts her head in her hands a moment, as though trying to dispel a headache, which maybe she is. "Claire, dearie, I. . ." she makes an exasperated noise at the back of her throat, "I'm none too sure exactly how much he plans to tell ye about those stones, but. . . they ar'nae our house generator. They're. . . sumthin' else entirely."
"Oh. . ." I trail off, too bewildered by her reaction to be too curious at the moment, "Well. . . I'm sure I'll understand eventually," I put down my empty teacup, and stand to go back to my room, "I suppose I ought to go get dressed. . ."
"Wait!" she says, snatching up my teacup with a strange urgency I've not seen from her before, "Ye. . . would'nae mind if I read yer tea leaves, dearie?"
I blink, totally at sea. "Read my. . . tea leaves?" I say, so clearly confused that I don't have to tell her I have no idea what she means.
"Yes dear," she swirls the dregs in my cup, and looks at them intently, "They do say that tea leaves left in a cup can tell a person's future. . ."
This strikes me as so absurd that I cannot help smiling. "Oh, is that all?" I sit back down. "Well, go on then."
For a few minutes she says nothing, only stares into my cup, looking at the base of it, swirling it and tilting it towards the brightening light coming through the window. Finally she puts it down, a strange look on her face.
"Well?" I prompt, less amused than I was a few minutes ago.
"Well, it's odd. . ." she points at the inside of cup, "You see those swirls around the edge, and the scalloped shapes underneath them?" I nod. "Normally, it would mean a journey over water, but since that's been your whole life anyway, there must be more to it than that. There are some very strange shapes that break up the pattern, meaning your near future will change greatly, but. . . also, stay remarkably the same. And then. . . I've never seen such a clean center." She points again, and sure enough, the middle of the base of the cup is remarkably clear of tea leaves, "It's as though. . . your more distant future will curve back on itself. Time after time. Almost. . . looping. And then, it just. . . disappears."
"My future disappears?" I say, swinging back to finding the whole thing absurd. "You mean. . . I'm going to die eventually? Isn't that normal?"
"Nae. There's no sign of yer dying. Not yer old age, not yer death, not. . . anything."
She puts the teacup down with an emphatic clatter.
"Agh," she exclaims in the expressive, wordless way I'm starting to expect from the people here, "'Tis just tea leaves, dearie. They do say. . . real truth. . . is. . . well. . . written in your hand. . ." she holds out her own hand, wordlessly asking to see mine.
Now palmistry I have heard of. It's part of a sort of parlour game we on Skycity 15 sometimes play during the spring or winter holidays. One participant is the "Veiled Lady" and their part is to wander around the room draped in a sheet or other thin cloth, calling out, "Your Future! Your Future! Your Future for a penny!" or some similar nonsense. Whoever else wants to participate, puts a tenth-liter token on their palm, and holds it out to the Lady. Then she (or he, there's no rule saying it must be a woman, but it's usually not a man), they extend the veil over the outstretched hand, take the token, and then shine a bright torch underneath the other person's palm and fingers. This casts a dim red glow through the skin, and the Veiled Lady then reads out some patter or other about lines of thought and life, lightness and darkness of the heart, heights and lows of the future - all prearranged over-theatrical tosh, I've always thought.
But now, I'm not so sure. . .
This seems so different. . . and Mrs. Graham isn't being at all theatrical. In fact, I've never seen her look so serious.
Slowly, I reach out my hand, and place it, palm up, in hers.
She takes even longer over my hand than she did over my teacup. She tilts and turns my hand, gently, looking at. . . looking for. . . I don't know what. There are lines and wrinkles, dips and curves, a few scars - I have quite a normal hand.
Or so I thought. . .
"Most extraordinary," says Mrs. Graham, at last. She hasn't released my hand, and now she lifts it up to show me some particulars. "Ye see here? 'Tis yer life line. It splits half way through and the two lines run parallel. Now, there's nothing so very strange in that - it could mean naught more then you work a job very different from yer private life - but the odd thing with ye is. . . both yer lines are broken up, and each part curved outward. They make these little ovals, see?" And it's true, that part of my hand wrinkles into tiny oval-ish shapes.
"And. . . that means. . ."
"Don't ye see, dearie? It's looping again. Yer future curves back on itself, over and over again. Almost like ye live. . . a dozen lives in the middle of yer life. . . and then the lines join again, and. . ."
"Yes. . . and then?"
She hesitates a long moment, then says, slowly, "I've not seen these exact signs before, but. . . everything says that ye'll die. . . before ye'r born."
My forehead wrinkles, "But. . ."
She quickly moves on to another part of my hand, "And here, ye see, ye'r passionate, intelligent, empathetic, hopeful, a quick learner. . . ye might be destined for great things, but ye'll have to choose to do them. . . and here," she smiles coyly, "Ye know how to please a man. And it looks like ye'll have two husbands. Or maybe three. With such a labyrinthine future and yer marriage line all branched and fragmented, it's hard to tell, but for all that, it's certain ye'll get to exercise yer power over men before the end."
It's all too much, but that last is quite enough.
"Oh! I don't think so," I pull my hand away, not sharply, but firmly, "I mean, Frank's been dead over four years, and I've not felt any inclination to marry again."
"Even so," she says, rising to clean up the tea things, "Don't discount the possibility."
I smile placatingly, "Oh, I won't. I mean, I only came to this island because I hoped to find my future anyway-"
A ringing clash interrupts me. Mrs. Graham has dropped a cup and saucer, smashing them to shards. She doesn't seem to notice.
"What did ye say, dearie?"
I pause a little, confused, "I. . . I said, I came here hoping to find my future. . ."
She whirls back to face me. "When ye saw Craigh na Dun, what did ye feel?"
"When I saw what?"
She waves a frustrated hand, "The standing stones. They're called Craigh na Dun. Now when ye saw them last night, what did ye feel?"
She's so intent, I have to answer her, though I hardly know what I felt myself.
"I. . . I suppose I felt. . . solemn. . . and. . . awed?. . . maybe. . . curious, I suppose. It was such a short glimpse, and we didn't stay long. . ."
"Did ye want a closer look?"
I nod, slowly. "I did."
"Ye felt their power, then. . ." Her eyes focus far away, and her mouth settles into a determined line.
"Mrs. Graham, what is that place?"
She takes a long, slow breath, and with some effort, focuses her eyes back on mine, "It is a place of power, dear. Just. . . not the kind that is normally understood. The power of Craigh na Dun is contained within what each person hopes they may find. And you have some powerful hopes, my dear. . ."
I sigh, tired of so many impossible things before breakfast, "I'm. . . so confused."
She nods, "Aye, ye would be. . . my apologies Claire, dearie." She pats my shoulder, reassuringly, "I'll tell Lamb you want to know more about the place - he's always willing to explain it all to an eager listener. . . If they're the right kind of person, of course. And. . . in two days time. . . perhaps ye'll be able to see what I'm talking about. Lamb will know whether you could bear to see it. . ." She trails off, and goes to fetch a dustpan and broom.
At that moment, direct sunlight breaks through the kitchen window for the first time that morning, bathing my face and the table in brilliant radiance.
I can only hope the dawning of my understanding will be so bright.
Chapter 12: Battle Field
Chapter Text
"Weel, ye cannae leave her out of it now, Lamb! She shows all the signs! Every one! She deserves tae see. She deserves tae know!"
I pause on my way back from getting dressed. Not to my expected quiet breakfast, but to Mrs. Graham's voice ringing though the closed kitchen door. My uncle's voice replies in a low rumble I cannot decipher.
"And that's as may be! But if ye cannae bring yersel tae do right by yer own flesh and blood, then on yer own heid be it, Q. Lambert Beauchamp!"
I've retreated halfway back up the hall stairs by this point in her tirade, and I'm glad I have, for Uncle comes bursting out of the kitchen, and nearly runs down the passage towards the library, not looking once in my direction. I doubt he even noticed I'm here.
Good. Family ties or not, there are some situations better left un-meddled with.
I hear the far-away slam of what I assume is the library door, and only then do I feel safe enough to creep into the kitchen, as unobtrusively as I can.
Mrs. Graham is stirring her pots and tending to her oven with a good deal more vim than is strictly necessary. I don't interrupt her, but sit down meekly at the half-laid table, waiting for her to notice me.
I don't know when she does notice me, but when she turns back to finish laying the table, she neither starts nor cries out. Almost viciously she sets the bowls and plates next to the forks and spoons - plunk, plunk, plunk - and then the mugs and water glasses with their higher - tap, clank, tap, clank. When she's done, she leans on the table, and gives a long, exasperated sigh.
"That uncle of yours, Claire, is a right stone-headed fool sometimes."
I hold back a smile. "He'd hardly be a Beauchamp if he wasn't, Mrs. Graham."
She exhales sharply, lips almost twisting into a sneer, but her eyes soften, "Aye, mebbe so. Ye heard?"
"Some of it," I say, "Your half, anyway."
"Tha's nowise near enough," she pounds an impatient fist on the table, "Ye mus' still be totally in the dark. . ." She looks to me for confirmation of this, and I suppose my silence answers her well enough. "Claire dear, if he does'nae tell ye today, then I'll tell ye. Every bit I know. Heaven knows it's as much my secret as his." She looks dubiously in the direction of the library, "But we'll give him a chance first. He's right enough - he's earned that much."
"Not from me he hasn't," I say frankly, "All he's earned from me is a good deal of childhood resentment."
She clicks her tongue, and straightens up, "Aye. . . well. . . I'll bring you your breakfast, dearie."
Halfway through the oat porridge, eggs, sausage, toast, butter and jam, Lamb reappears in the doorway, looking, if not contrite, then at least subdued. Although, why I'm looking for contrition from him, I have no idea. . .
"Morning," he nods solemnly at me, then applies himself seriously to the business of eating.
It is a long while before he ventures to speak again, and when he does, he directs his comments only at me, ignoring Mrs. Graham entirely.
"I have plans for us today, my dear, but they're flexible," he looks up briefly from the last piece of toast, "Was there anywhere specific you wanted to go? Something you wanted to see?"
"Oh. . . no. . . I. . . wouldn't know where to start. . ."
"Good," he says, practically, gulping down the last of his tea, "Then I'll meet you out front in ten minutes."
I'm eager for anything that can remove me from the oppressive awkwardness surrounding the breakfast table. In the prescribed ten minutes I am ready, in five more Uncle has me settled in the same groundcar I arrived in yesterday - the front seat this time - and we are off, deeper into the hills to I don't know where. I don't care either. He has me, we are alone, and as private as any two Humans can be in this world.
He can start explaining any time he wants. . .
For what feels like ages, but probably isn't actually very long, he does nothing but pilot the groundcar, looking nowhere but resolutely at the road.
When he does finally speak, it's the last thing I expected him to say.
"I'm afraid I don't know you nearly as well as I should, my dear. I don't even know what you studied in school."
Such an ordinary and straightforward statement shouldn't shock me, I suppose. But everything I've ever thought about him has changed so much - and so quickly - that now a simple conversational opening sounds. . .
Ominous? Portentous? I don't know. . .
"I took a degree in Historical Botany," I say.
He chuckles softly, and relaxes his straight-ahead gaze just enough that I can see a twinkle in his eye, "I bet Henry loved that. . ."
"He hated it," I say simply, "If I recall correctly, the phrase "useless drivel" was used more than once."
"Yes, that does sound like Henry, the poor stick-in-the-mud," he turns and gives me a quick appraising glance, "You had your own way in the end, I see."
"Of course."
"Of course," he repeats back to me, nodding, "There'd be no forcing you, and the last person who could talk a headstrong girl around was Henry. Do you know, dear, there are times I wonder how much Beauchamp he really was? He took so after our Grandmother FitzSimmonds. . ." he trails off, looking at me sidelong, "Sorry. I forget that you don't know as much about our family history as I do. . . back to the point. So. Historical Botany. Naturally, I approve, but then, I'm an anthropologist. I would approve, wouldn't I?"
"Maybe," I say, gazing out of the window at the soul-satisfying colors gleaming in the morning sun - greens and red and browns and blues - "I think, really, it was your being the kind of scientist he couldn't understand that turned him against all science he didn't understand in the first place. Not that his opinions were your fault, of course." I look at him sharply, and for a brief second, quickly suppressed, I think I see the same sort of condescending smile that my father sometimes wore when we discussed my chosen profession. Maybe it's my imagination. Maybe that particular facial expression means something different to Lamb than it did to my father.
And maybe Uncle Lamb is still almost a total stranger to me. . .
"Anyway," I sigh and lean back in my chair, "I think, in the end, he just wanted better for me than being a common farm tech, and could never shake the disappointment," I laugh, sarcastically humorless, "To end up a plain housewife in North-3, of all places! Oh, the shame of it!"
"Oh, how the mighty have fallen," he says, matching my sarcasm.
"Right out of the Spire! And into the common townships!"
"For someone born and bred in Central, it must have been difficult to fathom, especially for someone as narrow-minded as poor old Henry. Do you know dear, the one time he contacted me here, it was to send me notification of your wedding? Out of resignation or spite, I was never quite sure."
"Spite," I nearly growl through clenched teeth, "Neither one of them ever liked Frank, but father took the lead in that."
Uncle nods, carefully non-committal, "I assume. . . your pardon, dear. . . but. . . since you are using your maiden name again. . ."
I brace myself for the wave of sadness that always comes whenever I talk about Frank. "Yes," I almost whisper, "Yes, he's gone. Almost five years ago now. His decon team was hit by a UXB. . ."
"I'm sorry Claire."
The all too familiar yawning, aching cold rises up inside me. I wind my arms around myself, trying not to shiver with the chill of it. "It was. . . fast, I suppose. . ."
For a second Lamb turns and looks me straight in the face, "Fast for him, maybe."
How can someone I barely know echo my thoughts so clearly? What can my sadness mean to him?
For a second, one of his hands comes over and grips my shoulder. No comments, no repining. Just a brief supporting touch, and then he has both hands back on the steering yoke.
A tiny part of the lonely, freezing void inside me warms slightly. Lamb hasn't felt a bit like family to me until this moment.
He cares. He actually cares about me.
I feel so instantly, overwhelmingly grateful that I almost forgive him on the spot for lying about being crazy.
Almost.
"Did you know Frank was from here?" Lamb asks, the cheerfulness in his voice only slightly forced.
"From. . ." I suddenly come back to the here and now, "What do you mean? Frank was born in West-2."
"Sorry dear, I mean his ancestors. From before the British Cold War. At least, one of them lived here around then - over two hundred years ago, now. His name was Jonathan Randall. Although most of the times he's mentioned in the documents he's called "Black Jack". I think he must have been a professional gambler."
"No, I. . . didn't know that. And how did you know?"
He flashes a wide grin, "When they told me you were coming for a visit, I decided to look him up. His family history, you know. See if there was anything interesting to tell you."
"And. . . is there?"
"Almost nothing, alas. A name, a nickname, various numbers listed next to his name, the fact that he paid for his lodgings in English pounds, and he died at the age of 40."
"How oddly mundane," I say.
"Indeed."
"And you still haven't said how you were able to find out even that much. . . Look him up. . . where?"
"Why, in the largest and best preserved collection of historical records available in all of the Cold Islands, my dear. Upper Inverness is where most of this hemisphere sent whatever documentation they could salvage after WWIII. On the Skycities we might be known for our hospitals, but locally, we're far more famous for our libraries. There are over 40 official ones within city limits alone, and dozens more in private houses. And speaking of which. . ." He opens his mouth to continue, but doesn't for a long few seconds. When he finally resumes, even the forced cheer has drained from his tone, "No. . . no, I've gotten ahead of myself again. . ." He clears his throat, "Like I was saying earlier, I don't know exactly what you've been taught. . . so. . . Claire, will you forgive me if I ask you some. . . rather basic-sounding questions?"
I smile, ruefully remembering tea yesterday, "I'm hardly in a position to complain, am I?"
"Very well," he says, matter-of-factly, "Do you know what a Druid is?"
"I. . . believe so." My mind instantly begins to whir through every course on ancient history I can remember, "They were. . . mythic. . . tree-people? I think?"
"Mm, no - tree-worshipers, that's the common notion. But both are wrong."
"Oh?"
"Yes. They were actually ancient scientists." He glances over at me, I presume to make sure I'm following him. Which I am.
Mostly. . .
"And by "scientists" I assume you mean. . . magicians?"
Uncle smiles proudly, "Yes. That's what science seemed like then, of course. But if you look into the history of it, remarkably little of their practices were mere alchemical fol-de-rol. Nearly all of their rituals and traditions had some basis in the scientific method."
"And you know this, because?"
"Claire, there is nowhere quite as steeped in ancient traditions and attitudes as the highlands of Scotland, even here and now, a hundred and fifty years after "Scotland" ceased to exist. And in a place where so much of our history has been preserved. . . well. I am an anthropologist, after all."
My mind is frantically putting the pieces together.
"So. . ." I say, slowly, "Something - interesting, let's say - about these Druids, has been discovered here? And you, having been educated in one of the rarer sciences. . . came here to. . . research and study it? Is that why the Cold Island Council allowed you to stay here even though you aren't sick?"
He beams, and gives me a very satisfied smile, "I knew if I gave you enough clues you'd figure it out. Yes, that is where things started, although I only came into the project more than halfway through."
Our flight-path. . . no. . . drive-path? - now has us threading through some very rocky hills, filmed over with mist and grass and trees. Everything is an enchanting, dreamy grey and green, with flashes of red and yellow and purple, arched over with the brilliant pale blue of the sky, much clearer and cleaner here than on the Skycities.
Dreamy. . . yes. . . This is undoubtedly the place from my dream. It is forbidding, eerie, desolate and yet so full of a life I cannot understand. I press a hand against the cold barrier of the window glass, instinctively wanting to run out of the groundcar, and lose myself in the mist. The bright, sun-glowing edges of the fog show here and there between the hillsides, and the early-morning freshness hasn't left the air, even filtered as it is in here. . .
"The Council has had a team working with Craigh na Dun for nearly 70 years."
I blink hard a few times, and pull myself up short. He is explaining. In a round-about way and in his own time, but he is explaining. I mustn't get distracted.
"You've been here less than 30. . ."
He smiles. "Quite so. But the project didn't have any successes until I was brought in, so I think I've more than proved my worth to them."
Now we're getting somewhere. For the first time I feel like I can ask a question directly to the purpose.
"The Council has a project involving those standing stones you showed me?" Lamb nods. "What have these Druids to do with that?"
"Everything, my dear. You see, that is why I asked you if you knew what Druids were. Because a major part of the Council's project at Craigh na Dun stems from an investigation into the long purported - but never proven - Druidic practice of Human sacrifice."
I cannot say anything for several long seconds. I turn and stare at Lamb, all the questions I cannot ask filling my mouth until I cannot keep it closed any longer, though only a huff and a few strangled incredulous noises come out.
There's a twinkle in his eyes as he pats my hand that is now lock-gripped around the armrest, "No no. We aren't sacrificing people. And neither did the Druids."
I exhale gustily in relief.
"We're sending volunteers though time."
We're out of the hills now, and onto an uneven plain. The trees are sparser, and the ground a more varied range of golden browns and soft greens. Lamb slows the car, and pulls up into a paved lot near a long, low building faced with stone. It looks old, but not ancient.
If I had any brain-power left for curiosity, I'd wonder where we are.
"I'll be right back," Lamb says, slipping out of the car and striding into the clean, windswept building like he hasn't a care in world.
And for all I know, he hasn't. . .
He's only gone a minute or two, and when he returns, he hands me a little plastic clip. There's an earbud trailing from the edge of it, and one side of the clip is coated in a shiny metal foil.
Standard-issue museum tickets. The clip lets you through checkpoints, and monitors your progress so you don't get lost, and the earbud provides educational commentary whenever you ask for it. Schoolchildren on Skycity 15 regularly tour Core Engineering, and Navigation Control, and Central Farming, and several other places of note - I've seen tickets like these all my life.
But that doesn't tell me where we are. . .
I clip the ticket to my jacket lapel, and put in the earbud. I look directly at the low stone building and tap the bit of metal foil twice.
An overly chipper female voice speaks into my ear, "Welcome to the Culloden Battlefield memorial site and visitor center! Feel free to enjoy our many walking tours of historical points of interest! Indoors, you may browse a fascinating collection of artifacts from the site, and view a wide range of educational videos concerning the Jac-"
I pull the earbud out of my ear, and let it dangle across my coat. Distantly, I realize that normally I'd find a wire trailing over the front of my jacket to be incredibly annoying, but at the moment, my nerves are intensely preoccupied.
I look around a minute, and find a long pathway that seems relatively deserted. I grab Lamb's wrist, dragging him down it until we're at least 100 meters from anyone who might overhear.
Then I turn to him, confused and angry, and - I may as well admit it - scared.
"Am I completely crazy, or did you just tell me you're sending people though time?"
"No dear, you're not crazy." His expression is bland, his tone quite plain and conversational.
"Then. . . what. . . ?" Words fail me.
The plain is full of long grass, scrubby bushes, and flowers greying towards winter. The air is less sharply fresh than it is near Inverness Port, but the earthy, bright scent of soil and growing things still manages to penetrate the thick fog of confusion in my mind, and bring me some measure of peace.
"Rings of standing stones like Craigh na Dun have always been a mystery," Lamb says, speaking low but clearly, "No historian, archaeologist, anthropologist, or psychologist could ever adequately explain their existence. They were clearly Human constructions, sometimes they had graves in or around them, and sometimes they lined up with the seasonal positions of the sun or moon or stars with eerie accuracy, but none of those things told us much about the whys and wherefores."
He pauses a minute, then goes on, almost reverently, "That is, until WWIII. A detachment of Blackwing fighters were on a nighttime bombing raid, and several were shot down over Inverness. Five were known to have parachuted to safety. Only one man was ever recovered. He told the United Planetary forces who had captured him a most odd story. He said that he and his four companions were working their way towards Inverness to try and find some way back to the Independents base in Iceland. On the way, they came across Craigh na Dun - although, he simply called it a ring of stones, of course - and seeing shelter, or at least a windbreak, they made camp. And then, around dawn, he was on watch, and he heard a louder gust of wind than had been usual during that night, and there was a ringing, rolling clang - almost like a bolt of lightning, he said. For a few seconds he was afraid they were caught by some patrol, or shot at by a local farmer, but then he turned around, and his four companions were gone."
"Gone?"
"Yes. They had been sleeping cord-wood-style at the base of the large central pier - two with their heads near the stone, two with their feet near it."
"And they just. . . disappeared? There was never any trace of them found?"
"Well. . . not quite." He takes my arm, gently, and we begin to walk down the path together, deeper into the battlefield. "A little over 70 years ago, four men in fighter-pilot outfits walked into Inverness, and tried to steal a boat."
With some difficulty, I conjure up an image of a boat. It's flat and cartoonish - a distant memory from a children's picture book, I think.
"Why a boat?"
"The very question the authorities asked them. They said they needed to get to Iceland. That could only mean they came from a place that still had boats. A place where they were still practical conveyances over large distances. A place that had no idea that all coastlines were closed due to ocean-wide fallout-contamination, and had been for over 70 years by then. A place where Iceland was still habitable, and approachable by sea."
"A place. . ."
Lamb nods, "Or a time."
I digest this for a minute. "This was all confirmed?"
"As much as it could have been. The four men's stories tallied remarkably well with the captured Independents soldier, and after at least two dozen Intelligence officers interviewed him, and a myriad of our Protection officers interviewed the four, not one of them ever wavered from the essential points. Four of them went to sleep next to Craigh na Dun in 2133, the fifth one saw them disappear, and the same four of them woke up next to Craigh na Dun in 2204. That's their story, and every single one of them stuck to it."
"Incredible," I breathe.
"Indeed. But not quite as remarkable as what happened when we tried to send them back."
This is a fresh shock. "You tried to send them back?"
"Yes. Well, the project manager at the time did."
"So. . . what happened?"
"Nothing."
I blink, incredulous, "That's remarkable?"
"Considering that they said the stones were an inter-dimensional portal, yes, I'd say it's quite remarkable."
"Well, I don't see how."
"Don't you? Well, if you were going to tell a story about a place, and you got your friends to tell the same story, and you rehearsed it so well that it tallied in every essential way, not just with each other, but with the story a prisoner of war told seventy years beforehand - a story you could hardly be expected to know in the first place - then. . . why on earth would nothing happen at the end of it? Why go to all that trouble for no reason?"
"A prank? A practical joke?"
"We thought of that. Or, at least, my predecessor did. Her reasoning was that the point of this kind of prank is to put one over on the authorities - to be able to laugh at someone you normally wouldn't be allowed to laugh at."
"Makes sense."
"It does. And they never did."
"Never-"
"Laughed. She had their quarters bugged, their clothing wired, she put listening devices in every vehicle they were ever in, listened to hundreds of private conversations they had over the course of five years, and never, not once, did they laugh about their story. They were seventy years into the future, and all any of them felt about it was growing concern that they might never get back to 2133."
"That. . . does go a long way towards confirming the story."
"Quite. It also means that if the inter-dimensional portal existed, it must do so only under certain conditions."
"Well, yes."
"And that, my dear, means it isn't magic. It is science. As wild and as improbable as it sounds, there must be a way to replicate the correct conditions."
I smile at him, "Is that when they brought you in?"
"No, not yet. My predecessor was anything but a fool, and she figured a great deal of it out on her own. She researched the place, found out what it was called, conducted the first fifteen experiments, and in the process developed and refined those experiments."
"Without success."
"Without the desired result, my dear. There's quite a difference. But after ten years, yes, they needed a new approach. They tried several things, but didn't make much progress until one of the four travelers found a reference to Craigh na Dun in a book about Neo-paganism."
"Ah, so this is where the Druids come into it!" I laugh, "I was wondering when they would be relevant."
"Quite so. Well, the traveler found that in Neo-paganism, standing stones figured in several nighttime rituals that were thought to have developed from the original Pagans practice of Human sacrifices."
"And the project manager listened to him?"
"Oh, all four of them had joined the project by that point. And who could be better for the job? They all became citizens of Cold Island 12, married, had families. One of their granddaughters is on the Council now."
"So they never got back?"
"I haven't finished the story, my dear."
"Sorry."
He smiles softly at me, and continues, "The problem was - well, one of several problems - was that if a religion was involved with discovering the correct set of conditions to control - or even just open - the portal, then they needed to talk to a member of that religion. Probably several members."
"Don't tell me that's when they brought you in!"
Lamb smiles, wryly, "No. That's when they brought in Mrs. Graham's mother."
A great deal of my confusion suddenly evaporates.
"Ohhh. Well, that explains this morning, at least."
"Yes. We learned a lot from her. First and foremost we learned that Neo-pagans didn't practice Human sacrifices, because Pagans didn't either. . . but to a stranger's eye, they might occasionally appear to do so. And so it might appear, if a nighttime procession led a single chosen individual to a ring of stones, and performed a long and elaborate set of rituals that culminated in the chosen person disappearing with a thunderclap. But she knew that almost always, the chosen one was traveling voluntarily, and she knew several stories about said travelers. Who had survived. And come back."
"You mean she. . . they. . . knew how to use the time portal?"
"Ancient Pagans certainly did at some point. And she knew the basics of the rituals needed, even though she didn't know of anyone who had actually tried to travel through the stones. Some time in the distant past, the practice had fallen out of favour. Not surprising, really. But they had kept the rituals, even though they had developed and changed them throughout the centuries. Our team spent another ten years or so attempting to Travel, and they managed to get very close several times. Three different chosen travelers reported hearing things on the "other side" of the central, or "prime" stone, things that were definitely not happening at the current time! And six said they saw brief visions of the past or future while in contact with the prime stone. So clearly they were doing something right."
"But they still didn't succeed?"
"No, but we knew returning was possible. I say "we" of course, but I learned all of this later."
"Yes, I understand, but. . . why couldn't they go back to their own time? What was missing?"
Lamb gives a deliberately over-dramatic flourish and a bow, "Why, an anthropologist, of course!"
I grin indulgently at him, "Braggart."
His face sobers, but his eyes are still twinkling, "Oh no, not that. Never that, my dear. Because you see, that was when they decided to close down the project."
"But. . ."
"They sent the project notes out to five known anthropologists and three archaeologists on the Skycities, and closed down active research here. And you know, I can't blame them. It had been almost thirty years, and all they had was a few interesting prophetic visions to show for it! Well, that and four upstanding citizens, which, while far from nothing, wasn't exactly justifying the budget."
"So what did you do?"
"Well first, I threw out everything they thought they knew. Then I read every interview, historical reference, factual reference, and experiment summary available. All of which took a very long time, let me tell you. Much longer than it ought to have done, but then, I had another job at the time, which I did not neglect. But all the time and effort was quite worth it. Only after doing so could I venture to make an hypothesis."
"Which was?"
"That I needed to see Craigh na Dun for myself. Clearly, there were factors everyone had missed, and the only way to discover them would be to go there and see."
"Commence crazy time on Skycity 39," I say, sardonically.
"Yes," he says. And he still sounds far more proud of his ingenuity and daring than he does sorry about scaring eleven year old me.
The more I learn, the easier it's becoming to forgive him for that.
"The first thing I did when I got here was look up Mrs. Graham's mother, but the woman was dead by that time, poor soul. Fortunately, Mrs. Graham herself was in service at the manse, and more than willing to be my project consultant. It only took a week of local research and talking things over with her to discover one major flaw in every previous attempt too."
"Oh? And what was that?"
I have to admit, I'm deeply fascinated by all of this. The concept doesn't even seem crazy anymore.
"That every prospective traveler needed to be "scryed" - meaning have their future foretold by some sort of ritual means - palm reading is the classic method."
"But, surely. . . Mrs. Graham's mother knew how to do those things? Mrs. Graham knows how to do them, and her mother is the logical place for her to have learned."
"Oh yes, she knew how, but had always deemed a reading unnecessary, since "Everyone who has Traveled once is already among the Chosen.", as she said in the project notes. But as we discovered, that isn't always so. No, some people are destined to only Travel once, some can only Travel forward in time, some can only go backwards in time. Some can go back and forth multiple times, but cannot change history, some go back and forth and must change history, and so on. There are as many different ways to time travel as there are people. And apparently a scry beforehand "primes the fabric of the aura" and allows for a clean break in the space-time continuum."
He says this all lightly enough, but so matter-of-factly that despite everything, I begin to feel incredulous again.
"You don't actually believe in all this hocus-pocus, do you, Lamb?"
He pats the hand I still have resting in the crook of his elbow, "Oh no, dear. No. After all, what is there to believe in? I've seen it. It works. It's all unquestionably real. No faith needed." He looks at me very seriously, "I know it all seems like witchcraft, but it's actually the exact opposite. It's applied knowledge. Science, in fact."
We've reached the end of the path that leads through the main part of the battlefield. At this time of day, it seems there are very few people who want to make the whole trip around, and so we haven't met anyone during our walk.
I pick a faded wildflower, and drop it at the foot of the monument, where uncounted hundreds of others have done the same. There are two little piles of them next to the plaque, old, rotting flowers, colourless now, but still speaking aloud the power and meaning of this place. Now that Lamb has taken me into his confidence, there are fewer distractions in my mind, and I spend a moment contemplating where we are, and what I am actually seeing.
I remember studying the First Battle of Culloden in history class when I was little. I don't remember so well for any of the usual reasons, but because my teacher had made a point of noting that the clan headstones which marked each mass burial pit were merely superficial gestures. No one had sorted the bodies into clans before shoveling them into graves.
At nine, this made me furious.
Now, standing here, I'm glad it happened that way.
With grass and bushes and trees as far as the eye can see, under a wild sky, and the sweep of the wind, the very bones of the earth seem free. Organizing the families of men who had died here would only have imposed a jarring note of chains - of forged steel in a world of earth and grass, soft purple flowers and pearl-grey clouds in a shining blue sky.
Lamb is right. Humankind lost a lot when we decided that Earth could be conquered.
But we lost unfathomably more when we decided other Humans should be.
Lamb takes my arm again, gently, and steers me down another path away from the old stone memorial.
"The monument I really wanted you to see is down this way."
It takes a few minutes for us to get there. We don't speak.
The monument for the Second Battle of Culloden is nothing like the first. Granted, the battle that ended Scotland's Third War of Independence was nothing like the first battle of Culloden either, even though they both happened on the same ground.
Most notably, the second time around, Scotland won.
The blocks of old rusted iron are stacked in an open square some five or six meters across. There is an arched opening in each wall, and no roof. The names of those who died have been painted on the metal in clear, weatherproof resin. The untarnished, silvery surface still shows clean though each name. Name, after name, after name. While all around them is rust and decay, these shine bright, and unstained.
Free.
Irony of ironies then, that after centuries of fighting for the right to call itself its own country again, Scotland's victory in the second battle of Culloden kicked off the Second Revolutionary Period, which led to the Unity War, which in turn led to WWIII, at the end of which all countries were abolished, and the majority of the survivors fled to the skies to escape the nuclear destruction they had wrought upon themselves.
One generation's freedom is another generation's bondage, I suppose.
I turn away from the monument. I've had quite enough of war for one day.
"Thank you," I say sincerely, as we walk away, "I'm glad you showed me that."
Lamb smiles, but doesn't reply.
We're both silent on the long walk back to the car.
Chapter 13: Homeward Bound
Chapter Text
"You didn't finish the story."
We've been on the way back to town for at least a quarter of an hour already, and neither Lamb nor myself have been willing to break the somber spell the Culloden Battlefield cast over us. But eventually, my curiosity wins out.
"Where did I stop?" Lamb asks, still slightly abstracted.
"You had just discovered the importance of palm reading."
"Ah yes, the scrying."
Even so, he doesn't start talking again right away. The road he's chosen for our route home is a different one than we used to get to Culloden. The trees are thicker and taller along this path, with less underbrush. We're closer to the coastline too - between the stands of trees, I've caught an occasional far away glimpse of that haunting, impossible blue. At first I thought it was a distant misty hill, but the sun is too bright for any fog to settle, all the clouds too caught up in the late-morning breeze. Then Lamb opened the window glass, to let in the good air, and I caught the tang of salt in it, and realized what the blue thing was. I'm still not used to the changed color of it, so alive and alluring, even far away enough to be mistaken for a blue hill.
"Scrying, simple as it seems, was in fact the key - or rather one of several keys. It brought us success at once," Lamb says finally, with an inexplicable sigh.
"So you sent the four pilots back at last?"
"Not quite," he quirks a wry smile, "You see, by that point, only one wanted to go back, and even he was wary of us. Small blame to him - decades of an official government program hadn't brought him any nearer to returning home, and now a tiny independent group was telling him they had figured it out? I'd have been just as suspicious of us, to tell the truth. And we had changed the entire ritual by then, too. Originally, the selected Traveler just walked up to the central stone - no fanfare, no ceremony. The rest of the project team watched from wherever they had a good vantage point, recording systems were placed all throughout the stones, and no thought was given to the weather, the time of day, the season, or what state of mind any of the participants were in. Naturally, many of those things had already changed under my predecessor, but by the time Mrs. Graham and I had an updated ritual worked out, we could only attempt to send a Traveler during two three-week windows at opposite ends of the year - it had to be done at or near dawn - the weather must be clear and not too windy - the stone circle must be clean of everything but flowers and grass - the sun, the moon, and the Big Dipper must be in the sky - there must be a flowering or fruiting rowan tree growing within sight of the central stone - no less than seven trained ritual-dancers must perform the Firedawn rites - no observer was allowed within five paces of the stone ring - there could be no mechanical recording devices - and everyone, including the scryed Traveler, must be freshly bathed, dressed in natural fiber clothing, and carrying a token of focus or beauty."
My head is spinning, all of the requirements and details running together into noise. I can't keep the disbelief out of my voice, "But. . . why would all of that to-do even be necessary? The four people you knew for certain were time travelers managed to do so by accident. And they certainly weren't doing an elaborate song and dance routine to try and. . . bribe the Earth Goddess or whatever. So what's it all for?"
Lamb chuckles wryly, "We still don't know."
I gape at him, wide-eyed, "Not even the Druid people?"
"Them least of all."
"And you do it anyway?"
He shrugs, "If it works, why not? And it does. We have a 75% success rate now."
I sigh, bemusedly, "Alright. What happened to this justifiably wary fighter pilot?"
"Well, Mrs. Graham read his palm, we did our song and dance routine," here he grins at me for a second, "The sun came up, the wind blew. . . and he disappeared."
"That's all?"
"Yes, it did carry the flavour of an anti-climax about it at the time too. He was there, and then he wasn't. It hardly seemed worth it. We had made a man disappear! Cheap conjurors can do as much. But the feeling rapidly dissipated when we all realized we had in fact sent a man through time. Unlike sending a man to the moon, we were unable to send cameras with him, so a mere disappearance was all we could realistically hope to see. But we had finally done it. That was the main thing."
"Very satisfying for you."
"Yes," he says, thoughtfully, "It was. Until he reappeared two weeks later."
I laugh, feeling almost incapable of containing any more shock, "Does this story ever end, Lamb?"
"I am beginning to think it doesn't, my dear."
"Okay then. Why was he back?"
"Because he wanted to be. You see, he hadn't actually gone back to his own time, he had jumped another 70 years into the future."
"Oh."
Lamb smiles tightly, "Yes, that was our reaction. He said he had spent four months in 2321, couldn't stand it, and decided to come back to us, if he could. We could understand that part, but the reason he didn't go back in time completely baffled us. That was when we started refining the scrying methods - figuring out each prospective Traveler's destiny, signs of their probable time-traveling course, etc."
"So he came back. . ."
Lamb nods, sympathetically, "Yes, he lived out the rest of his life here, and never Traveled again. In the end, I think he was as happy as anyone could be who'd had his experiences of life."
"Did he tell you how he got back?"
"Yes, he did. Apparently it was a matter of walking up to the stone and letting it take him whenever it would."
"Without all the fancy-dancing?"
"Indeed."
I click my tongue, "I don't like it. It's inconsistent."
"Mm, that's what I used to think too. But it was a sample size of one then. We have a considerably larger sample size now."
"So now what do you think?"
"Now, I think there is definitely a pattern. A complex, intricate pattern, with many more conditional elements we haven't yet discovered."
"You mean there might be more requirements and things you have to do?"
"Yes. Because you see, he wasn't a fluke. Everyone who has come back through the stones since then, has told us they got into the future. Only the future. Never the past."
"Except when traveling back to you."
"Except when traveling back to us."
My mind is buzzing, dredging up all the statistics courses I've ever taken.
"How many people have you sent through?"
"Since adding the scry, we've successfully transported twenty-four individuals, but most of them have made more than one trip."
"Okay, then how many successful trips?"
"Just over sixty."
"Out of how many attempts?"
"Eighty-three."
"Is it always the same time interval they travel forward, or is it variable?"
"It is highly variable. Anywhere between ten years and three hundred years have been reported."
"How about the time they appear to be gone? The time that passes here between their leaving and returning. Is that variable too?"
"It is, but not by very much. They're almost always gone between ten and nineteen days."
"And have there been any anomalous trips?"
"Well. . ." he shrugs one shoulder, ruefully, "One."
"Lamb? What happened?"
"That's just it. Nothing. She never came back."
His voice is heartrendingly sad.
"Oh. . . Lamb. . ."
"She showed all the signs of being able to get into the past, not just some. Her scry, I mean. It was the first one to do so. And she was eager to try. But it's been three years, and she hasn't come back yet. We've all of us pretty much stopped hoping she ever will."
I know guilt and regret when I hear it. I also know how they tear at your insides, making a growing void you can never fill. I reach over and grip his shoulder for a second, just like he did mine on the trip out. I want to say it isn't his fault.
But I know it is.
Oh, not that a girl might be trapped, or dead, in a time or place such that she'll never be found. Not that she volunteered to go. And not that she hasn't come back. But that she was ever in danger of being lost like that in the first place. That's on him, and he knows it.
"Did. . . you. . ." he says, slowly, "Did you hear Mrs. Graham and me arguing this morning?"
"Partially, yes."
He nods, sadly, "You. . . your scry. . . shows all of the signs too."
A cold pit opens up in my stomach. And here I thought I was becoming immune to shock. . .
"Mrs. Graham wanted me to explain everything to you right there and then. I didn't want to do it at all. I've just found you again, my dear. . . the last bit of family I have. . . I can't lose you too. . ."
He grips the steering yoke hard, his knuckles whitening.
I've got my breath back, but the cold adrenaline is still coursing through me. It makes my next words sound much harsher than I mean them to be.
"What makes you think I want to time travel, Lamb?"
"Well, I. . ." he gives me a double take, "I thought. . . but of course, I shouldn't have assumed. Feel free to disregard the fears of an old man, then."
"But regarding them is exactly what I am doing."
He gives me a stern look, "Claire?"
I do my best to match his tone, "Lamb? Think about it for a minute. I know what it's like to lose someone you care about to sudden and unfortunate circumstance - more than once, in fact."
He flushes a dark, forbidding red. "Of course. My apologies, dear. Of course you know. . ."
"Which is why, Uncle," I say, emphasizing every word, "I am the least likely person to deliberately subject you to another such loss."
The expression he turns to me now is strange. Thankful, but disappointed. Contemplative, but at a loss.
"I'd been hoping for years we'd find another one who might be able to. . . and now. . . it's you. . ."
"Lamb, why is getting into the past so important?"
"Because in the past we might CHANGE things!" he explodes, pounding the dashboard mercilessly with one fist, while the other has a death grip on the steering yoke.
The car swerves sharply. He calms at once, steadying the vehicle.
"I'm sorry dear. But living here. . . seeing how the Earth used to be. . . what once might have belonged to everyone, not just a chosen few. . . Clean water. Clean air. Trees. Animals. Flowers. Ground that isn't scorched and poisoned. Food that doesn't have to be processed to hell and back before it contains the proper level of nutrients. Pure colors and healing light. And all the while. . . knowing. . . knowing that we. . . we made the choice to destroy it all. And for what? Nothing, in the end. We chose senseless oblivion! If there's a chance, just ONE chance. . ." he breaks off, and swallows hard a few times.
"But you're right, of course," his tone is so mournfully sardonic it scarcely sounds like him anymore, "The government didn't reinstate the project just because there's a chance we might prevent nuclear Armageddon. That's my dream. They did it because that first pilot who came back brought a highly advanced bit of radio technology with him. And the Council saw a chance to finally compete with the Skycities in terms of technology production. And trade deals."
His bitterness is intensely palpable. I put on as much halfhearted cheer as I can muster. "Well, you know what they say. Capitalism is a hell of a drug."
"Yes." He sighs, visibly shrugs off the great depressive mood that's come over him, and forces a dreary smile. "It hasn't been all bad, of course. Few things ever are, really. Nine years ago one of the Travelers brought back a device that could suspend AR gel in a force-field grid, while harvesting the free energy to maintain the field generator. Somehow he managed to convince the Council that just reverse-engineering it and selling it to the Skycities would be a waste of its potential. I don't know if you noticed flying in, but we've reclaimed hundreds of square miles of open ocean with it."
I smile, remembering, and say softly, "Yes, I noticed. That's too tame a word, but, I noticed."
"We've reintroduced fifteen species of scaled fish, eight sea plants, three bottom feeders, and two mollusks. All of them seem to be thriving. We've even opened a pearl fishery, of all things."
"That's far and away more than I ever thought would happen in my lifetime. . ."
"Well, it's not saving the world, but. . . it's something."
"It's saving part of the world. That's pretty amazing, if you ask me."
He doesn't respond, but eventually, his grip on the steering yoke relaxes slightly, his knuckles no longer white.
The trees along this stretch are taller and darker-skinned than those I've seen so far today. They also seem to grow in more orderly rows than the normal forest does, and strangely, every so often, we pass a large rectangle full of nothing but tiny saplings, all a meter tall or less. There is no undergrowth at all through here, the ground is cleanly swept, and all the full-grown trees have their branches trimmed up so high they seem less like giant plants and more like the great structural piers that support a Skycity Core.
Nothing about this stretch of forest feels like the natural wildness I've so quickly come to expect from Cold Island 12. No, this feels more like a. . . farm.
And then, we pass a roped-off section where half the trees have been cut down, their long columns stacked off to the side, and there are half a dozen men, busily cutting down more.
"No!" I shout, aghast, "What are they doing?" I twist in my seat, unable to look away from the horrible scene until it disappears behind a curve in the road. Then I whirl back to stare my dismay at Lamb.
He glances back at me, slightly bewildered, "It looked like they were clearing a tract that's ready to be sent to the sawmill. What's wrong with that?"
"Why. . . they. . . I mean. . ." I'm incoherent with rage, sorrow and confusion, "Why are they cutting down the trees?"
Lamb shrugs, indifferent, "For planks, boards and other construction lumber, for firewood, paper, animal bedding - there's all manner of things trees are used for."
"Oh. . . I. . . didn't know that meant cutting down the big ones. . ."
"Only the ones growing on tree-farm land. Except for the few wild ones that must be cut to maintain a healthy forest, of course."
My sudden panic eases, "I thought it looked like a farm though here."
"Yes, quite. They only grow a special fast-growing hybrid tree. . . I don't know what it's called, actually. . . And here's the mill itself."
Two great cubical buildings heave into view, one on either side of the narrow road, both sheathed in metal siding, and painted stark white. A slender bridge of some kind, attended by a myriad of pipes of all sizes joins the two buildings halfway up - at least five meters above the roadway. The twin yards are stacked with piles upon piles of sawn planks, heaps of scrap and sawdust, and everywhere there are cars on dedicated tracks that crisscross the shared enclosure. The smell is sharp and antiseptic, mingled with the grease and hot metal of well-used machinery. A dozen or so men labor in the yards, loading up cars, shoveling scrap, manoeuvring loads of raw logs.
All this I absorb in the few seconds it takes us to pass by, and one more thing too - a sign at the far end of the right-hand yard, painted a sullen yellow and green, neatly, but somewhat faded and peeling now, reading, "Cocknammon Sawmill & Lumberyard".
It all seems regular and innocent enough - a factory for wooden boards, what could be so bad about that? - but something about the place strikes me as impossibly evil, though I don't know why.
"What a terrible place," I say, unable to shake off the feeling, and unwilling to let it go unremarked upon.
"Well, it's a much better place now than it used to be, my dear."
I wind my arms around myself to keep from shivering. The wind is cold through the open windows, and though the sun is bright, it has only a wintry force behind it.
"What did it used to be? An abattoir?"
Lamb looks uncharacteristically grim, "For souls, maybe. The buildings used to be the main checkpoint along this road during the British Cold War, occupied - or should I say laired in - by a squad of Her Majesty's Peace Agents. Peace!" He laughs at the word, hard and humourlessly, "They rounded up anyone and everyone they thought might be of English or other foreign descent and deported them. They issued arrest warrants for all manner of people, and punished them without trial - or a bare show of it, which was worse - and generally went about the countryside stealing, wreaking havoc, and beating people up, innocent or not, helpless or not, legitimate Scot or not."
I don't wonder I felt residual evil from the place, but. . . "I don't understand. Why would they do such things?"
"It is not for us common folk to understand the forms that systemic revenge can take."
Now that's a word I didn't expect. "Revenge? But I thought Queen Victoria wanted Scotland to be independent. She wanted every part of the United Kingdom to be independent, even the territories. That's why the British Cold War even happened to begin with, right? In Scotland, it was the Clan Lairds that pushed things to the point of battle. . . wasn't it?"
Lamb sighs, "They say history is written by the victors, but that isn't always the case, my dear. And sometimes, it's difficult to know who the victors even were."
"But. . ."
"Listen, on the Skycities we still use the terms "Third Scottish War of Independence" and "British Cold War" interchangeably, don't we? Like one was just another part of the other?"
"Y-yes. We do."
"Well the war in Scotland was anything but cold. In Wales? Or Jersey? Or Gibraltar? In those places, the dissolution of the United Kingdom happened without bloodshed. Slowly, sometimes. Bitterly, quite often. But not bloodily. Here, on the other hand, well. . . here, only Sassenachs ever call it the "British Cold War", for very good reasons. You might as well sit down in a pub today in Glasgow and say loudly just how much you love it here in England. They'll punch you in the face and throw you out as fast as look at you."
I look about me at the soft, muted colors of late autumn, and the sunny, mild sky, and imagine the ancient cruelties, done by people I don't know, to a country I've never seen before, during a time I was powerless to stop.
"Lamb?"
"Yes, dear?"
"Is that sort of thing. . . the Peace Agents abusing their power, I mean - is that. . . what you hope to send people back in time to prevent?"
A look of inexpressible longing spreads over his face, and I know his answer before he says it.
"Yes. Improve the past to improve the future. I don't mean changing anything grand, or doing anything self-sacrificially heroic, and I certainly don't expect any time traveler to risk their lives for something they aren't certain they're completely committed to, but. . . well. Any reduction of evil has to be an improvement."
"That being the case. . ." I look at this newfound bit of family of mine, and try to say my next words as gently as I can, "Don't you think. . . I. . . we. . . should re-think whether or not I should. . . try and. . . well, try?"
He presses his lips together, and doesn't say anything as he steers the car smoothly into the yard of the manse. He hands me courteously out of the car, into the house, and down the hallway to the kitchen before responding.
"You'll need to observe a ritual first - before participating as a. . . possible traveler. It's procedure."
I nod, afraid to interrupt.
"Tomorrow night is Samhain - the opening night of our second three-week window for this year."
I sit down at the kitchen table, and he bustles about, cobbling together a lunch of this and that, artlessly uncaring about flavour pairings or presentation.
He pauses before handing me a thoroughly indescribable sandwich, and a tall glass of cold milk.
"I'll. . . tell Mrs. Graham. She'll make sure you're ready."
I sip at the milk, wondering if, in context, "ready" is even possible. . .
Chapter 14: The Lass That Is Gone
Chapter Text
The rest of that day and most of the next pass in a blur.
Years later, I can look back and remember that after coming home from Culloden, I met a small herd of adorable Highland cows, pastured alongside Mrs. Graham's three prize nanny goats, and that right before tea Mr. Graham showed me the vegetable garden and greenhouse, and let me pick a tomato. The next morning, I can recall that Uncle Lamb explained orange marmalade at breakfast, and then spent much of the forenoon introducing me to the seemingly endless parade of people making deliveries to the manse that day. A boy from the fishmonger's shop, a man from the butcher shop, two young women from the grocer's shop, a man with parts for the groundcars, a girl delivering mail, an older woman delivering clean laundry - I can remember all their names and faces now, but at the time, there were so many of them, and so many new experiences for me, that by sundown of my third day on Cold Island 12, I'm afraid I could remember little of any of it except some bright colors, vague shapes, and cheery, accented voices.
I do know that tea this afternoon was hasty and plain, but plentiful and substantial. Apparently we won't be having supper.
"Weel then, come along and we'll get you bathed and prepared to see the Firedawn Dance, dearie," says Mrs. Graham, as soon as the meal is over, "You'd best go to bed as soon as possible too - getting up two hours before dawn is no joke - if you don't get your sleep in, ye'll be knackered the rest of the day."
She hustles me upstairs and into my bedroom before I've gathered the energy or wit to reply. I go over to my bed, noticing some new things there. A plain white linen gown is laid out, next to some freshly washed underclothes and a floor-length hooded green cloak. A pair of soft leather slippers and a small close-knitted bag of raw, unbleached wool sit nearby on the bedside table.
"Ritual clothes, dearie," says Mrs. Graham, noticing my interest, "You must only put them on right before we leave. First we need to find you a token, and then I'll draw your bath."
"Lamb did mention something about a token," I say, "But I confess I didn't ask anything more specific about it. There were. . . a lot of other questions that needed to be asked first, if you know what I mean."
"That I do dearie. Your token must be something that is either beautiful, or makes you think of something beautiful," she picks up the little drawstring bag for a moment, then puts it back on the table, smoothing it flat, "I have a carved piece of quahog shell my Grandfather said was made in America before the Unity War, Lamb carries a little illustrated pocket edition of Just So Stories with gilded edges, I know several of the girls carry rings, and sometimes necklaces or other jewelry, and most of the young men have either a pocketknife, or a picture of their sweethearts." She smiles indulgently, "But yours doesn't have to be any of those things. It just has to be something you like looking at, or thinking about."
I wander about the room, picking up one thing and another, considering each momentarily before putting it back down. "What exactly are these tokens for, Mrs. Graham?"
"For focusing the aura," she says, without a single trace of sarcasm, "Any type of Fire dance draws up a lot of ley power, of course, but a Firedawn ritual releases stellar, solar and lunar vibrations in addition to that. Bringing a dissipate soul into such a convergence of energies would be most unhealthy, not to mention dangerous to the rest of us."
I blink. I understood most of those words, but I caught almost none of their meaning. I decide not to ask.
"Alright," I say instead, "Can this thing be of any size?"
"You must be able to carry it," she says, "That's the only requirement."
I look around the room again. There are plenty of beautiful things. A carved wooden box full of fragrant dried rose petals. A small pottery bowl glazed in a smooth, matte black, and a deep, rich green. A slender beeswax candle in burgundy and gold stripes. A tiny pillow made of a thick, silvery-grey cloth I have learned is called "velvet". A wafer-thin slice of an amethyst geode bigger than my palm that I only discovered yesterday, and instantly fell in love with.
But none of them seem right. They're pretty things, but all toys. Nothing real. Nothing mine.
If this is about focus, or attachment, or. . . well, meaning, then, something new isn't going to work. In fact, there's only one possible option.
I go over to one of the room's large cupboards, and root around until I find the bag I brought with me. My mother's old steel bottle with chipped enamel is sitting on top of my spare pair of boots. I lift it, and hold it out to show Mrs. Graham.
"Will this do?"
She smiles, and gently takes it from me.
"Admirably," she says. She slips it into the knitted bag, and pulls the drawstring tight over it. It just fits.
"Perfect," she says, smiling, "Now, let's get you bathed."
"Oh, yes," I say, eagerly, "I've been wondering where your steamshowers are."
"Steamshowers?" she asks over her shoulder as she leads me into the closet room, "Why would you bathe with- Oh! You mean sanitizing chambers? We have two downstairs, but we only wash dishes and clothes in them. You could clean yourself in one, I suppose - now that I think of it, there is a stetting for that and all - and you'd certainly get rid of any germs that way! But none of us here bathe like that."
"But then, how. . ."
I break off, for she has reached the large vat on the expanse of white tile that dominates that side of the long room. There are three small buttons on the wall - a pale blue one, a white one, and an orange one. She pushes the orange one, and at once, clear, steaming hot water cascades out from a recessed opening in the side of the vat.
No. . . the tub.
The bath tub.
I've read of such things, of course, but not even in Central Township did we. . .
"Your house has running water?" I gasp, incredulous.
"Oh, yes," she smiles, as though this is nothing, "This house is over three-hundred years old, dearie. All homes were built with water plumbing then."
"But. . ."
"We're only allowed to turn it on two days a week, and the residents are limited to one full tub each on those days, but that's more than enough to keep us all clean, and with sponge baths in between, we make do, dearie, we make do."
I advance to the side of the tub, watching the swirling water and breathing in the soft steam, "You do considerably more than that, I think, Mrs. Graham."
She smiles, but doesn't reply, instead collecting two small bottles, one palm-sized coloured brick, and one small and two large cloths from the shelves and dressing table along the wall, and hands them all to me.
At my wildly confused stare, she takes pity on me, pointing to and naming each thing.
"Hair soap, face soap, body soap, wash cloth, and towels."
"Thank you," I say, averting my eyes with embarrassment, "We don't have things like this on the Skycities, I'm afraid."
Mrs. Graham blinks, and starts back, unbelieving, "Soap?"
"Oh, no," I laugh, "We have soap, it just isn't like this."
"Towels?"
"When you bathe with steam, you don't need towels."
"Oh, aye?" she sounds only mildly curious, "Well, I'll leave you to your bath, dearie."
She pushes the white button, and the water stops. She pats my shoulder as she leaves. I watch her out, and then, for the first time in my life, I submerge my whole body in hot water.
It's like nothing I've ever done, or even imagined before. Not the peace of skysurfing, nor the refreshment of putting on newly clean, warm clothes can compare with it. Even Frank, and all my memories of the whispered words and liquid heat of making love with him, somehow pale in comparison to this present pleasure.
I wait for the cold, yawning emptiness that Frank's memory always conjures in me, but for the first time in the nearly five years since he died, it doesn't happen. I wait again, and shiver out of pure habit, for the icy void in my heart still does not appear.
I rinse away the gritty soapsuds of the face cleanser, a glow in my chest where before there was only loneliness and bereavement.
A bath?
A bath is all it takes to heal my sorrow?
Impossible.
No. No, it must be the past three days. So much has happened, I have learned so much about so many things - is it any wonder I currently have no room for the grief that was previously my only companion? I'm merely distracted at the moment.
I pause in the middle of opening the second bottle of soap. Suddenly the spell of magic and mystery that has covered the last few days falls away, and I see clearly what a fool I've been.
Distracted? Yes, by an old man's fancies and an old woman's conjuring tricks!
And, to be brutally honest, distracted by the notion that I might be some sort of special chosen one who can save the world with time travel!
Time travel indeed!
I feel deeply ashamed of myself. What an idiot I've been! Lamb is mad. Must be. Mad as a hatter on acid, always has been, and I just didn't notice. When have I ever seen a madman, after all? How am I to know what one looks like? Oh, he's harmless enough, but mad. Mad clear through. And Mrs. Graham must enable his delusions because he lets her work her witchcraft and doesn't complain about things. That whole story he span out for me - bosh, from beginning to end, of course. And I swallowed it, like a green child who has never seen a dove appear out of a hat, or a street magician pick the card you chose.
I sigh, and massage the liquid soap into my hair.
I'll watch this ritual tonight - and no doubt Uncle has built it up to some fantastical degree, very likely it is only some Neo-pagan light show - and in a few weeks, I'll leave, home to Skycity 15, no harm done. Besides a bruised pride, of course, but I can deal with that.
Then I can go back to mourning my husband in peace.
I scrub and rinse all over, then step out to dry off. I've never been so drippy after bathing before. I pat myself inexpertly with the towels, longing for a hot-air drying stall. The floor-length mirrors reflect the long horizontal lines of the shelves on the opposite wall, looking from my vantage point like the construction guidelines drawn when plotting out a picture in one-point perspective.
I take a fresh towel from the table, and wrap my hair in it. I've had quite enough of one perspective. Time to get back to the real world.
With a sigh, I go back to the main room. I survey the clothes laid out for tonight and shrug. It can't hurt to go along with it one last time, can it? No need to spoil their fun, even if it is at my expense.
Suddenly, I am desperately sleepy. I push between the covers without even bothering to unwrap my hair.
The dim warmth of the room draws me forth. I rise and hover over the bed, to answer someone who has called my name. I stand near the window, looking out, looking back, looking forward.
I know I am dreaming when Frank comes to me, cradling my face in his slender, artist's hands that were never given the opportunity for anything but hard labour, and his thumbs brush the sides of my mouth, just like he always used to do.
"Come back to me," he whispers, "Go, so you can come back to me."
He dissolves away outward, and I whirl around. I must find him, go to him. My husband, my love, my loss. . . I thrash about, running without going anywhere, struggling against the bonds of time and space.
A hand emerges from the aether and steadies me. Pulls me toward itself. . . himself. A new man is revealed. Taller, broader than Frank, his hand thicker and coarser, infinitely suited to hard labour, and content to make his living doing so, as Frank never was. I catch a glimpse of electric blue eyes before he roughly pulls my mouth to his, husking one word before he kisses me like I've never been kissed.
"Claire!"
In three seconds I belong to him more then I've ever belonged to anyone. A fiery, tumultuous longing blooms in my belly.
Who are you? I want to ask, but I am mute. Where are you?
I pull away from him so I can continue my search.
"Claire!"
I know I am dreaming, but nothing in my life has ever been more real.
"Claire, dearie!"
I open my eyes to a gently smiling, and very un-dreamlike Mrs. Graham.
"It's time to get ready!" She turns on the lamp at the bedside table, "I'll leave you to get dressed."
And then she's gone again.
I sigh. The dream is gone with her, and all that's left is this sham of a time-travel ritual. Too late to turn back, though. I get up, and begin to put on the laid-out clothes.
What an idiot I am! To dream of men, especially Frank, here, and now of all times!
Frank is dead, and there is no one else out there I want to marry.
Although, oddly, I still don't feel my usual chill of loss when I think of Frank, and I do still feel the warm bloom of desire in my stomach from kissing that strange unknown. . .
I shake myself. Get back on track, Beauchamp! Clothes! Phony ritual! Then you can enjoy the rest of your time here with no more mythic gobbledygook!
Yes. And then?
I settle the long cloak around my shoulders, and pick up the knitted bag with my enamel bottle in it.
"And then," I say quietly to myself, "You go home. . . and do whatever it takes to find a job that'll get you out of that awful tent."
I nod. I'm as ready as I'll ever be.
Uncle and Mrs. Graham are waiting for me in the kitchen. She looks unexpectedly modern, frumpy, and out of place in the long lines of her cool linen dress and warm woolen robe. Almost as though the everyday Mrs. Graham herself is the costume, and she has not yet made her crucial transformation. And then, equally unexpectedly, Uncle has the air of an ancient sage about him, not because of the clothes, only accentuated by them. Something in the tilt of his head, the set of his mouth, how he moves while escorting me to the door, suggests a full-fledged Merlin, hawk-eyed and triumphant at the height of his power, and in full control of an entire kingdom of lesser men.
Outside the manse, there is a small crowd of people waiting for us. In the flickering light of two flaming torches, I see faces - some old, some young, most somewhere in the middle. The cloaks and low light obscure gender, but many varied heights are represented, some taller than even Uncle, and one or two so small I wonder if there are children in this procession. Everyone is silent, somber, dressed alike in white and dark green. Someone hands Uncle one of the torches, and he slowly waves it, pronouncing while he does so a few long, strange words, in a language I don't know.
I don't ask for a translation. Neither does anyone else.
Then we all begin walking, toward the hill of Craigh na Dun. I'm unsure of the way, exactly, but I'm not worried. Everyone else knows.
For a few minutes there is no sound but the rustle of our feet in the grass, but then, starting in time with our footsteps, and so softly I almost can't hear it, the slow rolling beat of drums rise up around us.
It rolls up, higher, louder, but not faster, setting our pace, easy and free, but steady, primal.
And then the flutes begin.
The high, sweet piping is breathy and piercingly sad, drawing down the gleam of the stars upon a still, moonless night.
This music calls out my soul with reproach - this is no mere empty show, not some shabby conjuror's trick. It is the timeless sound of long ago, a paean that cries aloud to the clumsy, crude world outside, that things of infinity and true importance still exist.
It would be the song of lovers, save for its haunting call to action.
The pace set is slow, but constant, and it brings us within sight of the hill in good time. We foregather under a rowan tree - shown in the ruddy, flickering torchlight as nothing more than a lace canopy of golden strands above us. Uncle gestures wordlessly to the group about him, and they all know what they must do. Without stopping their playing, the musicians trail out, and around, until they form an enormous circle surrounding the hill at many paces. Those that have remained here under the rowan have produced small brass bowls suspended along their rims by long chains. One by one, they each present their dish to my uncle, who puts a handful of something in it, and touches it with the torch. Small steady flames leap up from each dish as he does so. Each woman holds her dish by the chains, so that the flames swing freely, some distance from their bodies, and close to the ground.
He gestures them forward, and two by two they begin to approach the stone-crowned hill.
I didn't notice when the first torch had been extinguished, but now Uncle smothers the second in a small pile of sand, plunging the entire glade into an indigo, starlit gloom.
His hand takes my arm as we follow them for a little ways, and then he holds me back. I can hear the nearest drummer, away off to my left, and the nearest whistling piper, a little further to my right.
While they are still en route to the floor of Craigh na Dun, the moon rises, and lit by that pale silver sickle in the Southern sky, we see seven fire dancers, and one lone shadow without a flame, slowly climb to their places.
A single high, piping flute rises out of the dark, both shrill and sweet, incisive and demanding.
Then all at once, patterns of fire erupt all around and in between the stones. Silhouettes of the women dancing can hardly be seen, so fast and so intricate is the dance. The pace of the flutes quickens, followed by the beat and roll of the drums. The flames flash, the white-robed dancers move as sure as ocean waves, and the patterns of fire leave lines of blue in my eyes.
Only once do the flames blaze bright enough to illuminate a face. A single glimpse only, but that is all I need.
It is a face I know, and yet. . . it is also the face of a stranger.
The white lines of her dress fit her now - she has thrown off this world, and become Chaos, Mother of Time.
For this is the true Mrs. Graham revealed - an ancient, ageless wise woman, clear-eyed and kindly in her intent, fell-handed and remorseless in her execution. Never, save at the last exigency of need, would she proclaim a malediction, but to once fall under that curse would be annihilation, no question.
Slowly, inexorably, I fall back into enchantment. Here are the breath and bones of a race and time so ancient they can be measured in the lives of stars. Here is the full power of dominion over creation made manifest by God Himself.
Time?
What is time?
No more than depth, no more than height, no more than width.
A portal in time is no more than a door, if you know how to open it.
The obscuring layers of science and history fall away, and the lines of power and light gleam though the dark, like the blood and soul of the universe. The moon and stars are drawn down, so close to this world they lend their voices to the keening flutes, so near to hand they might be touched, if only you knew how.
The tiny whirling flames draw into a new pattern, and the small flameless shadow rises to the center of the circle, even as the leader of the Dance comes forward. In a feat of timing only a little less than a solar eclipse, this lead dancer who used to be Mrs. Graham lifts her fire dish in triumphant salute, just as the sun breaches the rim of hills, and ignites the circle of stones with burning, celestial gems.
A breathtaking current of power strikes the music dumb.
In the vibrating hush, the nameless chosen one comes forward, walking down the infinite shadow the new sun casts from the tall central stone. She raises her palms, submissive, not defiant, and reverently presses her hands against the slim wall of rock.
And nothing happens.
For a few seconds, no one quite understands or believes it.
Then, as one, we all inhale, in shock and disappointment.
The spell of power dissolves, subsumed into the bones of the Earth and retreated across the vastness of space again, waiting to be called forth once more when the time is right.
A gently murmuring crowd of dancers and musicians gather over by the magnificent rowan tree, now revealed to be alive with a rampant crop of red berries. A few of the golden moths I saw my first night here flutter about in shock at the new sunlight, then retreat again to roost until sundown.
I feel I have no place among the discussion here, with my uncle quizzing each individual about things I cannot understand, and everyone else milling about, wondering wildly what went wrong.
I look about me, and find I do want a closer look at the ring of stones, at least.
The air is cool, and sweet with the scents of morning. The dew is still all over the grass and stones at the crown of the hill. Perhaps the day will be clear enough to warm the damp away, but it is so late in the year that I doubt it. I turn my back to the newly risen sun, and look away off into the hills to the West. The blue mists of early morning still lie between the branches of the trees, like a wispy nightgown. The pale clumps of stone outcrops echo the few knots of puffy clouds in the sky.
So it all was just a light show after all. Just a display put on for a visitor.
No, not just that. There had been power in that dance and in that music. The girl who had raised her hands to the stone had clearly been expecting something to happen that didn't happen.
The consternation I can hear in my uncle's voice, even from over here, is very real.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a tiny silver flash in the pale blue Western sky.
I smile. There are few celestial bodies I know much about, but this is Venus, the Star of Morning. Frank's favourite planet. He always said that if we could only muster the will to attempt it, the Human race might go there, and survive, thanks to our Skycity technology, which might easily be modified into Venusian cloud-cities.
It was nothing but a dream, but I let him dream it.
That tiny twinkling silver flame will never know the presence of Humanity. Thank God.
As I turn to go back down the hill, I step into the long shadow of the central stone, to save my eyes the sun's too-bright glare. A wind has picked up, and I shiver a little in the sudden chill. It pushes away the low murmuring sound of the discussions still going on near the rowan tree. Save for the smooth brushing sweep of the wind, there is silence in the stone circle.
What, I wonder, would it actually be like? To rend lose from the bonds of time and drop through dimensions unknown to man?
What if it were possible?
What if it was not just a dream?
I pace slowly closer to that imposing wall of stone.
What if. . . time travel was real?
A low, keening call seems to come from the rock itself, ringing as the wind whistles past.
In a trance, I raise my hands, moving ever closer to the rough rectangle, haloed about with the golden glory of the morning sun.
It couldn't possibly be wrong to try, could it?
The breeze roars in my ears, the ringing of the stones pounding in my head, louder and more powerful than the drums.
The last thing I hear is Lamb, shouting over the wind, "Claire, no!"
But he is too late. Fate has its hold on me.
My fingers touch the grey, unyielding surface.
A great bell clangs, and black aether itself opens up before my eyes, and swallows me whole.
Chapter 15: The Fall
Chapter Text
For a moment I think I have been struck by lightning.
And then I know it's worse. I have entered a world of lightning.
The air is sharp and acid on my tongue, the sky a void of black, but the rest of existence is a crackling mass of blue-white gouts of flame, spiking jaggedly all around, for as far as I can see.
I don't know if I'm falling or floating, but there is no ground, only lines that burn, great rivers of electric power, clapping, crashing, exploding.
I'm definitely falling.
A blade of white strikes straight though my heart, and I am vaporized, rent apart, made into tiny particles projected across the boundless nothing of space, just as surely as the endlessly boiling skin of a star.
I am too small to contain the scream that tears from my throat.
I fall as dew, as a meteor, as dusk, as colliding planets.
I fall between now and forever, for as long as dream, and as brief as eternity.
I fall. . .
I fall. . .
I fall. . .
My soul echoes to itself, and I plummet yet again.
I open my eyes into the blinding glare of sunlight, and collapse onto my hands and knees. There is grass. There is soil. There is light.
That is all I know for quite some time.
Then, I begin to know that I am breathing, that I am wearing clothes, that the sun is warm and the ground is cold. My vision slowly clears, and I can see that I am in a glade. A wide ring of stones atop a small hill, in the midst of an expanse of grassy fields, and trees, and open sky. Gingerly, I stand, only gradually trusting my feet to carry my weight. For an instant I move too fast, and stumble back a step. I would have fallen, but a wall of rock supports me.
Wildly, I look up at the roughly rectangular shape of it.
It is only then that I know.
I am on the other side of the central pillar of Craigh na Dun, with nothing but the clothes I wear, and no idea when in all of history I am. I have Traveled.
Traveled though time.
I cry out with the impossibility of it. With the hard, cold reality of it.
I wrench myself upright, and spin around, placing my hands on the stone.
Nothing happens.
I run around to the other side, and try again.
Nothing happens again.
Stranded!
And worse, stranded by my own thoughtlessly enthralled curiosity.
Stupid!
A cold wind, heavy with the scent of leaf-mould, sweeps through the ring of stones. It smells like the wind did around the manse yesterday. I have only been on Cold Island 12 three days, but I have at least learned that this is a seasonal odour. I consider. It is still morning, it is still late fall, it is still planet Earth. Inverness - or at least where Inverness should be - is within walking distance. Whether I am in the future or the past, no matter how distant from my own time, I can work to fit in, and find a way to deal with whatever comes.
After all, I'm not going to roll into town and try to steal a boat, am I?
I've heard this story - I can figure out what to do.
Survival is possible. Even going back is possible. Common, to hear Lamb tell it.
To have ever doubted him seems foolish now.
But either way, survival comes first.
I tread carefully down the hill - more carefully than I went up, alas! - and look about me to see how much is different, what is still the same, and what can be learned from those things.
There is no fruiting rowan tree anywhere in sight, nor is the sickle moon visible. There are several long, thin lines of cloud in the sky, however. I only know of two things that make such skytrails, meaning that either the mid-atmosphere satellite grid the Skycity Council keeps idly promising to build finally did get built, or, jet-powered flight is common here.
So I know I am in a time where technology has at least advanced to airplanes. That means I can count on the existence of antibiotics and toilet tissue, thank heaven. I don't think I could live in a past - if this is the past - where plants can be listed according to how comfortable they are to wipe with.
"Thimbleberry, mullein, corn husk and aster," I say in a faint sing-song, "They're the best when your a-"
I stop, laughing a little at myself. This is not the time to be remembering Professor Shannon, nor her tendency to turn the day's botany lesson into a dirty poem.
The grass here seems just as overgrown as I've always seen it, and the sky is the same deep, clear blue. That means that I am probably either in the future, or some time before the Unity War. Scotland became a Cold Island because its early adoption of a NETT grid - the predecessor of our modern Safnet systems - blocked the majority of the nuclear bombardment the North Atlantic region suffered during the Unity War and WWIII. One minor drawback, however, was that they changed the refraction angle for solar light - thus turning the sky green for most of the day. Harmless, but distinctive. A much worse drawback was that in addition to nuclear radiation, the first generation of NETT grids blocked so much UV and infrared light that they inhibited healthy plant growth. For a good twenty years or so, starting during the Unity War, the sky would not have been this blue, and the grass and trees here would hardly have been this lush. In fact, I happen to know the Light Famine damage took a long while to correct - until 20 years after WWIII, at least.
So, I am either after those problems were corrected, or before the technology had been installed in the first place.
But can the lack of a rowan tree be put down to the Light Famine, or have I merely arrived beyond either end of the lifespan of that one tree? It had been large, and very beautiful - I'd estimate at least 70 years old. So, it might be possible for me to be in the past, between approximately 2150 and 2200. . . but then, why those long, thin lines of clouds that span the entire sky? By WWIII jet powered flight was laughably obsolete, but grav-cancelling drone constructs big enough to leave a trail like that? Let alone several? A distant hope for the future, at best. Even in my time they're still almost too expensive to be quite reasonable, crystolic-fusion reactors being so notoriously expensive to miniaturize and all. . .
Then I am either well into the future, or. . .
Jet engines became common in the mid to late 20th century. Conceivably, I could be anywhere from 1960 to 2093, the year before crystolic fusion was discovered.
As for the moon - or, more accurately, the lack of one, I don't know enough about lunar rise and set times to draw any sort of conclusion from that, but I do know Lamb said the moon must be in the sky for the time-travel ritual to work.
That being the case, there is little reason to stay here, no matter when "here" is. I must find shelter and water, food if I can, and make contact with people.
I don't know which one of those scares me more at this point.
And to think - less than a week ago I was on Skycity 15, in my much-despised little tent, bitterly resenting that I was too sick to sell my Doctor-issued food ticket!
Oh, to be back there now!
Funny, how context makes hypocrites of us all. . .
I find a thin trail through the woods, a faint line of brown through a seemingly endless expanse of mottled green, that seems to lead in the general direction of the manse, if by a somewhat roundabout way. At the moment, it feels unwise to go traipsing though the fields alone - far better to have some cover.
A half an hour or so later, I fill my steel bottle with water from a small cascading stream I stumble across. The water tastes earthy and sharp - quite unpleasant, in fact - but for all that, it seems clean enough. Still, I won't drink it unless I fail to find friendly Humans before dark.
I nibble on some pods of sweet Cicely that I find growing under the bank, and as I pick them I discover a tiny hawthorn tree tucked in between two of the overhanging boulders. The spindly branches are dotted with ripe berries. In minutes, I have a nice double-handful of them. I find a relatively clean spot to sit, and settle down to eat. It isn't going to be nearly enough to fill my stomach, but it's still something. The Cicely reminds me of some of the spicy herb-flavoured candies we used to make at the farming station in Lower South-5, and the hawthorn berries taste like a wilder, brighter version of a Skycity miniaturized-hybrid apple. They might even have been a base-note reference when the hybrid was being designed, I'm not sure. They're delicious, anyway, and disappear in five minutes flat.
A frugal breakfast, but flavorful, at least.
A few hundred meters on, I find some Blewitt mushrooms, and not far from there, a somewhat scattered wealth of ripe chestnuts and sprigs of alisanders. I've never been so thankful I studied Historical Botany. I take my steel bottle out of the wool bag and fill the pouch with these finds. The mushrooms are exactly like one of the non-hybridized varieties we grow on Skycity 15, so I trust them, and though I've never seen chestnuts or alisanders before - well, not face-to-face, as it were - they are both so distinctive they're unmistakable. I can eat all three finds raw if I have to, or I can donate them this evening to the cheerful, helpful housewife who will take me in for the night.
I smirk a little. Wishful thinking.
But it's better than imagining the worst.
My thin little path has disappeared and reappeared several times already, so I am not worried when it peters out again. Far off to my left through the tree trunks I can still see the bright edge of the green fields that make the more direct path between the manse and Craigh na Dun. I've never quite let them out of my sight. I shuffle along for a good hour or more, and the morning is well along, the air turning quite bright and warm, when I finally work back around to the manse.
Or where the manse should be! I bite my lip, for fear that when I get there, all I'll find is an empty plot of land.
But no, Mrs. Graham said the house was over 300 years old, didn't she? Jet engine technology isn't too much older than that, I don't think, so the house must be there by now.
Unless, of course, I am in the future. . . or I misread what those long, thin clouds meant. . . or. . .
I shake my head. Speculating isn't going to get me anywhere.
I break out from the trees, ten or fifteen meters from the distinctive stone wall of a vegetable garden. The house is there, every blessedly recognizable wall and beam of it.
But everything else is different.
The house is neither new nor old in appearance, a point in favour of my being in the past, but it is also so clearly abandoned, empty and lonely, that it might as well be ten-thousand years into the future. It looks so forlorn, it strikes me to the heart. Such a secure, thriving, living place I left last night! It is such a blow to see it as it is now, I stand gaping for far longer than is necessary.
Doubtless it is this that makes me trip.
It was a stray stone, one I would have easily noticed had I not been transfixed upon the plight of the house that had been my refuge for the previous three days. A stone, and an incautious step, and a turned ankle is my reward. I collapse to the ground, rendered mute by the initial shock and pain. Eventually, I sit up, wincing as I take off my shoe, and survey the damage. It is already beginning to swell, and a bruise is blooming. I pour some of the cold water from my bottle on it, thinking that might help with the swelling. I explore the anklebones as well as I can with my fingers, and determine that it is a sprain. Not too severe, but sharp enough that I probably cannot walk without limping. That means slow, even more labourious travel.
I have almost decided to stay here at the manse - maybe camp in the greenhouse if the doors to the main house are locked, something, I don't know - when I remember Lamb mentioning a hospital down the road, not too far away.
I don't know what year it is, but I know I am in Scotland, and any place so mad about tradition that they have houses over 300 years old, must surely put hospitals where it is traditional to have hospitals? The road is right there, and it probably would be easier to travel on than a faint path in the woods. . .
I hop and hobble over to the overgrown and weedy garden beds, and pick up a long, sturdy stick to serve me as a crutch. It's a gamble, but aren't I already playing at the highest stakes? When you've traveled though time itself, why quibble with strolling about on a twisted ankle?
Still, I rest for a while on the low garden wall, wishing with all my heart I'd had just a few days more to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Graham, and get to know the house and garden a little better. I might have been able to tell if what I am currently looking at came before or after the Grahams' tenure.
Oh well. If I am going, I had better go.
Making it to the road is slow, and excruciating. Walking on the road itself is mildly less slow, but no less painful, until I get a little better with my makeshift crutch. I've slung my bag of chestnuts and mushrooms across my body, and I'm clutching my steel bottle with my free hand. It's awkward, but just on this side of doable.
The sun is climbing towards noon, and by my reckoning I've gone perhaps one kilometer, when I must stop and rest, or I'm afraid I will faint. With every step this seems more and more like a gamble I should not have taken. But, it's a road. There must be people along it somewhere.
All at once, it hits me that I will need a story. I'm injured, I have virtually nothing beyond the slightly odd clothes I'm wearing, no IdenTcard, no functional Communication Number. . . oh, and I don't actually know what year it is.
When I find people, they will have questions. And I can hardly tell them I'm an unfortunate traveler from the year 2279, where I participated in an ancient Pagan time-travel ritual and transported myself through the stones of Craigh na Dun, now, can I?
Although I do admit - that would be a quicker way to get to the hospital. . .
I sit as comfortably as I can, peeling and eating a few chestnuts while I think.
I decide to say I was camping, and was set upon by thieves in the night. I escaped with nothing but my sleeping clothes and one small bag. It's not so far from the truth that I can't back it up, and it can explain my lack of luggage, my strange attire, my twisted ankle, and my presence in general. Perhaps it even will set me up for some pity - or at least some basic understanding. Best of all, it's time non-specific. If this is 1970, I'm pretty sure I can pull off the story. If this is 2470, I'm still pretty sure I can pull it off. I know all too well that as long as there is even a semblance of wilderness, there will be campers. And as long as there is Humanity, there will be thieves and ruffians.
And if I still don't know the year. . . well, if I play my cards right, I'll be able to figure that out just by listening to people. When I find them, of course. . .
Which I'm never going to do just sitting here.
By now my ankle is numb, but the swollen joint has stiffened with inactivity, so it is frustratingly difficult to get moving again, but I persist, and eventually find some sort of a rhythm. Tap, thud, tap, thud. . . The road has widened a bit and is going, I think, slightly uphill. An untrimmed and overgrown hedge to one side tells me that while civilization is fairly nearby, not too many people use this particular road. Heaps of fallen, mouldering leaves everywhere only confirm it.
The forest is just beyond the verge to my other side. I seriously consider going back into its bleak but enclosing shade. There is a creeping, dangerous feeling about walking like this, all in the open. . .
I round a wide, gentle bend, and find myself near a crossroads. Nothing too remarkable about that - I've passed by three today already - but this is the first time I've seen evidence of living people, on the road or anywhere, all day. A few dozen meters down the road, there is a groundcar, sitting half in the verge, clearly abandoned or broken, and around it are four or five figures, some milling around it, some standing like statues.
I take a deep breath and turn down the road towards them.
Tap, thud. . .
Tap, thud. . .
I get a firm grasp on my story, and a firmer grasp on my walking stick.
Tap, thud. . .
Tap, thud. . .
My spirits rise a little as I get closer. They are all uniformed in black or dark blue, and the cut of the jackets is so like our Patrolmen that I can't help smiling.
Tap, thud. . .
Tap, thud. . .
There is no way they haven't seen me coming, and yet as I draw close to them, none of them turn to look at me right away.
My stomach drops, my heart races. . . I don't know what to think, and I'm uncertain what to do.
Then they all turn to look at me at once. Almost like they rehearsed it.
This would be unsettling enough, except. . .
Except. . .
The nearest one of those blank and cheerless faces, is a face that I know. . . and yet he is nothing but a stranger to me.
It is the one face that I know cannot be here, that I cannot believe is here.
And yet, there he is, staring back at me, narrow-eyed and ruthless, nothing like the man he was before.
"Fr. . . Frank?"
He sneers at me, and looks me coldly up and down.
"No."
I don't see the slap coming. It catches me on my left ear, knocking me off balance and forcing all my weight onto my twisted ankle.
And again, I fall.
Chapter 16: Fighting Dirty
Chapter Text
My head is ringing, from the blow or from sheer rage, I'm not sure which, but either way, my vision turns red.
I drop my stick as I flail to break my fall, and my right hand skids into the leaf mould, running hard up against something round and solid.
Without thinking, I take it up, my left hand already gripping my steel bottle like a club. I wrench my body to a sitting position, and catch one of the men trying to pin me to the ground.
Crr-ack!
My stone connects hard with his descending knee, and he jumps back, yelping in pain. I swing the other way with my bottle, and get a good strike on the cheekbone of another. I throw myself back and ram my good foot into the groin of a third. I push myself further back onto the verge and get another strike in - my bottle jams into a solar plexus - but four against one is long odds, and I'm out of luck.
I get kicked hard twice on my flank and side, I scrape my stone along teeth and jaws, hands are ripping at my hair, trying to hold me down, I break two fingers that I am sure of, a face gets too close and I break a nose, blood drips on my hands and I don't know if it is mine, my knee connects with another groin, I bury an elbow in ribs, and bite an earlobe straight through, and then -
"AAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!"
An embattled wild animal sound roars though the trees, and a blazing red stun-quarrel arcs in from somewhere and explodes all over my opponents' bodies. Some of the gel splatters on my leg, numbing it, but making the muscles spasm uncontrollably.
My opponents instantly back off, arms and necks and legs and faces jerking out of their control.
As my lines of sight clear, my vision slows, and with terrible clarity I see the man who looks like Frank, standing off coolly from our melee, calmly draw his blast pistol and take careful aim. . . at me. . .
Before he can pull the trigger, a second stun quarrel catches him full in the chest, blasting him backwards and coating him in the immobilizing gel. He falls to the ground, grotesquely writhing and twitching.
"AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!"
The roaring continues, and two ferocious shapes bolt out from the trees, wielding sticks and Stunbows and fists, cracking heads and punching kidneys. Blood sprays from mouths and noses, and I am inundated with the noise and violence and the punching and hitting and blood and numbness and the twitching and-
"Come wi' me lass!"
One wild ferocious shape resolves itself into a man, tall and bearded, holding out a hand that isn't trying to hurt me.
"Can't-" I gasp, "My foot-"
"Agch!" he grunts harshly, then jerks me upright and slings me over his shoulder I still don't know how, and shouts to his companion, "Leave them Angus! Let's go!"
With a final battle cry followed by several thuds, we retreat into the woods so fast I barely have time to look back. In the fleeting glimpse I get, all I see is a man splayed unconscious in the road, a man who mere seconds ago had been prepared to kill me without a qualm, a man who looks exactly like Frank. . .
My rescuers aren't at all interested in what lies behind, however, being all too intently focused on wherever they're going. They don't speak, not to me or each other.
We're a few hundred meters into the trees when the man carrying me halts, and shifts me around so he can carry me hammock-style. Then, with a brief grin and a nod, we're off again. We go up a long incline, and through several gullies, and around so many turns, I'm quite lost. My head whirls as soon as I realize I don't know where I am. I'd gotten a little used to not knowing when I am, but both at once is almost too much for me to bear at the moment. I must spend ten or fifteen minutes staring at my lap before I even wake up to the fact that one of my hands is still gripping a dirty, bloodied stone, and the other has a death-clamp on my steel bottle.
Slowly, I unclench my fingers. As I do so, a deep, uncontrollable shaking starts in my stomach, and spreads to every part of me, as if it very well means to shake me apart. It is virulent and harsh, like a nuclear blast wave, clogging my nerves, filling my head with a roaring, primal pain I cannot express. I want to cry, but I can't, the shaking won't let me. I lean my head on this man's strange, blessed shoulder and make a small, lost sound so pathetic I wonder he doesn't drop me at once out of sheer disgust.
Instead, to my shock, he laughs.
"Aye, lass, I didnae kno' a sane woman yet didnae have that reaction tae Black Jack."
His companion chuckles harshly, "Sane goats have that reaction tae Black Jack."
"Aye, ee's a right bugger, no question. But ye can ease yersel' lassie, we'll be tae shelter soon."
I have no idea who he is, his speech is rough, and he is frighteningly strong, but somehow, he comforts me.
Slowly, over several long minutes, the shaking subsides, leaving in its wake a fatigue so profound I scarcely have time to notice it before I am fathoms deep in slumber.
Chapter 17: Past Participle
Chapter Text
"Well can ye fix it, or can ye not?"
"Et's no' a flippin' radio, Dougal! I cannae jus' take the thing apart blindfolded and put it back together again wi'out a map! I'm no Davie Beaton."
"Aye, Rupe, god knows ye never spoke truer. But that doesnae answer the question. Can ye fix it?"
"I cannae tell with ye hangin' over me like a cluckin' wee hen, now can I?"
"Oh, give over Dougal, and let the lad work."
I've only halfway heard this, and who knows how much more of the discussion, through a filtering haze of my uncertain sleep, but that last voice is mildly familiar, and it brings me fully awake.
"Ye'er a fine one to talk, Murtagh Fraser! I send ye tae do a simple job, and ye come back with nowt but a wee damaged Sassenach!"
"Ye sent us tae get the plates ye forgot, from a car ye abandoned too close tae the campaign line for yer own sweet comfort!"
Yes, a familiar voice. Clipped, blunt and harsh, but assured, and worth listening to.
"Plausible deniability, Murtagh. It's important."
The other voice is smoother, more devious. Dangerous, even.
"Weel it makes no matter now - Agents found it afore we got there - and not content wi' that, they started amusing themselves with that "wee Sassenach" yonder."
I've come to in a small, dim room, and am laying somewhat uncomfortably on a very lumpy couch. The door is half-open, with light streaming in from the much larger room beyond. The grumpy and slightly echo-y voices are coming from that direction too.
"Aye, I saw her when ye brought her in - she looks like she might be an amusement worth having."
"Shut yer trap, Rupert! Ye didnae see what Angus an' I saw."
I begin to like this gruff voice - not just for saving me, but for thinking about what saving me would mean to his group of companions.
"Oh, aye? An' what was that?"
"Agch, only the blow that had her flat out in the verge - t'was a dirty blow, ye understand - and five seconds later three of five Agents were bruised and bleeding too - and the fourth soon followed. With nowt but a rock, a wee thermos, an' her own hands and feet, she broke bones afore either of us could draw our Stunbows, right enough, Angus?"
"Aye."
The memory comes back to me, red-stained and terrible.
"Oh, she was blessed fierce, that one. She might even have had the better of 'em if we hadn't put our two cents in."
"Now that's where I'll say ye'er wrong, Murtagh. Ye were bellowing down the hill when I took my shot, an' ye didnae see the bead Black Jack was drawing on her-"
"Black Jack? Ye didnae say Black Jack was among the Agents!"
There is fear in the devious voice, and not a small amount of disgust.
"Have I been given the chance? Aye, it were him, the bastard. He was the one who felled her to begin with. And her only limping along, innocent as the day."
I shiver at the abhorrent memory.
"Black Jack! We need to be off home - afore he comes looking for us! Aye, and ye know he's capable of it!"
"I'm workin' as fast as I can, Dougal. None of yer frettin' can make it go faster."
The "Rupert" voice is complacent and preoccupied, only mildly interested even when the devious voice demands his attention.
"And did I ask ye? Jus' do yer work and shuddup!" I hear one or two of them restlessly stomping around, "And ye! Was it necessary tae break the car right on the border?"
A new voice quips, "I take care of yer wee horses, Dougal - not yer wee arses! Is'no my fault the bloody contraption choked while ye were campaigning past yer border!"
"That bloody contraption is brand noo! As well as being the best of its kind. What am I supposed tae think ye did wi' it?"
"I didnae do anything with it save drive it - and it pulled the horse trailer fine on the way down. There was nothing tae say it wouldnae be fine on the way back."
This new voice is calmer, softer, more amused than riled up by the devious voice's sound and fury. His responses are not so much complacent as detached - almost superior.
"An' if ye hadnae brought us sae close tae the border in the first place, we wouldnae have had to cut and run. We were lucky we saved the horse trailer and the van. If we cannae get the Rover fixed, we can leave it here and still get home. I have an adapter for the hitch on the van, and there's room for all of us."
"We'er saving the Rover. We arnae losing two cars on this run."
"Oh, an' losing my car is acceptable losses, is it?" complains the "Angus" voice.
"Aye, that wee clunker?" the devious voice says, "We were only draggin' its dead weight around anyway. I wish the Agents well of it! If we'er lucky, it'll blow up in their faces and rid us of Black Jack for good. But th' Rover issa different kettle o' fish. D'ye think Colum doesnae ken the cost of it? He'll have all our arses if we leave it behind. D'ye think he'll ever be parting with that much brass for a car again? Let alone twice in one year? Agch!"
Slowly, I push myself to a sitting position. It's only then that I notice my ankle is wrapped in a soft cloth bandage. It's secure, but not too tight, and if the smell is anything to go by, the dressing has been treated with a bruise/sprain ointment too. I feel an extra spurt of thankfulness towards that gruff voice, sure he must have been the one who did this.
"Not tae mention it's prime for parading ye around t' wee villages," says the superior voice.
"Aye, and if tha's what'll bring constituents, tha's what we'll do, ye ken?"
"Oh, I ken."
The contentious conversation falls into an uneasy silence. Tentatively, I try my weight on my bad foot. It still hurts, but I can walk, though not quickly. With infinite care, I take two steps to the door, and peer out into the brightly-lit main room.
Instantly, it is apparent this is a garage of some sort. Car parts and greasy tools line row after row of workbenches and shelves and crates. Rags, cans, gloves, blowtorches, mugs, scraps of sheet metal, wiring, mops, and who knows what else mingle freely with fuel barrels, and buckets of paint, solvent, and skin-degreaser.
Five restless male shapes are ranged around the one car in the room, its bonnet raised, its sadly ineffectual innards exposed. This must be the "Rover" they've all been talking about. I know that's a brand name for a vehicle manufacturer, but. . . I squint past the caustically-bright worklight they're shining on the engine, trying to identify it if I can.
My heart skips a beat and I inhale sharply.
That's not just a Rover engine, that's a Land Rover Artex-680 Trawler engine.
A brand new LRA-680 Trawler engine - with its distinctive semi-fusion coils and full plasma drive. . .
I know when I am. This car clinches it.
I've only seen a Trawler engine face-to-face once, in a museum on New Osaka, but I worked for years on a farming station in Lower South-5. On all of Skycity 15's farming stations, but in the Lower Townships especially, it is a point of pride, almost a rite of passage, to know the history of the plasma drive engines that are still used with our crop regulators and harvesting combines.
I'm in 2078 or 2079. No question. The Trawler is the only semi-fusion domestic vehicle ever built, and it was ahead of its time. It sold lamentably poorly, and so was only in production for those two years. But a little over a decade later, when crystolic-fusion was discovered, it was the only existing engine type that could run directly on crystal plasma. It was therefore the direct forefather of our modern-day skycars and cargo ships too, not just our farming equipment.
2078. Two hundred years into the past. I know. . .
I know when I am.
I almost start weeping with relief.
One of the man-shapes gets in the Rover's cabin, and pushes some buttons, cycling for an engine cold-start.
A pale aqua-blue light within the upper plasma cylinders flickers, sputters, and vanishes again.
I smile. It's the flow-regulator. I know by the very sound. This early design was notorious for having a faulty flow-regulator, and I've repaired enough of them in my time to know that even the modern designs haven't fully addressed all the problems. Fortunately, it's a relatively simple fix.
He cycles for a cold-start again, and again, and yet again, and each time the bluish light within the cylinders sparks and sputters unevenly. Semi-fusion coils were never meant to take that kind of treatment - he must have wedged open the manual override. If he cycles them much more, he'll overload the retort module. . .
"You'll break it if you keep going on like that," I say, stepping from my little sanctuary with a confidence I do not feel.
Five pairs of grumpy male eyes are on me in an instant.
"If you don't clear the retort-module in between cold-starts, you'll get an energy backup in the collection chamber," I take one limping step forward, then another, "And the plasma has started sparking in the upper cylinders, so your conversion-ratio is already erratic - and probably hyperactive."
They all continue silently staring at me as I haltingly pace towards the Trawler, "That means if you're not careful, the whole engine could explode."
The man furthest to my right runs a hand through his short, bristling grey beard, and gives me a glittering, incisive stare that might have been intimidating if Black Jack hadn't just attacked me far more viciously.
"Can ye fix it, lassie?" he asks, softly.
His is the smooth, devious voice. Dougal, I think his name is.
"Well, it depends on what's broken. But I think so."
He gestures eloquently, and the other three men step back a pace, the fourth sliding reluctantly from the cabin. I think that one is Rupert. . .
Now that I can get a closer look, I see that the flow regulator isn't just malfunctioning, half of its own manual override mechanism has been shaken or torn loose, leaving the rest of it half-engaged. Coupled with whatever Rupert has done to the cold-start system, it's no wonder the thing won't start.
I peer past the upper cylinders, to the labyrinthine interior, trying to find the piece from the regulator, and also see if there are any other common irregularities I'll need to worry about. Turbine shift, inadequate fuel reabsorption, coolant leaks, things like that. . .
Everything else looks superficially fine, but away down to the left, stuck between two of the lower cylinders, I spot an errant piece of metal. I'm not certain from this angle, but I think it's the missing piece I'm looking for.
"Does anybody have a G-Traction unit?"
I look up, only to be met with blank stares.
Right, this is 2078. They don't have gravity nullification fields yet. . .
"Uh. . . a handheld T-PEC?"
They continue to stare.
This is ridiculous, transformable projected electromagnetic constructs have been around forever.
Well, I guess not. . .
I sigh, "A magnet on a stick?"
"Ah!" says the one whose voice I had identified as "Angus". He searches around on one of the worktables, then hands me a telescoping magnet pen, "Here ye go, lassie."
I shake my head. At them and myself. I'm going to have to get used to this time period fast.
I fumble a bit at first with the magnet, not used to the clumsy imprecision of it, but I eventually get the piece of metal out. Or rather, the several connected pieces. It looks like one of the lever plates and its attendant sensor board switch has snapped clear through - though heaven only knows how that could happen on a brand-new machine like this. . .
I remind myself that how doesn't matter at the moment. Right now the goals are to clear the retort module, and then find some way to upgrade a plasma flow regulator using only 21st century tools and supplies. . .
I find the retort module's access panel, and thankfully, several of the essential codes are pre-printed on it. I punch in the code for a full clear. That will take a minute or five, so I return to the flow regulator. I'll have to remove the manual override mechanism to do the upgrade anyway, so -
"I'll need a multi-tool," I say, hoping fervently that's what the device is called in this century, "One that will fit these connectors," I point at the tiny bolts and nuts on the side of the flow regulator.
A grunt and a few seconds later, and a rough-skinned hand holding an impressively varied foldable pocket-tool is presented to me. I'm about to just grab it and continue working, when I look up for a moment first, and find myself eye-to-eye with the dark-haired, gruff-voiced man who rescued me.
My heart reproaches me. I haven't even thanked him. . .
I take the multi-tool, then put out my own hand. As a hello? As thanks? As a peace offering? I'm not sure. . .
"I'm Claire, by the way. . ."
He takes my hand briefly, and nods, bluntly, like it's the only way he knows how to communicate. I don't take offense. It probably is.
"Murtagh," he says, and steps back to let me work, "Th'rest of the introductions can wait."
I nod, and turn back to the Trawler. It takes me a few tries to find the proper sized spanner to remove the tiny bolts, but this is a good thing. It gives me some more time to think. Usually a regulator upgrade would call for nano-sensors and woven carbon filament, but if they don't have T-PEC's here, then there's no way their nanotechnology has progressed to that. With the tools I have available, I doubt I could even get a proper diagnostic on the broken regulator. And of course, the first rule of technical engineering is you can't fix what you don't know is broken. The best I can probably do is lock the valves in stasis mode, then repair the manual override, cross-link it to the motherboard, and hope. It will take finagling, but. . .
I lift the manual override free, and a great spray of reactor-coolant douses my sleeve and chest.
"What did you DO?" I shout at the room in general, "Who redirects coolant through the plasma flow regulator?!"
I throw the multi-tool in rampant disgust, and the room explodes with shouting, finger-pointing, arguing, waving, stomping and blaming - all five men furious, not at me, but with each other.
This is the day that will not end, but finally, I've had enough.
"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, either help me, or shut up, you bloody Scots!"
I'm screaming to make myself heard, but by the time I tell them to shut up, they're already astonishingly quiet.
"Well well," murmurs Dougal, with a wry half-smile, "I havenae heard a woman swear like that in nigh on thirty years."
This is 2078. I had forgotten for a minute. The Second Victorian Era is in full swing, complete with its own distinctive fashion, music, and social mores - many of which share disturbing similarities with those from the First Victorian Era. To these men, I've just done about the equivalent of openly groping a neighbor in the communal steamshower.
I open my mouth to apologize, but suddenly, the entire room is laughing. The tension dissolves, and I receive more than one hearty slap on the shoulder. Dougal himself hands me a roll of shop-towels.
"Thank you," I say faintly, unable to quite repress my own smile. These men. Whoever they are, they don't do anything by halves. For the most part, I can respect that.
I sop up as much of the greasy coolant as possible, and wipe my skin as clean as I can. The stuff is neon green, and smells disgusting, but it shouldn't be dangerous unless ingested. My dress is probably a write-off though. As if it wasn't already. . .
Right. I frantically try to get back on track. So the flow regulator has been flooded with coolant, that adds three or four steps to this process. I'll need to flush the chamber, test for valve integrity, make sure there hasn't been any backwash into the collection chamber, and if there has, possibly do a collection chamber purge.
Right. Easy. It's just two or three hours hard labour on a machine I've only seen once in a museum, using tools I barely know the names for. No problem.
Grimly, I go about reversing the coolant redirect. Once I get past this problem, there is still the over-arching problem of the flow-regulator upgrade. If cross-linking the manual-override is going to have any chance of success, I'm going to have to repair it first.
"Um. . ." I point vaguely, not caring at the moment if I'm being rude again or not, "Could one of you see if you can find me an exothermic fusion wand, gah. . . no. . . uh. . . a . . . soldering. . . iron?. . . yes, a soldering iron."
The tallest guy - the one whose name I haven't heard - goes to search. His must be the "superior" voice I heard earlier, but so far he hasn't said anything to me. He's wearing jeans, a plaid flannel shirt, and a knitted cap, just like the rest them, but as he turns to go, I see flashes of bright red curls from underneath the dark blue wool. It's odd. Not his hair, but that I should be noticing such things at a time like this. . .
"Heer's yer wee device, lassie - I mean Claire," he says, plunking it down on the nearest workbench. It looks like a cruder version of exactly the tool I've used to repair things a thousand times, "Plug it in for ye, shall I?"
I nod, and say nothing, because I'm not entirely sure what that means. But he only stoops and connects the fusion wand to a power source.
"There ye are."
"Thanks," I limp over to the workbench, and sort out the pieces I'll need to fix. He watches every move I make.
And that's another odd thing. I've been under intense scrutiny ever since I stepped out of that little side-room, but I haven't been hyper-aware of being watched at all until I knew his eyes were on me.
But they have been on me this whole time, haven't they? So what has changed?
Nothing, I tell myself. Nothing has changed. Not the temperature of the room, nor the pace of my heart, nor the air in my lungs.
I take a deep breath, and force my mind back onto repairing the engine.
It takes closer to four hours than three, but eventually, the Trawler purrs to life with one touch of the start button. It's a hack-and-slash job, probably only good for one trip, but I've never been prouder.
"You'll have to take it to your local specialist mechanic as soon as you get home," I say, closing the bonnet at last, "But that should get you there."
Dougal nods, gesturing with what I assume is the closest he can get to thanks, and glances over at the other four, who are all sitting close round the end of a workbench, silent over the business of eating their tea.
"Ye hungry, Claire?"
"Starving!" I say, stretching this way and that, my back sore from stooping.
"Weel, I will say ye've more than earned it, I jus' hope ye dinnae mind hagg-"
I stretch a bit too far, and a sharp new pain makes me gasp. I clutch my side, "Sorry! I was kicked in the ribs earlier today, and what with everything else, I forgot. . . "
"Aye, Black Jack is a right wee bastard," his lip twists underneath his grey beard, "Murtagh?"
"Aye?"
"Give Claire the first aid kit after ye find her some clean clothes."
"Aye." He gets up without another word, and disappears into the depths of the garage.
I limp over to the seat he just vacated, and heave myself onto it. I'm fairly certain I ache in places I never knew the Human body possessed. I'm so worn out I barely notice I'm sitting next to the tall red-headed unknown.
"As I was sayin'," says Dougal, sliding me a generously loaded plate, "I hope ye dinnae mind haggis." He hands me a fork.
I look down at a pile of dark greyish brown stuff beside the heap of mashed potatoes.
I look up, tiredly, "Is it made from small children?"
Dougal's brow furrows, "Noo-"
"Then I don't give a shit." I take a huge bite before anyone can say anything else, and chew and swallow with such regularity from then on, it only takes a few minutes for everyone to stop staring at me. I wonder why they're all so shocked at me eating. After all, they're all eating the same thing. I mean, it does taste stronger then I'm used to, and the texture is strange to me, but it's food, and I'm hungry. I'm Skycity born and bred. We don't complain about free food unless literal cannibalism is involved.
I'm halfway through before I realize I swore again, and that's probably why they all stared. I groan inwardly. Two hundred years into the past. . . I would end up so far back in time that. . . that. . .
So far. . . back in time. . .
It really shouldn't be a shock that it's taken this long to hit me - given how busy with other things I've been the past few hours - but only now do I fully realize it. I'm in the past.
A thing Lamb said none of his time-travelers had done before. None of the ones who had returned, that is. . .
2078 is before the Unity War. Before the Second Battle of Culloden. Right smack in the middle of the British Cold War.
A pivot-point in history, and I'm here. I might change things. I might have changed things already.
The enormity of it staggers me. I resolve to go as softly as I can for a while, get my bearings, and learn a lot more about things before I try and change anything deliberately. If I ever do.
"Are ye well?" asks Tall Unknown, apparently noticing that I'm sitting woodenly still, a half-eaten bite of haggis still in my cheek.
"Oh. Yes," I say, trying not to stare too much at his beautifully sincere blue eyes, "It's. . . been a long day. . ."
He smiles like I've just told him he's won a lifetime supply of water tokens, "Ye do have a gift for understatement, Sassenach." He stands then, and makes to go, "I'm off tae clear a spot fer ye in the van, sae ye can ride wi' yer foot up." He smiles brilliantly again, and whistles as he goes.
"Ride?" I turn to Dougal, "Are you taking me with you?"
"Aye," he pauses, then smiles a flat little devious smile, "It's maybe time to introduce ourselves." He holds out a hand to me, "I'm Dougal Mackenzie, official Clan MacKenzie candidate for the first Independent Scottish Council." I shake his hand briefly, and he gestures at his remaining companions, "Angus Mhor, Rupert Mackenzie - " he nods at the space behind me, "Murtagh ye already know."
I turn, and Murtagh himself puts a pile of mismatched clothing on the workbench next to me. Well-worn and baggy jean overalls, a plaid flannel button-down, and a man's cotton undershirt. All smell strongly of paint-stripper, but they're clean, at least. Next to them he puts a largish box with a red cross on it, a roll of shop-towels, several sizes of plastic bags, and a half-liter container of skin degreaser.
"Ye ought tae be gettin' ready soon, lass. We'll be leaving in a few minutes."
"Yes. . . but. . ." I turn back to Dougal
"Weel, dinnae ye think ye've at least earned an audience with my brother?"
"Your. . . brother?"
"Aye. Chieftain and Laird of Clan MacKenzie."
There's something significant about how he says that. With the slightest emphasis on Laird, like I'm supposed to know a great deal more about this whole situation than I do.
Which, to be fair, an ordinary woman from this time period probably would.
"Well, that's a great deal more than I ever expected, and more than I was going to ask. I mean, just saving me from getting beaten to a pulp was enough. . ."
"Nae," he says, that odd little smile on his face again, "When we undertake to do a thing, we follow it through."
"But you don't know anything about me! Where I'm from, what I'm doing here, what's happened to me. . ."
"Are ye likely to be killing small children?" he asks, a sly twinkle in his eyes.
I can't keep from smiling in response, "No."
He nods sharply, "Then, wait until ye meet my brother. Then ye'll only have to tell the story once."
"Well, thank you. I couldn't have asked for better."
I pick up the pile of things Murtagh left for me, and retreat back in to the little side-room to change.
I've finished putting on bruise ointment, and am almost done scrubbing the coolant residue off my skin when I realize there was an edge to how Dougal had said that last phrase. "Only tell the story once". . . like he was already expecting me to lie.
Which, of course, I will have to do.
But I wonder what lies he's expecting. He can't possibly know about Craigh na Dun, so. . .
2078 is in the middle of the British Cold War. He's a politician, and I'm a Sassenach. He might think I'm a spy. He might! A strange woman limping around Upper Inverness, dressed in nothing but a white gown and long green cloak, who gets herself attacked by Peace Agents? He'd be foolish not to at least be suspicious of anyone like that. But who he suspects I'm working for, and what he thinks I know, I have no idea - and since I'm not a spy, I'm unlikely to ever find out.
And he's just practically ordered me to go back to his brother's house with him.
Oh well. There's nothing for it now, and it's not like I have anywhere else to be, anyway.
The workman's clothes don't fit me very well, but they're leagues better than my coolant-soaked linen dress. I've wadded it up into one of the bags, grateful to be rid of the rotting-potato smell. My bra is in there too, and of course, they didn't give me a replacement. I look down at the plain white undershirt I've just put on. I loop the hem though the neckline, and pull it tight. A makeshift solution, but far better than nothing. I shrug on the button-down and throw my cloak over my shoulders, thankful it was spared the coolant, because the air has gone quite cold. Then I hustle my few things into the remaining plastic bag, and go back out into the garage.
The Tall Unknown escorts me to the van, and settles me and my things on the middle bench-seat of a large Caravan-class groundcar. From the inside, it looks remarkably like a modern Caravan-class skycar owned by a Central Township family. Soft seats, lights, hot and cool air vents, and info-screens embedded in front of passenger seats. The Tall Unknown tucks my cloak around me like it's a blanket, makes sure I'm comfortable sitting sideways, and asks me how I am. Haltingly, I tell him I'm fine, but the truth is, at the moment I'm unable to articulate exactly how I am feeling. His presence, his touch - they spark something in me, just as surely as atoms in a fusion reactor core. He wakes up all the reckless impulses inside my mind, making me yearn for impossible adventures on tropical islands or distant mountains. He makes me want to flee headlong past the untamed edge of some wild place, just so long as it's beautiful, and waiting to be explored.
He sits on the bench behind mine, wedged in between three hard-shelled suitcases, and a large crate of what looks like flyers and handout leaflets. The bleak mundanity of this is at undeniable odds with my visions of rosy romance, but before the image can settle in my mind, he takes up one of the leaflets, hands it to me with a twinkle in his eyes he does nothing to conceal, and says, very seriously, "Greetings ma'am - have you considered voting for Dougal Mackenzie?"
I'm still laughing, and his eyes are still twinkling their bright blue sunshine at me, when Dougal himself gets in the car's front passenger seat. Murtagh follows in the pilot's seat a moment later. They give us some dubious looks, but say nothing. A touch to the van's starter switch - it has a fully electric engine by the sound of it - a wide swing out of the yard, the Rover following us, and we're away.
Off into the unknown, and an adventure that will be as enchanting as any I could dream up, surely. . .
Wishful thinking again, and my bruised ribs remind me painfully of cruel realities, but the view out the windows is far too lovely for me to dwell long on them.
The late afternoon sun casts a golden mist up from between the encroaching trees, a testament to the richly whispered promises of autumn. The cold tang in the air is quickly dissolved in the warm interior of the car, but it leaves the memory of itself behind, like a perfume's afterimage.
The road curves graciously down the sides of the hills, presenting us with scene after scene of grass and stone, trees and mist, sky and slopes, all glowing in the gilding light of early evening.
I take it all in, and wonder how I was ever satisfied with painted metal towers and steel streets grimed with rust. I wonder at the blue of the sky, darkening to ultramarine now, but clear and clean. I wonder at the Human race, who willingly chose the grimy streets over that clean, open blue, who ran to their own destruction, with no thought as to what might follow. Or, if they were not wholly without thought, then their thinking took shape without the weight of awe behind it, to draw Humanity back from the brink.
I've known for some time that we are a dying race. Our whole planet is dying, if not already dead.
Being immersed in the thrumming life of how it used to be is intoxicating, and not a little thrilling. Even Cold Island 12 as I knew it with Lamb was subdued and grey in comparison. The very land itself had not this piercing vitality.
I was a fool this morning. All I'd had to do to realize I was in the past was breathe. If my eyes failed me, I should have trusted my lungs and heart.
But today is almost over, the hectic glory of the sun slowly fading from the sky.
We round another shallow bend, and look down into a thickly wooded valley. The carpet of green is darkening into the enclosing black of night, broken in only a few places by the still visible pale outcrops of stone, a distant glow on the horizon that must be Inverness, and. . .
A twinned pair of grey cubic buildings, harshly illuminated by intense floodlights.
They're absolutely unmistakable. And ominous.
"What is that place?" I point and ask, afraid that I already know the answer all too well.
Dougal looks up from some papers he's been poring over since the drive began, only mildly interested in my question, "That? Oh, that's Cocknammon Junction. Trains go though there, and so do we."
"Through the checkpoint?"
Suddenly I have every ounce of Dougal's attention.
"What checkpoint?"
His gaze is so sharp, I get the feeling that if the angle was better, he might catch me up and shake me like a rag.
"There's. . . no checkpoint at Cocknammon?" I desperately try to think of a plausible lie. There's no way I can say my uncle from 2279 told me about it two days ago. . .
His beard bristles fiercely as he grinds his teeth, "Aye, we heard they might make one there. But there's been no sign of one yet. How do ye know?"
"I. . . heard people talking. In town."
It's weak, but at least mildly believable.
"In Inverness?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"I don't know, just, people!"
"Stop the car!"
Our voices have risen to a shout, and Murtagh brakes without surprise.
Dougal undoes his harness, and turns as far as he can to look me straight in the eyes.
"There's a checkpoint at Cocknammon Junction?"
"That's what I've heard."
"Are ye certain?"
"Of course I'm not! It was a random overheard conversation! By strangers!"
He growls, and pulls out a small personal info-screen. He types and taps at it fervently for a while, grumbling and exclaiming.
"Weel, the English are supposed tae notify us whenever they institute a new checkpoint. There's nary a word about one at Cocknammon."
He nods, as if this is the best of all confirmations, and then looks at The Tall Unknown.
"Ye'd better get inta hidin' lad," he points at me, "And take the Sassenach with ye."
"What?" I screech, "Why?"
They ignore me.
"What if there's nae room?"
"Well then ye'd better make room, hadn't ye?"
Dougal bends his head to his info-screen again, and starts cursing fearfully fast in a language I don't know. Then, he puts the screen to his ear, and starts talking to someone, equally fast and equally unintelligibly.
Huh. They have combined info-screens and comm radios here. I never knew such combos had lasted this long - I thought the break back to a singular device for audio communication had happened thirty, forty years before this. . .
The Tall Unknown unbuckles my harness, lifts me by the waist, swings me around, and sets me on my feet near the rear of the van.
"Go 'round behind the horse trailer, Sassenach, I'll be right with ye," he says, urgently.
Angus has hopped out of the Rover, and precedes me to the rear of the large white square of the trailer, that I now see is pierced with three-centimeter holes all over its upper half. He unlocks and lifts up a rolling metal door, then hands me up into the space.
Academically speaking, I know what a horse is. I've seen all sorts of pictures and movies featuring them, and I even once had a few plastic toys that were shaped like horses.
But none of that can prepare me for actually seeing one. For being close beside one. For hearing and smelling one. The size and sheer presence of the animal is so impressive that I no longer wonder why royalty was so often depicted riding horses. It's also clear why Dougal has one. But the smell alone would flatten me if it wasn't imperative that I stay conscious.
The Tall Unknown appears, leaping into the trailer and instantly closing the door behind us. I hear Angus lock it from the outside.
Well then.
I have no idea what will happen next.
What does happen is The Tall Unknown speaks gently and soothingly to the horse, easing the animal over to one side. Then he turns, kneels, and opens the long built-in bench cupboard that lines one wall of the trailer. He removes a shovel, some boxes, rope and few other things I don't know what they are, and shoves them hastily into a wooden crate he brought from the van. He secures the crate with rope and hooks underneath the animal's feeding bucket, and then he is doing something with the bench cupboard - shifting something, turning something, laying something out, I don't know - the light is very dim in here.
Then he steps bodily into the cupboard, and lays down, pressing himself as firmly as possible up against the far wall of the narrow space.
"Well," he says, chuckling, "There's room. Get in."
For a second, I'm speechless.
"Wh. . . what?"
I see his outline sit up a little, and reach towards me.
"Listen Claire, if there's a checkpoint down there, and they find us, they'll take me tae jail - if no' worse - and they'll deport ye for no' havin' an ID card. Now get in."
"But. . ." my mind flails, catching onto what at this moment seems the most important thing, "I don't even know your name!"
He sighs gustily, "James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser."
I know it's hardly the time or place, but I can't help laughing aloud, "What a handle! You must have been named for half your family!"
"Aye, that was about the size of it. Folk call me Jamie."
"Jamie. I like it."
"I'm glad. Now will ye get in?"
The Rover starts up, and the trailer is again in motion.
I have no choice.
He really is very good about it. He pillows my head on one of his arms, and uses the other to help settle me, being very careful of my bruised ribs and sprained ankle. There is just enough room to fit the two of us, pressed together, my head under his chin. With his free arm, he closes the lid on us, and does some intricate motions that I don't understand until I hear the satisfying metal click of a lock.
He gives a tiny laugh I wouldn't have heard if I wasn't pressed so close to him, "Tha's the trick of this hidin' spot, Sassenach. We've sensor dampened this cupboard, and modified the lock sae it can be latched from the inside!"
"Very clever," I whisper, shuddering.
"Ye alright?"
"Just barely."
"Ye arenae claustrophobic?"
"It's a hell of a time to ask that, but no. Never have been."
"Tha's good."
"That's essential!"
He laughs, again very quietly, "Aye, true. But then why are ye only barely alright?"
I huff a little, the air already grown thick and stuffy, "Well, besides being held up against a man I've only just met, and being rather severely scared - and if you ignore the rest of my day - it stinks in this horse trailer, and there isn't much air in this cupboard!"
"Fair enough," he whispers, "I wilnae talk anymore if it makes ye feel better."
I don't know that it will, but I still nod against his chest. I desperately need some space, and if mental space is the only kind I can get, then I'll take it.
For a long few minutes, I do nothing but breathe, and try to relax. Neither one of us is helped by my being tenser than a guy-wire. I breathe deeply and slowly, rhythmically, and eventually my body eases, fitting more comfortably into the space allotted for it. I tell myself I'm just laying down - in a horse trailer, yes, but that's just a whim, a silly whim from one of those unpredictable, eccentric Beauchamps. No one is chasing me. No one is looking for me. No one even knows I'm here. My hands unclench. I can accept the situation.
Only then can I let myself think about Jamie.
He's being as polite as he reasonably can be under the circumstances. One of his hands is on my shoulder, and one is on my hip, but there's no wandering. We're pressed close, face to face, and while he's undeniably a man, he isn't trying to impose that fact on me.
No, what imposing he does, I bring on myself.
My face is buried in his shirt-front - it would be quite impossible not to smell him - but all on my own I choose to focus on his scent. Because behind the pungency of horse, and the dusty spice of horse fodder, I can smell freshly brewed tea, hot, buttery toast, and a low, warm spice like nutmeg, or cinnamon, but earthier, softer, more enticing. . .
It's been a long time since I've been this physically close to a man. I shouldn't let it do anything to me, but I can't help it. My mind goes off into some rather inappropriate places before I can stop myself.
I grit my teeth. Now that I'm alright with being here, I need a distraction from being here.
"Jamie?" I whisper.
"Aye?"
"I understand now why I have to hide like this - being a Sassenach, and all - but. . . why would they take you to jail?"
There is a long pause, and his fingers spasmodically grip my shoulder.
"They. . . have a warrant out on me. For murder."
I half tense up again before he continues, "Oh, I didnae do it - I couldnae have - no'. . . no' like they said I did, anyway. Stabbed in the back he was. A coward's attack. Tha's no' my way."
I believe him. He'd meet his opponent face-to-face, no matter what.
The horse trailer slows, and I hear a slightly muffled, "Halt, ID's please!".
I instantly tense up again, almost to the breaking point. He can't help but notice, and he starts gently stroking my shoulder, and whispering against my forehead.
"Shh, Claire, it's alright. I'm here. As long as ye'er wi' me, ye'er safe. I promise ye."
That's rich. A man wanted for murder, promising to keep me safe.
I can hardly keep from scoffing. Ha! Safe indeed! Absurd!
Though, I'm slowly realizing it's not the absurdity of any of this that's wrong. "Safe" is simply not what Jamie makes me feel. I felt safe with Murtagh. I felt safe with Mrs. Graham. I felt safe. . . yes, and loved, by Uncle Lamb.
But none of that is what I feel now.
Now, squished into a coffin-sized cupboard that may well yet become my grave, clasped close to a strange man for no reason other than necessity, what little air there is so stuffy that I can hardly breathe. . . I feel something I haven't felt at all for nearly five years, and haven't felt to the fullest for almost nine.
Alive.
I feel. . . alive.
Jamie makes me feel alive.
It is somehow the most shocking revelation yet in a day full of nothing but shocks.
When we roll through the checkpoint with a delay of less than two minutes, the relief is so great that for the second time today, I fall asleep in a strange man's arms.
Chapter 18: Something More
Chapter Text
I wake up three times in the night.
The first time, I jerk awake, thinking I'm still clamped in that cupboard, being smothered by the foetid smell of horse droppings. But then I take another breath, and I know it isn't so. The shaking rhythm of a vehicle in motion is the same, the darkness around me is similar, but I'm warmer, freer, the air is clean, and two strong arms are holding me close, not wrapped tight around me because there's no room for anything less. I breathe in once more and know we're back in the van, Jamie has me on his lap, and my head is on his shoulder. The smell that's lingering in my nostrils, is his.
I haven't opened my eyes, but he must know I've awakened. I know he must, because his arms twitched tighter around me for a moment after I started awake. He doesn't say anything though, or acknowledge me beyond that, holding his arms and himself rigidly still. He is waiting for me to relax again, but urgently - like he wants me here, wants me to stay here, like he can't bear to let me go. Like he cares. Like he miraculously fell in love with me in that cupboard, and now there is so much between us that words or even caresses would be insufficient to express it all, so why break the spell?
I smile, my lips up against his collarbone. Will I never have done with wishful thinking? He's just being a gentleman, caring for me scrupulously, every step of the way, to the end of the line. But I know that's all this is. Duty. We'll get wherever we're going, our paths will part, and then he'll forget me soon enough.
But that doesn't prevent me from enjoying it while it lasts. From enjoying him. I reset my shoulders, and snuggle into him just the tiniest bit. I inhale deeply again, and hum softly against the skin of his neck. He really does smell amazing. I want to raise my head and bury my face in the curve behind his ear, nuzzling to get the full scent of him. If we were alone, and if things were different. . .
Well. Then things might be different.
Suddenly, I notice his arms are shaking with the effort of holding them so still for so long. He can't relax until I do. Such a perfect gentleman. . .
I hum again, almost contentedly, and oblige him by falling back to sleep.
The second time, I float up out of a strange, heavy dream, and I'm laid back on the suitcases piled next to us, my cloak rolled beneath my head for a pillow, with one of his arms slanted under my side, and the other slack across my thighs. I open my eyes halfway, and see his head lolling on his chest. He's asleep. Very.
The rhythm of the car hasn't changed, but the dark has become the deeper, colder dark of midnight and beyond. An occasional streetlamp illuminates things, but so brightly that the images they leave in my mind are blurred, overexposed, colourless jumbles.
The only clear thing is Jamie, his breathing deep and regular, his silhouette so near, the lines of it so pure, that even in the dark I can see his cap has shifted halfway down his forehead, pushing his hair into his eyes. I'm hyper-aware of every place we touch. The base of my spine against his thigh. One of his arms brushing my knees. His other arm digging into my bruised ribs. . .
Carefully, I shift so that I can reach his hand, and lift his arm from under me. For a wild second I don't know what to do with it. Then, I put his hand on my shoulder, lean my head against his wrist, and go back to sleep again.
The third time, I awaken instantly, like turning on a light switch, suddenly, but without shock. The cabin of the van is filled with the blue-grey light that speaks of dawn, and I am still leaned back on the uneven surface of the suitcases, my legs still draped over Jamie's lap, and one of his arms is still resting across my knees. This time he is also awake, his head still bent, but now over a personal info-screen. The cool blue-white light from it gilds his hair a strange green-brown, and brightens the dark blue of his cap.
"Mornin'," he looks over at me and smiles, "Sleep well?"
There is a shade of irony in his tone. Such an ordinary question doesn't sound quite right in these far-from-ordinary circumstances.
"Mmm. Better than I expected. . . or had reason to hope."
"Good." He smiles again, and goes back to scrolling though whatever he's looking at on his info-screen.
For a long minute, I consider him. He's young, certainly less than thirty, and possesses the kind of beauty that women dream about - but for themselves. Skin, eyes, eyelashes, hair, I'd gladly trade mine for his. Even the lines of his mouth are beautiful. But he's so intensely, assuredly male, I have to admit, I'm a little unsure what to make of him. I haven't had time to really think about him until now, and it suddenly strikes me as very odd that such a physical specimen should be traveling in such gruff, blunt company. . . and only be their horse wrangler. I know he can be gentle, courteous, caring - and with his looks, why isn't he the candidate for the Independent Scottish Council? Dougal is far from unappealing, but. . . Jamie. . . He's surely capable of more, much, much more. . .
And then I remember the arrest warrant. Murder. He's wanted for murder. He hid in a cupboard in a horse trailer with me crammed up next to him because he's wanted for murder. . .
In the warmth of the car, the sky just brightening to a rosy dawn, and with my legs draped over his lap, the whole thing seems incredibly absurd.
Jamie puts down his info-screen, and glances at me sidelong, "Like what ye see?"
I lower my eyes, briefly ashamed of staring at him so. "I'm. . . more baffled by it."
"Are ye now?" He turns wide, curious eyes to mine, "An' why would tha' be?"
I gesture at how we're seated, "Well. . . why did you hold me all night? I mean, after the checkpoint was cleared, there was no need. . . was there?"
"Ah, Sassenach," he laughs, softly, and nods towards the front of the cabin, "While I was takin' care of ye, I didnae have to take a turn drivin'."
I snort at him, "You hate driving that much?"
"Weel, let's jus' say I like ye more. And besides. . ." his face sobers, and he looks down at his hands, "Ye fell asleep in that cupboard, scairt, and distressed, tremblin' like a wee colt wi'out its mam." He tentatively pats my knee, "I wanted yer wakin' tae be. . . well. . . no' that."
My heart warms. I can't help imagining what kind of father he'd be.
Well, that and. . . other things he might be good at.
"You certainly succeeded at that," I say, smiling into his eyes. We look at each other for a good deal longer than most people can without growing uncomfortable, all of what was said in that cupboard replaying in my head.
"Jamie?"
"Aye?"
"How did you know that I had no identity card?"
He sighs and leans back, closing his eyes. "When Murtagh brought ye in, ye were flat out. Dead to the world, ye ken?"
He looks quickly over at me. I nod.
"Weel, while I was wrappin' yer foot-"
"You took care of my ankle?"
"Aye. I grew up wi' three brothers - an' we were all venturesome lads - one of us had tae learn how tae bind up hurts, and I was the only one who showed any aptitude for it. . ."
"Right, sorry. Go on."
"Weel then. I was wrappin' yer foot, and Murtagh was tellin' me how brave ye'd been-"
I bark a laugh, interrupting him again.
"What?"
"Oh nothing. Go on." I don't know if I want this generous gallant of mine to know just how murderously angry I was during my encounter with Black Jack's men. . .
"We got curious, ye see. Ye'd given them a black eye, Murtagh said. Naebody does that tae Black Jack. Mostly they surrender or run. Ee's a devil of a bastard, ye ken."
"I'm beginning to. . ."
He half-smiles, ruefully, "And yer wee bag was there, and mebbe we shouldnae have, but we looked through it."
I smirk, "And found nothing but mushrooms, chestnuts and alisanders."
"Aye."
I lean forward, and whisper, centimeters from his ear, "And what if I'd hidden the card in my underclothes?"
He blinks, and flushes almost as dark red as his hair, "Ye. . . ye didnae. . . I mean. . . I mean we didnae. . ." He stutters to a halt as I laugh.
"Are you sure you held me all night just because you don't like driving, Jamie?", I run a hand up his arm, and for a second seriously consider running my fingers though the tangle of curls on his neck.
"Aye," says, stoutly, "That was the reason."
"Mm," I hum, noncommittally.
He looks down at where my fingers are now tracing a pattern on his shoulder, then rakes a glance across my face, his eyes coming to rest on my lips.
"That. . ." he says, slowly, "And summat more. . ."
Before I can reply, he notices something over my shoulder, and points, eagerly.
"Look a' that."
I twist around, and see the dark shape of a grandly proportioned house, silhouetted against the pink-streaked sky.
Whatever spell had been weaving between us is quite broken, and only just in time.
"What is it?" I ask, though whatever the place is called, I know this must be our destination.
He lifts my legs gently to the floor, and undoes his harness.
"That's Castle Leoch."
Chapter 19: A Man's Home
Chapter Text
"Castle" Leoch is anything but. As we approach I can see it is a magnificent house, quite impressive really, especially to someone like me. But a castle it is not. It's a wood-panel construction, like Uncle Lamb's manse. Tiled roofs. Pillared balconies. Row upon row of glass windows that catch the early morning sunlight with an almost overpowering dazzle. Sculpted trees and gardens lining the road the whole long way up to the elaborate iron gate, and beyond. But there isn't a turret or tower in sight, nor stone walls, nor the square saw-edge pattern across the tops of those walls that mark every castle I've ever seen.
Granted, I've only ever seen them in storybooks. . .
Maybe this does count as a castle here?
The main bulk of the building is three levels tall, with two wings making an open courtyard where the van and Rover pull in. Jamie, Murtagh and Dougal all leap from the van with as much or even more energy than Mr. Graham ever did. I try to stand and follow them, but my ankle is so sore after a night of inactivity that it can bear no weight. I sit back and wait, knowing they will remember me eventually.
By now there is a great clamour on the surrounding pavement, as what must be the entire household comes out to meet us. Young men and old - some dressed for business and some for hard labour, old women and young - some uniformed and official-looking, some impressively dressed-up for this early in the day, and all ages of children spill out of the house to welcome back their travelers. Dougal especially, seems to need to greet every one of the milling crowd, just as they all seem to need to greet him.
"Uncle Dougal, Uncle Dougal! What'd ye bring me?" A childish voice raises above the din, and then the man himself raises a boy, about seven or eight years old, into his arms, swings him around, and laughingly smacks a giant kiss onto his forehead.
"Ewwwww, Uncle DOUGAL!" The child screams indignantly, and furiously wipes his forehead as the nearest in the crowd laugh.
"Aye, that's all ye get, like it or no'," says Dougal, cheerily. He puts the squirming boy down, and bellows, "Mrs. Fitz!". A stout, extremely capable looking woman pushes through the crowd at his call. He jerks his head in my direction, "We have company!"
The woman makes her way towards me, as Dougal goes back to his welcome.
She leans into the van, her smooth plump arms and neatly permed grey head giving her an air of almost preternatural imperturbability and confidence, "Ah, greetings lassie!"
I reach out a hand, as much for support as for greeting, "Hello, I'm Claire - Claire Beauchamp."
She takes my hand, and half lifts, half leads me out into the courtyard, "I'm properly known as Mrs. FitzGibbons, but everyone calls me Mrs. Fitz, and ye may as well begin as ye'er certain to end up. Twisted ankle?"
"Y-yes," I say, wincing as I limp, "I was camping outside Inverness and turned it on a rock."
"Weel, 'tis only a few steps over to the guest wing - Ye are an official Guest of Clan Mackenzie?"
I swivel my head, surveying the dwindling crowd, looking for anyone familiar, but they're all going inside, and the five faces I know are nowhere to be seen. My spirits droop a little. I had expected Jamie to forget me, but I didn't expect it would be quite this quickly. "I. . . don't know, Mrs. Fitz. I assume so. Dougal said I'd earned an audience with the Laird."
"Earned it?" She hustles me inside the left wing of the house, and down a short passageway to an open living space.
"Yes, their Land Rover broke down, but I managed to fix it."
"Ah," she says, looking dubiously at my attire, even as she settles me comfortably on a couch, "Are ye with Beaton and Sons?"
I pause. I can hardly tell her I have no idea who or what that is. . .
"Something. . . along those lines. . ." I gesture at my clothes to change the subject, "Rupert had managed to redirect coolant into the wrong chamber, and before I could fix it, it got all over my dress." Her eyes soften as she recognizes the name. "Murtagh found these for me to travel in."
She smiles broadly, "Oh, aye. 'Each according too their nature', dearie."
That doesn't seem to mean anything, but I press on, rooting around in the plastic bag I thankfully remembered to grab as I left the van, "Here it is, actually. And my stained bra too. I doubt you can do anything with them, but, it might be worth a try. . ." I hand them over, adding my now very rumpled cloak to the pile.
"Aye, I'll send them too the laundry, dinnae fash," she says as she unrolls and shakes out the cloak, looking with distaste at the grass and mud stains, "Does yer wee ankle need tendin'?"
I wince again as I shift my foot more comfortably onto the couch, "Maybe it does, but. . ."
"But ye'll be wanting breakfast and a bath first? Aye, and I'll send for some extra clothes for ye - ye look tae be about our Annie's size, an' she has enough and tae spare. . ."
My heart warms at her simple kindness, "Thank you, Mrs. Fitz, that sounds lovely," I lift the pouch of forest vegetables out of the bag next, "I know it's not much to offer, but it's all I have - mushrooms, alisanders and chestnuts - I don't doubt they're in some disarray now, but. . . well, they mustn't go to waste."
She takes the bag somewhat gingerly, "Aye, I'll tell the kitchens. . . an' if ye'll pardon me, but ye do seem to have come tae this pass by the strangest road."
I can't help smiling at that, "You have no idea, Mrs. Fitz."
She smiles, either in pity or compassion, and leaves for, I suppose, the kitchens and laundry.
Breakfast arrives surprisingly quickly after that. A grinning girl of fifteen or sixteen appears almost out of nowhere, and sets a tray on my lap. A large pot of tea, and lavish portions of porridge and cream, fruit preserves and butter sit next to an egg on toast, a saucer of sliced lemons, and small bowl of sugar.
"Welcome to Castle Leoch!" the girl says, blithely, before scuttling away, as quickly as she came.
And quite a welcome it is indeed. As I eat, I try to get my bearings. On this world. On this time. On myself.
The semi-professional power-salvage peddler camping on the Rim of Skycity 15 seems eons ago, instead of less than a week. And if time is counted by the number of things that happen to you, then, surely, it has been an eon or two. The depressed, almost starving, last surviving Beauchamp on New Oxford, widowed, orphaned, made childless and destitute by World War IV - she very nearly no longer exists. Nor can she. Even the awed, curious, eager niece visiting her uncle on Cold Island 12 I must put far from me. Who I am now, who I must be, can bear almost no resemblance to those Claire Beauchamps.
I am in Scotland, the year is 2078. I have nothing but the clothes I wear, and the knowledge in my brain. Both of which are laughably inadequate for the time period I've landed in, so not only do I have less than nothing, what I do have is dangerous to me.
2078 is also in the middle of the British Col- no, I must call it the Third Scottish War of Independence. The Second Revolutionary Period is only just beginning. The Second Battle of Culloden won't happen for another three and half years. The Unity War hasn't happened yet. WWIII hasn't happened yet. Countries still exist. Most land is still habitable. The Earth has not been soaked in the radioactive poisons that drove us to the skies. Yet.
There are still horses, bees, boats, running water, castles, dogs and cats, fish in the ocean, and people on land.
And there are still political situations I don't understand, nor do I particularly wish to, but they will most likely have a massive impact on my life, so I must.
I have been taken in - however briefly or reluctantly - by one of the Clan Lairds who will very soon be taking part in ruling Scotland again.
And I have been attacked by one of Queen Victoria's Peace Agents and his men - the notorious Black Jack Randall, not a gambler as supposed, but a vicious, violent man - who, if Lamb is correct, and my eyes do not deceive me, is a forefather of Frank Randall, my late and dearly lamented husband. . . who is not due to be born for another hundred and fifty years. . .
It's enough to make my head whirl.
I need a story. As simple a one as possible. I've already used the camping explanation with Mrs. Fitz, so I have to keep that part. I also told her my name. Therefore, I must be Claire Beauchamp. That's something, at least - because I am Claire Beauchamp.
But where am I from? An island in the North Atlantic seems most unlikely. And if anyone asks me straight out where I'm from, I'm going to automatically say New Oxford, I know I will.
I decide must be from Oxford - not the city in southern England that was bombed into oblivion during WWIII, and certainly not the Skycity named in memorial of that city - but the city itself. The living, vibrant city I've never seen, on English soil that I've never trod, housing English people I've never met. That is where I must be from.
Me. Claire Beauchamp.
I must be an Englishwoman.
It feels very strange to think about myself that way. I wonder if I can pull it off.
I sigh a little, finishing the last bite of toast. I'll have to pull it off. I can't afford not to.
As for the rest of my back-story, I can't think of anything simpler than the almost-truth. I was born and educated in Oxford. My parents died eight years ago. My only uncle died when I was eleven. I am a currently jobless Farming Technician with a degree in Botany, on a camping trip, trying to reconcile herself to a life alone after her husband died in a. . . from a. . . because. . .
A house fire? A car crash? A pulmonary infarction? A stroke? Cancer? I can hardly say he was vaporized by an unexploded Blueblast charge. . . I have to pick some other way. . .
How on earth can I choose a way for Frank to die? If I'd had any real choice, he would never have died at all.
Needs must, Beauchamp. Make up your mind and do it.
Alright. An explosion at a sanitation plant seems the most supportable, and closest to the truth. The point is, I'm a widow. . .
I grip my teacup a good deal harder than necessary. Right, then. I'm a widow, who was on a camping trip, and I was set upon by ruffians at my campsite, and fled with nothing but what I was carrying at the time. I turned my ankle in the woods, and was trying to get to help when I ran across Black Jack.
I put down my teacup and lean back into the cushions. That's as simple as I'm going to get, I think. Whether or not it will stand up to scrutiny is another matter, but either way, I'll see soon.
"I see ye'ev enjoyed yer breakfast," says Mrs Fitz, returning without preamble, "Tha's encouragin'. I allus say there's nae much wrong wi' ye if ye can git 'round yer breakfast."
"Yes, thank you, it was delicious Mrs. Fitz."
She plumps down a pile of clothing on a nearby table, "Annie's given ye a good selection o' things tae start off with - an' she says tae tell her when ye need more and she'll take ye shoppin'.
"That's very kind of her. Will you tell her I'm deeply grateful?"
How funny. Lately it seems people are always giving me clothes. Mrs. Graham. Murtagh. Now Mrs. Fitz and Annie.
"Aye, that I will. But it's mostly an excuse tae go shoppin', ye ken. Annie'd gi' ye her whole left arm for a good excuse tae go inta town and spend money."
I laugh, "Well, she still has my thanks. Once I get cleaned up, you'll have to introduce me."
"Aye, that I will, dearie." She brings over a proper medical-grade crutch, "D'ye think ye'll be needing this, then?"
I flex my foot slightly, and consider. "I think it would be a good idea. My ankle isn't too bad, really, but I'll need to keep off of it for a few days."
She nods, and puts the crutch down on the couch beside me, "Aye. An' young Mr. MacTavish said tae tell ye he'll be in tae see tae yer foot in a hour or so."
Her face looks very bright and motherly when she mentions this Mr. MacTavish. He must be a personable young man, if she likes him that much. But not a doctor, I notice. Ah well. Not every castle in Scotland can have a live-in doctor. . .
"Tha's long enough for ye tae take a bath and freshen up first, if ye want," she says, with a peremptory gesture that says very clearly it's what she wants.
I smile. No use arguing with this kind, generous, utterly invincible person.
"Yes, of course, Mrs. Fitz. If you'll show me the way?"
It takes a second for me to find my balance with the new crutch, but when I do, she leads me down a short hallway and through two large wooden doors, to a small, but highly comfortable looking guest room. She points at the small white-painted door in the corner across from me.
"The washroom is in there, dearie, all ready for ye. I'll jus' go shift yer clothes."
She stumps off to bring them, and when she returns, I've just closed the door of the washroom behind me. I hear her shuffle about a bit, and then she leaves. I exhale fully, for the first time in what seems like years. For the first time on this crazy, wild journey of mine, I don't feel watched, or chased, or at all like I need to defend myself.
I lean the crutch up against the wall, and survey the 200 year old plumbing I'll have to deal with. Instantly, I'm grateful to Mrs. Graham and the manse, because here, the wash basin, tub and toilet all have running water. This is unprecedented for me. . . There is so much water here, they relieve themselves in it? I've heard of kitchens occasionally having a plumbed-in water spigot, but that's always meant for drinking or cooking purposes. And of course, water vats are essential to any Skycity farming station. I had forgotten people ever bathed in tubs of water until Mrs. Graham had showed me the one at the manse. That's the only preparation I have for. . . this. I go over and inspect the toilet more closely. Everything about it seems normal, except for the liter or two of water resting in the basin of it. It smells like perfectly clean, potable water too. . .
I've never even dreamed that people could. . . that people would. . . re-contaminate their clean water like this.
Biological waste re-contamination is bad enough when we're talking about plants on a hydroponic farming station. But Human biological waste? On Skycities, raw Human waste and potable water don't get within ten meters of each other, ever. The only vague exception is if you consider the greywater treatment plants that clean and filter the water used by steamshower stations.
I push the "clear" button on the toilet, and watch in somewhat stunned horror as the water almost instantly disappears, and who knows how much more actually sprays down the inside.
How much, in total? Two liters? Three? Four? Certainly enough to buy food and warmth for several days. Just. . . wasted.
And, what is more, commonly wasted far more literally than I could ever have imagined. I'm breathless with the sheer arrogance of it. . .
But, this is what they have here. And this is what I'm going to have to use, no matter if I like it or not.
This is going to take some getting used to. . .
I decide to take a shower first, and it's a good thing I do, because there is a fiendishly complicated set of mechanisms used to choose hot or cold water, where and how to direct it, and how strong or gentle that spray of water is to be. I would never have thought two knobs, three switches and one button could be so inconsistent and confusing, but, by the time I'm done, I've been doused in freezing water twice, nearly scalded once, sprayed in the face three times, and emerged more sodden and drippy than I've ever imagined a Human body could be.
And after I'm finally dry, it still takes another ten minutes for me to work up the impudence to use the toilet.
The liquid soap next to the handwashing basin smells wonderful though. There's a hand-inked label on it saying "Soapwort and Wintergreen", two herbs I know about, but have never seen or used until now. There was a bottle in the shower too, that I used on my hair and skin. It has left a wonderfully clean texture behind, and a soft, deep smell that I find both vaguely familiar, and inexplicably comforting.
When I finally emerge back into the main room, I find a full set of clothes laid out on the bed for me, including a pair of ridiculously fluffy house-slippers.
I laugh, even as I shake my head. I think I'm going to like this Annie person.
I dress as hastily as I can, hoping Mr. MacTavish won't mind me taking a good deal more than the hour he stipulated. . .
I tap-bump with my new crutch back into the main living room, and when I go though the big arched doorway, the first person I see is an utterly unmistakable tall, red-headed man.
"Jamie!" I say, grinning so wide I must look incredibly foolish, but I don't care.
"Ah, so ye've met Mr. MacTavish, have ye?" says Mrs Fitz.
The grin freezes on my face, "We've. . . been introduced," I say, evasively.
"Aye, ee's usually drivin' the horses, and ye were in the van, dearie, so I didnae ken if ye'd met. Himself has sent word - yer tae join the high table at supper."
"Is that good?"
"That's very good," she pats Jamie's arm as she passes by him, "Ye take care o' th'lass now, d'ye hear me, wee Jamie?" She turns and gives him a teasingly stern look that has a surprising amount of real steel behind it.
Jamie nods solemnly, "Aye Mrs. Fitz. I hear."
She nods, once at each of us, and goes back to her duties.
I've resettled my foot back on the same couch as before. Neither of us break the silence, and he doesn't turn to look at me.
If he's hoping I'll let this slide, he's dealing with the wrong woman.
"So. . ." I say, finally, "Mr. MacTavish, is it?"
At last, he turns and meets my gaze, a slightly abashed grin on his face, "Weel, when a man's on the run, he has to be somewhere, and he has to be someone. An' preferably that's no' at home, nor himself."
I raise my eyebrows and smile, "Well then. Mr. MacTavish," I gesture at my foot, "Are you going to play doctor with me now?"
Several emotions cross his face before he schools his expression to a mildly stern sort of abstraction, "Nae, I think ye'r quite capable of doctorin' yerself," he hands me the small pot of ointment I didn't notice he was holding until now, "I'll jus'. . ." he turns to leave.
"Don't go!" I say, all the teasing gone from my voice, "Stay and talk to me, at least." I pull my foot up into my lap, and begin to clumsily unwrap the long bandage.
For a long few seconds he just watches me. Then, he gives a soft, sighing "agch!" and says, resignedly, "Let me!"
I stop, and my eyes follow him as he pulls a chair over to my couch. Then, with infinite tenderness, he lifts my foot onto his thigh. He deftly rolls the bandage up as he removes it, then opens the jar, and starts to spread a cool, soothing cream on my still bruised and swollen ankle. His touch is so light it would tickle were it not for the thin layer of ointment.
That, and the electricity between us, of course. Physical contact with him like this feels totally different than either in the cupboard or the van. Here, we both chose our positions, both clearly want them. Just being in each other's presence is flirting, and as for his fingers taking care of my ankle. . . He is being quite businesslike and straightforward about it, but I can see his jaw is clenched tight, and there's more than delicacy behind his touch being so feather-light.
When he took up my leg, for just a moment, I felt him tremble.
He is finishing re-wrapping the bandage when I find the courage to say, "You have a very healing touch, Mr. MacTavish."
He puts my foot gently back on the couch, then slides off his chair to kneel down next to me, leaning on the cushions so we are eye to eye. "Is tha' so?"
I nod, and reach out to run my fingers down the collar of his shirt. He too has bathed and changed since we got here, his hair still damp and dark. "You didn't learn all that just by bandaging up your - what was it, three brothers? - now, did you?"
He shakes his head, "Nae. I didnae."
Somehow he's closer now, almost looming over me, but I could still put out a hand and easily push him away.
I don't.
His mouth is so much softer than I was expecting, so much warmer and cooler and more exciting, that I almost don't mind when he leaves my lips and kisses up my cheekbone to my ear.
"I was hopin' ye'd taste so sweet," he whispers, then starts down my neck.
"Were you?" I say, far more focused on what he's doing to me than what he's saying.
"Mmm," he hums against my collarbone, "Ye dinnae ken what ye did tae me in that cupboard, Claire. I wilnae be able tae muck out a stall ever again without thinkin' of the shape and smell of ye. . ."
His mouth is back over mine before I can agree. The fingers of one of his hands tangle in my hair, even as my fists take handfuls of his shirt, holding him to me. His other hand slowly caresses down my side, coming to rest cupping my hip, and finally I can't stand it. I moan. My suspicions were right about him. He's a perfect lover.
Lover.
The word dashes through my brain, turning my blood to ice water. I grip his wrists and fling his hands away from me. He starts back, shocked and hurt, but I can't deal with him now. Shame, fear and loss, three things I only rarely felt before Frank died, but have been my almost constant companions ever since, have risen up to engulf me. I've been thinking about Jamie since I met him, yes, but that word has never intruded until now.
Lover.
You are a horrible person, Claire Beauchamp.
My head is in my hands, and I am almost hyperventilating, my whole being focused on holding back a frantic storm of tears.
Lover.
You don't deserve anything but misery, Claire Beauchamp.
I hear Jamie stand, and start to back away.
Desperately, I reach out to him, but I catch only the knee of his trouser leg.
"Don't go! I have to explain!" I gasp.
"Ye dinnae have tae-"
"Please! Let me!"
Without a word, he shifts his chair closer to me, and sits down again.
Slowly, I push the feelings down, beat back the awful self-recriminatory things it is all too easy for me to tell myself, and gradually get my breathing under control.
Finally, I look up, eyes stinging, but dry.
"I'm sorry."
He shakes his head, his face blank, his eyes more confused than hurt, "I. . . jus' thought ye were enjoying it."
"I was! I. . . mean, I am. I mean, I do!" I give a frustrated sigh, "Look, can I back up?"
He nods, and waits for me to speak.
Suddenly, I'm not quite sure where to back up to.
"You know that we. . . that everyone. . . has a past, right, Jamie?"
His brow knits up, sternly, "Aye."
"Well, my past includes a husband. And a child. Who both died."
He takes my hand, not in pity - which I can almost always detect, and always hate - but in a similar way that Lamb had gripped my shoulder. Supportive. Comforting. Almost like he also has a tragic past.
Stupid. He's wanted for murder, of course he has a tragic past. . .
"After we lost our baby-" I start, then stop. I've never actually said those words aloud before. They taste strange in my mouth. I have to say them again, if only to rid my tongue of the acrid bitterness of it. "After we lost our baby, our doctor said that. . . it was a problem caused by. . . well, the Y chromosome."
His runs his thumb across the ridge of my knuckles, "Meanin' it were yer husband's. . ." He stops, not wanting to say the obvious next word.
"Fault?" I finish for him, only just keeping back a vicious curse or two, "Yes. Genetically speaking, anyway. It would be dangerous for him to ever try to have children again. But I still loved him."
"A'course ye did."
"He told me that I was enough for him, but that if I wanted a child, we'd do whatever it took to get one. We could adopt. We could find a donor. Or. . ."
He grips my hand a little, spurring me on with his touch, "Yes? Or?"
"Or I could find a lover, if I wanted."
He is silent for a long few seconds, then shakes his head, "I take it yer husband had never heard of a certain Lady Chatterley, et. al.?"
"No. But I had."
And I've spent a considerable amount of time since Frank's death trying to banish the memory of the twisted, malformed, stunted soul that was the character of Sir Clifford Chatterley - the kind of man who would ever suggest such a thing to his wife in the first place, and who then became such a gross inversion of himself that he not only ensured his wife would leave him, he ruined what was left of his own life in the process.
"So, ye didnae do it?"
"I didn't have a chance," I say, forlornly. "We argued about it. I said some terrible things, so did he."
I pause, almost afraid to say what happened then, but I know I have to.
"And the next day, he died. I never got to apologize. And he never knew how much I loved him."
Jamie is silent a long time, working though all the implications of that.
"So. . . when I was kissin' ye. . ."
I shake my head, "No, the kisses were lovely." I briefly squeeze the hand that's holding mine, "I've been thinking about. . . you. . . what you'd. . . be like. . . ever since the cupboard too. Actually, even before that. And I'm fairly certain I dreamed about it last night."
"So then, why. . ."
"When you took hold of my hip, it was. . . it was like Frank was holding me again. And kissing you at the same time. . . it felt like. . . like. . ."
"Cheating?"
I nod, thankful he said the word so I don't have to.
"Even though he gave ye permission?"
"Especially since he gave me permission."
"I see. Ye are a woman of honour, Claire-"
He looks at me expectantly, and I realize I haven't told him my last name yet.
"Beauchamp."
He nods, "Ye are a woman of honour, Claire Beauchamp. I'm sorry I touched yer hip."
"Don't be sorry," I say, meaning it with all my heart, "Just. . . be patient?"
"Right then," he stands up and very slowly puts his hands behind his back, "Hands to meself." His face is mockingly serious, but his tone is so solemn, I know he's not making fun of me.
Then he kneels again, and with his hands still behind him, he leans forward to kiss me some more.
Chapter 20: Screening Process
Chapter Text
It's been ages since I've had to dress for dinner. The last time was. . . I try to remember. . . twelve, maybe thirteen years ago? It was the last time my parents invited me to their anniversary party before I met Frank. If I recall correctly, the theme had been "New Paris Nights". There was an omelette bar, and champagne, and everyone had to dress in either pink or black. Just another sumptuous, frivolous affair in the Spire of Skycity 15.
I doubt supper with the Laird will be anywhere near such an event, but still. . . I look down at the three outfits I've laid out, wondering which one would be the most appropriate.
Mrs. Fitz and Annie have done well by me - perhaps too well. They have provided a long wine-coloured skirt of some shimmery, flowing material, and there is a mid-tone grey blouse - abundantly trimmed with flourishes of wine lace - to go with it. If this was any time before 2055, I wouldn't have to think about it, this would be the dressiest, most "eating in public" thing here. No matter that the skirt lining is strangely fitted, itchy, and utterly irritating, and that I find the fancy, frilly lace all over the blouse ugly in the extreme. This would be "what to wear", and I would wear it. Simplicity itself.
But it's 2078, which means it has been over 20 years since Prince Bennet came out as Princess Victoria, and nearly ten since she became Queen Victoria The Second. My general knowledge of the time period isn't extensive, but I remember enough of my basic history to know that many beauty standards and cultural norms that had been waiting generations for a change, took this opportunity to do so.
Which means the sleeveless neon-purple jumpsuit with a pale yellow knitted mesh overtunic might be more expected for an event like "supper with the Laird". I've always looked awful in neons, and yellow does me no favours, but it is the boldest outfit here, and the most likely to make an impression. Even if on me it would probably be a silly impression, embarrassing to everyone present. Like my father often said - there are three kinds of formal occasions: those where the guests are uncomfortable, those where the hosts are uncomfortable, and those where everyone is uncomfortable. When you have a choice, pick the third. It's only fair.
But then again, this is Scotland, and. . .
I hold up the elbow-sleeved princess-cut dress of a dark grey and soft blue tartan, and sigh. Not only is it unquestionably the prettiest thing here, it's timeless, respectful, comfortable when I tried it on, flattering to my figure, and its colours are something anyone would look good in. Frankly, I'm surprised Annie was willing to let me have it. But would it be "too on the nose"? And should a Sassenach be wearing tartan in a formal situation with a clan Laird?
I don't know, and I'm tired of thinking about it. I have a few hours until suppertime, maybe I could go find Mrs. Fitz and ask her?
I hop on my good leg over to the desk and sit down. No, I don't want to go stumbling all over the place, just to ask her a suspicious kind of question like "What should I wear tonight?". This really is the sort of thing I should know. I might be able to pass it off as "Sassenach ignorance" or something, but if I'd actually spent my life in this society, it wouldn't be that difficult a choice. Certainly not the kind of thing that someone with a sprained ankle would go wandering about looking for the housekeeper to ask.
I sigh again. I miss Jamie. Getting him to help me would be so easy. I'd just ask which one he liked, and then he'd go on about the good points of all of them so freely and volubly, that I'd have no problem picking up all the social details I need, just by listening to the subtext. And maybe the text.
The dear man is unquestionably intelligent, and obviously clever, but wily? I don't think he is that. And subtle he definitely is not, but he's a very good kisser, and the most emotionally intelligent man I've met here so far, both of which count for a lot in my book.
He's also the only one I'd trust in my bedroom. . .
But there's no use thinking about that now. He left me hours ago, saying he had to "Muck out those stables, tho' t'will be even worse now" - by which I assume he means "mucking out" is an unpleasant thing in general, and doubly so after you've spent half an hour kissing someone you find attractive.
Although, I do admit, after half an hour of kissing Jamie, even things I was excited about before seem mildly unpleasant in comparison. So I can relate.
After he left, I'd sat dreamily on my couch, replaying it all in my head for an embarrassingly long time. It wasn't until Mrs. Fitz herself arrived with my lunch that I'd remembered the outside world, with all of its cold realities.
"Agh, ye look so much bettar for a visit with Mr. MacTavish, dear."
"Yes. Or "Wee Jamie", as you called him."
"Aye, so I did. He used to visit here during summers when he were a wee lad. I always called him that. Suppose I never gave up the habit."
"He told me his name was James Fraser."
She looked at me sharply then, visibly weighing up if I was friend or foe. "An' did he tell ye why he must no' be called that for the time bein'?"
"No, not in so many words. But I assume the warrant for murder has something to do with it."
Her eyes went wide, "And ye believe he's innocent?"
"Of that, certainly."
She had shaken her head, "An' ye only knowin' each other a few hours. . ."
"Sometimes that's all it takes, Mrs. Fitz."
She'd patted my shoulder, and left me with a huge bowl of stew, and a whole loaf of soda bread. I didn't recognize the meat in the stew, but it tasted no stronger than the haggis yesterday.
I lean back and pat my stomach at the memory. I'd only made it halfway through the meal before I was, miraculously, impossibly, full. I haven't been full since the last time Frank pulled in all six of his power panel sets in one week, and the profits meant we could afford to go to our favorite Central caf. And even then, wartime rationing had forbidden us to take any leftovers home.
I grin at the bowl and basket I've put beside me on the desk, and reach over to break off a bite of bread from the basket. I'd forgotten how happy having food left over after a meal makes me. It's as if, for just a minute, the world itself is on your side. Like the very planet wants you to survive.
Survival. . . I look over at the bed and frown. The hard truth is, I'm not going to survive this adventure of mine unless I make some allies, and fast. Allies who have influence enough to keep me safe for as long as I'm here. Allies who can provide, if not stability, then at least a few formidable resources. Dougal and his brother The Laird are my best chance at that. I can't count on finding another. Wearing the right clothes to supper might be a good step towards earning their trust, or they might find it a negligible point. Either way, I figure it can't hurt. . .
I stare for a long time at the deactivated info-screen sitting on the desk. I've avoided using it, because I know how easy it is to track user-information. Dougal has been suspicious of me from the start, and he's the exact opposite of a fool. I'd honestly be shocked if they haven't already Shadowed the device. I could use it to go search for "proper dress code clan laird supper", but it would be wasted effort, since they'd know I searched for it. There's dozens of things I want to look up, but I can't afford to have them know about. I could double-shadow, I suppose, but then all they'd see is my interface activate, and nothing happen after that. Which, if they have a visual on me, would mean two, maybe three minutes until someone notices something is up.
If they have a visual. . .
Shit!
Why didn't I think of cameras until now? Video feeds, microphones - they might have seen and heard my entire interaction with Jamie. Which probably wouldn't be fatal, since we'd limited ourselves to kissing, and I'd been very careful not to give away anything era-specific about Frank, but I still don't exactly want to share either of those things with the general public.
And if there's one camera - or more! - in my room, the most they could possibly have seen was me in my underwear. Not a big deal. Unless they've bugged the shower, which seems a tiny bit over the top, even for Dougal.
I grab my crutch, and start searching. Behind shelves, under tables, around decorations, and in between knickknacks. The room is small, thankfully, but there is a lot of stuff scattered around. In the end, I find only one device I recognize - a small cube disguised to look like wood, exactly matching the small cubic finial atop the other side of the fancy carved wooden posts holding up the mirror of the dressing table. I only realized it was fake because one of my fingers brushed against it while searching behind the mirror. Plastic, not wood. Directed right to where I'd sit to put on my bra and socks. And it looks like it has the bed in view too. The perfect angle to watch me at my most vulnerable times.
I sneer, and am about to wrench it away, when I realize one side is glowing red, just the slightest bit. I know that's the active "eye" of the camera, but this one is not glowing how I expected. It is not the forward-facing side that's red, but the top. Someone has installed it incorrectly.
My sneer turns into a smirk, and I scramble as fast as I can over to the info-screen, and triumphantly turn it on. It glows to life, blue-white and deceptively innocent as each loading screen completes.
~accessing~. . .
~database found~. . .
~loading network~. . .
~access granted~
Then six or seven icons appear, on a background of the same grey and blue tartan as the dress currently laid out on my bed. The icons are labeled in English, and all make perfect sense. Everything is here that should be here, and there's nothing extra.
But there was also no entry code, no security barrier. The epitome of an unsecured workstation. They want me to do this - no way they aren't watching.
I glance over at the useless camera, and smile bitterly.
Or, at least trying to watch.
Instead of immediately going to a search engine, as I'm sure Dougal thinks I will, I type in the command for a code interface. It pops up, and I ask it for a network overview. It grinds on that for a minute, then gives me two possibles, and asks if I want to search for them. I tell it yes. This OS is a little bit different than the one I'm used to, but most of the advances in computer tech in the past 200 years have been in data storage and miniaturization, not programming or the user-interface.
Now, I'm no hacker, but I know most of the common tricks. Growing up in Central, I learned the basics as a matter of course, since Navigation Control is one of the few places considered prestigious enough for Central workers. Later, I learned a lot more from Professor Smithson - who insisted that all bio-engineers be able to do their own programming, no matter if their major was Hydroponics or Historical Botany.
Two windows pop up, one with a network map, and one with an activity matrix. Interesting. Whoever has removed the security on this device has failed to isolate it properly. I have access to the rest of the network.
Well, that's two screwups. I'm going to bet on three.
I find where I am on the map, and click for stealth options. Only Private and Mirror show up, and my pulse quickens. If the words mean the same thing as in my usual OS, then maybe this device isn't Shadowed. Maybe it's only Mirrored. Meaning they can see everything I type, but I can tell when they do.
And I can Mirror back. If I Shadow myself first, they won't even know. . .
I go back to the code interface and ask for shadowing options. It takes me several tries to understand how to do it with this OS, but a few minutes later, I've self-shadowed my device, cleaned up the Mirrored window, and am ready to begin.
I open a search engine where I know they can see me if they're watching. I type in "what to do if my Personal ID card has been stolen".
I truly want to know this, so I ask the same thing in my Shadow window. I click back and forth, gathering information, writing down contacts, and keeping half an eye on the Network Activity window, when one of the local network locations on the map lights up. A moment later, another one does too. The Activity map shows direct messaging between those devices, so I go into my Shadow window, and Mirror both of them.
An active text box shows up in the corner of my screen.
-o-I-o-
BigBull: Witchy Woman has engaged her user interface.
PertDragRacer: Oh goody. Anything worth looking at?
BigBull: Not yet.
PertDragRacer: Damn.
-o-I-o-
I think I've found my two screwups.
If that isn't Angus and Rupert, I'll eat my bra.
And screwups is the word, because the network maps and code interface appeared in the Mirrored window, and they thought nothing of them. If they knew anything about what they're doing, they'd already know I've penetrated the hell out of their nonexistent security.
Where I know they can see me, I search for "meaning Gaelic word Sassenach".
Where I know they can't see me, I search for "Oxford city map and history".
I know I probably don't have much time, but I scan the map of Oxford for several minutes, and watch three street walkthroughs of residential areas. Almost at once, I see that the part of my story about an explosion at a sanitation plant is a wildly improbable way for Frank to have died. Absolutely, if they are watching me now, however ineptly, then they will follow up whatever story I tell them about my past, and I dare not be as inept as them.
Where they can see, I search for "jobs farm technician Scottish Highlands".
I actually want to know that too, but I'm pressed for time, so I search in the Shadow window - "Oxford registrar's office".
I pull up some official Oxford City records, just to see what their security is like. It isn't too bad, unless you want into the financial records of City officials, but I couldn't care less about those. I go into Births, Deaths, and Marriages, bring up a page on Home Ownership and Registration, open an image editing program in my Shadow window, and get to work.
It takes almost an hour, and several more phony searches where I know Angus and Rupert can see me, but I manage to forge a paper trail for myself and Frank. I was born Claire Moriston - actually my mother's maiden name - and there is now a birth certificate to show it. I have a degree in botany from Oxford, and all the certificates to prove it now exist, a matter of public record. I married Frank Beauchamp eight and a half years ago, he died almost five years ago, and our marriage license and his death certificate are on record. I decide he died in a car crash. Apparently that is much more common. Therefore, harder to track down. We lived in a little house in an unremarkable part of town. I was lucky with that - I managed to find a house that has recently burned down. Both our names are now on the lease, though, and I have a better excuse than ever as to why I came to Scotland. I even go into the records of a local Oxford car rental place and attach my name to a recently lost car of theirs. That's how I got to Scotland, and when I was "attacked at my campsite", clearly the car was stolen.
In order to get an official ID card "replacement", I have to request my birth certificate, and go though several legal hoops. I'll deal with those when the time comes. To start the process though, I go back to where they can see me, and send a formal request for the birth certificate I just forged for myself.
I don't know how much more time I have - Ha! What a dilemma for a time traveler! - but only now do I do something that, perhaps, I ought to have done from the start.
I make sure it's 2078.
It is.
It's November 2, Anno Domini, Two-Thousand and Seventy-Eight.
Seeing the letters and numbers glowing on the screen somehow makes the reality of my situation forcefully real again.
I've just committed who knows how many felonies, so I can continue to deceive the people who rescued me, all because I can't tell them that I'm actually from 200 years in the future.
I've never really believed the phrase "Truth is stranger than fiction" until now. . .
I'm finally closing stuff down, purging the memory as I go, when Angus and Rupert start chatting again.
-o-I-o-
PertDragRacer: Hey, anything interesting yet?
BigBull: No.
PertDragRacer: What's she doing?
BigBull: Lot of boring legit stuff.
PertDragRacer: So she is who she says she is?
BigBull: Looks like it.
-o-I-o-
I wonder now. . .
If these two believe me, then that's almost as good as Dougal believing me. They're his pawns, so he probably doesn't 100% trust them, but if I throw a spanner in the works, then maybe, maybe something can develop.
I close down everything in the Mirrored screen except one search window.
Time to mess with their fool heads.
-o-I-o-
BigBull: Pull the footage from the cameras while we wait.
PertDragRacer: Right. Downloading now.
BigBull: Don't forget to leave them on passive mode.
PertDragRacer: Um. . . oops?
BigBull: Have they not been on passive this whole time?
PertDragRacer: Don't think so?
BigBull: Shite! Switch them and switch them fast.
PertDragRacer: What's the rush?
BigBull: Idiot. Active cameras glow. Passive ones don't.
PertDragRacer: Oh.
BigBull: Exactly. We don't want Witchy Woman noticing she's being watched.
PertDragRacer: Fine, fine. Switched to passive mode now.
BigBull: Have you pulled that footage yet?
PertDragRacer: Christ, give me two seconds.
-o-I-o-
I type in the search "poisonous mushrooms Scotland Inverness"
-o-I-o-
BigBull: Whoa.
PertDragRacer: What?
BigBull: Notify the kitchens. Those fungi Witchy Woman gave MFG might be poisonous.
PertDragRacer: Whoa.
BigBull: I already said that. Just tell them, will you?
PertDragRacer: Okay okay. Doing it now.
-o-I-o-
I search for "average Scottish male's penis size".
-o-I-o-
BigBull: Whoa.
PertDragRacer: You already said that. What?
BigBull: Whoa.
PertDragRacer: WHAT?
BigBull: I think our wee Jamie might have gotten lucky this morning.
PertDragRacer: Not bloody likely!
BigBull: Well, I cannot think of anyone else who can get close enough to Witchy Woman to show her their dangle.
PertDragRacer: You're kidding me.
BigBull: Nope.
PertDragRacer: Lucky bastard.
BigBull: You're telling me!
-o-I-o-
I go into their chat-app and create an account. From my Shadow window, it doesn't even ask for a password. I shake my head. These two are impossible. I can't even dislike them anymore. They're too adorable.
I also take a minute to set up my endgame code, and cue it up in its own Shadow window.
-o-I-o-
PertDragRacer: Okay. Got the camera footage. Watching on quick speed.
BigBull: Finally.
PertDragRacer: Yeah, whatever. Camera 1 was only engaged for 45 minutes. We got some prime footage of Witchy Woman eating. Then something bumps the camera or the clip failed or something. I think it fell into the vase where we asked MFG to put it. It wasn't waterproof, so it fizzled.
BigBull: Told you that was a bad anchor point.
PertDragRacer: Yeah, yeah, yeah, go jag off somewhere else. Camera 2 is still recording visuals, but all we're getting is footage of the ceiling, and no audio.
BigBull: Did you explain how to install it properly? MFG isn't dumb. . .
PertDragRacer: I explained it fine. She just put it in wrong. No big deal, we can shift it tomorrow. The Dungeon Master says not to worry about tonight's visuals too much, it's the mirror feed that's the important part.
BigBull: And that's still working. Right, got it.
-o-I-o-
If ever there was an entrance cue, that's it.
-o-I-o-
SassyNeck: So, you two screwups have never heard of a shadow feed, I take it?
BigBull: Who is this?
SassyNeck: Take a wild guess, Angus.
PertDragRacer: Um. . .
SassyNeck: Hi Rupert!
BigBull: How did you. . .
SassyNeck: Oh, well, let's see. Witchy Woman? I have to assume the only magic you've seen lately was me pulling your Trawler back from the brink of fiery doom, so that's obvious.
SassyNeck: And then, MFG = Mrs. FitzGibbons. That was BARELY a code name, guys. Like, you didn't even try.
SassyNeck: I mean, if you're GOING to suck, at least suck HARDER, you know?
SassyNeck: And Dungeon Master? DM? As in Dougal Mackenzie? That's. . . a LITTLE bit better, I'll grant that.
SassyNeck: But not by much.
SassyNeck: After that, there were only two possibilities who "Big Bull" was, and I seriously doubt Rupert has ever been a "big" anything, so. . . yeah.
SassyNeck: WOW, you goofs are bad at this.
-o-I-o-
There's a pause long enough for me to assume they've called in backup. Maybe even Dougal himself, if he wasn't there already. I go into their applications and set up an emergency cutoff. When I'm done, I can knock the whole app off the server with one push of a button.
But not yet. . .
-o-I-o-
PertDragRacer: This app is password protected. How'd you get on?
SassyNeck: You watched me use a multi-tool and a soldering iron to fix the Artex 680 semi-fusion plasma drive engine that you almost exploded, and you ask me how I figured out your in-house chat-app password?
SassyNeck: Amateurs, the both of you.
BigBull: Yeah, but a mechanic isn't a hacker.
SassyNeck: I never said I was a mechanic. Or a hacker.
PertDragRacer: So, what are you then?
SassyNeck: A witch. Duh.
BigBull: Hold on - did YOU scuttle the cameras?
-o-I-o-
Actually, I don't know what happened with the cameras. Not for sure. But I have a guess or two.
I can see I'm going to have to talk to Mrs. Fitz after supper.
Not that I can let them know any of that. . .
-o-I-o-
SassyNeck: Right, like I'm ever going to let losers like you two ogle my tits. Nice try though. Next time, don't be so ridiculously obvious about your hiding spots, and maybe I'll let you see my bare shoulders before I crush your little spy cameras.
PertDragRacer: You know, "sassy neck" isn't all that clever a code name either. . .
SassyNeck: Uh-huh. You assume I was trying to hide. 'K, I'm going to kick you off the network now, boys. See you at supper. (You too Dougal, if you're watching!)
-o-I-o-
I hit the app's emergency cutoff, and run my endgame code. For two hours, their devices will display nothing but a bright orange banner with the text "Welcome To Boston!" on it. A tribute to my old school friends in Central. We would often go to Central Port, and try to trick the officials into letting us put "Welcome To New Boston" on the banner that greeted arrivals instead of "Welcome to New Oxford". We succeeded for ten minutes once. Eighteen arrivals from Skycity 20 were, briefly, very confused. It was a day to remember, and is the best memory I have from my school years.
As fast as I can, I close down windows and purge memory. They're probably on their way to get me now, if they're going to do it at all.
I quickly stamp across the room, knock the little cubic camera off the dressing table, and smash it with the foot of my crutch. There's that, then.
Soberly, I go into the common room. There are several vases, but the only one with water in it is on the table where Mrs. Fitz put down that large stack of clothes. And then she went to fetch them, after I was in my room already. No one else has gone near that particular table. Not Jamie, or the girl who brought me breakfast.
A smile halfway, feeling a bit grim, but still encouraged. It looks like I already have one ally, at least.
No - two. There is Jamie.
Possibly Murtagh as well, come to think of it. And Angus and Rupert may yet come around if I can insult them often enough, they're that kind.
But Dougal. . .
This whole episode is his mistrust of me, I know that. And for the immediate future, I've only made that worse.
But maybe I've laid the groundwork for something else, too. Who knows? The venture is all, at this point.
I go back to my bedroom and survey the three outfits again.
The first one - I am uncomfortable.
The second one - they are uncomfortable.
The third one - everyone is uncomfortable.
Best to wear the tartan dress. Fair is fair. If anyone calls me on it, I'll say it was the only thing on offer that I could wear comfortably while using a crutch. It won't be a lie, and let everyone - Dougal included - wonder what message I'm trying to send by wearing tartan to meet His Brother The Laird. It's not like I really know for sure myself.
I sit down at the dressing table, and stare for a second at the deathly determined look on my face.
Slowly, I relax, then take up a brush, and begin to do my hair.
I'm not going to meet the Laird. He's going to meet me.
Chapter 21: Grilled Rabbit
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Mrs. Fitz sends Annie to fetch me for supper. I'm just about to step into my dress when a soft knock sounds at my door.
"Come in!" I say, without thinking.
A tallish young woman, about my build, but younger, and intensely redheaded, steps in with a prompt, "Oh dear!", and immediately averts her eyes.
"It's alright," I say, contorting myself so I can pull up the zipper, "We're all girls together."
She looks up, a bit tentatively, "Aye. . . ah. . . Annie Campbell, Miss Claire," she holds out her hand.
I take it, with a grin, "Oh, it's you I have to thank for the clothes, I think?"
"Aye, do ye like them?"
"Very much." I settle the knee-length skirt of the tartan dress across my hips. "Of course, my personal tastes differ on some minor points. . ."
"Oh, a'coorse!" I reach for my crutch, leaned up against the desk, but before I can hop towards it, Annie rushes to hand it to me, "Ye wilnae forget tae say when ye want moor? There's a lovely little dress shop in Cranesmuir, an' two wee outlets for shoos, an' one just for makeup. There's even a spa over in Broch Mordha, iff'n ye want tae make a day of it, an' I've heard Mrs. Hart has a new girl in from Edinburgh who can do yer nails fair braw."
I smile, even though I only understand about half of what she's saying - and not just because of her accent. An "outlet" and a "spa" are places I don't understand, and I've no idea what "doing your nails" can possibly consist of beyond cleaning and trimming them properly. . .
"It all sounds lovely, but can you afford to do all that? Especially with a guest like me?"
She leads me through my rooms, and out into the house proper.
"Oh, aye! Uncle Colum takes good care o' his family. I'm assistant maid to Mrs. Fitz hersel' - I've more than a fair wage."
"Colum? He's the Laird, I take it?"
"Himself! Has nae'un named him to ye yet?"
"No. But that's alright. And your wages weren't what I meant, Annie."
"Were they no'?"
"No, I meant, can you afford to take a whole day off to show a stranger around?" I raise the crutch as emphasis, "I'm a bit slow-moving at the moment - any sort of trip into any town is likely to take all day."
"Well is'no' like I'm a searvant, am I? Colum is a distant cousin, actually, no' an uncle - but ee's been very good tae me. Ee's allus gi'en me a day off when'ere I wanted it before, and ye'er a best reason!"
"Am I?"
"Aye!" she goes and waits demurely in front of a large arched double door at the top of three shallow steps. As I slowly work my way up them, she opens the doors, and makes a bow to me that I think is called a "curtsy", "Hospitality to visitors is a matter of family honour, Miss Claire."
If that's so, then the dining room is a magnificent example of MacKenzie family honour. I've read about things like vaulted ceilings, crystal chandeliers, wine coloured carpets, tables draped in snowy-white linen and adorned with rows of candles set in amid flowery centerpieces - and I've seen pictures - but. . .
I decide there aren't words to describe what I'm feeling, so I just follow Annie into the room, mouth closed, and eyes wide.
Apparently, the big double-leaved door is only a side-entrance to the dining room - one of six side-entrances - and there are seven in total. One immensely long table runs down the center of the room, seeming to fill the space, though I think the room itself is broad enough to accommodate two long tables in parallel. One much shorter table is set lengthwise at one end - to the left as I entered - like a cross to a "T". Everything is crowded with glittering tableware and colourful flowers, lit by bright flickering candles and the glowing crystal clouds above us.
If it were up to me, I wouldn't want to do anything so crude as eating in this room - I'd just want to sit and look.
Annie leads me over to what I assume is the "high table" - though it is on the same level as the other. Mrs. Fitz is there, speaking to a small crowd of men and women in very stiff-looking black and white livery, giving them instructions, and running down a few checklists. I'm not the only person dressed for dinner in the room by far - at least two dozen other people are gathered in small groups on either side of the long table, and their numbers are only growing - but I am the only one who has been led this close to Mrs. Fitz and the High Table. I briefly wonder if there are any other guests besides me here tonight, or if they are all employees and family.
Or both. . .
"Ah, good, ye're heer," says Mrs. Fitz, turning to us, slightly breathless, "It wouldnae doo tae be late yer furst night, Mrs. Beauchamp, an' I need tae tell ye aboot the ceremony of the Entrance-" her eye is caught by one of the men in black and white livery, "Ooo, Mr. Crane, a moment!" she glances apologetically and slightly frantically at Annie and me, then scuttles off to do her job.
I grin, not at all worried. Not, that is, until Annie leans over to me, shamefaced, whispering fast and low-
"I didnae even think! What am I tae call ye? I jus' said Miss Claire wi'out askin', and-"
"Miss Claire is more than fine," I whisper back, "The way you say it, it makes me sound young, even pretty."
Annie stops with her mouth open, and looks me up and down, as though seeing me for the first time.
"And now you're going to be sentimental," I pat her hand, "Don't, my dear. Just take a little pressure off Mrs. Fitz, and show me where to stand and tell me what I'm supposed to say and do, there's a good girl."
By the time she's done explaining that I'm to stand until Himself sits, and I'm a High Table guest so Dougal has the honour of seating me, and he'll probably do so directly to Colum's left, but only after I've been formally introduced, the room has filled even further, and warmed with the presence of so many Human bodies. The low hum of conversation is more comforting and welcoming than I expected. No one speaks to me, but I don't feel excluded, only new, and somewhat small. Those things don't bother me. If they had forced a welcome on me, all glitter and hand gestures and empty smiles, then I would know I wasn't welcome here. But as things are, I think we might get on reasonably well, as soon as we get to know each other a little.
Slowly, the milling, murmuring crowd of people fall quiet, and arrange themselves in two long rows down the opposite walls of the room. I'm at the head of one, a short, bearded man I don't know is at the head of the other.
Quickly, I scan down the two long lines of us. Annie left me as soon as she had finished explaining, so I don't see anyone I know. Not Angus, not Murtagh, not Rupert, not Mrs. Fitz.
And not Jamie. . .
A gong sounds, and a man in livery stands, very upright and proper, in the center of the room above the High Table. The surrounding silence deepens as he intones -
"Be on your feet, for Himself, Colum ban Campbell Mackenzie, Chieftain of Clan MacKenzie, Laird of Leoch."
Then he walks off to the side, and another liveried man opens the big door in the middle of the back wall of the dining room.
A shape slowly materializes from the other side of the door. A man. Of moderate height, but majestic bearing, his long, dark, silver-grey hair pulled back, his classically cut blue waistcoat smooth across his well-developed shoulders and chest. His expression is Dignity, with the capital clearly written in his very eyes. He walks with a slow, precise pace - too slow and precise.
It is only then that I notice his legs. He is wearing a sort of shiny steel exoskeleton over his trousers, with leg plates and boots and motors at the joints.
I am reminded of old legends of power suits, and weapons blessed by the gods, of heroes that could fly and use magic, and saved the world. . .
A few steps into the room, he stops, and taps some unseen buttons.
With a hiss and several clanks, the exoskeleton opens, and he steps free of the device. His pace is even slower now, but far less precise. He rolls painfully from foot to foot, and no wonder, for the lower half of each of his legs is nearly as thin as a broomstick, and bent out of shape so severely, the wonder is that he can walk unaided at all.
So this is Colum Mackenzie. The Laird. Dougal's brother.
And Dougal himself did enter with his brother, along with a few others, but I don't notice them until Colum has seated himself at the center of the High Table. Then Dougal comes forward, leading a woman, who he seats at Colum's right hand. Then he seats two younger men down the table to her right.
Then he turns to me. He takes my arm lightly, knowing I'm moving slowly with the crutch. As we pass between Colum's mechanized leg-braces and the back of Colum's chair, I avoid looking at him, knowing all I'd be able to say to him at the moment is a screaming demand why he didn't tell me what an "audience with the Laird" actually meant, and knowing equally well why he didn't tell me.
It's to throw me off, to make my own injury seem petty, to make me feel insignificant and weak, and to shame me into answering questions more easily.
Well, the joke's on him.
I always feel petty, weak and insignificant. Dougal so deliberately pointing it out to me, and so forcefully drawing a line under it, only make me feel like both he and Colum are my equals, not my superiors.
A true superior doesn't need to point out just how much better they are than you. And they certainly don't need to belabour the point like this.
Dougal releases my elbow, and bows towards his brother. Colum turns to us.
"My Lord MacKenzie," says Dougal, formally, "I have the honour to present to you our official clan Guest-" He gestures at me to speak.
I balance on my good foot, and give an undeniably awkward bow, but I put out my hand with all good will.
"Claire Beauchamp, sir."
He takes my hand, briefly but firmly, "Welcome, Claire Beauchamp. Are ye Married or Miss?"
His voice isn't unlike Dougal's, deep and full, but it is coloured with confidence and pride where Dougal's is devious and deliberately smooth.
"I am a widow. But I prefer Mrs."
He courteously inclines his head, and gestures to the woman beside him, "My wife, Letitia."
I bow awkwardly again. She acknowledges me with a prim, cold expression.
"Please ye tae be seated, Mrs. Beauchamp," says Colum.
Dougal seats me, then sits down to my left. As soon as he does so, the rest of the room erupts with motion and resumed conversations, as everyone else finally gets to sit down.
My place setting is magnificent - all gold leaf and ivory ceramic and clear crystal glimmering in the candlelight. I bless my Central Township upbringing, for if I've never seen a table setting quite as elaborate as this, I at least know what each utensil is for. A small plate with bread and butter sits next to my right hand, waiting patiently for the soup. As must I.
My seat is comfortable, and no one is interrogating me yet, so I carefully scan the room again. I notice many things - interesting details I didn't notice at first sight. But, chiefly, I notice again that Jamie is nowhere to be seen.
I decide it can't hurt to ask about him. It would be an excellent question to use to test the waters, anyway. I'm just turning to Colum, when he forestalls me with his own question.
"I may take it ye've nevar seen so advanced a case of Toulouse-Lautrec syndrome before?"
I blink. "No. I. . . don't even know what that is."
"It's the condition of my legs. I saw ye preparing to ask. And ye may ask - I'm no' ashamed nor shy of it."
No. He's proud of it. That is abundantly clear.
"Oh," I say, uncertain what response he wants, "Excellent. But that wasn't what I was going to ask about."
Colum looks at me indulgently, as if to a child caught in the clumsiest of lies, "Were ye no'? Then what was on yer mind when I made my entrance?"
I smile. That, at least, I can tell him, without lying at all. "Only the obvious, I'm afraid," I gesture behind us, "I was interested in those," I indicate the mechanized braces, "Beautiful, custom device. I imagine you have a devil of a time keeping young boys away from them."
"Aye, that we do," He smirks a little, "But why do ye think so?"
"It's quite obvious. To you they are a necessity. Grudgingly accepted, openly embraced, neutrally acknowledged as a useful piece of technology - no matter how you might personally consider them - they are just something to make your life more functional. But to a growing boy?" I glance back at the shiny exoskeletal legs again, "You must seem like a superhero."
The soup arrives, and Colum looks down at it, a somewhat amused twinkle in the corner of his eye. I expect him to begin questioning me now, but he only turns his attention entirely onto his soup.
And it's worth attention - cream of potato with caramelized carrots and green peas, and tiny, feather-light curls of what I assume is cheese, sprinkled on top.
One of the men in livery comes through, and fills our wine glasses with a pale yellow, fruity smelling liquid. I take a sip, and know it's a moscato. Lightly fizzy, much less than a champagne, but sweeter, all effervescent high notes. A perfect accompaniment to the thick, rich soup.
I learned so many things as the only child of one of the leading Inter-City trade merchants on Skycity 15. But I had thought I'd forgotten nearly all of it. . .
It seems I remember more than I ever realized.
Speaking of children, and growing boys, the same little seven or eight year old scamp I saw greet Dougal this morning runs up behind Colum now.
"Papa, papa! Tammas and Lindsey say the new horses'll be here before the gathering, and I wanted too ask ye if-"
"Haud yer wheesht! Where are yer manners, Hamish?" Colum gestures at me, "Say hello to our guest."
The boy turns and regards me, with huge eyes and an uncertain expression.
"Hello," he says, reluctantly.
I smile, recognizing the same restrained formality of tone that I always used as a child whenever I was forced to meet a new adult.
"Hello again," I say, "I saw you greet your uncle this morning." I glance back at Dougal, then back to the boy, "Or, rather, him greet you," I pat his shoulder, gently, "Don't worry though, I once had an uncle who loved me like he was my third parent too. I know what it can be like."
He blushes, and bites his lip, small and adorably male when he realizes I saw him get kissed, "I. . . uh. . ."
Colum intervenes, "Go say goodnight to yer mother, Hamish."
He goes over and kisses Letitia briefly, and then disappears back the way he came.
When he is gone, Colum looks at me, a much harder expression on his face than I was expecting.
"Your son is luckier than he realizes," I say, baffled.
"Aye. Arenae we all?" says Colum, shortly, and turns back to his soup.
I must have said something wrong, but I am completely at a loss as to what.
And still, the questioning does not begin. Testing the waters is even more important now. Let's see how much Dougal has had time - or has chosen! - to tell his brother about events concerning me. I quickly scan the room again, making absolutely sure that Jamie is not here.
"Is Mr. MacTavish not joining us?"
"Nae," says Colum, sparing his attention from the soup and looking straight at me, "And what is Mr. MacTavish to ye?"
I smile, and make my voice sweet, "He's one of my rescuers, but that's hardly the point. You see, after I've been buried with a man, I usually find I'm somewhat interested in his. . ." I time my next word so that Dougal is taking a sip of wine, "Resurrection."
I don't quite score a spit-take, but he does splutter a bit into the glass.
Colum looks past me, questioning Dougal with his eyes.
"Aye, she alerted us to a unannounced checkpoint at Cocknammon, so I told wee Jamie to take her inta hiding with him," says Dougal, half-dismissively, "I thought she'd earned that much."
That much, and no more, is the clear unspoken implication.
Colum nods, neither in approval or censure, merely in acknowledgement.
"But now ye're an official guest of Clan MacKenzie, Mrs. Beauchamp," adds Dougal, suavely, "Ye must give us the honour of yer undivided attention this first evening."
By which he has made himself quite clear. I am going to be questioned. Thoroughly. Therefore, I am denied any allies. I am denied even any familiar faces, save Dougal's own. I must face whatever is asked of me tonight, and I must face it alone, unaided.
And what is more, Colum might be the Laird, and as such, will probably end up doing the majority of the questioning, but it is Dougal who is directing this inquisition, not his brother.
There's a game schoolchildren play on Skycity 15. We call it rounders, although I don't know if that is the official name or not. I don't know if it has an official name. It is a blend of word association and memory retention that requires you to be quick, clever, and ruthless. The first player chooses a word, like "fire". The second player must think of a related word, then repeat them both, "fire, hose". The third player must think of a word related to the second, but not the first, then repeat all three, "fire, hose, pipe". It goes on like that, bouncing back and forth like a ball of ever increasing weight, all round the circle of players. And not only must you remember the order of words and repeat them correctly, you must be clever about your additions. If more than one other player objects to your choice of word, you are out of the round. If you do not remember, or even stumble over the order of the words, you are out of the round. And when there are only two players left, all of the "out" players may point out the mistakes or object to the additions of the final two contestants. Each player must pay close attention to every other for the entire game, not only to call out mistakes, but to remember every detail when your own turn comes.
It is a cutthroat game, where spectacular wins are rare, and often, everyone loses.
I've loved rounders ever since I was old enough to speak.
I experience a certain excitement for the upcoming discussion that I did not expect. These men are not evil - they aren't even my confirmed enemies. They are, in fact, my equals, meeting me in fair combat, even if circumstances have given them a home-ground advantage. My Central Township blood rises at their open challenge, and the House of Beauchamp prepares to defend its honour.
The empty soup plates are cleared, and mushroom tarts arrive.
"Cook made yours 'specially," says Dougal, appropriating the bottle of red wine from the man in livery who was about to fill our glasses, "From the ones you gathered outside Inverness." He fills my glass with a dark ruby Bordeaux - Pinot Noir by the smell. The man in livery acquires another bottle, and fills everyone else's glass.
"Oh? I'm glad they didn't go to waste, then," I say, smiling at Dougal. I know he knows about my search for information on poisonous mushrooms, but he also knows I'm not stupid. This is just his first volley, and as such, is ridiculously easy for me to dodge. I cut into the lovely pastry, and begin to eat as though everything is entirely normal.
Which isn't quite true. The tart is impressively delicious, much more so than any made with the mushrooms we grow on Skycity 15 could ever be. As if I needed more proof that Skycity life is woefully lacking in so many areas of Human existence. . .
"So. . . Where are ye from, Mrs. Beauchamp?" asks Colum.
Here we go. . .
"Oxford," I say, as though I find it the most uninteresting place imaginable. I take another bite of my tart, and a sip of wine, and wait for the onslaught I know is coming.
"And what would an Englishwoman be doing picking mushrooms in the hills around Inverness, I wonder?" says Colum, drily.
"Well, you might call it camping, I suppose." I look down at the sliced mushrooms on my plate, and remember how purely happy I was to find them. "But, really, I was trying to get away from Oxford."
"Outside Inverness is certainly a place where ye can do that. But not, perhaps, the most common place for a fine lady like yerself to do so."
"I believe you," I say, "But it wasn't exactly my plan, either. I just rented a car, and. . . well. . . drove. Inverness is where I ended up." I shrug, uncomfortably but not guiltily. It's close enough to the truth, really.
"Are yer parents from Oxford, then?"
"Yes," I say, the distant sadness that usually accompanies my mentioning them making it clear there there is no "are", only "were", "From around there."
"They had no French connections?"
"No, not that I'm aware of," I say, before I remember that my parents are now named Moriston. Luckily, I don't think that's French. . . "No more than any English family after 1066, of course."
"Of course. And yer husband?"
I sip my wine contemplatively as the remnants of the tarts are removed, and a huge platter of roasted potatoes, cooked greens, and tiny joints of meat is placed in front of Colum. A stack of six plates is set next to him, and he proceeds to serve up the main course. Dougal refills my glass with the Pinot Noir the second I've emptied it. He's all too obviously trying to get me tipsy.
But anyone who has regularly drunk South-1 farm labourers under the table on 'tiller vodka, isn't going to be felled by a few glasses of high-class wine.
Not that Dougal has any way of knowing that. . .
"Frank? Perhaps he did have some French ancestors," I say, "He must have, I suppose. It was never something he was interested in."
A liveried man takes each plate as Colum fills them, and delivers them to the rest us sitting at the table. When my plate arrives, Colum says, "Cook's specialty this time of year - roasted rabbit."
"It smells delicious," I say. I've never had rabbit - I barely know what a rabbit is - but it's easy to feign mild eagerness, because it really does smell very good. The potatoes are so steaming hot that after I cut them open, the butter I put on them melts in seconds, and pools around the greens like a sweet, golden moat. My first bite of the meat is rich, strong, and slightly metallic, but after a second bite it tastes like a mix of the chicken I'm used to, and the incredibly filling stew I had for lunch.
More than acceptable, and quite worthy of the term "specialty".
"So ye're just from Oxford, then, are ye?" says Colum, finally filling his own plate, and getting back to the issue at hand - interrogating me.
"So far as I know," I say.
"Well, ye dinnae sound like ye're from Oxford at all. Ye sound American."
Now, that's an angle I didn't expect. . .
"Do I? Well, I can't help that."
Dougal breaks in, "Ye ever been to America?"
Ah yes. I understand now. I should have understood from the first. A bit of vindictiveness rises up in me. Dougal will pay for that.
"I've been to Canada, a few times. And once. . ." I carefully time my next word again, "Boston."
This time Dougal almost chokes on a mouthful of rabbit, but he recovers quickly.
"And what did ye do on this one trip tae Boston?" says Colum, not acknowledging his brother's mild coughing fit, though I'm certain he noticed it.
"It was a school trip when I was fifteen. We toured MIT."
And indeed, this is true. My one trip to New Boston, that's what we did.
"And is that all ye d-"
He breaks off suddenly, and pours himself a water tumbler full of wine. He drinks down half of it with an intense urgency that's disturbing to see in a man so dignified. I turn back to my plate, giving him that much privacy, at least.
"Sometimes the pain takes him in the middle of a word," says Dougal, soberly, "All will be well in a minute or two."
Colum has questioned me hard, but he hasn't been cruel. I hate knowing he is in such constant suffering.
"Is there nothing that can be done?"
"Aye, there's a CRISpRs treatment now, but my brother doesnae believe in it."
CRISpRs! I know them well. They figured in over half my job in Lower South-5. So they have them here! It's a relief to find something technical that I can talk openly about.
"But why not? CRISpRs are so easy, so reliable! Schoolchildren can learn the isolation and purification processes, and, granted, you do need someone who knows what they're doing to administer the serums effectively, but-"
Dougal's eyes sharpen, "And you're offering, I suppose?"
"No! That's what I'm trying to tell you. On my own I've only ever administered CRISpRs serum to plants, though I have assisted a specialist while he administered some to chickens. I wouldn't know the first thing about how and when and where to give them to a Human, but the point is, I bet someone could-"
"Nae!" says Colum, his peremptory tone almost entirely concealing the waver of pain in his voice, "T'was meddling of that sort put me here, I wilnae believe the same meddling can get me oot! Is tha' clear?"
"Oh, so you'll use the very latest in technology, but won't even look at modern medicine? I know Scots are supposed to be rebels, but isn't that taking things a bit far?"
It was a mistake to say that. The air gets very cold around the High Table. I'm not quite sure why, either. But at least it was a clean mistake, something any ignorant Sassenach might have said, and not related to my knowledge of the future.
I expect them to press the attack, but, to my complete surprise, Dougal comes to my rescue.
"Our mother had an experimental set of broad-spectrum inoculations while she was carryin' my brother, lassie," he says, significantly, "And none while she was carryin' me. Can ye blame us if the difference between technology and medicine strikes us as a bit stark?"
I sigh. "No, I can't." I look Colum directly in the eyes, "I'm sorry."
He nods, blankly.
"Now would you mind telling me why it's so important where I'm from? Oxford or France or Boston or freaking Ulaanbaatar - what does it matter?"
"Well, it doesnae, strictly," says Dougal, "But. . . blood tells."
I think of my parents, and the bombing of Central Township.
Home. . .
"Yes. Yes it does. But so does experience."
Dougal nods, "Aye. Ye're right, lassie." A devious look comes into his eyes, "An' what does yer experience tell ye aboot stayin' heer wi' us?"
Dougal's accent only deepens like that when he intends it to. He couldn't be sending a clearer message. He is Scottish. And where I'm from matters to him. No matter what I say next, he will never stop trying to figure me out.
Well, at least that last part is mutual. . .
"I figure now is a good time ask for access to your library. I'm going to need a good encyclopedia, at least."
After this afternoon, there's no way they're letting me have any sort of info-screen ever again. . .
"She wants a library!" laughs Colum, harshly, "Do I haveta tell ye tae stay out of the west wing?"
I recognize this as a reference to a famous adaptation of the de Villeneuve classic story of Beauty and the Beast. In this scenario, I wonder which one of us is the Beast. . . I fall back on my Skycity propensity to be obtusely literal.
"The guest rooms are in the west wing."
"A woman with a sense of direction! How rare!" Colum sneers.
"In fact, that's a myth," I say, as though he had said it in good faith, "Women with highly developed spatial awarenesses are quite common. Almost as common as men with no sense of humour."
"Och, please, and what is a sense of humour, exactly?" says Dougal, smoothly intervening.
"Oh, that's easy. A sense of humour is a sense of the fitness of things. Of the rules of life, if you will. A sense of. . . right and wrong, of justice and equity so ingrained, so essential to a person, that they can sometimes bend those rules, and yet, never break them. That is a sense of humour."
A chill tightens the air around us again. And again, I'm not sure why.
Once more, it is Dougal who breaks the tension, saying softly - "Then the miracle is that ye know anyone with a sense of humour, Mrs. Beauchamp."
"Isn't it?" I say, broadly.
Colum changes the subject.
"What is it ye do, Mrs. Beauchamp? I mean when ye arenae repairing errant plasma engines, that is."
"Well, I'm a botanist by training, but I'm a farm technician by trade."
"Oh, aye? And what is a farm technician?"
"Well, at various times it means you're a chemist, a geneticist, a bio-engineer, a mineralogist, a botanist of course, and a mechanic, programmer, field labourer. . . and occasionally a surrogate mother to baby chickens. Whatever it takes to make a farm a productive place."
"It sounds remarkably similar to a farm manager," says Dougal.
I nod, "I have worked with many farm managers, and the jobs are not unalike. However, a tech is almost always working hands on with the produce. A manager is almost always working hands on with the people."
"And ye prefer produce to people?"
I pause a long time. Long enough for things to get very uncomfortable around the High Table again.
"I have found. . ." I say finally, swallowing hard, "That it is generally less painful when plants die."
I finish my glass of wine, and Dougal fills it up again. I kick back the replenished glass in one long draught, knowing it's probably unwise to do so, but needing, like Colum, something to dull the pain. I think Dougal sees something sincere in this, because he refrains from filling my glass up again.
He's either given up trying to get me drunk, or has realized I don't need to be drunk to say stupid things.
"And what do you do?" I ask Dougal, "Besides drive around in a Rover with a state-of-the-art plasma engine, of course."
"Dougal is my War Chief," says Colum, as though that explains everything. And perhaps it does, but not to me.
Fortunately, I am spared asking what he means, as Dougal again speaks up, and explains, "You may as well ask me now - what a War Chief is doing on the campaign trail - everyone does. There's not many in this family think I have what it takes to be a politician."
Why does he keep smoothing things over? Every time Colum begins to gain the advantage over me, Dougal cuts in, and gives me just enough information so that I can rally. Every time the tide shows signs of turning against me, he diverts the tension - and then turns onto the attack again himself. I've never seen a man blow hot and cold like this before. Does he want to be my ally, or not?
I have a very strange impression that by the end of the night, he's either going to murder me, or ask me to marry him. Or both.
"Politics instead of war? Well, I'd say you just graduated to the truly difficult battles."
There is barely a semblance of Colum being in charge of my questioning any longer, his attention divided mostly between his wine and his wife. I assume his pain must be bad at the moment, and let him retire gracefully from our battlefield. But I don't kid myself. He's still listening, more sharply now than ever.
"Aye, ye arenae far wrong with that, lassie," says Dougal, smiling a tight little wolfish grin, "To be honest, it's a bit of a shock ye arenae somewhat in the same line yerself."
"Politics?" I scoff, "That would mean having some kind of positive emotional attachment to the idea of being English. Which is really the last reaction I have to that idea."
We are served a glistening peachy-pink blancmange, and Colum is handed a bottle of port, or so I assume by the colour.
"Ye. . . dinnae consider yerself English?" Dougal asks, a faint note of incredulity bleeding though his studied smoothness.
"Well, I can hardly be anything else, since I was born there. But, then again, being born in a stable doesn't make you a horse."
It truly is amazing, how many seldom-used words and phrases I'm remembering tonight. The blancmange tastes of almonds, and plums, and some other fruits I don't recognize, but it is quite good. I have always hated fortified wines, so when Colum passes me the port, I hand it straight to Dougal.
"Are ye no' a patriot, then?"
"I don't think so. Not that kind, anyway."
"Then what kind can ye be? Ye were loyal to yer husband, or so I quite naturally assume - is loyalty to a country so far removed from that?" He pours himself a measure of port, and we settle down to the evening's most improbable discussion yet.
"It is to me. That would mean being loyal to a government. I find there's quite a difference between a government and an individual, don't you? An individual you can get close to, come to know, and eventually come to trust. Even when one or the other of you makes mistakes, and you will, there's always that connection between you. I find such a connection very difficult to form, or maintain, with mere groups of officials."
"But, lassie, have ye no sense of. . . well. . . honour?"
"Oh, that? Yes, I think I do. But patriotism. . . that's the kind of honour one wears, like a sword, or chain mail. Such a thing can be good, and useful - even beautiful, in its way. But the drawback is, others can take it from you. Change its colour, change its shape. Even use it against you. In a world where there are those without honour, patriotism. . . Well, in my opinion it's the most dangerous weapon ever created. No less so to the one who wields it than any it might be used against."
"If that is so - and I don't say it is, mind - then what is a man to do?"
"He must put off wearing his honour, and instead, become it. To the marrow bone, be must be what he believes. And not just men. All of us. No one can take your spirit, unless you hand it over."
"Ah. Aye. But spirits can be broken, lass," says Dougal.
Long forgotten words from some ancient, only half-learned liturgy rise up in my mind.
"A broken spirit is a sacrifice unto God, holy and precious."
Dougal puts down his wineglass, and stares at me, unblinking, for far longer than I find acceptable.
I finish my blancmange in silence.
There are a few more perfunctory questions after that, and one or two more jokes at my expense, but it's clear the inquisition is over. For the time being, anyway. Soon after the port has gone around, I rise, take up my crutch, and make my awkward bow to Colum again, saying, truthfully, that I am tired, and must be off to bed. He acknowledges me, barely, with a nod and raised pointer finger.
At the side door I entered from, I look back, and see Dougal is staring at me again, his face as bland as usual, giving very little away, but even from here I can see the look of utter confusion in his eyes.
I don't know if I won this round, but if Dougal Mackenzie also doesn't know? Well, then I'd call that a success.
Notes:
Soundtrack for this chapter - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I7iMfjA95u8
Chapter 22: Principally Uncertain
Chapter Text
I wake up with my mind in a tangle. For some reason, I'm having trouble sorting one sense from another, and what is memory from what is only an imagined dream. I'm comfortable, so I start there. With my eyes still closed, I'm not certain if I'm in the big four-poster on Cold Island 12, in a pile of soft animal skins in a castle somewhere with Jamie, in the narrow double I share with Frank in North-3, or in the soft truckle bed in my parents' house in Central.
When is it? Who am I?
Even after I open my eyes, the world remains unclear for a disturbingly long minute. In the grey light of yet another dawn, I stare at a small couch and low table, without really recognizing them.
Where am I? What's going on?
Then, the past month, the past week, the past two days, and yesterday night in particular crash into my conscious brain, and I groan, as though I have a hangover.
My head doesn't hurt, but I feel like it should. When it comes to impossible and crazy things happening to me, I've been on quite a bender.
And when it comes to doing impossible and crazy things, since when am I the daring, fly-by-night, seat-of-the-pants dragonslayer? I'm a farm tech from North-3, who spends her days churning out ration packs for the Planetary Fleet's armed forces. My husband is a sanitation worker and the foreman of Decon Team 7. It's 2273. That's who I am. That's what my life is. That's when my life is. Common as rust, normal, completely un-extraordinary.
Isn't it?
What the hell am I doing playing sudden-death rounders with Scottish clan Lairds in 2078? At the moment it's hard to process that even this isn't the half of it, nor the strangest half, either. My husband is dead, my home with him was bombed, my old home in Central was bombed, and I am living on the Rim, just barely making do with power-salvage and dealing on the black market. It's 2279. Everything I am is gone, and no matter how hard I fight to survive a little while longer, I'm already half-dead, just waiting to actually die.
Aren't I?
And what if all that is a dream? What if, in reality, I am a doctor, living in a castle in the eighteenth century, married to Jamie and carrying his child? What if we are blissfully happy, and safe, and secure, with nothing but the ordinary worries and troubles of a couple intensely in love? What if Jamie is the Laird, and I, his Lady?
Or, maybe that was the dream?
Can all that possibly exist only while I'm drifting in a rose-tinted past that never existed? Some part of it must be real. It feels too certain, too solid, to be a mere dream.
It can't be real.
But, is it?
This and all the rest of my real and imagined pasts jumble and tumble though my brain in a random, incoherent soup.
Cold Island 12. Craigh na Dun. Druids. The wine dark sea. Scottish Highlands. Time travel. Farms of trees. The Battle of Culloden. Rowanberry jam. Scry. The signs of the past. The Witches dance under the moon. Two husbands and maybe three. Human sacrifice. Brimstone moths. Focus. Beauty. Truth is in the hand. Venus. Names in the rust. Fire. Power. Freedom. The Devil's Eye. Mist and stones and Fate. Alisanders. Alexanders. The power of hope. . .
I don't know if there are words for the wavering, floating chaos in my mind.
Surreal?
No. Doesn't go far enough.
Hyper-surreal.
In a waking dream, the lines of light come back to me, from the fire dishes and the lightning, and the music of flutes and drums. Stars swirl before my eyes, but one singular bright one calls my name with the clang of a bell. A clean, deep scent, sweet with passion, turns the world dark blue. The stones are as tall as trees, and the rivers flow with red berries, tart and crisp and good. The golden wings of fairies and dragons sweep the wind into smooth, rushing gusts that catch me up over the sea.
Over the sea. . .
Over the sea, in the sky.
Islands and trees. . .
All that was me is gone.
Hands reaching towards me. From the past. From the future. The past is the future, the future is the past. Time is Chaos, the Mother of Time, and Fate lends a hand. A portal to another world. No more than a door. Eyes I do not know. Faces I cannot forget. A bolt of lightning to the heart. Red. Red hair, red flames, red blood. Black and amber and blue. Truth does not need to be believed in to be true.
The music sounds and the stones ring and sing, and call, and call, and call. . .
Words and images pound endlessly in my head, and I don't know what is happening and what isn't. It's too much, everything, all at once, like I am a conduit, a live wire, a fusion coil and my flow regulator is broken.
I fall back to sleep, out of pure self-defense.
Chapter 23: Dogs And Cats
Chapter Text
When I wake up again, rain is pattering against my window, and all the chaos is gone from my mind. Whatever that thunderous place between waking and sleeping was, it appears to have left me now.
Thank all the gods that may or may not exist.
It is November 3rd, 2078, and last night I had supper with Colum Mackenzie, Laird of Leoch. He and his brother interrogated me, and I was snippy and snarky and probably totally insufferable in return.
No doubt I've messed everything up, but, that's what happened - I can't change it.
I'll deal with it.
My stomach rumbles. The little timepiece over the desk says 11 A.M. I haven't slept this late since I was sick with the 'flu. I'm far, far too late for breakfast, certainly - and if I don't kick into gear right quick, I'm going to miss lunch too.
Also, there are several conversations I need to have with Mrs. Fitz. . .
It's difficult to jump out of bed when you have a sore ankle, but somehow, I manage it. I speed through my visit to the toilet, then grab the first casual set of clothes from the pile, and hurriedly dress underneath my long flannel nightgown. I undressed underneath it last night too. I might be in a rush, but I was gone from this room long enough last night for Angus and Rupert to have placed a dozen cameras each in here, and after the challenge I issued to them yesterday, I'm not taking any chances. I don't have time to search for said cameras either. I drag a brush though the wild, untamable mess my hair always becomes when it rains, and quickly give up. The clothes Annie gave me included a headscarf or two. I pull out a silky dark blue square of cloth, and tie it over my hair.
It will have to do.
I only have to ask two of the bustling strangers in the halls in order to track down where Mrs. Fitz should be. They're both cheerful and helpful, friendly and genuine - showing no signs that they know I plagued and insulted the Laird and his War Chief last night. They must know, but they don't show it. I'm not quite sure what this means. Do they not care that I'm a screwup? Are they glad that I'm a screwup?
Either way, maybe - perhaps - I haven't messed things up entirely.
And maybe the residents of Castle Leoch are just instinctively more helpful to a person limping around on a crutch than the Peace Agents I've met. Which, granted, isn't difficult. . .
I make my way past the kitchens to a small side room that overlooks the gardens. It's the combination office, sitting room, and "mud room" in which, I am assured, Mrs. Fitz spends most of her brief free moments. She isn't here now. No matter. I'm here now, and she soon will be. I sit down to wait.
The couch and chairs are the usual soft upholstered style I've come to expect. The desk is made of wood - as most furniture seems to be here. One whole wall is a row of windows looking out over the grey, dark rows of the garden. Plot after plot of rich soil, well turned and snug for the coming winter. No doubt it is a flourishing enough place in summer, but there are only a few straggling patches of green now. Idly, I wonder if they grow alisanders. . . There is a green-painted door that lets out into the garden, and if it were not so wet and dreary a day, I would long to go exploring. Just beyond the door is an archway into a smaller, rougher room, with a tiled floor, heavy benches, and two plumbed-in washing vats next to a large cupboard containing dozens of empty vases. I assume this is the "mud room" - though there is a remarkable lack of mud. In the main room there are three full bookshelves, several potted plants, four hanging lamps, a fancy area rug, and cushions and draped blankets everywhere.
Taken as a whole, there are more luxuries in these two rooms than any two in any Skycity could possibly offer.
One corner of the main room has a plumbed in handwashing basin next to a little freestanding cooking pad. The cupboard next to them has a glass door, and I can clearly make out a teapot, teacups, and at least two dozen boxes of tea, sugar, and - wonder of wonders! - cocoa.
It's been 20 years since I've had chocolate. When I was little, Father used to trade somewhat regularly with the Southern Pacific Fleet - New Guayaquil being one of only three Skycities in the world at the time that cultivated a hybrid cocoa plant. One season we had a particularly good sugar beet crop, and traded almost all of it for three Export ships full of nothing but cocoa butter, cocoa powder, processed but unsweetened bars, roasted cocoa seed pieces, and several crates of fertile seeds and seedlings, to go into GenTech's seed library and labs. Father was paid in sacks of the chocolate powder, and five whole ten-kilo boxes of the solid processed bars. Most of it he sold, but mother kept enough that for ten years of special occasions, we had hot chocolate, chocolate cake, chocolate sauce, and once - most glorious of memories! - chocolate truffles.
By the time we ran out, Father was trading more with the Asian Fleet, which means I've also tried coconut ice cream, pickled bamboo shoots, and rice wine - but nothing ever compared to chocolate, in my opinion.
Yet even a clearly labeled tin of cocoa isn't the most luxurious thing in this room.
Across from the couch where I've settled myself, there is an enormous fireplace. It's over one and a half meters square, and almost one deep, with five or six logs in a flaming pile in the center. They are held up by a fancy wrought-iron basket I don't know the name for, and a whole heap of brilliant coals are glowing around the base of it.
I know what a fireplace is because on Skycity 15, most of our electric stoves and personal space heaters have a setting that will display a picture of a log fire while active. The fancier models have pictures that move, and some even project sound effects.
The real thing is, as I am so quickly and repeatedly learning, entirely different.
This fireplace is actually burning wood. One might as well make polysteel rope out of water tokens. Why take such a precious resource, and consume it just to make a cheap, utilitarian product?
Although. . .
I do admit, the warmth from the blaze is friendlier, softer, and somehow, warmer than that of a space heater. And those flames. . .
There is a sly, crinkling, almost insidious hissing from the fireplace, and a mesmerizing flickering so real that I cannot look away. There is a shape, a motion, a presence to this sort of fire that no electric contraption could possibly replicate.
I stare deeply into its reddish-orange dancing, thoroughly charmed.
It isn't until one of them moves that I realize the two fuzzy grey lumps sitting in front of the fireplace aren't stray cushions, or some sort of large furry house-slippers.
No. These things are alive.
Animals.
I don't know what kind of animals, but they do seem somewhat familiar. . .
The first one is a very dark grey, mottled all over with a muddy looking brown. After a long, sinuous stretch, he flips his head - something about both motions are so obviously male I don't question the "he" - and walks somewhat stiffly over to my couch. He proceeds to sniff up and down the cushions supporting my legs. The creature is ugly - with notched and shredded ears, a short, scrubby tail, and grizzled whitish fur around its nose and mouth - not to mention disfiguring scars all over its head and face, culminating with a dark fold of furred skin completely obscuring an obviously empty eye socket.
And yet. . . He has an air about him that renders him so polite and professional, I almost want someone to introduce us.
He finishes sniffing, and with a sudden coiled spring, is on the couch with me. Before I can react, he has curled himself into a ball, and laid down on my shins. A deep, rhythmic vibration starts in his tiny, furry chest. His one eye closes, and he goes back to sleep.
I haven't recovered from the shock of this when the other cat - cats! I knew I recognized them! - uncoils from his place and comes over to me.
This one is a paler, cleaner grey, with faint stripes of black across his flanks. His pace is smoother, more elegant than the first. Something about him also says he is male, but of a very different sort than his companion. The first one's eye was black - this one's eyes are golden yellow. The first one made sure of his welcome - this one looks at me with such condescension I'm certain he would snub the Queen herself. He flicks his ears, and I wonder what plane of reality this majestic fairy thing came from. . .
He makes his way slowly over to me, his attitude not at all businesslike, and only slightly formal. The look in his eyes is less investigative and more. . . more. . .
Seductive?
Yes. He's prowling.
I grin as I watch him, recognizing an almost Human soul inside this animated scrap of grey fur.
He approaches my couch without any of the first one's hesitation, and leaps onto it without so much as a by-your-leave. He stalks along the couch's arm behind my back, his long, soft tail flicking me smartly on the ear as he passes. Then he jumps over my shoulder and lands with a thud on my chest - right next to my bruised ribs. I huff in surprise, but he is unimpressed, sitting down on my thighs and beginning to wash his face with a paw.
I watch the proceeding, transfixed, confused, and quite bewildered.
Cats. . .
Knowing what they are does not in any way help me to know what to do with them. They're sitting on me. I can't move from this couch until they do. I try not to panic. They are small creatures - I can move them if I have to. And yet, I somehow know that if I did, it would offend them, and I am singularly reluctant to do such a thing to this pair of gentlemen.
Certainly more reluctant than I was to offend the pair of gentlemen I ate supper with last night. . .
"Ah, ye'er heer, dearie!" says Mrs. Fitz, bustling in, "Maryanna said ye were waitin' fer me, and heer ye are!"
"Yes - sorry to intrude! - I. . . slept in, I'm afraid. It's been a long couple of days! So I missed breakfast, and I did want to talk with you. . ."
"Say nae moor, dearie!" She comes up to the couch and tickles the lighter grey cat under the chin - much to his indignation. "Ye mus' be right hungry. I'll bring some lunch in heer fer us, dinnae fash! Th'moor the merrier!" She stumps busily out again.
I shake my head. There's no stopping Mrs. Fitz.
And she saw the cats sitting on me and didn't comment! Is this sort of thing normal for cats? If it is, how does anyone ever get anything done here? There must be a way to. . .
A loud series of staccato animal sounds comes from outside, and I see a tall figure in a wet raincoat walking up the garden path. A door into the mud room opens, the sharp sounds continuing. The tall figure and a wet, furry animal, larger than the cats, burst into the mud room, instantly spreading the tiles with spatters of dirt and rainwater.
All at once, I understand why it is called a mud room.
The furry animal continues - barking? Is that the name of that noise? - and jumping up against the tall figure as he shakes the water from himself.
"Down, Laoghaire!" says Jamie's voice, "Can ye no' be still?"
The animal barks again, and shakes itself too. Jamie takes off his raincoat and galoshes, then grabs a large square of grey cloth - a towel, Mrs. Graham called it - from a pile of them stacked underneath one of the washing vats. The dog - dog! That is a dog! To the life, just like the pictures I've seen! But unequivocally louder. . . The dog tries to jump and lick all over Jamie, but he pushes it away gently, starting to rub it down with the towel.
"Aye, I noo," he says, his accent deepening into a soothing purr, "Ye canna be still, but try et, foor me, will ye, pet?"
The dog barks once more, then whines, and licks his hand as he finishes with the towel. "Aye, tha's my girl, now come and sit ye by the fire an-" Jamie finally turns and sees me, "Sassenach!"
His face lights up in a way I am proud to have caused. "Good morning, Jamie," I smile back, all of my worries and self-doubts instantly forgotten, "Who's your friend there?"
He nudges the dog into the room, "This is Laoghaire, and she's a right silly bitch."
The word sounds shocking in this context, even though he says it fondly. What on earth does he mean by that?
I hold out a hand, in curiosity and welcome. She comes over to me and sniffs my fingers, then gives a sullen snort and goes to lay down next to the fire.
Jamie is still in the mud room, taking his time over cleaning up the smears of mud all over the tiles, "Usually taking her for a walk isnae such a messy enterprise, ye ken, but she wanted out and about so badly today, rainin' tho' it is, I couldnae tell her no."
I look over at the black and white shape by the fire, all fluffed out from his drying with the towel. "She must be very special to you," I say.
"Aye, she is. The very pick o' the litter! But she's nobbut a pup yet - and the last prize pup Mrs. Fitz is like to get out of auld Glenna."
He takes out a box, and pours some hard brown nubbin things into a bowl, and puts the bowl on the floor. At the sound, Laoghaire gets up from in front of the fire, and goes to him. Apparently, the nubbins are food, because she starts eating them. He stands and watches her.
"Glenna?"
"Aye, Laoghaire's dam. She's a wee bit long in the tooth to keep havin' pups, more's the pity. She's the best bitch Mrs. Fitz has had in over fifteen years."
"Best". . . so, "bitch" isn't an insult here? Or, is that only when talking about dogs?
"Glenna's the sweetest critter on God's earth," he continues, "and t'best mam He ever made. Near forty pups she's had, and every one a born herder. He broke the mould when He made auld Glenna, that He did." He runs a hand over Laoghaire's head, "Tha's why Leelee here is a bit on the spoiled side, ye see. Still livin' in the house at ten months, hand fed an' all - none o' Glenna's other pups had such treatment. But Leelee's like tae be the last, and Mrs. Fitz doesnae want tae give her up jus' yet. Truth is, I dinnae want tae either." He scratches behind her ears, and Laoghaire's whole back end wags in appreciation.
I know it's ridiculous to feel jealous of an animal, but, in that moment, I do. At least, it's not jealously exactly, but more a feeling of distance, and resenting it. Jamie is so close to every aspect of life here, so easy in his skin - and here am I, the fumbling and awkward, capital-O, Outlander, so out of my depth that I'm still slightly unsure if the animal I'm looking at actually is a dog or not.
"Why would you have to?"
"Weel, a sheep dog isnae a house dog, ye ken. An' I'm no' a shepard. Once she's trained up, she'll be workin' all day, and no' in the stables and barn wi' me. No more friendly walks in the middle o' the day, and she'll be off tae the kennels at night! Aye, it'll be nowt but sleep and sheep for her soon enough. . ."
I know what a sheep is, though I've never seen one in person. They are the Multi-Purpose Cultivated Animal for the Southern Atlantic Fleet, just like chickens are the North Atlantic's MPCA, and pigs are the Southern Pacific's. But I had no idea sheep had a specific dog named after them. . . or were they named after the work?
I had always thought that dogs were useless animals, only surviving on Cold Islands because people liked them. That they can sometimes help us Humans care for other animals is quite a revelation to me.
Jamie picks up a chair from across the room and plunks it down next to my couch. As he sits, he notices the cats still sitting on my legs, and he greets them like people.
"Alec, ye auld cheetie! Sae this is where ye'ev been hidin' all mornin'!" He pokes the darker-furred cat in the shoulder, "I needed yer help wi' Firebrand, and here ye are, lazin' aboot, like a bum wi' nae job tae doo!"
Alec grunts, and shakes his head sleepily.
"Aye, fer shame tae bee sleepin' on t'job!"
Jamie's accent has again deepened in soft affection. He turns to the lighter grey cat.
"Et tu, Adso? Dinnae ye remember we had a date this mornin'? I was tae bring th'milk and ye were too bring yer own sweet self. And heer ye'ev stood me up foor oor wee Sassenach! Ye'ev wounded me Adso! Tae th'quick!" He holds out a hand near the cat's head, but Adso disdainfully ignores it, turning his head and washing behind his ears in scorn.
"Aye, p'rhaps I agree wi' ye," says Jamie, ingratiatingly, "Gi'en t'choice between nowt but coos an' my auld mug oot in t'barn, and the fire and Claire in heer, weel. . . ye'er right, I'd choose t'same as ye." He has brought his hand closer and closer to Adso's head while murmuring these words, and finally, Adso condescends to notice him, and pushes his face delicately against Jamie's fingers.
"He's of the Caste of Vere de Vere, ye understand," he says to me, "The very Cat of Vere de Vere."
I'm not quite certain what Jamie is getting at. "The. . . what?"
"Aye, 'ee's full o' himself, the wee moggy," says Jamie, moving on to petting Adso behind one ear, "A barn cat, born and bred, with nowt to 'is name, yet there 'ee sits, knowin' 'ee's God's oon whiskers, thankee verrah much! But we have an understandin'." Jamie strokes down Adso's spine and tail, and the cat preens under the attention.
Since it's clear Jamie knows what to do with these cats, I confide in him. "They came over and sat on me! And they won't leave! What do I do?"
He laughs, softly, but long, "Nowt tae do, Sassenach. Jus' let 'em be. When ye need tae leave they'll ken it, and move on their oon."
"Oh," I say, still a bit unsure.
"Did ye no' have a pet of yer own growin' up?"
"Oh. Um, no." I'm not sure what else to say. I know for sure I can't tell him that the closest thing anyone I've ever known has had to a "pet" is one guy I knew in school who would paint faces on sugar beets and bring them to class.
"That's tae bad. The wee critters obviously like ye."
"But. . . why do they like me? I'm a perfect stranger to them!"
"Weel, I understand why auld Alec here likes ye."
"You do?"
"Aye. He could tell yer foot was hurtin'."
I look at the cat sleeping across my ankles. "He could. . . tell?"
"Aye. Ye ken he was born wild - no' even a barn cat is auld Alec. Feral as they make 'em. But he loves his fellow creatures, he does. He walked inta the barn one day, an' sat down next tae Ginny - one o' our brood mares - while she was recoverin' from a colic. The next day he was in Falcon's box stall, curled up by the water bucket. And Falcon was nosin' him and whickerin' and acting all settled and happy, where usually he was so skittish he couldnae stand the wind tae go past 'is stall. And it went on like that - Alec would ken it whenever one o' the horses needed him, and he'd go and sit wi' them until their pain left them. He may be a cat, but auld Alec is a better horseman than I or any Human will ever be."
He strokes Alec's head, fondly.
"But. . . I'm not a horse, Jamie."
He smiles, "Nae, ye'er no', but on the rare occasions Alec decides tae indulge in a visit tae a fireplace, he can only survive the strictures of civilization if he can imagine all us Humans are his beloved horses. Fer a cat born wild, it's quite a change from barn tae house, ye ken."
"So. . . he came and sat on me because he thought I was a horse?"
"Mebbe," he says, kindly, "And mebbe he jus' kent ye were hurtin', and did after his nature."
I consider that for a minute. "And. . . Adso? Was he just doing according to his nature?"
"Aye. A'course." Jamie slides off his chair and kneels next to me, much like he did yesterday, "Adso is of the Caste of Vere de Vere - an arristocrat - royalty even. A cat of ivory towers and solid gold wine goblets, and jeweled embroidery glimmering in scented candlelight. It doesnae matter where he's from, that's who he is - real class." Jamie leans towards me, a soft smile on his face, "I ken he jus' recognized ye as one o' his own. . ."
I shake my head, amused, "Flatterer."
He leans a bit closer, "Nae, 'tis only the truth, Sassenach."
"But you don't know that, Jamie."
"I ken yer eyes are exactly the same colour as his."
"That doesn't mean we're the same-"
"I ken I'm always kneeling before ye. . ."
I'm just about to close the short distance between our lips, when a black and white ball of fur suddenly wedges itself between Jamie and my couch, forcing us apart.
"Laoghaire! Ye daft numptie clotheid of a dug!"
I laugh, "Well, at least one of the animals here feels like most of the Humans do!"
He lifts Laoghaire bodily away from him, and regards me, a confused look on his face, "What do ye mean, Sassenach?"
"Oh. . ." I sigh, all my self-doubt returning in a rush, "Last night was terrible, and I'm sure at least ninety percent of the people here must hate me now. . ."
"Tha's. . . no' what I've been hearin'. . ."
"Indeed, it isnae!" says Mrs. Fitz, finally returning with a huge tray piled with our lunch, "Sorrae it took sae long dearie - I was called on three errands, and there was alsoo a talcum powder emergency. . ."
I laugh at the very thought of what such a thing could possibly be, "No worries, Mrs. Fitz! Jamie's been keeping me company."
"Aye, and Adso, Alec and Laoghaire have as well," says Jamie.
"Tha's good then," says Mrs. Fitz, handing each of us a plate loaded with bread, meat, cheese, and vegetables cut into strips, "And ye, young lady, are most ceartainly no' hated by most o' us."
I take a huge bite of bread and cheese, and mumble around it, "Bu las nit wuz awful!" I quickly chew and swallow, "I not only put my foot in my mouth, I put several other appendages there too! There's no way the whole household isn't talking about the brash Sassenach and her over-bold tongue."
"Aye, that they are, dearie," says Mrs. Fitz, matter-of-factly, "An' to a man they're saying it did their hearts good tae see ye standing up tae Colum. There's none left here does so near often enough, save Dougal, and they say he couldnae hardly keep 'is eyes off ye all night! Bewitched, they're sayin' he is!"
I snort, but Jamie nods encouragingly at me, "Aye, the news 'round the stables is tha' both Colum and Dougal were impressed wi' ye from the start, and Colum intends tae give ye a job here on the farm."
"But that's impossible, Jamie!" I say, "Maybe the general populace here doesn't hate me, but Colum and Dougal do!"
"But why do ye think that, Sassenach?"
"Because they put cameras in my room, Jamie! I'd lay odds Mrs. Fitz put them there herself. And then they Mirrored the computer they gave me, and set Angus and Rupert to watch my every move. Including when I changed clothes, if possible!"
He starts back, shocked, then whirls on Mrs. Fitz, "D'ye mean tae. . . ? How dare they! TELL me ye didnae!"
She looks back at him, steadily grim, "A'coorse I didnae. Hospitality is a sacred trust. But Angus and Rupert asked fer my help tae place the cameras - and sae I did. Oor appeared tae, ye ken. I placed one wrong, and popped t'other in a jar o' water the second I could find good excuse tae do so."
"And I noticed something was up with the camera in my bedroom - the one she placed wrong - so I went ahead and did all the stuff I needed to do on the computer - searching for jobs, looking up words and things, and starting the process to get my identity card replaced, etc."
"Aye, and then what did ye doo?" says Mrs. Fitz, holding back laughter.
I look at her, shocked, "They told you? Of course, they must have, because you called me Mrs. Beauchamp right before supper, and at that point I hadn't told anyone except Jamie I was a widow. . . . but. . . they told you? How much, I wonder?"
She laughs aloud, "All o' it, dearie. I made them tell me evarything after ye searched fer poisonous mushrooms."
"After ye WHAT?" says Jamie, with a barely restrained bellow.
"Mirroring leaves signs on the mirrored device, Jamie." I say, "Most notably, new search windows will open with a quick double-stutter blip - almost like two windows were opened at almost the exact same instant. Which is, in fact, what is happening. I knew they had Mirrored my device. I went in and Mirrored them back though a Shadow window - that's the only way to effectively hide Mirroring - and it turns out they hadn't isolated my device properly. I could see the whole network, and all their activity. They were chatting about me, and talking about the cameras too, mentioning Mrs. Fitz and Dougal - you even got a mention." I grin at the memory, "So after I did the work I needed to do, I decided to mess with them a bit. I searched for poisonous mushrooms as a bluff, just to see what they would do, and then I hacked into their chat-app and told them off, and then I kicked the app off the server."
Mrs Fitz chuckles, "Ooch, Dougal got fair red in t'face after that, dearie."
"So, Dougal does hate me?"
She shrugs, "Mebbe 'ee does. Whoo can say?"
"But that's Dougal," says Jamie, "No' Colum."
"And are you going to sit here and tell me he doesn't have influence over Colum?"
"Nae," says Jamie, "But one thing I ken - Colum wouldnae - nevar, ye heer? - wouldnae put spy cameras on ye. Agh, he'd set Rupert and Angus on ye - tell them tae watch ye day and night - that he'd do. And mebbe he'd order this Mirroring business too, I dinnae ken much about that. But cameras in yer bedroom? Nae, he'd never do that - he's too proud o' his family reputation tae risk it."
"Which means - the cameras were all Dougal's idea, dearie."
"An' I doubt he's told Colum yet - seein' that his wing o' the house is still standin'."
"Aye, tae be sure, if Colum e're finds out, ye can bet there'll be hell tae pay. Hold it over him proper, an' ye can get the whip-hand on 'im, dearie."
All their unquestioning loyalty to me is making my head whirl. A completely unexpected lump rises in my throat. After eight years of war, I had forgotten that Humans like this existed.
"So jus' ye remember that when I tek ye up tae see Himself."
"To. . . what?" I blink. Wasn't that over?
"Aye, after ye finnish yer lunch, he'll be seeing ye." She takes in the confused look on my face, "Ye did say Dougal had promised ye an audience wi' the Laird, did he no'?"
"But. . . last night. . ."
"Last night was supper, dearie. No' an audience. Nae moor than a swarm o' bees is a meetin' wi' the Queen."
This leaves a surprisingly disturbing image in my mind, and I am silent for the rest of lunch.
Chapter 24: Without An Audience
Chapter Text
Colum's office is the most dreary and chilly apartment I've seen in this house yet. The floor is an irregular dark grey tile, unglazed and uneven - uncomfortable and perilous to walk on. It suggests stone cobbles, which, I have to say, is an odd visual to use in an upstairs room. There is a wrought-iron marble-topped table just inside the door, set with three heavy glass jars full of unpolished chunks of semi-precious gemstones - amethyst, and lapis, and some cloudy yellowish green stone I've never seen before. Next to the jars is a large brass orrery that glitters under the recessed spotlighting. Three walls are entirely covered in a heavy-woven, dark red and gold tapestry. They're warm colors, and the cloth is thick and richly draped, so it's surprising how little the curtains dispel the room's oppressive chill. Colum's desk is at the far end, in front of two large windows that look out on the grey, drizzly afternoon. Only here are the tapestries pulled back, and the light from the windows is bright enough, even if muted by clouds and rain.
There's one chair behind the desk - large, covered in studded-leather, and imposing. And there is one chair in front of it - small, carved of wood, and upholstered in pale grey.
No extra points for guessing which one is the Hot Seat.
Or would be, if he was here. But he isn't here yet.
Which is odd, when I think about it. I've already seen how the man enters a room - slowly, painfully, and only with a great deal of mechanical help. There isn't much to be gained by subjecting me to the spectacle again, especially in private. And I have to assume he's had ample time to prepare for this meeting, since Mrs. Fitz gave me extra time to go change into something more formal than the random slacks and tunic I threw on this morning. I even had time to make a cursory search for the replacement cameras I know must be lurking in my room - and I found a microphone wire. It had been slipped into the hem of the neon purple jumpsuit I decided to wear, and I only noticed it because my foot brushed a cold, spiky thing sticking through where only soft cloth ought to have been.
I removed it, but only to the pocket of the jumpsuit.
If I need to tell Colum about his brother's. . . security activities. . . then it will make for good evidence. And it's not as if I'm going to tell Colum a different story in private than I've already told in public. Perhaps it'll be more detailed, but it won't be different.
Let Dougal listen in, if he wants.
But he won't be able to listen to anything unless Colum actually gets here. . .
I grow tired of standing in the middle of the room, and go sit on the small, grey-upholstered chair. His desk is an enormous, solidly-constructed block of a thing, just as imposing as the chair behind it. It really is very strange that Colum wasn't here long before I entered, sitting behind it, dignified and upright, like a falcon ready to pounce the minute his prey comes into view.
That would be an effective way of keeping me off-balance. But letting me into the room first, letting me slowly get accustomed to my surroundings, as cold and as depressing as they might be, with no supervision?
That isn't just odd. That's impossible. No, there's something else going on.
No matter. I have all day. And I haven't yet had a chance to really analyze last night's discussions anyway.
So. What can I suppose were the results of our game of rounders? I think I carried off that I was from present-day Oxford, at least. My asking why it even mattered seemed to satisfy them on that point. But there had been those probing questions about Boston, too. . .
And of course I had taunted Dougal with a mention of Boston, but that was in reference to the banner I left on his computer after I'd kicked the chat-app off the server. So, that was all that was. Taunting.
Right?
But Colum had said I sounded American before that. Whether I do sound American or not I have no idea, but Colum was very clearly leading the discussion in that direction before I bluntly brought it up.
So maybe that was why Dougal reacted so strongly to the word? He didn't think I would so boldly admit a connection to Boston in public like that, after having made so forceful a statement with it in private?
It's possible. Not very, but somewhat.
However, what statement he thought I was making there's no way to tell. What possible importance can Boston have to Scottish Clan leaders thousands of kilometers away?
I don't know. Moving on. . .
I'd clearly put my foot in it three times - once with the boy Hamish, once when I'd snapped at Colum for not using modern medicine, and once when describing my personal philosophy of humour. Unrelated things, that don't seem to make any sort of a pattern. . .
Right then. Take them one at a time.
Hamish. A cute boy, adventurous and lively. In the few seconds I've seen of him, he seems to have a more active connection to Dougal than to his father, but that is probably because Dougal is more active himself. Even his mother likely doesn't have much time for the boy, seeing as she is Colum's primary caretaker. . .
Oh.
Oh, of course . .
That would make a lot of sense.
Neither Dougal nor Colum would thank me for pointing out that it is only too obviously impossible for Colum to have fathered a child, or that it is equally obvious that Dougal loves the boy quite uninhibitedly. In my experience, men rarely show such open affection for children not their own, but with my memories of Lamb so clearly in my mind yesterday morning, I had instantly assumed that Dougal was what Hamish had called him. Uncle.
And so it might be. I have no proof, only a strong suspicion. But by the sour look on Letitia's face all evening, clearly Colum himself suspects something, and my comments, no matter how innocent, could all too easily have been taken as taunting.
Which I did do quite a lot of, so, no blame to Colum if he thinks that was just one more example.
Also no blame to him if he was offended at my snap-back about his refusal to use a CRISpRs treatment on his legs. That was entirely out of line of me, I fully acknowledge it.
Dougal came to my rescue after I said it, though. I still don't know why. . .
It can't be altruism, as he went immediately on the attack again. It couldn't have been a hidden attack of its own, since I had immediately apologized, and the incident smoothed over.
So what did Dougal gain from handing me an out?
Maybe. . . knowledge that I would take an out he gave me? Because he handed me at least three after that. And I took them all.
To his growing confusion.
Now, why would he be confused about that? A strange woman, who is only present in his home because he all but ordered her to be there, in the middle of a very pointed inquisition, takes any outs that are given her. Why is that cause for confusion? Especially when he was the one giving me the outs?
It would only make sense if. . . if. . .
If he was in fact the one defending himself.
What if Dougal thought I was attacking, and in self-defense handed me ways out of the conflicts, new angles on the discussion that steered away from dangerous subtexts? Things that looked like outs for me, but were actually outs for him? And I kept taking them, confusing him as to why I would never push my attacks.
That is possible. Very, almost extremely possible.
And, in ignorance, I may well have attacked. What I don't know, and how I don't know. The first time Dougal handed me an out, every word I'd said was a personal snap at Colum, nothing sub-textually threatening. . .
No. I had also said Scots were rebels.
Rebels. . . rebellion. . .
My breath catches in my throat.
Heaven help me, how could I have forgotten Culloden?
The Second Battle of Culloden isn't due to happen for over three years yet, but I'd bet my bone marrow they're planning it now. Planning it, and probably already gathering funding for it. Already bribing officials so they can pull it off. Already collecting information on all the Peace Agents they're going to slaughter.
I'd said Scots are rebels, and isn't that taking things a bit far.
Just about the worst choice of words possible, if they thought I was alluding to their plans. Just how far those plans have gotten as yet, there's no telling, but I wonder. . . yes I do wonder. . . if Colum is in it at all, how much has Dougal told him?
Because, clearly, it's Dougal who is doing the legwork, so to speak.
This would explain the third incident too. I had said a sense of humour is equal to a sense of justice, of right and wrong. . . that it was a rare man who could bend the rules but never break them. Ominous words, to people planning a gigantic revenge massacre. No wonder Dougal couldn't believe it when I said that I don't consider myself all that English.
And then, I finish up the night by actually telling him that broken spirits are a holy sacrifice!
Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, by this point, Dougal probably thinks I work for Sandringham!
Forget rounders, we were playing Behead The Aristocrat with razor sharp battle axes, and I didn't even know it!
And there's the Boston connection. I've just remembered Bonnie Stewart.
American citizen. Boston socialite. Scottish princess.
A large cog in the very messy clockwork of the Third Scottish War of Independence.
No wonder Dougal got red in the face when he saw that banner. Practically everything I've done since stepping out of the side room in that garage has been, if not outright antagonistic, then at least highly suspicious, as far as Dougal is concerned. From his point of view, my inadvertently warning them about the checkpoint at Cocknammon might well have been a calculated gesture on my part, a play to try and earn his trust.
It's even clear why he so insisted that I accompany them home, and made me hide in that cupboard with Jamie instead of handing me over to the English right there at Cocknammon. A probable English agent, who was attacked by Black Jack, can repair a state-of-the-art plasma engine, and who knows about an unannounced checkpoint? Just how much does she know?
And until he finds out exactly what I do know, there's no way Dougal is letting me out of his grasp. She must be packed off to Leoch!
And then, almost the first thing I do upon arriving here is hack the computer he's specifically set up to monitor me. And then I tell off his top two minions, and shove the word "Boston" in his face.
But then, at supper, I wouldn't press my "attacks", and I insist I'm not patriotic, even that I consider it too dangerous a thing for me to use! He could be forgiven for thinking I'm world's most idiotic spy.
But - he knows I'm not stupid.
Small blame to him if he's endlessly confused by it all.
Oh well, there's no fixing that just now. Dougal thinks what he thinks, and somehow, I'll just have to convince him I'm not a threat to him. I don't know how, yet, but this is only Day 3. There's time.
But Colum though. . . Colum, I might still have a chance with right now. It's obvious now that he went into last night's interrogation only half informed, and thanks to his and Dougal's differing ideas on the sanctity of hospitality, he will have to remain less-than-fully informed. If I don't bring up Hamish or currently-modern medical procedures, I might be able to get through a conversation with him successfully.
If he ever shows up, that is. . .
I realize I've been staring at the things on his desk without really seeing them. An empty blue enamel vase. A lamp shaded with a half-globe of green and white glass. An actual fountain pen next to an inkwell containing real ink. An elaborate bronze filigree picture frame, the picture facing away from me. A stack of pale cream-coloured folders to one side of the central work area, and an empty info-screen stand to the other.
Nothing of even mild interest to me.
Then, my eye catches a strange something on. . . or in. . . the elaborately geometrical stand of the picture frame. A little sliver of glimmering, glowing red, encased inside a small cube of bronze filigree.
An active camera. Here. In the family's wing of the house.
So that's their game, is it? They want to see what I'd do if left alone in Colum's office, do they?
No. . . no that's not it at all. Rupert and Angus would have learned by now - active cameras glow. And if either one of them was monitoring this camera specifically, I highly doubt they'd take a chance I wouldn't notice it. Not after yesterday's debacle. Also, there is such a small sliver of a glow, it is clearly pointing away from me, towards whatever is on the desk. Towards that stack of pale folders. Maybe they're meant to bait me? If I was a spy, I'd probably be tempted to go look at them. But I'm not, and I don't care what they are. Which was probably clear to anyone watching ten, fifteen minutes ago - so what's the holdup?
Then again. . . rich metal filigree isn't the sort of surface that can be easily replicated with a sheet of contact paper and a standard in-house printer, like wood grain can. It would take precise, delicate, skilled work to make a piece like that indistinguishable from the rest of the picture frame. This camera wasn't put here this morning.
No, for whatever reason, that camera is here to watch Colum. It's probably been here for weeks or months, if not years. Perhaps its presence is the reason Dougal even has access to spy cameras in the first place. And that's why Colum has been kept in the dark about any information gained on me this way. Perhaps he doesn't know about the presence of any spy cameras at all.
If so. . .
Well, if so, then "gaining the whip hand" as Mrs. Fitz put it, might be far easier than I ever realized. . .
And if those folders are meant as bait for me, then that trap was set by Dougal, and no one else. Colum has no reason to be leaving me alone in his office like this, and most likely no way to know he could be spying on me right now.
So, what is it that's taking him so long?
A section of the tapestry in the far right-hand corner of the room whips back so suddenly, I jump in surprise. It's Dougal himself, but he only sends one dark, sneering, exasperated look in my direction, before snapping to attention, pole-straight, back to the rear wall.
"Be upstanding for Himself," he says, formally.
I stand, and Colum enters, the servomotors of his mechanical braces whirring and straining slightly over the uneven surface of the cobbled floor.
As soon as his brother is seated, Dougal leaves, without another glance or word, the deep red curtain pulled closed as sharply as it was pulled back. Clearly, he is upset.
Colum isn't, though. But he does look somewhat abstracted, as though his mind is on far greater matters than one random Sassenach. This is evidenced by the fact that he has yet to say a word to me, or even look at me straight on.
I sat down again as soon he did, and since he raised no protest, I assume that was okay. Now he has shifted the pile of folders to his main work-space, opening them each in turn and reading their contents, almost as if I am not here at all.
That's fine with me. Being snubbed is far better than being probed.
But I know a sibling rivalry when I see it. Only child that I am, I had ample chances to observe this exact same sort of contention all the time at school. Brother versus brother, sister versus brother, brother versus sister, sister versus sister. It's the only confrontation I know of that could possibly leave Dougal visibly upset, and Colum so icily calm. Stone may sharpen iron, but it can strike sparks from it too. If I had to guess, I'd say he and Dougal have been arguing since breakfast, and that's the reason for all the delay. What they've been arguing about, I have no idea, but I have to assume I figured in at least part of their tête-à-tête.
Considering the unconcealed hatred I saw in Dougal's face when he sneered at me, perhaps they've been arguing about Hamish. . .
"It has come tae my attention," Colum says at last, though still not looking up from his papers, "That I ought to ask ye how ye came tae be limping through the woods of Upper Inverness, despoiled of all yer goods, save yer clothes, a bag, and a bottle." He looks up, finally, a pointed expression on his face.
I smile, ruefully, "It was when. . . when I finally stopped driving - and realized where I was - that I knew it was too late to go back into Inverness and find lodgings for the night. . . if I could even have afforded them. Which I doubt."
"And yet ye could afford a rental car?"
"Yes. . . and that about emptied my account. I had just enough left over to get some tea in Inverness," I swallow, remembering just how close to the edge of starvation I've lived these past few months, "But, anyway, I pulled behind some trees, and made a bit of a camp. Then I went into the woods to try and find some food."
"Jus' like that?"
"Oh yes," I say, knowledgeably, "Food is everywhere in the wild, if you know what to look for."
"And ye do?"
"Certainly. I'm a trained botanist, sir."
"Ah yes. I had forgotten. Go on."
That is a lie. He hasn't forgotten a word of our previous conversation, I'm absolutely certain. He wanted me to say it again, to see if he could poke any holes in my story.
"Well, I filled my bag with some mushrooms, chestnuts, and alisanders, I found and ate some hawthorn berries, I filled my bottle with water, and went back to camp."
He nods, solemnly, "And then?"
"Well, I barely know! There were people - men! - all over my camp, trashing my car, taking my things. And when they saw me, they yelled, and started chasing me. I barely got away. I spent the night in the woods." It's a likely enough story, and nothing I've done since tells against it. I lift my crutch, "I turned my ankle the next morning, before I found a road again."
"Yer car - did it have English plates?"
"Yes. I rented it in Oxford."
He nods again, positively this time. "It sounds like The Watch's work. Renegade devils. Any car with English plates would be more than fair game, and so would ye."
"Oh. . ." A roving band of renegades! For a moment I can hardly believe my luck.
"Where did ye cross the border?"
I blink. I hadn't considered that.
"Uhm. . ." I shake my head, "I don't remember. I had a lot of other things on my mind." Well, the last part is true, at least.
"Were there any distinctive things that were stolen from ye?"
"No. They were clothes, mostly. And a pair of boots. All I had in the world. . ." I cast my mind back to the small canvas bag still in Mrs. Graham's charge back at the manse, and feel a strange, distant longing for a certain half-crate deep in storage on Skycity 15.
"Weel, that bein' t'case, thare's nae way tae tell when they picked up yer trail, and probably nae way tae track 'em after."
I'm beginning to get Colum's measure. He is a man of dignity and pride, yes, but his accent deepens when he is confident.
Which means he isn't always confident.
"Oh well," I say with false brightness, "Time to begin again, I suppose."
"Aye," says Colum, a glint in his eyes, "And what can ye tell me about Black Jack?"
I huff an incredulous, scornful grunt. "Only two things. First, what I know. He's a bastard. And secondly, what I've been told. He's a bastard."
"Aye." He taps a finger slowly on the topmost folder in front of him, "An' who told ye his name?"
I furrow my brow, confused at such a question, "Murtagh. When he was carrying me away."
Colum considers this for an unaccountably long time. When he finally speaks again, his voice is kinder than I've yet heard it.
"Very well. Have ye considered what ye're going tae do next, Mrs. Beauchamp?"
"A little bit," I say, treading carefully around my computer activities of yesterday, "I've sent a request for a copy of my birth certificate, so I can start the process of getting a new ID card. And until then I don't think I qualify for a work permit."
"Nae. Ye don't," he says.
"Not that I'm going to be good for much for a week or so anyway," I say, lifting my crutch a little.
"Nae good fer outdoor work, mayhap," he says, smiling austerely, "But ye may keep yerself well indoors fer many days wi' what I have in mind."
"And. . . what is that?"
"Ye may be unaware, Mrs. Beauchamp, that official Guests of Scottish Clans have privileges not afforded tae the ordinary tourist."
"Indeed. I didn't know that."
"These privileges include workin' on Clan property - volunteerin', more like - as a gift in thanks for hospitality."
I nod, but say nothing.
"Wi' yer room and yer board provided as a matter o'coorse, ye may mix wi' the residents, and in yer exchanges gather tae yerself what niceties remain - clothes and suchlike. An' a'coorse ye may be gi'en coin for product made or searvice rendered - tho' no' beyond the common price, nor beyond the common askin' of yer station."
I understand him very well. But I draw myself up, and put on my most stoic attitude. He won't offer charity, and it must not seem as if I am accepting such from him. Either would be an unforgivable insult at this juncture. This must be a business arrangement, beneficial to both.
"Make your offer plainly, sir, so that I might consider it properly."
He presses both hands flat on his desk, "Weel then. Heer ye are. And heer am I, wi' a large arable farm, on the edge o' wintar, and wi'out anyone tae manage it fer me. Th'last manager was Davie Beaton, of Beaton and Sons, dead three months gone from a weakness o' the heart. His shoos will no' be easy tae fill." He looks me directly in the eyes, though not unkindly, "Will ye make the attempt?"
I pause for a long moment, as though deeply considering it.
"With all humility, I will, sir."
He nods, and extends a hand.
The moment I've been waiting for. The knitted yellow poncho I'm wearing comes down past my hands, and because of the crutch, I have an excuse to stand somewhat sidelong. With one hand I reach out to shake his. The other is near the bronze picture frame, hidden behind a drape of yellow cloth. With one smooth motion, I pluck away the filigree camera cube. It is stowed away in my pocket next to the microphone wire, the second our handshake is completed.
I'm glad it came away so easily, because right then Colum presses a hidden button, and Dougal is back in the room so instantly, it is obvious he was waiting just beyond the door hidden by the curtain. I wonder if he was listening at the keyhole too.
No matter if he has. I have all the ammunition I need, now. Dougal will probably never stop being a thorn in my side for the duration of my stay here, but after today, the dynamic between us will change drastically, I promise myself that.
"Take Mrs. Beauchamp tae the Manager's buildings, an' give her the keys tae Beaton's auld workshop," he orders, "Show her the lay of the land."
Dougal looks at me coldly, "Aye."
"And arrange for a runner or two tae be put at her disposal for the next fortnight at least - or until Mrs. Beauchamp informs us her foot is sufficiently healed."
"Aye," Dougal says again.
Colum turns back to his folders, instantly forgetting me and Dougal, focused entirely on whatever he has in hand.
Dougal gestures me towards the door. I carefully tap my way across the tile cobbles. He leads me down stairs and through long passageways, waiting indifferently as I navigate more slowly. We don't speak.
A doorless runabout is waiting near a side entrance. The late autumn air strikes cold though the thin clothes I'm wearing, but it's only for a minute. The manager's barn is one of the nearest outbuildings to the house, between a covered garage, and the thick grove of fruit trees that lie just beyond the kitchen garden.
Dougal unlocks the door to a side room of the barn, and ushers me down several steps to a large, extremely untidy office.
Apparently, Davie Beaton didn't believe in filing cabinets.
I've just taken one step towards the junk-covered desk, when Dougal grips me roughly by one shoulder, and pushes me up against a cupboard.
"D'ye have any notion the morning I've had? The morning ye'ev caused me?" His eyes crackle with anger, and he leans his face far too close to mine. "Ye'ev no idea what I'm going tae do tae ye, now I have ye alone. . ."
He's expecting me to be the fire-eater from yesterday. Fortunately, I have fuel to stoke my smoldering flames, or I don't know how I would have dealt with this spitting-mad Highlander, seeing as he's all too willing to get physical with me. I muster all my contempt, and sneer at him.
"But are we really alone, Dougal?" I hold up the microphone wire and the little filigree cube. He recognizes both immediately, flinching away from me before making a shocked, clumsy grab at them I evade easily. "And do you really expect me to believe you haven't already bugged this room to hell and back too? I have a tale to tell Colum if I choose. One that would make this morning seem as easy as pissing on daisies."
I raise my crutch, and brace myself as well as I can on my bruised ankle, ready to strike back at him if he lunges at me.
His beard bristles and his eyes narrow. When he speaks, his voice is tight, and completely unapologetic.
"So," he growls, "What now?"
I push some random papers off the nearby desk chair with the foot of my crutch, and sit down, as dignified as Colum ever was. I gesture to the chair across from mine.
Slowly, Dougal removes the junk from it, glaring at me fiercely the entire time.
As soon as he sits, I ostentatiously open the top drawer of the desk, and drop the camera and wire into it, slamming it shut with a satisfying bang.
"Now," I say, fixing him with a stare, "It's war."
Chapter 25: Declarative Clause
Chapter Text
Dougal wants to laugh at my declaration of war. I can see it in his eyes, and the workings of his mouth. But I've wrested just enough power away from him that I have the ability to make his life an endless hell, and he knows that at the moment, I'm not terribly opposed to doing so.
And so, softly, softly.
"War?" he says, placidly ominous, "Ye ken I'm Clan MacKenzie's War Chief, aye?"
"Oh, I'm fully aware of who I am dealing with."
That brings him up short. The both of us are only in this situation because he doesn't know who he's dealing with. I got his measure, or at least part of it, almost at once, and he has yet to begin to understand me. I'm sure the opponents he's used to don't often declare openly that they're smarter than him, so I'm not surprised it takes him a second to absorb my meaning.
I see it when the point lands, though. He freezes into a forbidding block of ice at the shock of it. This wee Sassenach presumes.
"Then deal. Madame," he growls, so clearly unused to the short end of the stick that I almost have pity on him.
Almost.
"Well then. I think the situation is fairly clear." I lean my elbows on a relatively flat expanse of papers stacked across Davie Beaton's old desk, "Firstly - I've kept your secrets. Well, I've kept them from Colum, anyway - and he's the one who matters, so we'll let the rest go by." I look him in the eyes briefly, and see him realize that I have allies among his people already. He isn't entirely pleased about that.
I enjoy the tiny squirm he makes far, far more than I should.
I continue, "Neither last night nor this afternoon did I - deliberately or otherwise - reveal your use of surveillance equipment. On both me and on Colum."
He squirms again.
"And I might easily have mentioned it - on either occasion."
"Yer point?" he snaps.
"My point is. . ." I look him in the eyes again, "You owe me."
"Fine," he grinds out, "What do ye want?"
I lean back, "I want a promise."
"What?"
His face goes slack, even as the look in his eyes sharpens further. It's clearly the last thing he expected me to demand.
"Just that," I say, simply, "I want your promise."
He stares at me, baffled, and says nothing.
"I want you to promise me, that if this is war - let it be honourable war."
His jaw tightens. He still says nothing.
I cross my arms, "No more bugs. No cameras, no microphones, no computer hacking. No sly questions that are half insinuation and half attack. No more interrogations. No lateral moves against friends or relatives. Only you, versus me. Everything aboveboard, with our own colours and banners clear. Open intent. Clean battle. Honorable victories, and equally honourable defeats. We don't have to like each other. Let's at least be honest about it."
As I lay it all out, his expression doesn't soften, but the hardness in it changes. Slowly, it goes from a bitter, vicious hate, to a grudging, acidic respect, no less in its adamancy, but far cleaner in its intent. I suspect he usually reserves this sort of attitude for his feuds with other clans, because when he speaks again, it is not with the tightly bridled rage of the last few minutes, nor his usual studied smoothness, nor even with his deliberately deepened Scottish brogue.
"Ye'r demanding I give ye an equal portion among the sons, then?" he says, in a rounder, more natural tone than I've heard from him yet, "Hev' ye no shame, lassie?"
"The shameful part of all this is the fact that I've been driven to demand equality in the first place, Dougal."
He considers me silently for a long while.
"Aye. Perhaps ye'r right. But what is it makes ye think I'd keep any such promise, hm?"
I smile, "At the marrow, Dougal Mackenzie, you're a man of your word." I gesture significantly at the desk drawer, "Oh, I might have a few bits and bobs to hold over you now, but they're nothing compared to what I'd have if I could ever brand you a traitor."
The word hits home. And not, I think, because of anything to do with Culloden, past or present. Dougal Mackenzie is, in fact, a patriot, a Chieftain, and a man of his word.
I have his measure now, every essential part of it, and he knows it.
"Very well," he says, eyes gleaming. I see his warrior's blood rise to the toothsome challenge I've laid down. The Sassenach presumes to demand things of him, but what is she demanding? Fair combat? Perhaps there's a scrap of honour in her after all! At any rate, he's much less repulsed than he thought he'd be. . . "Ye have my promise."
"Say the words," I say, holding onto the thread of chivalry that seems to be winding though this day's events, "Let me hear the vow."
"I, Dougal Mackenzie, do hereby promise noble warfare between myself and ye, as is clean and right 'twixt enemies of equal station." He almost smiles as he says it. Yes, he's looking forward to our noble warfare. "Satisfied?"
"Thank you," I say, nodding solemnly. That should take care of that. Dougal will probably be far easier for me to deal with from now on, though I still can never let my guard down.
Clean victory. Fair defeat.
But that still doesn't make him an ally.
Now, it's time for the spanner in the works.
"Now then," I say, as though turning to the next obvious item on the list, "I owe you a promise."
His head comes up, his expression hardening again. He's gotten used to me the fire-eater, me the dragon-slayer, me the medieval knightess pitting sword versus battle axe, and surprisingly getting the best of it.
He's forgotten that I'm only Claire Beauchamp: Normal Human, with just as much desire for peace as for honour, and no desire for battle at all, no matter how glorious.
"Ye. . . owe me. . . ?"
I sigh, "Let's be honest, Dougal. You know as well as I do that no war has ever solved anything."
"But. . ."
"No, Dougal. Admit it. No war has ever solved anything. At the very best, wars can give the combatants another chance to solve things - a chance to make things right. A chance that is very seldom taken, historically speaking. And as for the wars themselves? No. They only make things worse. Every time. You know it, and I know it."
He only stares at me, more confused than ever.
"So. Let's take our chance now. Let's fix whatever this is now. Before we make each other's lives hell - as we both can, and probably will, if we continue. Well, I say no. Why waste time? Why waste the effort? I owe you a promise. Now, take it."
After fair defeat, the last thing he expected was to be given the reins again. Now, they're in his hands. But they're there at my behest, and he knows that if he takes them up, he's truly acknowledging me as an equal - both in mind and in power - who can show mercy or exact full payment, just as I will.
The grudging, marble-hard respect in his eyes grows ever so slightly less cold.
"I want ye tae tell me the truth. Whatever I ask ye. The exact truth."
I can't help smiling. He has no idea how much he doesn't want that. . .
And yet. . .
Why not? If he manages to ask anything that I can't answer without revealing I'm from the future, then, so be it. I'll tell him. I have literally nothing to lose. He can only call me crazy, and disbelieve me. Then we'd be back to square one, no harm, no foul. And if he by some chance does believe me, well. . .
I can't think of a better way to make him an ally, in the end.
"I like it," I say, smiling fully, "For three questions - and I can refuse to answer any of them, for any reason I wish."
He raises his eyebrows, "Terms? Ye didnae let me have terms."
"That's because my request was specific. If I promise to tell you nothing but the truth, with no terms or conditions, give you ten minutes and you'd be asking me about my fetishes, and really, let's just not even go there. . ."
For the first time since the garage, I hear him laugh. A deep, pleasant sound, and far more effective than his growls, if only he knew it.
"Fair enough, lass. If ye refuse tae answer, it doesnae count against the three, agreed?"
"Agreed."
A sly look comes up in his eyes, but this time it is tempered with a spark of good-natured mischief.
"Say the words. Promise me."
Well. That's fair.
"I, Claire Beauchamp, promise to tell the exact truth, for three questions, in total, asked today, by Dougal Mackenzie."
"Claire Beauchamp. . ." he says, contemplatively, "I've wondered if ye'd told the truth about yer name."
"I did," I nod, "That's who I am. And don't worry - I'm not counting that as the first question."
He gives me a quick look, but then leans forward and composes himself to do some very sober thinking.
"Why," he asks, slowly, "did ye mention Boston? In yer computer hacking, ye ken."
I smile, the memories flowing over me again. "Because of Rosalie George and Ahmed Khan." I look up, and out, through the dusty cobwebs framing the windows, to the flat, cold grey of the sky, and remember. "Old school friends of mine. We would go into the city on the weekends, and sit by the international arrivals at the airport."
"Why would ye do that?" says Dougal's voice, as though from far away.
I don't let it distract me.
"Because we were young and stupid, that's why. Young, stupid, and very determined. Determined to hack into the air-traffic control computer and change the electronic welcome banner. Why to Boston? Who knows? We were dumb kids, I forget how or why we hit on that city name. Rosie and I would sit in a caf with our computers and get past layer after layer of security - Ahmed ran interference for us if anyone ever asked too many questions - not that any of the officials were ever fooled for long. We were thrown out so many times, I'm surprised they didn't ban us." I laugh, remembering one particularly hilarious incident with Rosie and an order of deep-fried chicken hearts. . . "Maybe it was because we never seemed to be able to get past the last security wall. We could get into the computer proper, but we couldn't make it past the employee password it took to be let in to change the welcome banner - we always came down to guessing, and that's the best way to get caught. But one day, we did it. A dozen or so people were confused for ten minutes. It was the least and most useless of victories, but oh, how we laughed!"
I come back to the here and now, and focus on Dougal again. "It was worth it, just to laugh like that once in my life. I lost touch with them both after school. . . I. . . don't even know if they're still alive or not. But that memory is alive." I idly push a small pile of assorted washers and bolts along the desktop, "That answer your question?"
He has drawn his brows together, in confusion or concentration I'm not quite certain - perhaps it's both. He nods minutely. "After a fashion."
I shrug. "Question Two?"
"Who have ye worked for? As a farm technician, I mean."
I smile tightly, "I can't answer that. I've worked for many farming concerns, and at each one I've produced several copyrighted hybrids. Concealing what I made, and who for, and when I made them, are standard parts of the normal NDA, and usually, to be safe, they just make a blanket restriction - no revealing who you've worked for or when. If you're a good farm tech, word of you usually still manages to get around, so. . ."
I shrug slightly, and for a second I almost forget that none of the companies I've worked for exist yet, and as such, the NDA's are invalid. But that's not what I was asked, and my answer is literally true.
Dougal purses his lips, but says nothing yet.
"However, in the interest of completeness, I'll say that, as of half an hour ago, I officially work for Colum Mackenzie. And that's the first job I've had in nine months."
"Ye havenae worked in nine months?"
"I didn't say that. Keeping your unemployed head above water is a lot of very hard work."
He ponders on that for a minute.
"Anyway," I say, with forced brightness, "Question Two, Round Two?"
He taps the armrest of his chair, softly and rhythmically. "When ye were in the garage, before ye came out tae fix the Rover - what did ye hear?"
I knit up my forehead, confused at such an odd question. He's wasting one of his three absolutely truthful answers on this? Why? But I refuse to quibble. I cast my mind back, feeling almost as though it were months ago instead of days. . . "Uhm. . . well, let's see. Rupert said he was no Davie Beaton. And, um, Jamie said he took care of the horses and not your arses. And there was a lot of arguing about the Rover. Murtagh stood up for me, and Angus told you about Black Jack."
"Yes. And?"
"And? Um. . . Before Murtagh and Angus rescued me, I saw a car on the verge, surrounded by Black Jack and his men. I think that car belonged to Angus?"
"Yes. And what else?"
I go over everything I can remember again. "Nothing that I can recall. But then, I had just woken up. I might have forgotten a few things."
His eyes narrow, "Ye didnae hear any of us say we'd been campaigning past the border?"
"Oh, is that what this is about? Yeah, I heard that mentioned, a few times. So what?"
"So, ye're English. Dinnae ye care we were breakin' yer rules?"
I bark a laugh, "Hardly my rules, Dougal! Why should I care? None of these imposed regs will make it past the Transitional Period, I have no doubt. So what does it matter?"
"Ye really feel that way about it?"
Yes. As someone who was born well into the twenty-third century, and after nuclear Armageddon, I really feel that way about it.
"Why not? The whole thing has the look of a sham to it, anyway. You've got the English to the right and left of you during this whole process, holding your hands like you're some sort of brain-damaged three-year-old who doesn't know how to be a country! As if you hadn't already earned your independence centuries ago - regardless of whether it was denied you or not."
Dougal gives me a look, like he has no idea how to take such an attitude from someone like me. "Earned it?" he says, half-incredulously.
"Well, yeah. I mean, all it takes is wanting freedom. That's enough to earn the right to be free - no matter if your wishes are honoured or not. No matter if it's possible or not. The right remains."
"Ye. . . really believe that?"
"Yes. I really believe that."
Considering that the place will be Cold Island 12 in a matter of a few generations, I figure Scotland should have whatever it wants, as quickly and as painlessly as possible.
Dougal retreats for a minute or two, regarding me intensely.
I wonder if his third question will be if I've ever been to Culloden.
Because if he asks, I'm going to tell him. All of it.
On the Skycities it's so easy to forget - we're taught to forget - what living in a country was like. Now, here, I can see that in a world with only floating Cities, a Human's sense of place is compromised, and the tribal memories that used to link us to the land are shamefully worn away.
It's easy for me to remember that in the middle of the British Cold War, a collection of Scotsmen lured a few thousand Peace Agents to the Culloden moor, and there took revenge for the First Battle of Culloden. It's easy to remember that The Duke of Sandringham, English overseer of the Scottish Independence Committee, leveraged the incident to his own advantage, while making it abundantly clear at the same time exactly how much he hated Scotland, Scottish people, and all Scottish traditions. It's easy to remember that the political fallout from the incident left Free Scotland without functional diplomatic or trade channels with England, America, and most of Europe, driving an isolationist philosophy that eventually led to their early adoption of a NETT grid, and their pivotal role in the Unity War. It's easy to remember their heroic, but ultimately doomed role in WWIII.
It's easy to remember the place being renamed Cold Island 12.
It was even easy for me to see the monument for the Second Battle of Culloden, and not condemn those Scots who died taking their centuries-delayed revenge. It's easy to remember the inexorable tragedy of the First Battle of Culloden, and trace all subsequent tragedies back to it.
It's easy to remember all of that.
It's less easy for me to feel what someone like Dougal Mackenzie or Jamie Fraser or Annie Campbell must feel at this moment in history. Their country, their home, their land. They want freedom, but they also want justice. And, for many, that means extracting the price in blood.
It's a want I cannot truly feel, but, in this moment, I desperately want to understand it.
They might take the no-fault freedom that Queen Victoria is offering, but more - much, much more - they want a freedom that means something.
They want the freedom they earned centuries ago, but was denied them. They want the freedom that's owed them.
And if that means borrowing trouble, then, there simply will be no stopping them.
But Fate is a terribly exact money-lender, and it always demands its patrons pay in full.
I do want justice for them. Truly.
But I want justice for my time and place too. And whatever else Dougal Mackenzie might be doing, he certainly is not playing the long game. Or, at least, not long enough to see past the bounds of his own people, his own land. . . his own life.
And here am I, not bound to any people, nor to land. . . nor to my own lifespan.
No wonder he and I clash like swords in battle.
"Question Three?" I ask, breaking the silence.
He doesn't ask right away, as though going back and forth between two questions he really wants to ask. Finally, he makes his choice.
"Why did ye take so against being watched? After all, if ye'd nothing tae hide-"
I scoff in disgust, "Oh, we're back to this, are we? Here's a revolutionary concept - of course I have things to hide! My tits not least among them! I don't need an excuse to demand my privacy, Dougal. It's a basic Human right. Or at least it is where I come from."
He looks at me pointedly, "An' is that the exact truth?"
"Of course it isn't!" I yell. Then suddenly, my anger collapses into sadness, and I look down at my fingertips as they trace patterns on the dusty desktop. "You really want to know? Fine."
I try to take a deep breath, but the last decade of my life comes up to me, and sits on my heart, forcing all the fight out of my soul.
"How would you feel," I say, my voice very small, "If, in the past eight years, you lost your parents, your inheritance, your spouse. . ." my voice tries to falter, but I push through it, "your child, your job, your home, and the majority of everything you possess? How would you feel if you reached a point where the only thing left for you to do was run, and you didn't care if that made you a coward, just so long as it gave you a reason to keep breathing? How would you feel if, the minute you felt you might have a chance to catch your breath again, almost the entire remains of everything you had left was violently taken away from you? What if the first people you met after that were officials, who ought to have helped you, but they viciously attacked you instead? What if your actual rescuers were wild, heaven-sent strangers, who you knew nothing about, and they knew nothing about you, but they still helped you, unquestioning, so much, and so freely, that even though at first glance you found them impossibly alien, you still couldn't help loving them, almost immediately?"
I remember how safe I felt in Murtagh's arms, and how alive I felt in Jamie's.
"And then, how would you feel, if you discovered the only reason their leader had helped you - your only purpose, your only use to him - was to be spied on, and watched, like some sort of laboratory animal?" I raise my head, not caring if I look as forlorn as I sound, "How would you feel, Dougal?"
He doesn't look at me.
"Wouldn't you fight it? Fight it with tooth and nail and every scrap of Human sanity you had left? Wouldn't you? Wouldn't you just want peace, and quiet, and an ordinary, useful job, and maybe, if you're lucky. . . friends. . . among all the wild, blessed strangers?"
I run out of words, or energy, I don't know which.
He is quiet a very long time. The silence descends around us, full, and waiting.
"Did ye. . ." he starts, then stops, his voice uncharacteristically soft, "Did ye really lose a child?"
I nod. "Yes, I really did."
"How did ye know about Hamish?"
He has used up his three questions, but at this point, there's no reason to deny him the truth. "At the time? I didn't. I only figured it out this afternoon. And I wasn't sure until right now."
"But. . ." his voice hardens again, "Ye said. . ."
"Yes," I shrug, "I was being sincere. I really did have an uncle who loved me as much as a third parent."
"Well. . ." he looks me straight in the eyes, "He does. Colum does. He loves Hamish as his own. What. . . whatever happens between ye an' me. . . dinnae take his child from him."
I've never heard Dougal so earnest.
"T'was all we were tryin' tae do, ye ken. Me and Letty. We wanted tae give Colum a child. Can. . . can ye let that sin alone?"
I sigh. "You may have noticed that Hamish was not part of our negotiations earlier," I shake my head, "A child isn't a bargaining chip, Dougal."
"No' tae ye, maybe. But in politics-"
"I know why your family thinks you aren't cut out for it," I interrupt.
He blinks, and looks at me warily.
"Och, aye?"
"You have too much honour."
He laughs a wry, humourless laugh, "Ye say that, even knowin'. . ."
"You wear dishonour very ill, Dougal Mackenzie. And politics will drain you dry of whatever honour you have, though it be your life's blood."
He stands, and smirks at me, once again the smooth, devious, impenetrable War Chief. I can tell it's still war between us, but it will be noble war this time around. We've made a step or two. He may yet be my ally, eventually. He braces his hands against his belt loops, "I dinnae like ye, Claire Beauchamp. I dinnae trust ye. And I'm no' about tae take life advice from ye." He looks me appraisingly up and down. "But ye'er all right."
He tosses a bunch of keys on the desk, spins on his heel, and is gone before I can respond.
Chapter 26: Trucks In A Row
Chapter Text
It takes me five solid days of work to get my new office into anything resembling order. The first two days are spent sorting paper - extracting receipts, invoices, reports, and other important records from the almost unbelievable amount of trash. In fact, it takes a good three or four hours for me to fully understand that so much of it is trash, and just how utterly mundane all of it is. I've made a substantial pile of colourful, glossy, fully-printed magazines, scraps of brightly coloured card stock announcing 20% off cattle feed, and a truly astonishing number of offers for a thing called a "business credit card" before I realize that not one of them is important. Then, I look more closely at the tumbled piles of plain white pages, and find expense reports, supply orders, growth projection grids. . . all important things for a working farm, certainly, but. . . this is what is considered worthy of putting on paper here? Advertisements, pictures of flashy cars and barely-dressed women, and. . . cattle sale receipts?
I had been expecting such a pile of paper to consist mostly of things like genealogy tables, or cellular scans, biosphere maps, mineralogical surveys, and possibly photographs of unique or noteworthy things the farm has produced over the years. Things to show - things to keep. Things that deserved the paper they were printed on. Things to be proud of.
Not. . . last quarter's water bill.
I know full well that paper can be used this frivolously - I grew up in Central, after all. I've even seen artists cover entire walls with nothing but paper, much to the delight of all their Central Township friends. Of course, Skycity 15 does produce more than the usual amount of the stuff, given how much insoluble stem, root, and other waste fiber we get out of our farming stations, but nearly 80% of our paper products are varieties of sanitation tissue, and most of the rest goes to packaging, industrial construction, or special-use laboratory applications. Occasionally though, a fiber processing station will do a "fancy" run, making coloured and embossed sheets of display-worthy paper, or the trimmed, smooth sheets of pure white art paper. . . but even the most cavalier of Central Township artists aren't so wasteful as to have their regular bank statements printed on any of it.
Schooling certificates, wedding licenses, awards, official commendations, handwritten poetry, paintings, drawings, memorializing photographs - these are the sorts of things paper is used for, not. . . commercials for sheep manure. If you'd shown me this office two weeks ago, and told me it contained every bit of display and art paper that existed in this hemisphere, I would have believed you. Even one week ago, when Lamb explained paper books to me, it was in the context of having preserved a precious part of Human knowledge and creativity. But here, apparently, paper is also used for tax statements, form letters, full-colour catalogues, and something I later learn is called junk mail.
After two days, the single filing cabinet I manage to excavate out of one corner is filled and organized, as are the two large lower drawers of the desk. There are eleven large plastic bags full of the trash, stacked against the wall, ready to be thrown out, or, as I deeply hope, recycled.
And to think - just a few days ago, I got upset when I saw men cutting down trees.
This truly is a different world I've landed in. No matter how often I think I'm getting used to it, something new slaps me across the face with how much of an alien I am here.
I spend the third and fourth days in the office organizing the bookshelves and desk. There are an alarming number of tools, hardware, and equipment scattered around that in no way belong in an office space. Test tubes, Ph paper, pots of grease remover cream, spanners, pressure gauges, buckets of tiny metal rivets, unopened packages of power cells, spent power cells, stirring bars, boxes full of beakers and flasks, scalpels, specimen bags, broken parts of who-knows-what machines, piles and piles of copper wiring, and an almost innumerable collection of bottles containing various types of engine coolant, in various states of usefulness.
I shift the lot of it into boxes, stacking them to the side for me to sort through at my leisure. Barring the additional five bags full of trash, of course.
There is naturally a lot less junk on the bookshelves, and I discover that the majority of the books are reference manuals, for which I am deeply grateful. All the vehicles and machines this farm needs to run will most likely be complete mysteries to me, so, actual information is good - very very good.
When I'm done, all that is left on the surface of the desk is a lamp, a small tray filled with all the maps of the local area I could find and a few blueprints of the farm and homestead, and a large, blocky device I think might be a comm radio, though I have no idea if it is even functional, or how to use it if it is.
There's no info-screen. No printer, no scanner, not even a Grafcal Regulator - an absolute essential on every farming station I've ever seen. Not even a Tablyt and stylus for notes. Only graphite pencils, and pads of yellow paper, faintly lined with blue. I'm not surprised, I expected this to be the case, but, I'm still frustrated. Managing a farm of this size will take a lot of organizing, a lot of planning. A lot of recording and projecting and buying and selling. I can't do that without an info-screen. Well. . . I suppose I can - it will just take a lot more time and effort. And this was already shaping up to be the most difficult job I've ever had.
On the fifth day, I finally find the cameras. I knew from the first it would be too much to ask Dougal to tell me where or how many there were, so I resigned myself to just finding them whenever I happened to come across them. They turn up while I'm dusting. There are three. One painted to look like it was part of the windowsill, one behind a small clear plastic window in the door of the circuit breaker box, and one fitted into the top corner of a bookcase. All three are inactive, and ice cold when I find them. Even on passive mode, they would be a little warm if they'd ever been powered up - which means, I hope, that they have never been active at all. Or at least not recently. . .
I grab a small multi-tool, open them up, and with a few quick snips with wire cutters, permanently disable them. I consider them spoils of war, and feel no inclination to return them to Dougal. I take all three back to my room that night, and put them in the same hiding place I've put the filigree cube, and the now two microphone wires I've found in my room. The second wire was stuck in the hem of the window curtain. I found it three days ago. It's harder to tell if a mic-wire is fully disabled or not, but I've made assurance doubly sure now. . .
I lift the small plastic cup full of greenhouse flowers I've set in the mouth of my steel bottle, and drop the cameras into the clean, dry space left beneath it. Unless you look very closely at the bottle, it's impossible to tell it is holding anything but flowers.
That night, I briefly wonder if it would be safe to stop undressing beneath my nightgown. I decide against it just yet, for two related reasons - first, that I may not have found all the cameras yet, and secondly, who knows if Dougal may try to worm his way out of our deal somehow? Say, by having Angus or Rupert bug my rooms yet again, but without his supervision, and then just report to him. He isn't technically watching me that way, so. . .
Despite the fact that it's possible, I also think it's somewhat improbable. That kind of trick isn't allowed in noble warfare. And Dougal's parting words of "Ye'er all right" were said in the round, comfortable tone that I think is his natural mode of speaking, not in any of his affectations.
It's strange just how much I want to trust Dougal. . .
Or is it? The man is my best chance at peace and safety while I'm here, after all. He's my best shot at finding some small injustices to solve in hopes of improving the future, too.
It isn't much, but those last few seconds with him do indicate sincerity on his part. Also witness that he's left me strictly alone for close to a week now. Granted, that hasn't been too difficult, seeing as I've been taking my meals in the kitchen with the farm hands and house staff, and spending all the rest of my time either in the manager's barn, or here in my room. I've not been anywhere near him or his minions lately.
But until I see either him or the minions again, it's impossible for me to know what they know. So, best to be safe for now.
The next morning, I finally turn my attention to the keys.
Besides the one large key Dougal used to open this office, and the two smaller keys on the same ring with it that I used to open two back rooms my first day here - the small toilet station, and an even smaller break room - I have not had occasion to use any keys on the bunch. And there are at least a score. I quickly count them. Twenty-one, separated onto three smaller rings, not counting the one I've already been using.
Well. Time to explore my new domain.
Besides the outdoor entrance, and the two smaller side rooms, there are two doors leading out of this office. The first leads into a long, glassed-in porch - a greenhouse-looking place I've noticed each morning, but haven't been curious about until now. There are a few narrow workbenches lining the inner wall, and a lot of mostly-empty sprouting trays ranged along the outer glass. A greenhouse indeed. That must mean. . .
The second door leads up a few steps, into the Manager's Barn proper, and it is a great deal more than even I expected.
From what I've learned of Davie Beaton until now, I thought he was the usual type of Farm Manager I've encountered - a bio-chemist, a geneticist, a better than average mechanic, a planner, a listener, a man with both drive and imagination.
I hadn't been expecting an alchemist.
The huge inside of the barn is laid out like a daydream had by a mad scientist from a classic movie. One enormous wall is covered with lab equipment, flasks, beakers, glass tubes - bottles of chemicals, boxes and bags of powders and compounds - all organized on huge shelves, with sliding ladders to reach the uppermost rows. The center of the room is given over to a large quadrangle of soapstone countertops, with water spigots and heating pads dotted in a line down the center of each. There is a space in the middle of each side so the center can be reached, and all manner of chairs and stools have been crowded into the middle of the square. There are several locked drawers and cupboards under the counters, that I soon discover contain the more dangerous of this lab's chemicals. Metallic sodium. Phosphorus stored in oil. A dozen more things I don't currently have time to contemplate. . . I turn about, trying to take in the whole room. The wall I came through is entirely covered in bookshelves stacked with books - on plant genetics, soil chemistry, biome management, etc. etc. etc. - and there are ladders to reach the upper shelves on this wall too. I swoop down on a long shelf filled with nothing but plain tan bound booklets, each labeled with ranges of five years. I flip through one - field history manuals! My heart lifts. I've been looking for these. Now, even without a computer, making a crop plan is at least possible.
Beyond the lab counters are ancient versions of machines I nevertheless recognize - purifiers, synthesizers, mappers, scanners, testers, and kilns. There are vats for water, hydroponic testing stations, vacuum chambers, fumigating chambers, and row after row of seed trays on small, wheeled tables.
It's a comprehensive laboratory, even for my time. For two hundred years ago, it's downright magical.
A small door off to the front clearly leads to the greenhouse area, and there is a door in the supply wall that leads to a nicely appointed break room/kitchen that also contains a toilet station.
Beyond the greenhouse area, there is a very large roll-up door, that it takes me quite a while to figure out how to open. It isn't exactly locked - eventually I discover that the mechanism used to open it must be activated with a little coin-shaped key slotted into a box on the wall beside the door. Once I figure this out, the door opens with a loud, grating rumble, letting in the cold November air until I figure out how to close it. . .
Clearly a door meant for trucks and tractors to bring supplies and samples to the lab.
That finishes the first subset of keys. The second subset has only two keys on it.
The first one opens a door in the far wall, leading to a room that is the mirror image of the office. The minute I step through, I wonder if Dougal even knows about this place. . .
It is a computer lab.
Many of the machines in the main lab are computers by default, of course, but this room is something else entirely. The main lab is a room made for a modern-day wizard, a man who conjures new life out of mysterious aether. This room is very clearly for someone with a much more practical turn of mind - your basic, yet brilliant, engineer. Computer chips and containers of solder are scattered around the one long workbench that spans the entire room. And on the shelves. . . there are screens, and tubing, and sheeting, and bits and pieces of robot arms, gears and wheels, springs and plastic cases, buttons, lights, switches, power sources, and on and on and on the list could go. From the looks of things, whoever worked here wasn't just tinkering about with farming equipment, they were trying to invent new farming equipment.
Clearly, Davie Beaton was a much more complex person than I've been giving him credit for.
Not just a chemist - a conjuror. Not just a mechanic - an inventor. Not just a man of imagination - a person of brilliance.
Hard shoes to fill indeed.
It takes me a long while to find out what the second key on this ring is for. Eventually, I spot a large lockbox, almost hidden behind wreathes of wiring and scraps of plating, but it is the only thing in this room that requires a key to open. And inside. . .
Inside, there are half a dozen deconstructed info-screens, and at least ten or eleven mid-21st century comm radios.
I stand there, wondering, a million possibilities and small, cautious flare of hope in my mind.
If I can't convince Colum to give me an info-screen, I might be able to cobble together my own.
I lock everything back up and trudge over crisped, newly frozen grass back to the main house. It's close to supper time - I'll have to leave the third group of keys - which I know by now must be to the garage - until tomorrow.
Murtagh is here tonight. I breathe a sigh of relief for a familiar face among the myriad of people around me who are still mostly strangers. I see Mrs. Fitz and Annie almost daily, of course, but only for brief moments, or in passing. Mrs. Fitz has seated Murtagh near the head of the long table, quite near to her, and more than half a dozen seats away from me. But I find him a comforting presence nonetheless. He is far more jovial than I've ever seen him, and he substantially livens up what is usually the most sober and uninteresting meal here in the kitchens.
I find myself smiling, not out of amusement, or from some remembered joy, but out of present happiness. The realization surprises me, and brings home very strongly just how separated I still am here. Not just physically, but mentally. I haven't thought about Murtagh. . . or Jamie. . . in days. It is almost like I have been living an entirely different life with each individual I know here. Dougal. Colum. Angus and Rupert. Annie. Mrs. Fitz. Jamie. And now Murtagh. I am a completely different person in the presence of each one. My smile fades, and my heart sinks. The dissociation is burden enough, but adding in where I'm from - when I'm from. . .
I have no idea how to live just one life here. I don't know how to bridge the pieces of me, so I might spend my time as a solid being, and go home from this adventure whole, and unbroken.
Craigh na Dun has scattered me, like rain across a window. I am cold droplets of myself, crystalline-clear, and yet I can only reflect the sky in fractured, warped miniature. I am stuck, evaporating, not bearing enough weight within myself to move me forward or back, and not significant enough to attract any greater power that might push me into one whole sphere again.
Lamb's words come back to me, that he said on our way home from Culloden.
I don't mean anyone has to change anything grand, or do anything heroic, or life threatening. . .
But any reduction of evil has to be an improvement. . .
If there's a chance, just one chance.
If only I could see my way towards any chance at all.
Some small injustice to solve. . .
To improve the future, to make things better. . .
To save the world.
My blood runs cold. I pick at my slice of Mrs. Fitz's treacle tart, suddenly losing all interest in food.
When? When did I decide I was going to save the world? When did I think I should? When did I think I was capable of such a thing? I search my memory.
Lamb had been the first one to mention changing the past, and he had brought in specifics, revealing the method, making the idea not just possible, but real. . . and yet the notion itself had begun in my mind the moment I had seen the dark, clean ocean beyond the Safnet screen.
I have known all my life that our world is dying, but that was the first time I knew for sure it wasn't dead yet, not by a long shot. Doomed, maybe. Cursed, even. But there was still hope, however faint. That rich, impossible blue. . . it was alive. Just remembering it, I can still feel the awe. It had planted a seed of hope in my mind. And not just hope. Determination.
Our world deserves a chance. We deserve a chance.
Sometime between the future, the past, and the space between seconds, I have come to believe in that, more than I thought I could ever believe in anything.
Our inheritance and our legacy. Our burden and our blessing.
It takes infinite power to do the impossible. . .
And yet, here I am. . .
"Am I interrupting anythin', lassie?"
Murtagh's voice is light, and he sits down next to me without waiting for permission. He knows he's not interrupting. After all, I'm only sitting here, picking listlessly at a now much abused piece of pastry.
I look up, and am surprised at how empty the rest of the room is. I completely missed everyone else leaving, even missed most of the lights being turned off.
"No. Not a thing."
I think I see him smile a bit, but it's hard to tell from behind his beard. "Weel, ye might be the most hands-off and dooer-lookin' boss I've evar had, but I still say ye'er by far the prettiest."
The compliment flies right past me as I repeat the most shocking word Murtagh has ever said in my presence, "Boss? What do you mean, boss?"
He quirks an eyebrow in my direction, "Now, are ye oor are ye no' the new Farm Manager?"
"Yes. . . but. . ."
"An' I'm one of three Sub-Managers. The horses and their grazin' land are my bailiwick. Marc Ferrier is our cattleman - stockman, really, he minds the fowls and pigs too - and Lily Bara is head shepherd. Say ye'ev at least met them?" I nod. They both sit near me at table most mealtimes. "And whoe're is in charge of the arable land is head manager o' the four of us. We've been wonderin' when ye'll be calling yer first weekly meetin'."
I take this in for a minute.
"Oh."
"Did nae'un explain this tae ye?"
"No."
"Weel, Colum does have a lot in hand, but I'd a'thought Dougal would'a put ye in the know by this time."
I smile grimly. "Dougal and I. . . aren't friends, Murtagh."
"Hmf" he grunts a distinctly Scottish noise, "I had a vague suspicion. . ."
I shake my head, "It's taken me this long to clear out the office and survey the lab. I only found the field history manuals this morning. I haven't walked the plots yet. I haven't got a crop plan yet, let alone a rotation projection. I haven't done my usual course of soil chem testing and biome mapping yet. I haven't even opened up the farm vehicle's garage yet."
"D'ye mean tae say ye'ev been sorting through auld Beaton's paperwork this whole time? Alone?" his eyes are wide with something between awe and disgust.
"I'm afraid so." I shrug, "Before we have any kind of meeting, I'll need to dig out some sort of computer from somewhere, and at the very least a printer. And the best substitute for a growth graph projector/regulator I can find, if I can at all manage it."
Murtagh's eyebrows get higher and higher with each thing I list, "Did. . . did they no' give ye a computer? Or a printer? Or helpers?"
"No," I shake my head again, "Colum said I should have a runner or two until my foot was better, but I'm sure Dougal has been much too busy to remember a little thing like that."
Murtagh doesn't miss the sarcasm in my voice, and I don't miss the flash of complete rage that dashes though his eyes before he can suppress it. He looks expansively around the dim dining room.
"No crutch now, lassie?"
"No, I stopped needing it yesterday."
He nods, looking very grim indeed, "I see."
"It wasn't a bad sprain, just painful. The salve Jamie gave me helped a lot. I should be able to walk the plots in a day or so."
"So ye. . . ye still want tae doo this job then?" he asks, slightly dubious.
"Oh, yes! No question of that," I say, "It's a good deal more than I'm used to, but nothing venture, nothing have, after all."
"After all. . ." he says, abstractedly, running a finger across his chin, his gaze far away from me, "Quite. . ." Then he focuses on me again, and puts out his hand, "Weel, thankee for tellin' me, lassie," he says as I briefly grip his rough palm, "I'll tell Lil and Marc no' tae rush ye." He puts a finger to his forehead in a casual, yet somehow also astonishingly respectful salute, and leaves the room.
I smile, and sigh a little, and then go to bed.
The next morning, I wake up clinging to the edges of a dream. I'm not certain what was happening in it, but I do remember I was on Skycity 15, standing on the topmost observation deck of the Spire, looking out over the pale green ocean. The sun was high and warm, and I was me, whole, unburdened, without any need to hide my identity or my history.
As I groggily change clothes - still underneath my nightgown - my world splinters again, and I am fractured, floating islands of myself, a dozen different Claires, steady enough when focused, but unbearably precarious when I attempt to shift from one part of me to another.
I can feel a slide into depression coming. I desperately want to prevent it, but I don't know how.
I forego breakfast, and skip going to the office altogether, instead making directly for the long, low garage across from the barn. There are five keys left on the key ring that I have not used yet, and they all must belong here.
The first one unlocks a charging/refueling station. The second a washing/detailing chamber. The third a large maintenance area, with two concrete pits for accessing a vehicle's undercarriage. There are worktables full of tools, and shelves full of parts behind the pits. It looks a great deal like the garage I fixed the Rover in, only substantially smaller, of course.
The fourth key unlocks a small entrance next to a long row of large roll-up doors. It is very dark inside - apparently the lights here do not turn on automatically like they do in the neighboring rooms. I grope for a switch. With a small, unimpressive 'click', the lights turn on, and there they are. My fleet. Tractors, harvesters, maintenance vehicles, supply trucks, runabouts, even a tiny fuel tanker. A baker's dozen, all told. Mine to care for and maintain. Mine to send out to work, and to call back. If I cannot easily make friends with the Humans around me, at least I know I'll be well loved by these old soldiers. They've been to war before. They know the drill.
I walk to the nearest tractor, and pat the door handle in greeting. "Hello, old friend," I say, smiling, "I'd know you anywhere."
And maybe it is my overactive imagination, or my empty stomach making me slightly delirious, but I swear, he smiles back.
The fifth key unlocks a small lounge at the end of the garage. Part break room, part secondary office, there is also a toilet station here, and a large, wall-mounted info-screen of a type I have never seen before, and do not know how to operate.
For the final key on the ring, it is something of an anti-climax. For my floating, half-dissociated brain, it is blessedly ordinary. I can see myself spending a good deal of time here, more than in the main office.
There is much less mess here, thankfully. The records are in much less disarray - to the point that I think I'll just let them be, for the moment.
I sit down at the small desk, abstractedly looking over the collection of multi-tools heaped on it.
After the first two days of digging through papers on my own, the thought occurred to me that maybe this was Dougal's first throw in our new warfare - denying me the help I need. My conversation with Murtagh last night has only strengthened this conviction. He's certainly managed to isolate me, at least temporarily. Perhaps too, he was seeing if I would go whining to Colum at the least little inconvenience? He does rather desperately need to know my limits, and how far he can push things with me. . .
My mind tilts sideways, as I try to change from one world to another. Farm Manager Claire is not Warrior Claire, and at the moment, they cannot coexist inside my head. I banish Warrior Claire as quickly as I can, and focus with all my might on being Farm Manager Claire.
I can do this. I can be her. I am her, and no one else.
Bleak emptiness calls to me, promising relief from the noise, the uncertainty, the chaos of my clashing worlds, and offers me a cold, frozen torture that is at least the devil I know.
It would be so easy, so, so easy to slip into the abyss. . .
"Mrs. Beauchamp?" calls a voice I don't know, "Mrs. Beauchamp!"
There is a heavy knocking on the office door, "Are ye here, Mrs. Beauchamp?"
"Yes!" I call as loud as I dare, "Just a moment!"
I desperately gather myself together, and wrench open the door. A boy of nineteen, perhaps twenty, is standing there, tentatively grinning, "Ye'er Mrs. Beauchamp?" He sounds very hopeful.
I can't help smiling at this earnest, skinny lad, "Yes. Who's asking?"
He puts out an incredibly eager hand, and shakes mine until my wrist almost splits in two, "Willie Mackenzie, Mrs. Beauchamp!"
"You can call me Claire, Willie," I say, finally extricating myself.
"Alrigh'", he says, inexplicably blushing, "Me 'n Geordie brought ye a computer, and we're tae stay here wi' ye, an' doo what'e're ye need."
I blink. Of all the unexpected. . .
"Oh. . . Okay then," I almost stammer, "I'll. . . come back to the main office then."
Willie chatters volubly every step of the way across the yard. I don't hear a word of it.
Have I misjudged Dougal? What is this? Who are these people?
I clamp down on myself as I feel my brain start to tilt sideways again.
Back in the main office, a man about my own age, black-haired and clean-shaven, is sitting behind my desk, setting up a computer, a printer, and an overhead projector. When he sees us, he stands, and leans over to shake my hand. "How d'ye do?"
"Much better now you're here, thank you," I say, desperately trying to mean it.
"What can I do?" says Willie, eagerly.
I gesture at the pile of trash bags, "Well, for starters, you can shift those. And then you can start going through those boxes over there," I point at the jumbled mess of things I removed from in and around the desk, "And put everything that looks like it belongs in the lab, in the lab, and everything that looks like it belongs in the garage, in the garage. Alright?"
"Ye got it!" he crows, ridiculously happy to be given work.
I shake my head a little, and turn back to the older man, "May I ask your name?"
He nods, "Geordie Mackenzie, Mrs. Beauchamp."
"She says we c'n call her Claire!" shouts Willie from behind a bag of trash.
Geordie half-smiles, holding back a grin at his young companion's enthusiasm, "Is tha' so?" he looks at me.
"It is," I say, kindly, "Please call me Claire. If we're to be working together, I'd much prefer it."
"Jus' as ye like," he points to the computer he's tapping away at, "I've jus' got it hooked up tae th'international network. D'ye wan'tae see?"
I walk around and stand behind the desk chair, getting a good look at this new info-screen. Well. . . "new" is stretching it quite a bit. It's an old thing, four or five centimeters thick, and activated by cursor tracking, not by touch screen. It uses an OS I'm not at all familiar with.
"Hm," I say, vaguely, "It's going to take me a while to get used to. . ."
Geordie grins, "Aye, it's an auld clunker, but still good, ye ken?"
"Oh, I ken just fine." And I do. There's a lot to think about here. But not now. Later - when I can think.
"Will you do the searching for me, Geordie? At least until I figure it partway out?"
"Gladly, Claire," he says cheerfully, "What d'ye need?"
"Well, what I need right now is any kind of general crop regulator with an adjustable algorithm."
"Right."
He types and clicks, easily navigating the buttons and icons that are so unfamiliar to me.
"Heer ye are," he says at last, "Crop regulators. There's half a dozen types. Which one were ye thinkin'?"
I scan down the list, finding one that seems vaguely familiar, "Let's try that one."
"Right," he opens a new window, "Order it, shall I?"
Part of my brain catches up with the situation, and I remember who I am, and the things a Farm Manager does. . .
"Is there a rental tryout option?"
"Aye," he says, sounding surprised, "How aboot that? Ye can rent the thing, for three months at a time."
"Right, let's do that."
"How many sensors do ye reckon tae get wi' it?"
Sensors? All of the sensors. . . every tray is linked in to the sensor grid. . . But no, that's hydroponics. Soil farming is different, so, so different. . .
"Uhhmmm. I don't know. What does the site recommend?"
"Two per square meter."
"Right, well, then let's start with that, in one test field of a quarter hectare."
"Righty-oo," says Geordie.
The room falls silent, save for Geordie's tapping, and Willie's rapid walking back and forth.
I am more than a bit surprised by these two. Not just what they are, but who they aren't. I had been half-expecting Rupert or Angus to be one of my "helpers", if Dougal ever condescended to remember I needed help at all. Stop overthinking it, Beauchamp! Right now! I clamp down on myself again. I am Claire Beauchamp, Farm Manager. That's who I am. That's all I am.
"Right, then I'll leave you two to do. . . your things, and. . . I'm going to work in the garage today, so. . . that's where I'll be if you need me."
They give a cheery "Alright!" and "Okay!", and go back to the tasks I've given them.
Less than five minutes later, I'm shoulder-deep in one of the maintenance truck's combustion engines. Engines make sense. Engines have problems that can be fixed. Engines have parts that fit together.
I've never seen this exact type of combustion engine before. It's gloriously easy to focus on learning it, all its parts and how it functions. Wheels and gears, pistons and spark plugs, grease and tubes and filters. It's all blessedly tactile. Present. Real.
Not a yawning, gaping hole of a life, its bare remains currently scattered into crumbling, shifting piles of dirt. . .
No. Don't go there, Beauchamp. Washers and bolts. Seals and cylinders. Fuel injectors and coolant and catalytic converters. Focus.
I have the thing more than half disassembled before I've put myself even partially back together.
I've left a side door open for air circulation, even though it is far colder than I find comfortable. At least the temperature is keeping me awake. . .
A moving shadow falls across the rectangle of air and light.
"An' sae how are things goin' fer ye, lassie?" says a voice I remember.
I turn, and there are Rupert and Angus, smirking, sleazy, utterly unsophisticated, Rupert's seemingly innocent question somehow laced with such slimy implications that I sneer, and do not answer. They take a step or two inside before saying anything more, and when they do, I do not listen.
Because behind them, ducking to get through the low door, is Jamie. Tall, resplendent, gorgeous. Superior. So much better than me. . .
He looks at me and smiles, so easy, so innocent, so boyish, and. . . perfect.
All at once my worlds crash into each other, and I am a trembling, incoherent mess, but somehow, I am also one whole being again. . .
Chapter 27: The Way In
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"Aye, I doo like tae see a lass unafraid tae get her hands dirty," says Rupert, looking over my half-dismembered truck engine with an insultingly proprietary expression, "'Specially a fine, fine quality lassie."
Angus laughs, and Rupert smirks, both of them going to lean indolently against the nearby workbench. It does not escape me that from that angle, they have an excellent view of my rear end. . .
I make two fists inside the engine cavity. I may be back inside my own head, my disastrous slide into dissociative nihilism at least temporarily averted, but my wits are still scattered yet, and I have less than zero energy to be dealing with the Ruperts and Anguses of the world. My empty stomach twists in disgust, and I stare silently at Jamie, begging him with my eyes to get me out of here. He meets my look for a moment, and gives me the tiniest of nods.
"An' how d'ye ken that, Rupe?" he says, still looking at me, "I ken Claire'll be th'furst time ye'ev seen one." He rounds on him, sharply, "A'least in person."
"Well, is'nae that th'pot callin' th'kettle black!"
"That's Mac Dubh tae ye, Rupe."
Rupert scoffs, "Ye great arse - fine - but d'ye really think I hav neva-"
"Aye, an' jus' what woman of quality would evar hev ye?"
"Oh, gi' off yer high hoarse, Jam," says Angus, "Ee's no' as if-"
Jamie has distracted them perfectly. . . I deliberately drop my spanner and multi-tool. They land on the concrete with a loud clatter. I jerk my hands out of the engine, and grip the knuckles of one hand with the other, hissing in pain. To my own surprise, I don't have to fake the pain. At some point in the last hour or so, I've scraped my knuckles raw. I've only just now noticed.
"Now look what ye'ev dun," says Angus, to me, somewhat to my shock, "Now wheer did auld Beaton keep the bandages?" He pokes ineffectually at a shelf or two before Jamie interrupts him.
"He nevar kept a good first aid kit heer. I'll see tae her." He gestures to me, "C'mon, Sassenach."
"Haud oon a tick," says Angus, "Ye cannae jus' leave."
"Why no'?"
"'Cause Himself stationed us heer taeday tae mek shure she doesnae git in trouble!" says Rupert, heaving himself onto a workbench stool.
Jamie crosses his arms, "Aye, and a fine job ye'er makin' o' that. Exactly what trouble are ye thinkin' shee'll be gittin' in wi' me?"
Rupert blinks, and rapidly glances in between Jamie and me, suddenly rendered quite speechless.
"Aye, tha's what I thought," Jamie turns to me, managing to look concerned and annoyed at the same time, "Hev ye had lunch?"
"I haven't had breakfast."
"There ye are then," he says to both of them, "She's on her lunch break. If she spends it wi' me an' bottle o' antiseptic, tha's no' business o' yers."
"An' jus' what are we s'posed tae doo in the meantime?" says Rupert, quickly recovering his voice.
Jamie looks at me, significantly.
"Uhm. . ." I mumble, unprepared for any of this, "I guess you can help Willie shift the trash bags from the office. Maybe. . . help Geordie find a recycling service that takes glossy paper?"
Rupert nods, then looks up, slack jawed, eyes wide, comically appalled, "Ye arenae throwin' oot Beatons auld magazines?"
"Of course I am. What do I need with two hundredweight of pictures of half-dressed models draped over old ca-"
He launches himself off the stool, and is out of the garage and halfway across the yard before I can finish the word. Angus rolls his eyes, sighs a little, and goes after him, cursing softly the entire way.
When they're both gone, Jamie looks at me, smiling tightly, "Dinnae look a gift horse in the mouth, Sassenach." He grabs a jar of skin-degreaser and a large handful of cotton rags, and promptly escorts me to the runabout he has parked in the yard.
The house is a good two hundred meters, and the width of at least three fields behind us, before either of us says anything.
"Are ye much hurt?" says Jamie, quietly.
"It's just scraped knuckles, they'll be fine," I say, my voice much shorter and harsher than I mean it to be.
He looks at me, all gentle concern, "That isnae what I. . . I mean, ye. . . ye shouldnae be skipping meals, ye ken. . ."
"I've gone without before. It's not a problem." I grip my knuckles tighter, and clamp my teeth together. Any more of his caring tenderness, and he's going to make me cry. . .
He shakes his head, "Ye are contrary today, I see."
"I have to be, Jamie," I say, my voice catching in my throat, "Or I'll fall apart. . ."
His expression darkens, and his mouth works, but he doesn't look at me.
"It's no' much further."
There's a double-wide roadway in between the arable fields and the grass lands, bordered by stone fences and two overgrown ditches. We cross this, and go two, three field-lengths into the grazing land before pulling up in front of a small, two-room cottage. I can just see the horse stables and barn off to my right as I get out of the runabout.
The cottage is made of stone, its low, thatched roof coloured grey, its diamond-pane windows warped and greenish with age.
It is a place direct from all manner of fairy tales - from the sweetly romantic, to the murderous and terrifying. For a second, I don't know which one to expect. . .
"D'ye like my workshop?" asks Jamie, gently taking my elbow and guiding me past the gate. A carved wooden nameplate swings and clatters as he closes the gate behind us.
"Hotel California?" I say, "What am I supposed to think of that?"
I've always been good at historic geography - yet another talent my father did not approve of - so I know that California used to be on the western coast of the northern half of what is now the Western Hemispheric Landmass, for whatever that's worth, but, why the Hotel part, if this cottage is his workshop?
"Ye can think the truth. It's my favorite Eagles' song, Sassenach," he says, eyes twinkling.
"Oh," I say, noncommittally, as he hands me into the small lounge area, "You'll have to let me hear it sometime, then."
He rolls up his sleeves, and leads me to a washing basin, handing me the rags and pot of skin-degreaser. "Ye'ev never heard Hotel California?"
I fill the basin, and begin to scrub my arms, "Not that I can recall. Maybe I have, I just don't remember it."
I can hardly tell him that I barely know what an eagle is, let alone who the Eagles are. . . if they are anyone, but it sounded like he was speaking of a group of musicians. . . and as for a knowing a singular song of theirs. . .
"Weel, ye'ev not heard it, then. It's no' a song tae be forgot." He hands me a towel.
"Oh. Sorry," I say, patting my arms dry. I present my hand to him, the knuckles torn, my skin raw, but the bleeding has stopped.
He gestures me to a couch. We sit side by side, and he dabs on some antiseptic with a pad of cotton, then ties a long, clean strip of cloth around my hand, swathing my hurts from sight.
"It's no' a surprise, really. The album is a hundred years old."
"Oh? A classic, then."
"Aye. Tae be sure."
We run out of words to say, even these superficial, meaningless ones, whose only purpose is to fill the space between us with noise.
In the silence, even that barrier is denied me.
I am presented to him, raw, and torn, sick at heart, with nowhere else to go.
"Jamie?" I say, my voice very quiet and small.
"Aye?"
"Can. . . will you hold me?"
"Aye. A'coorse."
He opens his arms, and I go into them, leaning my head on the solid bulk of his chest, as his arms go around me, holding me close.
My tears don't explode or burst out of me, rather the weight of life presses on my heart, and overflows into my eyes. From within his safe enclosure, I can empty myself, break in half and bleed out the pain, fear and hurt. I can strip away the wrongness, the hate and suspicion. I can gasp and shake, fill with sorrow, and empty myself again.
It seems an age, as crying always does. But it is probably only a few minutes. I am calming down when I realize Jamie has been murmuring things to me the whole time, soft words, but intense, in a language I can't understand, his lips nuzzling into my hair as he repeats them over and over, like prayer.
"Tha gaol agam ort, mo nighean donn, mo Sorcha, na caoin, mas, e do thoil e, mo chridhe, tha gaol agam ort. . ."
I lift my head, sniffling, eyes streaming, and meet his deeply concerned blue gaze.
"Ha-gool ak. . . akham erst?" my voice is slow and thick with crying, and I stumble over the unfamiliar sounds, "What does that mean?"
A tiny smile twitches for a second in the corner of his mouth. He reaches to a side table, and brings back a packet of facial tissue that he tucks into my hand,
"I'll. . . tell ye one day, Sassenach. No' now."
I pull out of his arms, blow my nose, and wipe my eyes.
"I cried all over your shirt. I'm sorry."
He looks down at the dark blotches on the blue flannel, "Dinnae fash. I'll wear them. Proud tae. Like war medals."
I blink, and sniffle a bit, not knowing what to say to that.
"Now. Do I need tae kill Rupert for making ye cry?"
He's teasing me, and suddenly, I want to kiss him for it.
"No." I smile, and shake my head, "No. He. . . he didn't. He was just the last small thing in a long line of small - and big - things. I couldn't handle any more, is all."
"I think. . . he may like ye. Angus too."
"I'm almost certain they do. But they understand less than nothing about me."
"Aye, that's true enough."
He stands, and goes over to a small refrigeration unit. He extracts a large, paper-wrapped sandwich, and a bottle of water, comes back to the couch, and sets them on the low table in front of me.
"Ye must be hungry. Hev some lunch, Sassenach."
"But. . . I can't take your lunch!"
He laughs, and goes back to the refrigeration unit, opening the door wide, showing off two similar sandwiches, a container of potato salad, a container of fried mushrooms, and a glass pot full of at least a liter or two of stew.
"Mrs. Fitz feeds me like I'm still seventeen, a nighean. The mushrooms and lamb stew are from yesterday, the tattie salad from two days ago. Ye arenae takin' any food out o' my mouth, rest assured. It'll most like go tae the pigs if ye dinnae eat it."
He brings the salad and another sandwich back with him, sitting next to me companionably.
"Soo, I may take it yer audience wi' Colum was. . . complicated?"
I've just taken a bite of my sandwich, so all I can do is nod, and chuckle a bit. "That's an understatement!" I say, as soon as I can swallow, "So, so many things have happened since I got here, Jamie! Strange things, things I don't understand, things I understand all too well. . ."
"Weel, ye dinnae have tae talk about any of it if ye dinnae care tae."
"But I do," I say, fervently, "I want to tell you as much as I can."
And I do. But there are things I can't tell him, and things I won't tell him, and things I have no idea how to tell him. . .
"I guess the best place to begin is really when I hacked into Angus and Rupert's chat-app. . ."
"Ye told about that last time we talked. Is there more?"
"More than I said then, yes."
I can't tell him what I did in my Shadow windows, but I do tell him a lot more about what Angus and Rupert said, how they discovered the cameras were out, and how they reacted to my throwing a spanner in the works. He laughs when I tell him about taunting them on their transparent code names.
"Now I'm certain Rupert likes ye!"
"What?. . . Why?"
"Witchy Woman is his favorite Eagles' song, ye ken."
I blink, and unwrap the second half of my sandwich, "But, that would mean. . ."
"Aye, that he liked ye already, then," he takes a bite of potato salad, contemplatively, "He probably lost it the day ye fixed the Rover. I cannae blame him - ye were magnificent that day, Sassenach."
I snort. "Hardly that."
"Aye, that an' more. Brave and bonny. Smart and sassy," I laugh at his deliberate choice of words, "Needin' all our help, but no' taking any shite. Ye'ev moar steel in yer spine than a dirk, that ye have. I cannae blame any of 'em for being impressed, Dougal, Murtagh an' all. In fact, I cannae blame anyone if they fall arse over teakettle for ye the first time they lay eyes on ye."
Something in his voice brings me up short. The implications of that. . .
But no. Surely not. . .
"Well. Go on then," he says, quietly.
"Well. You know about how badly I mucked up supper that night. . ."
It's his turn to snort, "Ye mean when ye endured a lot o' pointed questions by twa grumpy auld men whoo dinnae ken ye, tae th'point that ye snapped at one o' them fer his foolishness? Agch."
His deeply disgusted grunt makes me smile, and I wonder, is there anything more about supper that night I can, or should, tell him? I won't mention anything about Hamish, I can't talk about my suspicions regarding Culloden, and does he really need to know I'm from Oxford, or why I taunted Dougal with the word Boston?
Although, that does remind me. . .
"Jamie? Do I sound American?"
He sits up straight at that, surprised at the question, "No' tae me, ye don't. I've nevar heard any'un speak quite like ye do, aye, but ye'er English, plain as plain. These days, with movies and technology - unless someone tries tae keep an accent, who knows where they're from? I met a lad from Guernsey once, born and bred there he was, and sounded German. Why? He had a cousin lived in Dresden, an' they were always talkin', video-chatting and such, while they were growing up. An' he said his cousin ended up speakin' French wi' a Guernsey accent." He shrugs, finishes the potato salad, and wipes his mouth, "Ye'ev a flat vowel oor two, and a right sharp cadence tae ye - and ye'ev a bit of an odd vocabulary. . . Och, but ye'er English, ceartainly. Whoo's been sayin' otherwise?"
"Colum. That first night, he said I sounded American."
"He might have been trying tae get a rise out of ye, Sassenach," he says, seriously, "He's been known tae do that tae people he doesnae trust."
I sigh, "And with Dougal there, no extra points for guessing why that was. . ."
"Aye, Dougal. . . did aught come of the cameras an' all?"
I bark a laugh, "Oh boy, you don't even know. . ."
I tell him about my meeting with Colum, all the things I'd said about myself, and how he'd offered me a job. Jamie nods along, surprised by none of it. . . until I tell him about the filigree camera cube. Then his jaw drops open, and he stares hard at the wall.
I still go on, carefully editing my encounter with Dougal so I leave out anything to do with Hamish or Culloden, winding up with Dougal tossing me the bunch of keys, and leaving me so strictly alone after that, he didn't even tell me there were three Sub-managers expecting me to have weekly meetings.
I stop, and silence falls again.
Eventually, he clamps his mouth closed, and goes through eight or nine uninterpretable facial expressions as he absorbs all I've told him.
"Ye really said all that tae Dougal?" he asks, slightly incredulous.
I can't blame him for feeling that way. I'm a bit incredulous myself, thinking back on it.
"Yes, I really did."
"Weel, I kent ye had baws, but *wheew*," he whistles, "Gi' ye a weapon and ye'er deadly, Sassenach. Remind me tae stay on yer good side, aye?"
I lean closer to him, lower my voice, and purr, "Stay on my good side, James Fraser."
He quickly crushes his sandwich wrapper, and throws it on the low table. He narrows his eyes at me.
I just smile.
"I bet that jab about if he breaks his word tae ye, you'd be able tae hold bein' a traitor over him is rankling somethin' fierce. If that doesnae shame him inta leavin' ye be, I dinnae ken what would."
"Oh? Why is that?"
"Because he already betrayed ye by spying on ye in the first place, and as for that camera ye found in Colum's office. . ."
He stares hard at the wall again, a lot very clearly going on in his mind, but what, I am uncertain.
"What about it?"
"Weel, I kent Dougal was after bein' Chieftain, but I didnae ken it'd gone as far as that," he scratches the back of his neck, "I'd always supposed that's what his candidacy for the Independent Scottish Council was about, ye ken, oor mostly, a'least. But nae, there must be moor tae it than just that, now. Ye kept the camera, aye?"
I nod.
"Good. Dinnae lose it." His brow knits up with hard thinking again, but then he shakes his head, decisively, "It doesnae matter, no' at the moment, anyway. Moor importantly - how are ye, Sassenach? Settlin' in at all, now that Murtagh's boys are helpin' ye?"
A light dawns, "Oh, Murtagh sent Willie and Geordie!"
"Aye," he grins, "An' he sent ye his auld clunker of a backup computer. If ye need tae doo something it cannae handle, ye can always come here and use mine, ye ken," he gestures at the desk in the corner, "Filling auld Beaton's shoos will be tough enough, nae doubt, without a slowpoke of a computer gettin' in yer way."
"Thanks, Jamie," I say, content. My stomach is full, and I'm sipping on the water, my lurching sick feelings entirely soothed. "I already was settling in a bit, I guess. I just. . . well. . ."
"Aye?"
"Well, I still feel like I'm living a half-dozen different lives here, you see. A different set of things to be and do with each individual person. I feel. . . fractured. I was sliding into a dissociative episode this morning - that's why I skipped breakfast - and I used dismantling the truck engine to ground myself. That's why Rupert and Angus being their normal selves was too much for me."
"I see," he looks slightly abashed, "An' I-"
"You were wonderful, James Fraser," I say, running my bandaged hand up and down his arm, "I don't know why it's so easy for me to be around you, and so difficult for me to be around so many of the other people here, but, that's what I'm dealing with right now. . ."
"Agch - ye just need tae spend some moor time wi' the lot o' us. Socially, ye ken."
I roll my eyes, "Oh, sure. That should be easy. . ."
He ignores my sarcasm, "Weel, the Cuckoos In The Grove are due here in the next few days. This Friday night, they'll give a big welcome back concert, an' if ye-"
"Wait. Back up. The who in the what?"
"The Cuckoos In The Grove. Colum's personal band."
"Band? He has a band?"
"Aye, he sponsored them before they got a record label. They spend a few months touring every year, but they always keep the winter free, and spend a month or two here. They bring their families, make a real vacation of it. Not that Colum doesnae work them while they're here, a'course. This year they'll be here though Hogmanay."
"Oh. Interesting. Will there be many hogs?"
He laughs, a joyous crowing shout I'm shocked I've never heard him use before, "Nae, Sassenach. One, perhaps. But the point is tha' there will be a concert here on Friday, with the lot of us there. When the Cuckoos are here, all manner of people come in from Cranesmuir too - it'd be a perfect time fer ye tae get tae know people, ye ken. An' if ye sit wi' me, dance wi' me, I'll be there tae make sure they're good tae ye. . ." He trails off, blushing bright red.
"James Fraser, are you asking me on a date?"
"Seems I am. Will ye?"
I smile, "Seems I will," I run a finger along the collar of his shirt, "Tell me about this concert, though. Will there be food?"
He nods, "Aye, and drink. They say the way inta a man's heart is through his wame, but the way inta any Scottish heart is wi' whisky, so there'll be pizza, and buffalo wings, and loaded potatoes, and lamb stew, and every kind and colour of whisky."
I want to ask what pizza is, and what buffalo wings are, and what you have to do to a potato to make it "loaded", but he mentioned them all so casually, I can't think of a way to ask without sounding unbearably strange about it. Instead, I fall back on the one thing I know for sure.
"Mmm, sounds amazing. I haven't had whisky in ages."
He rounds on me, almost more shocked than when he heard about the camera in Colum's office.
"D'ye seriously mean tae tell me ye'ev been here a week and nae'un has offered ye a dram?"
I shake my head. "Nope."
He jumps up, making several Scottish noises and muttering a long string of what I assume are curses, but they must all be in Gaelic, for I can't understand any of them.
He returns with a bottle, and two cut crystal glasses, all three of which he plunks down between us on the low table.
I read the label out loud, "Lallybroch, 20 Year Reserve."
"Aye. It means Drunken Tower," he says, pouring a small amount for each of us.
"An appropriate name then."
"Aye," he hands me one of the glasses, and taps it with his, "Slàinte mhath."
I take a sip before attempting to say the salute. It's earthy and smoky and rich and intoxicating and everything whisky should be. In seconds, it warms me down to my toes. I lick my lips and try to repeat what he said. "Shlan. . . gevah?"
It's a good thing he has swallowed by then, because the roar of laughter he gives at my attempt would surely have sprayed that good whisky all down his front. He sits there and laughs for several minutes, breaking out afresh every time he looks at me, shaking with a humour I don't quite get, but certainly appreciate.
Seeing someone I care about this happy is almost as good as being that happy myself.
"Dinnae fash, Sassenach, we'll have ye speaking the Gàidhlig in nae time at all," he says, finally getting himself mostly under control.
"And by "no time", I assume you mean. . . fifty years?"
"Aye, if that's what it takes. . ."
He takes another long sip, finishing the portion he poured himself. He puts his glass down, and turns to me, eyes roving over my face before he lifts one errant curl, and gently tucks it behind my ear.
"Claire. . . May I kiss ye?"
"I thought you'd never ask. . ."
I quickly finish my whisky, slap the empty glass on the low table, and wrap my arms around his neck to draw him closer. Only, he holds back, kissing me, but far too gently, too carefully, as though he is afraid of breaking me.
Which, now I think of it, he could easily do. Physically, mentally. . . He could smash me into flinders with a look, with a word, with one blow from those tough, sinewy hands he has braced on either side of my hips. . .
But, it's no use me being anything but vulnerable with him while he's still wearing the shirt stained with my tears - tears I shed after those same frighteningly strong hands, so far from doing me any harm, cleansed and bound up my wounds. . .
He delicately kisses the tip of my nose, and then, much to my confusion, pulls away entirely. He sighs deeply, turning to the low table, beginning to gather up the remnants of our lunch.
My mouth still tingles with his too-light kisses - kisses that have left me unsatisfied, worried. . .
"What's wrong, Jamie?"
He looks at me halfway, and blinks several times, "Noth-"
"And don't say nothing. C'mon, Jamie. You're no tentative boy - you asked to kiss me. And it's not like we haven't made out before. Now what kind of kisses were those?"
His jaw tightens, and he looks down at the papers in his hands.
"Ye. . . ye dinnae ken what it takes, Claire. How much it takes. Tae kiss ye, an' no' touch ye. This time I couldnae. . . no' without. . ." He flushes a rosy, delightful pink.
My worry collapses, and my heart warms, "Oh. Is that it?"
"Aye. Tha's it. But ye asked me tae be patient, and patient I'll be, even if. . ." he gives me a quick, businesslike kiss on the forehead, "Even if it means denying us both, sometimes."
I knock the sandwich wrappers and used napkins from his fingers, take his wrists, and deliberately place one of his hands on the back of my head, and the other on the middle of my back. "Touch me, then," I say, fiercely, "Just. . . don't wander too far yet. Understand?"
He looks at me with a sort of reverent wonder, his fingers tightening in my hair and on my spine, then softening, and stroking gently.
"Aye, message received, Sassenach."
He still doesn't lean into me right away, and when he does finally draw my mouth to his, sliding one hand slowly up my back, pressing me to him, it's not to kiss me just yet. Instead he whispers against my lips, "D'ye ken what I've been dreamin' of since ye got here?"
I shake my head, running my nose along the stubble on his upper lip.
"Feelin' ye tremble against me again. Only no' in fear. Oor sadness. Oor pain. . ."
Finally he slants his mouth over mine, and kisses me like I'm cold water on a hot day, drinking deep and sure and breathless. When we break apart, I indulge in what I have been dreaming about since I got here, and bury my face behind his ear, nuzzling into him, breathing deeply, luxuriating in the scent of him.
"Mmm. You work in a stable, Jamie. With animals. How on earth do you smell so good?"
I feel him smile against my neck, "Come an' see."
He takes my hand, and leads me into the other room of his workshop.
This is the larger room by far, square, and bright with whitewash. Bunches of dried herbs hang from every available space - marjoram, and mint, rosemary, dill, coltsfoot, summer savory, and dozens and dozens more things I might well recognize, but don't have time to take in, because the rich, spicy, overwhelming scent of the room is more intoxicating than the whisky. It is Autumn and Spring, blent with the riot of Summer, and mellowed with the cold air into a magical, seductive elixir. I cannot say anything, I merely sit on a stool at one of the workbenches, and breathe, filling my lungs again and again with the wild, odorous gamut.
I've dreamt of having a workshop like this. Of being surrounded by herbal sweetness, and the thrilling variety of things grown in soil. . .
Jamie crouches nearby, rummaging in a cupboard. He places three bottles in quick succession next to me, one large, and two small.
"There ye are. My secret weapons against horse manure." He points at the smaller bottles, "Erry'un likes this scent - can't keep it in stock. Ye'er lucky I just brewed some."
I pick up the little bottles and read the two identical hand-inked labels. "Soapwort, and Wintergreen. But. . . I have some of this in my rooms!"
"Aye, I noo, Sassenach. I make all the soaps and lotions for the guest rooms at Leoch. Mrs. Fitz comes tae me for her kitchen herbs, and ye may have noticed I'm something by way of being a doctor - tae both animals and humans, as the need arises."
I smile softly, "So this is where you learned to take care of a sprained ankle so well. . ."
"One o' th'places, aye."
"Do you know, I think I prefer your workshop to mine?"
"What? With that great lab o' yours, with the magic of it at yer finger-ends? An' every field, far as the eyes can see, yers, jus' waiting fer ye tae smile on them, tae make them green and beautiful? Nae, Sassenach, this is my wee corner o' the world - one cottage, one field, one life. 'Tis a cage as much as a refuge. And ye. . . ye'er made fer the sun, and the free air, the earth beneath yer feet and the sky open above ye. . ."
He stops abruptly, turning to fiddle with something on a different work table, full of some emotion I am at a loss to explain, and cannot understand.
Letting him be, I take up the larger bottle. It bears a similar label, hand-inked in a similar way, only this time it reads "Secret Shampoo: Formula 29". I open the cap, and take a sniff.
Even in the midst of the deep sweetness of this workshop, the scent of this shampoo stands out. Sharp, clear, cold, warm and soft all at once, sweet and savoury, intense and mellow, somehow everything and nothing recognizably specific has gone into it. It's heady, and to me, utterly perfect.
"Why are you giving me love potions, Jamie?" I ask, teasingly.
He turns, seeing me re-cap the bottle, "Och, ye like it then?"
"Like it? It smells like you. I can't wait to try it."
I pause, suddenly struck with the implications of covering myself with the scent of him, but I push forward, hoping he doesn't notice my brief stutter, "B-but that doesn't answer the question, you alchemist. Why are you giving me these magic brews? What are you trying to prove?"
"Not a thing, Sassenach. There's nary a drop o' magic in the lot. Jus' herbs." He goes and looks out one of the little diamond-pane windows, "But there are a fair number o' those, and strong ones too. I wouldnae recommend ye get it near yer. . ." He stops, and blushes again, his ears turning quite, quite red.
I grin, and have mercy on him, "Near my. . . eyes?"
He nods in relief, "Aye, those either. And dinnae drink it."
I give a mock gasp, "Don't drink it? Then how am I supposed to use this love potion, hm? Why kind of alchemist are you?"
He sighs, half bemused, half entertained by our banter, "An alchemist turns lead inta gold, Sassenach. Yer eyes are already that - and better, since they're alive. Ye dinnae need my potions. Ye dinnae need any magic but the light that flashes from ye when ye smile."
I suddenly realize that Friday is days away. I'm going to have to leave here soon, get back to my own job, and I can't stand the thought of not seeing him for all those hours, all those minutes.
"Jamie, will you walk the plots with me tomorrow? I could use a tour guide who is well-versed in local botany. To help me make a biome map, you know."
He gives me his devastating half-smirk, "Why, Mrs. Beauchamp. Are ye askin' me on a date?"
"Seems I am," I look over at him slowly, beseechingly, using every soft wile I possess, just to see how he'll react. "Will you?", I whisper.
His eyes have gone black, pupils blown so wide all that remains are narrow rings of electric blue, burning like twin suns in eclipse. In one long stride he's back next to me, as if he never left my side.
"Seems I will."
He tangles the fingers of both hands in the hair behind my ears, and with his thumbs, traces the edges of my mouth. It's exactly the caress Frank used to give me, right before he would. . .
Then Jamie's mouth is on mine, hot and hard, demanding entrance, melting me, dissolving me, driving me mad and keeping me sane all at once. His fingers tighten in my hair, pulling my head back as he works relentlessly down my neck, scraping me with his stubble, nipping, licking, sucking. He's bitten a delightfully stinging bruise onto my collarbone when he suddenly stops, stepping away from me entirely.
This time, I understand exactly why.
It takes us both a minute or two to compose ourselves.
"I'll meet ye in front of the Manager's barn taemorrow mornin'. Half-past seven." His words are slightly rushed, his tone one of mild detachment. Hearing the words in isolation, it might seem as if he were indifferent to me now, or even bored, but the look he gives me with them puts the lie to both.
Even without the look, I understand this too. He needs a little distance sometimes. A clean space around himself. He may have monumental self-control, but there are still parts of him I'm not allowed to see, not allowed to experience yet. He let me get too close there for a minute. Too near to a room in his heart where he'd accidentally left the door open. He has to close it on me now, before I knock something over.
He's been careful not to break me, and respectful of my limits. In the middle of enjoying him, I briefly forgot that he is Human, and just as breakable, with just as many hard limits. I've remembered now. I won't forget again.
He has yet to be nearly as vulnerable with me as I've been with him, but then, I haven't earned it yet.
Something in me wants to earn it. To win his trust. To be worthy of it.
I don't know how he's done it, but this man I barely know, whose history I haven't heard, whose life I do not understand, has earned not only my trust, but my loyalty, and my respect.
I want to honour him.
It's a strange sensation, especially with the marks from his mouth still throbbing on my neck.
"Sounds good. Count on it," I say, bustling about, gathering up the bottles he's given me, and going to get the remains of the pot of skin-degreaser.
When I come back, he's standing in the doorway between rooms, watching me with a pale, detached expression, and a strange, inexplicable pain buried deep in his eyes. I kiss the fingertips of my injured hand, and run them lightly over his jaw and chin, "Half-past seven, tomorrow morning, in front of my office. I'll be there."
Without a word, he drives me back to the Manager's barn, where four very different examples of men await me. . .
It's only hours later, while I'm changing for bed, that I realize Jamie also managed to drive all thoughts of Frank from my mind.
I turn off the light, slip under the covers, and wonder if I should feel at all guilty about that. . . and what it means if I don't.
Because I don't.
I sigh, as two different aches rise up in my heart, warring for dominance. One, a longing for what is gone, and the other a desire for what surely can never be. Tears start into my eyes, different tears than I cried on Jamie this afternoon - tears I can never, ever cry in the presence of someone else. These are the tears I cry when for no reason, my heart is lonely, when my mind cannot fulfill the needs of my soul, when parts of me become so vast, and so empty, so barren that no one can reach me when I'm in the center of them.
I felt this way sometimes, even when Frank was alive.
He called it my "cloud mood". Times when I would turn to mist and wind, he said, as unreachable as the stars.
The only way out is for me to be alone, and to cry, private, singular tears that mourn the unknowable parts of me that make my soul a prison, for me to weep for the dead day, not even knowing for certain there will be another sunrise.
My tears slow, as they always do, leaving the barren, empty part of me a little nearer the surface than before, a little closer to where I can bridge my way home.
But now, I'm inexpressibly tired.
After the stresses of today, I expect my dreams to be jumbled, confused, a chaotic mess - but they aren't. They're sweet, delicate, fairy images of flowers, morphing into moths that fly into a sunset sky of pink and orange and purple, and the colours pour clear and pure across my skin, clothing me in celestial tapestry, rolling me though fields of white and green, the Spring scent deepening in my nostrils, even as Autumn sweeps my hair back clean from my face. There is a glade, little, and wild, but safe and full of worship, where I can leave my heart, and go journeying without fear, returning whenever the wind blows smooth and full, to carry me across space.
I awake at dawn. For the first time since coming here, I feel refreshed, encouraged, and without pain.
Heaven help me, I actually feel confident.
Determined not to live any longer in fear, I take off my nightgown, and then get dressed.
Notes:
"Tha gaol agam ort, mo nighean donn, mo Sorcha, na caoin, mas, e do thoil e, mo chridhe, tha gaol agam ort. . ." - I love you, my brown-haired lass, my Claire, don't cry, please, my heart, I love you. . .
Chapter 28: Well Laid Plots
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"Tea or coffee?" Jamie pokes his head out of the break room in my office, "I c'n make either."
"Tea, of course," I say, over my shoulder, "Three bags to a liter, and steeped for five minutes exactly. No cream, no sugar."
He grins, and shakes his head, "Ye'er sae English, Sassenach."
"Yes. And a good thing too, considering you just called me 'English English'."
"S'pose I did," he frowns slightly, and his head disappears back into the tiny room.
I smile, and turn back to the map of Leoch I have unrolled on my desk, re-checking the route we'll be taking today. I've never walked plots that are outdoors before, let alone on such uneven ground, or in such chilly weather. All the same, the layout of Leoch's arable fields is about what I expected from a rocky, hilly country like this one, and the route I have planned is as efficient as I can make it. . . which isn't very. I estimate we'll be trudging around, trying to get all the necessary samples, for at least four or five hours. And that's just the section I have planned for today.
I'm used to this stage taking three hours, at most - some of the larger farming concerns might require six hours, split over two days, but certainly no more than that - and I already doubt if I'll be able to walk the Leoch fields in less than a week. I'm used to walking grids of hydroponic vats, taking water and growing medium samples, testing for light source and growth tray integrity, and then going back to my lab, where I program the sensors, run a biome compatibility simulation and growth stat probability curve, calibrate my crop regulators for optimal resource distribution, and then let the planters and fertilizers get to work. I'm used to ten hectares of growing space fitting into a building of one fifth that area. I'm used to metal floors, scrubbed clean, the only soil in sight the carefully conserved trays of bio-active compost used to grow a few non-hybridized specialties. I'm used to a white lab coat, an info-screen, and a chem-test pack being my primary farming tools.
Despite the fact that I've been studying maps since yesterday, and have put on at least two full layers of the warmest clothing Annie has provided me, I feel wildly under-prepared to be walking the plots of a full-soil farm in late 21st century Scotland, in mid-November, armed with nothing but trowels, specimen vials, a bottle of tea, and one tall and ridiculously attractive Scotsman.
I feel wildly under-prepared for just dealing with the Scotsman, to be perfectly honest. But the confidence I felt when I awoke hasn't left me, though it is hiding behind some anxiety at the moment. . .
"There ye are, Sassenach," says Jamie, putting a largish metal bottle down next to me on the desk. A "thermos" he called it, when I invited him in out of the cold twenty minutes ago. He'd offered to make me 'a wee thermos of tea' while I finished preparing the day's battle plan.
I spent most of what was left of yesterday poring over this and several other maps, and trying to marshal my resources into anything resembling a methodical structure. I had set Geordie and Willie to work cleaning and organizing the lab as much as they could, and they were only occasionally distracted by Angus and Rupert, who spent the day lounging in the lab break room with several stacks of Davie Beaton's old magazines, retrieved from the recycling bins. By supper time Willie proudly showed me a halfway workable section of lab counter, full access to most of the lab's greenhouse, and a set of startlingly well-organized sprouting trays. By that time I had a mildly functional understanding of the layout and crop history of about a quarter of Leoch's arable fields, as well.
Encouraging developments, all of them, but still an alarmingly meagre arsenal for the job I've taken on. . .
I force myself to smile. With Jamie here, and a bottle of hot tea, what is there to worry about?
We're going to walk the fields, collect chem samples, collect biome samples, bag and label them, and spend the day together. What is there in that to be anxious over?
"Thank you," I say, sighing deeply. Then I wrinkle my nose, recognizing a familiar stink coming from the break room, "But why do I smell coffee?" I wave my hand in front of my face, trying to get rid of the odour.
"It's fer me," he shrugs, "I dinnae like tea."
"Oooo, sacrilege!" I hiss, both annoyance and reluctant allowance rising up in me. I hate coffee, but it's mostly the smell I can't stand. If he likes it, I suppose I'll have to find a way to deal with it, just like I did with my mother and her fondness for the vile stuff. "Tea is the nectar of the gods, Jamie." I open the dark blue enameled bottle he gave me and take a sip. Delicious. The steam rises up to me, blotting out the acidic pungency of the coffee from my nostrils, and bathing my face in soft fragrance.
"Hot leaf-water? Oh, aye. Nectar, tae be sure," he says, unenthusiastically. But he goes right back into the break room, and activates the office air-recirculator on the way. By the time I re-cap my bottle, there is only a faint lingering scent here in the office proper. "Thin, bitter, uninterestin' nectar. Aye."
I snort, "And of course you like coffee instead, of all things! The dark water that seeps from hell and smells like the devil! That has to break some kind of holy commandment somewhere, Jamie, it really does."
"Och, ceartainly, ceartainly. Ye ken I still aim tae drink it, regardless, aye? This pot included?" I see him moving about, fixing up his own thermos exactly the way he likes.
I sigh, over-dramatically, "Fine. But I demand fifteen kisses as penance." I push back from my desk. The plan is as planned as I can plan it. Now, to get it done.
"D'ye now?" Suddenly Jamie is leaning arrogantly against the doorway to the break room, his arms crossed, looking unfairly alluring for this time of morning.
I raise my chin, and put on all my Central airs and graces, "Yes. I do."
"Alrigh', then."
In two strides he has my chin in his hand, and is softly, sweetly, methodically deconstructing me with his mouth. He tastes like Mrs. Fitz's cinnamon rolls, and I have never felt so tolerant of the lingering smell of coffee. His touch is lamb stew, a steamshower, clean clothes. . . delicious, spreading contentment. Only I never knew contentment could feel this urgent.
I'm drifting off into an achingly warm place I haven't been to since Frank died, when he finally pulls away.
"One," I hear him murmur.
Then he sighs a little and says, more clearly, "Willie an' Geordie will be heer after the morning round wi' the horses," he shuffles some papers around on my desk, "Ye should probably leave a note fer them, sayin' what ye want done around heer while we're out."
I blink my eyes open, and finally resurface from wherever it was he just sent me, "Hmm? Sorry, I'm still on that 'one'. What do you mean - 'one'?"
He raises his eyebrows, "I'd a'thought t'was obvious, Sassenach. I can count tae fifteen as well as anyone, but ye didnae say a thing aboot how fast I had tae do it."
"You. . . you. . ."
My mind fumbles about, unable to think of anything but a single question. When? When did this start to feel so right?
"Are gon'tae be countin' tae fifteen verrah slowly. Aye."
I find my voice, if not my wits, "You're going to make this last all day, aren't you?"
"Aye. Sweetest penance I've evar had. Thankee, Sassenach," he salutes me, only half-mockingly.
"Oh, you devil," I groan, "Your liking coffee is no coincidence, that's for bloody sure. And here I thought you were going to try and stay on my good side."
"Och. All yer sides are good," he purrs, voice deepening suggestively.
In fact, it suggests that I might not be quite as powerless as I feel at the moment. . .
"All of them?" I say, lingering over my vowels.
"Aye. Every one."
"Even. . ." I turn to take a half-step towards a nearby bookshelf, and deliberately bump the desk with my hip.
He groans, and mutters, low and harsh, "Christ, Claire."
Yes, not only does all this feel right, it feels. . . normal. Like we've always been this intimate. Like I've known him all my life. . .
When, oh when did this stop feeling like cheating?
He comes up behind me, and gently holds my shoulders, "Ye ken I've no' even been tae confession in nearly fifteen years, aye? An' now, whene'er I jus' think about that perfect arse o' yers, 'tis enough foor me tae seriously reconsider my choices."
"Your choices about. . . religion?"
"My choices about worship, Sassenach." His lips connect with the small patch of skin between my ear and my scarf. He presses, nuzzles and inhales, savouring me, like I did him yesterday. He is freshly shaven this morning, his smooth skin brushing mine, raising tingles that only remind me more strongly that he's mere centimeters above the little rosy bruise still glowing on my collarbone. . .
"Two," he mutters into my skin.
Then, he lifts his head, and whispers into my ear, "Dinnae forget tae bring the specimen vials, mo ghràidh."
I groan, and desperately try to banish a severe case of full-body tingling. I stamp my foot, "I hate you, James Fraser."
"Aye, I noo," he says, grinning into my neck, "But th' local biome isnae goin' tae map itself, now is it?"
"No. Alas. And the soil chem tests won't run themselves, and the plots won't walk themselves," I sigh. The overwhelming task of getting Leoch's arable fields in hand is a stale, moldy prospect compared to what I want to do with this man. And to him. Repeatedly. "Not that I'm expecting anything all that interesting to turn up, of course. . ." A very belated, intensely furious blush overtakes me, ". . . nothing more interesting than you, anyway."
"I'll make shoor it isnae a boring day fer ye, then." He spins me around, wraps his arms around me, and takes my mouth again, until I seriously wonder if my legs have the muscular fortitude to be walking the plots today. . . or ever. . .
"Three," he says, an indeterminate amount of time later.
Shakily, I laugh and groan at the same time, pulling reluctantly away from him, "Why is this so easy, Jamie?"
He smirks, half mockingly arrogant, half oddly abashed, "Sae ye think I'm easy, d'ye?"
"Not you, silly. This." I gesture between us. "It took six dates for me to get to this point with Frank, but we knew practically everything about each other by then. When we weren't out doing something together, he was calling me, or writing me messages, and I was taking pictures of things he might like and sending them to him. We hardly ever stopped talking, even to. . . I mean. . . we didn't even make it official until. . ." I give a frustrated sigh, "You barely know me, Jamie! I know less about you, and already, I feel like. . ."
He raises his eyebrows, "Aye?"
"Like. . . like we're already beyond dating."
It isn't the answer I want to give, and it isn't the answer he wants to hear, but he still runs with it. "Instead of just about tae be going on our furst date, ye mean?"
I shake my head, "This isn't our first date, Jamie. That's part of my point. It's at least our fourth - fifth if you count being squished into a cupboard while hiding from the authorities, and then sleeping on top of each other for hours."
"An' what would ye say were the three others?"
I tick each one off on my fingers as I list them, "Making out the morning after, flirting in front of the fireplace with no one but two cats and a dog for chaperones, and me crying so much on your shirt yesterday, you found it necessary to give me homemade shampoo."
"Aye, weel, I reckoned t'was a better gift than real poo, ye ken."
I snort, "Har har. It was still a date, Jamie."
He nods, more out of contemplation than agreement, "Considerin' how unconventional all these so-called "dates" ha' been, I think we ought tae count the cupboard, most ceartainly."
I nod, "I agree. And it was quite an opener, as far as first dates go, I have to say."
"Mmphm," he grunts, "Soo. Five dates. And a sixth one already planned. Does that make me yer boyfriend now? Are ye my girlfriend?"
"That's what I'm getting at, Jamie. Logically, after five dates, I have to say of course. If we want those labels, they're ours to claim by this point. But I know so little about you still, and you only know bits and pieces about me."
"An' we only met a week ago. . ."
"That too. . ." my heart rate increases with shock. I'd actually forgotten how fast this has gone. Just how short a time it has been. So much has happened between us, and yet, so very, very little time has passed. Cumulatively, in terms of actual minutes while awake, I spent more time with Lamb in three days at the manse than I have with Jamie in a week at Leoch. And it still feels like we've been dating for ages.
Or have been married for a decade.
Or are in the middle of our honeymoon.
Or are the main characters in some bizarre kind of live action romance novel. . .
"I begin tae see what ye mean," he says, scratching the back of his neck, "It does seem we'er in a place. . . that we got heer more easily than. . . tha' this is. . ."
I smile, glad to see he's having just as much trouble defining us as I am.
"This is special, Jamie," I say, taking his hand and weaving my fingers through his, "Strong. And good," I go up on my toes to peck his cheek, "But we can't just let things happen any longer."
He frowns, "Bu' tha's the fun part. . ."
"Oh, we can always be spontaneous about dates, or gifts, or kissing, or teasing, or talking, or any of the millions of little things, don't worry. But when it comes to us, who we are, and what we expect from each other - we have to plan, take charge. . . be deliberate, and conscious about what we're doing. Or else. . . "
"Aye? Oor else?"
I suddenly realize to the fullest just how much this man means to me. Just how far I'd be willing to go, how much I'd be willing to do, for him. Now. Already. After only a week.
"We could destroy each other, Jamie. Completely wreck each other's lives." I look up at him, very serious, "I don't want to do that to you."
His expression hardens as he realizes I'm right, "Aye. I dinnae want tae do that to ye either."
"So," I pick up a pencil, and grab a yellow pad out of the desk drawer, "I'm going to write Geordie a note saying what I want done in the lab today. Would you mind putting the bags of specimen vials in the runabout?"
He nods, and goes. I turn my focus onto writing out detailed instructions for setting up the centrifuge, the vacuum chamber, and the optical spectrometer.
A steadying bit of distance, even if only momentary, is just what we need.
Once I'm done, I attach the small sheaf of papers to the little clip on the outside edge of the info-screen. Before he left yesterday, Geordie stuck it there, and told me if I had any instructions or requests, to leave them in it, and he'd be sure to see them.
Jamie is back inside now, standing silently in the center of the room, looking at. . . of all things. . . the chair across from my desk.
"Is this where ye said those things? Made yer pact wi' Dougal an' all?"
I nod.
He comes over to me, and gently puts his arms around me. "Claire, I'll be honest wi' ye. I dinnae ken what this is, what we are, or what tae expect next - from ye oor meself. An' I havenae the slightest idea where 'tis all goin'. But. . . those promises ye made. Those vows ye took wi' Dougal. . ." His jaw clenches, and he looks me straight in the eyes, "I want them."
Somehow, his intensity is disconcerting.
"You. . . want. . .?"
"Ye were forced tae say them wi' him. I want you tae give them tae me. Both of 'em. An' I'll give 'em back."
"But. . . but we. . . we promised. . ."
"Honour. And truth. Aye." He pulls back a little, running his hands up and down my arms, "He took those things from ye, and drove ye inta makin' a bargain wi' them. Like they were but coins in some back-alley poker game. Wi' yer peace of mind at stake. It turns my stomach, that does."
It suddenly strikes me, just exactly how monstrous Dougal has been. I realize that, on some subconscious level, I've been comparing him to Black Jack, and making allowances, because no matter how awful the situation with Dougal has gotten, it has never approached "violent four-on-one attack and attempted murder", at least.
But, I see now, that was a mistake. Black Jack is a different species of wrong - an evil man with corrupt power - the kind of man that abuses any and all who come into his sphere, for the pleasure, the joy of it. . .
Dougal hasn't sunk that low, but he also knows better.
At the moment I'm unsure if that makes his treatment of me worse or not.
There is a difference between a demon and a fallen angel. There has to be. But. . .
"An' alsoo. . ." Jamie hesitates, clenching his jaw again, "Ye dinnae ken how much it sticks in my craw - I didnae ken it until I came back inside jus' now. . . That there should be promises between ye and him - and such promises! - and none between ye an' me. He, who'd neglect ye, let ye suffer, and me, who'd die first." He pulls me close, and speaks into my hair, "I blame him entirely, ye ken, but I want them, Claire. The same promises. Only better, made pure, because they're freely given." He sighs deeply, the heat of his breath warming the top of my head, "I wilnae plead or press ye, an' if ye say no, I'll no' mention it again, but I want them, that I do. . ."
I hide my face in his jacket. This goes far beyond gallantry, hospitality, kindness, or friendship. Far beyond dating, even.
And far, far beyond a bit of pleasurable flirting and kissing. . .
"That's. . . a lot to ask, Jamie."
"I noo," he pulls back, and looks over my face for a minute, "No matter if ye say it back, I'm goin' tae promise ye now, Claire. I promise ye honour and truth, no' just for three questions, or whenever we may have contentious dealings, but for always. Honour and truth, tha mi a 'gealltainn iad sin dhut, a ghràidh."
I don't know what the Gaelic words mean, but the sincerity, the commitment in his tone quite overwhelms me. For a moment I feel like some kind of medieval queen, taking a vow of fealty from a noble knight.
But, he wants to hear my promise in return. All at once, I am only a common farm technician from 2279 again, and truth - whole, unvarnished truth - is impossible. There are things about myself I simply cannot tell him.
Although. . .
If I was willing to promise Dougal, even willing to tell him about the future if it came down to it, don't I owe Jamie at least that much? I still have a say in when or if the time is right, of course, but. . .
"Truth. . . has room in it for secrets, you know," I say, at last.
"Oh, I ken it well," he says, an unreadable expression on his face.
"And. . . you accept that?"
"Aye. I do."
I nod, and take a deep breath, "Alright. I promise too. Honour and truth between us. For always."
He smiles, and we seal our oath with something much more pleasant than words.
"Four," he grins, "And the plots await ye, Madame."
He hands me my thermos, then bows and gestures me towards the door, half teasing, and half triumphant.
I shake my head, smile, and follow him to the runabout.
The nearest field is only a few dozen meters away, one wide track separating it from the grove of fruit trees that surround the kitchen gardens. There are only wooden fences around this section, though most of the other fields are surrounded with low stone walls, or wire-strung paling. Near the wide double-gate, Jamie stops the runabout, and jumps out, pointing at the base of the fence, where there are several dead weeds, and a spare, leggy bolt of mint, still clinging desperately to a few yellowish green leaves.
"These are things ye need, aye, Sassenach?"
"Yes they are," I say, handing him a bag with six specimen vials in it, "Try and get each plant separately, and get a sample of the soil right next to where they're growing. Try not to get any of the root matrix, if at all possible, just the soil. I'm going to walk this field, and get a soil sample from the middle of the plot."
"Aye," he says, extracting the mint and weeds with a little pointed trowel he brought, "Go oon. I'll catch up wi' ye."
I grab another bag of vials, and shoulder my way past the gate, into the first of the fields I'm to care for here at Leoch. The first of many. The soil here is well turned, and snug for the winter, just how I've always read soil should be. Due to the early frosts not coming quite as early as expected, this was the final field harvested last season, according to the books - harvested just three weeks ago. Now, the long, dark lines of earth stretch on, and on, this one moderately sized field seeming enormous, almost infinite, now that my feet are actually treading the clotted curls of soil. The field history manuals say that for the past three decades, this field has mostly been used for sugar beets, which is one reason why I wanted to start here.
Some of the best life advice I've ever received is, "Start with what you know, and learn from there". Well, I know sugar beets.
Now to do some learning.
I walk a ragged diagonal line across the field, stopping now and then to look, smell, feel, and listen to these new surroundings. The black, half-frozen soil makes thudding, heavy sounds beneath my step, and great fragments cling to my boots. The smell of it is surprisingly sweet, almost floral, instead of earthy. The field history manuals say this field is turned in with beet pulp, green compost, and cow manure to overwinter. I wonder which one the odour comes from - or if it is all three.
It takes until I am crouching down to collect my soil sample that I realize how quiet it is out here. The creak of the gate as Jamie enters the field sounds loud in my ears, and that is dozens of meters away. The soft scrape-scrape-tshh of my hand trowel spreads musically across the earth as it breaks past the hard outer crust of frost, and brings up a soft, friable sample for my vial. Jamie's heavily plodding tread rolls like drumbeats in the still, cold air.
He holds up two more bags of sample vials. "I thought we could doo that field while we'er here," he nods behind me and gestures down along the track a ways, "And come back tae the runabout along the fence. That way ye wilnae miss any samples ye need. Along that border, a'least."
"That's about what I had planned anyway," I say, putting the full vial back in with its fellows, "Let's go."
We finish walking the diagonal of the field together - me, hyper-aware of my surroundings, and him, silently letting me do my job.
I suppose everything about this might seem odd to him, but no, surely not. Someone who also works on a farm must know the importance of the lay of the land. The smell, the feel of things. Of seeing it all, for sure, in person.
Even with hydroponic indoor-farming, walking the plots is essential. An experienced farming tech can tell by instinct if a crop's projected biome will unbalance the growth curve. A good tech always knows the smell of the vats, the state of the growing trays, and the name of every hybrid in use under their domain.
As we reach the upper corner of this sugar beet plot, I finally feel like I'm starting to get a handle on things. Soil farming is massively different than hydroponics, but I can see, now, the importance of the sun, wind, rain, and seasons. They were all the crop regulators my predecessors had. . . and they did well enough with them. Better than well enough. There is no reason why I should not do just as well. I feel a phalanx of men and women at my back, Davie Beaton and all the others whose names I don't know, lending me their centuries of experience. I have a very, very long way to go yet, but, it's finally within my compass.
At last, I know where I am, as well as when.
A small mound of earth separates this field from the next - a low, compact line of pebbly dirt, just wide enough for a maintenance vehicle. Wordlessly, I hand Jamie three of the remaining empty vials for this field's worth of samples. He takes them, and walks along the mound, scanning for any plant material down the long edge of the field. I take the last two vials, and walk the short edge. We meet back up at the corner, vials full. I bag them, he labels them, and we go on to the next field.
This one, the manuals say, is a potato field. They listed three small, sweet varieties that have been grown here, and noted that they are intended mainly for use in the house kitchens, not as animal fodder or to be sold. At the top edge, there is a low stone wall - important to note when planning what machines to use for ploughing and harvesting. Jamie takes five empty vials and makes to walk this shorter border, calling over his shoulder to me as he does so.
"There's fungi and mosses grow along this wall, Sassenach. I'll see tae them. Walk yer field, an meet me a' the far gate," he gestures cater-corner from where we're standing.
I nod, and do so.
Two fields, then six, then ten, we're halfway though what I have planned for today, when Jamie calls for a break. We take our drinks, still hot in their steel bottles, and go sit in the corner of a low stone wall, where the rock and the land curve just so, making a pocket of warmer green amongst the wide, chill grey of the Leoch fields in November. The skies too, are wide and grey, the air cold, the odour of the fields strong. But I have never felt less dreary or oppressed.
I've never felt less lonely, either.
Jamie is telling me about a mushroom he found two fields ago, a poisonous one, but still useful, because it has styptic properties if applied topically, when for just a moment, thin, halfhearted shafts of sunlight peek though the masses of steel-grey clouds. Even this is enough to light him up - pale skin, vivid hair, electric blue eyes that can glow, warm and sweet with laughter, just as easily as they can crackle, ice-hard and serious. Laugh lines around his mouth and eyes, shaggy curls very nearly as wild as my own, broad, long-fingered hands at least twice the size of mine. . . I've never taken such unalloyed pleasure in just looking at a man before. Not this close to, anyway, and not one I was also free to touch.
Who is this man? And what is this thing that we have between us?
"Ye dinnae care aboot the local flora a' the moment, doo ye, Sassenach?" he says, looking at me askance.
I feel a ridiculous blush come up on my cheeks, and I shake my head, "At the moment, I'm afraid I don't. Not at all."
He takes a swallow of his coffee, "Sae what's on yer mind, then?"
"Ohh. . . just how little I know about you."
And how little that seems to matter to the part of me that wants to climb inside him and lose myself.
"Weel, my favourite colour is brown, if tha' helps."
I blink. "Your. . . favourite colour?"
"Aye. Tha's the traditional opening question, is it no'?"
I snort and laugh a little, "Alright. Sure. Brown. Isn't that a bit dull?" I say, my mind's eye seeing the blooms of rust on the walls of Lower townships, and the blank brown of uncharged collector panels.
"And ye a botanist!" he scoffs, "Nae, Sassenach, brown is one o' th'most varied and beautiful o' colours. Soo many different shades an' tones, wi' so many other colours included. Reds and golds, greens, purples, ye can find them all in brown," he gestures all around us, "Really look at a chestnut tree sometime, mo nighean, oor a walnut, oor an oak. Sometimes brown is a creamy, delicate white. Sometimes brown is a warm, luminous black. Sometimes it's clear water, flowing over pebbles in a stream, glinting wi' sunlight, and sometimes it's the hills, the heather an' the grass, ripplin' in the wind."
I smile, enchanted by all this whimsy over a colour, "Well. . . when you put it that way. . ."
"Aye." He looks at me mischievously, "Soo then, what's yers?"
"Promise you won't laugh?"
"A'coorse I wilnae laugh. Oor if I doo, it wilnae be at ye."
"Growing up, it used to be every kind of pink. Stereotypical, I know. As an adult, I found I usually preferred red. But, recently. . ."
Ever since seeing the dark, clean waves of reclaimed ocean around Cold Island 12, in fact. . .
"Aye?"
"Stygian Blue."
"Agch," he shakes his head, "Ye would like an impossible colour best."
"Chimerical, to be specific."
"Fine, ye would go fer a chimerical colour - one I cannae get made inta a dress oor find flowers in. How exactly am I supposed tae doo boyfriend things fer ye, when ye have a favourite colour like that?"
I give an exaggerated sigh, "You'll just have to do other kinds of boyfriend things, I suppose."
He reaches out and pulls me to him, kissing me, all warm and gentle and deep.
"Five," he says, running a finger down my jaw.
I grin as I pull away, but also wrinkle my nose, "Bleh. You taste like coffee."
"D'ye really hate coffee sae much, then?"
"Well, it's mostly the smell, and yeah, I do." I take the last mouthful of my tea, "I can tolerate the taste, occasionally, when it's mixed with other things, but the smell. . . ugh."
"Doo. . . ye really care that I dinnae like tea?"
"No, of course not," I say, lightly, "You like what you like, it's not a problem."
He draws his brows together, "It is if ye truly hate somethin' I like. Oor t'other way 'round."
"Maybe. But there are ways. Compromises. We'll figure it out."
"Aye. We will."
He takes my hand, and plants open-mouthed kisses all along the ridge of my knuckles. Then, he blows a thin stream of air across them, and a jolt goes up my arm.
"Six," he smirks.
I pull my hand away, and clear my throat, desperately trying to keep my composure.
"So, you're Catholic?"
He shakes his head, "Raised Catholic. Murtagh's my godfather."
"Oh! I did wonder, vaguely. Just what he was to you, I mean. Or what you were to him. Two Frasers among all these Mackenzies - he has to be here for a reason."
He nods, "He's hands doon one o' the best men I've evar met. I love him, an' I thank the Church fer him on the daily. But beyond that," he taps his left chest, "It didnae take holt. Heer, ye ken. I dinnae have aught against those as find meaning there, but foor me. . ." he shrugs, and gestures at the sky, "I dinna ken whoo's oot there, oor what, oor if there's anyone oor anythin'. An' as fer what they may oor may not want us tae doo fer them, oor because o' them. . . agch. . . whoo kens that at all, if they're beein' truly honest? But I ken a Human is moor than blood and bone and skin. A Human has a mind, an' a soul. That, I ken." He shrugs again, "It's enough fer me."
"Fair enough," I nod.
"An' ye?"
I lean back against the mossy stones, "I wasn't raised anything. Not for or against, just. . . nothing. And, oddly enough, that didn't take hold for me, either. I wanted something more than nothing." I pause for a bit, then shake my head, "I flailed about for a long time. I looked into Islam, and Buddhism, and Hinduism, and Gaia, and Judaism, and Catholicism, of course, and at least a dozen more things I can only half remember."
"Nowt took?"
"Nothing took. It was all too. . . I don't know. Too. . . contrived, I suppose. Or at least it seemed that way to me. In the end, none of it felt real."
His lip twists in sympathy, "A common enough feelin'. An' now?"
"Now, I'm a confirmed agnostic." I smile at him, "No matter where we started, it sounds like we both ended up in pretty much the same place. Sometimes I think there can't possibly be anything but us, and there never was, so Humanity had better be enough for me." I sigh, "And sometimes, I think there has to be. . . well. . . something more than us. A source. A goal. A reason or. . . purpose, I suppose. Something I don't know and couldn't discover, but is still there, just. . . waiting."
"An' is tha' enough fer ye?"
"Well, as far as a belief system goes, it isn't much more than nothing, but, it is something, I guess. And it still leaves the way open for me to explore. Yeah. It's enough."
"Can I ask ye a terribly personal follow-up question?"
I snort, "Oh, please do. I can't wait to hear what you think is more personal than 'what's your religion?'."
"What did Frank believe?"
That brings me up short. "Oh. Yeah, that'll do it." I sigh again. "He was CoE Protestant. And entirely casual and incurious about it."
"I see," he says, blandly.
For some reason, this annoys me, "Do you? What do you see?"
"That ye value curiosity, and open-mindedness," he says, carefully, "Mebbe even more than ye think ye do - an' that was something ye and Frank didnae have quite in common."
I run my fingers along the rough, dry grass between us. "That's. . . true. But also not."
"Can ye tell me about him?" he asks, gently.
I blink, a bit incredulous, "Do. . . you really want to know?"
"Aye."
He has promised me truth. This is the truth. I can see it, there in his eyes.
"Alright." Warm remembrances come flooding back, filling my heart with their sweetness, "Frank was. . . Well, he was good. And steadfast, and loving. And so much more intelligent than most people gave him credit for. He was quiet, reserved, but. . . sure. Generous. Kind. I could always count on him. And he always encouraged me, even inspired me. He never got in the way of my stubborn curiosity - quite the opposite. He often stood between me and people who thought I should have just slotted neatly into their traditional notions of wifehood. But he would, on occasion. . . oh, how to put it? . . . He would channel me, I suppose. He'd lift me up, make sure I listened to myself, make sure I never let my curiosity get the better of me, you know? He supported me, even though he almost never came along with me on 'my wonderings', as he called them. He was my anchor. And he always made me a better person, just by existing. I didn't just love him, I loved who I was when I was with him, too."
The dry grass is sharp against my palm. Perhaps that is why two tears prick in my eyes. Perhaps it isn't.
"Ye do give a man a lot tae live up tae, Sassenach." Jamie sighs, and smiles, ruefully.
I lift an eyebrow in his direction, "Too heavy for a tea break chat?"
"Nae. I did ask."
"You did."
"Somethin' easier next?"
"What a glorious idea."
We both dust our hands on our jeans, and he lends me a hand to help me up.
"What's yer favourite novel?"
"Ohh, you said easier - that's a hard one. . ." I lead the way back to the runabout.
"Aye, ye'er right. Favourite sci-fi or fantasy novel, then. And dinnae say Lord Of The Rings, I'm beggin' ye."
I wasn't going to. Nowhere close. But his insistence rankles me.
"Why not, if it's true?"
"Because it's like sayin' yer favorite composer is Beethoven. An' yer favourite work o' his is the Fifth Symphony. Aye, aye, we all know that one, and likin' it isnae bad, but have a wee bit o' imagination in yer choice of a favourite, please." He starts the runabout, getting us on the way to our next field.
"Says the man who didn't like it that my favourite colour is Stygian Blue."
"A colour isnae art, Sassenach."
"Fine, fine. Out of the Silent Planet, by C. S. Lewis."
"Now tha's an imaginative choice. Why d'ye like that one?"
"Because the depiction of Mars is so full. Not just detailed - packed with meaning. With value. It's a dying planet, but, its races, its cultures - they survive, they go on, they move forward. And there's so many plants, and creatures. Even in its decline, Mars is rich with life. I like that."
He hands me a bag of vials, "Spoken like a true botanist, mo nighean."
More like a true survivor of World War IV. But I acknowledge the compliment, and kiss his cheek.
"So. What's yours?"
"Le Petit Prince, by Saint-Exupéry."
"Oh, I love that one too! What's your favourite bit?"
He pauses a long time, almost as if he didn't anticipate the question. Which is odd, considering he asked me first. He comes with me as I walk the field, measuring his step to mine. When we reach the silent peace that only resides in the very midst of sleeping earth, he says, lowly -
"It is only wi' the heart tha' one can see a'right. What is essential is invisible tae the eye."
I wait for him to continue, but he doesn't. We reach the far end of the field. I hand him two vials, gesturing him along the short border, and I take three, scanning down the long border.
When we return to the runabout, I ask, "Do you like it in French, or the English translation?"
He seems to wake up at that, and grins at me, "Both, o'course."
"No 'of course' about it," I say, "Other than a few essential phrases, I'm very shaky speaking in French, and I can't read it very well either. I didn't know you could at all."
"Read it, speak it. . ." he shrugs, "I cannae sing in it, but then, I cannae sing in any language. . ."
"And just how many languages do you speak?"
"Fluently? Twelve."
"Twelve? You're kidding!"
"Nae, Sassenach. English, Gaelic, French, German, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, Russian, Greek, Arabic, Japanese, and Mandarin Chinese."
I stare at him, mouth open.
"A man needs a hobby, mo ghràidh."
"A hobby? That's. . . quite a casual amusement you've got there, my friend."
"I'm alsoo middlin' good at Latin, Cantonese, Korean, Swahili, Tuareg, Danish, Norwegian, Tagalog, Hindi, Urdu, and Thai. And I'm currently learnin' Polish."
"Oh no!" I giggle at him, "You're a nerd!"
"Ahgch," he lightly punches my shoulder, then pulls us up to the next field, "Says th'lass who fixed a Rover engine with jus' a little bit moor than her bare hands, an' the next day, hacked a computer."
"Only because those things are a part of my work, Jamie!"
"Aye, and the languages were supposed tae be part of mine."
That sobers me up quickly. "Oh. Oh, 'supposed' to be?"
"Aye. I majored in cultural medicines at Université, and studied as many languages as I could, because my dream job was tae work for Médecins Sans Frontières."
"Doctors. . . with no. . ."
"Without Borders."
"Right."
We walk the edges of this field first, unwilling to give up the closeness of our talk just yet.
"I wanted tae travel the world - but no' just fer me, ye ken. I wanted tae be someone who wouldnae only understand what other people said, but could alsoo understand how they were feeling. What it was like tae be the way they were. How tae make them feel like acceptin' help was. . . an addition tae them. No' a subtraction." He gives a heavy sigh, "But, the murder put an end tae all that, a'course. Whoever killed him killed that dream too. A'least for the foreseeable future." He grins at me, "But I cannae get rid o' the language bug, it seems. No' countin' Polish, I learned three languages this year - Tagalog, Urdu and Korean."
"Well, you're right. That's a hobby. And not particularly nerdy. . ."
He turns to me, eyes twinkling, "Ye ken, I also speak Elvish, Klingon, and Dothraki."
"Smartass," I punch him in the arm, and he acts exaggeratedly hurt, clutching his shoulder as if I punched him harder than a toddler could. "Smartass nerd!" I shout with laughter, grab his shoulders and shake him playfully. Then he catches my eyes, and I stop, instantly falling silent.
"Kiss me," I all but order him.
He does, on the temple, short and hard.
"That's seven," I say, taking up the count.
He kisses me again, on the jaw, right where I'm inexplicably ticklish.
"Eight."
And again, softly, on the chin.
"Nine."
Once more, on the soft skin below my ear.
"Ten."
His leans his forehead against mine, and it's not a kiss. It's somehow better.
"Ye could tell me tae doo anythin' just now, Sassenach. Dinnae ken why, but I cannae tell ye no taeday. . ."
"Anything, huh?"
"Aye, I'm under yer spell."
I run my fingers lightly along one of his shoulders, and up his neck, cupping his jaw, "And you're okay with that?"
"There's nae place I'd rather be."
He pulls me close, and kisses me like he did back in the manager's office. When he's done, I have to clutch on to him for another few seconds, or I know my legs will give out.
"Eleven," he says, smirking.
I groan. "Who's under whose spell, again. . .?
He laughs triumphantly, then stills, all of a sudden, just like I did a minute ago.
"His name was William. My older brother. The furst one tae read tae me in French."
I take his hand, and lead him down the long diagonal of the field.
"Mam called him Bobby. T'was her special nickname for him - she allus said tha' as a bairn he was as bonny as a bobbin. He was five years older than me - an' my sister Jenny between us. He didnae have tae like me - probably ought tae have hated me, wee beastie tha' I was, then. But he read me bedtime stories instead. Tom Sawyer. My Side O' The Mountain. James Herriot. Sherlock Holmes. Alice In Wonderland. An' The Little Prince, in French."
"Was?" I say, knowing all too well what the answer will be.
"He died when I was eighteen. Right before I went off tae university. Undiagnosed brain aneurysm. One minute he was there. The next he was gone. It was tha' quick," he snaps his fingers, "Too quick. Cruel quick. Gave my mam a complete nervous breakdown."
We've reached the middle of the field. He hands me the vial for my soil sample.
"I was goin' tae go tae school in England, but I applied to Université de Paris the day after the funeral, sae I could take her tae the little cottage we own in Provence, an' look after her as much as I could, even while I was at school. My younger brother Rob lives there wi' her now, an' works fer my cousin Jared. They do well by her. Bu' she hasnae been the same since."
There's something behind his words. Something he hasn't said yet, even in the middle of all these revelations. . .
"But?" I prompt.
"But. . . 'What is essential is invisible tae the eye'. I ken Bobby is still heer, somewhere. Even if he cannae be seen."
I throw my arms around his neck, and gently press my lips to one side of his mouth.
"Twelve," I whisper.
The other side.
"Thirteen."
I lean away a little, but he catches the back of my head, and pulls me to him, as slowly and as carefully as if it is the first time.
It is a chaste kiss, but meaningful, and sweet. Satisfying.
"Fourteen," he says.
I look him straight in the eyes.
"You're a good man, James Fraser."
He doesn't reply.
Back at the runabout, he asks, "D'ye have any favourite music?"
"Oh, I like all sorts of music," I say, while labeling the latest bag of samples, "I listen to a bit of almost everything, from all different places and eras - by all manner of artists. But favourite? I'm so eclectic it's hard to pin down a favourite."
"Anythin' ye never tire of?"
I smile, "Now that's easy. Saint-Saëns - Danse Macabre. Oh, and Holst's The Planets. I could listen to that one over and over."
He nods, "Me too."
"Hey now, no fair taking my answers! Get your own favourite!" I lightly slap his shoulder as he turns the runabout up the track to the next section of fields.
"Ye said yerself ye dinnae have a favourite!"
"Well, too bad! That's the closest I've got, so go get your own, you favourite stealer!"
"Ye wee plague, I dinnae ken wha' I'm tae doo wi' y-"
"Favourite stealer, favourite stealer!"
"Agch! Fine! Copland's Fanfare for the Common Man, an' Four Seasons by Vivaldi, are ye happy now?"
"Yes," I say, in between laughing at him, "Though I'm a bit surprised there's no Scottish music there."
"Imaginative favourites, remember? 'Sides, ye'll hear a good deal of my favourite traditional music at the concert oon Friday."
"Right, about that," I say, suddenly so deeply serious it's very clear I'm teasing him, "What should I wear?"
"Weel, that depends." There's a twinkle in his eyes that mirrors my teasing.
"Depends on what?"
"Who ye'er dressin' for."
He takes one hand off the steering yoke, and lays it across my shoulders, a classic leering smirk gracing his face.
"Okay. . . I'll bite. What are my choices?"
"Weel, ye can dress for yerself - meaning ye can wear whatever ye like. Ye can dress for the situation - meanin' whatever ye have that's comfortable tae dance in." We pull up to a wide gate made from metal spars and strung wires, but he makes no move to get out of the runabout, nor lets me even think of leaving without him, "Ye could even dress for Rupert or Angus an' that type - meanin' anything with a low neckline and a suggestion of hidden lace. Ye'd knock 'em all flat, I have nae doot. Eef tha's what ye want."
"Uh-huhhh. . . or?" I think I can guess what he's going to say next, but I feign ignorance, just to tease him.
"Oor, ye could dress fer me."
I lick my lips, "Meaning. . . ?"
"Anything. So long as yer arse looks good."
I snort, "You, Jamie Fraser, are incorrigible."
"Noo, I'm encourageable."
With his accent, it takes me a second to understand his joke. When I get it, I laugh so loud it echoes off the nearby hedges.
He grins, and jumps out of the runabout, "It is good tae see ye laugh soo much, Sassenach."
We've finally reached the top fields, the ones furthest from the house, and the last I have planned for today.
At the end of this field, there is a wide strip of brush before the trees start, full of scrub and berry bushes, and here and there a section of poorly maintained hedge. I take two full bags of vials and walk this border first - the biome samples from here will be far more relevant than the field's soil chemistry.
Jamie goes a pace or two into the brush, picking leaves and here and there a berry or two, investigating vines and young trees, and bringing back all manner of samples for me.
We're almost done, when he gives a loud, hissing, "Huish!"
Which is odd, since we aren't currently talking.
"What?" I whisper, fiercely.
"Cannae ye hear it?" he leans close to me, and points into the brush, "Ower thear."
Now that I'm paying attention, I can hear something. Not close, but near enough to be clearly heard, just the same. A rustling, a chattering. Now and then a yip.
"Soonds like a brace o' wee foxes," he says, eyes lit up, posture eager and curious, "I'm goin' tae try an' see them."
Slowly, carefully, barely making a sound, he wades into the bushes. He's a few dozen meters away when he crouches down, disappearing from my view entirely.
"Och, wouldnae ye jus' luv tae wake up one morning and find that wee fox cub was makin' a nest in yer underbrush?" says a mysterious female voice.
A woman appears beside me, seeming to have sprung right out of the hedges. I turn and look at her. She is one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen, with light red hair and snapping green eyes over a well-formed, sardonic mouth. She is wearing a hooded black coat with a logo on it proclaiming "Duncan's Farming Supplies", but this tells me less than nothing.
And also, she just appeared from nowhere. . .
". . . excuse me?" I manage to ask.
She smiles, and puts out her hand.
"Geillis Duncan, at yer searvice."
Notes:
"tha mi a 'gealltainn iad sin dhut, a ghràidh" - I promise these to you, dear
Chapter 29: Witchy Woman
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Half in a dream, I shake the strange woman's hand.
"I'm Claire B-"
"Beauchamp, aye," she grins at me, her eyes dancing, "Ye'ev been the talk of Cranesmuir for days, pet."
"Oh. Have I? Sorry about that."
I fiddle with the sample vials I'm holding, unsure what to think, much less how to feel. But an almost eerie atmosphere has fallen over these plain and simple Leoch fields.
I don't think I like it. In fact, I think I'm frightened of it.
"Och, nae need tae be sorry. The rumours have been quite varied and entertainin'."
"Have they?"
"Aye. E'erythin' from Murtagh findin' an escaped wee lioness, tae ye were sleapin' in a pile o' leaves in the middle o' th'road, an' Dougal literally tripped ri' ower ye on his way hoom from campaignin', tae ye beein' heer tae offer dear auld Rupert a chance tae have a wee English rose named after 'im - ahgch! - there hasnae been such talk in town fer years, pet, tha' there hasnae."
"Oh," I say, deliberately vague.
"Ye positively willnae believe what Mrs. Hunt - she owns the general goods shop next door tae me, ye ken - what she said tae me when I towld her I was comin' oot this way. . ."
As she prattles on, my hackles continue to rise at this apparition of a woman, which is odd in itself, since - other than her inexplicable method of arrival - I can see no good reason to feel that way about her. She's being a bit over-familiar, perhaps, and entirely too suggestive, certainly, but neither of those is a threat to me, not from her, and especially not here and now.
Although that doesn't explain my sudden overwhelming feeling of. . . what is it I'm feeling? It isn't just vague eeriness, it's more than that. It isn't fear, nor jealousy, nor disgust, mostly. . . it isn't even primarily wariness. No. It's. . . it's. . .
Deja-vu.
Yes. That's it.
There's something, something about her that I'm sure I recognize. Something I've seen before. Heard before.
But from where? Or from who?
I prim up my mouth in a decidedly Central gesture, declining to engage in her overly voluble gossip.
At last she pauses her stream of words, and notices my reaction. Her lips twist, wryly, "Och! There's nae need tae get sae English ower it awl, pet!" She pats my arm and eyes me teasingly, I think in an attempt to be reassuring, but she only succeeds in setting off more of my instinctive alarm bells, "Th'most o' it is jus' mince - good-natured flights o' fancy erry'un kens isnae true, but iff'n it makes fer a good mid-mornin' chatter, whear's th'harm, aye?"
I narrow my eyes at her, "And. . . the rest of it?"
She laughs, "Pa-yoo-er jealousy tha' it wasnae they whoo were asked tae sit at High Table wi' The MacKenzie! Nowt tae fash ye, tae be shoor!"
I try and smile a bit, "So. . . Ms. Duncan. . . can I. . . help you, in some way?"
"Weel, I dinnae ken," she says, slyly, "I ha' this delivery order fer a quarter hectare's worth o' crop sensors, and a rental confirmation packet for a Reinhardt Crop Regulator, model-512 , but both are made out tae a. . . Geordie Mackenzie?"
I nod, "Geordie is one of my assistants in the manager's barn, yes."
"Sae eet's troo then, is et?" she grins, jumping in place a little, "Colum's gone and got himsel' a Sassenach Farm Manager?"
I try and shake off all the things that seem odd about this woman, and the strange feelings interacting with her is giving me, and deal with the situation as I would any normal meeting with a fellow worker and tradesman. I realize it is a test, of sorts. Today has been so easy - the fractured feelings and looming tensions of yesterday entirely gone from my mind. Today, I've been smoothly switching between Girlfriend Claire, Farm Technician Claire, and Farm Manager Claire - all with the unconscious ease of someone who is always safely and securely residing inside her own head. But, that's not entirely a surprise, given that my only companion has been Jamie. Out of everyone I've met here, he is the one I trust the most, hands down. Jamie has been as crystal-clear as his eyes when it comes to me, and it makes being with him breathtakingly simple and rejuvenating. No need to analyze or question his motives, or wonder about possible double meanings in the things he says. I just get to be, whoever I need to be, in the moment.
But now, with this unexpected encounter, it is as good a chance as any to see if I'm rejuvenated enough for Warrior Claire or Investigative Scientist Claire to come out and play too, and still leave my psyche in one piece.
"As I understand it, Ms. Duncan, that's not a very polite thing to call me."
She smiles, but her eyes harden, "Mrs. And I dinnae mean anythin' by it, pet."
I raise my chin, "Now that I find very difficult to believe."
"Doo ye now?"
"Yes. You strike me as the very model of a person who speaks their mind, Mrs. Duncan."
She throws her head back in a great shout of uninhibited laughter, "Weel yoo do have me thear, right enough, my duck!" She pats my arm again, "Nae offense, aye? All in th'spirit tha' 'tis meant?"
"Oh, no offense taken, to be sure, Mrs. Duncan," I say, very carefully polite and proper, "But to answer your question, yes, Colum has seen fit to ask for my services in managing his arable fields. Hence, our order for a crop regulator."
Just as suddenly as he disappeared, Jamie re-emerges, standing up in the brush. He makes a partial gesture towards me, but then he notices our visitor, and does not wave, nor call out.
Geillis notices my attention shift, though, and turns from me, fixing her eyes on him, as he slowly wades though the unruly thickets of green and brown.
"Mmmf," she makes a Scottish sound somewhere in between a grunt and a groan, "Please Claire, please tell me ye'ev tasted yonder great sweet block o' tablet! Oor a'least say tha' he's tasted ye?"
I have no idea what a 'block of tablet' is, but her implications are thoroughly clear.
"A lady doesn't kiss and tell," I say, as neutrally as possible.
"Och, sae there's been kissin' then?" she says, hopefully.
I try, but I can't quite hold back a smirk. Kissing indeed! What Jamie and I have done might be called "kissing" in the same sense that a Skycity might be called a "personal transport vehicle".
Geillis sees my expression, interprets my silence, and crows aloud.
"Ooo, ye dinnae ken what a relief that is tae me, pet," she grins, and loops her arm through mine, "I couldnae believe the good God made a man like our Jammie tae be a celibate."
Now that's a name of his I haven't heard. . .
"Jammie?"
"Aye, hasnae he towld ye? He has th'most delicious initials. James Alexander Malcolm MacTavish. JAMM, for short, ye ken? All the girls in town call him Jammie Dodger - an' jus' look at the wee strawberry biscuit!", she gestures at him, still half a field-width away from us, "'Tis a perfect nickname, aye? Dinnae ye jus' wan'tae dunk him in yer tea? An' then nibble 'til ye cannae see straight?"
Well. . . actually, yes. Yes, I do. But I can hardly say that. Not here, not now, in this company. I fall back to a Skycity over-literal response.
"He doesn't like tea."
At this, Geillis gives me a very quick, very strange double-take that I decide to ignore.
"Besides," I continue, "I'd call his colouring cinnamon before I called it strawberry."
She sighs, "Aye, he's a grand red stag, tha's true enough."
I pull my arm away from hers, and plant my fists on my hips, "So he's a stag now too? Is there an end to this. . . lascivious litany of yours?"
She jerks a long, shapely thumb in his direction, "When eet's tha' great Viking god we're talkin' aboot? Nevar, pet. Nevar evar."
She hasn't been at all quiet this entire time, and as Jamie approaches us, she doesn't lower her voice in the least, "Ee's been heer three years now, with nary a rumour of a lass - oor a lad, oor whoe'er else he may care tae fancy, until taeday. Imagine it! Three years!"
"I've been heer four years, Geillis, an' ye ken I can hear ye, aye?" Jamie hands me the two specimen vials he's still carrying, and gestures for me to give him the three empty ones I'm holding.
"Aye, a bit of a waste if ye didnae, Jammie my lad!"
He puts the empty vials in his pocket, and draws himself to his full height, "It's yer time yer wastin', Mrs. Duncan. An' mine."
She blithely waves him off, "Wastin' time, he says! When I've been worrit sick fer ye, day and night an' all - bein' so deid scairt tha' all yer repression was goin' tae explode ye inta smithereens one o' these fine days!"
Jamie scoffs, shaking his head, an exasperated look on his face, "Small danger o' that."
"Och, aye, ye were in danger of it laddie!" she shakes a finger at him, "An' eef ye had, where would us pore women be then?"
He rolls his eyes, "Ye'd be in t'same place ye were before, Mrs. Duncan. Marrit. Tae a man who isnae me."
He takes a step closer to her, bringing all his imposing bulk to bear while trying to make his point. She doesn't even seem to notice, pointing up at him and snapping like a tent flap in a gale.
"Aye. Marrit. No' blind."
"Well, ye soon will be if ye dinnae take care."
"Aw, pish. Auld wives tales an' ancient grumblin' Catholics cannae keep me from enjoyin' meself."
"Och, aye? An' what aboot auld Arthur?"
"Aye, he's been known tae enjoy himself too, on occasion. What of it?"
"Agch, ye'er Hell's own handbasket, Geillis Duncan!" Jamie has finally raised his voice, but she only laughs.
"Now that's a term fer it I havenae heard! Go on, then. I like how ye think."
"Not that this isn't a fascinating subject," I interrupt, desperately holding back my own frantic desire to laugh at their exchanges, "But Mr. MacTavish and I have a number of fields to test before we take our lunch break, and I would very much like to at least see the crop regulator today."
Slowly, Geillis concedes the battle, at least for the moment, crossing her arms and tossing her head like a naughty five-year-old, thwarted in her torment of a baby chicken.
"Och, Mr. MacTavish, is it? I hoop ye'ev been practicin' yer knot-tyin' techniques, Jammie, my lad - they may come in useful."
With this she winks, whirls, and strides off, back through the brush and into the woods.
We both stare after her, making good and sure she's gone before we say anything.
"Who. . . in the world was that, Jamie?"
"Geillis Duncan," he says, flatly.
"So I gathered."
He sighs, "Local business owner, wife o' Cranesmuir's Procurator Fiscal, inveterate gossip. . . and reputed worshiper of every sex god and goddess Humankind has evar invented."
"Is that so?" I deadpan, "You astonish me."
He hands me back one of the empty vials, still warm from its sojourn in his pocket, "Go walk yer field, mo Sorcha. I'll meet ye back here."
The timeless, peaceful silence of these upper fields is doubly impressive after such a loud interruption. Back at the runabout, both of us are reluctant to break it.
The next five fields are each bounded on all four sides with low stone walls, a single gate opening onto each enclosure. They are smaller fields than common for Leoch, but they are also noted in the books as being some of the oldest under tilth here. For over six hundred years, these very plots of earth have produced wheat, barley, and oats - the staple grains of this land, the building blocks of its society, and the very props of its history.
Taking samples from them, I feel like some mystical blend of an archeologist and a surgeon, peeling back layers of time itself, to view the still-beating heart of a beautiful piece of living history - a rare, precious past, whose future has been placed in my hands.
I linger so long at the final field in this section, Jamie is waiting for me at the runabout, having finished walking all four walls long before I could pull myself away.
"I wonder how they've managed to keep this set of fields under plough," I say, dreamily gesturing at the long upper strip receding to our left as Jamie drives us to our final set of fields for today, "A tractor could barely fit through those narrower gates, let alone a seeder or a harvester."
Jamie smiles, "They dinnae use a tractor, Sassenach."
I look at him, questioning.
"Horses, ye ken," he says, his eyes gently admonishing me, "A horse-drawn plough, seeder, harrow, an' all - they can make it through those gates very well."
"Oh," I say, conjuring up in my memory several of the books on farming history I read in school. Yes. Horses did used to play quite a role in farming, didn't they? "Well, that's more your township than mine."
"Township? Ye mean province?"
I blink, slightly surprised. This is essentially the first time I've got my idioms crossed ever since fixing the Rover. I consider that rather impressive, what with a two hundred year gap between me and everyone here. Thank heaven it was in Jamie's presence, and not Dougal's.
"Province. Yes, that is what I mean. But even so, I can't see how those fields make any profit. The effort put into them must very nearly equal anything got out of them."
"Ahh, but ye see, those fields grow gold an' silver, Sassenach," he says, his eyes twinkling.
I chuckle, "Gold and silver?"
"Aye, people rent them. Them an' the untilled sward between them an' the trees there," he says, pointing.
"Rent them? Who?"
"Oh, that upper section has been very popular over the years. Movie directors, historians, experimental archaeologists, LARPer conventions, Ren Faire organizers, historical reenactors, tourists - it pays Colum tae jus' announce it whenever the horses will be doing anything at all in those fields. E'en if it's just a day's harrowin', like as no' more cameramen will show up than ye can shake a stick at. Put the ploughman in any one of a dozen period costumes, and his entire day's work could end up as b-roll in a score of television dramas - every second of which is owned by Leoch Farms, and ye can bet yer boots Colum exacts full payment for their use."
"Oh, I see." I'm unsure what "television" is, but what he means is clear enough.
Silence falls between us again. An uncomfortable silence, this time.
"Where did she appear from, Jamie?" I ask, knowing I don't need to explain who "she" is.
He shrugs, "There is a path through the woods there that does connect up tae the road down tae Cranesmuir. It's a five minute walk from the path tae that corner field, if ye ken where ye'er going, a'course. But what she was doing there now, taeday, when she intended tae drive 'round tae deliver yer device anyway. . . I dinnae ken. Best no' tae ask, I expect."
We've pulled up at the last section of fields, and he makes to get out. I stop him, holding on to his shoulder with an intensity that surprises us both.
"You'll tell me if I ever go overboard like that, won't you Jamie?"
He blinks, "What are ye on about?"
"Well, you may not have noticed, but I do happen to like flirting with you," I look away from him, suddenly inexplicably ashamed of myself, "And kissing you, and teasing you, and. . . " I stroke my hand across his nearest palm, combing my fingers though his, ". . . touching you. But I'll stop in a minute if you ever feel uncomfortable, I hope you know tha-"
The rest of my words are lost in his jacket as he crushes me to his chest. One of his hands cups my head, and he speaks into the tangles of my hair.
"Th'lasses like me, Claire. So do more than a few lads. And I ken what for." His fingers tighten and release against me, "But, ye ken the real reason they call me Jammie Dodger is I'm always findin' ways to avoid them, aye? I dinnae encourage it. Jus' the opposite. I dinnae like tae be hunted. Like as if my life were some manner of game fer some'un else tae play, wi' my pelt as the prize." He pushes me away just far enough that he can look in my eyes, "James Fraser has enough, and more than enough of that tae deal with. Jamie MacTavish doesnae need it too."
I nod, "I know - I understand. That's what I mean, Jamie. I don't want you to think I like you just because. . . I mean, I don't know that I'll ever be. . . ready for. . . I don't know that I'll ever want. . . to. . ."
And, just like that, Time Traveler Claire comes out to play. I don't know what took her so long, but she arrives in my mind like a screeching, freezing storm, full of destructive winds and icy daggers. She is cold, cruel, brutal, and deeply, deeply honest.
How unfair is it of me, to offer anything at all to Jamie - sweet, kind soul that he is - when I have no idea how long I will be here? When I only stay here at Leoch specifically because I'm looking for something to do to improve the future, and then go home? How awful is it to have given him any part of myself? To expect any part of him in return?
What have I been thinking?
What on earth are we doing?
He's getting attached. I'm getting attached.
I can't help it. . . he probably can't either.
I feel wretched. But. . . I can't stop now. . .
I am a terrible, terrible person.
I try to fight back the scalding blush of shame that's overtaken me, "But that's no excuse, not if you feel like I'm. . . playing with you."
"Well, are ye?" he says, practically.
"No! Not. . . like that." No. What I'm doing is far, far worse than merely leading you on, my lad. . . "But. . . but, I am. . ."
"Aye?"
I burrow back into his jacket front, "I am. . . having fun."
His arms go around me, and he speaks softly next to my ear, "An' does that make this jus' a game tae ye, then?"
"No."
No. This is not a game. This is a disastrous collision of worlds, destined to eventually explode both of us into atoms. Oh, Jamie. . . for two hundred years you've been dead, why did I have meet you now?
"An' d'ye still wan'tae be my girlfriend?"
"Yes."
Heaven help me, that's God's honest truth.
A chuckle rumbles in his chest, "Then have all the fun ye want, Sassenach."
I look up at him, "But. . . what about you?" I have to give him an out. I must. He has to have a chance to be free of me - to stay free of me. . .
He laughs, sharply incredulous, "D'ye really think I'm no' having fun? D'ye seriously believe a man who's earned the name "Jammie Dodger" by avoiding lasses would spend as much time as I have wi' ye, if I didnae want tae?"
"But. . . listening to her, Jamie, I realized that I. . . I have. . . from the minute I met you, I have. . ."
Give him the out, Beauchamp! Give him the best reason in the world to not want you anymore. Give him the chance to live his life, how he wants, in his own time. Do it now!
"Aye? Have what?"
"I've objectified you. Unashamedly stared at you. Touched you without permission. Thought about you like I have no right to do. . . when we. . . we might never even. . ."
And oh, my lad, my lad, that isn't even the half of it.
He smiles broadly, "So? Thoughts arenae actions. Consent can be non-verbal. It isnae like I've been complainin', now has it? An' if ye think ye'er the only one of us who may oor may no' have been struggling no' tae objectify. . ." he groans and curses roundly in Gaelic, "A plague on Geillis Duncan an' her gossipin' tongue! That she should have made ye feel like one of those silly lasses in Cranesmuir!"
If only that were all Geillis has brought upon me today. . .
He tangles his fingers in the hair behind my ears, and suddenly I am terrified of what he is about to say.
"Ye never jus' look at me, Claire, ye. . . make me feel worth lookin' at. Like ye see something in me nae'un else evar has. Like ye. . . need me. . . an' like ye still would, e'en if I looked like auld Alec. Ye tease me like it doesnae matter that I've been thrown more lines than a ten pound salmon, or grabbed at so often I wilnae even go tae a pub anymoor, an' hardly dare wear my kilt in public. Ye talk to me like, ifrinn, ye kiss me like. . ."
"Yes?"
He is destroying me in more ways than I can count, but God forgive me, I don't want him to stop. . .
"Like this is moor than. . . just fun."
It isn't the answer he wants to give. It isn't the answer I want to hear.
But it's where we are, and I must deal with it.
I sigh deeply, heart torn in two hundred pieces, scattered across the years, "It is more, Jamie. I just don't know how much more, yet. . ."
Give him the out again, Beauchamp! Do it!
". . . but after four years on the run, I don't think I'd blame you if. . . if you wanted a sure thing. . ."
Because I'm very, very not that, my lad. . . The only thing sure about me is heartbreak.
He runs the backs of his fingers over my cheekbone, "D'ye really think I havenae had a relationship in four years jus' because I've been on the run? Nae. . . I've been waitin'. Jus' like any man of sense. Waitin' fer the right one tae take a chance on. That sort o' waitin'. . . it's worthwhile."
I'm screaming inside, with how wrong, how right, how impossible this all is. . . and how real, how perfect, how utterly, utterly horrible. . .
"So it doesn't bother you that you might. . . we might. . . wait. . . forever?"
Does forever count when one of us has already been dead for two centuries?
"Agch. A week is hardly forever, mo leannan. And look how far we'ev gotten in that time. There are promises between us, an' plans. That's moor than enough, for now. We have time. There's nae need tae panic, and less need tae rush. And no need at all tae listen tae anything Geillis Duncan says."
Promises and plans. Promises I will keep. And plans I will fulfill.
But after that. . . I will. . .
No.
No, no no no no.
My head whirls, like I've just stepped back from the edge of an abyss.
Maybe it makes me the worst person imaginable, but I can't give him up yet. Not just yet. It has only been a week.
We have time. Surely, we have time.
Or I have time.
Or time has me. . .
With a great silent wrench of my heart, I banish Time Traveler Claire, and Girlfriend Claire reaches out to touch Jamie's cheek. I brush my thumb just under his eye, and let my fingers sweep around the curve of his ear, pushing back a fall of his curls at the same time. The easy, vibrant, living feeling he always brings out in me wells up in my heart, and pours from my eyes, filling the space between us. The sharp, fiery blue of his own eyes soften as he looks at me, and he smiles with such a dear, sweet, homey glow to him, I know it would be worse than murder if I pushed him away from me now. . .
Damned if I do. Damned if I don't.
How can I choose between hell and hell?
And if those are my only choices, is it so wrong to indulge in a little heaven on the way?
"And you'll tell me if I. . . overstep?"
"Aye. Jus' as I expect ye tae tell me if I do."
I raise my eyebrows, "I think I have, actually. . ."
He laughs, softly, "Well, there we are, then," he nods at the waiting fields behind me, "Let's finish this, aye?"
I grab a bag of vials and follow him, already more finished than he has any notion of.
We walk these last plots in silence. It is a different kind of silence than has been between us yet. This is the silence of uncertainty. Of doubt. Of wavering, underlying, niggling fear.
I hate it. But there's not much I can do about it, except pray, wordlessly, fervently, to whatever gods may or may not exist.
The last vials are labeled, and set safely in the bed of the runabout, when I finally think of something I can say aloud.
"Can I drive back to the barn, Jamie?"
"A'course," he gestures at the pilot seat, "Heer. Take minute tae sort yerself."
I hop in. And he's right. It takes a few minutes for me to figure out the controls, and how my hands and feet and head must interact with them. But after that, it's easy, the tiny electric engine humming as we skirt along the grey lines of fencing that lead off into the distance, towards house and barn and garage. . .
There is still a sting of doubt between us. An acidic flavour of worry and shame.
Our only chance is to talk past it.
"Why don't you like to drive, Jamie?"
He shrugs, "Och, driving's no' so bad. Only it pales in comparison tae ridin', ye see."
"Riding?"
"Horses, ye ken."
"Oh. That does make sense."
He nods, and subsides back into silence.
Well, so much for Attempt One. Now for Attempt Two.
"So, are you ever going to tell me about your third brother?"
"Ian?" he grunts, "What about him?"
"Well, you've told me about two of the three "venturesome lads" you grew up with, and I'm curious about the third, is all."
"Oh." He smiles warmly, clearly thinking fondly of past years, "Ian Murray - our next-door neighbor's lad. But he used tae spend more time wi' Bobby an' me then ever he did at home. An' with Rob too, when he came along. But Ian's only four months older than me, an' so t'was natural we'd stick taegether like burrs. Bobby took tae him grand too, and Rob looked up tae all of us, but tae me. . . weel Ian an' I were like pups from t'same litter. We ken each other, aye?"
I nod.
"'There is a friend tha' sticks closer than a brother'," he quotes, "That's us. Oor a'least it was us lads." He chuckles a bit, "He hated my sister."
"Oh?"
He grins, slyly, "Aye, an' it was mutual. So mutual, in fact, that finally they decided tae get married."
"Oh? Oh." I laugh, "I see! That kind of hate."
"Aye. Six years ago, that was. Their first anniversary was jus' about th'last time I was hoome. . ." he shakes his head, forcefully refusing to be melancholy, "So now I say I grew up wi' three brothers - because Ian is, and doubly so."
"That's so sweet."
"Och! I almost forgot tae tell ye!" He pulls a personal info-screen out of his inner jacket pocket, "I got some stunnin' video of the wee fox kits, Sassenach. There were three, no' two, and speakin' ov sweet. . ." He taps away at the touch-screen, "If ye tell me yer comm number, I'll send ye a data link."
"I don't have a comm, Jamie," I say, quietly.
"Ye dinnae have a comm? Erry'un has a comm!"
"Well, I don't. You were there when Murtagh brought me in. What you saw is what I have - save by the grace of Colum ban Campbell Mackenzie. . ."
"Och, aye, a'coorse. I forgot. The Watch."
I blink. I can't say yes - that would be a lie. I can't say no - I've already told him the story I told Colum, before we made our promise of truth. Denying it now would only bring more awkwardness into a situation already hopelessly complicated. And if I say nothing, it looks odd.
But what can I say?
"I. . . just need to get a new one," I say, finally, with a little too much haste.
"Aye. . ." he nods, looking at me a bit strangely. But, he lets the moment pass, thankfully. "Dinnae fash. It'll keep."
Silence falls again.
With his usual easy physicality, he leans sideways a bit, and puts an arm around me. I inhale sharply and flinch away from him like I never have before. He jerks his arm back and pounds the bench-seat between us.
"All right now, stop the car!"
I do, but the sharpness in his voice makes me jump, and I twist the little runabout into a skid, sliding us a few meters sideways before coming to a stop.
He doesn't even deign to notice.
He turns to me, a harder, more demanding look on his face than I've seen from him yet, "Now, Claire. I ken ye dinnae kno' me like ye'd prefer, sae let me tell ye - I'm stubborn as a mule, and as thick-skulled, or worse. I ha' the de'il's oon temper, an' a tendency no' tae ken my own strength when I'm riled. I c'n be a possessive, jealous, selfish bastard sometimes, an' I dinnae always think with my brain, I admit. But I have my pride, an' by God, a fair notion o' justice." He grips me firmly by the shoulders, "Sae ye'ed best believe me when I tell ye, ye'er goin' tae tell me what's wrong - an' if ye say 'nothing', I swear, I'll no' apologize for what I doo next."
His grip on me tightens so much I flinch again. He lets go of me then, the look on his face not softening, but giving me time, and space, and the chance to think.
I desperately compose myself, brace my hands against his chest, and look him full in the face.
"She broke the spell, Jamie."
He nods, "Aye, that she did."
"The spell that was. . . shielding us. . . from. . ."
I have to say it, and I can't. I have to let him go, and I can't.
"I have a mountain of a secret, Jamie," I whisper.
"Aye," he strokes one of my hands, tenderly, "I noo."
Of course he does. He's nobody's fool. I brought up secrets this morning, when we agreed to truth. No one would do that unless they had a secret. Or many.
"It's the kind of thing that. . . that I can't tell anyone. It. . . looms over me. Most of the time. Yesterday in your workshop you. . . distracted me from it, a little. Or, maybe it was the threat of a depressive episode that distracted me, and you distracted me from that," I laugh, humourlessly, "There was a lot of distraction, anyway."
"Ye really cannae tell me?" He grips my hand much like he did my first day here. Reassuringly.
I shake my head, "No. Maybe someday. Maybe. But not now. It. . . it's. . . the kind of thing that. . . comes between me and other people." I dig my fingers into his jacket, "When she broke the spell, it all came back. To loom over me again." I turn away from him, hoping he won't notice the shame in my eyes, "So there it is. Between us."
"An' sae now ye'er afraid."
He says it so softly, hearing it shouldn't be a shock. But it is. Adrenaline courses though me, and I snap my eyes back to his.
"Yes," I hiss, "Of. . ." I reach out and cup his jaw, running my fingers through his curls, just like I wanted to that first morning I awoke in his arms, "Of. . . hurting you."
The kiss is wilder, more desperate, more insistent and demanding than any kiss I've ever been given before. He takes my breath, my mouth, and all my rational thoughts, plummeting me into a place in my soul I've never been to before, not even with Frank. A dark, burning, sweet-scented place, primal and luxurious. Voluptuous. Seductive. . .
When he finally pulls back, I'm a wreck. A Skycity, crashed into the radioactive ocean of him, hopelessly lost.
"Fifteen," he growls, gripping my hair, "An' did ye really think I didnae ken at all what I getting inta wi' ye? The strength of it? The risk of it? Why do ye think I didnae come near ye for almost a week? I was. . . for two days I was terrified of myself - the things I thought of doin', for yer sake! It took two whole days for me get myself under a wee bit o' control. . ." He half-smiles, ruefully, "An' then I thought tae give ye some more time tae settle in - time tae get used tae things heer, wi'out me. . ." he moves his mouth over mine again, making me gasp, "Distractin' ye. . ." His expression darkens, eyes tightening, "Only then, Murtagh told me what Dougal was doin' tae ye an'. . . an' I felt. . ." he pulls my forehead to his, "I felt aggrieved, Claire. Wronged. Like someone had. . . profaned what was mine. Mine."
I know I should feel indignant at such a declaration. But I have no idea what I am feeling at the moment. . .
"An' I ken I had no right at all tae feel like that, an' even now I don't. Ye belong tae yerself, always have," he lets go of my hair, "But ye ken what my feelin' like that means, don't ye?"
I shake my head, "No."
"It means that nothing can come between us, Claire. I dinnae mean nothing will try. I dinnae mean we won't let things come between us now and again. But we have something, an' it's stronger than those things."
"Are. . ." I swallow, "Are you sure?"
His lips twist, almost sneering.
"I'm certain Dougal must think ye'er a spy. Are ye?"
"No."
"Are ye a murderer? Or accused? On the run, like me?"
"No."
"Are ye sick? Wastin' away? Dyin'?"
"No."
"An' ye arenae secretly the Queen of Belgium oor summat like that?"
I shake my head, beginning to be bewildered, "Not to the best of my knowledge. . ."
"Alrigh', then are ye a changeling? A witch? A fairy?"
I half-laugh, "No."
"A selkie? A water-horse?"
I laugh fully, "No! What. . . ?"
"Then I cannae think what there could be that we couldnae weather," he cradles my head again, and runs a thumb across my lips, "I may no' ken what we are, exactly, but I do ken that I. . . Claire, it. . . it isnae about. . . mo chridhe, it doesnae matter if we nevar. . ." he sighs, and leans his forehead against mine, "It's about being together, aye?"
"Spell or no spell?"
"Spell or no spell."
"No matter the obstacles?"
"No mattar at all."
"You like me that much?"
He grins and shakes his head, "Aye. I like ye that much, Claire Beauchamp."
I start the runabout again. After I get us straightened out, I take his hand, and hold it all the way back to the barn.
We are in so much trouble. So much. But if he's willing to take the risk, then I'm willing to brave the pain. Maybe it won't be so bad. We're both strong. Maybe we can both survive this. Maybe we can both make it through. . .
And maybe I'm still given to wishful thinking.
But it's all I have. . .
There is quite a commotion waiting for us back at the Manager's Barn. Two large vans, and about eight or nine smaller vehicles are parked in a haphazard line from the guest wing of the house, all the way past the kitchen gardens, right up next to the manager's garage. There are at least a score of people milling about the cars, shifting and unpacking all manner of luggage.
"That's Gwyllyn Pritchard's van," says Jamie, pointing at the larger of the two maroon-and-gold painted buses, "He's lead singer of The Cuckoos In The Grove, ye ken. They're a day or two early."
I pull the runabout up to the lab entrance of the barn, and get out to open the large roll-up door.
"Gwyllyn? That doesn't sound Scottish."
"He isnae. He's Welsh. Married tae a Scottish lass, though."
"Oh."
The door growls as it opens, and creaks to a halt. I reach inside and grab us two of the cart-tables, so we can start unloading the bags of sample vials.
"An' what's wrong wi' his bein' Welsh?"
"Nothing, of course. I just expected a Scottish band would have a Scottish lead singer," I shrug, "Live and learn."
"Colum's proud he's Welsh. Somethin' tae doo with harps an' bards an' the Middle Ages, I dinnae ken. An' I dinnae much care, either, tae be honest. His music is good tae listen tae - tha's all that matters tae me." He puts the last bag of vials on his cart.
"Excellent philosophy, in my opinion."
We've just finished transferring the bags to the refrigerated drawers beneath the analysis station, when a loud peal of laughter comes from the office, and a second later, an even louder and very impatient Geillis comes whirling into the lab.
"Heer ye twa luvbirds are! Been talkin' tae Mrs. Pritchard while I waited fer ye. Ye were an awful long time. Did ye hafta christen evary field oon t'way back, oor was it jus' one, an' ye were goin' fer some kind o' reacord?"
Jamie sighs, and shakes his head at this, not giving her any other answer.
"I'll see ye on Friday," he says, turning to me. He pats my shoulder, and is back out to his runabout and gone before Geillis can say anything else.
"Weel!" she quips, with an extended drawl, "I ken when I've been snubbed!" Then she laughs, as though even this is most hilarious thing Jamie could have possibly done.
I've never met anyone quite so relentlessly Scottish as this. The people I met on Cold Island 12 were far different from anyone I'd ever met on a Skycity, of course, and their modes of speech were unique, but they were nowhere near this forceful about it. Even in this time period, with its heavier accents and much more liberal use of Gaelic, Geillis stands out. Dougal purposefully dials it back most of the time. Jamie maintains a fairly even balance between a charming, accessible burr, and his broad, free-rein brogue. In speech, Colum is a mixture of the two, probably because he hand-picks every turn of phrase to present the most impressive face to the outside world as possible. Mrs. Fitz's speech is formal, but accessible. Annie's is a bit rough and hard for me to follow, but she's too cheerful for her meaning to be at all mysterious. Willie and Geordie's speech is of a more haphazard type, Angus and Rupert's is more casual, Murtagh. . . Murtagh baffles me a bit. With words, he is as deliberate as Colum, as cunning as Dougal, as kind and as open-hearted as Jamie, and. . . yes, just as relentless as Geillis. But all of it is tempered with something else - a gruff, blunt something that, in reality, isn't at all rough or unrefined. I haven't spent enough time around him to identify just what it is yet. But it's clearly not the same thing as whatever is up with Geillis. Her mode of speaking is so immediate, so present, so in-your-face. . . It's untempered. Over-the-top. It gives her a juvenile, almost childish presence, even though she is clearly nothing of the kind.
Just who is this woman?
She stops laughing, plants her hands on her hips, and grins at me, "Weel, dinnae stand thear gawpin', pet. Come an' see th' wee crop regulator."
She flounces out of the lab, unquestioningly assuming that I'll follow her.
Which, of course, I do.
"Wee" turns out to be a highly inaccurate term for the crop regulator. It's a behemoth of thing, so wide it's just barely able to fit into the large gap left between the tractors and the maintenance trucks. It looks like something straight out of Core Township - all pipes and tanks and sensor towers and gauges and dials.
But, for all that, it also looks familiar. A few days testing it out, and I'm certain I'll get the hang of it.
"Can ye e'en work this wean, Claire, pet?" Geillis asks, leaning up against a nearby tractor as I survey the regulator from every side.
"Oh, yes," I say, "The last lab I worked at was testing new algorithms for a machine not unlike this one."
"An' ye a farmar!" she snorts.
"Botanist, actually."
"Agch, an' sae what was a botanist dooin' testin' oot a gurt sleekit pile like this'un?"
I smile, and scoff a little, "I wasn't there testing regulators - I was making root vegetable hybrids that could withstand a more acidic growing environment - our projects overlapped in the testing phase."
She makes a low muffled sound, but says nothing. This is sufficiently out of character that I look over at her. She has both hands clapped over her mouth, and is red from suppressed laughter.
"What?" I ask, genuinely baffled.
"Och, sorrae, pet. Eet's jus'. . . ye make eet sae easy tae tease ye."
"What did I say?"
"Ne'r'mind," she shakes her head, getting herself under control, "Doo ye ha' any machine tha' c'n pull this beast? It took my four-wheeler jus' tae get eet heer, an' I wouldnae like tae think o' it oot in the fields twenty-foor se'en wi' it."
"Well, that tractor you're leaning on has a hybrid-plasma drive. That ought to do the trick, don't you think?" I pull off my jacket and scarf, and roll up my sleeves, "But you're right. It could use a bit of a checkup first."
I shoo her back a bit, and open the bonnet of the 2071 John Deere 811 Liger. A fine machine, I have no doubt. But I've only rarely worked on an electric/plasma hybrid engine before, and never this one specifically. I survey it rapidly, trying to get my bearings. One of my hands is hovering over the front grating, and as I turn away to go get a multi-tool, my fingers get too close to the edge of metal. A sharp, popping 'zap!' of static electricity jolts my hand, making me jump, and cry out.
Geillis raises her eyebrows, "Och. Tha's some good ley power ye have thear."
I shake my hand, trying to dispel the painful tingling ache, "Lay power? What's that?"
She shakes her head, slowly, "No' 'lay', pet. 'Ley'. It's the power of th'earth, an' of oor connection too it. Ye must'ha drawn some up when ye were oot walkin' the fields taeday."
"Hm. Suppose I must have." I'm not really paying attention to her. I stomp back to the worktables and grab a toolbox, a can of WD-40, and the nearest multi-tool.
"Aye. Ye ken, they used tae say that if ye were a channel fer the ley, it meant ye were a witch."
I laugh, "As far as I can see, anything used to make you a witch, Geillis." I select a spanner, and get to work on the tractor engine, "Too good a cook? Witch. Too many kids? Witch. Not enough kids? Witch. Too beautiful? Too ugly? Too smart? Too simple? Witch! Witch! Burn the witch! It's just another word for systemic oppression. All the magic and stuff was just the excuse - a convenient story for the powerful to tell while they exploited the weak."
Geillis crosses her arms and looks at me with a thoroughly unreadable expression on her face.
"Aye, mebbe so."
Then, her eyes light up with a thought, "Bu' tha's mus' mean tha' the real witches were th'ones whoo got away wi' it!"
I laugh loudly for a minute, and then shrug, "Well, it can't hurt to think so."
"Ye dinnae believe in magic, then?"
"I prefer things that don't need me to believe in them. Real things. Things that work."
"Ye dinnae think magic works, pet?"
A vision of the stones of Craigh na Dun dances before me. But even they aren't magic. . . not really.
Right?
"Not as such, no. But, now you mention it, it is rather impossible to be here, in this place, and not see something magical about it. Every day, every minute, something. . . not quite ordinary happens."
She grins, fondly, "Aye, Scotland is ri' oot o' th'storybooks, pet."
I shake my head, "No. That kind of magic is nothing like what's in the storybooks. No spells, no magic words, no robed figures with magic wands, no potions, no enchanted weapons. It's just an everyday indication that. . . well, there are things greater than us in this world."
"An' no mistake," she says, fervently.
I've never seen her face this serious.
All of a sudden, something about her seems eerily familiar again. . .
I reach into the toolbox for a different spanner. She gives a strange, quiet, strangled cry, and leaps towards me, pointing, "Wha's tha'?"
For a second I think she's pointing at the engine, and I'm at a loss to explain her reaction.
But then I see. She's pointing at the crook of my elbow, where I have a narrow, bean-shaped scar. All that remains of the AR-gel dialysis procedure all Skycity-born children undergo between the ages of two and five, before their white blood cells can adapt to the increased levels of radiation we all must live with in the future. . .
"Oh. . . that? That's a medical scar."
"Doesnae look like a medical scar," she looks up at me, her expression not at all teasing, "Can I ask wha' ye had?"
"Uhm. . ." I flounder for a second, "I. . . can't really remember. I was so young when it happened. Something to do with the kidneys, I think. Sorry."
Her brows draw together, "Nae need tae be sorry, my lamb."
Her choice of endearment brings me up short.
My Lamb. . .
Lamb. . .
And then, it strikes me.
All the crude humour, all the innuendo - the over-done Scottish accent, the flamboyant body language. . . it's armour.
Strip that away, and. . .
And she's a completely different person.
Thinking of her in that light, all at once it is clear, who she reminds me of. Why her presence sparked such deja-vu. The signs are only there in a few of her words and vocal cadences, and one or two of her gestures and expressions, but they're unmistakable. It's very subtle, and they don't appear every time, but now that I've noticed them, they're as plain as day. A certain emphasis on the long 'e' that's just a bit different than the rest of the Scots I've met here. Occasionally a slightly less round 'r'. How long she holds vowels at the ends of words. A tilt to her head, a motion she makes with her fingers while talking. . . None of it obvious, and nothing in any way bad or alarming. Nothing even strange. Just different. Slightly. So slight, I almost didn't notice.
I'm sure the similarity is unintended and unconscious. It can't possibly be anything else.
And of course, the age difference obscures things quite a bit. . .
But.
Behind her gossipy, raunchy exterior, Geillis Duncan has a look about her, a feel to her. . . there's no doubt about it.
She reminds me, quite distinctly, of Mrs. Graham.
The housekeeper whose Name is Chaos. . .
Before I can work out even the slightest implications of this, she is grinning and voluble again, and says, "Weel, pet, eet's high time I was off. Nae rest fer us workin' weemen, aye?"
"Not much, no."
"Bu' mos' like I'll see ye Friday night, aye? I allus come ower tae see the Cuckoos when they'ar heer. Ye'll be thear?"
"Oh, yes, I'll be there," I say, abstractedly.
"Ri'. Weel then. Eet's a date!" She winks and smiles wryly, whirls, and is gone.
I put down my spanner and look after her for a long while.
Yes. It's a date. With, apparently, all of my devils.
Notes:
Soundtrack for this chapter - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fCcEjZQQNjo
"Mo leannan" - my sweetheart
Chapter 30: Gift Of Words
Chapter Text
I don't see Jamie for the next three days.
But, the first morning, a small paper bag arrives on my desk, via a blushing, grinning Willie. The bag contains a single, brilliantly yellow rose, a piece of black cardstock, and a short note -
You said we'd figure things out. You were right. Stare at the rose for ten seconds, then look at the card. - J
Smiling fondly, I do so. After ten seconds, an afterimage hovers on the little piece of black paper. It is a perfect replication of the rose.
In Stygian Blue.
The image wavers as my eyes water for some reason. I hurriedly scrawl a note to Mrs. Fitz, and send Willie to the main house with it, telling him it's urgent. When he gets back, I tell him to wait, and I take what he brought with him into my little break room to organize it. I fill one small plastic bag with instant coffee crystals, one with powdered chocolate, and one with brown sugar. I quickly write my mother's favorite mocha recipe - the only coffee based drink I've ever been known to willingly consume - on one scrap of paper, and a very short note on another.
I'm figuring things out too. - C
I fold the two pieces of paper together, tuck them and the baggies into the same paper bag Jamie sent me, and hand it all to Willie, telling him to deliver it to Jamie at the stables, on the double.
The poor boy makes for a rather unimpressive Cupid, but no one could ask for a more willing and cheerful Mercury.
He returns with a small potted Wintergreen plant, and a very confused look on his face.
"Jamie said it 'tasted like penance', Miss Claire," he says, doubtfully, "I dinnae ken wh-" he breaks off as I laugh, then gestures with the clay jar he's holding, "Sae where would ye like this, then?"
I pat the surface of the desk right next to me, and don't stop smiling for the rest of the day.
The second morning, a bright yellow carnation is waiting for me. I send Willie to the stables with a packet of Jammie Dodgers I discreetly got from Mrs. Fitz the night before.
The third morning, there is a box on my desk containing a small, sleek, brand-new info-screen, and next to it, a comm radio, and a charging cube for both. There is a one-word note stuck to the screen.
Nerd.
When I turn it on, I find that a video has already been downloaded onto the info-screen. It is of three tiny fox kits playing with each other. I watch it a dozen times, unable to look away.
My heart clutches at every movement they make. I've already named them William, Rob, and Ian. . .
This requires a response far more meaningful than ironic food.
I spend three hours rummaging about and compounding things in the lab, and two more cursing under my breath as I remember exactly how many years it's been since I took calligraphy classes.
Eventually, with my improvised pen-nib, spatters of the unholy concoction I decided to call ink, and at least twenty ruined pieces of paper scattered around me, I take a look at my final result.
Dear Jamie,
I haven't your gift for words. You always seem to say the right thing, simply, with a sense of deliberation and care that leaves me envious, honestly. Too often, I think far better than I speak, and I feel far more than I express. To me, words are either quick and shallow - fully meant, but multi-purpose - like fallen leaves spread across exposed roots, or they are long, slow-maturing things, hard-won, and often hidden beyond even my own reach for much of their lives, like seeds buried too deep.
Even now, my words come slowly to the page, far slower than they ought, after being laboured over, and changed a dozen, two dozen times before what you see here. And still I fear I am being a clumsy, oafish Outlander, taking a hundred words to say what might be better said in ten.
But if I envy you your eloquence, I am also thankful for it.
I could not let another minute pass without setting this down in black and white -
You, James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser, are, and have been since the moment I met you, the most extraordinary, desired, and welcome presence in my life. I thank you, with all I have left of me.
I fear I have not given you half the appreciation you deserve, my dear friend. I am like a starving person given fine food, who does not comment on the delicate flavours, only blesses the giver for mere salvation.
I have been desperately lonely, Jamie. To live only on memories is to slowly freeze oneself to death. For the past eight years I have done little but lose - people, things. . . hope. To have a person now, one who gives me things I need, things I like, and believes in me unquestioning, and without terms, is in itself a gift far beyond any I have ever deserved.
I trust you will take these words as meant - as the only things of true substance I have to give you, poor return though they may be, for all you have granted me.
I hope you will accept them, and a small token of my regard,
Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp
"It is the time you have wasted that makes your rose so important."
P.S. You were so passionate over your favourite colour, but you never said which was your favourite shade. So this probably isn't it.
Below this, there is a clipped ringlet of my hair, stuck down with a small blob of candle wax.
Well then. . .
I read it over, one more time. For a thank-you note, it's drastically overdone. And for a love letter, it's pitiful. Just what is this thing I have laboured over?
Something about that strikes true to me, though. Neither of us have any idea what we are, why should our gifts be any different?
I shrug. If he likes me enough to walk through cowshit-scented fields all day, he likes me enough to get past my awkward declarations of esteem.
He's also smart enough to notice that nowhere did I mention the word "love". I haven't said it at all, yet. I've barely even thought it.
Of course, he hasn't said it either. . .
And at the moment, I'm unfathomably grateful for that. We're complicated enough at this stage. . .
I roll up my letter like a scroll, wrap a few lengths of copper wire around it to hold it closed, and take the manager's runabout to his workshop myself. He's out, like I knew he would be, at this time of day. I leave it on a workbench where I'm sure he'll see it.
On Friday morning, I spend several hours with Annie, going through clothes, debating shoe choices, and learning a great deal about cosmetics. She makes me promise that we will go shopping in Cranesmuir before the Yuletide Gathering. I finally make it to the lab after lunch. My progress on the soil chem tests is quite a ways behind where I wanted to be by now - no surprise, really - and so I don't even go into my office until I'm just about ready to leave, so I can prepare for the concert. My mind is very much focused on tonight, and so I almost miss it, but as I go to turn off the lights in the office toilet station, I see it.
Near the middle of my desk, there is a very small, flat box, covered in black and gold paper. Inside are four chocolate truffles, each decorated with stamped gold leaf in the shape of a Tudor rose.
Atop them is a small card, bearing three little words, hand-written in golden ink.
It is now.
Chapter 31: Round Table
Chapter Text
Entering the Great Hall at Leoch feels like stepping back in time.
Again.
The smooth flagstone floor echoes under my footsteps, wide and cold and solid. I haven't been in a room of this size since Frank and the rest of Decon Team 7 received commendations from the Mayor. Town Hall is one of the great spaces of Central Township - a cathedral in white metal and copper plating, enormous staircases, and etched glass walls surrounding a central amphitheater and stage.
Leoch's Great Hall is nothing so grandiose, nor is it nearly as large, but it has a rough, timeless beauty to it that paradoxically dates it firmly in the Middle Ages. It is a place right out of a storybook. The walls are whitewashed stone, the roof great golden beams of wood. The deep balcony that lines three of the walls is made of rough wooden planks and unvarnished wood pillars. The upper railing there is of black wrought iron, as are the chains that hold aloft three great wheels of short, fat candles, to flicker below the sweeping wooden curve of the vaulted ceiling. I have no idea when this house was built, but if this room had been the first place I'd seen after coming though the stones of Craigh na Dun, I probably would have concluded I'd Traveled back to before Columbus discovered his few Caribbean islands.
If Leoch's dining room is all crystalline fairy elegance, then its Great Hall is the stern, functional beauty of the Kings of Men.
The wide middle space of the room is filled with two long columns of trestle tables. They are built of uncovered boards - they and the benches that surround them. All have been worn smooth by time, and stained with the signs of much eating and drinking, but I see no indication that they have ever been polished or painted, though each one has been scrupulously cleaned. They are lined up facing straight on, to give the best view of the stage at one end of the hall.
Actually, I don't know if I should call it a stage or a dais. Three shallow steps lead up to it, and a large draped tapestry covers most of the wall behind it. A High Table, or a throne or two, or a troupe of actors could reside on it equally well, but, at the moment, it is empty. Just in front of it, there is a wide gap left between the steps and where the tables begin, leaving a large empty space at this end of the room.
I have entered near this dais, or stage, and I quickly take in the large rectangle of what must be the dance floor. Then, I walk down one of the long sides of the room, staying underneath the large balcony overhang. This side is lined with couches and softly cushioned chairs, low tables, and here and there what look like huge pillar candles on massive bronze candlesticks over a meter tall. But, on closer inspection of one, I see that the candles are plastic facsimiles, and their flames are small flickering bulbs, hidden by the faux-wax walls. I veer closer to the supper tables for a minute, and look up at the three huge wheels of candles glowing in the air above me, and wonder if they are electric too.
They probably are.
Strange, the intersections of old and new in this place.
Across the room, the opposite under-balcony space is filled with a long line of tables already overflowing with food. Our supper, being laid out buffet-style. I can smell a great deal of it from here - sauces and stews, toasted bread, and roasted meat. There is occasional movement from that side of the room, as one or more of the kitchen staff bring bowls and trays and pots in and out, but other than this, the room is almost entirely devoid of life.
I'm early. Very.
The reason why is standing behind the long wooden bar-counter that takes up half of the rear wall's under-balcony. Or rather, not standing - bustling - mixing drinks, slicing fruit, filling trays with glasses, and filling glasses with finished drinks.
Jamie texted me an hour ago, saying that their usual bartender, Mr. Cooper, was sick, and that he, Jamie, had been asked to fill in for him. He apologized that he would not be able to pick me up at my door, and asked for me to meet him here, just as soon as I was ready. I texted back, teasing him about how unconventional all our dates seem to be. He sent back a glif of a man shrugging, and I sent him a glif of a cartoon cat saying 'U O Me, Mr. Fancypants'. He sent back a laughing face, the words "Oh, most certainly", and a winking face.
I had smiled at that, put down the info-screen, and went to take a shower, feeling something small, subtle and important shifting in my heart.
Here, now, in this room, I realize what it was.
For the first time, I feel like I belong at Leoch.
It isn't just that I have an info-screen again, nor that I can communicate with Jamie more easily, it's the timeless, yet certain nature of things here.
Am I in 2078? 1742? 1409? It doesn't seem to matter. Jamie's here, I'm here, and this room is about to be filled with people. Ordinary people, living the ordinary lives of their time, eager to be fed and entertained. And finally, I feel like I'm part of it all. Not one of them, not that yet - but at least equal to the task of getting to know them - no matter how much work it is undoubtedly going to be.
As I get closer to the back of the room, Jamie looks up from his blender and lemon-zester, and cheerfully waves me over. I take a seat at one of the tall stools, and smile at him while he fills a tray of glasses with something pink and frothy and fruity-smelling.
He grins at me, "Ah, there ye are, Sassenach. Be wi' ye in a moment, aye?" He puts the heavy tray on the bartop, and dings a hidden bell. A woman in kitchen-staff livery appears, and hoists the tray across the room to the long line of tables containing our supper.
He comes over to where I'm sitting, and sets a small bowl filled with strawberries in front of me, "Heer, have some. There isnae enough for another batch, we may as well eat them." He pops one in his mouth before turning back to his pitchers and bottles and measuring cups. He starts compounding something out of ice and mint and rum, and what I think may be limes, I'm not sure.
I follow his smooth, purposeful motions with my eyes, drinking in the sight of him. He looks simply astonishing tonight, in a cool grey formal jacket, black dress shirt, and grey and lavender striped tie. The colours vibrate next to the pale warmth of his skin and the deep red of his hair, while the rough texture of his stubble contrasts strikingly with the clean lines of the rest of him.
I could look at him for hours.
Or, preferably, kiss him for hours. . .
Three days apart is much more than I ever want to endure again. Slowly, I pick up a berry, and bite into it. I haven't tasted anything so good in a long while. Nor so rare.
He may have sent me gilded chocolates, but to me, fresh fruit is the real edible gold.
I doubt he'll ever know just how much his easy generosity with food means to me. He certainly can't understand what it means that I have sent him food - and frivolous, empty-calorie food, at that. On Skycity 15, sending someone anything edible is always significant. And sending someone sweets is just short of asking them to marry you. Even people who can afford it don't send such things to just anyone. He'll never know what a grand gesture it is, to casually hand someone a bowl of fruit, like it's nothing. That he lives in a time and place of abundance does not lessen the impact to me.
Jamie cares about me. I care about him.
We both know that much - each about the other.
And at the moment, that's enough.
When the tray of mint and rum drinks are finished, he hoists them to the bartop, and rings the bell again. As soon as a kitchen worker takes them, he looks over at me, smiles, scoops up one of my hands, and kisses my fingertips. My heart leaps at the touch.
"Ye look bonny taenight," he says, going over to a washing basin and wiping down the three plastic cutting boards he's been slicing fruit on.
"Oh, this old thing?" I say, teasingly.
"Aye, that auld thing," he says, eyes twinkling, "It suits ye."
My dress isn't anything unique, and the style, Annie said, was from nearly ten years ago. Ancient, in her estimation. It had been crammed in the very back of her closet - a simple, high-waisted gown of some soft, stretchy material, with elbow-length sleeves, conservative neckline, and full, floor-length skirt. It's almost completely unadorned - one black satin ribbon around the waist, that knots into a bow at the side - that's all. But, it is a beautiful colour - a rich, deep, Merlot-toned crimson, purple-muted, mellow and smooth. I couldn't see it and not want to wear it, and, despite Annie's protests, after I had tried it on, we both agreed it should have a new home in my closet.
"Well, thank you. I do still love red, you know."
I reach out my hand, and he briefly tangles his fingers with mine, pressing our palms together. "Duly noted, Sassenach."
He meets my eyes, and the look in them makes me want to forget tonight, supper, concert and all, drag him to the nearest reasonably private location, and find out just how long we can go without oxygen. . .
That wouldn't help you learn how to be in public with him, now would it, Beauchamp? Get your mind out of the sugar-house!
"You're not looking all that terrible yourself, my lad," I say, deliberately understating matters to preserve my own sanity.
"Ah, what fulsome praise from my lady fair," he says, dryly teasing. He pulls his hand away, and continues to wash up, "How e're shall I find it in me tae speak more handsomely of ye than ye do of me, mo nighean donn?" He takes off his soiled apron, and puts on a clean one, "Did ye get my note?"
This last is said very quietly, with a waver of something deeper and warmer in his tone.
"I did," I say, in a similar tone, thinking of the small box sitting on my dressing table at this very moment, and the fact that it only contains three chocolates now. "The truffles are amazing, by the way. No one's ever sent me chocolates before."
He pauses in the middle of sharpening a knife, "Ye'er kidding. . ."
I shake my head, "Nope."
"No' even Frank?" He puts the knife down heavily, and looks slightly frantic with disbelief, almost as if there must have been something wrong with Frank for not sending me hideously expensive luxury sweets. . .
Oh.
Of course chocolate is easier to obtain here, but it hadn't occurred to me that it might be a common gift.
Oops.
I smile, a little uncomfortably, and put down a strawberry without eating it. I can't tell him that Frank could never afford so rare a commodity as chocolate. . .
"No. . . we. . . didn't generally give gifts like that."
He blinks, "Like. . . candy?"
"No, like any perishable food," I say, pointedly nodding at the bowl of strawberries, "I mean, he took me on dates, bought me dinner and such, dessert sometimes, but he never sent me sweets, or fruit or anything. He was more. . . practical, I suppose."
Jamie shakes his head, "An' nae'un else. . . ?"
"No," I run my eyes fondly up the taut lines of his neck, to the thick clusters of his curls, still dark from a recent shower, and barely tamed with condition-holder, "But I don't mind you being my first."
His eyes snap to mine at that, shoulders frozen, spine rigidly upright. Then, his posture softens, and he slides closer to me, gently smirking, "Ye'er jus' lucky my kind of girl is one who's impressed by chocolates, and no' even interested in where we got strawberries in November, an' in Scotland!"
"I assumed they were imported," I say, pushing the bowl aside. I suppose I should find it frightening, how I care less and less about anything else, the nearer he is to me. But as I lean as far across the bartop as I can, I get close enough to catch a whiff of him, and I find I cannot care even about fear. Tonight, he smells like fresh lemon peel, mulled spices, and the air after rain.
As if I needed another reason to lose my mind. . .
"Nae. They're from our oon kitchen greenhouse, jus' heer."
He pushes a long fall of curls off my shoulder as he points in the direction of the kitchens.
"Oh?" I say, absently, "I've been in the greenhouse almost every day since I got here, and I haven't seen any strawberries. . ." I run my eyes over his lips, over his chin, my focus mainly on remembering how his stubble tastes, and how different it is from the flavour of his freshly shaven skin. . .
His hand curls around the back of my neck, thumb lightly brushing my jaw just below my ear.
"Thear's a special room i' the back quartar. Gets th'most sun."
"Oh. . ."
It's been over three days and I've missed him and he looks delightful and smells edible and dammit, I don't need an excuse to kiss him, do I?
He certainly doesn't, and as he plays his mouth gently over mine, then nibbles on my lower lip, all I can think is that I'm so very, very glad I chose not to use that thing Annie called 'lip stick'. Ours stick very well without it.
He pulls back long before I want him to, but then I remember we're almost in public. . .
"Tha' table ower thear is whear me an' the lads from the stables usually sit," he nods behind me at the nearest table one column over, "We'er normally joined by a few o' Marc's boys, an' some of the hands. Now an' then Marc oor Murtagh too." He smiles, almost shyly, "I havetae stay heer for about another half-hour, but ye'er welcome to sit wi' them, an I'll join ye jus' a'soon as the first rush for drinks is over."
I sigh, and scan the truly impressive number of bottles lining the shelves behind him, "Well, I suppose it would be best to finally get it over with - heaven knows I've left it late enough as it is." I sit back on my stool and grin, "But you promised me whisky, my lad, and I'm not going to budge from here until you pour me some."
"Aye," he turns to grab a bottle and a glass, "But. . . what are ye on about? Get what over?"
"Oh." I shrug, "The ritual duel."
"The. . . duel?" He hands me my drink, eyebrows raised.
"Mmm, nice," I swirl the whisky in my glass and take a sip, "Well, it's Scotland, so maybe it will be a ritual fistfight? I don't know yet, exactly."
He blinks, a dubious look on his face, and a question in his eyes he doesn't want to ask.
"Yes, yes, you know," I gesture with my glass, "It'll be all, 'I don't know you, you don't know me, let's beat each other up to establish dominance.' That sort of thing." I shrug, as if I engage in such encounters all the time, when it's really only now and then. "It usually only happens with groups of men. Groups of women make you prove yourself totally differently. . ."
"Agch," he growls, "Are ye sayin' they willnae respect ye?"
I put my whisky down, more than half incredulous, "Really? Come on Jamie! I'm a stranger, and a Sassenach - in a place and time when that's not exactly a pretty word - not to mention a woman into the bargain? Of course they won't respect me! Not initially, anyway. They're going to make me earn it - you know they will!"
"But. . . ye'ev already earnt it - ye'er a guest! Aye, an' a woman! It must count for somethin'."
I smile at his instinctive chivalry, "But it doesn't, Jamie. And I'm hardly a guest when I'm on this side of the High Table. To an ordinary resident here, at best, I'm their boss's boss - an outlander hired over their heads, who has only been here two weeks, and has spent most of that time ignoring them. At worst. . . well. . . let's not go there, shall we? And now I'll be sat in the middle of their special table, demanding to be instantly respected? There's isn't an ice cube's chance in hell they'll make it easy for me. And the fact that I'm a woman will just make everything more awkward."
He sets his lips, grim and hard, "Eatin' in the kitchen doesnae mean ye were ignoring them."
"No, but it probably feels that way to a lot of them. They're family here - almost all of them. And as official Guest, I've only eaten with them once? How would you feel about me, if you were them?"
"They dinnae even ken ye. . ."
I scoff a bit, "And that's supposed to stop them? If I was meeting each one of them individually - or even two or three at a time, like I did with Willie and Geordie - it would be different. But in a group? In public? It will probably fall short of hazing, but most likely only just."
"But. . . they. . ." he sighs heavily, and pours himself a drink.
Inwardly, I shake my head. There's no way this man is the royally-cloistered, court-bred ingénu he's affecting at the moment. I wonder what the hell he's playing at. . .
"I'll be fair to them and say they've hardly been given the chance to know or respect me yet - most of them - but if they're anything like the majority of men I've worked with, as long as we're at this party, it'll take a bit of doing just to be accepted as an expert in my field - pun fully intended."
He exhales gustily, "I dinnae ken about any of this, Claire."
"Well, that's because you didn't need me to prove anything to you before you treated me like a Human being."
He stares, almost bewilderedly, "Because. . . ye are a Human being. . ."
I bark a hard little laugh, "Oh no I'm not, Jamie! I'm a woman! Tits and everything! There's really only one thing I'm good for. . ."
He gapes at me, "Ye dinnae really think that. . . ? That. . ."
I sigh deeply. "Men, Jamie. They aren't all the same, but too often society thinks they are. And when in groups, too often they live up to what society expects - exactly that, and no more. Club mentality and mob mentality are far more closely related than most people ever realize, and if I want to end tonight with more friends than I started with, I have to do this."
I nod solemnly in the direction he indicated, "I'll have to sit at that table like I'm in the middle of a lion's den - eyes wide open, sword drawn, shield up. You know it. And I know it."
He shakes his head.
And that's quite enough of that, my lad. . .
I huff at him, "You may be young, and very sweet, but you'll never get me to believe you've been that sheltered, James Fraser."
"Ifrinn!" he pounds the countertop, "It isnae that, Claire!"
"Then what. . .?"
"It's too true, alraight? Ye ken them too well, an' ye havenae even met most o' them yet." He kicks back his whisky and grimaces sharply. ''Ye'er right, dammit."
I feel a painful flush cover my cheeks. I've misread him. He wasn't playing the ingénu - he was sincerely facing up to the fact that caring about me will mean defending me sometimes, not just from Dougal, but from people he considers his friends.
It isn't the first time I've misread him, far from it, but it feels worse now. Perhaps because we're friends. Perhaps because we're a bit more than friends. . .
I should know him better.
"I dinnae hate that ye'er right, Sassenach, but I do hate that ye'er right about this," he says, hastily, possibly himself misreading my blush as indignation. "An' ye were right in my workshop that day, too. It's two different ways of livin'. Two different lives, or more. One here, wi' me, and half a dozen over there, wi' everyone else. It will no' be easy tae blend any of them - for ye tae live one life here. I'm sorrae I ever doubted it. Doubted ye."
I didn't know he had, but it is immeasurably reassuring to know that I'm not the only one still feeling awkward in this new relationship of ours.
He holds out a hand, and I take it in both of mine.
"I'll go talk tae Mrs. Fitz. She'll find som'un else tae mind the bar, an' we'll go-"
I shake my head, "Actually, it's ideal for me to go in alone, at least at first."
His his jaw drops a little, and his eyes go wide.
"They won't respect me until I've fought them, Jamie. Until I have fought them. I, Claire Beauchamp. Not 'Jamie's Girl'."
"Ye. . . dinnae wantae be my girl?" His voice is a strange mixture of sadness and shocked curiosity.
I squeeze his hand, and he turns his wrist to lock fingers with me again.
"You know I do. Very much, Jamie. But I don't want to be just that, and if you're there the whole time, that's all I'll be. Because you'll jump in to protect me every time someone shows their teeth - you know you will. And that would only derail the whole process. It'd be fine if I was anyone else - or trying to accomplish anything other than what I'm trying to do here. But by the end of the night, they have to be willing to work with me. It's a delicate balance, my lad, and a fine line to walk. I have to fight them, but without drawing blood."
Funny. I've never thought of these sorts of encounters in such precise terms before. On Skycity 15, they were just something I had to do sometimes. Annoying, usually. Unjust, always. But now, here, the concept itself seems so. . . formalized. As though my whole way of thinking about it has crystallized into something new.
It must be the surroundings, and the fact that underneath it all is a slow, creeping dread that I won't be able to avoid an encounter with Dougal tonight. Warrior Claire is wide awake, and something in me feels ancient, courtly and fierce.
My Central blood is up. Woe betide any man who underestimates me!
Jamie's jaw clenched when I said the word 'blood'.
I raise my chin, "You've just apologized for doubting me, Fraser. So you'd better not be doubting me now."
"Ye'er sure? Ye cannae want tae do it alone?"
I pick up my glass and take a sip, enjoying the dark, energizing heat of the whisky, "Of course not. But, the term 'ritual duel' wasn't a mistake. I've done it all before. And yes, alone."
Though, for all that, I did usually have Frank along with me most of the times this sort of situation cropped up - at Sanitation Worker's Union meetings, or Farm Labourer's Council dinners, etc. And after several such experiences, we got so good at communicating what we needed from each other in specific circumstances, we could silently let each other know what was happening, even from across a crowded room. A glance, a gesture, a mouthed word, and we would come to each other's rescue. I sigh a bit. I wish Frank was here now. . .
But, he isn't, and there's no way I'm going to throw Jamie into the deep end, expecting that sort of connection or support from him, not now. Not yet. Not against his friends. Let me deal with the first few rounds of attacks, and let him join in after the worst of the fighting is over.
"Wi' rough, suspicious Scots, set in their ways?" he asks, mournfully, "As a Sassenach, which as ye well say isnae exactly a pretty thing tae be 'round heer? Ye've done that afore? Alone?" His hand grips mine, hard.
My mouth twitches, remembering two weeks ago with the Rover. But that was an emergency, and this is a planned social event. Two very different situations.
Then again, there was that one time. . .
"No. I did it alone with Oxford professors." Gently, I separate our hands, "And if you think Scottish clansmen are a rough bunch, married to outdated traditions, and highly suspicious of outsiders, then you've never met a table full of senior Classics dons." I take a sip to hide my smirk, remembering one infamously cranky professor. . .
Jamie shudders a bit, "No. An' I dinnae care tae, thankee verrah much!"
"But I have. And I won them all over, in the long run."
"Why, a'coorse ye did, but. . ."
I sigh, sharply, "Look, how about this? If anyone gets handsy, you can swoop in, alright? I promise I won't be mad if you derail things while stopping someone from trying to cop a feel. Okay?"
He stares at me, either horrified or disgusted, or both, "They'd bettar no'. . ." he trails off into a string of fierce curses I'm very glad I cannot translate.
"Well. . . I wouldn't entirely dismiss the possibility. . . but they probably won't." I run a fingertip along the rim of my glass, "If Angus and Rupert are any sort of gauge, it will all be just talk. Rough talk, but still. . ." I shrug, "I'm good at keeping things verbal."
"Words," he says, softly, "That are quick and shallow? Like leaves fallen 'cross exposed roots, full meant, but wi' many purposes?"
"Yes." I purse my lips. "You'd be surprised what a weapon words like that can make. And what a shield they can be. What effective armour. Remember all those things I said to Dougal?"
He snorts, gently, "This is different. . ."
"Yes." I nod, "Yes, it is. Very different. But it's still within my skill set. Okay?"
He glowers at the countertop, "Noo. Nothin' aboot this is 'okay'."
"No, but the saying is 'Lord give me the strength to deal with what I cannot change', not 'Lord give me the strength to change the world'."
He looks up, his expression hard and closed off, "The direct quote is - 'God grant me the serenity tae accept the things I cannae change', mo ghràidh."
Yes. And grant me the courage to change the things I can. . .
"Oh, picky picky," I say lightly, trying to tease that stony look off his face. It takes a minute, but eventually his eyes soften, and he gives me a pale smile.
I finish my whisky, and hand him the glass.
"Can I give ye one word of advice?" he asks, carefully.
"Please do. I need all the help I can get."
"Dinnae underestimate them, Sassenach. In either direction. Ye'er right, they arenae goin' tae make it easy on ye, but. . . they might surprise ye, all the same." He rinses my glass and sets it upside down on a nearby unfolded towel, "After all, we live and learn when it comes to our fellow men, do we no'?"
"Yes. And I hope they do."
At that moment, seemingly dozens of doors open, both on this level, and above us on the balcony. Crowds of excitedly chattering people begin to fill the Great Hall.
"Well, my lad. . ." I smile, half-heartedly. For all that I've just convinced him to let me do this, and no matter how much I know I need to, I still would rather not. Or, more truthfully - I wish I didn't have to. "That's my cue."
I slide off the barstool, and am just about to make my way to the line forming next to the buffet tables, when I remember something important. I turn back to him.
"Oh, Jamie? Could you do me a favour?"
He smiles thinly at me, half indulgent, half worried, "Anything, Sassenach."
"Just for tonight. . . don't call me that?" My hands knot into fists, hoping desperately he will understand. . .
His expression darkens, but he nods, firmly, "Aye."
I nod back, wordlessly thanking him, and turn away.
The line going past the buffet tables is moving slowly, but steadily. I take a plate and utensils from a table filled with them, and watch to see what the people around me are doing. I know what a buffet is, but I've never seen one so varied or immense - I'm a bit overwhelmed. At the start are salads. These do not seem very popular, but I take a portion of one that appears to be made with raisins and grated carrots. On the next table is a huge pile of steaming hot baked potatoes, split open, but still wrapped in long twists of foil. Next to them are twelve large bowls filled with a variety of toppings. This table is much more popular. These must be the 'loaded potatoes' Jamie mentioned - and the term makes complete sense now. I take one, and fill it with butter, grated cheese, minced onion, and what I am almost certain are chopped pieces of bacon.
The next three tables are extremely popular. Two of them are filled with round baking trays with disks of flattened bread on them, covered with sauces and chopped meat and vegetables - all embedded in what looks like melted cheese. Each has been divided into wedges - one wedge apparently being a portion. The third table is covered in oddly shaped cardboard boxes, with the logo of one of the local caf's I've heard Willie mention printed on the top. These boxes also contain round, flat bread, with cheese and toppings, cut into wedges.
I listen carefully to what people are saying around me, and conclude that this is pizza. It smells appetizing enough to me, and so I take two portions of one that came from the caf. The ingredients and a title are printed on the cardboard box. Apparently this kind of pizza is called 'deluxe vegetable', and it is covered in sliced courgette, heirloom tomato, red bell pepper, mushrooms, red onions, pickled artichoke hearts, broccoli florets, garlic, spinach, four kinds of cheese, a cream sauce . . . and olives.
'Deluxe' indeed. Olives are extinct. . .
And even excluding that, I've never seen so many non-hybridized specialty vegetables crowded onto one piece of bread in all my life.
I feel like that is enough for now - my plate is full, and if this is like the buffets my mother used to throw on special occasions, then I can come back for more later, if I wish. I walk deliberately past a half dozen more tables filled with things I don't try to see, but as I walk by the last one, I recognize the of smell Mrs. Fitz's famous lamb stew. Beyond that, there are the tables full of drinks. I take a glass from a tray still nearly entirely full - plain water, but with a generous serving of ice, and a lemon slice stuck on the rim.
Olives. Meat. Water. Ice. Lemons.
There is no end to the luxuries available here. It is very odd to be the only one in the room who fully appreciates that.
When I make it back to the rear of the room, the bar is swamped with people ordering drinks, and so far there is no one sitting at Jamie's regular table.
Well. Here goes. . .
I slide to the middle of the bench facing the stage, and calmly await my fate.
I'm halfway though a piece of the vegetable pizza, and very much enjoying it, when a plate containing a huge stack of breaded wedges is slapped down on the place next to me, and a familiar voice says,
"If I said ye had a beautiful body, would ye hold it against me?"
Rupert sits down on the bench, heavily.
Another, similar plate thuds down on the table to my other side. The deep-fried batter looks disturbingly like skin, but coloured an unnatural brown, too flat and eerily hairless, like an eggshell. And on such inorganic shapes like the irregular wedges, it looks offensively creepy.
"What. . . is that?" I recoil from both their plates.
Angus sits down, more delicately than Rupert did, but with a wide, triumphant smirk on his face. "Och, sae ye'll eat haggis wi' nae questions asked, but look warily at a piece o' crunch pizza?" He takes a huge bite, and mumbles around it, "Tha's goo tae ken." A few crumbs spray out of his mouth in my direction.
I make a disgusted noise, and shake my head. "Ew. Chew your food Angus."
I've seen these two most days this week. More often then not, whenever I get back from lunch, they'll be in the lab break room, lounging about with old magazines, or fooling with their info-screens. I can't decide if they're still surveilling me or not. Their actions suggest not - I could be doing almost literally anything in the lab, for all the notice they take. We've barely exchanged more than ten words total this week, I'd say. But then, why do they always appear? They didn't show up at the lab today, and they weren't on the list of people Jamie mentioned that regularly sit at this table, so I didn't expect them here right now. An oversight. . .
Rupert swallows noisily, "Ye didnae anser my question, Sassenach. . ." he says, in a flat sing-song, batting his eyes and giving me a mocking smile.
I snort. I really was hoping for better than a preschool level game of naughty rounders tonight. . . so far, neither of them is surprising me at all, and they are wasting my time. . .
"Thank you, for boldly engaging in the lowest and most unimaginative form of flirting, Rupert. I don't even rate a 'What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?', huh? Typical."
Angus chuckles, but Rupert tries again.
"Wha' s'matter, Sassenach?" he leers, "Annoyed?"
"No," I scoop up a bit of my loaded potato, "Bored."
Though, I will admit, as I chew contemplatively, if I had better company, I think this might be my new favourite way to have potatoes. . .
"So. . . ye'er sayin' I. . . bore ye?" says Rupert, in between gnawing on his slice of deep-fried pizza.
Nope. My favourite way to have potatoes is still vodka.
And the Ruperts of the world are the main reason why. . .
Inwardly, I sigh. Fine. Down-and-dirty rounders it is, then.
"No, I'm saying you're boring. What, is of no consequence to me at all."
Angus laughs loudly, and claps me on the shoulder, almost making me stab myself with my fork.
My 'Hey, watch it!' is lost behind Angus's overloud, "'What', no' 'Who'! Aye, she kens ye, Rupe!"
"As long as it's Biblically, I dinnae mind, Sassenach," says Rupert, winking lewdly, but elbowing me in the ribs surprisingly gently.
Huh. That's interesting. Perhaps I've made more progress with Rupert than I think I have, and this is actually the best place for the evening to have started.
Let's test that theory out, then. . .
I sigh, over-theatrically, "If you must be lame, Rupert, could you at least try to be interesting?"
"Ye mean, 'If ye'er goin' tae suck, at least suck hard'?" he says, significantly, grinning at Angus over my shoulder.
Well. That's promising. I'm not certain of Angus yet, but Rupert is, somehow, in a backhanded way, on my side.
They have managed to surprise me after all. I never expected to be gifted allies like this, perilous allies though they may be.
"Exactly," I nod, "And if anyone knows anything about sucking hard, it's you, Rupert."
Whatever his response would have been to that, it's cut off, as suddenly, Angus leaps to his feet. A small crowd of men are approaching our table, and clearly Angus intends to do the honours. . .
Yes. Angus is on my side too.
For whatever strange reasons of his own, and on his own terms, but still. . .
He gestures at each man as they approach and sit down, "Gilbert Mackenzie, Leonard Mackenzie, Tory MacTavish, Gerald Campbell-"
He isn't halfway through before I'm extremely thankful I have an almost freakish memory for names and faces. . .
"-Arnold Fitzgibbons, Harold Mackenzie, Alain Mackenzie, Edan Campbell, and Peter Harris." He gestures at me, "May I present Mrs. Claire Beauchamp, our new Farm Manager." Angus sits down, grinning, clearly quite pleased with himself.
I nod, and let my sweeping glance take in the entire table.
"Gentlemen," I say, formally.
Then, I turn my attention back to my supper, wondering how long it will take befor-
"Och, I was wondering hoor ye were," says Harold.
Ah. Not long at all.
"Nae Har," says Gerald, "Shee's nae hoor - her hands are tae small, look-"
I hold back a sigh. The opening move of this type of duel is always the same.
I'm very glad Jamie isn't here right now. Even my calm, self-possessed Frank once punched a man who was 'flirting' with me like this - I can't imagine what two-plus meters of emotional, bull-headed Scot would do.
Or rather, I can. And it isn't pretty.
And then, my most effective opening move has always been passive aggression. I'm surprised how glad I am that Jamie doesn't have to see me in this situation, either. . .
This is down-and-dirty rounders, and nothing about it is pretty.
The ugly, suggestive comments have their full momentum now, but I notice that Angus and Rupert, though they are laughing as much as any of them, haven't volunteered any remarks of their own. Tory hasn't either. Alain and Arnold have, but only half-heartedly.
I make a mental note of that, but outwardly all I do is thoroughly ignore every comment directed at me for at least five minutes. By that time, a great deal of the initial nastiness has burned itself out, most of them learning that I cannot be stung into a reaction by mere lewd commentary. And sitting here, behind the twin shields of Angus and Rupert, there was almost no attempt to shift into lewd physicality either.
Thank you, my strange, strange guard squad. I appreciate it.
"Well," I say into the awkward, slightly helpless lull that usually follows the opening word-dump, "Now you've taken the low road, and you're all in Scotland before me. Congratulations."
I take a sip of water, and wait to see what the reaction to that will be.
I've seen groups turn on me completely at this point.
Ideally, they'll either change the subject, or ignore me entirely.
"Did ye bring a bottle, Gil?" says Peter.
"Aye. Two." He takes two bottles of whisky out from the bag beside him, and slides them to the center of the table, "Wha' did th'rest of ye bring?"
Change the subject, ignore me entirely, or both.
I breathe a tiny sigh of relief. This type of duel is always the most dangerous during the opening volleys. Now, I can breathe a bit before deliberately re-engaging. This time on my terms.
It is only a few seconds before a half dozen more whisky bottles have joined Gil's two at the center of the table. Tory goes over to the bar, and brings back an entire tray of empty glasses. Edan picks up the bottle Leonard contributed, and sneers at the label.
"The bloody shite did'ye bring Irish whiskey fer, Leo? Taenight? Of all nights?"
Leo shrugs, nonplussed, "Aye. Wha's wrong wi' it, then?"
"Ye bring flavourless crap like that tae the table an' ye'er askin' wha's wrong wi' it?" He pushes the bottle away from him in disgust.
Ah, good. An ideal opening for me.
I snort.
"Och, aye? Wha'sae funny, Sassenach?" says Edan, rounding on me, liked I hoped he would.
"Oh, nothing," I gesture casually, "It's just that. . . well, if you must drink crap, wouldn't flavourless be the way to go? I mean, the alternative is. . . flavourful. . ."
Most everyone at the table halts for a second. Then, Leo chuckles, and a great deal of the underlying tension relaxes into a much more open feeling.
Not friendly antagonism, not yet. But perhaps cheerful antagonism.
We all manage to focus on our supper for about ten uninterrupted minutes.
I'm just trying to figure out what is in the cream dressing on the carrot salad, never having tasted anything like it before, when a loud disagreement breaks out around the table - Gil, Peter and Edan arguing that we ought to drink the best whiskys first, and Leo, Gerald and Alain arguing that we ought to start with the lesser ones, and get them out of the way.
I do nothing to conceal my outright laughter at such a dispute.
"Ahgch!" grunts Gerald, "Ye'ev made th'Sassenach laugh at us, Gil!" He turns to me, "Sae what's yer opinion, then? Where would ye start wi' this lot?" He gestures at the bottles, his facial expression saying he expects my opinion to be the worst of its kind.
I just smile. "Oh, start with the good stuff, by all means," I take up the bottle nearest me, twist off the cap and give it a sniff, "That way if you pass out later on, you'll only forget the cheap whisky."
"Ha! I like this one!" Gil elbows Angus hard, "I'll play ye for her!"
"You'll do no such thing!" I say, grabbing a glass from the tray and pouring myself a dram, "You'll play me for me. And I give you fair warning now - I cheat."
Angus grunts, pushing an empty glass towards me, "Aye, that she does, shamelessly and constantly."
I put my nose in the air, "And also better than everyone else, so stick that in your pipe and smoke it, baby." I pour Angus a portion from the bottle I've opened.
"Heh. I'd let ye smoke mah pipe any day, lassie," says Gil, smirking.
I take a sip, draw my sword, and wade into battle.
"Oh, my wee lad, I'd burn it right off. . ."
"An' what if I was inta that?"
I shrug, "I wouldn't be surprised. Most men need a good castration before they're tolerable anyway."
"Ooophf! Cheetin' indeed!" he clutches his shirt around the left side of his chest, "Ye doo fight hard an' dirty!"
"Pff!" I scoff, "What do you want me to say? I like to win. Get over it."
"Och, I want tae be over it, all right. . ."
"Uh-huh. And do you really think you could ever make me win?"
Gil opens his mouth to reply, then registers a double take. Angus splutters into his drink.
Leo shakes his head, "Tha' wasnae castration, lassie, tha' was execution."
"So what? He has another head. What's the problem?"
Half the table blinks, and chuckles uncomfortably.
"I towld ye!" Angus says, laughing freely, "Shameless!"
I snort a laugh, "No, that's what's called followthrough. And it's a talent most men need to learn, let me tell you."
Gerald grunts, "Whoe'er gave ye such an opinion o' men, lassie?"
So, we're all at 'lassie', are we? That's progress, at least.
"Why, no one! I'm perfectly capable of forming my own opinions." I finish the dram I poured for myself, and with a gesture ask Rupert for a refill from the bottle he just opened.
"Aye, an' we all ken ye'ev been 'formin' an opinion' of oor wee Jamie, heven't ye?" he says, mischievously.
Perilous allies, my bodyguards. But it's alright, I'm prepared for that one.
"Well, rumour also has it that I'm a lioness, and a Dryad, and that you, Rupert, are a rose. I have no doubt Geillis Duncan has put it about that I've been seen in the same general vicinity as the tallest and most red-headed of Castle Leoch's resident MacTavishes, if that's what you mean."
"An' eef ye have," says Tory, "It's nae wonder th'rest of us mere mortals pale in comparison. There's few can match our wee Jamie." He grins at me, "I'm gay, ye ken."
I grin back. "My condolences."
I hope my smile covers my start. In my time, the word 'gay' is a horrible slur. But Tory says it so casually, it's clear it is no such thing here. I wonder what the word means in 2078. I doubt it's anywhere near the same thing as what it means in 2279. . .
"Thankee," he chuckles, then pours a round for himself, Arnold, and Harold, "Life wi' this lot is a constant trial by fire."
"Really? I'd have thought it'd be more a comedy of errors. . ."
He laughs as he shrugs, "Aye, t'is tha' too, more often than no'."
I look up from our table and scan the room for a minute. I need some mental space. The rapid-fire nature of this sort of encounter is not good for my brain. . .
For a few seconds, the room slows, the murmur of conversation becoming the long, sub-bass groan of a Skycity changing course. . .
Keep it together Beauchamp! Now is not the time for a dissociative episode!
A familiar face some meters away snaps me back to reality.
"Willie!" I call, waving, "Come sit with us!"
There is some scattered snickering around the table.
"Ye said Willie," says Arnold.
I blink. Yes, I did. There must be something about the name, but I have no idea what.
"Astute observation," I say, blandly.
Harold chuckles, "An' now ye said 'ass-toot'."
"Almost revolutionary, isn't it?"
He sneers at me, but then his attention is distracted as Willie himself sits down between Alain and Gerald.
Almost at once, I discover what the name "Willie" is a euphemism for. I sit silently for a few minutes, listening to the lot of them harshly tease the poor lad, getting angrier and angrier the more they jibe him.
It isn't that they're being ugly to one of their own - I rather assumed they would be. It is that, in this time period, what sort of parent would give their child a nickname like that? It's unfathomable to me.
"Agch! Jus' ask the Sassenach, laddie!" says Gil, laughing at Willie, but gesturing at me, "She c'n tell ye a dirk is'no a claymoor!"
The entire table turns to me, as does Willie himself. He's not particularly upset, but there is a stung look in his eyes that I despise these men for putting there.
I'll be damned if I add to it. . .
I grab two of the bottles of whisky, and balance my palms on top of their cork and cap, hands flat, showing the almost ten centimeter difference in the height of the bottles.
"Height. . ." I say, very seriously, ". . . is almost completely irrelevant."
Everyone at the table gasps, and Willie's jaw drops.
I shift my hands, deliberately grasping each bottle around the middle.
"Circumference, now. . . that's much more relevant."
I pick up the shorter, wider bottle, yank the cork out with my teeth, take a long swig directly from the bottleneck, and slap it back on the table.
"Get the picture?"
After a blink and a heartbeat, the table erupts in the friendliest laughter I've heard from them yet tonight.
"Fer that, Sassenach," says Gil, hooting magnanimously, "Ye deserve a shot o' th'best." He takes up a bottle no one has opened yet, and pours me a generous dram.
Everyone raises their glasses, and Gil says, "To all cheetin' lasses, who fight hard an' dirty. Slàinte mhath!"
"Shlan gevah!" I respond along with everyone else, and take a sip of the new whisky. This one is much more heavily smoky, spicy and overpowering. I only take a small sip.
There are a few mocking snorts at my mangled salute, and Angus kicks back his drink with a grimace, then hisses at me, "Tha' was terrible, lassie."
I harrumph, and deliberately deepen my Central accent, "Shows wot you know! I have it on very good authority that my Gaelic accent is hilarious."
I carefully watch the faces around me as I say this, and can read pretty much exactly the thought process they all go though - What? The Sassenach is going to brag about this? Oh, 'good authority', eh? Well, we all know who told her that. Poor wee Jamie. . . oh! Oh, hilarious is it? Well, we can all get behind that! Maybe Jamie isn't so poor after all, lucky bastard. . .
The laugh that follows is entirely genuine, not mocking at all.
Finally, we're all on the same level. Time to reinforce that. C'mon Rupert, don't fail me now. . .
"I mean, if you're going to suck. . ." I prompt.
Rupert raises his glass again, and crashes it into Leo's, yelling, "AT LEAST SUCK HARD!"
Everyone guffaws, and takes up the salute, as if each one of them had thought of it themselves.
I smile, almost fondly.
There we go. Thanks Rupert. . .
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jamie leave the bar enclosure, carrying a tray of full glasses over his shoulder.
I only catch glimpses of him as he walks down the line of buffet tables, his lower half periodically obscured by the expanse of people and tables between us. But he's definitely wearing a kilt.
I am completely unprepared for the effect this has on me. My stomach swoops, fluttering, my heart speeds up, and my cheeks warm in a way that has nothing to do with whisky.
All the time I was talking to him at the bar, he was hiding that behind it?
The man can do absurdly alluring things with just a pair of jeans and flannel shirt.
He's astonishingly beautiful in a dress shirt and tie.
He could take over the world in a kilt.
As he reaches the drinks tables, I notice it's not an ordinary kilt either. It's also got this hip-cape thing going on that is doing more unfair things to my insides.
If I thought he was stunning in a formal shirt and jacket, adding this just puts him right over the top. I can't take my eyes off him, from his fiery-red hair, to his deep, broad chest, to his slinky, tartan-framed hips, to his sexy knees - how can anyone have sexy knees, isn't that a contradiction in terms? - to his rugged, high-top boots.
He's almost back to the bar when my brain catches up with me.
Stop staring, Beauchamp! The man may be your boyfriend. . . and insanely pretty. . . but that's no excuse to be rude!
"Hmm." I swirl the whisky in my glass, mind racing almost as fast as my heart, "This one needs some soda water, I'll be right back."
"Aye, shee jus' got a wee keek at Jamie in 'is plaid, an' has tae goo settle 'er stummik!" roars Rupert.
I roll my eyes, "You're not wrong, Rupe - you're just an asshole."
"The Dude Abides!" he raises his glass to me, grinning.
I barely hear him.
I spend the entirety of the few meters back to the bar trying to calm my breathing. . .
Jamie comes right over to me as soon as I sit down.
"Can I help ye, Mrs. Beauchamp?" he asks, smirking.
"I don't know, Jamie, but I do know you can help this poor fellow. . ." I hold up my glass.
He takes it, sniffs, and rears back in surprise, "Wha' doo they have ye drinkin' ower there? Tha's no' sippin' whisky."
"I don't mind it, it just needs some water. And I wouldn't exactly say they're 'sipping' it, either. But. . . I, uhm. . ." I lean forward and whisper, "I thought you didn't wear your kilt. . . in public?" I squeak a little bit on the last word. It sounds as though I'm implying he only wears it in private. . .
Stop it Beauchamp! You aren't in any shape to be going there right now!
His smirk broadens to a grin as he sidles up to me, "Weel, it's the MacKenzie tartan, soo, it's no' exactly mine - it's a belted-plaid, so it's no' exactly a modern kilt - an' this is a private concert, so. . . it's no' exactly public." After a glance behind me to make certain no one is watching, he leans down close, and whispers into my ear, "An' I didnae think ye'ed object."
"Oh, I'm not. . . not that, no. . . no, not objecting. . ."
No, I'm shamelessly babbling.
The things this man can do to me, without even trying. I'd be embarrassed, but it feels far too good to be ashamed of it.
"Sae how'er things goin'?" he asks, adding water in tiny spoonfuls, swirling and sniffing after each addition.
"We're at the most delicate stage right now. They've accepted that I'm their equal - most of them have, anyway. But they still don't like me much. We aren't on the same side yet. . ."
I quickly run through most of what has been said.
"Ye'er only encouragin' them, wi' comments like that. . ." he snorts, handing me the glass to taste.
"Well, good. My goal isn't to shut them down - it's to open them up."
I sip, shake my head, and hold it out for some more water.
He adds just a few drops this time, and motions for me to taste it again.
"I have to engage with them on their level, but on my own terms. A fight, Jamie, but with no blood. You see?"
I swirl it around, and take a sip, and this time it's perfect. All the notes softened and refined, with the rich spiciness easing itself into the heady scent of smoke, neither one overpowering the other.
"I see that my half hour is up. I'm goin' tae join ye." He whips off his apron, and goes to wash his hands.
"Is that. . . wise?"
He shrugs, "Dinnae ken. But I'll go crazy if I stand heer any longer, doin' nothin' while ye'er ower thear going though this alone. Besides, I'm starvin'."
"You. . . you won't. . . I mean. . ."
I can't have him derail things now, it would waste all of tonight's efforts.
"Trust me, Claire. Please?" He looks at me imploringly, eyes wide and clear, expression soft and pleading. . .
Dammit, I can't resist him.
"Alright."
He grins, and turns to take a bottle off the highest shelf behind him. I catch a glimpse of the label - Lallybroch 14 Year. He proudly escorts me back to the table, nudging Angus to move over, and briefly sits down next to me.
"Mrs. Beauchamp here says ye'er drinkin' nowt but shite, sae I brawt ye sumthin' bettar," he says, putting the bottle down as he slowly stands up, "Bu' thear had bettar be moor than a nip left when I gi' back, sae help me, oor I'll skelp th'lot of ye. . ."
There is a good bit of chuckling as he goes over to the buffet, but no one makes a motion towards the bottle when he's gone.
A mischievous notion sprouts in my brain, and I act on it at once.
Miming to everyone who notices to be quiet, I take the bottle, and place it carefully on the floor, holding it steady between my shoes. There are many conspiratorial smiles exchanged between me and most of the rest of the table, which is what I hoped for.
It's too much to hope that after tonight they'll think of me as one of them. But maybe, just maybe, we'll reach non-aggression. A bright, secretive glance between me and Gil confirms that this was absolutely the right move to make.
Suddenly, it dawns on me why.
They all respect Jamie. And more than that - they love him. Chances to tease him like this, without fear of any repercussions, must come along terribly rarely. They have to trust me with this, and so far, they all are.
After tonight, I think, I'll have no objections whatever to being 'Jamie's Girl'.
He comes back a minute later, plate heaped with pizza, potatoes, meat, and several things I don't recognize. He sits, and begins to eat with such boyish gusto, it takes him almost a minute to realize his bottle is gone.
He rounds on Angus, "Alrigh', what hev ye dun wi' it, ya wee gomeral?"
"I?" says Angus, all too clearly trying not to laugh, "I didnae. . ."
"Dinnae lie tae me, ye ken I c'n allus tell. . ."
Valiantly holding back laughter, I bring the bottle up, twist off the cap, and pour Rupert a drink.
Jamie turns at the sound, and all the righteous indignation he was directing at Angus now re-focuses on me.
"Ahgch! I might'a knoon!" he grabs the bottle from my hand, "Treachery, thy name is-"
"And, is there more then a nip left?" I interrupt, saucily.
"Aye," he eyes me darkly, but with a glimmer that lets me know he's teasing.
I wave him off, "Then you're welcome."
Finally, the table relaxes into warm, wonderful laughter.
After a moment, Jamie gives me a smirk, and a long look, and then goes back to his meal.
There is a few minutes pause. I finish my supper and sit back, stomach content. Then, as Harold reaches for a bottle, he half-smiles at me, "Sae I herd ye'er a farmar, Mrs. Beauchamp. Is tha' soo?"
Huh. It is actually quite surprising how little I've been asked to talk shop about being Farm Manager. Perhaps because this is a party, and they just want to forget work?
I shrug mentally. Deal with the question, Beauchamp, and don't quibble!
"Botanist, actually."
"Mm. I suppose tha' means ye like appels?"
Shit.
I've heard this one before - many, many times - but usually near the beginning, when I can just deflect it. At this stage of things, doing that would be less than useless. I have to engage with comments now. But, playing this particular comment out means I need a middleman, someone to set up my response. . .
I wait what is probably a heartbeat too long, giving Rupert or Angus every chance, praying that they'll give me what I need. . .
"Did ye ken that the word 'apple' use'tae mean any kinda fruit?" says Jamie.
"Oh really?" I say, trying desperately not to let my relief show.
"Aye. From almonds tae oranges, 'tis appels all th'way doon. Makes translatin' some o' the really ancient stories a right fruit salad."
"Oh." I look Harold directly in the face, "Well. How do you like them apples?"
I see a bit of conflict in Harold's eyes for a minute, but then he smiles, raises his glass to me, and nods.
It's either a concession or a truce, but I'll take either one. I raise my glass to him, and return his smile.
Jamie looks up from his plate for a second, giving me a sidelong glance, and a tiny smirk.
I close my eyes for a moment, and let the noise of the room wash over me.
Even Frank and I needed practice to become as good of a team as we were. What Jamie just did. . . I never knew it was possible. It wasn't just support, it was instinctive support. From a man. Against his friends. After having known me less than a fortnight, and this being the first time we've faced this sort of situation together.
He didn't read my mind, but, he may as well have. And here I originally thought he was neither wily nor subtle! We do indeed live and learn when it comes to our fellow men!
I've liked Jamie from the start. I've been attracted to him from the start. I've grown to respect and care for him. But this is the first time he has thoroughly impressed me. For the first time, I'm proud of him. Not because he helped me, but because he has now made it clear he knows how to walk the knife-edge between two sheer cliffs, with a toss of the head and an airy smile, as though it isn't an ordeal or a struggle. He knows how to deduce, infer, take chances, jump at opportunities, and how and when to throw a spanner in the works.
He knows how to play this game that is no game.
Agonizingly slowly, I am realizing that Colum and Dougal aren't my only options when it comes to formidable allies in this world.
If only Jamie was a Laird, and wasn't on the run. . .
"Soo," he asks the table, "Have ye finished choosin' teams fer the shinty match taemorrow yet?"
Leonard and Alain lean forward and start telling him all manner of things about a sporting event they apparently have planned.
Oh, this is too perfect. My best finishing move, and Jamie just set me up for it. There's no way he knew - but the coincidence is extremely welcome.
"Shinty?" I say, wonderingly, "I've never heard of that sport. Would you explain it to me?"
In my experience, there is nothing more endearing to a man than a woman being truly curious about a pastime he loves. I don't have to fake being interested, either - I really do want to know what this shinty thing is.
I smile as the entire table enthusiastically throws itself into ensuring that I know every last detail about the game before the night is over.
From chess, to skysurfing, to paintball, this move works every time. . .
Somewhere in the middle of a very loud discussion of the origin and proper use of the caman - which is a stick, I think - I lean over and murmur, so only Jamie can hear.
"Game, set, and match, my lad."
He meets my eyes, and smiles knowingly.
The electric candles above us suddenly dim, a spotlight shines on the dais, and a man leaps up from the crowd, speaking into a palm-mic -
"Ladies an' gentlemen, if ye would all put yer hands together, for The Cuckoos In The Grove!"
If Jamie says anything in reply to me, it's lost in the applause.
Chapter 32: Sing Me A Song
Notes:
Gwyllyn's harp guitar is a real instrument, check it out - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vlzk9989dzg
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There is quite a stir in the Great Hall, even after the applause dies down. The clinking of glasses and the low murmur of conversations continue, though both are more subdued. Half the audience must turn around if they want to sit comfortably while watching the stage, and the rustle and shuffle of clothes and shoes sound almost loud now that people are only speaking in whispers.
Slowly, three men climb the shallow steps, and enter the spotlight.
The one in front is a tall, handsome man with long brown hair and a kindly expression. He's dressed in a flowing tunic of raw linen, unlaced halfway down his chest, and tucked into his matte black leather trousers. He holds an instrument the like of which I've never seen before - a stringed, hollow thing, made of pale gold wood, with two mismatched necks. It looks almost as if a guitar and a harp were somehow merged.
The two men behind him are in full Highland regalia - kilts, boots and caps all showing a maroon and gold tartan, elegant and striking. One of them holds a gleaming violin, and the other a small silver flute.
The whispering intensifies as the lead man - who I assume is Gwyllyn Pritchard - silently looks out and around. His gaze touches all of us, somehow bringing every person in the room under his personal care and protection. Suddenly, I remember something I've wondered about for days. I lean over and whisper to Jamie,
"I keep forgetting to ask - why are they called The Cuckoos In The Grove?"
"Because tha's the name of the first Scottish folk song Gwyllyn learned tae play," he murmurs back, "Now he always opens his first set with a version of the Sk-"
"Sing me a song, of a lad that is gone. . ."
Gwyllyn's deep, rich voice vibrates in a cappella perfection, bringing all the whispers in the room to an abrupt halt.
"Say, could that lad, be I? . . ."
As the notes swing into the lower registers, my breath catches in my throat.
"Merry of soul, he sailed on a day. . ."
There is something about this music. . . something familiar. . .
"Over the sea. . .
To Skye. . ."
My jaw drops. What on earth?
"Mull was astern. . ."
The violinist begins to play, dipping into the melody with one full, piercing note. . .
"Rùm on the port. . ."
It cuts across Gwyllyn's exquisite vibrato, and draws out my soul. . .
"Eigg on the starboard bow. . ."
The rest of the room falls away, and I dive into the music, body, blood, and spirit.
"Glory of youth, glowed in his soul,
Where is that glory now?"
I close my eyes, entranced, mystified, and completely, utterly lost. . .
"Sing me a song, of a lad that is gone,
Say, could that lad, be I?
Merry of soul, he sailed on a day,
Over the sea, to Skye."
The flute pipes up behind both words and violin, a thin, sweet thread of silver that sparkles as it twists and weaves through the music, binding it, making it whole. . .
"Give me again all that was there,
Give me the sun that shone!
Give me the eyes, give me the soul,
Give me the lad that's gone!"
Tears start up in my eyes. I blink quickly, trying to will them away.
It's me.
It's my story.
Somehow, somehow, Gwyllyn has learned my story, and has turned it into a thing of enchanting, glorious magic. . .
"Sing me a song, of a lad that is gone,
Say, could that lad, be I?"
I've never felt such power in music. . . except for that fateful dawn on Craigh na Dun a fortnight ago. My hands curl into fists, and my feet twitch. I want to bolt, to hide. To run. . .
But then the drums begin.
"Merry of soul, he sailed on a day,
Over the sea, to Skye."
Two spotlights illuminate two new members of the band, one on either side of the room, marching as they drum, moving towards the dais. . .
"Billow and breeze, islands and seas,
Mountains of rain and sun,
All that was good, all that was fair,
All that was me is gone."
I can hardly breathe. . .
How?
How?
And then the bagpipes begin.
Two more spotlighted band members are now marching down the corner staircases that lead down from the balcony, their measured steps directed towards the stage, but they are mere colourful blurs to me, my eyes are so clouded with tears.
How does he know?
Can he know?
Does it matter if he can or not?
At last, his fingers strike the strings of his harp, and rolling, sweet music, impossibly clear, calls forth all the power of earth and sun and stone. . .
If Fate has a sound, it is this.
"Sing me a song, of a lad that is gone,
Say, could that lad, be I?
Merry of soul, he sailed on a day,
Over the sea. . . to Skye!"
The last word crashes like a cannon firing, and the drums and pipes rise to fill the void left behind, the violin and flute keening behind them, the harp lending them power, as though the five instruments together might rend a gap in the very cloth of the universe.
Or like they already have. . .
My heart is beating so fast, I fear it may burst from my body.
All seven members of the band are now standing side by side on the stage, playing the last triumphant notes, utterly unaware of the lone time traveler in their midst, who is currently trying rather desperately to compose herself. . .
There's no way he knows. . .
It's just a song.
Just music.
Right?
While everyone else applauds, I take up my napkin, and dab at my eyes, hoping the low light will conceal any traces of my indiscretion. I take a long sip of whisky, trying to steady myself.
"Ye all right, Claire?" says Jamie, laying a gentle hand on my shoulder, "Ye'ev gone pale. Ye havenae seen a ghost?"
I force a smile, and murmur, "No. But. . . I think, there for a minute. . . I. . . " I swallow, ". . . I might have become one." I turn, and meet his concerned eyes that are now also slightly confused.
Angus leans over Jamie's shoulder and gives me a dubious look, "Ach, ye'er a strange one, Sassenach."
Oh, Angus. Thank you. Mystical, magical feelings haven't the slightest chance with you around. . .
I roll my eyes, "Yes, Angus, I'm strange. That's why you love me."
He purses his lips for a moment, then nods, "Aye. 'Tis true."
I meet Jamie's eyes again, briefly, and we both laugh a little.
"'N thank yoo all far the very warm welcome back!" says Gwyllyn, smiling into the tiny microphone that somehow appeared in front of him at some point, "We alwhys feel at home heer at Leoch." He and the rest of the band bow, formally, to someone off to their left.
It is then that I notice Colum and Letitia, and the rest of their close household, sitting in a little group of the more comfortable chairs of the under-balcony. It's the first time I've been in the same room with Colum when his entrance wasn't announced. I didn't even notice when they arrived. Given all I've been dealing with tonight, I'd nearly forgotten he would be here.
And by 'he', I do not mean Colum. . .
"Thess uz home far so many of yoo heer tanight," continues Gwyllyn, re-focusing on the main audience of us, "Soo I'd like ta throw open the dance flor - " There is a good deal of groaning at this, "Ah, yes, I knoo a lot of yoo're still eating, but I encorage at least some of yoo ta bee up heer far thess next song. . ." He smiles, and leans in close to his mic, "'Scotland The Brave'."
There are cheers, and a great deal of scattered applause as a goodly number of couples rise to go over to the dance floor.
The only pair I notice particularly are Dougal, who bows extremely formally, and offers his hand to Letitia. She prims up her mouth, and looks demurely downward as she takes his hand, but she also blushes, as delicately and as beautifully as a schoolgirl.
I hold back a snort. I had been very careful how I responded when Dougal told me that, despite everything, the relationship between him and his brother's wife was a strictly honourable one. It looks as if I was right to be skeptical.
'Only trying to give Colum a child' my pale, Skycity-born arse!
Perhaps that's where it started, but there is a great deal more than that going on now.
I sigh a bit. Sometimes I wish I couldn't read people so well.
They take their places in the middle of the dance floor, all the other couples ranging themselves around them.
I shake my head, trying to clear it, and that is when I notice the long black construct now hanging about three meters above the dais. Microphones are dangling from it by almost invisible threads, tiny spotlights are mounted on it, and unless I'm mistaken, there are speakers embedded in it as well.
Intersections of old and new. Ancient and modern. History and technology.
Legends and science. . .
The bagpipes start up in a long keening tune I recognize instantly. More than one Township from several Skycities have used this exact music as their theme during the Worldwide Inter-City Games. It's clear why - it automatically makes you want to move. Perfect for sporting events.
Also, apparently, perfect for dancing.
And then, Gwyllyn begins to sing.
Huh. I never knew this song had words. . .
"Hark when the night is falling
Hear! Hear the pipes are calling,
Loudly and proudly calling,
Down thro' the glen!"
I smile. There is something impossibly charming about Gwyllyn's voice. I understand now why Colum is so proud of him.
"Ye dinnae meentae dance then, Mrs. Beauchamp?" asks Harold, as most of the table stands up.
"Not these first few dances, no," I raise my whisky glass, indicating I intend to savour it, "Perhaps in a while."
"Aye," he nods, claps Leo on the shoulder, and they both disappear into the milling crowd that has now gathered around the dance floor.
In seconds, Willie, Gilbert, Jamie, and myself are the only ones left sitting at our table. Jamie is still eating heartily, and Gil and Willie are having a companionable dram, talking about tomorrow's planned shinty match, and who is likely to win it. I hunch over my whisky, taking occasional sips, but most of my mind is still somewhere far away, wrapped up in strange, haunting words, sung in Gwyllyn's voice. . .
"Towering in gallant fame,
Scotland my mountain hame,
High may your proud standards gloriously wave!"
Jamie finishes his supper with a satisfied sigh, then sits back and pours himself a comfortable portion of the Lallybroch whisky. I raise my glass to him, and he cheerfully clinks his glass to mine.
"Jamie?" I ask, thoughtfully,"What was that first song? He didn't announce the title."
"The Skye Boat Song?" he shrugs, "Aye, Gwyllyn allus sings it first thing. Reckon he's worn out the title by now."
The. . . sky. . . . boat. . .
Or sky city?
I shudder a tiny bit. Everything about that song was far too apt for me to be comfortable thinking of it yet. "Always the same song?"
"Weel, there's several versions of the lyrics. He always sings one or the other of 'em. I havenae heard them do exactly that arrangement before. But the music is always 'The Cuckoo In The Grove', regardless."
"I see." I look up at the people gathered around the dance floor, clapping loudly and joyously as the dancers go through their moves.
Dancers. . . moving to energizing, powerful music.
Just like the Druids on Craigh na Dun. . .
"Land of my high endeavour,
Land of the shining rivers,
Land of my heart for ever,
Scotland the brave."
"Is there somethin' wrong, mo nighean?" he asks, softly brushing the back of my hand with his knuckles.
"No. No, not really."
Not wrong, just unspeakably strange, my lad. . .
Whatever is happening in my mind feels dangerously close to dissociation. But, I'm in public. I can't fall apart, not now. I take a deep breath, marshaling all my strength, all my sanity, determined to get through the night.
"Just. . . keep me near you, please?"
Jamie nods, shifts in his seat a little, and looks very much like he wants to say something, but he doesn't, not for a very long minute.
"Land of my heart for ever. . .
Scotland, the brave!"
He claps politely as the song ends, then gestures towards the dance floor, and offers me his arm.
"Shall we go watch them, then?"
"You. . . don't want to dance either?"
"Oh aye, I will. But a slow one first, an' only after a proper drink!" He drains his glass, and pours himself another.
I laugh a little, glancing over at the mildly raucous melee surrounding the dance floor, as the residents of Leoch good-naturedly chaff and shove each other while they sort out who will dance with who next, "Will they let us sit idly by?"
He points at my still reasonably-supplied glass, and hefts his own, "We can probably get out of it for another dance oor two, aye."
"Right then, my lad."
I take his arm, and let him lead me across the room. I have to admit - it is highly comforting to be tucked this close to him.
A small, distant voice inside my mind is screaming at me, trying to get me to admit the next thing too - that I wouldn't complain overmuch if he were by my side like this for always, not just tonight.
No, don't go there right now, Beauchamp. Focus. Let his calm ground you. Just sit next to him, enjoy the music, and let everything else go by. . .
The band members shift their places. The man holding the small silver flute comes to the front to lead the next song.
Jamie finds us a spot at a table near a corner of the dance floor where we can sit and still see reasonably well. The next dance is a dizzyingly brisk thing, almost too fast for me to follow, all feet and skirts and kilts and tartan whirling and blending together with the music. I find it exciting, but the music is so headlong, so wild and alive that my brain has serious trouble keeping up with my senses.
Thankfully, it is relatively brief. So are the next three.
By then, though, Jamie has finished his drink, and I am nearing the end of mine.
"Slooing ut down a bit now," says Gwyllyn, taking the front position again, "with 'Wild Mountain Thyme'."
Jamie smiles, and holds out his hand, "This is one of my favourites, mo Sorcha. Will ye?"
I quickly finish my drink, and take his hand, "Of course. But go easy on me. It's been quite a while. . ."
I haven't gone dancing since Frank and I were dating. Before the war. Before. . . well, everything.
"S'alright, mo nighean," Jamie grins, lightly squeezing my fingers, "I ken how tae lead."
We find a place near one edge of the dance floor, not too far from our new seats. One of his hands settles on my lower back, and the other gently grips my hand, flexing his wrist a little in each direction to show me his lead-tells. Then the music begins, and with a deep breath, we're off.
"O the summer time has come,
And the trees are sweetly bloomin'.
And the wild mountain thyme,
Grows around the bloomin' heather -
Will ye go,
Lassie,
Go?"
Jamie's eyes meet mine as we navigate the dance floor - slowly, but not too badly, if I do say so myself - and he smiles at me, so sweetly I hardly know what to make of him. . .
"Nae mattar how long it's been for ye, ye'er doin' grand, mo nighean."
I feel a blush come up on my face and neck - why I have no idea - and I can't help but smile back, "It's not the dancing, it's the partner, I assure you."
His smile widens. "Aye. 'Tis."
"And we'll all go together,
To pull wild mountain thyme,
All around the bloomin' heather -
Will ye go,
Lassie,
Go?"
"They'll be layin' out the dessert trays soon, mo chridhe."
I look up from simultaneously counting my steps and trying to follow his tells, "Oh, will they?"
"Aye. An' Colum always has a box of those fancy French kind of chocolates sent tae his table. Filled wi' hazelnuts an' things, ye ken. Would ye like it if I went and asked for some from him?" His eyes are sparkling, but still, his voice has hardened a bit.
"You haven't let go of that yet, have you? That you're the first one to send me chocolates?"
"Et's only that I cannae believe it, y'see. . ."
"I will build my love a bower,
By yon cool crystal fountain.
And round it I will pile,
All the wild flowers o' the mountain.
Will ye go,
Lassie,
Go?"
"Would you like to know the first thing Frank ever bought me? The only thing I've lost recently that I actually miss, and am sorry can't be replaced?"
"Aye. I would. Verrah much."
He steers us to a more open space on the dance floor.
"And we'll all go together,
To pull wild mountain thyme,
All around the bloomin' heather -
Will ye go,
Lassie,
Go?"
"It was a little knotted bracelet of plain black cords."
"Just that?"
"Yes. Just that. Well, I called it a bracelet, but it went around my wrist twice - I used it as a necklace sometimes, and often tied up my hair with it. It barely cost anything for Frank to buy, and I loved it. It was useful, beautiful, sturdy. . . and a thoughtful gift, which was the best thing of all about it."
"I will range through the wilds,
And the deep glen sae dreary,
And return wi' their spoils,
Tae the bower o' my dearie.
Will ye go,
Lassie,
Go?"
"Sae what ye'er sayin' is. . ."
"I'm saying - the truffles are lovely, delicious, and special. Perfect, really. But they aren't required. I've never required such tributes, Jamie, not from anyone." I lean in closer, so he's sure to be the only one to hear, "Much as I appreciate them from you, don't get me wrong - but it's the thoughtfulness of them that counts." I meet his eyes, briefly, "I'll remember your note long after the chocolates have been forgotten."
He gives me a long look, and a beautiful half-smile that makes me wish we weren't in public.
By all the gods that may or may not exist, I want to kiss him. . .
"And we'll all go together,
To pull wild mountain thyme,
All around the bloomin' heather -
Will ye go,
Lassie,
Go?"
He pulls me into a slightly more complicated set of steps. Despite the fact that it's been almost ten years since I was last on any kind of dance floor, I've fallen into a rhythm with Jamie, with an ease that shocks me. Sometime in the last few minutes, following his lead has become almost second nature. . .
"Oh my true love she has come,
An' I shall never have another,
Who'll pull wild mountain thyme,
All around the bloomin' heather.
Will ye go,
Lassie,
Go?"
"Everyune far the last chourous!" calls Gwyllyn, and the nearly the whole room joins in,
"And we'll all go together!
To pull wild mountain thyme,
All around the bloomin' heather -
Will ye go?
Lassie,
Go?"
As the song ends, Jamie embraces me tighter for a second, before dropping his hands and lightly applauding Gwyllyn and his men. I do so as well, then take his arm as we make our way back to our nearby seats.
The man with the silver flute comes forward again. A long line of couples begin to take their places for another set of fast, complicated dances.
I glance over at the Laird's group, and see that Dougal has left his place by Colum's side. I quickly scan the room, looking for my main opponent. I must keep track of him, more than any other person here tonight. . .
I find him a few tables away, asking one of the women sitting there to dance with him. I recognize her - she's Lily Bara, head shepherd. She nods, smiles, and takes Dougal's hand. The Cuckoos very pointedly do not begin the next song until he and she have taken their place at the head of the dancers.
I turn away, unable to watch this time. My mind is more crowded than the dance floor, more packed with whirling, twisting thoughts, and emotions that leap and twirl like living things. So much is happening, it ought to be overwhelming. I know the only reason it isn't is the fact that I'm currently so very, very happy. . .
I clutch onto Jamie's arm, letting his presence continue to ground me. I scoot just a little closer too, letting his warmth soothe away my tensions. Or, at least as many of them as it can, given our current situation. Although, for some reason, I feel sure this man is worth the effort it is taking to be out in public like this. . .
"Weel, laddie?" a familiar voice grumbles behind us, "Are ye evar goin' tae introduce me tae the lassie oor are ye goin' tae have me standin' heer like a dunderheid fer th'rest o' the night?"
"Murtagh!" says Jamie, rising and embracing his godfather, "Are ye and Claire no' introduced then? I thowt ye were. . ."
"Weel, no' officially. Nae'un's towld her my last name, ye ken. . ."
What? Yes they have. Well. . . I've heard it, at least. Haven't I? He's a Fraser, just like Jamie. I must have heard that somewhere, but. . . where? And when? I scramble to remember. Yes, I've definitely heard it. Only the once, true, back at that garage with the Rover, and then I was half asleep and in a different room, but still. . .
A highly significant look passes between the two men.
"Ah. I see," says Jamie. He bows and gestures formally, "Murtagh Fitzgibbons, may I present Mrs. Claire Beauchamp?"
Ah, indeed. Now, I also see. Murtagh is here under an assumed name, just like Jamie is. My Central-trained sense of propriety highly appreciates this superbly clever method of letting me know that without saying it straight-out.
Being literal doesn't mean you must be clumsy, or unsophisticated. We value wits in Central, very much indeed. I put out my hand to him, as coolly as if this is truly our first meeting. "Delighted, sir."
Murtagh takes my outstretched hand, and bows over it, formally. "A pleasure, Mistress Beauchamp."
I smile, slightly bemused. I'm entirely certain Murtagh is the only man here - no, the only man in the world - who could ever, in any context, get away with calling me 'mistress'.
I nod at him, "We've spoken a few times before, Mr. Fitzgibbons, but always out of necessity."
A tiny bit of background tension relaxes at my use of his assumed name, "Aye, that's so."
"I understand you're master of the horses here at Leoch?" I gesture at the place across from me, inviting him to sit. Jamie nods at us both, then makes his way casually over to the buffet tables, stopping to have several pleasant chats with people along the way. Murtagh's sudden appearance forced me to let go of him, but I'm glad of that, now. Let Jamie have fun with his friends. I am not the only person in his world - a fact for which I am extremely grateful.
"Aye," says Murtagh, "It's work enough, an' good work too, bu' my team is more than equal tae it."
"I'd never dream of thinking otherwise, Mr. Fitzgibbons."
"Meanin'. . ." he pauses, significantly, "I'm no' essential tae the runnin' o' this place. Leoch can do jus' as well wi'out me. Tha' means I can, an' doo, follow my own agenda, ye ken." He glances in Jamie's direction, "Where he goes, I go. Be that ower mountain, oor sea, oor sand, through storm oor drought, inta prison, death, oor Hell itself - where he goes, I go. Ye ken?" He says the words slowly, deliberately, his voice light, but his eyes are narrowed at me, intently watching my reaction.
Murtagh has baffled me a little, ever since he roared down that hillside and wrenched me away from Black Jack's men, but now, suddenly, completely, I understand him. I have his whole measure, in one stunning, blinding flash. How, how did I not see it before? He is almost as much of an anachronism as I am, only in the opposite direction. Behind that thick, black beard, and gruff, blunt voice, sits one of this world's last truly noble knights. A man who loves, hates, laughs, fights and thinks with such pure, instinctive chivalry as would have set him apart, even in ages long past, but it goes to make him utterly unique nowadays.
A rare gem of a man. . .
I suddenly understand Jamie a little better too. With such a prince for a godfather, how could he help but be princely himself?
"Do you know, I think I do 'ken'?" I say, with quiet awe.
Murtagh leans back, and regards me thoughtfully.
"Hmphm. Mebbe ye doo," he peers closely at my face for a minute, "Aye, I c'n see it - ye wear yer understandin' 'round yer eyes, like most lasses." He crosses his arms, "That bein' t'case, I'll doo ye the courtesy of askin' ye - no' warnin' ye, like I planned tae." He sets his jaw, and looks briefly over at Jamie again, "Dinnae break his heart, lassie. Please. He's already had heartache enough foor a man twice his age - dinnae add tae it."
I look down at my hands and smile as much as I can. "I'm not in the habit of breaking hearts, Murtagh."
"I ken ye'er a fine quality lassie - an' nae doot yer first pick will have come from a greater an' better set o' lads than we can present ye heer - what can the Highlands offer ye in tha' way tha' ye'ev no' seen far tae often befoor, after all? But I'm an auld hen wi' jus' one chick, aye?" His nose wrinkles into a lordly sneer, "It scarce mattars tae me that ye'ev all tae lose and he's all tae gain - if ye cannae make him happy, it's all nowt."
"I've had more than my share of tragedies too, you know," I say, quietly, "I assure you, the gains and losses are quite the other way around - for the simple fact that I have nothing left to lose." His brow furrows at me, not quite believing it. "Everything, everything has been taken away from me, Murtagh. Suddenly, violently - and mostly irrevocably. That day you rescued me, I was literally clawing to keep the one and only thing I have left." I look him square in the eyes, "And I'd have lost my life if it weren't for you. So believe me, I'm not looking to inflict any more tragedy - on anyone. And certainly not on a man both of us respect and care deeply about."
He nods minutely, more going on behind his eyes than I can read, even with my new understanding of him.
"I'm glad ye didnae deny there was aught between ye," he says, finally, "I saw how he looked at ye while ye were dancin'. The lad's smitten. Bewitched. If ye cannae feel the same as he does. . . weel. A'least dinnae. . . spurn him. Be easy on his heart. Hurt him as little as ye can. Aye?"
I smile, remembering everything Jamie and I did while walking around the fields, "It may surprise you to learn that he and I have already had a great deal of this conversation, Murtagh."
"Hev ye now?"
"Yes. And we. . . well, we've promised to both honour and never lie to each other."
His eyes widen a bit at that.
"And we've also decided that we're definitely in a relationship - this is our second official date."
"This is?"
I nod, "Yes. This concert. If he hadn't asked me to be here, I wouldn't have come."
He leans forward, "So ye. . . doo feel as he does?"
"No." I sigh, "Not yet. And maybe never. He knows that, and he's accepted it." I roll my empty whisky glass between my palms, "We both know what we're risking. We've decided to move forward anyway."
Murtagh shakes his head, "Fools, the pair of ye."
"Yes."
I manage to pack a great deal of meaning into that one syllable. Murtagh hears it, and understands. Exactly how much he understands is anybody's guess, but the heavy disapproval that has been radiating from him suddenly lessens sharply.
"Weel. There's nae help fer it, I suppo-"
"'N our next song uz 'Sunshine on Leith'," Gwyllyn's announcement and the ensuing applause interrupts whatever Murtagh was going to say.
He doesn't seem annoyed, however, only lifting an eyebrow, and extending a hand to me, "Would ye care tae dance, Mistress Beauchamp?"
"I believe I would, Mr. Fitzgibbons."
He leads me to a place in the middle of the dance floor. I see Dougal a few couples over, this time with a woman I recognize from my first supper here. I don't know her name, but she was seated at the main table, very close to the High Table. She was one of the many who were listening intently while Colum and Dougal interrogated me.
"My heart was broken, my heart was broken,
Sorrow, Sorrow, Sorrow, Sorrow!"
A great deal of the rest of the room sings along with Gwyllyn, and there are several other shouts of city and place names from people who are not singing along. I look at Murtagh, baffled.
"Agh, it's jus' erryun's football clubs, dinnae fash," he says, leading me slowly but surely through a very simple set of steps, "There havenae been this many people livin' at Leoch foor centuries. What wi' the Clan Restoration Act, there's MacKenzies and other relatives heer from all over the whorld, let alone Scotland."
"Oh. I see," I say, trying desperately to remember what 'football' is, "So that's why they all have different taste in sports teams?"
"Aye. Ye can take the football fan out o' his home club, but ye cannae take the home club out o' the football fan, ye ken?"
"My tears are drying, my tears are drying,
Thank you, Thank you, Thank you, Thank you!"
There are a few more shouts of place names, and Murtagh smiles ruefully, "Et's jus' the lot o' them tryin' tae learn tae live taegether."
"I did notice a drastic change in the field history manuals about ten years ago. . ."
"Aye, tha's when the first big influx was. There's been folk livin' heer all along, mind, but not dozens and dozens like this - hundreds, really. Nearly two hundred now the Cuckoos are heer." He nods in Gwyllyn's direction as we swing closer to the stage for a moment, "An' a couple dozen moor day-workers whoo also eat an' sleep heer sometimes. . ."
"It's a lot to organize and deal with."
"Aye, 'tis."
"In that same vein, I have good news."
"Do ye? Praise be!"
He deftly steers us away from Dougal, into a little open space near one corner of the dance floor.
"Yes, I'm almost done walking the plots. One more day out in the fields should do it. The chem tests and biome-mapping will take another couple of days after that, but I should have at least a tentative crop plan by Wednesday."
"Agch, that's good tae hear, lassie," he says, smiling so warmly I want to stop dancing and hug him.
"While I'm worth my room on this earth,
I will be with you. . ."
"So. . ." I say instead, "Manager's meeting on Thursday? Say, one P.M.? Right after lunch?"
"Et's a plan."
"While the Chief, puts Sunshine On Leith,
I'll thank him for his work,
And your birth and my birth.
Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah!"
The music lasts a long time after the lyrics are over, Murtagh slowly navigating us back and forth across the flagstones, very carefully aiming to miss Dougal every time he manages to get anywhere near us.
I can't help but smile at Murtagh each time it happens. My rescuer. . .
It appears I do indeed have some formidable allies.
At last the song ends. While we are all still applauding, a man in kitchen livery comes up to the stage, and whispers a few words to Gwyllyn.
"I ha' the pleaseur ta announce that dessert uz being searved," he says, "So, we'll take thus opportunity ta play 'The Gael'."
There is a lot of applause at this, whether for dessert or for the music I am unsure, but the dance floor empties a great deal faster then I thought it would.
The lights come up in the main room, but remain dark over the stage, save for a single spotlight, now occupied by a lone bagpiper.
Apparently, whatever song he's about to play, no one wants to dance to it. Odd. Very odd. . .
"They usually play 'The Gael' between sets, ye ken," says Murtagh, seeing my plain confusion. "They mus' be doin' sae now sae they can get the modern instruments onstage while we'er still eatin'."
"Oh."
"Foor their second set, ye ken."
"No, I didn't. But it makes good sense."
Recorded music begins to play, full of sound effects and vocals unlike anything I've heard so far tonight. The six other members of the band, along with several people dressed in solid black, begin to move around the stage, setting up what I can soon see are an electric piano and a drum set, with all the attendant equipment.
The spotlighted bagpiper ignores them entirely, and after a minute, adds his own wailing, booming music to the recorded sounds.
It's a moving song, big, almost too big for even the Great Hall. It's an outdoor kind of song. I've never been mountain climbing, but I imagine this sort of music would be the kind that would play in my head if I ever did.
Murtagh offers me his arm, and walks with me back to Jamie's regular table.
I smile when I see what he and the boys have been up to. There are two large trays of deep-fried chicken wings on the table, surrounded by bowls of sauces, heaps of used napkins, and scattered piles of discarded bones. I shake my head a little as I sit next to Jamie. I've never cared for chicken wings. Not that I've ever refused them when offered, only that I find them far too messy and labourious for their unremarkable payoff. But I know I'm usually in the minority on that. Clearly I am so here. Murtagh sits on my other side, and unhesitatingly serves himself up a plateful of them.
I take the last clean glass from the tray Tory brought, and pour myself a bit of the Irish whiskey. One sip, and I decide that Edan wasn't far wrong. It's smooth, and decidedly warming in the mouth, but far too delicately flavoured for my taste. After all the strongly smoky whiskies I've been having tonight, this one is like drinking alcoholic water. For a brief second, I feel just as Scottish as everyone else at the table. What utter shite!
I pull myself up short. Don't go painting every Township with the same anti-rust coat, Beauchamp! I'm sure there are hundreds of other Irish whiskeys that aren't like this. . . And also, who am I to say what is a quality drink or not? I like tea and Jamie doesn't. He likes coffee and I don't. Tastes differ. I nod at Leo and raise my glass to him. If this is what he likes to drink, then I'm not going to rag on him for it.
"Ye dinnae like wings?" asks Jamie, noticing I'm not eating - rather a rarity for me, I suddenly realize.
"I've never been much of a fan."
"Weel, ye'ev nevar tried Mrs. Fitz's buffalo sauce." He pushes a bowl of almost neon-orange dip in my direction.
Ah. Then these must be mysterious 'buffalo wings' he mentioned. I have to admit - after the beautiful discovery that was the pizza, I was expecting more from these. I shrug, spoon some sauce over one, and take a small bite.
"Eh," I put the rest of it on Jamie's plate, "It is what it is." I grab a pre-dampened napkin from one of the several containers of them on the table, "And they're so messy."
Gerald bursts out laughing, "An' ye, a mechanic!"
Several others laugh too.
I roll my eyes and smirk, "I don't eat engine grease, Gerald. I eat lightning and crap thunder!"
"Now why doesnae that surprise me?"
I cheerfully join in with the laughter this time.
By the time the boys are finishing up the wings, Gwyllyn and his team have succeeded in transforming the stage, and have redistributed themselves around it. The two drummers are now sitting behind the piano and the drum set, the two bagpipers are now holding a base guitar and what I am almost sure is a clarinet, and both the violinist and Gwyllyn have exchanged the acoustic instruments they've been playing for glossy, moss-green electric versions.
They're in the middle of what I assume is a sound check when four women in kitchen livery descend on our table, two removing all empty bottles, trays and glasses, all the dirty plates and napkins, and quickly wiping down the boards. Then, the other pair deliver us two large trays full of a wide variety of desserts on single-portion plates.
"An' there's make-it-yerself ice cream sanwiches an' sundaes ovar on the buffet now," says one of the women, "Enjoy!"
The four of them disappear back into the kitchens momentarily, only to re-emerge to perform the same service for the next table over. I look around, and there are several teams of kitchen staff doing the same thing all over the Hall.
A line quickly forms over by the buffet tables again. Jamie and most of the rest of the table get up to join them. He nudges my shoulder gently,
"Anything I can get ye, mo nighean?"
I shrug, "Ohh. . . coconut ice cream if they have it."
"Tha's all? No cookies? No fruit, no toppings?"
"Well. . . whatever you think I'd like," I smile up at him, "I won't complain."
As he nods and goes, the lights dim down again, and there are spotlights on the stage once more.
"'N wee'r back!" says Gwyllyn, hefting his electric harp-guitar, "Ta thank yoo all far your patience, we'll throw open the dance flor agan, and play ye 'Flower of Scotland'." He smiles at the applause, even though there's less of it this time, since so many people are still at the buffet.
For the same reason, it takes a little while for the dancers to assemble. One of the first to do so is Dougal, this time with a little brown-haired woman I've noticed sitting not too far away from us, in the under-balcony section. She has stood out to me not for her looks, or her actions, but because so few people have approached her all night. There are at least two empty places on either side of where she's been sitting, and I've not seen anyone say two words to her, not even the kitchen staff.
If there's anyone in the room who can say they've felt lonely in crowd tonight, I can bet it's her. A sympathetic part of me is very glad Dougal is at least doing her the courtesy of dancing with her.
Murtagh looks where I'm looking, and harrumphs.
"Daft numpty," he shakes his head, "I hoop he likes havin' his future told. . ."
I chuckle, "On the dance floor? That seems improbable, Murtagh."
"Weel, tha's Iona MacTavish. They say she has the Sight," he shrugs and looks slightly uncomfortable, "Et's about all she has, poor dear, an' nae doot she cannae help it, but shee's always tellin' folk their futures, whether they ask fer them oor no'. It makes mos' people avoid her, ye ken?"
I smile at what is surely a harmless eccentricity, "But is she ever right? That seems the main thing to me."
"Weel. . . et's odd. Shee's often right, aye, but tha's no' much of a surprise when som'un has the Sight. Nae, et's what shee's right about. Odd things. Private things. Infinitesimal things. Things that a person might no' hardly notice, an' forget about once over, were they no' paying attention. Things sae small ye would'nae think even the Sight could tell any'un about them. An' then. . ."
"Yes?"
Murtagh's lip twists, "Shee's been known tae offer tae. . . weel. Change things about people. Impossible things. Eye colour. Place o' birth. Their grandparent's first names."
A tingle goes up my spine. A woman who knows intricate details about the future, and has offered to change strange things about the past? This sounds like a woman I want to know. . . "And. . . has she?"
"Nae'un rightly kens. Some people say they've accepted her offers, but no one's ever noticed a change save the one who accepted it. Et's odd, since most o' the ones who mention it are the steady uns - ye wouldnae think they'd be lyin' oor daft. Like auld Alain Cook who has Hill Farm down Cranesmuir way - he says he asked her tae change his eyes from brown tae green, and tha' they did change. But he's always had green eyes, sae nae'un kens what he's on about."
"Weird."
"Aye," Murtagh grabs two plates from the dessert trays, and pushes one at me, "Heer, try this'un. All I c'n say is, et's a right good thing we dinnae burn witches annymoor, an' that's a fact."
"Amen to that." The plate he handed me has a small square of creamy light brown stuff on it. I take a nibble from the corner. Whatever it is, it's incredibly sweet, with an almost caramel-like flavour. It's too much on its own - it needs a cup of tea, or a handful of roasted peanuts or something to go along with it. . .
At this moment, a tall, slender man, wearing a fine grey vest and a kilt of the MacKenzie tartan, comes up to our table, and with a few murmured words, offers his arm to Tory. He takes it, grinning bashfully, and they make their way to the dance floor.
Ahh, that clears that up, I think. Perhaps here, 'gay' means homm? I certainly hope it does. . . I'll be happy just so long as it does not mean what it means in 2279, but this meaning would make a lot of sense, in context with what Tory was saying when he first used the word. Now that I have an info-screen again, I make a mental note to look the word up tomorrow, just to make sure. . .
"A coconut ice cream sandwich, made wi' white-chocolate an' macadamia nut cookies - an' a strawberry daiquiri - fer the lady," says Jamie, putting a glass and small plate in front of me, "An' two scoops o' plain vanilla wi' shortbread an' raspberries on the side fer the auld man." He grins, and hands Murtagh a small bowl.
"Agch. Ya disrespectful wee plague," Murtagh grumbles, an affectionate twinkle in his eye, "Wheer did ye learn tae be sitch a weapon?"
Jamie bellows a laugh and punches him in the shoulder, "Weer d'ye suppose, mo goistidh?" He goes back to the buffet line once again, this time to get his own dessert, I assume.
One by one, the boys come back to the table, each laden with their dessert, and one or two with a fresh bottle of whisky from the bar.
At last, enough dancers have assembled, and Gwyllyn starts up the music. After the first few measures, I realize that I've heard this song before as well, if only very occasionally.
"O Flower of Scotland,
When will we see,
Your like again. . ."
I try the 'ice cream sandwich' - which, I must say, is an invention like I've never imagined, but that I find quite brilliant - and it turns out I was right to trust Jamie's intuition in this matter. The combination is sweet, but not too sweet, and the tangy fruitiness of the drink cuts right through the heavy richness of the cookies and coconut cream. Experimentally, I take another bite of the caramel stuff, and take a sip of the daiquiri. Mixed together, they're more than palatable. . .
"Sae I see ye'ev finally tasted the tablet, then," says a voice I recognize.
"Geillis!" shouts half the table, and she sits down between Peter and Gerald, greeting them just as cheerfully.
"Sorrae I'm sae late - I had things tae doo a' th'office, an' then I hadtae make Arthur his supper, and then. . ." she sighs, in one great gust of breath, "Weel. I'm heer now." She eagerly grabs three different plates of desserts from the trays, "Wha' ha' I missed?"
"No' much, Mrs. Duncan," says Jamie, returning to sit next to me, and nodding politely at Geillis, "An' bettar late than nevar, aye?" He sets down a large glass tureen of sliced fruit, topped with four scoops of variously coloured ice cream - different flavours, I assume - covered with all manner of toppings and sauces, and finished with a huge dollop of whipped cream.
It's generous and uninhibited, just like Jamie, and I can't help smiling at him over it.
"The Hills are bare now,
And Autumn leaves,
Lie thick and still. . ."
"Aye, I was jus' saying' tae Mrs. Beauchamp heer," Geillis looks at me, mischevously, "Tha' t'is good when ye'ev finally tride th'sweet sumthin' ye'ev been waitin' on, isnae tha' right?"
"I'm sorry you're here alone, Mrs. Duncan," I say, formally, trying to head this subject off, "I was looking forward to meeting your husband tonight."
"Those days are past now,
And in the past,
They must remain. . ."
"Arthur? He hates these sorts o' things, puir lamb."
She pointedly takes a bite of what looks to me like bread pudding.
Then, thankfully, she gets into a discussion with Peter about inoculating this season's 'calves', whatever those are, and I can focus on enjoying my dessert.
"But we can still rise now,
And be the nation again,
That stood against him. . ."
"Everyune now!" calls Gwyllyn, and nearly the entire room joins in -
"Proud Edward's army,
And sent him homeward,
To think again!"
As the music fades, everyone raises their glasses in salute.
"Alba gu Bràth!"
It echoes around the table and around the hall - "Alba gu Bràth! . . . Alba gu Bràth! . . . Alba gu Bràth! . . ."
I raise my glass, but say nothing.
I know what that phrase means.
Scotland Forever.
I know what it means for the same reason I know what a kilt is, and why I've heard some of the music from tonight before. The same reason I know the first thing about either battle of Culloden.
Cold Island 12 is an important place.
That's the only reason I know anything about Scotland. That's the only reason I was taught anything about Scotland. A country that doesn't exist anymore. And what exists in its place is nothing but a poor, plastic facsimile of what I see before me here and now.
Bits and pieces of this culture survive nuclear Armageddon - just like parts of most cultures do. But in two hundred years, that's all that will be left. A tattered remnant of what was once so sure, so real. . . so free.
I know - better than anyone else here - Scotland is not Forever.
"Ye wilnae try tae say this salute then, Mrs. Beauchamp?" asks Peter, mockingly.
I shake my head, trying to banish my fateful thoughts.
"Oh?" drawls Leo, "Why no'?"
I shrug, "Well, I'd only mangle it." I take a slow sip of my daiquiri, "And as far as I'm concerned, the phrase 'Scotland Forever' should never be taken as a joke."
I say it casually enough, but for the first time since the beginning of the concert, there is complete silence around our table. It only lasts a few seconds, but in that time, I think I see a tiny amount of reluctant respect appear in the faces around me. Certainly Murtagh's expression relaxes slightly, and Arnold deigns to look at me, for the first time all night.
For a few seconds, I'm one of them - not just The Sassenach.
Perhaps it is this that prompts Harold to do what he does next. Perhaps it isn't.
He's sitting at the other end of the table this time, across from Gil. He gets up and comes around, stopping close behind Murtagh, where it's easy for me to turn to see him.
"Would ye care tae dance, Mrs. Beauchamp?" he asks, bowing politely.
I look at him closely for a few seconds before answering. I have no idea where this is coming from. He doesn't appear to be taunting me, nor is anyone else holding back laughter, as though there is some joke involved here. No, his request appears genuine.
"Very well, Mr. Mackenzie." I nod and stand.
I've barely cleared the bench before Jamie's hand is on my back, running up and down my spine in a gesture far more intimate than its innocence suggests.
"Would ye like me tae save ye some more of the tablet?" he asks, with such artless affection I can't help but smile.
He's clearly establishing his territory, the arrogant, possessive, ridiculous man.
Well then. Two can play at that game.
Besides, it's probably high time to admit I am, in fact, 'Jamie's Girl'.
I run my hand across his shoulders in an equally innocent and unmistakably intimate gesture, "Of course, my lad. And some of that bread pudding too?" He nods. I lean down and press my lips briefly to his temple.
All the conversations around the table stop, and everyone who wasn't already staring turns to look at us, shocked expressions on their faces.
I particularly enjoy Geillis's look of stunned uncertainty.
"You're all acting like you've never seen a woman kiss her boyfriend before!" I grin, and look saucily at Jamie. The glint in his eyes tells me he's more than pleased at this development.
"Ye'er. . . astonishin', Sassenach," says Gil, shaking his head.
Jamie inclines his head towards Gil, then smirks up at me, "Weel, he may be an arse and an eejit, but in this case he happens tae be right, mo nighean."
I grin fondly, shake my head, and briefly kiss him again, this time on the lips. "We'll be back in a bit, my lad."
"Mmphm, have fun," he grunts, with seeming indifference.
But as I turn to take Harold's arm, Jamie reaches back, and slaps me smartly on the arse.
In full view of everyone.
While suggestively smirking at me.
I blink, stunned for a second, as is everyone else. Of all the ways he'd first touch me there, this is the very last way I expected. . . and with an audience, too!
Of course, the audience is why he did it at all. . .
It takes me a second to decide not to be angry.
Much. . .
I whirl back to him, and grab him by the tie, dragging his mouth to mine as I hiss, "You. . . beast! I always have fun."
The kiss I give him then is one I'd much rather not have had an audience for, but the cheering and wolf whistles almost make up for it.
I take that back. The look of utter disbelief on Geillis's face totally makes up for it.
Territory established indeed.
I stand, turn, very deliberately loop my arm through Harold's, and start walking us towards the stage.
"So. A dance, you said?" I say, cheerfully.
"Is. . . is et. . . alright?" He looks uncomfortably back at the table.
I know he's worried about Jamie.
More specifically, he's worried about touching Jamie's property.
Inwardly, I sigh. We'd better nip that idea right in the bud. . .
I shake my head at him, "We're dating, Harold - not colonizing each other. He doesn't own me, and he certainly doesn't make my decisions for me. I can dance with whoever I want to, and so can he. Unless you're planning on feeling me up, or something else disgusting he'd want to protect me from?"
He looks adorably appalled, "What? Noo, a'coorse no'. . ."
"Well then. No harm, no foul."
"Next up uz our good host's own favaroute, 'Loch Lomund'!" calls Gwyllyn, cheerfully.
When Harold and I reach the dance floor, he is charmingly clumsy about not wanting to touch me - on my hip, or my back, or anywhere. Eventually, we compromise, and take each other by the forearms, like some sort of pitiful, on-the-floor-trapeze act.
I can't help but smile at the poor fellow.
"O whither away my bonnie May,
Sae late an' sae far in the gloamin'?. . ."
It takes an uncomfortably long time for us to settle into the dance. We finally reach a sort of rhythm just as Gwyllyn charges into the famous chorus -
"O ye'll tak the high road an' I'll tak the low,
I'll be in Scotland afore ye. . ."
At that, Harold looks directly at me, clearly extremely determined to say something, and have it over, "I'm. . . sorrae fer how things began taenight, Mrs. Beauchamp."
I blink rapidly for a few seconds. Of all the things I hoped might result from tonight's efforts, this one never even made the list. A genuine 'I'm sorry' from one of the main instigators of the verbal duel? That almost never happens.
Live and learn indeed!
"Are you really? That's impressive. I don't often get an apology." I nod, solemnly, "Accepted, Mr. Mackenzie. Just so long as no one is forcing you to do so?"
He looks instantly confused and abashed, "Noo, nae'un did. . . an' et's Harry tae my friends."
"Harry," I say, smiling.
"Ye said. . . often? Ye'ev been greeted that way afore?"
"More times than I find pleasant to recall."
"I. . . I didnae. . . I mean, we. . ." he sets his jaw, with a beautiful blend of embarrassment and stubbornness, "We ought tae have done bettar by ye."
"Yes. You ought to have," I say, practically.
He makes a round Scottish noise mixed with a laugh, "Murtagh said ye kent yer business, but I didnae knoo yer business was properly tongue-lashin' Scots!"
A-ha! So that must be why I got so few questions about being Farm Manager. Murtagh has been talking me up. But he must have done so particularly cleverly, if these men accepted my professionalism without question, but still found it necessary to be ugly at me for being an outlander and a woman.
Meaning he found some way of talking me up that would still let me establish myself with them, in my own way, in my own time.
My estimation of Murtagh, already high, increases by several points.
My appreciation for Jamie almost doubles. He was willing to give me a chance without needing any of that. . .
I smile at Harry, "Oh, only one of you has earned a proper tongue lashing, let me tell you. And even he hasn't quite earned such a reward yet. . ." I glance back at our table, just in time to see Jamie throw his head back in a gigantic laugh.
Harry's hands tighten on my arms as he desperately tries not to blush. He can't quite manage it. "Ef. . . ef I'd knoon. . ."
I chuckle at him, "If you'd known I was dating Jamie, we'd never have had any of this out, and the lot of you would have sat around the stables all day, festering about the damn Sassenach who bewitched your friend and stole him from you. You'd hate me, and you might even get close to hating him, too. Now, wouldn't you?"
Ruefully, he nods.
"Well, I'll gladly endure an ugly reception or two if it prevents that. Particularly given the apology - that covers a multitude of sins, very much so." I pause, and decide to address the elephant in the room, "Besides, I'm sure it must be nice to have an English person around you can snipe at without. . . well, without fear of reprisals."
His eyes go wide, "We didnae-"
"Oh, come on," I interrupt, "Put the demands of hospitality aside, and let's be honest for a second. It's my accent that really offends you, isn't it?"
"Weel. . . aye. . . but-"
"And with good reason, as far as I can see. You have very little motivation to love people who sound like I do. But I can't help where I was born. Just like you can't."
He smiles a bit, and I pat his elbow, indicating he should move us to a new place on the dance floor. Slowly, he does.
"Now then," I continue, "I might indeed 'know my business', but I've got an awful lot to learn about this job in particular - and I can't do it alone. So, you manage the stables whenever Murtagh and Jamie are away, right?"
"Aye. How did. . .?" he asks, mouth agape.
"Oh, that was obvious." I shrug, "You're were one of the two ringleaders there at the table - Gil was the other. I assume he's Marc's main assistant?"
Harry nods, transfixed.
"Well, both of you bent immediately to Jamie, but you're the only one who mentioned Murtagh. So I assumed you worked in the stables and Gil was more among the barns and coops and such. You'd both work with Jamie almost every day that way, but only you would see Murtagh regularly."
"Ach. Ye'er an observant wee thing," he pulls himself up at that, startled and embarrassed by his sudden familiarity with me, "Uhhm. Mrs. Beauchamp."
I smile, "Claire is fine. I also don't mind 'lassie', for when you're teasing me."
He blinks, clearly unprepared to have been forgiven so thoroughly and readily, "Ye. . . ye dinnae mind some teasin'?"
"Of course not. It's what friends do. I'm hardly perfect at everything, and even if I was, that wouldn't put me above a good-natured ribbing. But a friendly jibe is a totally different creature than a barbed attack - and I can tell the difference a mile away." I raise an eyebrow, "Ye ken?"
"Och, I ken," he grins, still shamefaced, "I've still got the bruises from yer last counter-attack."
"Well, I only do that when necessary, I promise. I actually rather like it here."
"Doo ye now?"
"Yes. Oxford is far from the ugliest place in the world, but it can't hold a candle to the Highlands of Scotland, and that's a fact."
"I dinnae imagine there's anywhere that could, ever."
Oh, you have no idea, laddie. Thanks to Safnet screens, this is still the most beautiful place for thousands of kilometers, especially in the hellscape that is 2279. . .
"O ye'll tak the high road an' I'll tak the low,
I'll be in Scotland afore ye,
For me and my true love will never meet again. . ."
"Bu' still, I wouldnae blame ye ef ye found a place wi' all yer friends and connections in it moor appealin'. Seein' as et's yer hoom, ye ken."
". . .By the bonnie bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond."
I smile sadly, "I have no connections left in Oxford, Harold. None worth speaking of, at any rate. And I have no idea where my home is, at the moment."
"Ye dinnae?"
"No."
His eyes light up, "An' heer I thowt ye were slummin' et! Tha' makes all the difference, ye ken. Ye want tae be heer."
Huh. Murtagh didn't know that either. Nor that I had no resources beyond Colum's grace. Nowhere to run to, even. It appears that, whatever else he may be, Dougal is not a gossip. But after his opening move of attempting to isolate me, putting about humiliating or damaging stories about me would have been such an easy follow-up attack. Given what he knows about my history, I'm incredibly surprised he hasn't used my past to his advantage. . .
I wonder what he's planning. It must be something. He can't have just abruptly ended our war - he's not the type. And even if he were, I haven't gone on the offensive yet. He has no reason to end it.
Yet.
"I have to be here. I have nowhere else to be." I whisper. And I say it so quietly, so bitterly, even Harold understands that it's not an insult, but the plain, painful truth. I raise my chin, defiantly, "But yes. I want to be here, too."
"Tha's incredibly good tae ken," he sighs a bit, and finally realizes the implications of what he's saying, "No' tha' I'm sae glad tae heer et, mind! I mean. . ."
I laugh to cut him off, "I get it, Harry. I'd have been offended long before now if I was taking it that way." I pat his elbow again, this time in reassurance, "Anyway - when Murtagh and Jamie are away, then, I expect you are the acting Manager for the horse's stables and grazing lands?"
"Aye. That I am."
"Well then. I'll expect you to attend the Manager's meeting in Davie Beaton's old office this Thursday, after lunch. You and Gil. And whoever is main assistant to Lily Bara, as well."
"Aye. I'll tell them."
"Excellent."
"O ye'll tak the high road an' I'll tak the low,
I'll be in Scotland afore ye. . ."
He takes a deep, bracing breath, "May. . . may I invite ye tae the shinty match taemorrow? Et's only that ye seemed sae interested, an' we-"
I laugh, "I'd love to. I don't think Jamie would let me miss it anyway. . ." I look up for a second, and see the man himself, waiting for us at one edge of the dance floor. Harry sees him too, and begins navigating us that way.
". . . For me and my true love will never meet again. . ."
"Och, aye. It'll be modern kilts versus belted-plaids, sae ye'll need tae ken who tae cheer fer."
"I'll. . . endeavour to tell the difference."
We both laugh heartily.
"Agch, I nevar thowt I might laugh with a Sassenach. Thankee, Claire."
"No, thank you. I am the outlander. I have everything to learn."
". . . By the bonnie bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond."
"Ach, ye'er a lucky bastard, Jam," he clouts Jamie hard on the shoulder as he hands me over to him, "Mek shure ye deserve 'er, aye?"
"I intend tae," he murmurs, so low I'm sure Harry can't hear him, especially through the surrounding applause. It scarcely matters, though. He's off to the dessert buffet tables without a backward glance at either of us.
Jamie throws one arm around my shoulders, "Now tha' was one encounter I wasnae predictin'."
"Neither was I."
"How did it go?"
"He apologized, and we talked. He was really quite pleasant."
Jamie grins and says, jokingly, "Should I be jealous?"
I elbow him lightly in the ribs, "No, you should be glad I duel with words. Because if it was pistols at twenty paces, at least three of your friends would have bullet holes in them by now, and besides being the last thing I want to do to them, that sort of duel is far more difficult to just forgive and forget."
"Ye reached forgiveness, then?"
"Yes, and beyond. We're tentatively friends at the moment. We'll see how things go at the Manager's meeting on Thursday."
He raises one eyebrow, "Och, an' why have I no' heard of this meetin'?"
"Haven't had a chance to tell you, my lad. I only decided it would be on Thursday this afternoon, and I only told Murtagh the details half an hour ago."
He looks teasingly affronted, "Sae ye towld Murtagh befoor me?
I snort a laugh, "Oh, you're invited too, don't worry. I could hardly leave my boyfriend out, now could I?" I wrap an arm around him and pull him tight to my side.
"I. . . hehm. . . I'm sorrae if I overstepped back there. . ." he glances back at our table, and pats my shoulder in a discreet mime of his slap on the arse.
I give him a faint smile, "What makes you think you did?"
"Weel, for a second ye looked like ye were goin' tae be mad, an'-"
"Well, for a second, I was mad. But I get why you did it, and you're not likely to ever need to do it again." I slip my hand into the far pocket of his jacket, "Which is a warning to never do it again, just so we're clear. At least in public." I grin a bit, and feel a blush come up on my cheeks, "But uhm. . . you see, I've been wanting to kiss you like that all night. You just gave me an excuse. . ." I lean lightly against his chest, and he slowly lowers his hand from my shoulder until it is resting quite comfortably on my hip.
"Och, weel, in that case, the night isnae over yet, mo Sorcha."
The violinist comes forward to lead the next dance. Jamie gestures at the couples taking their places, "Now that ye'ev seen a few, would ye like tae try yer hand at a reel?"
"Oh, I don't know, Jamie. . ."
"C'mon. They always finish up the set wi' a simple one."
"Well. . . If I barrel into someone and break their arm, just you make sure they know who to blame, okay?"
He shouts a laugh, and pulls me onto the dance floor, "Fair enough, mo nighean."
We take our places, and then the violinist begins to play. . .
If I thought the music was dizzyingly untamed before, being in the middle of it amplifies everything tenfold. Jamie is right - the steps are fairly simple, and it only takes me a few seconds to catch onto the rhythm of it. But holding onto the rhythm is another matter. It's so fast, so whirling and breathless that my world narrows to just this one thing, this one place, and time has no meaning at all. There are skips and leaps, spins and twirls, Jamie's hands and strangers' hands in quick succession, a vortex of light and sound and colour, and I am bright flash of red and autumn-brown, glimpsed between the trees of a forest rendered mute by the pounding of drums, speeding forth to the ends of the earth, galloping over moss and grass and stone. . .
I'm not sure how I coalesce back into myself, but when the music stops, I find I am in Jamie's arms, rather frantically trying to catch my breath.
He grins down at me, "Sae ye allus have fun, d'ye?"
"Yes," I say, still gasping between words, "Lots. Of fun."
"We'll be takin' our set break now," calls Gwyllyn, "'N when we come back, we'll be takin' audaence requests!" He waves down the applause and gestures at the small info-screen he's placed on the drum set, "Please mak your requests en the next half-hour, 'n we'll see yoo then."
He bows, and leaves the stage, as do the rest the band.
"Be ri' back, mo Sorcha, I ha' a request tae make. . ." Jamie says, leaving me standing near the drinks tables.
I go over and grab another glass of ice water, and down almost the entire thing in one go.
Whatever that dance was, it was a great deal more than I was expecting.
Recorded music is playing out of the speakers again, though the overhead lights have not come up this time, lending the subdued flickering from the scattered large pillar candles an almost campfire quality. The warm murmur of voices and the cool play of shadows emphasize just how large this room truly is, and just how many people are currently in it.
Even without a wild, breathless dance with Jamie, tonight would have felt like an adventure.
Which is good, because I was born on Skycity 15, a hundred and seventy years in the future, and I am currently living and working with people long dead, in a country that no longer exists.
Every single bit of this ought to feel like an adventure. . .
Through the aimless milling crowd of people still happily eating and drinking, I see Colum and his retinue rise from their seats, as if preparing to leave.
Jamie reappears next to me.
"Are they going already?" I ask, indicating the Laird's group with a nod.
"Aye, Colum doesnae usually stay for the request set. Dougal probably will, though."
"Oh, really?" I say, not knowing exactly how to feel about that.
I pick up another glass of water and start walking back to our table. Gently, Jamie takes my arm.
"Mmm. Now there is an encounter I am expectin'. Aye?"
I grunt a half-mocking laugh, "More like dreading."
He tones his voice down to a murmur so low I have to strain to hear it, "Would ye like me an' Murtagh tae run interference for ye?"
"You mean prevent him getting near me?"
"Aye."
"No, that would be counterproductive. He'd just find another way, when you two weren't around. And I don't think I want to provoke him like that. I would appreciate it if you both stood for guard duty, though."
"Gladly," he says, running a hand across his chin, "Meanin'?"
"Meaning, keep an eye on me. If he tries to corner or confront me, don't stop him, but don't let him get me out of sight either. And don't swoop in unless things get really bad, or you see me trying to make direct eye contact with you. Which will mean things have gotten really bad. Alright?"
He looks a bit sour about it, but things have gone very well so far tonight, so I think he's starting to trust my judgement about what I say I can do, and what help I say I need.
"Alright. We'll do that." He smiles and seats me next to Murtagh, while he goes off to retrieve something from the bar.
Murtagh is deep into a slightly strange story about an escaped horse he once found in a 'swimming pool' - whatever that may be - when Jamie returns with a tray full of empty shot glasses, and two very strange bottles of alcohol. The first one is filled with a clear, bright blue-green liquid, and the second is full of an opaque something that is so violently pink, it appears to glow, even in the low light.
"Strawberries an' Cream vodka!" squeals Geillis, grabbing the bottle of pink stuff, "Jammie, ye'er a saint!" She takes two of the shot glasses, and rapidly fills them, sliding one insistently over to me. "Ye'el love this stuff, pet, trust me. . ."
I smile a bit bemusedly as I take a sip. I'm not certain I trust Geillis about anything just yet. . .
But the vodka is well flavoured, despite its poisonous colouring, and surprisingly, not overpoweringly sweet.
Smirking a bit, I confidently down the shot.
Much as I do love whisky, vodka is far more in my township.
Province.
Whatever. . .
I slide the empty glass back over to Geillis, "So, what flavour is the teal?"
She picks the bottle up and turns it to look, "Vanilla coconut. Mmm. No' as good, bu' still verrah nice." She fills both our glasses, and this time I take the shot without hesitation.
"I think I prefer that one."
"D'ye really?"
"Yeah - it doesn't taste quite as artificial."
She pours herself another shot of the strawberry and sips it contemplatively. "Maybe no', bu' tha's most like because ye havenae had this'un wi' Mrs. Fitz's strawberry shortcake! Divine, pet, simply divine!"
I smile, and sip my water. When we can manage to stay out of innuendo territory, I'm finding myself liking Geillis more and more. I'm unsure why, exactly, but I don't let it bother me at the moment. I pull a piece of ice into my mouth and let it dissolve slowly on my tongue. I love ice, and I so rarely get to have it nowadays, seeing as it's even more expensive than hot tea. . .
Jamie pours two shots of the teal vodka, and hands one to Gil.
"Over the lips. . ." says Gil.
"Past the gums. . ." replies Jamie.
"Look out stomach here it comes!" they both say together, and take the shots.
I smile and laugh a bit at them, not just because I find what they are doing funny, but because a tiny nugget of calming, homelike ease has made its way into my heart from somewhere. Here I am, surrounded by strangers, in a strange place, and a strange time, but still, there are constants. Men and women, and music, and food and drink haven't changed so much in the past two hundred years - nowhere near so much that I cannot relate to what I see, hear, smell and feel all around me.
For a brief moment, I can almost imagine myself staying here. Finding a job, finding a home. Making a life. Being repaid in full for everything that Fate owes me. A house. A family. A future.
But to what end?
The actual future comes back to me with such force it completely wipes the smile off my face. I pour myself another shot of the coconut vodka, and down it with a determination I've never felt before.
I am here. In the past. The power to change things rests in my hands.
If the world owes me a future, then I owe the world one too.
Perhaps that is Fate as well. . .
A long peal of drums and guitar music roll out from the still-darkened stage. I can just see the outlines of the band members against the great tapestry covering the wall behind them. A spotlight illuminates Gwyllyn the moment he starts to sing.
"Guess who just got back today?"
Them wild-eyed boys that had been away.
Haven't changed that much to say,
But man, I still think them cats are crazy!
They were askin' if you were around,
How you was, where you could be found.
Told 'em you were livin' downtown,
Drivin' all the old men crazy."
Lights come up on the rest of the band -
"The boys are back in town,
The boys are back in town!"
Every member of the band is now wearing a half-unlaced linen tunic tucked into varying colours of leather trousers. The violinist is wearing green, the drummer red, the bassist purple. . .
"You know that chick that used to dance a lot,
Every night she'd be on the floor, shakin' what she got.
When I say she was cool she was red hot,
I mean, she was steamin'. . ."
Jamie surreptitiously nudges his boot up against my foot.
I'm about to nudge him back when I pause.
That was just a bit too apt, wasn't it?
After that Sky Boat song, I'm suspicious of suspiciously too-apt things.
Or maybe it's just the vodka taking effect. . .
"The boys are back in town,
The boys are back in town!"
Just to make sure, I lean over and whisper to him, "This isn't your request, is it?"
He smiles at me fondly, but with more than a little bit of mischief in his eyes, "Nae, this is Gwyllyn's usual opening song for his second set."
I raise a suspicious eyebrow, "Really?"
"I promise," he nods.
But there is still a sly sort of look about him. . .
"So, what is your request?"
"Ye'll ken when ye hear it."
I roll my eyes, "Ugh! I hate surprises."
"My experiences wi' ye tells me otherwise. . ."
I grumble at him, "Fine - I hate surprises I have to wait for."
"T'will be worth it, mo ghràidh."
"Is that a promise too?"
"Aye. 'Tis."
"That jukebox in the corner blastin' out my favorite song!
The nights are getting warmer, it won't be long,
Won't be long till the summer comes,
Now that the boys are here again.
The boys are back in town,
The boys are back in town. . ."
By the end of the song, Jamie's leg is pressed very firmly to mine.
I find I don't mind. . .
"'N now far our first request - 'Throw The 'R' Away'," says Gwyllyn, grinning through the hoots and cheers, "Thus'un goes out ta any Sassenachs that may be en the audaence."
There are a goodly number of glances and chuckles around our table.
I find I don't mind them, either. . .
"Uvbin soh sahd,
Sence yeu said my accen' t'was bahd.
Hee's worn a frauwn,
Thass Caledoughnian cloown."
I instantly start laughing. Gwyllyn's over-exaggerated Scottish accent is hilarious. It's clearly meant to be funny, because everyone around me is grinning and laughing at him too.
"E'm jus' goin' tae hav'tae leahrn tae hesitate,
Tae mek shure my whords on yer Saxon ears don' ghrate,
Bu' I wouldnae't knoo a single whord tae say,
Eff I flahttened awll th'vowels an' I throo the 'R' awhey."
This is emphatically not the time or place to have a realization, but it still happens. . .
"Saxon!" I shout at Jamie over the noise, "That's where the word 'Sassenach' comes from, isn't it?"
"Aye! Well spotted!"
He's laughing too, at me or the song I have no clue.
Maybe it's both.
Regardless, my 'Saxon ears' haven't heard anything so delightful in a long time. The audience starts clapping along, and I happily join in.
"Yeu saeigh tha' ef I wanna get aheed,
The languwage I use shoul' be left foer deid,
Et doesnae't pleese yer eaar.
An' though yeu tell et lik' ah leg pull,
Et seems ye'er stell full o' John Bull,
Yeu jus' refuuse tae heer.
Oh what c'n I doo,
Tae bee undearstood by yeu?
Perhaps fer some money,
I coul' talk like a bee drippin' honey!
E'm jus' goin' tae hav'tae leahrn tae hesitate,
Tae mek shure my whords on yer Saxon ears don' ghrate,
Bu' I wouldnae't knoo a single whord tae say,
Eff I flahttened awll th'vowels an' I throo the 'R' awhey.
Eff I flahttened awll th'vowels an' I throo the 'R' awhey.
Flahttened awll th'vowels an' I throo. . . the 'R'. . . awhey!"
Gwyllyn crows into his mic, and the applause is much louder and longer than usual.
I find I thoroughly agree.
Once we've all settled down again, I gesture to take in the entire table.
"Whoever requested that - thank you. I haven't had such a good laugh for ages."
"A Sassenach wi' a sense of humour aboot et!" grunts Edan, with such a shocked voice I'm fairly certain he was the one who requested it, "Nevar thowt I'd see the day. . ."
"Oh, come on. We aren't all joyless brutes."
There are a lot of shrugs and a couple murmurs of "Could've fooled me!".
I just smile.
"I'm sure the lot of you know as well as I do - jokes are like drinking with friends. And sometimes, the round's on you. That's just the way of things," I take a bite of the bread pudding Jamie saved for me, and shrug, "Might as well take a laugh when you can, I say."
"'N the dance flor uz open agan with our next request, 'Clocks'," says Gwyllyn, so soberly that it's clear it will be a slow one this time.
Half the table, including Geillis, Harry and Murtagh, get up to find a partner. The rest settle into the pleasant lethargy that usually follows a good long laugh. Jamie is deep into a discussion with Gil about some pregnant cows they're dealing with. It all sounds highly technical to me, but it's probably no more than the basics anyone can pick up when they work on a farm around here.
On the ground, that is. With soil farms. And cows.
It is strange to think of now, but just two weeks ago, I had forgotten that cows even existed. . .
The piano and harp guitar begin to play, rolling and melding and wavering into a melody I instinctively fall into. . .
"The lights go out and I can't be saved,
Tides that I tried to swim against,
Have brought me down upon my knees,
Oh I beg, I beg and plead, singing. . ."
My mind spreads thin on the surface of the music, swirling back into memories so close, so vital, and still so far, far from me now. . .
"You are, you are,
You are, you are. . ."
Frank, and his good-morning smile under his untidy, sleep-touseled hair. The joy of sharing a small pot of tea so hot it made the steel teacups almost unbearable to hold. The sharp, acid cold of the morning air that slanted its way into our small apartment when he opened the door to leave for work. The bracing posture I always adopted when I would follow a few minutes later. The noise and motion and routine of my farming station. A caf for lunch, sometimes with Frank, if his sanitation rounds brought him close enough to that township at the right time of day. Hours and hours in the lab, coaxing nutrition from tired gene pools, forcing life back into failing strains of plants. A water distribution station for tea. On the main farming floor, a crop regulator in pieces all around me, as I search for the broken part deep inside its metal shell. Home, for a supper of bean and carrot stew, and dense, flat corn bread spread with tasteless, oily margarine.
A kiss from my husband for dessert. . .
"Confusion that never stops,
The closing walls and the ticking clocks, gonna,
Come back and take you home,
I could not stop, that you now know, singing,
Come out upon my seas,
Cursed missed opportunities, am I,
A part of the cure,
Or am I part of the disease, singing. . ."
My hands ache to run through short, straight brown hair, my eyes long to look into steady, hazel depths, my heart wants the normal, ordinary life of my town, my work, my family.
Even in the midst of a dying world, stranded on a metal island floating in the middle of a toxic ocean, while all around it raged in yet another World War, it was. . .
It is home.
He is. . .
"You are, you are. . ."
He was. . .
"And nothing else compares. . ."
For the first time since leaving Skycity 15, my heart is full of Frank.
No, that's not true. . .
My heart was never full after he died. No matter how much I mourned, no matter how long I waited, I was still an exoskeleton, scoured empty by the same nuclear blast that had dissolved him into atoms.
Now, for the first time since he died, I am full, replete. . . satisfied. The memories are sad, but I am not. He is so near to me at this moment, somehow, so real, so true, so sweet and kind and good. . .
"You are, you are,
Home, home, where I wanted to go. . ."
I open my hand, and look at the lines on my palm. The indirect light from the stage picks out every tiny crisscrossing ridge, every shape and angle, wrinkle and branch. . .
Two husbands, and maybe three. . .
With a gentle, sighing drop, Frank falls into the warm, enclosing aether of time, and grief slips through my fingers. . .
"Home, home, where I wanted to go,
You are, you are. . ."
The music slowly fades into the responding applause, as simply and as naturally as a leaf-stem joins a twig.
Very, very gradually, I come back to myself.
When I'm aware of my surroundings again, Tory and his dance partner are sitting next to me, telling some sort of funny story to Leo, who is sitting across from them.
Gwyllyn is in the middle of a much different song, more thudding and electric -
". . .Thank God the week is done,
I feel like a zombie goin' back to life,
Back, back to life.
Hands up, and suddenly,
We all got our hands up,
No control of my body,
Ain't I seen you before?
I think I remember those
Eyes, eyes, eyes,
Eyes, eyes, eyes. . ."
I don't much like this one, though I'm unsure why. Perhaps I would like it if I were fifteen years younger, but for whatever reason, this particular music doesn't do much for me.
I smile at Tory's dance partner, searching for something to say.
"So. . . was this your request?"
Oh, that was brilliant, Beauchamp. Maybe you should ask him about his dental hygiene next. . .
"Och, nae," he waves his hands and makes a bit of a grimace, "This is'nae sae much my style."
"Oh thank heaven," I slouch in real relief that I try to pass off as a joke, "I thought I was the only one!"
"Nae, ye'er no'," he looks at me slightly dubiously for a second, then shrugs and says, conspiratorially, "T'was mos' like one o' the Campbell's moved up heer from down Glesgae way - no' a born Highlander."
"Hm, that's who probably requested it, huh?" I reply, grinning, "Just you watch, it'll be Murtagh or someone, just to spite us both."
"Agch! Haud yer wheesht! Et bettar no' be!" He bellows a great, rolling laugh, and elbows me companionably in the forearm.
"Jam!" calls Tory, "Share the bounty?" When Jamie turns, Tory gestures at the bottles, and Jamie nods, quickly pouring four shot glasses full of the strawberry vodka. One he hands to Gil, one he keeps, and two he slides over to me.
"Would ye give these tae Ollie?" he asks, casually.
"Ollie?" With Tory's voice still in my ears, it takes me a second to register the name Jamie said. I don't know that name. . . but then it's clear who he means, "Oh, right!"
I hand the drinks off with a smile.
But when I turn back, there is a completely inexplicable expression on Jamie's face.
"Oliver!" says, Jamie, sharply.
The man sitting next to me looks up, "Aye?"
Jamie gives him several prompting looks, coupled with glances at me.
Ollie only looks baffled - but not half as baffled as I feel.
Finally Jamie's lip twists, and he takes his shot of vodka with a grimace I'm certain has nothing to do with the alcohol. Then, suddenly, he is standing, bowing to me with his hand outstretched,
"Will ye doo me the honour of dancin' wi' me, Mrs. Beauchamp?"
Wait. . . what?
". . . now? It's the middle of a s-"
"Aye. Now," he says, his eyes steel-grey in the low light, their expression veiled, but sharp and bright nevertheless.
I suddenly realize I've never seen Jamie angry yet.
This may very well be it.
But I haven't the slightest idea why. . .
I put my hand in his, and he all but drags me to the dance floor, holding my fingers with the sort of cold, relentless grip I never expected he would use on me.
"Yeah, baby tonight, the D-J got us fallin' in love again. . ."
"Jamie?" I whisper urgently, "What. . . ?"
He silences me with a look, then wraps his other arm around me without letting go of my hand. He doesn't lead us into any sort of dance, only stands there, holding me, rocking us back and forth a little, red fury boiling in his eyes, and icy disgust bleeding onto me from everywhere we touch.
"Jamie!" I hiss, "What the hell-
"I dinnae ken what it's like in Oxford," he bursts out with a vicious whisper, "Bu' in the Highlands, a woman doesnae speak tae some'un shee's no' been introduced tae - particularly no' a man - an' especially no' all friendly an' laughin' like ye were wi' Ollie - ye ken?"
"So dance, dance, like it's the last, last night of your life, life,
Gonna get you right. . ."
I'm gaping at him, completely unable to speak for several excruciatingly long heartbeats. Then, my voice catches up with me, and my own anger flares, hot and growling.
"Says the man who didn't introduce himself to me until he was lying down in a horse trailer, demanding I lie down next to him, and I insisted on knowing his name first! I insisted, Jamie! You didn't offer!" I hiss the words at him, going completely still in his grasp.
"Tha' was an emergency, an' well ye ken it!"
I snap back at him, "Eating tea together that day wasn't! And sitting near each other in the van that evening wasn't either!"
"An' d'ye think I didnae regret neglecting my duty both o' those times? Tha' I still regret no doin' it? Why d'ye think I told ye my real name when ye asked? By then, I owed it tae ye!"
I blink, heart racing. What is he saying?
"O-owed?"
"Aye!"
"Well, if I'm owed an introduction, then why didn't you just introduce me to Ollie?"
He growls in the back of his throat, and his grip tightens on me, like he's desperately trying not to hit something. Or someone.
"Because I've already promised ye honour, an' if Oliver Mackenzie cannae do ye the simple courtesy of introducing himself tae ye, then he doesnae deserve yer presence, let alone yer smiles and laughter!"
My eyes frantically rove all over his face. What. . . ? Is he. . . ? Have I misread him again?
"Then. . . then why aren't you angry at him?"
"I am angry at him," he sighs, harshly, "But it's ye I care about."
My anger dies, and I melt against him in relief. I have misread him.
No, not entirely. He's also not communicating as well as he ought to be. . .
"Well then, next time you want to show me you care, try not taking your frustrations with someone else out on me, okay?" I nod at where his hand is still gripping mine, "My fingers are going numb, Jamie."
He stares at our hands for a second before relaxing his hold, "A-aye. . . sorry. . ."
While we've been talking, the previous song finished, and another is underway. The dance floor didn't clear between songs, so our presence for both has not drawn any notice. He shifts into a dance posture, holding me close to him again, this time with a cradling pressure against my upper back.
"I saw your eyes,
And they touched my mind,
Though it took a while,
I was falling in love. . ."
We find our rhythm again, not as quickly as last time, but more smoothly."You know Jamie, you ought to have phrased yourself better, really you ought. I mean, 'A woman doesn't talk to man she hasn't been introduced to' makes it sound like you're angry with me."
His cheeks go a bit red - though if it is from embarrassment or residual fury, I don't know - "For a moment, I was, at that. Tae see ye doin' all just as ye should, makin' all the motions of friendship, and he treating them as his due. . . an' then realizing he was doin' so wi'out even the barest gesture of respect for ye. . . Ye'er above that, Claire."
"I was falling in love. . ."
I shake my head, "Above it? Above what, my lad? I'm just a woman on a date with my boyfriend, and he's only a man at the same party we're at. We're all here to relax, have a drink, and good time - to get away from the world for a little while. Probably he just forgot."
His lips twist somewhat petulantly, "Weel, tha' is'no an excuse."
"Oh, no? And what about your reaction? Making me think you were furious at me? Am I above that, too?"
"I did warn ye I had the de'il's oon temper. . ."
"And I suppose you think that is an excuse?"
He goes quiet for several long seconds.
"Falling in love. . ."
Finally, he smiles, slightly shamefaced, "Nae, but I did also say I didnae always think wi' my head. . ."
I snort lightly, "Well, I could make quite a court case out of that, but I won't." The music fades out, and we all stop dancing to applaud, "Let's just say you owe me a drink, and leave it at that, okay?"
"A generous offer, if ever I heard one, mo Sorcha," he says, laying an arm lightly across my shoulders as we leave the dance floor, "Would ye like to try a cider float?"
"I've. . . never heard of such a thing."
"Tha's no surprise. As far as I ken, Letitia invented it. It's made from Leoch's homemade hard pear-cider, mulled wi' spices, then chilled. Then she put two frozen pear slices in it, an' a scoop of vanilla ice cream. We'er famous for them now. It's been one of the mos' popular orders in the Cranesmuir pubs for almost a decade."
"It sounds amazing."
"Right. I'll get us a pair of 'em."
He leaves me near where Colum and his people sat for the first set, and goes to get our drinks.
I lean up against one of the columns holding up the balcony. I giggle a bit to myself. Now, there is a pun. Colum - column.
Stunningly brilliant, Beauchamp!
The momentary disagreement with Jamie briefly forced me to sharpen my wits, but I might as well admit it - after all the whisky and vodka, coupled with much more sugar than I'm used to, and who knows what was in the daiquiri, I'm right on the edge of being quite pleasantly tipsy. I'm nowhere near drunk yet, but after this cider float, it might be time to switch to water for a while. . .
"Ta the smartarse who tride ta request 'Jump Around'. . ." Gwyllyn takes a deliberately extended pause, and smirks as most of the room boos and hisses, ". . . anyway, heer's 'Wonderwall'."
Everyone in the Great Hall laughs. I don't get what's funny, but by now it's easy to laugh along with them.
A hand appears in front of me, palm up, "May I have the honour of this dance, Mrs. Beauchamp?" asks Dougal, bowing formally.
All at once, I am ice-cold sober. There's no time to look around for Jamie or any other support. My opponent has timed his approach well - this is him, versus me, just like we agreed. I pull myself upright, and look him directly in the eyes.
There is the usual calculating ambition in his expression, and more than a little arrogance, but I can detect no overt hatred or violent intent.
Very well then. . .
With a delicate, cautious gesture that I hope still manages to convey some grace and nobility, I put my hand in his.
"Whatever honours may or may not be mine to bestow, Mr. Mackenzie, I would have guessed that you, of all people, had no interest in them."
He smiles tightly, "And ye would have guessed correctly, Mrs. Beauchamp."
I raise one eyebrow, silently questioning his motives.
He straightens to his full height, and places one hand formally on my waist. It is a detached touch, not in the least intrusive, "I have found there are few places in the world nearly so private as an active dance floor, Mrs. Beauchamp."
The other couples are ranged around us, and a moment later, the music starts.
"Today, is gonna be the day
That they're gonna throw it back to you. . ."
Privacy? Huh. I haven't thought about it that way before, but perhaps he's right. Haven't I discovered something similar myself tonight, several times already? But the presence of so many others in the same room does put quite a hamper on what you can do, and how loud you can speak. . .
Or how much support you can muster.
There isn't just privacy on the dance floor, there can be isolation. Sudden, disorienting isolation. . .
And then I know. This is what he's been planning. Maybe not this exact thing specifically, but something like it, is what he's been aiming for all along. To get me in public, to defeat me in front of everyone, to tear down all of what I've spent the last two weeks building. For a moment, my heart gives a frantic flutter, like a faulty Safnet screen, overwhelmed with stress.
"By now, you should've somehow
Realized what you gotta do."
And then, I see them. Jamie and Murtagh, each positioned at a corner of the dance floor, in easy reach of my glance if ever I should need them.
That is enough to calm my nerves.
It would even be reassuring, if there wasn't the entire length of the dance floor open between them. Room enough for Dougal to slip though the crowd with me, get me in private, and then who knows what. . .
And then I see Gil. And Harry. And Leo, Arnold, Tory, Ollie, Edan, Alain, Peter, Gerald and Willie, all lined up along the long edge of the dance floor, each one with their arms crossed, and a decidedly non-festive look on their faces. I have no idea what any of them plan to do if I ever make eye contact with them, but they are there. Surrounding me. Supporting me.
Me. Not Dougal.
It is, perhaps, the smallest and most unremarkable handful of allies, but to me, it is as good as having an army at my back.
My Central blood rises in my veins, and I look Dougal defiantly in the face, "Well, privacy achieved, Mr. Mackenzie."
But not isolation. Nor disorientation. Thanks be to god, Jamie and Murtagh. I don't know what they told the boys, but thanks be to them, too.
"I don't believe that anybody,
Feels the way I do, about you now. . ."
Dougal glances around, instantly noticing my men. He half smiles, almost generously, even as his nostrils flare in frustration, "I see ye've been. . . fortifying your position."
"Yes. And laying in supplies."
"Oh? Are ye expecting a siege?"
I raise my eyebrows. He is the one insisting on a war. And now, he's going to get one.
"I am expecting a prolonged offensive. Whether or not it will include a siege is neither here nor there when it comes to needing supplies."
"Backbeat, the word was on the street,
That the fire in your heart is out.
I'm sure you've heard it all before,
But you never really had a doubt."
He tries to lead me into a more complicated set of steps, using everything he has to try and get me off-kilter again, but it is too late. I refuse his lead-tells four times before he relents, and falls back into the simple rhythm we've already established.
"Ah yes, quite right," he nods, eyes narrowing slightly at being so neatly thwarted twice in the space of seconds, "But there are ways of avoiding offensives altogether, ye ken."
Avoiding them? That's quite a change of gears. So far, everything about this dance has been confrontation. Is he calling for a truce now? Why?
"I am aware of that."
"Aye. But are ye amenable to it?"
"Amenable to what? Be clear, Dougal," I smile so sweetly at him it's obviously a sneer, "You don't need politician's double-talk with me, after all."
His hand tightens on my back, almost infinitesimally. I would think it an unconscious twitch, if not for the dangerous look in his eyes, "Would ye care tae discuss a possible prisoner exchange?"
A parley then. Not a truce.
I don't know whether to be encouraged or disappointed. We don't have much grounds for parley yet. At this stage, we don't have any prisoners. Hardly any battle prizes at all, really. . .
"I don't believe that anybody,
Feels the way I do, about you now."
"Prisoner exchange? I was unaware our opening skirmish went so far as to provide hostages."
"Were ye indeed? Odd, considering they were your main bargaining point last time."
"What? No they weren't."
The only thing I have that might, possibly, at a stretch, be considered a hostage, is my knowledge of Hamish's parentage. And Dougal brought that up himself last time, not me. I hardly wormed it out of him, so there's no possible way the knowledge can be considered a legitimate battle prize.
And besides, why on earth would he bargain with me for his son?
"Oh indeed? Then what am I tae make of yer. . . what shall I call them? Brass. . . baws? Oor should I say, cubes?"
The spy cameras. He's opening hostage negotiations for the spy cameras? Inanimate objects are not, and cannot, be hostages. Such things are spoils of war, and may be exchanged for other spoils, but not for prisoners. Of course, items with intrinsic value may be traded for hostages, but that is a ransom, not direct prisoner exchange.
What the bloody hell is he on about?
"And all the roads we have to walk are winding.
And all the lights that lead us there are blinding. . ."
"Those are not prisoners, Dougal, you know that as well as I do."
"But they are all ye have tae set against my prisoner."
"Your pris. . . wait, you're equating the value of intrinsically worthless inanimate objects with. . . people?"
With. . . his son?
I'm breathless with the sheer, disgusting, unadulterated gall. I might as well have asked him to trade Hamish for a new info-screen. . .
"No' people. Person. You have. . . the brass. I have the. . . copper." He looks over the crowd surrounding the dance floor, his gaze settling on. . . Jamie.
Not Hamish. Jamie. A complete bystander in my war with Dougal. Well, not so much any more, but he certainly was the last time Dougal and I had a battle.
And he's still trying to treat Jamie like a battle prize.
I don't think I've ever been angrier than I am at this moment. For a second I can do nothing but tremble with the force of it.
"There are many things that I,
Would like to say to you, but I don't know how."
I have to admit, I didn't think he'd stoop this low. I was driven to blackmail, as a last resort to try and find some kind of peace and security here. He is choosing it, as an opening tactic in what is clearly a complete battle plan. Cold-bloodedly, he has chosen purposeful, deliberate, unnecessary dishonour.
Whatever long lines of Humanity have gone into making me, and whatever heritage I can claim from them, no matter how noble, no matter how base, it is deeply, intensely offended. I was promised noble warfare, and he has offered me this? I clench my jaw so tight I'm afraid I might break teeth. The fool. The cowardly, self-entitled, incompetent. . . asshat. He has no idea what he's doing, not a clue who he's dealing with, and not the least care for the inevitable fallout of his suggestion. . .
I could cheerfully strangle the man, right here, now, in full view of everyone. With my bare hands.
But that would be ten-thousand steps beyond counterproductive. . .
"James Fraser is neither yours to give nor mine to take, Dougal Mackenzie," I hiss, deliberately using Jamie's real name, "And you ought to be ashamed you ever gave a single thought to it."
He raises an eyebrow, still secure in his stated position, unaware that I've already got him in a corner. . . "Is tha' soo? Weel, a'least consider it before ye dismiss the idea. Ye ken I can make his life a bitter, bitter hell-"
"I know that, you idiot!" I interrupt with a vicious snap, "But while I'm thinking about you committing war crimes, why don't you pull your head out of your small intestine for a minute and consider exactly what your stupid suggestion just gave me permission to do. Alright? I'll even explain it to you - and I'll speak slowly, so do try to keep up."
He blinks, shocked into silence.
Normally I don't venture into personal insult territory like this. No matter how bad things got with Jamie's friends, I'd been very careful to decry their actions, but never their persons. I never called Gil or Harry stupid - not to their face, anyway.
I take hold of my emotions, and forcefully attempt to rein myself in.
Dougal has no idea how close I am to literally tearing his face off. . .
"Because maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me,
And after all. . . you're my wonderwall. . ."
"First, you confirm to me that you consider me your enemy. Fine, that's mutual. And then you open parley for hostages. Still with me?"
He sneers, and does not reply.
"Well, putting aside the fact that ransom for a person must either be a person or persons to make equality of rank, or, after suitable negotiation, good coin of the realm - and so demanding what you are in exchange is against the rules anyway - you go on to identify the ally of mine you have in hold. Well, not you, exactly, you've just cast yourself as the capturing general. Which you aren't. But I'll go along with pretending you are, because therein lies the point. Now, think for longer than two seconds about what being the capturing general means in a case of privately negotiated ransom you jaw-dropping moron."
His mouth works for a while, but he says nothing, and I finally see the wheels start to turn in his head.
"Today was gonna be the day,
But they'll never throw it back to you.
By now you should've somehow
Realized what you're not to do."
In noble warfare, there are three avenues an opponent may take to release a prisoner taken in battle. Which Jamie absolutely is not, active murder warrant be damned. That warrant wasn't issued by Dougal, and I highly doubt he's forcing Jamie to stay at Leoch, for any reason. He might have something else over him, but I can't think what it could be. . .
And if he did, most likely Dougal would be suggesting the first way to reclaim prisoners - open ransom for a publicly agreed upon price. It's good he didn't suggest this, because it would be beyond stupid at this stage of things, and entirely backwards to the actual situation. If anything, in the open, public view, I am the one holding Jamie, and all Dougal has is his grandiose posturing. Dougal can no more give me Jamie than I could give Dougal Letitia.
And as for his making Jamie's life hell. . . I wasn't joking him about that being a war crime. I'd have so much over him if he did that, I highly doubt he meant it seriously.
The second way to do this, now that battle prizes have been identified in parley, would be for me to lead an assault to free any hostages Dougal might have taken. Open, frontal attack, or secret infiltration, both are allowed by the rules. I may yet do either, or both, now. If he has anything over Jamie - which he may - opening negotiations like this means Dougal has given me permission to go looking for whatever it is. And if I find it, I am allowed to do all in my power to free my ally from it. The rules of battle apply, but that's all.
He might have considered this aspect of things, but if so, he shows all the signs of still having no idea who he's dealing with. Why confront me with it in the middle of a concert, while I'm surrounded by new allies? Does he think he's going to intimidate me somehow? If I wasn't intimidated before, I'm certainly not going to be now. How on earth is he more willing to confront me when I have backup, than he was when I was all by myself, and on crutches?
"I don't believe that anybody,
Feels the way I do, about you now. . ."
And then, there's the third way. Private ransom, for a personally negotiated price. This is what he is suggesting - that I give him back the spy cameras, and in return he leaves me and Jamie alone. But quite beyond the fact that what he's demanding is manifestly against the rules, the problem with his suggestion, and what he has signally failed to take into account, is that even if it were allowed in this instance, this type of negotiation is not made with the capturing general - but with the person who actually has the hostage in hold.
And, in this case, that's not Dougal.
That's Colum.
Colum owns Leoch. Colum controls Leoch. If anyone is being held hostage here, he's the one to make a deal with. Even if I played by Dougal's rules in this, I would have to go to the Laird to negotiate exchanging the cameras for Jamie.
In effect, Dougal has just given me permission to walk right up to his brother and tell him everything. About the spy cameras in my bedroom, the microphones in my clothes, Dougal's attempts to isolate me - which include him disobeying a direct order from Colum - everything. I'd even be within my rights to tell Colum about Hamish now, since Dougal first brought the boy up during our initial confrontation, and if I go to Colum in the context of a hostage negotiation, that means I have blanket permission to discuss the terms of all previous related bargains.
An incredibly selfish, thickheaded, and downright evil suggestion on Dougal's part. Pure blackmail, only barely cloaked in a token wisp or two of noble warfare. Pure, clumsy blackmail. I cannot believe he thought of it, and I am aghast he actually thought it might work. A staggering miscalculation.
I can tell when he realizes it, too. His steps falter for a second, and he stops leading our dance.
"And all the roads that lead you there are winding.
And all the lights that light the way are blinding."
In order to keep either of us from falling over, I take over directing our steps. I do so carefully, allowing it to appear like he is still leading, but very firmly taking control of our dance nevertheless.
The double meaning of this is not lost on me.
I sigh. I thought - I really thought he was better than this. . .
"I could destroy you, right here, right now, Dougal Mackenzie," I say, through clenched teeth, "And ask yourself - do you think I don't have the guts to actually do it? Do you? You really ought to have asked yourself that beforehand, but since that ship has sailed, go ahead and ask yourself this too - are you willing to live with the fact that I have this power, because you handed it to me?" I lean forward and whisper, "Are you comfortable knowing I could annihilate you, because of your own misjudgement?"
I don't have to explain any more. He knows.
By the furious, stunned look in his eyes, bloody hell, does he know. . .
"There are many things that I,
Would like to say to you but I don't know how. . ."
Maybe. Maybe I've gotten through.
Maybe.
"It's incredibly fortunate for you, then, that your destruction is not my goal. Not now, nor has it ever been."
"Oh?" he grinds out, flatly, "Sae what is ye'er goal then?"
He actually doesn't know. He is the one who insisted on going to war with me, and he doesn't know that all I've ever wanted from him is to be his ally.
"I said maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me,
And after all, you're my wonderwall. . ."
For the first time tonight, I find it in my heart to feel a tiny bit of pity for him.
"You'll know," I say, as kindly as possible, "When I've succeeded."
When. Not if.
It's more imperative now than ever. Somehow or other, Dougal Mackenzie must become my ally. He's too much of a danger to himself and others for me to dismiss.
If I'm going to have any hope of improving the future, this man must be on my side. He could undo all of my efforts, otherwise.
"I said maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me,
And after all, you're my wonderwall. . ."
Since I am leading, I direct us to the corner near where Jamie is standing.
Then, slowly, deliberately, making sure Dougal sees what I'm doing, I make eye contact with Jamie.
Please, my lad, please give him a graceful way out. . .
"And after all. . . you're my wonderwall!"
The music fades slowly, and as the rest of the dancers begin to applaud, Jamie bows to us, very formally,
"I thank ye, Dougal, fer steppin' in. I'm afraid I havenae been quite as vigilant in my attendance tae Mrs. Beauchamp as I ought tae have been taenight." He extends a hand to me, and I take it, gratefully.
Excellent way to phrase it, my lad. . .
A strange look crosses Dougal's face, "Aye, ye'ev been lax, laddie. 'Tis fortunate fer ye indeed tha' th'young lady is sae well accomplished, she has bu' littel need fer escortin'." He bows to us both, then turns on his heel, and retreats across the room towards the drinks tables.
I exhale in relief, and slump against Jamie's side a little. He puts a steadying arm around me.
"Soo. . . did ye reach forgiveness this time?"
"No."
"Ah."
I make my best approximation of a Scottish noise, somewhere between a growl and a grunt, "Take me back to our table, Jamie. I need to be around people of kindness and intelligence."
He blinks, and looks at me, slightly shocked. "Weel now. That certainly says it all. . ."
I shake my head, "It doesn't. Not nearly. But I can't tell you any more right now, I'm sorry."
"Dinnae fash. Jus' so long as ye'er alright?"
"I will be. When I've calmed down a bit."
"Still want that drink?"
"I think I need it. . ."
We're slow walking back to the table, so when we get there, the boys have already reassembled, and are joking and crowing over their little adventure.
I, am not so sure. . .
"It isn't exactly something to laugh at, my lads. . ."
"Wha' isnae?" says Geillis, returning with a bowl of sliced fruit and a small plateful of cookies, "Ye awl laving me aloon lik' tha'?"
"Aye," cuts in Murtagh, "T'was shameful, and th'lot o' us ought tae apologize tae ye." He inclines his head respectfully, and salutes her.
The rest of the men take this very obvious hint, and settle down dramatically.
It appears I'm not the only one at the table who doesn't quite trust Geillis. . .
She shrugs, and gives a flattered smile, "Aw, Mr. Fitzgibbons, ye'er goin' tae mek me blush!"
"Small chance of tha', Mrs. Duncan!" says Jamie, teasingly.
Everyone laughs, and the tension is broken.
Gwyllyn has begun a new song, and the dance floor is quite full for this one.
"Found my heart and broke it here,
Made friends and lost them through the years. . ."
I take a sip of my cider. It's not overwhelmingly spiced, and the ice cream is a perfect accompaniment. It appears that, in this matter at least, Letitia has excellent taste.
"Sae how is tha' wee crop regulator workin' fer ye, pet?" Geillis asks me.
"I'm on my way,
Driving at ninety down those country lanes. . ."
I shrug a little, "Not bad, considering. I'm new to this machine specifically, and it's the middle of November, so naturally, there have been hiccups."
"Och, natcharally."
"And I miss the way you make me feel, and it's real,
We watched the sun set, over the castle on the hill."
Over Geillis's shoulder, I see Dougal striding around the stage, getting the drummer's attention, and giving him some kind of instructions.
That's a bit odd. The band has had completely free rein all night. They've even been taking the requests in whatever order they want.
". . . I still remember,
These old country lanes,
When we did not know the answers. . ."
This music is easy to like, and the cider is going down smoothly. I've managed to contain my adrenaline reaction to just a slightly upset stomach, and the sweet, cool drink is doing me no end of good. My queasiness has only just subsided when I see Dougal again, only this time, making straight for our table.
". . . Over the castle on the hill."
Gwyllyn finishes the song, but Dougal doesn't join in on the applause. His gaze is steady and his step is lance-straight, right for us.
If he's coming to ask me to dance again, I'm going to refuse. Under the table, I take hold of Jamie's hand, trying to communicate this through only the power of touch.
Please, please guard me, my lad. . .
He squeezes my fingers reassuringly, and I know he understands.
But then I realize - I have no idea what Dougal is about to do. I've already seen him do something I completely did not expect tonight, so who knows where his mind is at now?
Hell, he's perfectly capable of asking Murtagh to dance, just to see what the reaction will be.
Then, he's here. I grip Jamie's hand, but Dougal doesn't give a single glance at me. Instead, he bows, and offers his hand. . .
To Geillis.
She gives us all a delighted grin, and jumps up to join him.
Huh. Now that, I did not see coming.
I look at Murtagh. He gives me a small wave and shake of the head - clearly, whatever is going on, now is not the time for explanations.
As soon as they reach the dance floor, Gwyllyn gestures to the drummer, and they start the music with a rolling bang.
"Shot through the heart!
And you're to blame!
Darlin', you give love, a bad name."
Most of the men around our table collapse into mocking laughter.
"An angel's smile is what you sell,
You promise me heaven, then put me through hell.
Chains of love got a hold on me,
When passion's a prison, you can't break free!"
Geillis dives into a hip-swinging, foot-stomping dance, but at the very first note, Dougal froze in place, and he hasn't moved since. I've learned his mannerisms a bit by now, and I can tell, even from here, that he is shocked, frustrated, and something else I can't quite place. . .
I'm sure it isn't fury, but by the set of his shoulders, it isn't too far removed from that. . .
"Oh, you're a loaded gun, yeah.
Oh, there's nowhere to run!
No one can save me,
The damage is done!"
Except for Jamie and Murtagh, all the men around me are rolling with laughter at a mixture of Dougal's discomfort, Geillis's exuberance, and their own recent triumph.
I just shake my head.
"Aye, the Sassenach has the rights of it, lads," says Murtagh, so solemnly that everyone stops laughing and looks up, "She kens tha' music was a mistake - oor something Dougal didnae expect, annyway. An ye' all ken tha' ye dinnae surprise a stallion in his loose box, do ye no'? Weel, it holds true, lads. It holds true."
I nod, and make eye contact with a few of them in turn, "All I know for certain is - in battle, you always respect your enemy. Or it's your own head you risk, not theirs."
"Dougal isnae our enemy, lassie," says Harry, slightly shocked.
"Oh no? Well, he was a few minutes ago. Or do you seriously think he's just going to brush that off as the schoolboy antics of his brother's farming staff?"
They all squirm a bit.
Jamie pounds his fist on the table, "Did I no' tell th'lot of ye? I said dinnae go down there wi' me unless ye mean it. Unless ye can stick by it. Ye ken I did."
"Now Jam," says Gil, "Ye ken there wasnae a lot o' time tae explain-"
"Doo I havetae explain honour tae ye? Trust? Respect? Agch!" He pounds the table again, and then presses his knuckles to his mouth, as though trying to prevent himself from saying whatever he wants to say next.
"I play my part, and you play your game,
You give love a bad name!"
"Jamie's right, lads. Now the choice has been made. An' t'wil no' be unmade, no' while I run the stables, ye ken?" Murtagh looks sternly around the table, "Ye'ev picked yer side o' the haystack. Now ye sleep in et."
I smile at his metaphor, "Not that there's any real danger to any of you, of course."
"Oh there isnae?" says Edan, "How if he fires th'lot of us?"
"He can't do that without having to explain why - to Colum. And Colum was the one who hired me, so how Dougal feels about it makes no matter."
Of course, I can't tell them about the bigger issues at play here - all they can know is that Dougal doesn't like me.
"And besides that, if you stick together, he can't stand against you all - as you just proved not fifteen minutes ago," I shake my head again, "No, if there are to be reprisals, he'll visit them on me, and maybe Jamie, not on the lot of you. If you want to stand with us, though, we'd welcome that."
"Shot through the heart,
And you're to blame,
You give love a bad name!
I play my part, and you play your game,
You give love a bad name. . ."
Dougal has relented slightly, stomping stiffly around the dance floor, letting Geillis writhe and twirl all around him. He doesn't look half as ridiculous as he did a minute ago.
No one starts laughing again.
"Aye lassie," says Gil, finally, "I'm wi' Jam, an' if tha' means ye too, I'm all fer it."
Slowly, one by one, everyone else around the table nods.
It isn't anywhere close to how I wanted to become one of them, but as things stand, I'll take it, and be thankful for it.
"Weel, now that tha's settled, pour the vodka, laddie!" says Murtagh, almost cheerfully.
Jamie puts down his cider, and pours an impressive number of shots from both vodka bottles, nearly filling the tray he brought.
Gwyllyn somehow smoothly transitions from the sharp, loud drums of one song, into the sweet, light rhythm of another.
"Fly me to the moon,
Let me play among the stars. . ."
On the dance floor, Geillis stops her wild dancing, and offers a placating hand to Dougal. After a slight hesitation, he takes it, and he swings her into the dignified, respectable dance I'm sure he initially intended on.
"Let me see what spring is like,
On, a-Jupiter and Mars.
In other words, hold my hand,
In other words, baby, kiss me. . ."
The tray of shots makes the rounds, and I grab another of the coconut flavoured ones. After the impressive ride my stomach has taken in the past half hour, I think I deserve it. . .
"Fill my heart with song,
And let me sing for ever more.
You are all I long for,
All I worship and adore."
Under the table, I spread my hand out on the hand Jamie has resting on his knee. Tonight was just supposed to be a date. A fun thing for us to do together. How has it turned into. . . whatever this is?
"In other words, please be true,
In other words, I love you."
I comb my fingers through his, and gently scratch the skin of his knee between his knuckles. The fine down of hairs on the back of his hand tickle my palm. He sits up straighter, and again nudges his leg over a bit, until it is pressed against mine.
"Fill my heart with song,
Let me sing for ever more,
You are all I long for,
All I worship and adore."
I lean my head on Jamie's shoulder, lost once more in Gwyllyn's enchanting voice.
"In other words, please be true!
In other words,
Oh, in other words,
I
Love
You."
Jamie doesn't applaud - so as not to jostle me, I assume, dreamily, but the rest of the table does. A minute later, Geillis is back, grabbing another shot of vodka, and taking a large bite out of one of her cookies.
"Och, puir Gwyllyn! He accidentally played my request befoor Dougal's! He'el nevar live et doon, puir lamb!"
"Do you mean Gwyllyn or Dougal?" I ask, not quite without smirking.
She roars a laugh, then sighs, delightedly, "Booth, I suppose! But et's Gwyllyn I feel sorrae fer."
"Ye dinnae feel any pity fer Dougal, then?" asks Jamie, wryly.
"Nae, he deserved et, t'auld coot. He asked me, aftar all. He kent wha' he was gettin' inta." She grins wolfishly, and swallows her shot, "An' now I'm afraid I mus' luv ye an' leave ye, my pets. . ."
"Ye arenae drivin' back tae Cranesmuir?" says Murtagh, indicating her shot glass with genuine concern.
"Nae, Mrs. Fitz found me a room in the guest wing - I ha' an appointment earlay taemorrow - cannae be late - an' sae I mus' be off now," she stands and waves, cheerily, "'Night all!"
A chorus of "'Night" and "G'night" follow her away from our table, and out of the Great Hall.
"'N our next request uz 'Circles'," says Gwyllyn, his voice eerily unaffected by how long he's been singing, and what a variety of music he's had to perform.
I wonder how much longer the concert will go on. . .
I look up at Jamie, "Is this your request?"
"Nae," he says, casually, "Ye'll ken when ye hear it, most certainly."
"Hmph." I close my eyes, and let myself get caught up in the music.
"We couldn't turn around,
'Til we were upside down. . ."
And then, I must fall asleep for a minute or two, because when I next open my eyes, the song is winding down, and I have no memory of time passing.
"I dare you to do. . . something. . ."
I inhale deeply, and sit up straight, even though I mourn the loss of Jamie's warm shoulder under my cheek. I feel so comfortable with him, so like myself.
Which is an odd thing to admit to feeling, of course, but I have felt so unlike myself so often recently. Anyone who makes me feel normal as often as Jamie does is an enormous blessing, without a doubt. Even when I thought he was angry at me, I felt like I could be angry in return, and he wouldn't hold that against me. I only rarely had that before Frank, and I certainly haven't had it since. I can hear his voice now, calm and sympathetic, telling me to feel my feelings, telling me it's okay not to understand them, telling me he'll be there to listen when I need him. . .
Except he isn't anymore, and never will be again. . .
"Run away, but we're running in circles,
Run away, run away, run away. . ."
I lean forward a bit, and put my hand on Jamie's knee again. He gives a low hum of approval, and puts an arm around my waist, pulling me as close as I can get.
"'N now ut's a perennial favaroute - 'Despacito'!" calls Gwyllyn.
There's a triumphant crow from a few tables away. I recognize Rupert's voice in it, and I can't help but smile. I spot both him and Angus making their way to a dance floor I notice they've mostly avoided all night. This song appears to be quite popular with the men at our table too, and almost everyone gets up to dance. Murtagh murmurs that he sees an old friend in the under-balcony section, and he goes to talk to him, leaving me and Jamie alone at our table.
"So, this isn't your request, then?" I say, gripping his knee tightly for a second.
"Nae," he grins slyly, and lets his hand slide lower on my hip than is strictly proper. . . "But I've been meanin' tae ask ye - who did ye dress for taenight?"
Gwyllyn starts singing a rapid, upbeat song in a language I don't know. And judging from how little singing along there is, I'd guess very few others here know it either. But the dance floor is filled with couples energetically dancing to it, regardless. It is admittedly catchy. . .
I just snuggle myself into Jamie's hold a little more, "Myself. Entirely. I realized it was the first time I'd had a chance to do so in. . . well, way too long."
His smile widens, and he squeezes my hip, "Good."
"Oh, that's good in your opinion, is it?"
"Aye, shouldnae it be?"
I smile at him, "Should, but very rarely is, my lad. I thought for certain you'd prefer it if I had dressed for you."
"Mm. Maybe another time I would. But taenight? Our first public date?" he leans over and pecks my cheek, "This is perfect."
I hum happily, but I can't let him leave it there, "But. . . why?"
"Because that way I ken I like ye for ye. No' some fancy fethers oor a deliberate tease," he squeezes me gently again, to illustrate his point, "Ye wore this because it was what ye wanted tae wear?"
"Entirely."
"An' ye'er still the bonniest one in the room. I like what ye'er wearing, because it's ye wearing it. An' I'm glad of that."
My insides melt a little bit, "Why Jamie Fraser, you say the sweetest things."
"Mm. Only when they're true. . ." he nuzzles lightly into the hair above my ear, sending tingles all down my side.
My heart jumps, and with a gasp, I push myself a few centimeters away from him, and flip his hand off my hip. He just smiles, and pretends to watch the dancing, while giving me teasing, flirty glances every couple of seconds.
You're in public, Beauchamp! Don't go there right now!
"So, what are the words to this song, anyway?" I ask, hoping to change the subject.
"Ye sure ye want tae know?"
I blink, "What? Of course!"
He holds back a laugh, gives me a wry look, and leans over to whisper in my ear.
Twenty seconds later, I'm staring at him, eyes wide, stuck somewhere between shock and horror.
"You. . . you're kidding me!"
"Nae, I'm no'. Tha's what the words mean."
I nod at the dance floor, "Do they know that?"
He shrugs, "Some do. None of them care."
"But. . . but. . ."
He grins, leans over, an whispers the meaning of another verse.
My cheeks warm embarrassingly, and I push him away from me, and slap his arm, "You stop that, right now, Fraser!"
He finally gives in to laughter, "Can't stand the heat, my lass?"
I try to give him a stern look. It's difficult when I can't keep a grin off my face, "When it's coming from you? Not at all. Not in the least bit."
He shakes his head, growls fondly, and drapes a soothing arm around my shoulders, pulling me close again.
Again I don't know how he does it, but Gwyllyn smoothly transitions from one song into another completely different song. Everyone on the dance floor laughs and claps at the first few bars, and no one decides to leave, instead swinging into the new music they apparently are all familiar with. . .
"Pressure,
Pushing down on me,
Pressing down on you. . ."
It's another one I don't know. I sigh, "Are you ever going to tell me when it's your request, Jamie?"
"I keep tellin' ye - ye'll ken." His mouth quirks up, teasingly, "But I will say, if I'd requested Queen, I would've at least have had the decency tae ask fer 'Fat Bottomed Girls'."
I snort, and poke him hard in the ribs, "Have I told you that I hate you, Jamie Fraser?"
He scoops up my hand and presses a soft, lingering kiss to my knuckles, "No' nearly enough. . ."
"These are the days it never rains but it pours. . ."
This time, I run my hand slowly down his thigh before resting my fingers on his knee. Delicately, I start to draw patterns on his skin with my nails, scratching ever so slightly, just barely dipping my fingertips underneath the hem of his kilt. . .
He coughs lightly, "Ah, ye ken I'm a True Scotsman, aye?"
"Never doubted it, my lad," I say casually, tracing a fancy design over his kneecap before returning to play with the edge of the MacKenzie tartan.
"D'ye. . ." he coughs again, and his eyes narrow at me, "D'ye ken what that means?"
"Well, I've never heard the saying before. It doesn't mean what it sounds like it means?"
"Nae. It doesnae." Once again he leans over and whispers into my ear.
My fingers freeze, I sit up straight, and I stare at him, with who knows what sort of expression on my face.
"You. . . this time you're kidding me, right?"
"Nae. That's what it means."
"Oh." I take a few seconds to collect myself. If that's true, then. . . "Well, I guess it's very fortunate you're wearing that leather purse thing. . ." I give him a saucy glance, and start tracing patterns on his skin again.
"Can't we give ourselves one more chance?
Why can't we give love that one more chance?"
"My sporran? Oh, aye. Many a lad has been thankful for a well placed sporran, tae be sure." He shifts, uncomfortably.
I smirk at him, not letting up, and I carefully time my response to the music -
"What's the matter, Jamie? Can't stand the. . ."
". . . pressure-"
He raises his eyebrows, "When it's comin' from ye? No' at all. . ."
Finally, he reaches down, and engulfs my hand in his, stopping all motion, right as the song ends.
"Ye relentless wee tease," he hisses, only just audible through the applause. "Ye'll pay fer that, Claire, I swear by-"
Either the next song title was lost in the applause, or Gwyllyn yet again transitioned without announcing it, but a new strain of music interrupts Jamie.
"Finally," he sighs, stands up, and offers his hand to me.
I take it, knowing this must be his request at last, but I don't ask him to tell me what song it is, waiting to understand on my own, like he keeps saying I will.
On our way to the dance floor, I take a long look around for Dougal, but I can't see him. Not among the dancers, not in the crowd, not sitting in the under-balcony, nowhere.
I would not have thought a man like that could just disappear, but apparently, he has.
I don't even try to deny my relief.
Gwyllyn has deliberately extended his opening instrumental to give us dancers time to assemble properly, but the moment we all do, he dives deliciously into the lyrics -
"On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair,
Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air. . ."
Jamie's eyes meet mine, and all at once, I am lost in their clean-ocean blue, far more than I am even in Gwyllyn's voice. . .
"Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light.
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim,
I had to stop for the night."
The room falls away, and it's just us two, on a wide and lonesome plain, bathed in a sunset light, orange and gold and purple, accompanied only by the pure, intense sound of Gwyllyn's singing.
"There she stood in the doorway,
I heard the mission bell.
And I was thinking to myself,
This could be heaven or this could be Hell."
There's been power in the music all night, but nothing at all like this. This. . . I don't even know what it is. I've had dissociative episodes before, even waking dreams. But I've never taken anyone else with me. . .
"Then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way,
There were voices down the corridor,
I thought I heard them say. . ."
The rich golden light swirls around us as Jamie pulls me tighter, and leads me into a more complicated dance than I've ever attempted before.
"Welcome to the Hotel California.
Such a lovely place,
Such a lovely face.
Plenty of room at the Hotel California,
Any time of year,
You can find it here."
The flat, empty plain around us warps and twists into glowing green hills and hollows of land, all lit by the same light as us two, but throwing blue-black shadows of cold across our path.
"Her mind is Tiffany-twisted, she got the Mercedes bends,
She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys, that she calls friends.
How they dance in the courtyard, sweet summer sweat,
Some dance to remember, some dance to forget!"
All at once we are surrounded by trees, and tables filled with piles of fruit, bread and wine. Birds and moths and other flying creatures criss-cross the blue-velvet sky above us, their wings drawing down the sweeping breeze of early night. There are lanterns among the branches, and the music comes from the ground itself. We dance between the tree trunks, between the bountiful feasts lit with faerie light, and we twist and twirl down a pathway neither of us can see, but both of us know all too well. . .
"So I called up the Captain,
Please bring me my wine.
He said, We haven't had that spirit here since nineteen sixty-nine.
And still those voices are calling from far away,
Wake you up in the middle of the night,
Just to hear them say - "
A veil of blood drapes between us, metallic and sticky, filthy and cloying. Then suddenly it is washed away as we are engulfed by a roaring, foaming wave that stills magically into a deep, still pond made clear and bright by the golden fire that burns beneath it.
"Welcome to the Hotel California
Such a lovely place,
Such a lovely face.
They livin' it up at the Hotel California,
What a nice surprise,
Bring your alibis. . ."
We float in the great blue void until a mountain of stones pours into the water, and drinks it up, pushing us towards the sun. The stars gleam as we are thrown into the sky, still clasped in each other's arms, and we fall. . . fall. . . fall. . . landing safe and breathless in a field of scarlet poppies.
"Mirrors on the ceiling,
The pink champagne on ice,
And she said, We are all just prisoners here, of our own device."
A circle of rosebushes sprout around us, their blooms white, and blue, and pale lavender-grey, their thorns sharp and fierce, their fruit blood-red and vivid.
"And in the master's chambers,
They gathered for the feast
They stab it with their steely knives,
But they just can't kill the beast."
Atop the Spire of Skycity 15 there is a place you can stand, and look down into the pale green ocean. More than once I have thought what it would be like to plummet from the sky, down into the dark depths of the sea.
And so we do, through the poison and death of the water, past the stone and fire of the earth's mantle, the pressure and impossible power of the core, and out, and out, through to the other side of the world, until we are floating in the sky once more, on a purple cloud over a green-golden plain, glowing bright in soft sunset light, eyes locked in a look that is more marriage than glance, arms wrapped around each other, a feeling that is so much more than longing leaving its perfume between us.
"Last thing I remember, I was
Running for the door,
I had to find the passage back to the place I was before.
Relax, said the night man,
We are programmed to receive.
You can check out any time you like,
But you can never leave!"
The music pulls me back into myself, and the walls of Leoch reassemble themselves around me. . . around us.
But still, Jamie is all there is, his fate intertwined with mine, just as our fingers are woven together, just as the music winds and dips through the air, binding us so close. . .
The next thing I know, he is pulling us past a door, and closing it behind us. Then I'm being pushed against a wall, and his lips are fused to mine. A light goes on in the room, but I notice nothing except him, his hands, and his mouth.
We might be in a ballroom or a broom closet, I don't care, just so long as he keeps kissing me.
It's like waking up from a nightmare, only to discover you're in heaven. . .
"Ye ken. . . what they say. . . about dancin'. . . aye?" he asks, in between his attempts to devour me.
"No," I gasp, "What do they say?"
"They say it's almost. . ." his words get lost in my mouth for a second, ". . . almost as bad as fightin'. For what it does tae a man. An', I assume, a woman too. . ."
He plants both hands firmly on my backside, drawing us even closer together. Then he drags one hand down my thigh, lifting my leg against his hip, pressing me to him.
It turns out I am the one who is extremely thankful for the sporran.
It's so good, he is so good, but it's so much, too much, too fast. . .
"Please stop," I whisper.
He does. At once.
He sets me back on my feet, and takes a half step back, "Claire. . . I. . . I'm. . ."
I clap a hand over his mouth, "If you dare say you're sorry, Fraser, I swear I'll scream. It was just too much. That's all. There's nothing to be sorry for. Okay?"
He nods, wraps his arms around me, and rests his forehead on my shoulder.
"Claire. . ." he heaves a great sigh, "I'm no' usually a man to beg, an' god knows I'm ashamed o' myself for asking ye this, now of all times, but. . ." his arms tighten around me, "Please tell me ye want me."
My jaw drops, and I push him just far enough away so that I can look him in the eye, "Want you? Jamie! If that isn't patently obvious by now, I don't know what else I can possibly say. . ."
"But, ye said. . . ye warned me we might nevar. . . and now. . ." he shakes his head, "It's all right if this is all ye want, it's only. . . I. . . I need tae ken that ye. . . I need tae hear it, Claire."
He doesn't look hurt, or thwarted, only sad, and somehow. . . impossibly. . . lost.
Oh, no, no, no, no.
I can't bear being the one who has put such a look in his eyes. Especially after that dance. . .
"There is a very great distance between wanting something and being ready for it, you know." I kiss my fingertips, and trace the outline of his jaw, then push back a few of his curls that have escaped the sticky bonds of condition-holder. "You're a bolt of lightning out of a clear blue sky for me, my lad, surely you know that? Completely unexpected, and thoroughly overwhelming." Softly, I kiss his cheek, "I want you so much, sometimes it terrifies me. I ache with wanting you, Jamie. I'm just. . . not ready yet. I don't know when, or. . . or if. . . I'll ever be ready. But want? You? How could I possibly not?" I sigh, suddenly frustrated, "Oh, my sweet, sweet man, can't you understand?"
The lost look in his eyes slowly transforms into something no less sorrowful, but infinitely more hopeful. He nods, "Aye."
Oh, Jamie. What I wouldn't give to be the woman of your dreams.
If only I could let go. . .
Let go of Claire Beauchamp, let go of Skycity 15, of 2279, and World War IV.
Of Frank. Of Lamb. Of Craigh na Dun.
Of strange dreams, and waking visions, and impossible songs.
Of this feeling that I was sent here to do something. Of this strangely overpowering need I have to change things.
If only I wasn't an anachronism. An impossibility. A fluke.
If only I wasn't me. . .
"Jamie?"
"Aye?"
"I'm. . ." I swallow back an inexplicable sob, "I'm. . . obscenely sober."
His eyebrows draw together into a fearfully determined line. "Aye."
Without another word, he takes my hand, drags my very willing self back to the bar, and proceeds to get us both thoroughly drunk.
Notes:
Playlist for this chapter -
FIRST SET
Skye Boat Song - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mj8Z84zLuEw
Scotland the Brave - (instrumental) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xqeYKf8tdsU - (w/lyrics) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KzK2PWVQYX0
Murdo MacKenzie of Torridon, Aspen Bank, Major Manson - (instrumentals) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ga7DAGPUlPM
3 Jigs - (instrumentals) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zVhz6hTTIbY
Wild Mountain Thyme - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hKvB3g3HEPQ
Lochaber Gathering, Tam Bain's Lum - (instrumentals) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NUnlV53bMWM
Pipe-Major John Stuart, John D. Burgess - (instrumentals) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0CDYcYhHGPA&t=36s
City Of Savannah, Showman's Fancy - (instrumentals) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LhQRowMcQOc
Sunshine on Leith - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9V7NYX1TOgs
The Gael (instrumental) - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CPzsmWMCMoc
Flower of Scotland - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vyx1xeZo_tk - (w/lyrics) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RPaJhlIIYjM
Loch Lomund - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GXGVFJqSqqg
Clean Pease Straw (instrumental) - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jxS3O72KGCs
BETWEEN SETS
The Dragon's Lullaby - (instrumental) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NTwBLZghrvI
Tu-Bardh - (street performance by Clanadonia, the real-life band that has performed music for Outlander, and inspired my creation of The Cuckoos In The Grove) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hnSNfxjrwck - (studio version) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d2mWMKTzUt8
The King Of The Highlands - (instrumental) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3tzE98pQH08
SECOND SET
Boys Are Back In Town - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hQo1HIcSVtg
Throw The 'R' Away - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Tffp64Lu10
Clocks - (instrumental - VISUAL OF THE HARP GUITAR) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xpv3klci1pE - (w/lyrics) - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XGjgCjZ6V00
DJ Got Us Falling in Love - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T3VGu7rQNdc
Space Age Love Song - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yB-ijsaBryM
Wonderwall - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sYffFEIAzdE
Castle On The Hill - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K0ibBPhiaG0
You Give Love A Bad Name - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N0CK36W9c00
Fly Me To The Moon - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4PADehT7xZI
Circles - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wXhTHyIgQ_U
Despacito - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aCdqHPon5Lo
Under Pressure - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BWdLt3Afjrg
Hotel California - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BciS5krYL80
Chapter 33: Drunk Text
Chapter Text
"Ahhhggh! Pu' me down!" I yell, drumming my free hand against Jamie's lower back.
"Sha'nt!"
I kick, and squirm as much as I can - which isn't much. I wail, and swing the bottle I'm holding, bringing it down as hard as I can against his hip - but I have to be careful not to spill it, so it does no good - "You savage! You thug!"
His grip tightens around my knees, "Och, ath-thug es it? I warned ye, I ded - ah saed ef ye didnae c-com' wi' me, I'd th-throo ye ower m'shoolder an'-"
"You Viking ki'napper! Pu' me down!" I squirm frantically again, and pound on his hip with the bottle.
"Hol' shtill wooman! A'fore ah drop ye!"
Suddenly, the world is funny, and I can't stop giggling, "You c-couldn drop me if you pu' mee downnn."
"No' 'ntil. . . ah sae soo. . ." He swings around a corner, continuing to carry me wherever it is we're going. . .
"Help help!" I giggle delightedly, "'M bein 'ducted by a drunk Sco'ish barbarian!"
Whatever it is I'm laughing at must be contagious, because he starts giggling too, "Yee'r 'peatin' yersel', Sasshenack."
"Ih'm no a s'snack!" I squirm again, descending into helpless laughter, "Ih'm a main course!"
He guffaws at me, and gives me a pat on the thigh, "A'c-coorss ye are. 'S'kuse me."
Finally, he dumps me, sprawling, onto a bench in a hallway I vaguely recognize. With one last squirm I wrench myself into sitting upright - not without some considerable support from the wall, but still. . .
There is a loud rattling sound as Jamie does something to the wall a few meters away. Then he grunts, frustrated, and plops down next to me on the bench. I take a swig from my bottle, grimace, and turn to stare at him.
"Wh-why you pik me up annyway? Wuz havin' fun. . ."
He growls, a bit unsteadily, "Ye wh-wher flirtin' wi' Angus. Wheen yee'r doo'n tha', I. . . iken sh'time tae stop aye? Ha-hadtae gi' ye away."
I snort, "I wuz naw flirring - teasin! - s'differn't." I take another long swallow, "S'ides, 'arry tole me if I wanna git rid o'Angus s'all I hav'ta do is p'tend t'be a sheep. 'L turn 'im rite off."
I proceed to make some horrific 'baaah-baaah' sound that to this day I maintain could have turned anyone off, no matter their preferences, gender, or state of arousal.
Jamie shouts with laughter, "A sheep es it? No' a dyin' camel?"
"Shud-dup!" I slap his arm with the bottle, "Thas th'sheep noise. Angus dosno lik the sheep noise. Bu' I hav'ta bee shure issno Rupert, 'caus he does lik it. . ." Harry's exact words melt and blur in my memory, and suddenly I am slightly unsure of my accuracy, "Or. . . tha. . . tha mi'be other way 'round. . . point is. . ."
"Ahye?"
His sweet blue eyes meet mine, and I forget what I was going to say, "Point is. . . thi' swiskey sucks!" I drink from the bottle again and make a face, "Ugh!"
Jamie sits up, very dignified, "Thaa'. . ." he grabs the bottle from me, "Ess Irn-Bru."
"Don' care if s'Aaron Blue. Stil bad wiskey," I kick the carpeting, petulantly.
"Ess sof' drink, Sasshenack," he shakes his head, emphatically, "Soda pop. No' whisky 'tal."
"Mmmm." I start sliding down the wall towards him. I just need to rest for a bit, and his chest looks mightily comfortable. . . "Yer tall. Reallllly tall."
"Hmmf," he gulps back what's left in the bottle, "Taste s'like girdars." Very precisely and carefully, he puts the empty bottle on a nearby end table.
I make it halfway to his chest before he notices me sliding down the wall. He props me up with one hand for a second, ignoring my groan of frustration, before standing up and lowering my head to the bench's tiny padded armrest. He lifts my legs up onto the bench too, and then slowly kneels down and starts to stretch himself out on the flowery hallway carpeting. I'm too transfixed by how warm his hands are on me, and how nice it is to feel like I'm being taken care of to understand what exactly is going on.
"Whaa t'choo doin?"
"Yer wee dooer ess locked, sae wec'n kip 'ere aye?"
"Whaaa?" I squint at him, confused. My head can't quite translate undiluted Scot at the moment.
He very deliberately points at my knee, and then the carpet, "Y-yee c'n slee p'on th'bench. I'll tak th'floor, dinn farsh."
I start giggling again, and fumble with the ribbon knotted into a bow at my side.
"N-nowh-what yee doin'?"
"Key. Stup-stupied dress ha'no pok'ts. Onlee place t'keep it.
"Oh aye?"
"Aye." Blearily, I remove the key I've threaded onto the ribbon, and hand it to him.
"Ri' than."
He takes the key, and slowly stands up, goes over to the door, unlocks it, throws it open, and bows over to me, gesturing through the door, "Yee'r hoom, m'ladie."
I grunt, as elegantly as possible, "T'anks. Bu' cannt gi' up. Sory."
He smiles, strides back over to me, and pushes his arms underneath my body, lifting me into the air. I laugh, and curl against him, feeling like I'm flying.
"Mmm. Yer s'rong. S'rong, warm an' tall. . . s'nice."
He nuzzles into my hair, "Yee'ken thay say ef ye c'n shtand on yer oon twa pins, then yerr'no pished, aye?"
"R'yoo say'n m'drunk?"
"Wi' awl th'good stuff I purd ye, yee'd bettar be." He kicks the outer door closed behind us, and swings me around a bit before he locates the inner door to my bedroom. "Tho' ah'll say, took loonger'n ah thowt t'would. Ye c'n hold yer drink. 'Pressive."
I point grandly at the ceiling, "S'the vodka, y'see. S'good practiss," I cuddle into his neck, "They make good vodka on th'Rim."
"Bet thay doo."
"No' enuf wiskey tho."
"Ochh, aye?"
"Mm-hm. Wh-wiskey's from Central. So's wine. Vodka on th'Rim. Rum if'yer lucky. Beer in'b'tween."
He sets me in the middle of my bed, and sits down next to me.
"Soonds vile."
"Yeeah. Iss'no pretty."
"Yee'er pretty."
"Y'think so?"
He leans back on his elbows, then lays all the way down, his head resting on my shins.
"Mmhuh. Jus' 'bout th'furst thing I thout 'bout ye. Pretty. Hair awl curl'in an' wild. Glad Murrtagh sav'd ye. Had'do sumthin' 'bout yee'r ank'l. Wisht yee'd open yee'r eyes. Jeallus o' Angus. 'Ee go'tae shoot Jack fer ye."
He's rambling, but I love the sound of his voice. My mind is comfortable, rapidly dissolving. . . I'm just about to let myself drift off when he jumps up, exclaiming,
"Agch! Ye need watar!"
He starts shuffling towards the toilet station, but I make a wild, completely ineffectual grab at his forearm, "No, no, don' spen' too much money, J'mie. Stil need food t'morro."
He wrinkles his forehead at me, "Th'food fer t'morrow s'taken care of, Sasshenack."
"It is?"
"Aye."
"Oh." I relax back onto my pillows.
"S'ides, I ha'tae pish."
"'Kay." I mumble, yawning, "Bu' jus' a 'alf-liter. S'too s'pensive."
"Watar. . . ? Oor takin' pish?" he laughs.
I grin, and giggle in return, but don't answer otherwise.
When he comes back, he's holding a tall glass of water in each hand, and has a very strange look on his face.
"Sasshenack, why is'tere a gret bucket o' pish in yer wee tub?"
Bucket. . .
Oh. . . right.
It takes me several long heartbeats to remember the cover story I've made up for why I dislike relieving myself into potable water. . .
"S'periment. 'Bout ch-chem'chal fert'lizer. . ." Wait. . . was that what I had settled on? ". . . oar sum'thin."
He sits on the side of my bed, blinking for a while, "M'kay. Heer."
He hands me one of the glasses, and then holds a round, largish pill in front of my mouth. In the dim light it looks white, or pale pink, stark against his skin.
I rear back a bit and blink at what is obviously some sort of drug. It's been over half my life since I've had anything more than a headache tablet. . . but this is Jamie, so I melt into a soft, chiding smile -
"Ohh, you don' 'avta get me high, J'mie. 'L you 'avta do s'ask niscly."
"S'no'. . ." he starts, then trails off as I wrap my mouth around his fingertips, and deftly remove the pill with my tongue. I then proceed to lick up and down his fingers, and round and round his fingertips, growing more and more suggestive about it until the pill starts to dissolve on my tongue. . . . and fills my mouth with something chalky, metallic, bitter, and thoroughly unpleasant. . .
"Ugh! T'ese drugs suck!" I nearly gag, and quickly gulp back half of the glass of water he gave me.
"S'no' drugs, Sasshenack. Min'ral tablet. Fer han'ower."
"Blegch!" I swish a mouthful of water around, and swallow it back with a grimace. "T'anks. I t'ink."
He takes a tablet of his own, and drains his water, putting the empty glass on the small table beside my bed. "Di'nae men'tin et."
He looks at me sidelong, and even in the low light I can tell he's smirking at me.
Suddenly, we're both laughing, wildly and uncontrollably, until we can't breathe, and I desperately need that bucket he mentioned. . .
"Bee ri' bac," I say, rolling off the far side of my bed.
"M'kay," he mumbles, throwing himself back on my pillows and stretching himself out on my quilt, "M'be heer. Ca'nae moove, an'way."
"Duz tha mean you'r drunk too, hm?" I tease.
"Aye. Ah s'a skunk."
I use the toilet station quickly, not bothering to turn on the light, knowing it would only be painful at the moment. I hastily wash my hands and brush my teeth, then drink back another half glass of water, before re-emerging into my room. I grab a nightgown on my way back to bed, and start to clumsily undress.
"Wai'. . . no, I ca'nae watch ye Sasshenack," murmurs Jamie, wide-eyed.
"Then don' look," I say, as I yank up my side of the top blanket on my bed, and throw it over him.
"Oh. Ri'," he says, slightly muffled by the quilt. He hums a bit, and rolls to his side, until he's facing away from me. I quickly change clothes, and scoot under the rest of the covers. He yawns hugely, and resettles onto his back. "G'nigh'."
"'Night," I mumble, "J'mie?"
"Ay'?"
"Wha s'a skunk?"
"Mmm. Wee furry beastee. Black'n white. Stinks."
"Oh. Bu' then, you cantbee one."
He grunts, sleepily, "O'ay?"
"Mmhm. Yer no wee. An yer hair s'red. An you smell 'mazin."
"'S'jus' ah sayin'. 'Drunk ah s'a skunk'. Rhymes. S'all."
"Oh. M'sleep now."
"Mmmgood. Beds'fer sleepin'."
"Yep. Most o th'time. . ."
My consciousness plunges into deep, blessed, dreamless dark.
Chapter 34: Knight Moves
Chapter Text
Jamie's skin is burning beneath my hands. Not from fever, fire, or passion, but from the sun itself. A long day of work, done foolishly without protection, has taken its toll. I gently spread a cooling gel over his scorched cheeks, ears, neck and shoulders, singing to us both as I do so. It is a child's nursery tune, but the words are strange -
"Hey Nonny Nonny,
The Rowan-tree is bonny,
The Mountains are under the Spoon,
The Devil's Eye flashed,
To see such s'port,
And the Witches dance under the Moon."
He looks up at me with eyes the colour of a summer sky, and he raises a hand to wrap his fingers lightly around my wrist. There is ease in his touch, and gratitude in his eyes, and something much more than either in both.
"The Devil's Eye is on us, my Light. Will we make it through?"
For answer, I raise my hands to the sky, and a bolt of lightning strikes my fingertips, the crash and roll of thunder carrying us away, away, away into the midnight dark, where nothing but a single star shines to guide us, call us, welcome us into space. As we draw closer and closer to it, we see that it is not a star at all, but single, silver rose, glowing with all the indomitable, relentless power of the Moon.
When we are near enough to touch it, suddenly it falls, plummeting down, down, down to Earth, diving into a lake of blood, and throwing up a black mist, more dense and cloying than smoke. Through this we stumble, choking, searching for a way out.
Then Lamb is before me, his eyes lit with silver light, his hands holding a small golden sphere as if it were the entire world.
"One chance," he says, in a voice that might move mountains.
Then, the mist is drawn away, up, up, into the branches of trees, leaving only the colour of itself behind, for the trees are black, black as soot, black as night, black as the soul of the Devil.
The world turns upside down, and we are dropped onto the back of a great golden-winged creature, strange and monstrous, unnamed, unnamable, with pearls for eyes and sparks for breath, and it carries us through curtain after curtain of rain.
In the distance, drums begin, and a high, wistful piping that coils 'round and 'round and 'round the flying beast, spinning us over and over, without end.
A harsh, growling wind rises-
"Wha' th'bluddy shite are ye doin' heer?"
"I might ask ye the same question. . ."
After a long period of deep sleep without any dreams at all, entering my usual early-morning's shallower, more dream-laden sleep - especially with this dream in particular - is shock to the system enough, but to be suddenly snapped into full consciousness by Jamie's fierce whispering, and to hear a similar reply from a voice I can't immediately recognize, jolts me so severely, I very nearly leap out of bed, screaming with the shock of it.
I don't, but it is a near thing.
"A man doesnae need an excuse tae care for his girlfriend."
"Oh, girlfriend is it?"
"Aye, 'tis. But any other man sure as hell needs an excuse tae barge inta a woman's room at quarter past five in the morning, especially when he's made it quite clear he cannae stand that woman's guts. Have ye no' plagued her enough yet, Uncle?"
Uncle?
Who. . . ?
"We reached terms last night-"
"Now tha' I ken is'nae true."
"Calling me a liar, are ye?"
"Aye. Tae yer face."
Thankfully, I am facing away from this confrontation, but I still hold my eyes closed, and feign sleep as best I can.
"How much has she told ye, I wonder?"
"Sae wonder then. Ye still havenae given me a reason no' tae put my fist through yer teeth, Dougal."
Dougal!
Dougal?
Wait. . .
Dougal is Jamie's uncle?
My heart races, and adrenaline fills my veins. If that's so, then it changes everything. . .
"Fine. I'm here in search of my own. Not that 'tis any business of yours."
The cameras. How much does Jamie know about them, again? My muddled head doesn't quite remember at the moment. . .
"Ye spyin' on Colum is'nae my business? Ye have a very strange definition of the word then, Uncle."
A low growl I definitely recognize rumbles through the room, "Accordin' tae the official rules of parley, I may attempt tae recover my own, by any means sanctioned by the rules of battle."
"Och, aye?" I feel the bed dip as Jamie sits up, and I can hear his scathing sarcasm, even through his whispers, "Sae ye'er doin' yer oon dirty work nowadays, are ye? Tha's good tae ken."
Actually, it is, at that. . .
"Tha's enuf! Ya wee plague. . ."
"Tit fer tat, Dougal, tha's fair, an' well ye ken et. An' while we'er on the subject of what ye ken - just who d'ye ken ye'er foolin'?"
"Foolin'?"
"Dinnae play the saint wi' me, ye auld letch - wha' exactly are ye doin' in the guest wing a'this time o' th'mornin', eh? I ken it cannae only be fer a small handful o' cameras a very fine woman used tae force ye tae do nae moor than leave her aloon - which, let us no' forget, ye'er still failing at - noo, ye wouldnae ha' made the effort in person unless ye were already nearby for. . . other reasons."
My very hungover and still half-asleep brain scrambles to keep up with Jamie's logic. . .
Who are they talking about?
"Now that absaelutely isnae yer business."
"Oh no? Shee's marrit!"
Not me, then.
"No' tae ye."
"Aye. And? Tha' doesnae make it any less wrong - nor any less a mattar of family honour. Oor are ye going tae try and tell me that isnae my business either?"
"Does yer wee Sassenach ken?"
"Who knows? But she has eyes, an' a brain. . ."
Yes, and ears, too.
". . .an' moor than half a grain of sense. I wouldnae put it past her. Which ye tried tae do, last night. An' even the stable hands saw through ye, Dougal. Shot through t'heart, indeed."
Geillis!
"Tha' was an accident!"
"Was et? No' that 'Fly Me To Th'moon' would'ha been sae very subtle either, mind, but ye ken Mrs. Duncan was here the day the Cuckoos arrived, aye? Spent a good long time talkin' tae Mrs. Pritchard, so she said. How if she had time tae talk tae Gav MaQuarie too?"
"The drummer? Mebbe shee did. What of et?"
Jamie huffs, sharply, "D'ye intend tae spend all yer days criminally underestimatin' women, Dougal? How can ye spend as much time swivin' 'em as ye do, and learn nae respect?"
"An' wha's tha' supposed tae mean?"
"Et means that I've never kent Gwyllyn tae make sitch a mistake as playin' th'wrong request befoor. Sae mebbe he didnae. Mebbe when ye towld Gav tae play yer request next, he already had an agreement wi' Mrs. Duncan tae play a different song furst, an' tha's the one he towld Gwyllyn. Mebbe ye were set up, Dougal. Did ye no' think o' that?"
My heart swells. This man. This man is on my side. I cannot believe my glorious luck. . .
There is a long, very tense pause.
"An' sae how did yer Sassenach react?"
"Ye'ed be far bettar off askin' what she said tae the men who wher laughin' at ye, Dougal," Jamie harrumphs.
"Fine. Wha' did she say?"
"She said ye always respect yer enemy. Oor it's yer oon head ye risk. An', in yer case, booth of 'em. . ."
"Fine, fine, ye'ev made yer point. . . ye've quite the wee crush on a mere Sassenach, laddie."
Jamie snorts, "If ye mean I cannae help but ha' massive respect fer a woman wi' baws enough tae no' only stand up tae ye, Murtagh, Rupert, Angus, me, an' Black Jack all in one day, but Colum the next, no' tae mention an entire dining room full o' Mackenzies - if ye mean I think shee's t'bonniest lass evar breathed and I'm blest tae have ever once been in her presence - if ye mean I ken she's the smartest, bravest, most capable woman I've evar met oor am likely tae meet - an' keep in mind I've met my sistar, aye? - if ye mean I canno' hardly imagine life wi'out her now. . . if that's what ye mean, then aye, I've 'a wee crush'." I feel Jamie lay back down, and put a warm, soothing hand on my shoulder, "Now, if ye wilnae leave her aloon fer her own sake, Dougal, will ye a'least shove off sae I c'n enjoy my crush in peace?"
Dougal gives a low chuckle, "Cherchez la femme, eh?"
"Nae," rumbles Jamie, "If ye think that, then ye nevar kent me at all, Uncle."
"I ken our other arrangement has'nae changed."
"An' why would et?"
"Weel. . ." says Dougal, his calculating deviousness clear even in his whisper.
Jamie's hand grips my shoulder just a little tighter, "One o' these days, Dougal, ye'er goin' tae measure somun' else's corn by yer own half-bushel once tae often, and cheat yerself sae badly ye'el nevar recover."
"Time will tell," Dougal harrumphs, and closes the door, almost silently.
In a flash, Jamie gets up, and a moment or two later, I hear the outer door close behind Dougal, and Jamie almost runs out to the sitting room. I clearly hear the lock click shut, Jamie turns the key so emphatically.
Then, he's back in my bedroom, standing in the doorway. I can feel his eyes on me.
I turn over, and slowly, being extremely careful of my head, I sit up. In the dim light, our eyes meet, and all at once several things are clear.
He knows I heard. He knows I have a lot of questions. I know he's going to answer them. So does he.
So I go ahead and ask the first one.
". . . Uncle?"
Chapter 35: Morning Light
Chapter Text
"Did ye no' ken Dougal an' Colum were my uncles?"
Jamie's voice is stunned, as though he thinks he told me all about this long ago.
I sigh a bit, and hold my head. The blue, lambent light of early morning isn't painful, but I'm still quite overwhelmed by the number of things happening at once. Strange dreams, men in my bedroom when I have no memory of how I got back here myself, and a rocking headache is already more than enough, but here I sit, my stomach churning with unpleasant feelings regarding Dougal, my heart still singing with the opposite of unpleasant feelings regarding Jamie, and now. . . how am I supposed to understand this level of family intrigue at this hour of the morning, even if I didn't have the great-grandmother of all hangovers?
"How exactly would I 'ken' that, Jamie? No one around here tells me anything - except you, and Murtagh, a bit."
"Weel, ye do ken my real name, an'. . . erhm. . ."
I pinch the bridge of my nose, "You have five names, Mr. James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser, and considering that upwards of 75% of everyone else around here is also named Mackenzie, I'm about as likely to assume you're that closely related to the Laird as I am to assume you're Laoghaire's first cousin!"
I groan a bit, then rub my temples. Whatever Jamie is doing in my room, and whatever just happened with Dougal, my head is still looming over me, like an old, damaged Skycity, creaking and groaning as it repeatedly changes course to try and avoid yet another squadron of incoming enemy fighters. . .
And this conversation isn't helping.
Jamie snorts, then sighs, "Aye, fair enough." He takes a deep breath, then dives headlong into an explanation I can only barely follow - "My mam is the eldest of six siblings - Ellen, Dougal, Colum, Janet, Flora and Jocasta. She married my da against her father's wishes, an'-"
"Hold on a minute," I interrupt, trying desperately to focus, "Back up. Dougal is older than Colum?"
"Aye, by moor than a year."
"So. . . how is Colum the Chieftain and Laird, and Dougal just War Chief?"
And why on earth am I having this conversation before six in the morning, while hung over, with a man I don't remember arriving here last night? Why?
My head twinges.
Dear god, why?
Jamie sits back down beside me on the bed, "MacKenzie is a Tanist clan, mo Sorcha. Mam's father, Jacob Mackenzie, put the succession tae his advisers, and tae every male of age in the clan at the time, as has allus been MacKenzie tradition, and between themselves they chose Colum tae be their leader, no' Dougal. If he'ed been dead set against it, Granda might ha' fought their choice, but he wasnae, an' he didnae."
Finally, several large pieces of Leoch's puzzle fall into place for me. My head doesn't clear, I still feel incredibly fuzzy and strung out, but once I've recovered, I feel sure I'll be able to understand whole new aspects of what's going on in this place. . .
"This was before the Clan Restoration Act, a'course," Jamie continues, "Sae it was largely a ceremonial title a' the time, though I doubt verrah much if it didnae still sting somethin' awful. Dougal had counted his chickens, ye see - oor so my mam allus said."
"I bet he had. . ."
And, clearly, he still is. Though, if that were his only sin, neither Jamie nor I would be sitting here now.
"For Dougal tae be overshadowed by a younger brother, an' a disabled one at that - disabled in body, no' in mind, a'course - bu' it still ha'tae have cut deep. Even though. . ."
He stops, and puts a finger to his mouth, unsure of what he was going to say next.
But I am sure.
"Even though Dougal loves his brother."
Jamie looks at me, eyes wide, as though seeing me for the first time.
"He loves him with a depth of feeling I doubt he has for any other creature," I say, dreamily, "And that must be the most galling thing of all, because no matter how much he might hate that his brother has what he doesn't, Dougal can't help but admit it - Colum is, unquestionably, his Chieftain too. Let anyone else even suggest that Colum isn't an ideal Chief and the perfect Laird, and I'd bet a considerable sum Dougal would strike their head from their shoulders without a second thought."
Jamie is shaking his head slowly in disbelief, "How. . . how did ye ken all tha', Sassenach?"
"It was obvious from the first moment," I say, hearkening back to that fateful garage and those arguing, contentious voices, with one smooth, calculating, devious voice dominating them all. . .
All except one. . .
"And so that means, you, James Fraser, are quite a threat to him."
He half-smiles, "Am I now?"
"Of course you are. The eldest surviving son of an older sister, smart, handsome, talented. . . and, most importantly, well loved by the members of his clan?" I click my tongue, last night's confrontation on the dance floor with Dougal making new, even more disgusting sense to me, "If the succession is determined as you say, he must play his cards exactly right. . . or you'll be the next Chieftain of Clan MacKenzie."
He shakes his head sharply, "Nae. It'll nevar happen, because I dinnae want it, Sassenach. I'm Clan Fraser, no' MacKenzie. I'm nae moor a threat tae him than Rob is, livin' wi' Mam in the south of France. An' if, by some wild chance, the clan evar chose me against my own wish, I'd shift the title on as fast as humanly possible. Dougal kens tha' - nae'un bettar."
The back of my neck tenses as I attempt to force my brain to engage in a logical discussion, "Maybe he does, on some level. But I bet he still fears you. . . You're here after all, not in France. The men love you, you cut quite a figure, especially in a kilt, and. . ."
I take a deep, considering breath, and decide Dougal no longer deserves my silence.
"Seeing that Colum doesn't have a legitimate heir. . . well. . ."
Jamie rounds on me, his jaw slack, beyond shocked now, "Ye ken tha' too?"
"Yes."
"Bu' how?"
Quickly, I outline the three encounters that revealed the truth to me – Hamish greeting Dougal my first morning here, both Colum and Dougal's reactions to my innocent comment about the boy at supper that night, and the section I deliberately left out when I told Jamie about my first private confrontation with Dougal.
"He confirmed it himself, you see. Not that it needed much confirming by that point."
"Christ, Sorcha, is it no' safe tae have secrets around ye?"
"I wouldn't recommend it, no. Not unless you have a very good poker face, at least. I've always been far too good at reading people."
"Includin' me?"
I groan as my head throbs sharply, "Oooh. You're a special case, Jamie Fraser."
"Am I indeed?"
"Yes, you see, I got close to you." I smile, remembering the cupboard, and all at once I am back there, in the dark, pressed so near to Jamie that I can't help but breathe him in. . . My heart gives a little leap of happiness so sweet that for a moment my headache almost releases, "Very close, very fast. And now it's difficult for me to get the distance needed to see you properly."
I reach out for his hand, and he takes it instantly, "Is tha' so?"
"It is. But I wouldn't trade the two, Jamie. Not for the world. I'd rather be close to you than have creepily accurate insight into your heart any day."
Gingerly, I lay my head on his shoulder.
Jamie harrumphs a bit, "Sae ye didnae ken that I was Dougal's nephew?"
I huff a laugh, and my head instantly regrets it, "Ow. I'm good at reading people, Jamie. That doesn't mean I can read minds. Until last night, he, you, and I haven't been in the same room with each other since we were in the van on the way here. The few times I've seen you two interact, he's treated you almost exactly as he treats most of the other adults around him, and he's never once called you nephew. And I've never seen you and Colum interact at all – the one time I mentioned you to him, it was as Jamie MacTavish, and he didn't correct me. So how was I to know?"
"Weel, when you put it like tha'. . ." Very, almost extremely gently, he leans his head against mine, "For some reason I thought for certain I had told ye, but I suppose I hadnae. Nae'un could know wi'out bein' told, a'course. Dougal isnae the demonstrative type." He swipes a tired hand across his face, "Tha's how I kent about Hamish, y'see. I noticed Dougal paying a deal moor attention tae the lad than he evar had tae me at that age – an' no' in a worrying way, either. It all seemed sae. . ."
"Natural?"
"Aye, tha's the very word. Natural. An' sae I kent he nevar would be doin' sae if Hamish wer'nae moor tae him than a nephew."
I rub my forehead, chasing my headache to my temples.
"Do you know how much Colum knows?"
"Nae," he sighs, ruefully, "But, seein' as he's no' blind, nor stupid, nor senile, he must ken some, or all of it. He loves the lad too, though, that much I ken. An' Hamish is a thrivin', happy boy, thank Christ above. I couldnae stand by tae see any child mistreated, much less my own kin."
I massage my temples, but the pain just moves again. . .
"Does Dougal know you know?"
"He may. Why?"
I pause, mind simmering with all the implications and possibilities, even despite the fog lingering in my brain. It's clear I am going to have to go on the offensive with Dougal soon, and considering just how deeply allied I am with Jamie now, I must figure him into any plan I make.
I yawn, and mumble into Jamie's shoulder, "What, if you don't mind me asking, is the 'other arrangement' you have with Dougal?"
We've gotten wildly off-topic, and I still need to understand what exactly Dougal was doing in my room at such an odd hour of the morning. It had to have been more than he admitted to. . .
Doesn't it?
I beat back another pounding twinge in my head, and force myself to think. Would Dougal really take the risk and trouble to retrieve the cameras himself, and now, of all times? I feel in my bones that Jamie is right, and that it was out of character for Dougal to be doing his own dirty work, especially here and now.
And besides, short as their conversation was, more than half of it still went over my head.
Jamie sighs heavily, and rubs the back of his neck, "I. . . weel. . . ye ken when Dougal was all worrit about ye knowin' he sometimes sneaks past his assigned campaign-zone boundaries?"
"I do."
"Weel, I'm among the ones who go with him sometimes. Tha's what we were doing when Murtagh found ye, y'see. Oor, rather, we were oon t'way back."
"Alright. . ." I knit up my forehead, waiting for him to actually explain.
"I. . . ah. . . hmphm," I can feel his shoulders go rigid as he searches for words, "I ha' ceartain. . . furst-hand knowledge tha' Dougal finds helpful oon occasion." I raise my head slowly, and look at him. The pre-dawn light in the room is still dim, but I think I can make out a reddening of his cheeks, "An' I ha' a . . . weel, a 'party trick' ye might call it, tha' is often useful tae him."
"A. . . party trick?"
"Aye. Summat along those lines."
The hell?
"A. . . vague party trick, that you do at unspecified times, for unspecified reasons, at mystery locations beyond arbitrary borders?"
"Aye."
I sigh, "I'm much too hung-over for this kind of thing, Jamie."
"Aye, sorrae Sassenach," he says, squeezing my hand tighter, "I'd be clearer, but I'm no'. . . that is. . . I dinnae. . ." he sighs sharply at himself, "Can we call this'un my secret, d'ye think? Can ye stand no' knowin' the details?"
"Of course, if that's what you want," I say, lightly stroking his fingers, "We did agree that secrets were allowed."
"We did, but-"
"The real question is, why did Dougal only mention it after going off on you about being my boyfriend? I may not know much French, but I know 'Cherchez la femme' isn't a compliment."
And I really didn't like the ugly little laugh Dougal gave when he said it. There was something ominous about it. . .
"He. . ." Jamie momentarily releases my hand, only to wrap his arm around mine and entangle our fingers together, gripping my whole arm like a lifeline, "I praised ye, Sassenach."
I can't help but smile, remembering everything Jamie said about me. He hasn't been so direct about his feelings to my face yet, but most of what he said I've already been able to infer from our previous conversations. . . or taste in his kisses. Except for one thing. One new, delightful affirmation of how he really feels about me. . .
"Mm. Can't imagine life without me, huh?"
"I most certainly dinnae want tae, mo chridhe," quickly, he kisses the top of my head, "An' Dougal's the sort who thinks I could only be sayin' such things tae set myself up a convenient excuse tae get out of things - tae get out of our agreement."
"That must be some party trick you do," I snort, more sarcastically than I mean to, but my head is very sore, and my feelings about Dougal are very dark indeed. . .
"Aye. 'Tis. It's alsoo. . . no' exactly fun, or comfortable for me. But it is in searvice of a cause both Dougal an' I believe in, sae I endure it."
My stomach drops, and Dougal's voice echoes in my ears, telling me he can make Jamie's life a bitter, bitter hell. . .
But why would Dougal. . . shit, why would Jamie. . .?
Ice-cold fingers of terror lance through my stomach. Again, I've forgotten about Culloden. But that must be it – what other cause could Jamie and Dougal possibly have in common?
I scoff, "You mean, he's using you, and you let him, because he's your uncle."
"Agh," Jamie grunts, "Tha's a wee bit harsh, mo Sorcha, jus' because-"
"No it isn't," I snap, and jump out of bed, headache be damned, "Do you want to know how much you're worth to him?" I take two paces to my dressing table, and remove the plastic cup that holds the greenhouse flowers from the mouth of my enamel bottle. Jamie's eyes follow the cup, because among the bouquet it is currently holding are the yellow rose and carnation that he gave me, but I couldn't care less about flowers at the moment. I dump the cameras and microphones into my hand, stalk back to the bed, and thrust them into his hands.
"There," I say, "There's your price, Jamie. That's how much you're worth. He was more than willing, even eager, to trade you to me for them."
"Trade. . . me?" he moves the deactivated bits of electronics bewilderedly around his palm, "But. . ."
"Yes, you, my darling lad. You're a battle prize to him. An asset to be traded away, used for blackmail, or if that doesn't pan out, worked to a shred, worn out, and tossed aside when he's finished with you. A thing," I say, mournfully, "On par with broken spy equipment."
He closes his fist tightly around the bits of metal and plastic, "I think. . . ye'ed bettar explain, Sassenach."
I get back under the covers, and relate to him, word-for-word, exactly what was said between Dougal and I during our dance. And I tell him a great deal of what I thought, too.
"So, you see, he's more interested in getting the upper hand on me than he is in even thinking out his plans properly. And you were just an incidental resource. A tool to be used," I cross my arms, remembering, "To be traded for spoils of war – not even treated as Human. I was so mad, I almost throttled him right there."
"Soo. . ." Jamie draws the word out, clearly thinking of several things at once, "He was here accordin' tae the rules o' parley, then?"
I nod, "Yes, he was."
His mouth works for a while, but he says nothing.
I'm not sure I can convince him to stop supporting the plan for Culloden. I'm not even sure I want to try. Unless I reveal everything I know about the future, there's no way removal of the Scottish contingent of Peace Agents – even by ambush and murder – can be framed as an ultimately bad thing. How could it possibly be a significant step on the road towards nuclear Armageddon? Jamie might like me a lot, but I doubt even he would believe such a wild notion, much less that I was born generations after that same apocalypse.
But here, now, Dougal is exploiting him. I don't know the specifics, but my darling, sweet laddie is a victim of an injustice. A small, perhaps even insignificant injustice. . .
And I've been looking for one of those to solve.
It won't save the world – it'll do nothing close to that. But it might help someone I care about be happier-
"Sassenach. . ." Jamie says, breaking into my thoughts, "How is it ye ken sae much about noble warfare?"
I blink.
Oh. . .
"Twice now, ye'ev counterstruck an experienced Scottish War Chieftain in head-tae-head combat, both times on a spur of the moment, an' last night t'was alsoo in a public setting. Ye took him on wi'out hardly blinkin', an' no' losing a step in yer dance, mo Sorcha. I was watchin' ye close, and ye took it all in perfect stride. We lads might ha' stood yer guard, but ye fought the battle alone, wi' nae moor than lightnin'-fast instinct, a sharp tongue, an' such a knowledge of the rules tha' I cannae hardly believe it." He sighs, and shakes his head at me, "I praised ye tae Dougal no' jus' because I meant evary word, mo nighean, but because I wil'nae evar again be caught underestimatin' ye, and here I am, thinkin' mebbe I still am! Are the modes o' chivalry that common a subject of study for folk in Oxford?"
It's a good, fair question. For several very long seconds, I say nothing. Then, I slowly lean back against the headboard, and sigh, tears pricking in my eyes for no reason at all. . .
"My father didn't understand me much," I say, finally, "I don't even know that he liked me, really. He was. . . he was a narrow-minded snob, overpaid and over-privileged to the point of utter ridiculousness. Lamb called him a poor stick-in-the-mud, and so he was. For all his money, he had as much class as a steel girder."
I pause for a moment, bringing myself up short. Why does that word sound familiar? I mentally shake my head, and press on.
"Practically the only thing that redeemed him from being a total pain in the arse was that he was keen enough to know some of his deficiencies. That's how, despite everything, I know he loved me. Every time he had anything to do with me, he was determined that I would have the nobility he knew he lacked. I was fed so much class growing up, it's a miracle I didn't become a Duchess by pure osmosis!"
Jamie chuckles, "Now tha' I'd pay tae see. . ."
"And then, after being born into money, and brought up like that, I managed to fall in love with a sanitation worker."
Jamie stops laughing and blinks at me, "Ye mean. . . Frank was. . . ?"
I nod, "He was as common-code as they make them. A street-sweeper, a garbageman, who was anything but a garbage man to me. He had more true class than any ivory-tower professor. . . and my father couldn't stand him."
"Ah. Tha' explains a lot."
I nod, and reach over to him again, "Yes. So you see, my dear lad, most of my life has been one fight or another, and the only code I was ever taught was noble warfare. It'd be odd if I didn't know the rules by now."
"Makes eminent sense now, Sassenach." He puts an arm gently around my shoulders, then looks questioningly down at me, "Sae who is Lamb, then?"
"Father's brother. And his complete opposite," I settle into Jamie's embrace, and lay my still-twinging head on his chest, "My uncle. Who loved me like a third parent."
"Mmm. It's nae wonder ye saw through Dougal, then."
"Yes. And speaking of Dougal. . ."
I'm exhausted, and ready to go back to sleep, but I can't let this matter drop just yet. . .
"Hmmphm. Aye." He sounds about ready to go back to sleep himself.
"He's treating you very badly Jamie. Is there anything you – well, we - can do about it?"
"Dinnae ken yet. Y'see, it isnae a mattar of him wantin' a mostly symbolic title, nowadays. The next Chieftain of Clan MacKenzie will have full place in the Council - by birthright, no' election."
"Mmmm."
Politics. Ugh.
When it's before six in the morning, and while I'm hung over, I'm pretty sure I'm allowed to hate politics. . .
Jamie rolls the cameras in his hand a bit, "Ye should probably shift where these are hid, Sassenach. Wheer d'ye want 'em this time?"
"Mmph. Don' know." I shrug heavily, "Why don' you keep them for now?"
His weight shifts next to me, and with a click, he turns on the little lamp next to his side of the bed, filling the room with a warm, pale glow. It's bright enough to easily overpower the dim bluish light of early morning, and, more importantly, is more than enough to fling a thousand daggers straight into my brain.
"By all the gods that may or may not exist!" I shout, twisting my eyes shut, not that it helps much, "What the hell did you do that for?"
"Ach, sorrae!" he yelps, and jumping up, begins to move around my room, opening something, picking something up, I don't know, nor can I force myself to care at the moment, what with my suddenly screeching, rolling, diving head to manage. I haven't had any nausea until just now, and heaven help me if it isn't overwhelming. . .
I hear the water spigot run, and a moment later, Jamie's voice rumbles close to me, "Heer, take these, Sassenach."
Slowly, I open my eyes onto a full glass of water, and about a half-dozen tiny, greasy-looking capsules. I just look a sharp, surly question up at him.
He smiles, the fiend, and prompts me to take the pills again, "S'all right, Sassenach, it's just some evening primrose oil. I make it meself."
I grunt, unconvinced, but unwilling to argue. After I swallow them back, I continue to sip listlessly at the water, focusing my entire being on trying to control my rebellious stomach. I take no notice of what Jamie does for several long moments, but eventually, I become aware that he's sitting next to me in bed again, on top of the covers, but wrapped in my quilt.
I want to snuggle into him and sleep for at least a week. But, he shouldn't be here. . . Quite beyond the fact that I don't remember how either of us got here last night, I ought to have ordered him out the minute Dougal left. Not for my reputation or anything - but for his. I want to make it as easy as possible for him to be the princely white knight that Murtagh has raised him to be. And yet, somehow, having him here feels like the most natural thing - the most comfortable, the most important thing in the world - and I don't want to give that feeling up just yet.
"So," I moan a bit at the vibrations of my own voice, "Somebody's been sleeping in my bed."
He huffs a quiet chuckle, "Aye."
"Care to explain yourself?"
There is a very long, very shocked pause.
"Ye. . . dinnae remember?"
"At the moment, not a whit."
"Christ Sassenach. . . then how are ye sae calm?" he asks, wonderingly, "How have ye no' torn me tae shreds yet fer jus' bein' heer?" He points towards the door, "How did ye no' reduce Dougal tae a pulp the second he burst in? I'd only been awake a minute myself then, an' was just thinking on gettin' some water when I heard yer breathin' change. Then I looked up, and there he was. I near jumped out of my skin - how did ye no' skelp the both o' us at tha' very instant?"
I shrug a bit, "Well, primarily because I didn't recognize his voice right away, and as for you. . ." I give into my desires a little, and cuddle into his arm, "I'm so far from objecting to you being here, Jamie, that I was actually dreaming about you right before your whispering woke me up."
"I see. . ." he pauses, and then gives a long, soft sigh, "An' ye really dinnae remember anything from last night?"
Just a minute. Why does it matter so much if I remember or not? What happened? Did I give away that I'm from the future? Did he reveal some dark secret from his childhood? Or. . .
There's no way we. . .
Surely not. . .
"Well, if my brain runs true to form, I'll probably remember almost everything eventually. Most likely in bits and pieces all throughout today and tomorrow. But uh. . . I wouldn't object to hearing what you remember."
Smooth one, Beauchamp. There's no way he didn't see right through that.
"Sae wha's th'las' thing ye do remember?", he says, far too casually for my liking.
"Uhmm." I cast my mind back, "Doing 'gel-oh' shots with you and Angus."
Doing anything to try and forget the feeling of Jamie's hands on my arse, of his kisses burning on my lips, of his soul itself invading my very dreams. . .
To forget that haunting song, and a waking vision that hasn't totally left me even yet. . .
"Agch, the limoncello 'uns?"
"They. . . were lemon-flavoured, yes."
"Hmmf, those are th'deadliest kind."
"Oh, are they?" I say, trying to be sarcastic, but not quite managing it.
"Aye. Worse'n the crème de menthe ones, even."
"Those I don't remember."
"Cannae blame ye." Gently, he pats my knee through the blankets.
"And. . . after that?"
"Weel, 'tis all a bit blurry, ye ken, but ye got inta a 'rap battle' with Angus and Gil."
Well, that's certainly a new one. . .
"A what?"
"Aye, tha' was my reaction. It seemed tae involve a lot of fast-spoken words an' terrible puns."
"Oh." I take a long sip of water, trying to steady myself. "You know, there isn't any other kind. Of pun, I mean."
He chuckles, "Aye, true enough. An' by the time the three of ye had half the room chantin' some truly awful dick jokes, I kent ye'ed had enough, and carried ye away."
"Mm. Now that I think I do remember, a bit. You literally threw me over your shoulder, didn't you?"
He looks over at me. I suddenly realize just how bleary-eyed he looks himself, but his voice is still fond, "Aye. I did."
"And. . . after that?"
"Weel. T'was a long walk back tae yer room. There was a lot o' protestin'."
I snort a bit, "I bet there was."
"Aye, ye called me many a thing, not one o' them complimentary."
"I'm sorry."
He grins, "Och, nae. T'was quite entertainin'."
"Oh, was it?"
"Aye. An' then eventually, dyin' sheep were mentioned, an' I think there was some contention over the quality of Irn-Bru, an' there was definitely somethin' about theremins makin' good vodka."
Theremins?
What on earth are theremins?
Wait. . .
There. . . rims. . .
And vodka.
Uh oh.
I manage a half-smile, "Yeah, that sounds like drunk me."
"An' ye went on fer a while, about experimental fertilizer bein' too expensive, beer in between lucky rooms, and whisky bein' central tae it all. Didnae quite ken what ye were on about there."
The Rim. And Central.
I let out a tiny sigh of relief.
If that's all I mentioned, then no harm done. I can probably pass it off as nothing more than drunken ramblings.
"I probably didn't know what I was on about either, Jamie."
Which is, almost certainly, no more than the absolute truth.
"Aye. Probably no'. An' then I carried ye heer tae yer bed, an' ye, uh. . . weel. . . "
"Yes?"
My stomach knots with completely inexpressible tension. What doesn't he want to tell me?
"Ye may oor may no' ha' offered tae suck me off."
"Oh, is that all?" I relax, and manage a genuine laugh, "Yeah, that sounds like drunk me too."
"Does it?"
His voice is very dubious, his expression hard and quite unhappy.
I shrug, "If several experiences with Frank are any gauge, then yeah," I take a quick sip of water, "So. . . did I?"
His eyebrows fly up his forehead, and he makes a strange gurgling sound, "Fairly ceartain I'd remember it if ye had."
"So, that's a no?"
"Tha's a no."
"Ah. Good," I chuckle, "If I ever do, I'd rather like to remember it too."
"Sassenach, this. . ." he gestures at me, bewildered, "This isnae the reaction I expected from ye, I mus' say."
I smile and shake my head, "What, do you want me to be horrified? Do you want me to be ashamed? Do you want me to be ashamed of you?"
"Nae, is'nae that, it's only. . ." He looks sternly down at his hands.
"What? What is it?"
"Ye. . . ye thought I was feedin' ye drugs, Sassenach. . . like. . . like I was gonna force myself on ye oor summat. . ."
"And I - welcomed the idea?"
"My fingers ha' never been happier." His fingertips rest very gently for a moment on my lips, and it's clear what he means. But his eyes are very grim indeed.
"And now. . . what, you're worried about me?"
"Aye. I dinnae like the thought of any man takin' advantage of ye in that state. Oor takin' advantage of ye. . . evar. . ."
"Jamie, do you seriously think I'd have even considered getting slightly tipsy unless I knew you were going to be there the whole time? Do you think I'd get drunk around any other man? Especially that drunk?"
"But. . ."
"James Fraser, I'll have you know I only let loose like that when I'm with someone I thoroughly trust. And sometimes that trust translates into offering sexual favours, yes. Sometimes I demand them too, by the way. I'm not ashamed of it. You don't need to be either. Especially since you didn't take advantage."
"Dammit!" he snaps, growling, "Next time warn me when ye plan tae trust me tae extremes then, aye?" He cups my face, but very gently – clearly he knows that my head still feels like a cracked eggshell, "I couldnae bear it if. . . if I evar failed ye. . ."
Oh.
Oh, my sweet man. . .
"It wasn't exactly the plan, my lad. Or I would have warned you. But after. . . after that last dance. . ."
And a terrifying, glorious waking dream that seems to have drawn this amazing, perfect man into my unknown, labyrinthine fate. . .
"You kissed me to pieces, Jamie Fraser. After that, I needed. . . I had to. . ."
I had to stop. I had to forget. I had to run.
But the point is, I ran to him. I look into his eyes, trying to get him to understand. He's my refuge now. My safe place. My anchor.
My home.
Slowly, he lowers his head to mine, and his mouth undoes me again. Gently, softly, making no demands, he still somehow manages to leave me aching and breathless.
"What if I had'nae been heer when Dougal. . ." he whispers against my throat.
I snort softly, "Then I'd have leaped out of bed, tackled him to the floor, and choked him into unconsciousness."
He pulls back sharply, "Ye c'n doo tha'?"
I shrug, "I'd have found a way."
He shivers a bit, giving a slightly uncomfortable laugh, "Aye, I bet ye would have, at that."
"And I'd probably have thrown in a kick to the balls, just to make the point clear."
He huffs a laugh, but sobers again very quickly, "Have ye evar taken a self-defense course, Sassenach?"
"No."
"Why no'?"
"Because sugar beets very rarely assault anyone. Look, why are talking about this now? So I got drunk and propositioned you, and you were a gentleman about it. Right?"
"Weel, I suppose you might put it like tha'. . ."
"Alright then. So what? It's all over and done with. I'll most likely remember it all eventually, and if I'm offended by anything you did, I'll let you know, okay?"
He ponders for a minute, then nods, "Alright."
I hum a bit, and cuddle into his chest, yawning hugely.
"Ach, ye need yer sleep, Sassenach." He lays me back on my pillows.
"Mmhm. And you should go. . ."
He laughs softly, but he's already standing, rearranging the quilt over me, "Throwin' me out, are ye?"
"No." I grunt a bit and snuggle under the covers, "You can stay if you want. But I give you fair warning - the next time I have you in my bed, Jamie Fraser, you're going to prove that True Scotsman thing."
"Och, I am, am I?"
"You are. The very next time."
"Soo. . . there's tae be a next time, then?" He pauses tucking me in, and meets my eyes.
"Eventually. . ." I smile, "I'm pretty sure there will be. But under much different circumstances."
"Mmm. I rather like the sound of that."
"Don't get cocky now. . ."
"Och, 'tis far too late for that Sassenach." He leans over, and gives me a completely chaste kiss on the temple. Somehow, it feels like the most intimate thing we've ever done. "Sleep well, mo Sorcha."
I'm already nodding off as he gathers up his sporran and boots, "Mm. You've called me that before. Are you ever going to tell me what it means?"
"Sorcha?"
I nod.
He stops in the middle of pulling on his boots. "It's yer name. Claire. But in the Gàidhlig." He comes back over to me, and runs his cool, soothing fingertips across my forehead, "Mo Sorcha. My Claire."
I fall asleep with the feel of his touch on my skin, and the sound of his voice in my ears.
Chapter 36: Cleaning Day
Chapter Text
I scowl at myself in the mirror while brushing my teeth. I am entirely convinced that everything is ugly this morning. From the dreary gray sky outside, to the flat off-white walls of my room, to the dull brown carpeting. Even the gaudy knickknacks that adorn most of the flat surfaces around me seem vulgar and disgusting at the moment, and the faint rim of purple around my eyes and the wild riot of my hair do nothing to contradict these impressions.
What a morning to have a hangover. Even though the three extra hours of sleep I got after Jamie left have eased my headache somewhat, they also managed to completely sour my mood.
I grumble a bit as I rinse my mouth, grimacing as I spit out the taste of mint. Mint! It is a flavour I only rarely encounter on Skycity 15, except in medicinal applications, and so unless I have a horribly stuffy nose, or a swollen, scratchy throat, I don't enjoy the taste at all. Whoever decided to put it in toothpaste of all things should be forced to swallow a whole tube of the stuff at once. Toothpaste should taste like lemon verbena, or rosemary, or ginger, or even licorice root – not mint.
Though, for all that, the taste does spark something in my mind. . .
Jamie mentioned something about me taking mint gell-oh shots last night. No, no, it was menthol. . . or menthe? Something like that. But I can't remember doing it, or anything about them – not yet.
It'd be nice if I could tell myself I cared, one way or the other. But I don't, really. Not being able to remember is just another unpleasantness of this unpleasant day. I doubt I've been gifted true oblivion – I'll remember eventually, whether I like it or not.
I step into the tub, to use the primitive composting toilet I've rigged up out of mechanisms scrounged from around the manager's barn. It's a clumsy, ramshackle object, but it does the job – if a bit inefficiently.
Kind of like me here at Leoch.
I rest my head in my hands. Ugly day equals ugly thoughts. I really shouldn't be surprised.
The root of the problem, of course, is that I've thrown myself so completely into being Farm Manager here, I've had neither the time nor the peace of mind to think things out properly. So much has happened, I've discovered so much, and so many things have changed so rapidly, I can hardly blame myself for being overwhelmed. I've been running on adrenaline and instincts almost constantly since I got here. Last night was just a fantastically over-the-top coup de grâce.
My mind is a mess. No wonder I can only perceive things as messy.
I suppose it's apt that today is Saturday.
Week-ends have never meant all that much to me. Growing up without a religion, and working a job that doesn't care what minute it is, let alone day, never gave me any personal emotional connection to Friday, Saturday or Sunday.
However, Saturdays are Mrs. Fitz's big cleaning day, and, as I learned last week - it does no good to argue with her or her helpers. It is far wiser to just get out of the way.
Perhaps today would be a good day to spend in the library. After all, I've been wanting to explore the place a bit more ever since I discovered it – on that brief but necessary absence from my rooms last week, to let Mrs. Fitz's cleaning team do their job without my hindrance.
I nod to myself - it's perfect. A quick visit to the greenhouse, and I'll spend the rest of today in the library. Thanks to last night's indulgent abundance, not to say blatant excess, I'm not hungry, so that won't be a problem either.
As I get up, I note that the composting compartment of the bucket is almost full. I'm going to have to officially announce my little "fertilizer experiment" sometime soon. . .
A wave of half-memories slam into me.
I groan. Here we go. . .
I'm often not quite sure whether it's a blessing or a curse that no matter how plastered I manage to get, my brain always insists on recording every slurred word, every idiotic laugh, every embarrassing joke I make, and then throwing them all back in my face for days afterwards.
I sneer as I wash my hands.
This time it's definitely a curse.
Last night I told Jamie this bucket was part of a chemical experiment. That was what he'd meant when he said I'd talked about experimental fertilizers. And somehow he must have mixed that up with me telling him that water was too expensive, and that the vodka from the Rim was good practice. . .
And somewhere in there I think I asked him what a skunk was.
Wait. . .
What?
What on earth is a skunk?
I can't remember what his responses were yet, so I still don't know. . .
But they were clearly all things that might very easily have given away that I'm from the future.
It's the closest I've gotten to lying to him since we made our vow of truth.
My mind wobbles a bit, unsure where this day is going to lead. Alcohol is a depressant after all – and I didn't exactly need another one of those. It's no wonder that I've already started to slip a little sideways. . . I can see the edges of the abyss on the horizons of my mind, beckoning me forward in all directions, even as I plead with myself to stay grounded in my gray, starkly unpleasant reality.
Last night was every kind of unwise. Even the parts I can't remember yet. Especially the parts I can't remember yet.
And I only have myself to blame.
I sigh as I get dressed, allowing myself to relive several of last night's more pleasant memories. Jamie giving me strawberries. Kissing him over the bar counter. My first sight of him in a kilt. Our first dance. The press of his thigh against my own, with only the incidental barrier of cloth in between. Sitting next to him, even as we stood side-by-side against attacks from all comers, almost supernaturally keyed into each other. Our eyes and spirits locking together, as powerful music spoke across our merged destinies. The warmth of his hands and mouth against me after an eerie waking dream I somehow know for certain that he shared with me. . .
I blink.
Lock.
Key.
Why do those words remind me of something?
I shake my head. Regardless, I can't bring myself to regret a single moment of any of it, no matter how much I know I should. . .
We make a good team. We make a good couple. I wish, not for the first time, that I was not on a mission, that the two hundred years between us didn't loom like a mountain over me, threatening every moment to crush our connection. Because that connection. . . I've never felt anything like it before. Nothing Frank and I had between us ever came anywhere close to the instantaneous, bone-deep burning I feel with Jamie. If only he and I belonged to the same era of history. . .
I shake my head again. Wishful thinking won't get me anywhere good in this world. For Lamb's sake - for the world's sake - I force my mind to think of other matters.
I have things to do that Jamie does not, and cannot know about.
I grab my empty steel bottle off the dressing table, only barely avoiding knocking over the flower-filled plastic cup. I didn't bother putting it back in the bottle last night. Nor do I take the trouble now. It's been a few days since I've cut a fresh bouquet, and now is as good a time as any. But on a whim, I do remove the yellow rose and carnation, quickly tie a bit of string around them, and hang them upside down on one of the posts holding up the dressing table's mirror. Mrs. Fitz's team will throw out the faded cupful of flowers, but they'll let anything so clearly set aside alone. The rest of the flowers I can easily replace – I'm about to replace. These two, I intend to keep.
I slip my info screen into the pocket of my coat, and pull a shawl around my head and shoulders. It's only a short walk to the greenhouse, but it's also 8 AM on a gloomy mid-November day in the Scottish Highlands. I have learned all too well that at this time of year, Scotland is not a great deal warmer than a Skycity in the middle of the North-Atlantic, even taking our post-Apocalyptic atmospheric differences into account.
I briefly wonder how men used to stand it, wearing knee-length kilts all winter long. Particularly if what Jamie told me about their undergarments is true.
Or the lack thereof. . .
I make my way down the main corridor of the guest wing, through two long side hallways, past the kitchens and out, through to the kitchen gardens. The chill air seems to clear my head a little, though the bleak grey of the empty plots doesn't help my state of mind much. I'm nearly to the bare, still orchard, close to the end of the cobbled garden path, when the greenhouse finally becomes visible behind its enclosing wall of swaying evergreens. The trees are either pines or firs - or possibly spruces - I frankly don't know enough about them yet to be able to tell the difference. The two-week long unit on coniferous trees I took in school is a depressingly long number of years ago. But the dark brightness of their ageless green is a welcome sight, nevertheless.
I go through the little white-painted gate hung between two of their trunks, then push the greenhouse door open with my hip. My first breath of the warm, plant-scented, softly damp air inside never ceases to take me by surprise, no matter how many times I come out here. I never expected anything in this time period to be so intensely identical to something I had encountered nearly every day on Skycity 15. It may be floored with raked gravel instead of polished metal, the trays might be filled with soil instead of growing medium, the great vats of water are missing, and the long rows of mostly ornamental plants and flowers here bear little resemblance to the essential staple crops we grow on Skycity 15, but Castle Leoch's greenhouse still smells exactly like my old farming station, and I love it.
A strange feeling of home creeps up my spine, sparking a vague, poignant memory – one far more distant than the events of last night, but nevertheless related to them. . .
I shiver a bit, then shake it off. I'm here for flowers.
I clip a few clusters of red salvia, and some long-stemmed orange and purple gazanias, arranging each one in my steel bottle as I pick them. I realize this is the first time I've arranged the flowers directly in it, and not in the smaller cup that was such an effective decoy. I wonder for a moment what Jamie has done with the cameras, but then I shake my head. It's far better that I do not know.
I select a few white caladium leaves, veined with striking dark green, and then make my way down and across several rows, to where the ferns are growing. I cut some lacy fronds, and one or two long fiddle-head shaped buds, just unfurling from their green nests.
I had never seen a real fern until I discovered this greenhouse. That was my fourth day here.
It feels like several lifetimes ago.
I fill my bottle with water from the plumbed-in spigot on the side wall, and drop in a little plant food tablet from the box of them beside the water station.
For a moment I consider looking for the special room where they grow strawberries, but then I think better of it. I have more important things to do than daydream about Jamie. Which is all I would do if I found it, I have no doubt at all. . .
I'm halfway back to the house when I round the corner of the garden walk, and almost run straight into Annie.
"Miss Claire!" she says, sounding both pleased and surprised, "I was hopin' tae see ye, bu' no' oot heer now, aye?"
"No," I manage a polite nod, "Of course not. And it's good to see you too."
"Aye," she grins, "Bu' I might as well ask ye now. . ." She looks around hastily, then leans forward, whispering conspiratorially, "Are ye free this upcomin' Fraeday?"
"I. . . can be," I say, amused.
"Good," she grips my upper arms in triumph, "Thear's four o' us girls goin' oot tae Cranesmuir fer our day off, an' we'd like ye tae join us. Will ye?"
I can't help but nod assent, charmed, as I always am by this girl's unabashed and cheerful generosity.
She claps her hands, "Ah, tha's grand! Wee'l mak a proper day ov et!" Then she points urgently towards the greenhouse, "I mus' go nae, sorrae – Mrs. Fitz wants flowers enough for twentae guest rooms, an' shee'll skelp me iff'n I tarry." She hefts the empty basket she's carrying, "We'er right lucky ye prefer tae pick yer oon, aye?"
I grip my bottle a little tighter, "If you want to call it luck. . ."
Annie laughs delightedly at this, and then skips hurriedly down the path, trailing a waving hand behind herself as she calls out, "See ye Fraeday, then!" before disappearing around the bend.
She's gone for quite a few seconds before I realize I'm smiling. It's the first time I've done so this morning. But then, Annie always perks me up. It's impossible to be gloomy around her, no matter how ugly the day is. I'm still smiling as I go back indoors, and begin to find my way to the library. A short interlude with flowers, in a greenhouse that smells like home, and a visit with Annie, no matter how brief, has done worlds of good for my mood.
Miraculously, the library is right where I left it last week, at the corner this wing makes with the main body of the house. I slip in through one of the smaller side doors, preferring not to attempt to open the massive double-leaved main door that leads directly in from the main corridor. At this time of the morning last week, it was still locked.
My little side door is open, however, and as I step in, a strange, eerie peace settles in the pit of my stomach.
It is a large room, two stories tall, with a sort of mezzanine level running like a balcony around the middle. The floor and walls are of bright golden panels of wood, and the whole space is lined with row upon row of the same kind of strange-smelling paper books that Lamb reverenced so much. A fleet of sliding ladders grant access to every shelf, and tables, lamps, chairs and sofas of every type and description fill the vast majority of the rest of the room.
I am suddenly overcome with how silent it is in here. It is a kind of silence both magical and somehow physical, full of thought and memory so deep it might get into your blood. The kind of silence that renders it impossible to care about ugly grey days.
On a day like today, I couldn't have asked for a better refuge.
Maybe now I can do something about the chaos in my mind. . .
I choose a small table that's neatly slotted into a window embrasure, and settle myself comfortably onto the bench beside it. I set up a small info screen stand, put my screen into it, power it up, engage the security shields I've devised, and shadow-connect to a local network I discovered yesterday. A few more keystrokes, and I have a search window open that I'm more than reasonably certain isn't being spied on.
I stare at it for at least a full minute before I manage to think where I can possibly start. . .
Slowly, I type into the search field - "sky boat song".
Whatever power ruled last night's events, it was most often manifested in the music, and the music had started there.
The search comes back as "Skye Boat song" and it is followed by thousands of hits for lyrics, videos, and audio files. I select a text file that purports to discuss the three main versions of the lyrics, open it, and begin to read.
Not five minutes later, and the placid, yet eerie feeling in my stomach has shattered into a completely unexpected full-bore panic attack. I dig my hands into my hair, wildly trying not to hyperventilate.
How?
How?
The song is about the aftermath of Culloden, and I simply cannot believe it.
Everything, everything, seems to come back, somehow, to Culloden. I always seem to come back to Culloden. Again and again I end up there, cold and alone, on that terrible, cursed, haunted moor! There is no escape, none at all, for me – neither through the Stones, nor to the Isle of Skye, nor even into death. . .
I wrench my hands free of my head, and grip the edge of the table, desperately attempting to calm myself. Be sensible, Beauchamp! I have only been to Culloden once, and this is not what I felt then. I do not have to go back. . .
Back to Culloden bloody moor. . .
Why?
Why am I so afraid of that idea?
And why can I remember being there, time and time and time again, with a copper-golden light shining all around me, my hands red-stained and terrible?
Sorcha.
My name is Red Sorcha. . .
I stare at the wood grain on the table in front of me, wide-eyed and sightless.
WHAT. . . ?
None of this is what I felt when I heard the song last night. So where are any of these feelings coming from? I decide I don't care. I banish the memories as best I can, behind a thick glass wall in my mind.
I can still see them, I won't forget - but they are removed from the many noises currently clamouring in my brain.
Slowly, I manage to get my breathing under control.
I'm still hung-over. That must be it. My brain is remembering snatches of alcohol-induced dreams, and connecting them to the things I know will happen here in a few years' time. That's all it is. That's all it can possibly be.
Right?
I turn back to my info screen, desperate for something prosaic to ground myself in. I type "Scottish Clan restoration act", and open the first result that comes back.
I'm halfway through the long and very wordy article before my heartbeat slows, and I feel at all like myself again. And even then it takes another half-dozen verbose and very dully-written paragraphs for me to realize I haven't taken in a single word of this article at all. I close the window and open a new one from the second search result.
This one is much better, with a far more comprehensible timeline, tracing Scotland's current political situation back almost fifty years, to the wildly unexpected popularity of the Scottish Languages Preservation Initiative.
It was then, for the first time in modern history, that a law was passed which required all Scottish primary schools to teach Gàidhlig, and not only that, but the full range of Scotland's native languages as well, both local and national. Very naturally, this had necessitated hiring a large number of supplemental teachers who could effectively impart such a curriculum, and spreading them across the country. This had lead to a small but highly significant immigration boom, bringing in all manner of people from New Zealand, Australia, Canada, the United States, South Africa, England, Wales, Ireland, and several other places. If they knew Gàidhlig, and could teach, they were welcome.
I realize this is at least part of the reason why each Scottish accent I've encountered here is so different from every other, not to mention inconsistent within itself, and so often using what even I can recognize are borrowed colloquialisms and slang. Not only are there many individuals here from all over the world, it's likely all of them were taught by people from all over the world. Add in that Scottish English is a highly flexible dialect to begin with, and it's no wonder the maze of regional accents have become jumbled and even more confusing than they were historically.
It's a lot like what happened on Skycities – with the citizens of each Township fostering their own unique identity, even while most people stand solid for their own whole City as well. New Oxford is one of the more diverse Cities, which is very lucky for me, since it means I grew up hearing several accents at least somewhat related to the ones I've encountered both here, and on Cold Island 12.
Hearing them straight from the source is highly different, of course, much like the difference between reading a sentence, and having to speak it aloud.
I smile grimly to myself. And Colum had the cheek to tell me I sounded American! Well, perhaps I do, but there's a very good chance that more than a few of his relatives sound a little bit English, as well.
And speaking of sounding English. . .
I check on the progress of my forged birth certificate. Apparently it is still being "processed" - whatever that means - and will not be mailed for several days yet. But it has not been flagged as suspicious, or unofficial, or anything like that, so I assume most of my constructed background history has held up so far.
I seriously consider my forged paper trail for nearly half an hour, trying to discover if I need to shore up some part or another, or if it would be wise to add anything to it.
Eventually, I settle on looking up the names Beauchamp, Moriston and FitzSimmonds, so I might have a stronger concept of my ancestry, if and when I am called upon to defend it again.
What I find on one particular site draws the day's first laugh out of me.
If ever Colum casts my heritage up to me again, Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ do I have a comeback for him!
I stay on the site for quite a while, discovering several extremely relevant and useful things about a much higher number of Scottish Clans than I ever could have expected. . . and something very interesting about Clan Fraser in particular.
From there, it's a logical step to find out as much as I can about official Clan Gatherings. Yule is about a month and a half away. Clan MacKenzie is having a Gathering then, and, from what the next site I bring up tells me, I assume an Oath Taking will happen as well.
Best to be prepared, in any case. To know what I might expect.
This brings my mind back around to Jamie, and, annoyingly, Dougal.
If a Clan MacKenzie Gathering is anything like the ones I'm reading about, then Dougal will play a highly significant role in the proceedings, and, very probably, Jamie can't be there at all.
Either way, I'll only have until then to execute an offensive against Dougal, since the next site I go to states that November and December are low-key "local" months in the ongoing Independent Scottish Council races.
I suppose in normal Human speech that means all the candidates have been given two months off for Christmas. . .
But according to this published itinerary, immediately after New Year's – and finally I learn what Jamie meant by Hogmanay – it's right back to the campaign trail for ten weeks of hard-selling speeches and debates, leading up to the elections in late March.
Dougal will be traveling all over his constituency then, far out of my reach.
So it's now or never if I'm going to follow though on this war of ours.
The glaring problem being – I have no idea what offensive I want to wage. I'm not even sure what sort of offensive I can wage successfully. My difficulty isn't resources – not anymore. The difficulty is that I don't want to fight him. If it was only me in the balance now, I very likely wouldn't go on the offensive at all. But now, there's Jamie to think of too. My battling Dougal is, without a doubt, the only way I have to free Jamie from whatever claws Dougal has in him. But I still need Dougal to be my ally, eventually, if I'm going to attempt to right more than one wrong while I'm here. And so I must find a way to fight him, to defeat him so soundly that he no longer wants to be at war with me, and yet, somehow, leave the door open for truce, and even perhaps friendship, one day.
Which is a huge problem, because at the moment, I'm fairly certain Dougal could cheerfully have me publicly drawn and quartered. . .
I get up, and walk around the room for a bit.
Very quickly, I realize that Lamb's library, much as it had impressed me, was mere child's play when compared to what is on offer here at Leoch.
Even a superficial survey of the just this first floor reveals that if Jamie hadn't given me an info screen, I probably would have been able to find all the information I needed anyway, had I time and industry enough, for here is an entire wall of shelves given over to periodicals – daily, weekly, and monthly. The quick scan I give them shows them to be an impressive variety of publications, from news and current affairs, to history, to geography, to science, to modern art, all perfectly organized, and very neatly arranged.
I am doubly thankful for Jamie's thoughtfulness, though – having an info screen has saved me days, perhaps weeks of time.
But it is good to know that such a variety of hard-copy periodicals still exist in this time – not just pinup car magazines. . .
The next set of shelves is full of reference books – encyclopedias and dictionaries of every sort. I select a large illustrated treatise on botany that looks both useful and fascinating.
The rest of this wall of shelves is given over to other non-fiction – history and science, biographies and religion. I'm particularly impressed by the collection of Bibles. One especially, under a glass case on a stand by itself, is notable, both for its age and ornamentation. It's an old MacKenzie family Bible, open to the genealogy lists that show Colum and Dougal's ancestry back at least three generations. And that's just the two pages visible. By the hand-inked numbers in the corners, there are at least a dozen more similar pages.
I sigh as I turn away, touched, for some reason I can't explain.
The rest of the main shelves on this level – and, by the looks of things, most of the smaller bookshelves scattered about as well – are filled with novels. Mostly classics, from what I can see, but there are a good amount of dramas, mysteries, romances, fantasy and science-fiction scattered amongst them all, too. There's even one whole corner filled with children's books.
I come away from that section bearing a book called "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz", which I picked up purely on a whim, but the synopsis on the back cover fascinated me.
A story about a girl who accidentally gets into a colourful world she never could have expected? That sounds like a book I'd like to read, regardless of its target audience.
I spend nearly an hour skimming over the rest of the novels on this floor, quite unashamed of my interest, given that I've done so little for pure entertainment lately. Even my date with Jamie last night was specifically for the purpose of introducing me to the wider population here at Leoch. . .
Three books make it onto the pile I eventually take back to my little table - "The Prisoner of Zenda", "The Enchanted April", and "A Town Like Alice". I'm unsure if I'll like any of them, but I figure giving them a try can't possibly hurt.
I'm just settling back down at my table again, when I hear a buzzing sort of clamour outside the window nearest me. I get up to look, too curious to let it pass, and I see what looks like an enormous flying insect, zig-zagging over the ornamental gardens on this side of the house. But, it's clearly not a living thing.
I've never seen one this shape and size, but it's obviously a drone.
A bellowing cheer of many voices call out, and a small multitude of children scramble down the garden's neat pathways in pursuit of the humming, whirling thing. I smile as they disturb the neatly raked gravel paths in their enthusiasm, bringing interest and joy to a scene that was almost impossibly dull before they arrived.
And then, off to the side, I see Rupert, holding a small radio-controller, grinning as he leads the children on their merry chase.
My smile freezes, but only for a moment. My feelings about Rupert have softened considerably, especially given his unexpected allyship with me last night. He's graduated up from being one of my watch dogs, to being an almost welcome guard dog. And as he plays with these kids, calling out cheerfully to them, and laughing at their shouted responses, I can't help chuckling a little to myself, remembering his similar complete abandon when he raised his glass in what has almost become his catch-phrase whenever I think of him - "At least suck hard!"
Wha-am!
Another set of memories from last night barrel into me with such a shock, I stagger back from the window.
Angus, Gil and I, shouting that phrase and many other innuendos, making long strings of horrifically lame rhymes with them, trading insults like handshakes, and laughing maniacally every time a shot lands. . .
I stumble back to my seat, and put my head in my hands.
Jamie hoisting me over his shoulder to the sound of much cheering, our long, protest-laden walk back to my room, the thorough embarrassment I made of myself before I remembered where I'd put my room key. . .
Key.
Lock. . .
Oh.
That's why those words sounded familiar.
I smile a bit, with the knowledge just how sweet Jamie really is, even when completely smashed.
His warm hands, his casual strength, his insistence on taking care of me. . .
My smile fades. Oh god.
His hands. . .
I remember, with perfect clarity, boldly coming on to him, and suggestively licking his fingers. . .
My face blazes hot with shame. Not over what I did, but that it might have offended him. And this morning while talking with him, I was so quick to assume he might have offended me, I gave not a thought to the fact that things might be the other way around.
I owe him an apology. Whether he was offended or not.
Then, finally, my brain is kind to me, letting me remember how nicely he fit beside me in bed, how warm and comforting his presence was, and how good I found it to hear his breathing in the middle of the night. I've slept alone for so long, I'd nearly forgotten just how much I love having another person in my bed.
And then, like turning a page of one of these paper-made books, a different memory comes clear to me.
Jamie, standing in my room at the manse on Cold Island 12, claiming me with his mouth. . .
Jamie was the one I dreamed of, the night before I came through the stones!
Yet another lightning flash arcs through my mind, and I remember the dark, faceless silhouette I saw a month ago on Skycity 15. That strange figure, so near and yet so distant, that I was so sure was staring at my tent. The figure I had dismissed as a dream, brought on by an electrical storm.
That was the first night I had dreamt of trees, mist and stones, of winds and one lone star to guide me home. . .
Home. . .
Was that Jamie too?
I don't know quite how to take any of this on board. I like Jamie, a lot. I trust him, and he's very dear to me. Last night hasn't changed my desire to date him, not in the slightest, but what can these dreams possibly mean? Dreaming of him after I met him, yes, that makes sense. But before?
I shake my head. Today was supposed to be about straightening things out, not making things more confusing.
With a sigh, I turn back to my info screen again. I look up what a skunk is, the current meaning of gay, what a swimming pool is for, what television is, what calves are, what tablet is made of, and what ingredients go into a daiquiri.
That answers most of my definition questions for the moment, except for the names that Jamie called me while he couldn't say Sassenach – mo grai and mo hrea and mo kneein doown.
He has called me all those things before, but not as frequently as he did last night.
And Sorcha. He also calls me Sorcha. . .
I shiver a bit, and decide he can keep his secrets for now. I think I'll be much happier not knowing what his names for me really mean.
Or, at least much calmer.
So I move on to looking up some information on how to build a contemporary info screen. I still have all those parts in the manager's barn, after all, and it might be a good idea to have a functional backup computer.
Only then do I discover that when Jamie had talked to me about computers, the term he'd used was "com" - with only one m - and not "comm" with two m's like I'm used to. Apparently his term is short for "combination" - as in, a combination of a touch-screen computer and an earbud communicator – while my term "comm" is an abbreviation for "communication" and only refers to the earbud part.
This doesn't quite explain why Dougal had a fully integrated com the night I first arrived here, seeing as the articles I've brought up all concur that such integration is totally outdated, but it is a step on the way.
I promise myself, I will understand what's going on in this house.
There's no other way I'll be able to truly change things for the better.
A sound from the corridor draws my attention away from my info screen. It sounds as though someone is unlocking the main doors. . .
With a heavy click and a creaking groan, both leaves of the door swing wide. I hear the light scraping sound of two small wedge doorstops being placed. When the person doing all this finally steps fully into the room, I blink at them, surprised. It's Letitia. I would not have thought unlocking the library would be among her particular duties. But, here we are.
I stand, and respectfully incline my head to her.
The look she gives me in response is quite a study. She is more than one kind of surprised, not entirely pleased, and deeply determined at finding me here.
"A verrah good mornin' tae ye, Mrs. Beauchamp," she says, nodding sharply.
"Good morning."
"I see ye've found my favaroute refuge from Mrs. Fitz on cleaning days, aye?"
That brings me up short. It never occurred to me that the Lady of the house could possibly share any feelings in common with me, especially not when it comes to something like this. But, I suppose it ought to have. It must be strange, to be married to the Laird, and still not be the one in charge of your own home. After all, Mrs. Fitz, good, generous soul that she is, is still one of the most imposing, authoritative people I've ever met, manifestly in charge of every bit of her domain.
So, where does that leave Letitia?
In the library, apparently. . .
"Yes, it seems I have. I'll go if you want to be alone. . ."
"Nae nae," she waves for me to sit, and settles herself on a sofa not too far from my table, "I've been wantin' tae speak tae ye, anyroad."
"Have you?"
"Aye."
But she doesn't say anything for a long minute or two, instead regarding the wood grain on the boards of the floor as though she can read her own history in them.
And perhaps she can. . .
Seen this close to, and in this context, Letitia is much prettier than I first thought her, with an elegant mouth and sweetly pointed chin, well set up when it comes to arms and legs, and not at all ignorant of any of these facts.
I'm sure she isn't all that much older than me either – ten years maybe, and very possibly less than that. But by the look on her face just now, she might as well be a hundred. . .
"I see ye're. . . doin' some research?" she says, finally.
I blink before nodding, a touch more bluntly than I mean to. Of all the unexpected questions. . .
"Yes. I am."
"An' I heard ye say ye were a botanist – that furst night, aye?"
"Yes."
"An' that ye ken the ways of CRISpRs."
"Certain kinds of them, yes. . ."
Where is she going with this?
"And ye heard Dougal tell why my husband doesnae trust them, aye?"
"Yes, but-"
"Weel I think it may be in yer oon good interest tae look up British Vaccine number-" and here she rattles off a long ID that I tap into my search field out of pure Pavlovian response, "Jus' tae see iff'n et may help ye around t'farm. Aye?"
The search results come back, and they have nothing to do with botany, farming, or CRISpRs.
The first result is for a national registry of vaccine-related reactions and illnesses. . .
I click through to the site, and find myself looking at a nearly sixty year old survey list of thirty pregnant women who received an experimental broad spectrum vaccine. It was especially formulated for pregnant women, and a comprehensive list of their symptoms and reactions are listed.
All reported joint pains, a low fever, mild dizziness and nausea, and headaches.
Three women reported an unsightly skin eruption that healed in a week or so, fifteen reported coughs and sneezes consistent with a normal vaccine reaction, and five had minor itching at the injection site.
All of the women recovered, and survived.
All of the children were born normally, and all were reported healthy, except two. The first had a mild deformation of his finger and toe nails, which is listed as possibly being vaccine related, but highly unlikely.
The other was born with Toulouse-Lautrec syndrome, which is listed as strictly genetic and unrelated.
Unrelated.
I close the site window, and sit back to think.
That Colum blames modern medicine for his condition is perhaps understandable – anyone who has lived as long as he has with such an illness can easily become bitter, and lashing out at what seems to be the culprit is quite normal, as far as I can see. That he continues to blame the wrong culprit even when the real reason is extant doesn't baffle me either – it's always easier to lash out than it is to take responsibility. That he refuses to attempt a possible cure is beyond me, but then, preconceived notions and stubbornness can and have fostered even more unreasonable beliefs in better men than Colum Mackenzie.
But that Dougal fosters this belief in his brother, to the point that he states it as fact to someone like me – a complete outsider – is quite unbelievable, and highly suspicious.
If Letitia knows the vaccine ID number off by heart, then there's no way Dougal is ignorant of the real reason for Colum's illness. And if there is anyone Colum would listen to on this matter, it's Dougal, I have no doubt.
And that means. . .
He is letting Colum live in ignorance. He is letting the disease take its course.
He is letting him die.
Dougal loves his brother. I'm absolutely certain of that.
But, perhaps he hates him too.
Is there a difference between not doing everything in your power to save someone, and outright murder? I'm not certain there always is. And in this case, Dougal has every reason to allow his brother's stubbornness to run its course – right into his early grave.
Does he want the Lairdship that much? Has he truly gone that far?
That Letitia herself has come to me – me, of all people! - about this matter, and has imparted it with such cool, deliberate assurance, tells me he does, and he has.
What she thinks I can do with this information, I don't know, but that she so deeply wanted me informed of it at all is reason enough for me to take it deathly seriously.
"Well," I say, slowly, "Th-"
"Dinnae thank me," Letitia says, sharply.
I blink, and fall silent.
"As one woman tae another, ye ken how it is." Her jaw juts out a bit, and I see a stubbornness in her eyes that far outweighs anything Colum and Dougal combined could ever manage, "There are times that duty, honour and an' e'en justice fall away when it comes tae the demands of love." She pulls herself bolt upright, and looks me boldly in the face, "An whate'er ye may think o' me and what I ha'e done, know this – I love my husband, Mrs. Beauchamp. 'Til death do us part."
For some reason, I am sure she knows about Dougal and Geillis.
"And, by the same token, you love his son."
I say it quite forthrightly. A thread of tension in her jaw relaxes.
"Aye. Wi' all my heart."
I nod. There is only a very little more that need be said.
"There is one thing I must thank you for, Mrs. Mackenzie."
"Oh, aye? An' what's that then?"
"For not hating me."
She smiles, grimly, "Dinnae fash. If I hated every woman who had somethin' I wanted, I'd ha'e verrah few friends left," she nods at me, intently solemn, "Good day, Mrs. Beauchamp."
And with that, Letitia leaves.
For a long while I sit there, and wonder. Is this what Leoch will always be to me? Interminable conflicts, full of impossible opponents and surprising allies? Am I doomed to be trapped in the endless cycle of intrigue here?
What can I possibly have that Letitia wants?
Knowledge of CRISpRs technology?
Maybe. But I doubt it.
And then it strikes me.
She wants the power I have over Dougal.
Or, maybe, just power, period.
Because, as odd as it is to realize, of the three of us – Geillis, Letitia, and I – it is Letitia who has had the least choice in all of this to-do with Dougal. The least choice, and possibly the most to lose. Certainly the least to gain, no matter how things end up going.
Whatever I plan to do next, it is shocking to me just how much I suddenly want to protect her. This woman I barely know, and upon whose hospitality I unquestionably depend, is also in the palm of my hand. From the moment I begin my offensive, her future will be as I will it. She, and all of this household, from Hamish to Annie, to Lily Bara, to the farm hands I haven't met yet – all will be my responsibility.
A responsibility Dougal is clearly not inclined to take up, no matter if he manages to usurp the Chieftain title from his brother or not.
I used to think Dougal was a leader, and merely thwarted in his attempts to lead. But, in fact, there is far more going on here than that. He is a manipulator. A con man. A user. Not an irredeemable one, I fervently hope, but that's where he is now, and that is how I must treat with him for the foreseeable future.
And the only language a manipulator understands is more manipulation.
Huh. Now, there's an idea.
All at once, a battle plan appears in my head. It's quite vague and formless as yet, but with some very definite possibilities. I'll need help to carry it out, of course, but suddenly my war with Dougal seems far more manageable. Looking a few steps ahead, I can even see myself winning, if everything goes to plan.
Which it won't, but still. . .
I close down my info screen, pick up my books and my bottle of flowers, and slowly walk back to my freshly cleaned rooms.
Whatever choices she has made, and whatever she has become because of them, in the end, it is still the Letitias of this world that matter. The faceless, nameless forgotten of history, who always end up paying the price when warriors and heroes take the stage. It is the great body of Humanity that is important, not the flashy, fancy outliers – the eyelashes and fingernails amongst us. It is the skin, bones and blood, farm hands, Core-huggers, kitchen staff and garbagemen that are what life is about, and too often their safety and needs are casually brushed aside for the sake of duty, honour, glory, and yes, justice. But any justice that refuses to take into account the common, everyday person, with their common everyday lives, is no justice at all.
I'm arranging my new books on a shelf in the sitting room when Jamie appears outside my open door.
"Ah, there ye are, Sassenach," he calls, cheerfully, "We'er well gathered for the shinty match, an' if ye dinnae come now, they'll start wi'out ye!"
I go out to him, closing and locking the door behind me.
"Well," I say, halfway smiling, "We can't have that, now can we?"
Chapter 37: All That Was Fair
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The field the men have chosen for their shinty match is the wide grassy lawn in between the barn and the stables. I had never seen grass in person before my journey to Cold Island 12, but it was so common in the pictures and movies I grew up with that I did think I must have some idea what large expanses of it would be like. And yet, instead of the bright, warm green I saw with Lamb, and the darkly bruised, newly frozen green I saw in those first few days here at Leoch, this field is a bleached, frostbitten brown that can mean nothing but the approach of winter, with the stems all thin and spiky and chill. This really shouldn't be a shock to me – there are at least a dozen patches of grass on the route between my rooms and the Manager's Barn, and there must be hundreds more out among the arable fields. But I suppose those have not registered as "grass" to me – my mind, being so busy with other things, must have automatically categorized them as "untidy deck plating" or something of that kind.
Living this closely with the seasons is a strange thing. Or rather – living this closely with the consequences of the seasons is strange to me. Interesting, but oftentimes inconvenient.
The advantages of this field for a game of sport are obvious, however. The expanse of it takes up almost the full distance between the sprawling stables and enormous barn – eighty or ninety meters, it looks like. There's only one fence to think about, and even that is the full width of the field away, what I judge to be about thirty or forty meters, at least. The large buildings, with all their attendant workshops and and storage rooms, look like quite effective windbreaks, and besides all that, if I was one of the farming staff working on a Saturday, I know I'd be thankful for such a handy excuse to extend my morning tea break. . .
Jamie leaves me with a large knot of observers clustered around the corner of the playing field nearest the barn, and sprints away to join his team. The boundaries of the field are marked with wide white chalk lines, large arcs marking the corners, and a huge circle in the center. Somewhere among the flurry of explanations I received last night, I'm pretty sure someone said the middle circle is where the game will start. I think. I shiver a bit. Good windbreaks or no, the buildings can't protect me from how cold it is out here. I tuck my hands under my arms, in a vain attempt to keep them warm.
Down the field, Jamie's team is gathered next to a tall cage-like contraption standing on the far edge of the marked rectangle. I assume that is one of the goal nets. All of the men there are wearing kilts, just as Jamie is, but at this distance I can only make out a few of the various colours, and none of the patterns. Only a few meters from us, the second team is huddled around a similar net, and they are also wearing kilts in a wide spectrum of colours, but these all have the hip-cape feature that Jamie's did last night. Clearly these are the "belted plaids", and Jamie's team is the "modern kilts".
As the teams prepare, several clusters of observers begin to form – five or six larger groups near the corners, and a few dozen more strung out in ones or twos all along the length of the field. A surprising number of people come out of the barn and other outbuildings to join us, far more than I expected. As it turns out, a game of shinty is more interesting than anything else they have planned for this time of day. I have to agree.
I find myself standing next to Harry and Geordie, and I let their eager chatting about game strategy help to distract me from the sudden hot stink of coffee that appears along with these new observers. Apparently, coffee is a far more common tea break drink than tea itself among this section of the farm hands. . . The smell irritates the last vestiges of my hangover, and I raise a hand to try and smooth away my still mildly twinging headache before the game starts. Geordie grins when he notices my wrinkled nose, and pours me a cup of something steamy from the thermos he's holding.
"Et's a hot chocolate kinda day, aye?"
"That it most certainly is," I sigh as I take a sip, immeasurably thankful for my kind and thoughtful assistant.
"Perfect day fer a nice, cozy, friendly game of shinty, eh?" says Harry.
I snicker a little, "Cozy? There's a bit too much open space around here for that, I think."
And from the no-nonsense way all the players are gearing up by swinging around their caman-sticks, I'm not entirely sure about the 'friendly' part of that either. There was a great deal of talk about "hit-ins" and "tackling" last night, and I must admit, I'm feeling just a touch apprehensive about words like that at the moment.
"Agch, this field isnae even half regulation size, lassie," Harry says, with a mild mixture of teasing and reproof.
"Oh no?"
"Nae. We dinnae have room fer a full-size field here, no' wi'out cuttin' inta the pastures," he gestures expansively towards the fence, "An' e'en then, the ground's tae rough in that direction. T'would need tae be graded, an' who's gonna go tae those lengths for a game of shinty?"
"Ah," I say, vaguely, "So, this field will do?"
"Aye, it'll serve," he shrugs, "Allus has befoor."
Geordie nods in agreement, and they go back to discussing game strategy.
I take a long, slow look around me, marveling once again at the feeling of the earth and air in this place and time. Even half a November deep into the enclosing frosts of late autumn, I cannot help but notice how alive everything is. How much bigger and airier, freer and more open even this mere patch of grass is than any place on a Skycity, even compared to the Rim. . .
I take another sip of my hot chocolate. On Skycity 15, a cold, grey day like this would feel oppressive, barren, even hostile. But it doesn't seem to matter in the least to the great swells of chattering, murmuring, exulting lives surrounding me. The sounds of a working farmyard – engines, power tools, brooms, buckets and boots – make a clattering, clanging backdrop, and beyond our small crowd of observers, I can hear a great many animal noises, not all of them recognizable to me.
So much life. And I am in the middle of it.
Then, a whiff of strange-smelling burning reaches me. It has a resinous odor similar to the wood fires I've encountered indoors, but it is also overlaid with a darker, more food-like smell. Only it doesn't smell like any food I've ever encountered. I wrinkle up my forehead in confusion. The closest thing I have to compare it to is the sickly-sweet stench that comes from a sugar refinery's vats while they're processing beets, and even that is only very vaguely similar.
Geordie notices my expression again, and shrugs before jerking a thumb in the direction of the far end of the farm yard, "Agch. 'Tis jus' Marc boilin' up some pig feed, ye ken. Dinnae fash."
"Oh," I smile at him, and am about to ask if that's usually a part of the Stock Manager's duties when there's a whistle and a cheering call from the middle of the field. The two teams are ranged around the central circle, Alain and Jamie have their caman-sticks raised and crossed like swords above their heads, and Angus is holding a small ball up in the air, and a whistle between his teeth.
He tosses the ball up in the air, and gives a short, sharp whistle. Then there is a flurry of arms and legs mixed with the thumping clatter of sticks and boots, and the game is underway.
It is instantly apparent that this is a much more physical game than I expected. Though perhaps I should have, given how exuberantly everyone was explaining it last night. The caman-sticks, far from being just the implements used to hit the ball, are also used to slap other players legs, and hook their ankles. A tackle really is a tackle – two bodies ramming together, shoulder to shoulder. I see nearly every player get bowled off their feet at least once, in just the first few minutes. I cringe almost every time it happens. Harry just shakes his head at me.
And it's all in pursuit of a tiny ball that's almost the exact same colour as the grass. I quickly decide that if I want to stay sane, I'll watch the players, not the ball. One by one, I pick out the faces that I know. Gwyllyn's is the closest, playing as the goalkeeper for the belted-plaids – Alain's team. Gil's is the furthest away, as the goalkeeper for the modern kilts – Jamie's team. Leo, Willie, Gerald and Edan's positions shift with the action. Angus and Rupert are refereeing, and I recognize Gav MaQuarie, the Cuckoos' drummer, three or four of the other musicians, and at least a half dozen other faces from last night as well.
For the first little while, it looks like the belted-plaids have the advantage, pressing the attack down by the modern kilt's goal. I see Gil dart back and forth, and hear the caman-sticks clatter, but I can't tell what's going on until a cheer goes up from the crowd at that end of the field.
"What happened?" I ask Harry.
"Goal," he shrugs and gestures in explanation, "Edan got past Ollie tae set it up, an' Jerry made the shot."
"That didn't take long."
"Aye, weel, we'll get et back, dinnae fash."
I grin as I see Jamie barreling up the field, driving the ball before him.
"I won't."
For close to an hour, the teams run back and forth, getting into scrums and chasing each other up and down the field. There's a pause every now and then, for a penalty shot or a hit-in, but apparently there is to be no substantial time out until the half-time break.
We're nearly there, the score tied at three-all, when Leo and Jamie set up a fast, brilliant shot – or at least it looks so to me – and Willie takes it, slapping the ball in from the side, surprising Gwyllyn mightily. And then miraculously, Gwyllyn blocks it.
I cheer anyway, appreciating two plays that even I know were both beautifully executed.
Now the belted-plaids have the ball again, and everyone sprints down the field once more.
Harry is staring at me, and I see Geordie suppressing a grin at his friend's discomfort. We've had enough friendly chats in the lab that Geordie knows how I hate being partisan when it comes to well played sports. Harry is still in the dark.
"I. . . dinnae think ye ken how this game works, lassie. . ." he says, shaking his head.
I laugh, "Sure I do. It's just like all sports. A whole bunch of people you like gather in one place to do a thing you like watching. It's like a movie, only you don't know the ending."
He blinks at me, unbelieving, "An' would ye go and cheer fer the villain then?"
"Why not? Don't villains usually get the best lines? And Gwyllyn isn't the villain here anyway."
"Oh? Then who is?"
"Not who. What."
Geordie knows what's coming, and snorts a half-laugh. Harry gives him a disgusted look, but he only shrugs.
"Och, aye?"
"Yes," I say, drawing out the moment, "It's the rules."
"The. . . rules. . ."
I nod, "Yes. The rules are the villain. Or at least the opponent." I pause to watch Jamie give a tremendous over-the-head wallop to a hit-in, sending the ball at least two thirds of the way up the field before anyone can corral it. "The good players know how to bend the rules, the bad players can only break them."
"But then. . ." Harry's mind turns rapidly, and he takes the new idea more nimbly than might have been expected of him, "Who c'n be the hearo? Who c'n evar be the hearo?"
"Oh, that's easy. The one who changes the game."
He blinks, and shakes his head, turning back to Geordie - who can barely keep his snickering under wraps, "Can ye evan believe this drivel?"
Geordie finally lets himself laugh at Harry's reaction, "Funny sort of drivel that makes ye think, though, isn't et?"
"An' is a bit o' shinty on a Saturday mornin' really the time fer a philosophy lesson?"
I plant my hands on my hips, suppressing my own laughter, "All I did was cheer for Gwyllyn, Harry. He made a good play, and I cheered him for it. That's all that happened. You want to start dictating what my reactions should be to things and you've stepped way into my personal space. Which means you'll play by my rules, for as long as you're there. Are we clear?"
He chuckles at himself and punches my arm companionably, "Awright, awright, lesson learnt. Schoolmarm!"
He winks at me, and turns his attention back to the game.
This half is winding down, and there is no more scoring for the final few minutes of it.
As Rupert sounds the half-time break, Tory drives up in a runabout filled with bottles of water and fruit-flavoured electrolytes. It seems like barely two seconds later, and the entire modern-kilt team is surrounding our little group of observers, chattering and exulting, and draining Tory's runabout dry in record time.
"Did'ye see the goal I made, Miss Claire?" asks Willie, coming up eagerly to Geordie and me.
"I did," I take the bottle of lemonade flavoured sports drink he's handing out, "And I also saw how tough it is to get anything past Gwyllyn. You did well to score at all – being tied at three is quite an accomplishment."
Willie blushes, and turns to hand Harry a bottle as well, but it seems he's a few meters away, talking to Jamie. They're both back momentarily, however.
"Willie?" calls Jamie, "Ye did say ye wanted tae sit out the second half?"
"Aye," he nods.
"Right then, Har, ye'er in. Come get kitted out."
Both he and Jamie trot away to the small pile of game equipment scattered behind the nearby goal net. I watch as they sort through the caman-sticks and shin-guards and helmets, my eyes resting fondly on Jamie's shaggy, wind-blown curls, and scoop-necked cotton tunic.
With a bit of a start, I realize that I actually haven't seen him without a shirt on yet. There hasn't been a reasonable opportunity for me to have done so, of course, but still, it suddenly seems a little odd that I've forged such a close connection with him, but still have so much of him to discover yet.
The only other person I've ever been this intimate with was Frank, and the morning after he slept in my bed for the first time, I certainly had seen him shirtless. . .
Angus gives a long, shrill whistle, indicating the end of the half-time break.
With calls, cheers, and a good bit of applause, the teams re-take the field, each one taking the opposite goal this time.
The second half starts off just like the first – with raised caman-sticks and a ball tossed in the air, followed by a clattering rush down the field.
Watching it all from behind the modern-kilt's defensive line is a bit different though. It's easy to see Gil is a top-notch goalkeeper, but I've picked up on how the overall strategy of the game works by now, and it's clear Gil is not the one calling the shots. While they were at the other end of the field, it was difficult for me to tell just who was in charge of this team, and so I had assumed it was Leo, given how he was talking about it last night, and that most of the first half plays I could see had him in a prominent role.
But now it's quite clear that Jamie is their leader. Unquestionably. He's the one calling out tactics and setting up defensive formations. He often goes in for crucial tackles himself - even if it means handing most of the scoring opportunities to someone else on his team. He's an excellent player, as far as I can see – quick, precise, and indefatigably tough – but he seldom plays all-out, and never for himself. Most of his energies seem to be focused on bringing out the absolute best in his team, and indeed, it shows. Even I can tell the belted-plaids have more experienced players on their side, but the modern-kilts have battled them to a draw, and I am beginning to think that is entirely down to Jamie's unflinching leadership and drive.
Dougal is absolutely right to be scared of what this man might do to him and his prospects of ever becoming Laird. Jamie was born to be a leader. It comes utterly naturally to him – and men flock to his banner just as naturally.
And as for women. . .
There is a sharp discordance in the pattern of play down the field, as one of the belted-plaids is called back to the knot of observers near their goal-net, and a new player jogs onto the field.
His gait, his figure, his features, all are unmistakable. It's Dougal.
I see Jamie square his shoulders, and call out some modified tactics to his team. In the Gàidhlig this time, not English. And that's how I know this has suddenly gotten personal.
For the next quarter-hour, at least, Jamie plays all-out. He still has his team in the forefront of his mind, but he holds back nothing – not his speed, nor his strength, nor his determination. And Dougal may have years of experience on him, but Jamie has something sustaining him that I doubt Dougal has ever had in his life.
A team that respects the hell out of him.
The two of them are locked into a five-man scrum when I hear a clattering thud quite unlike the other game noises I've grown accustomed to.
"Tha' was a hack!" says Willie, indignantly, "Dougal hacked Jamie's caman! Why the hell didnae Angus call it?"
I'm unsure what hacking is in this context, but I do know who Dougal is. . .
"You know why," I say, flatly.
Willie doesn't reply to that, but the ensuing silence is reply enough.
I see several words exchanged between Jamie and his uncle, but what they are I cannot tell, nor am I certain I want to.
Jamie hits the ball over to Harry, who tries to weave it in between three of the belted-plaids. It doesn't go well, and several of the modern-kilts run up to reinforce him.
Jamie has just managed to get the ball free again and pass it over to Leo when Dougal comes streaking in from the side. Quite deliberately, he barrels into Jamie, hard. Far, far too hard. . .
The force of it rockets them both out of bounds. . . and straight at me.
There is no chance to turn, hardly even a chance to register what is happening before Jamie crashes into me, full-force, plummeting me to the ground.
As I land, a great, lancing pain explodes from my shoulder, the air jolts from my lungs, and my brain shuts down. I don't think I faint, because the softly-mottled grey sky remains steady in front of my eyes, and my short, sharp, agonizing breaths still rattle in my ears, but everything else is gone. Blank.
I drift, a shredded wisp of cloud spread thin across the dark surface of space.
A red-gold orb and a silver tree grow from my hands, one heavy and burning, like a Skycity core, and the other tiny, delicate and ethereal, like something from a garden made for fairies. I walk down an ancient roadway, its grey, fitted cobbles covered in red and yellow lichen. The trees reach out to me, root and branch, to take me back into themselves, as though I am the offspring of a star and a dryad, left orphaned here by the turbulent mists of a distant nebula. I sit next to a round, clear pool of Stygian blue, surrounded by the sweet, green-earthen scent of thyme.
Two lanterns descend from the sky, glowing white-hot with a fury I do not share and cannot understand.
"Claire!" says the wind.
I breathe deep, and blink, for the first time in several eons. The lanterns hover over me, now burning bright cyan, like Blueblast bombs. . .
"Claire! I need ye here wi' me, lass!"
My vision collapses into cold, silver shards, and slips away like bits of ice driven before a keening wind. Jamie is looking down at me, deep concern darkening his face. I blink again.
"Wh. . . what. . . happened?"
"Yer shoulder's out o' joint, mo nighean," he says, with a voice somehow both steady and strange.
"Oh."
"Aye, an' I can put it back in, but I need tae reposition yer arm first."
"Okay."
"It will hurt, mo ghràidh, sae I need ye tae sit up."
I'm still floating somewhere far outside the realm of pain, but I slowly begin to stir, and try to sit up. As soon as I attempt to move my right arm, the mist I have become dissipates with the roaring, cursing shout I cannot keep from tearing out of my mouth.
"Aye, it's a bugger," says Jamie, his voice still strange, and still held bulkhead-steady, "Bu' this is the worst o' it now – it'll be bettar in a moment."
I push myself halfway up on my left arm, and immediately Jamie's hand comes out to steady me. I lean into his support with a gasp, and hold my right wrist to my chest, the screaming, throbbing pain in my shoulder rendering it quite unable to support the weight of my arm. Gently, Jamie replaces my hand on my wrist with his own, carefully manoeuvring me half out of my shirt, so he can see my shoulder while he works.
It is only then that I notice that both my coat and shirt are open, the cold November air raising rough chicken-flesh all over my skin. . .
"Alright. Look at me now, Claire." Jamie's voice is soft, but utterly insistent. I raise my head, and look him full in the face. His eyes are hooded, intense, and focused like I've never seen them.
"Good. Now breathe wi' me." He exaggeratedly takes a breath through his nose, and exhales through his mouth, "One." He does it again. "Two." And again. "Three. And relax."
I've caught on by now, and he counts our breaths again as he slowly manipulates my arm, his eyes never leaving mine, "One. Two. Three. Relax. One. Two. Three. Relax. One. Two. Thr-"
With a twisting wrench that nearly incinerates me with agony, and a bone-deep but also somehow subtle clicking noise, my shoulder is back in its socket, the pain evaporates, and my mind is launched free from survival mode.
The relief is so great, and so sudden, that I start laughing hysterically, "It. . . it doesn't hurt anymore!" I slump against him, still laughing wildly, uncaring about the cold, or who might hear or see me.
"Aye, but it will, lass." Jamie wraps an arm around me, "Ye'll need something tae brace it until I can get ye a sling. . ." he reaches out to tap one of the pairs of legs surrounding us, "Rupert, lend us yer belt, lad."
I blink, and suddenly notice the large ring of backs surrounding and shielding us from public view. At least a dozen men, from the crowd and from both shinty teams, have clustered round me. Well, us.
I smile, and my heart swells with gratitude. These men. . .
"My belt?" echoes Rupert, incredulously.
"Aye, dinnae ask questions, just gi' the lady yer belt, aye?"
"Ov all t'things I've ne'er been asked afore. . ." he trails off into unintelligible grumbling, but eventually the long leather strap clatters down beside Jamie's knees. He promptly coils it around me, setting the loop of it so that all the weight of my arm is lifted up, and puts no tension on my shoulder.
"Now keep it as still as ye can, aye?" I nod. He zips up my coat without buttoning up my shirt, then helps me to stand, supporting me by my left arm, "We'll need tae get ye a sling, a pain-killer, and a topical muscle relaxant tae help wi'-"
A farm-hand runs up to our little group, panting urgently, "Come quick! Marc's fire caught the haystack by the stables! We need tae get t'horses oot in case t'stucture goes!"
The ring breaks up quickly, a score or so men running off to help immediately, and a great many more going for buckets and shovels from the barn. "Agch!" Jamie groans, "If et's no' one thing et's ten things!"
I'm about to shoo him away from me, to tell him I'll be alright, that this obviously takes precedence, when a question suddenly comes to me, somehow overriding all of that.
"Wait!" I call out.
Everyone around me pauses mid-stride.
"Who won?"
The only answers I get are wide-eyed stares, and a chorus of incredulous laughter that is no answer at all.
Notes:
I found myself quite liking shinty while doing research for this chapter. It's a lot of fun to watch, and I got to be really invested in the players. It's definitely worth a look, if you're curious.
Here is one of the games I watched - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OJZUKG7z3Ew&t=122s
Chapter 38: In Love And War
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The fire is almost entirely controlled by the time I make it across the yard. The sheer number of helpers practically guaranteed an effective response, I'm sure, but it is still surprising to me just how quickly the men of Leoch responded to the emergency. I don't know if it is because they've dealt with such things before, or if the workers here really are just that much of a team, but either way, it was quite something to witness, particularly after just having watched two sets of them literally beat each other with sticks.
At least a dozen men had led the advance on the flames, wielding extinguishers with practiced ease, while a score or more followed behind with buckets of water and shovelfuls of soil. There are clouds of smoke and steam wreathing themselves around the stable dooryard, the smell of which is thoroughly new to me, being part wet earth, part scorched barn paint, and part sharply chemical extinguisher foam, all overlaid with a generous spicing from I have no idea how many animal's droppings.
A few bits of ash drift upwards on the air, riding the warm draughts from the still-crackling core of Marc's fire. Piles of faintly blue extinguisher foam surround the windward side of the firepit, quivering in the sharp breeze that threads between the farm buildings, the pale bubbly surface liberally spattered with crumbs of soil from the arc of earth that now contains that whole edge of the fire. But the central coals have maintained their ever-shifting gold, orange and red, and the great caldron of pig feed is still steaming away like nothing has happened.
The drifts of foam continue on from there, over nearly the entire dooryard, to the huge lump I assume used to be the haystack, and up and across the two positively enormous three-meter tall sliding doors that open into the stables proper. A few flat, black smears of soot are visible across the red-painted wood panels, and there are some tufts of black stubble poking through on the haystack, but beyond that, there doesn't appear to be much damage.
The response was so quick and effective, in fact, that the dozens of people who streamed into the stables to remove the animals are mostly making their way back outside without them. There are a few men and animals in the yard – I see both Harry and Murtagh leading a horse with each hand, and Alain and Peter tending to one horse apiece - but all of them are headed back into the stables, muttering words of relief and thanks.
Personally, I wonder if the danger wasn't just a bit exaggerated.
Fire is not a common threat aboard the Skycities. Or, at least it wasn't until the war, and the subsequent invention of Blueblast bombs. And even those never threatened fire so much as threatened nearly instantaneous incineration. Before that though, I can only recall three fires of any note on Skycity 15, and only one that did damage to a residence. That one was a case of bad wiring and a dining table set too close to an electric stove. No one was hurt, and our Central neighbors had an exciting story to tell for the rest of their lives. The other two fires I know of were started by lightning strikes, and even then, the only damage was to outdoor market stalls. Save for those whose livelihoods depended upon the racks of scarves, and the packages of dried fruit, those fires were of little threat to anyone.
I realize the buildings here are made of far more flammable materials than we generally use on Skycities, but the stables are such a lanky, sprawling construction, I find it difficult to believe such a small point of contact like that haystack could become a threat to the entire building. I know it must have been, or else the response would not have been so urgent, but I just cannot see it, in my own mind. Eventually, I have to admit to myself that I just don't know enough about fire, in any of its forms. And I know even less about stables. . .
I pick my way past the vat of pig feed, braving the sharp nip of the wind in my curiosity to see more of Marc's domain. He, Gil, Murtagh and Harry work around here on a daily basis, and in just a few days, we are all going to meet to discuss plans, situations and concerns.
I still know so little about this world yet, and much as I've been learning about Leoch, whenever I think of myself as Farm Manager here, I still feel like a shamefully jumped-up imposter.
Little Claire Randall, North-3 housewife and career farm tech, a manager? The manager, of a large and diversified farming concern? Oh, I'd once dreamed of working for GenTech's crop development labs, but I wasn't innovative enough for that, nor were my gene-manipulation skills brilliant enough in their own right to let me coast through on flash alone. I'm a conscientious tech, open minded and generally skilled, but everything about me and my life is plain, sturdy, serviceable, and utterly ordinary. I'm nowhere near management material, or so I've always thought. And in all my years of work, I've been mostly content with that.
If ever there was someone less prepared for being landed right smack dab in the middle of the impossibly extraordinary, that was me a month ago.
Beyond the stable dooryard is a wide, sweeping field of a similar bleached and pale brown as the shinty field, the spare, uneven grass spiky, dry, and rigid in the wind. A long wire fence bounds it on all sides, but it is broken with many gates, and lined with an impressive collection of troughs and buckets.
The stables make a large L to my right, bordering that side of the field almost halfway, with large, red-painted sliding doors spaced widely but evenly all along the length of it. These seem to line up admirably with the gates to the field, and at last I can visualize the danger of fire to this place. It is all too easy to imagine horses and men streaming out of every portal, and huddling here in the field, trying to get away from licking flames and acrid smoke. . .
But there is only one figure in this large, wind-whispered stableyard at the moment, and that is Dougal, who is speaking so low and so intently to an obviously frightened horse that he doesn't notice me. The horse doesn't notice me either, being far too busy rearing his head back and forth in search of spooks. Dougal grunts, hums and mumbles, either in the Gàidhlig or in some private language of his own, firmly holding the animal's head-rope and stroking soothingly down the sides of its neck. Eventually the creature settles, and very gently rests its head on Dougal's shoulder. His arms come up then, to scratch the horse's ears and affectionately pat its head and neck. And all the time the timbre of his voice doesn't change, his words all soft and gentle, cooing, almost purring, caring in the extreme.
I turn away from the scene, more than a little shaken.
Every time I think I have Dougal figured out, either for good or for very, extremely ill, yet another layer of his personality is revealed to me that upends my previous image of him.
Perhaps to those who have known him for years it means nothing, but to a newcomer like me, that Dougal can be so kind and gentle to a lesser creature means, if not everything, then very nearly so.
The rapacious, power-hungry tyrant of yesterday, and the slimy, sneering manipulator from this morning seem to have vanished at the call of fire. Even the snarling, vindictive asshole from the shinty game was immediately replaced with that caring, gentle, outgoing man, with a kind voice and a tender touch.
Then my shoulder twinges, and I pause for a moment. I don't know if Dougal meant to send Jamie hurtling at me specifically, but the fact is, he did do it. Does his sincere care for one horse really mean all that much, in the end? Vicious, murderous men have been known to have their affections, after all. That Dougal can find it in him to be kind and gentle to an animal doesn't mean he hasn't been unkind and violent to me and others. If placed in varying circumstances, he shows himself to be more than one man. So what? Most men are, and most women too.
And yet. . .
No matter how much evil I have seen in him, how much good is that man back there capable of? A very great deal, I feel sure.
Enough to counter all the wrong he's done to me? For some reason I have no doubt at all that he is. But is he capable of enough good to counter any of his other sins? I don't know, but after all, that isn't for me to say. Only one thing is for sure. That sight back there has resolved me. I will carry out my full offensive, not just for Jamie's sake, nor for mine, nor for the people of Leoch, but for Dougal himself. There is a man in him that is worth fighting for, and perhaps if I battle him properly, he will come to see the value of that tender, caring part of himself - that lovely laugh and mischievous gleam in his eye that I've seen and heard from him so rarely, but each time immediately makes some part of me want to follow him, either into adventure, danger and war, or into plain, humble, honest labour.
Somewhere in him, hidden deep though it may be, there is a spark of the same sweet, boyish, effortless leadership that Jamie wears like a shield, and I am certain it could be just as charming and effective in Dougal as it is in Jamie. I'll fight him for a chance to hold a mirror up to that man, yes, no question I will.
Of course, I might fail. Or maybe he will fail me. There's more than a good chance he'll end up quashing that part of himself like a bit of dirt under heel, never to be missed. Perhaps he will never be my ally. Perhaps the war between us will all be for nothing.
But, I'm convinced it will be worth the attempt.
Now I just have to figure out how. . .
I crouch down next to the leeward side of the caldron of pig feed, and take up a stick to poke at the coals a little. This side of the firepit is fringed with half-burned pieces of kindling and tree bark, as well as spent coals, coated in a thick layer of ash. I poke one of the round, livid chunks of cinders, and watch as the soft, dark grey stuff flakes off in tiny puffs of dust, and the hard, central lump of black is revealed. Then I hit it back into the middle of the fire, as though my stick is a caman, and the coal a ball.
As if my dilemma is a game of shinty. . .
It is one thing to have the beginnings of a workable battle plan, and one thing to resolve to fight those battles, but it is quite another to know what moves would be best to make.
I could start at the top, I suppose, but I am reluctant to lean on Colum this early in the conflict, given that he is going to be so pivotal to my end game as well. No. I need a way to begin that is smaller, more personal, and closer to the bone. My opening gambit must be sharp, for I have to cut quickly and precisely, drawing the least amount of blood as possible, but leaving a thorn embedded so deeply, it will be almost impossible to remove until my offensive is concluded. And it must be done in public, openly, yet so subtly the blow will be unrecognizable for what it really is to anyone but Dougal and me. And perhaps Jamie.
I allow myself to debate whether or not I should bring Jamie in on it all yet. Last night proved that he can be an incredibly effective ally even when only half-informed of my intentions and needs, and that intuitive support of his will be highly valuable to me in the coming weeks, I have no doubt at all. But bringing him in on the planning stage sounds even more effective to me. I may be good at strategy, but I'm not strong enough at tactics to make flying solo any sort of attractive option at this point. I might be able to pull through alone if I had to, but the simple fact is, I do much better tactical thinking when I have some good solid backup. Jamie proved his wits and steel last night, not to mention this morning, and I already know he would make the perfect foil to bounce ideas off of. So why not? Above all – he knows Dougal.
That last point decides me. I need Jamie's knowledge of Leoch and its people far more than I need his uninformed intuitive support.
Next time we're alone, I'll bring him up to speed.
I've been absently stirring the ashes piled around this edge of the firepit, watching the bits of coal and cinder disintegrate into flat, cheerless grey. But occasionally, a larger chunk surfaces, and slides out of the ash onto the stones of the yard. Just now, my larger stick dislodges a smaller stick, and it lands at my feet with a surprisingly metallic tinkle. I pick up the tiny half-burned twig, smiling as it sparks a rush of warm memories.
Frank's hobby might have been power panels and energy salvage, but that was not his passion. He could hold forth with the best power-salvagers when it came to energy-grades and specialty silicates, of course, and he was thoroughly invested in the pastime, but only I knew the real reason why. In truth, he was only interested in it because fully licensed power salvaging was and is practically the only legal hobbyist activity on Skycity 15 that is at all likely to net you a supplemental income.
Which he needed, if he ever wanted to afford his art supplies.
Art grade paper, artist's erasers, blenders and other tools, and artist's charcoal – like the tiny stick of black currently residing on my palm – are toys of the rich on New Oxford. Far out of the everyday reach of sanitation workers and farm techs. Frank knew that as well as anyone, but he was determined, even obsessed, with fighting our status quo. There was no small irony in the fact that my marrying him prompted me to fully break with my incredibly rich parents, but he had fully supported the move, saying we were both steady and quite respectable workers, and therefore, we deserved our leisure time, our opinions, and our passions. What we couldn't afford, we would earn, whether those Central snobs liked it or not.
I remember falling even more in love with him the first time he told me that.
For years after that, every time Frank pulled in his power panels, he delighted in providing us some extra food, or buying our house some new curtains or a tablecloth, or getting us a new book download from Central Publishing. But part of the profits always went into a special fund, and once about every six months, he would splurge solely on himself, and buy a Black & White Artpack from Central Market.
Over the following months, still-lifes would emerge, or landscapes, or abstract patterns so surreal there are one or two that still haunt me to this day. Or, if he was truly inspired, he might bring forth a portrait. He didn't draw faces often, calling them "ten pounds of effort in an five pound bag", but when he did, there was something truly magical about them. He captured several of our neighbors in ways I still cannot fully comprehend. He drew a self portrait once, and managed to capture the very twinkle of bright, boyish goodness in his eyes that was the first thing I was ever attracted to about him. He drew me, much more than once, and each time I rediscovered that I'm not actually indifferent about my hair, or my lips, or my skin, I only seem to be, until someone else shows appreciation for them. Then self-consciousness takes over, and I never quite knew how Frank conveyed my blushes in black and white, but nevertheless he could catch them, and set them down on paper, showing the very instant of my transformation from blissful ignorance, to roused bewilderment.
He would use every square millimeter of the paper in those Artpacks, not just the few sheets of crisp, textured art paper either, but also the back of the thin cardboard packaging, and even the blank brown paper wrapper that enclosed the kneedable eraser. And he would use up that eraser too, turning it from pale grey to deep, useless black while obliterating any drawing he didn't like, just so he could have the space to try again.
There were days, he sometimes said, that thinking of what he would draw that evening was the only thing that would get him through the day.
Those days were the only times I envied him.
Before leaving Central, my hobbies had been the histories of earthbound sciences. There was botany, of course, but I had also had great interest in geography, geology and such, as well. Living with Frank in North 3, for all practical purposes, meant giving up those things, at least as amusements. The botany I used every day at my farming stations, but there was no way to continue my other interests once I did not have daily access to GenTech's seed library, or Central's World History Museum. Frank occasionally bought me books on scientific history, and we sometimes visited Central's Museum Mile on dates, but all in all, we really could only afford one rich-man's hobby. And so, of necessity, I became interested in his interests. Power salvage and charcoal drawing became my hobbies too, and I maintain I could have done far worse, particularly after the war.
The problem was, of course, that I am not, nor ever have been an artist.
Power salvaging I could get into and understand, even if I held no emotional attachment to it. But Frank's imagination, passion and joy of creation were all utterly alien to me. At least when it came to roughly textured art paper and small sticks of half-burnt scrapwood. I was glad he had those things – was thankful he did. But I was sometimes jealous of the fact that there was a place he could go, free from the cares and worries of war, and the bleak mundanities of life. A place he could go, where I could not follow. Eventually, I think, he felt my discontent, even if he didn't understand it, and like the good, loving husband he was, made the one suggestion he could think of that might balance the score between us again.
That we ought to try and have a baby.
I shake away the memories of those subsequent days – we were so happy in our utter defiance of conflict, war and death. . .
But no matter how envious I ever got that he had his escape and I had none, it only made me love the pictures he drew even more, made me see greater and greater genius in them the more his talent progressed. One of my greatest regrets is that I was unable to save any of them from the fire. Yet I still I hold every one of them in my heart – every expressive stroke, every smoothly blended detail, every miraculous tiny masterpiece is with me, even now.
The little fragment of charcoal lays in my hand, not even reaching all the way across my palm.
Strange, how I am finding so many lost pieces of my future, here in the past.
"Weel, come along then, Sassenach," says Jamie's voice, as he comes up next to me, "All's well heer now, an' ye need a real sling fer that shoulder, oor ye'll have it right out again, sure as shootin'."
I smile, and close my fingers around my bit of lost beauty. I stand to look at him. Wordlessly, he offers me his arm, and I take it, just as silently. Then he drives us to his workshop, with three or four other runabouts following us, for reasons I cannot fathom. But it is made clear when Jamie starts applying burn ointment and distributing bandages to everyone. No one seems particularly hurt, and more than half the men leave mere minutes later - their minor burns soothed, their lunch awaiting them at the main house, so they have no compulsion to linger.
Jamie takes his time over the last few, being especially meticulous with a combined burn and scrape that shows long and ugly along Peter's elbow. He has to remove several splinters before dressing the skin, and he wraps it very carefully, giving a lot of instructions about keeping it clean.
Finally, he hands him a small pot of salve, and Peter makes his escape.
I watch him out the door. Just as he is leaving the gate, he passes Dougal, stomping his way in.
I turn away, so that I'm not looking at him when Dougal enters the workshop.
"D'ye have any of that burn ointment for the horses, laddie?" he demands without preamble.
I see Jamie clench his teeth a little before answering. "Aye. I'll get it in a moment." He bends over Alain's wrist, not deigning to look his uncle in the face.
Dougal shrugs, and removes his cap, tossing it carelessly on Jamie's desk. Then he shoulders his way past Murtagh, and with a loud snap of the sliding door, shuts himself into the cottage's little toilet station.
Jamie, Murtagh and I all share a fleeting, half-bewildered look.
With lots of instructions and another pot of ointment, Jamie sends Alain in to his meal. He nods and gives a pleasant "Thanks Jam!" before leaving briskly.
Jamie pauses a long while after he goes, then claps Murtagh on the shoulder, and gestures into the cottage's other room – "Heer, a goistidh – I'll give ye the horse's burn salve, and let ye help Dougal out wi' whate're bee he's got in his bonnet this time."
"Och, thanks an' nae thanks fer that! Ya wee plague. . ." Murtagh grumbles, but still follows him into the workroom, leaving me here, in Jamie's office, alone.
The sudden silence closes around me like a wide, heavy blanket.
A bee in his bonnet. . .
I look down at the piece of charcoal still gripped in my hand, and a horribly mischievous idea comes to me. I need an opening gambit for my offensive, yes, but this. . . it's terrible. Every kind of bad. And while it doesn't technically break any rules, it certainly isn't noble warfare. I absolutely should not do it.
But it does happen to fulfill all my requirements for an effective opening move. . .
And if I follow it up with the right words and reactions, then, perhaps. . .
Perhaps.
But I still shouldn't do it. . .
My shoulder twinges again, and I recall the pained expression on Leticia's face as she watched me realize that the father of her child was slowly and deliberately bringing about the demise of her husband.
I prim up my mouth in a common Central expression of disdain.
Even duty and honour fall away when it comes to the demands of love, she'd said.
What's that old saying? All's fair in love and war?
Well, perhaps not all, but close enough.
I make my mind up quickly, carrying out my idea so fast I don't have time to think better of it, then sitting down on the couch again, so when all three men return almost simultaneously, I am silent and detached, innocently paging though an old magazine Jamie had on his low table. It's called Modern Farming, and I'm finding the cover article on this era's crop regulators genuinely interesting.
There's some grumbling, and a few murmured words in Gàidhlig, but Jamie manages to send Dougal and Murtagh off back to the stables with relative ease. When he comes back in, the first thing he does is go digging for something in a cupboard in the far corner of his office space. I can't see what, nor do I ask. Then, he bundles himself into the toilet station, closing the door with a subdued click.
I shrug, and go back to my article.
I'm unsure how many minutes later it is, but surely not many, when I'm brought out of my sharply focused reading by a soft yet heavy something being laid on the low table in front of me. I look up. It's Jamie's kilt. I catch half a glimpse of him going into his workroom area, and I see he's wearing trousers now. I look back at the neatly folded pile of tartan, and reach out to examine a corner of it.
It's the first time I've given this kilt any close attention. At first glance it seemed much like the MacKenzie tartan, only slightly more complex in pattern. Now, seen closer to, I notice that the blues are brighter, the grays are warmer and richer, and where the colours merge there is an added line of softly-toned lavender. Most importantly, there is a thin stripe of red running through the heart of the pattern, like veins on the back of a hand.
"Tha's the Fraser tartan," says Jamie, returning to sit next to me, his arms full of bottles and bits of cloth and some things I can't immediately identify.
"It's beautiful," I say, dreamily.
"Aye. It's no' quite as comfortable as a belted-plaid, mind, nor as useful, but it's good, genuine Fraser tartan, I'll say tha' much fer it."
I snicker, wryly, "Jamie, are you trying to tell me your kilt is a bit pants?"
He stutters to a halt, then gives a huge guffaw, "Aye, I suppose I am, Sassenach. Jus' a wee bit." He sets down most of his armload of stuff, then gestures at my shoulder. "Tek off yer shirt."
I scoff a little at his uncustomary bluntness.
"It's a good job I like you. . ." I say, twisting up my mouth. Then, carefully, I begin to remove my jacket.
He pulls himself up for a second, then has the decency to look abashed, "Aye, sorrae – 'tis only that I wan'tae fix ye up, ken?"
"Oh, I ken."
Our eyes meet with a twinkle of mutual understanding, and then I turn so he can more easily reach my shoulder.
He unbuckles me from Rupert's belt, pours a bit of oil into his palms, rubs his hands together, and then wraps them both gently around my right shoulder.
The oil smells citrusy and sweet, and his hands are incredibly warm. Massive amounts of tension I wasn't aware I was carrying release with a completely unexpected wave of relief.
"Mmm," I sigh, "That feels good."
Softly, rhythmically, he starts smoothing the oil into my skin.
"Agch, Sassenach," he chuckles, "If ye'ed wanted a massage, all ye hadtae doo was ask nicely, ken?"
I smile at his teasing, somewhat ruefully. A hard, painful blush comes up on my cheeks, "I really should apologize to you, Jamie."
"Hmphm," he grunts, still gently working at my shoulder, "An' what for, exactly?"
"Well. . . everything, really. Yesterday. Last night. This morning."
"Sae ye'ev remembered it all then?"
"Yes. Or nearly all of it."
"Alright. Soo let me ask ye again – what are ye apologizin' for? Be specific now."
He runs two fingertips very precisely up and down my right arm. He does it twice, then shifts the place and does it twice more. It isn't a caress – it's something medicinal that I don't understand. Then he returns to my shoulder and starts applying firm but gentle pressure on some very specific points. Some of them burn a bit, and all of them throb with a very unpleasant soreness, but it is nevertheless a good ache. Paired with Jamie's healing touch, I don't care that I can't understand all of it. It's making me feel better, and that's what matters.
"Well. . . I. . . I suppose I'm apologizing for. . . only thinking of myself. For assuming that I would be the only one who might have anything to. . . well, to forgive. I completely disregarded the fact that you might have been offended by my actions, not just me by yours. . ."
I can't see it from this angle, but I can feel him smile.
"Apology accepted, mo ghràidh," he drops a gentle kiss on my left shoulder, "Bu' I wasnae offended. Jus' so ye ken."
Another previously unnoticed knot of tension within me relaxes, "You weren't?"
He hums softly, "Nae. Slightly annoyed, mebbe. Agitated. . ." he leans closer to me, and runs the tip of his nose all along the rim of my left ear, "Aroused. . ." he whispers.
A wave of warmth runs though me, and it has only a very little to do with his hands.
"Oh?"
He hums again, his breath warming the back of my head, "O tha, tha gaol agam ort, mo nighean donn."
He has said those words before, but the repetition does not dull their intensity, nor does it mean I can understand them any better.
But I don't have to understand the sudden rush of air in my lungs, nor the insistent pounding in my blood. That Jamie has caused them is enough.
He lifts his hands from my shoulder, and I feel the loss more keenly than the cold.
"Ye need a hot compress now, Sassenach," he says, wiping his hands clean, and taking up a small, slender sack that looks like it's full of grain. He puts it in the small wave-heater that's beside his refrigeration unit. Then he pokes a few buttons, and the thing beeps petulantly, before finally turning on. "Only reason I keep this auld thing around," he says, thumping the top of it, carelessly but affectionately.
"For warming hot compresses?"
"Aye. No' usually for such a lovely lady, a'coorse."
"Oh no?"
"Nae. Usually they're fer horses."
I smile mischievously, "Well. I'm glad you don't put me in that category."
"Och, I would nevar," he rolls his eyes and grins exaggeratedly.
I laugh, so comfortable around him that it doesn't even matter I'm stripped down to my bra, or that his hands were massaging my skin while he admitted that he was aroused the last time we touched. . .
Or rather, it isn't that these things don't matter, it's that they're so natural at this point, there isn't even a vestige of awkwardness about them.
Which is something of a miracle, all things considered.
The device beeps again, this time to signal it has finished, apparently, because he turns to remove the little sack of grain. I see it is gently steaming now, and suddenly the whole room smells of fresh bread. He balances it very carefully around my shoulder, then drapes my shirt and jacket over my back.
"Covar an' let steam fer fifteen minutes," he says, cheerfully teasing, "Feelin' any bettar, mo ghràidh?"
"Mm. Much." I nod.
"Good."
Suddenly, my stomach rumbles, embarrassingly loudly.
He looks at me reproachfully, "Have ye been skippin' meals again, Sassenach?"
I wave off his concern, "After last night and this morning, I wasn't hungry until now."
"Mmphm," he hums, dubiously, "Tha' isnae an excuse, mo nighe-"
"Oh? 'I wasn't hungry' isn't good enough for you?" I snap, temper flaring, "So what would be an excuse, then? Quadruple amputation? But oh, no, they could still wheel me into the dining room on a gurney, right? God forbid I miss one of the constant onslaughts of calories the kitchen dumps into my lap for free every day, as if there won't always be another meal waiting in just a few hours anyway, all gussied up on a silver platter!"
Jamie stares at me, jaw slack, totally bewildered. It occurs to me that he hasn't seen me really angry before, or at least not at him personally. I desperately try to calm down. There's no way he knows what a hot button food is to me. . .
"I. . . only wish tae take care of ye, Sassenach," he says, very quietly.
"Fine," I exhale sharply, "But don't you dare patronize me while doing it, do you understand me, Fraser? I'm not an infant. I know what I can handle and when. Informing you of that is not an excuse. It's a reason. I'm allowed to make my own choices, Jamie."
"Aye, so ye are," he says, face blank, eyes wary.
"Besides, missing a meal has never killed me before, I doubt highly it's going to start now."
"Aye, ye'ev said such before. . . " he draws his brows together seriously, "May I assume tha' mean's ye. . . weel. . . that there have been times. . . when there wasnae always another meal waitin'?"
I am thoroughly unprepared for how completely this question shatters me. All of my anger collapses into something dark and horrid that I don't want to acknowledge exists inside my mind. I can't even speak for a minute.
It takes many long seconds for me to find my voice again.
"These past eight months. . . they haven't been easy, Jamie." I press my knuckles to my lips, living again some of my worst days out on the Rim – cold, lonely, depressed and starving - "I know what real hunger is, yes. And missing one meal doesn't bring it on. Missing two meals doesn't bring it on. Real hunger is living off of potato peelings and corn husks scraped off of random compost piles, and praying to god you're not eating chicken shit."
"Christ. . . did ye no' have friends there in Oxford, mo chridhe?"
I huff a tiny humourless laugh, "What friends I had did whatever they could. They bought things when I had something to sell. Helped me make and keep my connections within my trade, for all the good that did. But they tried. And some threw work my way when it was there to be had." I meet Jamie's sober, steady blue eyes, "But friends like you? Friends who insist on taking care of me so much they make a nuisance of themselves? I haven't had a friend like that since Frank died, Jamie."
A half-dozen expressions cross his face, so rapidly that I can't follow them.
"Ye'ev. . . really eaten corn husks?" he asks, with a tentative smile.
I shrug with my free shoulder, "Yeah. They don't taste too bad, but they aren't very nutritious. And they're mostly roughage, so they're decidedly less pleasant on the way out than they are on the way in."
His smile morphs into a mildly disgusted grimace of understanding.
"It's nae wonder ye c'n face Dougal head-on, then. Ye'ev already faced far worse than aught he c'n doo tae ye."
I nod, slowly, "That's. . . certainly part of it."
"I'm sorrae I talked down tae ye, Sassenach," he says, looking at his hands. Then, he meets my eyes, steadily, "Wilnae happen again."
"See that it doesn't," I say, mildly, "And I'm sorry I snapped at you."
"Ye had th'moor reason. . ."
"Maybe." I pause, thoughtfully, "But, speaking of Dougal. . ."
"Aye?"
"Do you think he did this on purpose?"
"Yer shoulder?"
I nod, and he shakes his head and shrugs at the same time, "I dinnae ken. I gave him a piece of my mind right after he did it, bu' if he had any previous intentions, then I'm the last one could get him tae admit it."
"He fouled you during the match, too."
"Aye," he grins, triumphantly sly, "An' I fouled him right back – ye didnae see that, did ye?"
"No, I didn't."
"Because I c'n do it bettar than him, an' I dinnae let him forget it. He still called me a cheat, tho'." He shrugs, "I said I'd learned tae do it from him, an' asked what he'd think of me if I didnae fight back wi' all I had. He said 'No' much'." He runs a hand over his chin, still rough with stubble from yesterday.
I mull that over for a minute. "Well, that's all the declaration of intent I need. You?"
Jamie sits back down next to me, and removes the hot compress, then helps me on with my shirt, "What are ye on about, Sassenach?"
"He wants a war, Jamie. What say we give him one?"
His eyebrows go up, "Over a few fouls during a shinty match? Agch."
"No, not for that, silly," I gesture at my shoulder as he gently fits my arm into a sling, "For this. And for trying to blackmail me and using you to do it. And for spying on Colum. And exploiting Letitia. And lying to Hamish, come to that. Let's fight him for being a user. For only taking, when he has so much to give."
"Ye wantae fight a man for that?"
"Can you think of a better reason?"
That brings him up short, and he pauses for a long minute.
"Now ye mention it. . . nae. I cannae."
I nod. Then, slowly and deliberately, I outline my ideas for a general battle plan, making it clear that half of my reasoning stems from wanting to protect the residents of Leoch from any reprisals.
"Reprisals?" Jamie gasps. "Sassenach, ye'el have the fox in amongst the chickens wi' all that, right enough!"
I fight back a pang of discouragement, "You think it's too much?"
"Tha's no' even the question. Et's. . ."
"Yes?"
He scrubs his hands over his face, then sighs in frustration, "Ye really intend tae make the Gathering yer endgame?"
"I do."
He leans back against the couch cushions, face pensive. "It isnae a bad plan, mo chridhe, only rough an' ready a' the moment. It needs refinin', ken?"
"Well, I did only think of it this morning."
"Aye. D'ye play chess, mo ghràidh?"
I shrug, wondering what that has to do with anything, "I used to, years ago. I don't know if that counts."
"Aye, it counts well enough. Is there a set in yer rooms? There is in most guest rooms, but some dinnae have them."
My mind flies to the pair of shelves full of colourful boxes in my front sitting room, "Why yes, I believe there is. A little carved wooden thing, painted red and white."
"Weel. Mebbe we can hash it all out over a game taenight?"
I grin, "You do ask me on dates in the strangest ways, James Fraser. But would a chess match. . . help?"
"Aye. Chess is the only war I ken. But give me a game, a glass of whisky, an' time tae think, an' I'll help ye figure it out, sure enough."
He helps me zip up my jacket, and I fiddle with the zipper tag for a few seconds before saying, slowly, "That sounds good. . . but it might be a bit late to change the plan entirely. . ."
He snaps his eyes to mine, "Why? Wha' have ye done, Sassenach?"
I tell him.
It takes a few seconds for him to get over the shock, but then he nearly explodes with incredulous laughter, eyes wide, mouth open, "No! Ye didnae!"
I smirk, "Oh, I very much did."
"D'ye have any idea how they'll all react? How he'll react? He'll be at tea taeday - they'll all be at tea taeday, 'tis a Saturday. An' Jesus, Mary and Bride, it's tea. Sometimes there are tourists in for Leoch teas at th'weekend - they're set special for them. It'll be carnage, Sassenach, utter carnage." His face is a most disconcerting blend of savage glee and fierce consternation.
"But. . . I mean. . ." I fumble a bit, afraid I might have indeed gone too far already, "Are you sure they won't be a little bewildered first? They won't be shocked and wonder what's up at all? There won't be any grace period?"
"Och, aye, there will be, bu' what good can fifteen seconds - at most - do ye when we're talking about something like this?"
I relax at once, "Fifteen seconds? That's a lifetime with something like this, Jamie. It can change the whole impact of the thing, if I say the right words in between."
"Ahgch. Words again," he sighs.
I nod, "They're my weapon of choice, yes."
"Alright," he gestures broadly, "Tell me what ye're plannin' on saying, an' I'll guard yer back as best I can."
I tell him this, too. Once my meaning sinks in, he sits up straight, confusion all over his face.
"Wait. . . he was? He did?"
"He did. I saw him."
He laughs, sharply, "Nae'un else did."
"I know. That's why I think I can swing this around. With your help, of course."
He blows out his cheeks, and hums thoughtfully, "Weel. It'll be quite an opening punch if we can."
"Except if we're successful, it won't look like a punch to anyone but Dougal."
"Aye, I'm a bit vague on that point, Sassenach," he draws one finger along his lower lip, "An' I think it may have something tae do wi' one bit ye didnae explain this mornin'."
"Oh? What's that?"
"What is it ye want from Dougal, in the end? What is yer goal?"
"You don't know? I thought you might have figured it out by now."
He cocks an eyebrow, dubiously, "Weel, I have a few guesses, but. . ."
I take his nearest hand in mine, "Jamie, all I have ever wanted from Dougal Mackenzie is to be his ally."
"Tha's it?"
"That's it. The sum total. He and me, on equal terms, facing the same direction. That's all I want. I wouldn't say no to a friendship developing from there, but I'm not counting on it. Though he is capable of it, I know that. So, if waging war with him is the only way to convince him, well, then, so be it."
He shakes his head, "Puir beggar didnae ken wha' he was getting' inta when he brought ye heer, did he?"
"No. But I can hardly blame him for that."
"Except ye can." He jumps up, and begins to rapidly put away all the things he got out to treat my shoulder.
"I can?"
"Aye. Any man of sense would'ha stopped underestimatin' ye sae badly the minute ye fixed the Rover, stood up tae th'lot of us, and ate a plateful of haggis wi' nary a qualm. Especially if he thinks ye'er a spy. I blame him verrah much for nae knowin' a'least part of what he was getting' inta by then, I do."
He reaches out to take my hand, then, and for the first time I notice the thin red line of a small burn across the back of his palm. "You're hurt too!" I say, unreasonably shocked he didn't say anything.
"Och, nae, it's no'thin'." He pulls his hand away, and gives it a critical look, "I've had worse. I'll bide."
I can't cross my arms, one of them being in a sling, but I narrow my eyes at him, "Are you really telling me that you mean to take the best care of me I've had since my husband died, and you mean to deny me the pleasure of reciprocating?"
He blinks, "Weel, when you put it like that. . ."
I grin in triumph, then practically run over to his worktable, and scoop up one of the pots of salve like those he was giving out to the farming staff. Its little metallic gold label flashes in my hand, showing a small white logo that, surprisingly, I recognize. This brand of first-aid products still exists in my time. Even better. . .
"Nae, dinnae use that one, Sassenach!"
The urgency in his voice brings me to an abrupt stop, and I look over at him, confused, "But. . . why not?"
He sets his jaw, and strange tension forms around his eyes, "Smell it."
I open the small plastic jar, and smell the iconic lavender and aloe ointment this brand makes, and apparently will make for hundreds of years. It's perfectly normal.
"Mmm. Smells just like it should," I look questioningly at him, "Doesn't it?"
"Aye. Just like lavender."
"And. . . ?"
"An' I cannae stand lavender, Sassenach."
"But you used it on all the farm hands. . ."
He nods sharply, "Aye, they're a simple lot, most of them – I ken they're moor likely tae take proper care of the burns if they feel like they're "official" on-the-job injuries, an' bein' treated by a professional. They wouldnae feel so if all I gave them was my oon homemade ointment." He takes up a little hand-labeled glass jar from the other side of the worktable and presents it to me, "Heer. Ef ye mus', use this'un."
I take it, smiling softly at him, and begin to apply a thin layer to the little burned spot, "Okay. But what I meant was, you used the stuff you don't like on the men, Jamie – if you can't stand it. . . how did you do that? Why did you do it?"
He shrugs, blandly, "Professionalism, I suppose."
His voice is dismissive. He clearly doesn't want to talk about it. I don't push the issue.
It takes a bit of finagling to do it with only one hand, but eventually I manage to fix a small plaster over the area, "There. Now, let's make you happy by getting me a meal, and make me happy by having you there when the shit hits the fan with Dougal." I put the little pot of salve back where he keeps it, then go to wash up. When I come back out, I plant my free hand on my hip, and look up at him, "Deal?"
"Aye. Thankee, lass." He kisses me on the lips, quickly but softly, and offers me his arm, "Let us go in tae tea, mo nighean." He links our arms together, and gestures us out of his workshop.
I haven't had tea in the dining room here yet. Lunch is usually a hasty meal in the kitchens, if the staff eat anything at all then, and it has no set time for us in the offices and outbuildings, for Mrs. Fitz usually sends us out in the morning with ample things to eat whenever we want. But tea is different. Often, it is the most substantial meal of the day, to the point that I've noticed most of the farm labourers don't even attend supper.
But weekends are special, and the dining room runs on a slightly different schedule, regardless. I know from Mrs. Fitz that a Saturday tea in the dining room will be served buffet-style, and will be fairly well varied, but nothing like supper last night. I expect a hearty meal enough, but probably somewhat lighter than Mrs. Fitz's standbys of macaroni pies, mince and skirlie, and clapshot.
I smile at the number of food terms I've had to absorb in so short a time here at Leoch. And I once thought tea with Lamb was a learning experience!
Jamie has kept me entertained on our way into the house with many funny tales of shinty games past – like the one time Edan performed a midair somersault to avoid a tackle, or when Jerry tripped over his own caman and landed face first into some horse apples. They are encouraging stories one and all, because it means I'm hardly the only one to have sustained an injury at a Leoch shinty match, and I certainly won't be the last. That I'm a woman and was a bystander instead of a player won't matter - "That time Wee Jamie ran into the Sassenach" will make a good story, I feel sure, for many generations of Leoch shinty players to come.
That the whole thing was Dougal's fault will be conveniently forgotten, of course.
The dining room is much less formally laid out than it was last time I was here. Instead of one long table and a High Table, there are eight smaller ones laid in a grid down the room. There is still one High Table set crosswise at the head of the room, but it loses something of its imperious presence this way. And of course the long sideboard with the food laid out on it encourages mingling, and conversation between everyone, not just whoever you're seated near.
The more casual atmosphere carries over into what behaviour is acceptable too, for Jamie and I walk right in, and go to the back of the buffet line without any ceremony at all.
I immediately see what Jamie meant about tea in the dining room being "for tourists", because not only is everything already pre-portioned into bowls and plates – the first time I've seen any kind of portion control since Leaving Skycity 15, in fact – but each dish is actually labeled. Little cardboard signs list ingredients and declare names like scotch eggs, sausage rolls, Cullen skink, cream of chicken stew, panakelty, stovies, and rumbledethumps. Over on the dessert table there are things called cranachan, fly cemeteries, and fern cakes. I smile, not just at the whimsical terms, but at the comforting feeling of not having to ask too many questions for once, even though the only thing I even vaguely recognize is the chicken stew.
Jamie helps me manage my plates and bowls, and we go and sit at one of the lower tables, close to where Murtagh, Harry, and several of the other men I met last night are sitting.
"Sae I see ye'ev already forgi'en oor wee Jamie fer slammin' inta ye sae hard?" Harry teases, as soon as we are comfortably seated.
I quirk my lips, and look at Jamie askance. The sexual overtones in Harry's voice and words are impossible to miss, and with what I am hoping will happen with Dougal in a few minutes in the forefront of my mind, I'm feeling remarkably mischievous.
"Yes," I say, saucily, more to Jamie than to Harry, "I mean what else could I do, really? No man has ever thrown himself at me like that before."
Jamie's eyes widen a bit before he joins in on the laughter around the table.
"Popp't th'knobbin' right oot a'joint, did he?" Harry drawls.
"Oh yes," I say, drily, "And put it back in again. Very effective."
Most of the table descends into helpless laughter at these exchanges, and I share another look with Jamie. He's far from unhappy with the direction the chatter has gone. He regards me from behind the large chunk of crusty bread he's holding, his eyes all warm and soft, their expression half flirty and half incredibly sweet. Then he breaks off a piece of the bread, and dunks it in his soup. He got the Cullen skink, the same as me. It's made with cream and fish and onions and leeks, and honestly, I've scarcely ever tasted anything so good.
I take up a fork to try a bit of potato from the panakelty, and while I'm there, I steal a bit of sausage from Jamie's nearby plate of stovies. He's about to teasingly slap my hand away when he suddenly stops, and looks back and forth between us several times.
"Tha's odd, Sassenach," he murmurs.
"What is?"
"Ye'er left-handed."
I look down at the fork I'm using so easily, without a trace of awkwardness, despite my right arm being all wrapped up in a sling.
"And so I am. What's odd about that?"
"Nothin'. It's only. . . I am too."
With mild surprise, I see his spoon is indeed in his left hand.
"Oh. So you are," I say, pleased, but far from shocked, "But there's not a lot odd about that, either. . ."
"Maybe no' the fact of it, no," he says, stirring his soup contemplatively before taking a bite, "Bu' when I'm around som'un else kippy-handed, I almost allus notice. Usually in the first few minutes. Tha' I have'nae done so wi' ye. . . tha's what's odd."
I nod, thoughtfully, because he's very right, "Yeah. I usually notice other leftys right away too, come to think of it. I guess our minds have been pretty focused on other things. . ."
"Aye. Tha' mus' be it. . ." he starts, and trails off, clearly unconvinced. He wrinkles up his forehead, and speaks downward, toward his soup, "But. . . et's almost as if we. . . we didnae need tae notice, mo chridhe. Like we kent it already. Like we've always kent it. Somehow."
I know it's hardly the time or place, but I am seriously considering broaching the subject of the waking dream we shared while on the dance floor last night, when there is a mild stir in the general conversation behind me. Jamie looks up, and I can tell by the look on his face that Dougal has entered the dining room.
I take a deep breath, and slowly exhale.
Here we go. . .
It takes all of my willpower not to turn around and stare at Dougal while he assembles his tea. I do glance quickly at Jamie, and the small nod he gives me tells me everything I need to know. Dougal is still wearing the boots, cap, and belted plaid he was during the shinty match, regardless of what he's been doing since.
Mechanically, I force myself to eat, my senses on such high alert that I barely taste the things that were so savoury and good mere moments ago. No matter. Dougal enters my peripheral vision, and I see him sit down at the High Table, his posture as casual as I have ever seen it get.
Perhaps he won't do it. . .
But no. Force of habit. He's sitting at a table, having a meal. He has to. It's the polite thing to do. . .
It is only a second or two, but it feels like a lifetime before he raises his hand to do what I knew he would do, and in exactly the way I've seen him do it several times now.
He raises his hand to remove his knitted woolen cap. He slides it off in a deliberate, subdued manner that always runs the cap's headband straight across the entire dome of his head. It's one of the first of his mannerisms I learned, and now, it's come back to bite him.
Dougal is perhaps the most confident and assured bald man I've ever met. There isn't a speck of shame in him regarding his hair, or the lack of it.
An attitude which amplifies his current state tenfold.
While that same woolen cap had sat alone on Jamie's office desk, I had applied the bit of charcoal I was still holding to the inside of the headband, rubbing it into the cloth so it would leave dark smears wherever it made contact with the skin.
At the moment, Dougal looks like he is wearing a cheap, ineffective, utterly ridiculous hair piece. And given the way he habitually removes his cap, it also looks like a shockingly clumsy comb-over. In deep, coal black. On a man whose hair is a clean, respectable silver.
My first charcoal drawing. And it is one which I think Frank would be proud of. . .
It's such a stunning sight, it takes the room a good bit more than the fifteen seconds stipulated to fully absorb what it is seeing. Slowly, table by table, conversations stutter to a stop, people cease eating, and look up and stare.
"Mhac na galla. . ." I hear Murtagh breathe, so stunned he falls back into the Gàidhlig.
Very quickly the room metaphorically shakes itself, and tries to get back to its interrupted meal, but the sight of the still-oblivious Dougal is there, and simply cannot be ignored. I hear first one, then two people stifle a wild laugh. In five, six more seconds, it will be pandemonium in here, Dougal's reputation forever shattered, and what little control over Leoch he ever had blasted to smithereens.
I desperately try not to smirk.
It's time to turn the tide. . .
I attempt to affect nonchalance. I'm unsure how well I do, but everyone is so baffled by what they're seeing, they probably aren't paying much attention to me.
Yet. . .
"Why is everyone staring?" I ask, I hope casually, "It's just soot. He probably picked it up while he was getting his horse out of the way of the fire."
Murtagh blinks, and comes back to himself, "Wha's that, lassie? Nae, couldnae be. He wasnae there in the stables wi' us fer that. Dinnae ken what he was doin'."
There are nods all around the table.
"But he was. I saw him. In the back stableyard. He was taking care of one horse in particular – dark brown, but with a light coloured mane. . ."
"Baroque?"
"If that's the horse's name, sure – he was spooked something awful. It took Dougal a hot minute to calm him down."
"Tha's Baroque right enough. . ." grunts Murtagh.
"Aye, an' ye ken Baroque doesnae like bonnets," says Harry, "A'coorse he'd tek it off fer that."
I give a very brief glance at Jamie. His eyes twinkle brightly at me. It's going far better than either of us could have hoped for.
"Bu' how did the soot get inta it then?" asks Leo.
"Who knows?" says Harry, "Who cares? It was fer the horses, tha's what matters – an' the Sassenach says he was there."
"He talked wi' Marc after, I think," says Peter, "Mebbe it happened then."
Mebbe. . . mebbe. . . mebbe - the word flows and echoes around the room, followed by - But the Sassenach says. . . The Sassenach. . . The Sassenach. . . The Sassenach says. . .
All laughter has left the room. Now, all that remains is wonder, curiosity, and respect.
By this time Dougal has noticed the strange ebb and flow of conversations around the room, and is giving a sharply confused glance around. I very deliberately do not make eye contact with him yet.
A man in kitchen livery approaches the High Table then, and delivers a tray with a small pile of steaming hot, damp cloths. The man speaks in Dougal's ear, privately and urgently.
Dougal sits bolt upright, and grabs the top wet cloth so fast it would be comical if not for the stricken look that momentarily mars his features.
For a split second, I feel bad. This isn't how I wanted my relationship with Dougal to go. . .
But it's all for a good purpose, I remind myself. Besides, the die is cast. There is absolutely no going back now. . .
The moment Dougal's head is free of charcoal, the room reacts in perhaps the last way I expected.
They cheer.
It is, unsurprisingly, the last reaction that Dougal expected either, and after a wave of his hands and a bewildered sitting half-bow, he returns to his tea, ferociously stabbing at the food on his plate, more confused than I've ever seen him. Very gradually, I see the confusion subside, and a strange half-sneer appears on his lips. He's starting to suspect.
Then, and only then, do I turn my head to fully face him, allowing our eyes to lock.
His expression freezes, save for a barely noticeable narrowing of his eyes.
I give him a small, deliberate, even respectful incline of the head.
It's all he needs. He understands. Or, at least, he knows. We're at war, and I've just struck my first blow. But he doesn't understand what I've hit, or where I've hit it. Not yet.
He breaks eye contact with me, pushes his plate away, and folds his hands in front of his chin. His eyelids are lowered, but not closed.
He might be praying. But I know he isn't. I've just delivered the opening volley in an offensive he means to win. This is the look of a man fully determined to beat me, at my own game.
Here's to hoping Jamie and I can beat him at his first.
Speaking of Jamie, he gets up then, leaving his empty plates and bowls scattered around the table, and goes over to the buffet again. He returns with a plate heaped high with sausage rolls, and a small bowl with three fern cakes in it.
"Our supper, lass," he says, smiling, "Mos' like we willnae wantae break fer it. Best take it with us now."
"Sae ye have plans fer taenight then?" asks Murtagh, not at all subtly. He's asking if we're sleeping together, in everything but words.
"Aye," says Jamie, openly, "Claire's done me the great honour of agreein' tae have a game oor twa o'chess wi' me taenight."
Murtagh rolls his eyes, dismissively, "Och, ye an' yer chess. I might'ha knoon."
"Aye, ye might have, mo goistidh," he gestures with his head at me, "Weel, let's be going then, Sassenach."
I can't help but smile, and with a cheerful goodnight to everyone at our table, I follow Jamie out of the room.
We're halfway to my rooms before he speaks again.
"Sae it wasnae exactly true then, was it?"
"What wasn't?"
"That ye havenae played a game of chess in years. Tha' was one o' th'best matches I've evar seen, mo nighean, an' I was in Paris for Briggs vs. McCullough."
I blush a bit at his praise. It means an awful lot coming from him. "Thank you, Jamie," I say, meaning it with all my heart, "So you really think we can take him on?"
"Now I do, aye," he smiles, hungrily, "Ye wee lioness!"
I unlock the door to my rooms, and usher him in. He sets our supper on the low table in front of my favourite couch, and goes over to my shelves to find the box with the little wooden chess set. A moment later, and he's setting it up, deftly arranging the pawns and rooks and bishops.
"Soo. . ." he says, contemplatively, "The White Queen took the Red King's Knight, then?"
I smile, readying myself to be speaking in chess metaphors all evening. "No."
"No?"
"No. The White Queen's Castle took the Red Queen's Knight. And then the White Queen gave him back. Only the Red Queen's Knight knows he was captured at all."
He shakes his head, eying me teasingly, "Are ye shure ye ken how the game is played, Sassenach?"
"Of course I do. The game is played however the players say it is."
"Tha's no' chess," he snorts, "Tha's Double Cranko."
I have no idea what game that is, but I shrug nevertheless, "Whatever it takes."
He's been laughing at me, but suddenly he sobers up gravely.
"Aye," he nods, jaw jutting in a way I would not like to see set against me, "Whatever it takes, mo nighean."
Primarily, it takes several hours, some long debates, and much less actual chess playing than either of us wanted, but by the time midnight rolls around, we've hashed things out, and my vague, impulsive ideas have become a coherent, supportable battle plan, with Jamie backing me up one-hundred percent.
"What with all that's happened taeday, who would ha' thought that it would only be Stage One, eh?" Jamie grins as he kisses me goodnight, "Be careful, mo nighean donn – 'tis a dangerous life ye lead."
"I know," I nod, and kiss him back. And I do know, all too well. "I will be."
I watch him out my door and down the hall, wanting desperately to tell him to be careful too, but knowing he also knows that, and suspecting he would appreciate my saying so unnecessarily just as much as I appreciated him chiding me for not eating.
I sigh, and go in to get ready for bed. He's quite right. It's been a much longer day than I expected it would be.
"Stage One complete." I murmur to myself.
As I drift off to sleep, I am busily planning Stage Two.
Notes:
Goistidh – godfather
"O tha, tha gaol agam ort, mo nighean donn." - Oh yes, I love you, my brown-haired lass.
If you're interested in any of the foods mentioned, a lovely Scottish lady named Cheryl makes all of them, and a whole lot more, over on her YouTube channel “What's For Tea”. Check it out for a heartwarming, relaxing good time - https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC1r-NIqBFvDzhLT5Y9JwDfg
Chapter 39: Oversight
Chapter Text
"Bye Gil, bye Marc!"
I wave to the men as they pull away from the manager's garage.
"'Til Monday then!" calls Gil. Marc says nothing, but he gives me a somber nod from behind the control yoke of the runabout.
I nod back happily, then turn and go back inside.
At once Lily Bara is shaking my hand, her two young assistants quietly attentive behind her, "Aye, an' it's a right joy tae ha'e a manager at last whoo'll listen tae reason!"
I smile, quickly extricating myself. Lil has said little else but variants of this same phrase for the past hour or so – ever since I invited her to make her report and add any personal ideas or concerns she wished. "Now th'Lord kens tha' auld Beaton was a man well worth 'is salt when it came tae things planting-wise, bu' there were precious few men he ever would listen tae, save 'is own sweet self, and nevar a wooman atall."
"Yes, so you've said. . ."
"Sae a fair mind an' a wooman's heart is fair welcome, that it is-"
"Wonderful," I say, searching briefly for something to say that won't be merely a repetition of everything the lot of us have been talking about for the past three hours. "I'll. . . try and find a Scottish provider for those sheep jackets you mentioned. . ."
"Ach, tha's a fine thought, Missie – a fine thought indeed!" She grins, then grabs her coat and galoshes, and makes to go back out into the cold, drizzly mud of the waning afternoon. Her assistants – two tall, redheaded boys, obviously twins, and as quiet as Lil is voluble – put on their coats and boots as well, and follow her out – not without a respectful nod apiece at me, of course.
"Weel that's tha' then," says Murtagh, leaning back comfortably on the couch.
"Aye," says Harry, shuffling about, glancing between Murtagh and me, "An' if et' all t'same t'ye, I'll be goin' tae talk tae Geordie now. There's that new tack we have comin' in taemorrow – it's specialty stuff fer the new horses - and Geordie kens moor about it than I do. . ."
"Aye lad," says Murtagh, nodding, "You go'n do that. Mebbe ye'll distract him from whate'er-"
A metallic clang and a string of sharp Scottish curses echo from the open door between the office and the garage.
"- from whate're troubles he's havin' wi' that engine of his," Murtagh finishes, with an ironic glance at me.
"Yes, do go keep him company, Harry," I say, encouragingly, "The poor fellow didn't know what he was taking on when he offered to tune up that bloody Liger. Hybrid engines are no picnic – especially so, I imagine, when you're more used to horses than any sort of engines at all," I shrug, "But he's determined to be able to do every aspect of my job, at least a little bit, just in case I ever have to delegate to him." I smile, thoughtfully, "I have to say – I respect the hell out of the sentiment."
Harry looks at me sidelong, "C'n I tell him ye said so?"
"You most certainly can," I grin, "Swear words and all."
Harry grins, winks, and disappears into the garage.
It's been a very strange few hours for me, rediscovering through Marc and Lil how truly unorthodox I am around here. I'm a woman, and English, and "quality" - all three things neither of them associated with a Farm Manager before this. That I also drink and swear would in themselves be more than enough to baffle them greatly, but the word has gone around by now that Jamie and I are dating, and that puts me solidly into the realm of utterly incomprehensible. Or at least that's where I was at the beginning of the Manager's meeting. . .
Clearly, I won Lil over by just listening to her. Marc, I think, still needs to be convinced, but he shows all the signs of at least being co-operative while he waits for me to prove myself.
Murtagh's thoughts are obviously running along the same lines as mine, for he speaks up, "Weel now, ye'ev impressed Lil, right enough, at least. An' Marc'll come 'round, dinnae fash."
"Oh, I'm sure he will. It's Lil I'm worried about, anyway. . ."
"Whaat fer?" he asks, incredulously drawing out his vowels.
"Well, she's built me up in her mind so much," I shrug, "Of the two of them, she's the one I'm bound to disappoint eventually." I plunk myself down next to him on the couch, unexpectedly exhausted by what, by any standard, has hardly been a physically taxing day.
"Agch, an' why should ye proove a disappointment at all, now?"
I huff a bit, ruefully, "That's nice of you to say, Murtagh, but. . . Well, you've seen in there, right?" I gesture across the yard towards the Manager's barn, "All the things Davie Beaton was brilliant at?"
"Aye, but. . ."
"Well what I can do is nowhere near that kind of innovation. I'm a run-of-the-mill technician, in charge of her first fully diversified farming concern. I didn't encourage participation from Lily because she's a woman and so am I – I did it because I've got to be her boss, but I don't know thing one about sheep!"
"What are ye sayin'? Ye cannae do it? Yet ye'ev come this far. . ."
"Oh, I can do it – it's within my scope. So long as I have help, of course. But. . . well, you saw me today – I'm the last person to bring any sort of wizardry or flash to the proceedings-"
"Ha! Says th'lass that started the meetin' by showing us five brand-new hybrids she jus' invented – plants she even means tae incorporate inta next year's crop plans, would'ye believe," says Jamie, looking across at us from behind the office's small corner desk, "If tha' isnae flash, what is?"
I roll my eyes, "Hybrids for potatoes, sugar beets, oats, rye, and soy beans, Jamie. If I couldn't deliver on those, I'd could hardly call myself a professional farm tech."
"Mebbe no', but Beaton couldnae have done it at all, now could he?"
I shake my head, "Oh, he could have. Maybe not as quickly as I managed to do – but making use of my more progressive training doesn't make me a more brilliant bio-engineer."
"Leoch doesnae need a more brilliant bio-engineer, mo nighean – what we need here is stable, sustainable farming practices, wi' jus' enough experimentin' tae keep us on our toes. Eh, Murtagh?"
Jamie says all this with bland conviction, as he carves away idly at a stick of kindling wood. His multi-tool blade shaves off neat, tiny rolls that fall with a soft 'pat-pat-pat' on the large sheet of old newsprint he has spread on the floor.
"Och, aye. Experiments like all those visitor's cars ye'ev been fixin' up. Wha's the story wi' all that, anyway?"
I smile, remembering, "Well, it just sort of happened the first time. A fellow delivered a whole flatbed of potted plants and greenery to the main house – decorations for Yule, I think - " Both Murtagh and Jamie nod, " - and when he went to leave, his engine was dead. I was just on my way back to work after lunch, and offered to take a look at it for him." I shrug, as though it was nothing, "It was the starter. And as it turns out, his truck takes the same starter as our two maintenance trucks here." I gesture at the door leading into the garage, "We have a lot of parts in stock, so there was more than enough to spare for him. I got my tools, and had the thing fixed up in less than an hour. I charged him cost price for the part and the Universal Wage rate for labour, and he went away quite happy."
"Aye, I bet he did," Murtagh grunts, sourly.
I smile, in spite of his frown. Geordie has been helping me understand the monetary system of this era, and I am well aware I gave the man a bargain. "It was old stock. Good to get it out of inventory. And I didn't have much else in hand that day either."
I lever myself upright, and go get a bottle of water from the small tea table over by the desk, "Anyway, since then, several people have come in from Cranesmuir, all with business at the main house, but while they're here, they ask me to take a look at their cars." I gesture, openly, "I don't mind doing it, they get a good deal, the garage gets to flush out old stock, the cars get fixed, and I get paid. I'd say that's win-win-win, wouldn't you?"
Murtagh harrumphs again, but this time I catch the gleam in his eyes that I missed the first time. He's not upset. On the contrary, he's proud of me, but no force on earth would ever get him to admit it. I grin, with a genuine sense of accomplishment, and a thoroughly welcome rush of thankfulness. His approval has rapidly come to mean almost as much to me as Jamie's does.
"Speaking of Cranesmuir. . ." I say, bringing a cup of tea over for Murtagh, and sitting back down on the couch, "Annie and a few other girls have invited me on their day out tomorrow."
"Oh, aye?"
"Mm. Yes." I take a long swallow of water, "And I was wondering. . . would it be at all possible. . . that is, could I ask them to introduce me to Iona MacTavish?"
Murtagh blinks. "Ye want tae meet Iona. . . MacTavish?"
"Yes, the woman you told me about at the concert last week? You pointed her out during her dance with Dougal. You said she has the Sight."
Jamie looks up, sharply, "Now why would ye want to meet some'un like that, Sassenach?"
I shrug, attempting to be casual, "I'm curious, I suppose, but I also thought it might be a fun adventure to have with the girls."
"Iona MacTavish, ye say?" says Murtagh, an odd look in his eye, "From Cranesmuir? An' I pointed her out tae ye? At the concert?"
"Yes. . ." I say, suddenly doubtful.
"Lassie, there isnae anyone livin' in Cranesmuir by that name, and there hasnae been for the last four years we've been here."
I open my mouth to reply, but no words come out. The low murmur of voices and clang of tools from the garage echo in the suddenly profound silence.
"There's a Fiona MacTavish," Murtagh muses, "An' she says she has the Sight, aye, bu' then again that may only be her fancy – gi'en that all she's evar Seen was that auld Jordan Whyte had better not plant his south field in the dark of the moon – which isnae bad advice, a'coorse, but any'un wi' half a brain might'ha towld him the same, an' no mistake."
"O-oh," I manage.
"An' besides, if auld Fiona was at the concert last week it's the furst I've heard of it. She doesnae like dancing in general, an' dislikes the Cuckoos on principle. An' she wouldnae be seen dead dancin' wi' Dougal, t'auld spitfire!"
"Oh." I say again.
"Are ye shure it was me towld ye of this Iona MacTavish?"
"Utterly certain." I push through my astonishment, and cast my mind back to the scene in the Great Hall, "She was a short woman, with long brown hair. You said she was always telling people their fortunes, whether they wanted her to or not, and that made some people avoid her. You said she was right about things with the Sight that even that wasn't usually right about, and sometimes she would offer to change strange things about people's pasts – like their grandparent's names or place of birth – but no one knows if she ever actually managed to do so or not, because no one remembers there being any. . ."
I break off for a moment, in dumbfounded realization.
". . . changes," I finish, quietly.
Murtagh shakes his head, "Weel, tha's as may be, lass. I dinnae recall a bit of it. Bu' then, we neither of us ended that night entirely sober, so whoo's tae say we'er either of us rememberin' as we ought?"
Abstractedly, I roll my water bottle between my hands, "Yes. Quite."
And then he had said it was a good thing they don't burn witches anymore.
A shiver goes up my spine.
Yes. A very, very good thing. . .
"Weel, I've a few things tae do before supper, lassie, sae I'll be biddin' ye good evening," he stands, straightens his jacket, and salutes me, all in one seemingly impossible motion, "An' thanks for th'tea."
I nod, and stand to see him out of the door.
When I come back, Jamie has put away his multi-tool, and the half-carved stick of wood sits abandoned on the corner of the desk.
"Sae what was that then?" he asks, quietly, but with a strange ominous undertone.
I tuck my suddenly chilly hands underneath my arms, "I. . . don't know."
He scoffs, sharply, a cold, keen look in his eye, "Aye, ye do, but ye'er afraid tae say. Dinnae lie tae me Claire."
"It's no lie!" I shiver again, and hold my hands tighter, trying to force some warmth back into them, "I have no idea what's going on. Not with that, anyway."
"Hmphm. Mebbe no'. But ye ken moor than ye'er sayin'." Idly, he taps two fingers against his thigh, "Can ye no' trust me wi' it, Sassenach?"
"It. . . isn't a matter of trust, Jamie, it. . . it's a matter of. . . impossibilities!"
Whatever it was that was cold and ominous in him melts suddenly, and he strides over to take me warmly in his arms. I cuddle into him gratefully.
"Now then, now then," he murmurs into my hair, "There isnae annything impossible about it, that's sure and certain. One of ye is rememberin' wrong, tha's all. . ."
"Me, you mean."
I should say it petulantly, or at least somewhat regretfully, but with my arms wrapped around my very big, very warm boyfriend, and my face burrowed into his chest, all I can manage is mild disinterest.
"Nae, I don' mean that at all, mo ghràidh. Ye finnished the night three sheets tae the wind, if ye'el recall. . ."
I nod against him, and hold him just a little bit tighter, remembering.
". . . Sae is it all that unreasonable tae think tha' mebbe ye'ev mixed things up a wee bit? Remembered bits from other parts of the night an' shifted 'em? Granted that Murtagh's forgotten entirely, a'course."
I sigh, and shake my head, "That's not how my memory works, Jamie. Or at least it never has before. Getting drunk doesn't flip things for me, or mix them around, it only makes things blurry – and sometimes not even that much."
"Weel, ye'ed nevar had that exact combination of drinks before either – perhaps yer memory reacted in a new way?"
I chuckle a little, let go of him, and go sit back down on the couch. Jamie goes over to close the door between us and the garage before sitting down next to me.
"That's. . . a comforting thought, Jamie. Thank you for thinking of it."
He pats my knee, "Anytime, Sassenach."
"Now cut the bullshit and tell me what you really think."
He pulls back, surprised, "Wh. . . what I. . . ?"
"Yes, Fraser! Do you think you're the only one who can tell when the other isn't saying everything they could?"
His jaw tightens. He knows I'm right.
He looks at me rather dubiously for a few seconds, "Ye really want to know what I think? What I really think?"
"I think you'd be wise to tell me, yes."
His focus turns inward for a minute, and then he lifts the hand I have nearest him, cradling it in both of his, "Sassenach, I. . . I think it's ye who has the Sight. No' any'un in Cranesmuir. Just ye."
It takes me a few long seconds to absorb the meaning of his words.
"M-me? Bu-but Jamie, that's impossible – I can't predict the. . . the futu. . ." I trail off desperately, because I can, god help me, I can predict the future. . .
"But tha's no' what the Sight is, mo ghràidh," he presses my hand a little tighter between the two of his, "The Sight isnae an oracle, nor a prophet's poem, nor a fortune teller's crystal ball. Fairground trappings – all o' that sort o' thing. Balderdash, th'lot of it."
I nod, shakily. It's not so far from what I have always thought myself.
"So?"
"So, the Sight isn't something ye choose – if annythin', it chooses ye. An' ye cannae choose when, or whear, or what about – it jus' happens. Ye see things. Things ye cannae understand or explain, sometimes, an' then sometimes things that seem sae real it's like they'er happening at that very moment. Bu' havin' the Sight means ye always see things from beyond barriers that the rest of us," he taps his forehead, "that the rest of us dinnae even ken are there. Barriers of time, of space, mebbe even of reality itself. Mebbe ye can See inta parallel universes sometimes, or the distant past, or, yes, mebbe inta the future. Ye can nevar tell which. An' ye can nevar say when it'll happen."
"So. . . you think that Murtagh telling me those things. . ."
"I think it was all a Sight vision, mo chridhe. Dougal dancin' wi' a woman that doesnae exist here, but mebbe she does, in the future. Or the past. An' Murtagh's voice tellin' ye a story that nevar happened. . . except mebbe it did, in a universe not our own."
"That's. . ."
That's a pretty wild tale, and not at all the sort of thing I'd normally consider for more than a nanosecond.
But then, traveling through time does tend to open up the mind to possibilities. . .
"Remember how ye said ye felt like a ghost for a minute after Gwyllyn sang the Skye Boat Song?"
I huff a laugh. Do I remember!
"A bit difficult to forget that feeling, Jamie."
"Weel, what if it was partly true, in a way? There was a. . . a power. . . in the music that night, Sassenach."
"Yes." I inhale deeply, "Yes, there was."
"Aye. A power the likes of which I've nevar felt afore. . . unless it was when I looked inta your eyes."
"Jamie. . ."
"Nae, listen tae me, Sassenach," he curls one arm around my shoulders, and pulls me tight to his side, "The night of the concert was only the first time I was sure of all this, ken? I'd thought it a good possibility several times afore that, an' evary time 'twas because of those glowing, golden, glorious eyes of yours, mo nighean donn." He runs a finger down the side of my face, and lifts my chin, so I have to look at him full on, "Like living amber, more precious than gold itself. . ." He dips his head and kisses me, more reverently than I've ever been touched before, "An' more intoxicating than whisky, mo Sorcha."
We both drink deep, finding a blissful refuge in each other's lips.
I touch my mouth after he finally pulls away, still feeling the pressure of him against me.
"So. . . what was it made you sure, that night? What was different about that time than all the others?"
He smiles, reproachfully, "Sassenach, are ye goin' tae try an' deny what happened between us during Hotel California?"
"Deny? No! I just. . . haven't found a way to bring it up without sounding. . . well, crazy. . . and to be honest, until right now I didn't know for sure that you. . . that you had seen it too."
"Weel. That's how I ken. I saw a plain of green grass, under orange light, and then a fairy forest, with an ancient power humming through the ground itself. An' then a well, deep and cold, but not dark, an' we fell out the other side, into a forest black as coal. But it wasnae burned. Then there was a mist, thick an' dark, and when it cleared, there was the sea. But no' like any sea I've evar knoon. This one was acid green and pale, and the rocks nearby were a sickly, leaden gray - as though everything in the entire sea was dead. An' then we dove – dinnae ken from where – down deep inta the water, and then deeper, beyond the water, through fire and stone, all the way through the earth. An' then there was grass an' golden light again, an' then Leoch, and Gwyllyn's voice. . . an' ye." He kisses my forehead, "An' I knew, annyun wi' power enough tae give me a vision like that, hadtae have the Sight themselves. An' a moor powerful version of it than evan a Highland lad had evar heard tell of befoor."
And then he had dragged my willing self into a broom closet and kissed the daylights out of me. . .
"And all that. . . didn't scare you?"
He smirks, "It was terrifying, Sassenach. An' glorious, an' exhilarating, an' tremendous." He pecks a kiss to the very tip of my nose, "A man could get lost in yer eyes, mo Sorcha, an' no' come back tae himself for two hundred years. . ."
He takes my mouth again, gently this time, and very slowly.
I don't know if I have the Sight or not. But it's as good an explanation as any. . .
And that means. . .
I don't have room inside my mind for everything that means.
"I'm scared Jamie," I breathe against his cheek.
"Aye. I ken." He strokes my hair, and holds me close. "The Sight isnae a blessing. A burden, more like."
I grip him tight, and speak into the crook of his neck, "I don't need another one of those. . ."
"Aye. But the only way tae live wi' it is tae carry it, mo ghràidh. An' as long as I'm with ye, I'll help ye carry it."
"Promise?"
He looks down into my eyes with all the dear, lovely devotion he's shown me these past weeks, concentrated and distilled into one piercingly sweet glance.
"I promise, mo nighean donn."
Chapter 40: Girls Day Out
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
I never expected my day out with Annie to begin with me in grease up to my elbows, but, here I am, stooped over a not-insignificantly-elderly combustion engine, trying to breathe a bit of life back into it before asking it to take me, Annie and company into Cranesmuir. I twist my hands around, grasping the bit I know is broken.
"Would you hand me that spanner, Annie?" I nod at the tool in question, but Evanna elbows past her and picks the tool up instead, grinning while she pushes it at me, eagerly trying to be helpful.
"Is this th'un ye meant, Miss Claire?"
I nod, but do not answer otherwise, twisting up my face in pained concentration as I struggle with the stubborn bit of engine just out of my line of sight. Then I grab the spanner, transform it to clamp mode with one hand, and hustle it out of sight to try and do something productive, desperately determined to cobble together some kind of fix for this engine, and keep us on schedule into the bargain.
"Ye all right, Miss Claire?" ask Kenzie and Mai, in chorus.
"Oh, yes. . ." I manage. But I don't sound all right, and we all know it. "It's these tubes you see," I nod at Coira, the car's owner, "Or rather, you can't see, because the flipping thing won't - Jesus H. . . ."
I stamp my foot, and trail off into an increasingly profane string of mutterings. I only stop once I finally get the clamp placed properly. They all stare at me, impressed – either at my language or at the fact that I've managed to accomplish something with the car, I don't know which. It might be both, of course. I stand up then, and heave a great sigh, "I mean, it might only be a seal, but I doubt it. Really, you need a whole new set, but the only way that's happening is if I drop the engine, and we don't have time for that this morning. . ."
"Ha! Jus' like ye'er allus tellin' me, hey Ev?" laughs Coira.
The girls giggle at the reference to some inside joke I don't understand, and I go in to rummage through one of the stock shelves.
Annie had begun this morning's introductions with Coira MacInnes and Evanna Dunley - as "flatmates in from Cranesmuir". I recognized Ev as one of Mrs. Fitz's kitchen staff, but Coira is new to me, as are the two other young women – Mai and Kenzie. Those two must work in some part of the house I don't go to, since I've never seen them before. Annie didn't mention either of their last names, which I wondered at for a minute, but since this is Leoch, I figure they are both probably MacKenzies. And I do concede that if one of my friends was so unfortunate as to be saddled with the name "Mackenzie MacKenzie", I would also be quite reluctant to bring it up, especially when introducing them to a Sassenach. Briefly, I wonder if Mai is also a nickname for Mackenzie. . .
But no. That there is one person in this world called Mackenzie MacKenzie is bad enough - two would just be absurd.
I bring back several parts and a roll of heat-resistant tape, and set them beside me on the engine block.
"Agh, tha's a fair lot o' stuff fer this wee clunker," says Coira, not entirely suppressing a worried look, "S'like tae be a mighty big bill, aye?"
I smile grimly, "Don't worry – it's all old stock. I can give it to you at cost price, and the labour is already at a reduced rate."
She blinks, and gives me a strange look, but I duck my head to refocus on the engine. I don't give her or any of the girls much thought for the next fifteen minutes or so. By then, I've rigged up something at least mildly functional. It isn't a fix, just a stopgap to get us though the day – a depressing echo of my initial encounter with that blasted Rover. . .
I sigh and step back.
"Well, that's the best I can do on short notice, I'm afraid. Let me go get cleaned up, and then we can go-"
"An' if I gave ye longer notice could ye fix it up proper?" Coira says, the strangeness in her voice now matching her face, "I ken the auld thing is moor than I oughtae ha'e sprung on ye at this hour o' th'moornin'. . ."
"Oh, it's not that," I say, wiping my hands inadequately on my already blackened shop towel, "It's just that we're on a bit of schedule, and this car has to get us into Cranesmuir. If neither of those things were true, I'd have already shifted it inside and had the engine out of it, cranky old thing. . ."
"Aye, 'tis – sae ye mean ye could doo it ef I asked ye?"
I snort softly and shrug a bit, "Don't know why you'd want me to do it, but yeah, I could."
"An' ef I paid ye in advance, could ye-"
"Look, Coira," I sigh, "This is all as between friends, right? You don't have to worry about the money, honey. We can square it all up some other time, okay?"
"O. . .okay?" she says, still oddly dubious.
"Right then," I whip off my shop apron, "Now I simply must go clean up, and then we can get on our way."
I practically flee the little circle of profoundly concerned faces huddling near the car, and sequester myself into the garage office's toilet station for a few minutes.
It's been a while since I've had much to do with a group exclusively of women. A long while. Too long.
Perhaps that's why this encounter seems so intensely odd. . .
I shrug in front of the little mirror, and steady myself, determined not to let it get to me. I pull myself upright, and walk confidently back into the office proper, wiping the last residue of engine grease from my forearms as I go. I take a small bit of the delightfully scented skin-protecting cream Jamie gifted me yesterday, and absently rub it into the heels of my hands, trying to figure Coira out.
Annie, and her motives, are as plain as day, as per usual. Ev, Kenzie and Mai seem perfectly content following either Annie's or Coira's lead, depending on which of them ends up heading any particular situation. But Coira herself. . .
Annie has invited me to go along with them on their day-off shopping trip, and has asked Coira to drive us there. They have all agreed, either neutrally or quite cheerfully from what I can see, and here they all are, ready and willing, even eager to be friends with me.
It's all a perfectly normal set of group dynamics, all things considered. Coira is the only note that doesn't ring entirely true. She wants something. . . or is trying to do something – with me? To me? About me? Until I can figure out what exactly it is, I had better be on my toes.
After all, Dougal hasn't struck back at me for the soot in his cap yet. This could be the first stages of an attack. . .
And even if it isn't, I'm less certain how to deal with women being friendly than I am with men being antagonistic. Groups of men make you fight them - which I've done so often, I've very nearly standardized my approach to it. I do have to admit, on the whole, being compelled to exert dominance in a social situation is simple and straightforward, even when it's difficult or unjust.
Groups of men just make you fight. It's a surprisingly low bar for entry, once you figure out the requirements.
Groups of women, though. . .
Women usually want you to establish kinship. To prove not only your benignity, but your active defense of the group as a whole, and of every individual within the group personally.
There's more to it than just that, of course, but that's usually the core of it.
I don't know if Coira is deliberately pushing me to establish kinship or not, but there is something very calculated in her actions, and until I know what is behind it, best to make no assumptions. . .
"Miaow!"
An imperious, repetitive whine calls me out of my thoughts.
"Miow. Maow!"
"Alright, alright Adso, I'm coming," I say, jumping up from my desk and going over to the pair of small ceramic bowls that have taken up residence in this corner of my office.
Some time in the middle of last week, Adso decided I would make a good source for his breakfast, and despite all my protests, he has shown up every day since, continuing to insist I provide him with food. By this point, I've given up trying to argue with him. After that first day, even Mrs. Fitz didn't dare contradict his wishes. . .
I pull a single-serving packet of dry food, and a tiny pouch of wet food out from a nearby cupboard, along with the extra thermos of fresh milk Mrs. Fitz has taken to sending out with me each morning, and crouch down to feed my little gray-furred tyrant. He has to have the dry food put into the bowl first, with the wet food heaped on top of it, or he won't eat a thing. And he does drink water, but only after a bowl of milk, and that only after his specially-prepared breakfast.
"Here you go, you great spoiled baby, you." I push the bowl with the layered food towards him, and he gives it a delicate sniff. The first couple of times I did this, he wasn't satisfied with my efforts, and stalked off to sulk behind the arm of my couch, as though determined to starve. . . for a few minutes or so, at least. The food was always gone when I got back from my morning round of the fields, regardless of his initial reaction to it. But nowadays he seems quite pleased to eat in my presence. I fill up his other bowl with milk, just as he takes his first dainty bite of wet food.
"You're quite the lily of the field, you know that, Adso?" I ask, fondly.
He looks up briefly, licking all around his mouth and up to his nose before dipping his head into his breakfast again.
"You toil not – and you certainly don't spin – and yet Solomon in all his glory, etc., etc. What do you have to say to that, you ridiculous creature?"
Adso doesn't respond, being busy crunching on a nubbin of dry food.
I shake my head at myself, surprised - yet not entirely displeased – at how quickly this animal has become a person to me, to be talked to and cared for, like a sort of child.
Or, perhaps, a friend.
I scritch him lightly near the root of his tail, and he sets up a loud purring while wolfing down the last bits of his food. He continues purring while settling down to his morning milk, even though he pulls away from my fingertips at the same time.
"Still feedin' oor wee cheetie then?" asks Geordie, coming into the office with his usual mid-morning mug of tea, "I ha' thought ye'ed be well on yer way inta Cranesmuir by now."
"Oh, I would be – except I had to clean up a bit. I almost had to gut Coira's old beast of a car just to keep the thing running long enough to get us out of here."
"Oh, aye," he chuckles, "That auld car of hers is notorious. Nevar goes annywhere wi'out breakin' doon."
My vague suspicions return with treble force. "Oh, really?"
"Aye. It must be sheer force of tradition that keeps them askin' her tae drive them inta t'village evary coup'la months. They save up royally for their excursions, that they do – sae why tek the risk o' no' bein' able tae spend it thanks tae a comically unreliable car? I'd heard they'd asked Ev's uncle Richard for the loan of his van the last few times they went out taegether, but he must be usin' it this week."
Realization breaks with a thunderclap in my mind.
"Yes. He must be," I say, somewhat absently, "Thanks for taking up the slack here for today, Geordie."
"Nae problem. Happy tae." He settles down behind the desk, and bends his head to deal with the morning's paperwork.
I grab the small cloth sack I've rigged up so I can comfortably carry things on my back as I walk the fields, sling it over my shoulder, and turn to go, "See you later then."
"Aye. Have a good time."
"I'm sure we will."
And now that I understand, we will have a good time, I'm certain of it.
It was all a scheme – all of it. Coira, her car, all that talk about the bill – it was all a set up.
But it's nothing sinister, or even antagonistic.
They, or more specifically, Annie, is trying to give me money.
A great weight lifts from my heart. Money. That's all this is about. Only money.
Aside from Jamie, Murtagh, Colum himself, and possibly Geordie, Annie is practically the only one here who has spent enough time with me to know that Colum isn't paying me to be Farm Manager, and that my only source of income is the thing I do with visitor's cars. And she also knows I've only just started doing that, barely a week ago. Take all these things together, and Annie's logic is charmingly easy to follow. She and her friends save up for these excursions, so, she must suppose that every cent of the money I've earned, even totaled up, could only be a pittance in comparison, at best. And she'd be right, except, I have managed to scrape together enough to buy myself the two needed essentials I've not been able to borrow, trade for, or improvise – a pair of galoshes, and a properly fitted brassier.
But, even I will admit – such purchases as those are hardly in the spirit of a girls' day out. Today is a day for fun, even frivolous shopping, and I'd be the first to admit I can't afford that. Again, Annie's reasoning is plain. I must not feel left out. But I also must be given the money in a way that isn't suspicious or insulting. There is only one way I have been earning money, and, fortunately, Coira has a car almost comically prone to breaking down. . .
I smile softly at their plan. It was never Coira I had to figure out. Only Annie. Dear, darling, cheerful Annie, obsessed with propriety, but still generous beyond measure. She has been as an open book to me from the first moment we met. She could hardly be anything else, considering how naturally transparent and artless she is. In her eyes, I've been a part of the group since day one, no extra effort required in the least. Doubtless she's been trying to come up with a way to offer me money ever since she invited me on this trip. Coira merely agreed to be the conduit.
That means I might still have to establish myself with the rest of them, but Annie's plan means the first few steps are already done. No matter how things go today, it will never be "me versus all of Leoch", like it was between me and the men.
I'm simultaneously relieved and strangely disappointed about that. . .
In truth, I only occasionally think about the disparity between myself and all the other women here. Having solidified my place among the men, there is little reason for me to do so - but there's no denying the difference is fairly stark, even at a glance. Like Mrs. Fitz, I'm in a management position, and like Leticia, I'm not being paid for my presence, but functionally I couldn't be in a more different place from either of them, both socially and financially. As both Sassenach and official Guest, my position is much vaguer, far more precarious and undefined. I'm not a distant family member, or a locally-born employee, or any of the other usual types of woman found here at Leoch. So, as a woman, where do I fit? Certainly not among the young wives and single women I've seen crowded into the common rooms at tea time, knitting and sewing!
Of course, there's not much I can do about any of this, and so, thankfully, I haven't let myself dwell on it. But, it appears some part of myself had been. . . well. . . looking forward to it, somehow.
Not since leaving Central have I needed or wanted to rely on any aspect of my social status commonly backed by women - homemaking, childrearing, cooking, home economics, and all the usually unpaid labour that goes into such things. I can do all of it, of course, but while living in the common townships, it doesn't give you any special standing or social clout – it's just what people have to do to survive. In Central though, there are fashions, frills, and all kinds of performative rituals done with nearly every aspect of even basic things - like cleaning, or laundry.
As I close the office door behind me, I sigh a bit, weirdly confused at myself. I always hated that part of life in Central. All the unnecessary ceremony and empty pomposity – not to mention the snobby classist stratification that bordered dangerously upon bigotry everywhere you looked. So what on earth was I looking forward to here?
I shake off my confusion with a wave of my hand. Frankly, things at Leoch are blessedly simple in that regard, and I've been delighted to ignore social conventions and class boundaries, no matter where I've happened to find them. And to a man, everyone here has only respected me more for doing so.
The fact that Annie actually cares about my social face warms my heart exceedingly. I realize I have been pretty consistently leaving her out of my list of allies whenever I think of my situation, and underestimating her even when I don't. Clearly, that was a grave error on my part, and quite unjust of me too.
Well. High time to put a stop to that.
My mind races to come up with something that will let their scheme succeed. It isn't about the money – it's about what it means, the respect it shows. I owe them a reciprocation of grace, at least, if not a great deal more. For Annie's sake, but also for their own good selves. They've gone to meticulous lengths to keep from insulting me, and that's great deal more than nothing.
It's only a few meters over to the car, but I must and will find a way to accept their gift without my insulting them.
After several uncertain and agonizing seconds, an idea finally occurs to me, and I decide to run with it.
"Coira!" I call, striding up to the group and urgently hustling her away – I make a show of trying to be private with her, but I don't actually remove us far enough away to obscure our voices all that much - "I'm sorry to ask this, but since you live with Ev I have to – did Annie ask you here for any other reason than to drive us to Cranesmuir?"
She knits up her forehead in confusion, "Nae. Jus' that."
"You're not here delivering anything – you're not under contract to Leoch in any way?"
"Noo."
"Well, then I'm afraid I'll have to charge you full resale price for those parts, and union minimum at least for the labour – and possibly more, since I'm technically off duty at the moment, and that means the overtime rate. . ."
"O-oh. . ." a half-dozen emotions cross her face in rapid succession. "Oh," she repeats, "Why is that, now?"
She tries to ask the question normally, like an ordinary garage client concerned over her car's welfare – but now that I'm listening for it, I can easily hear the cautious triumph in her tone.
"Because I'm an official Guest of Clan MacKenzie, not an employee - but Annie and Ev are." I take a deep breath, hoping desperately I can make this next part sound credible, "There's some fine print in the new business regulations passed because of the Clan Restoration Act that make it. . . well. . . not exactly illegal – inadvisable, let's say – for an unpaid volunteer to offer in-house rates to anyone not under contract to the business in question, at least nominally." She takes a breath to reply, but I quickly continue - "Normally I wouldn't be such a stickler for the rules, but you see, I'm a Sassenach, and more people than I'd like are just waiting for me to mess up in some way. . ."
I trail off. I haven't actually gone into the business regulations that resulted from the Clan Restoration Act all that closely yet, but it is the kind of annoying and nit-picky thing such regulations are known for. . .
"Och, then have nae worries ower any o' it, hen," Coira says, her features and posture softening, "It's all as between friends - jus' like ye said." She holds out a small drawstring bag to me that faintly clicks and rattles as she handles it, "Lucky fer us booth I never go annywhear wi'out being prepared tae pay double fer auld Misty. If there's any left over out o' that lot, donate it tae the next auld clunker that comes through here, aye?" She gives a relieved look over my shoulder – at Annie, I assume.
"Misty?" I ask, taking the pouch and discreetly slipping it into my pack. I won't do any of them such a discourtesy as counting it in front of them, but by the weight and shape alone, I'd estimate there are probably fifty New Pounds in the little bag – and by the sound, all of it is in the brass-gilded plastic coinage I've come to expect from this place and time.
Which means they've given me about double – and very likely more than double – what I've managed to save on my own.
My effusive thanks freeze in my throat. They must never know I know. . .
"Oh aye, after Misty Velour, ye ken – since shee's allus breakin' doon!" Coira steps past me, and gives the car's bonnet an affectionate pat.
I smile as I turn to face the group, but it takes me a long few seconds to recall the existence of "Misty Eyed" Annah Velour – Sob Queen Of The Screen. Not many of her movies survived nuclear Armageddon, and I've only seen a couple of those that did, since relentlessly dark, tear-jerking romances are hardly to my taste in entertainment. But I recall that she was very popular in this century, as were the Italian Renaissance-themed historical dramas that were her bread and butter.
"Ah yes, Misty Velour," I say, deliberately complacent as I settle into the car's surprisingly comfortable back seat, "We must find her a dashing Italian car to fall in love with. . . and then have it tragically crash over a cliff into the starlit sea, just as Misty drives up, desperate to meet him by moonlight. . ." I let my voice trail off with a cheesy, over-dramatic intonation, but the girls pick up the thread without missing a beat.
"Aye, an' all on the day befoor their weddin'," says Kenzie, dreamily, "An' her already expectin' his child-"
"But when she sees 'im going ower t'side, she thoughtlessly throws herself in after 'im!" interjects Mai, "And they perish taegether in the cold embrace of th'sea."
"Are we still talking about cars?" I ask, buckling the safety harness around me. I hope my cheerful tone conceals the reflexive disgust I feel at such a story-line for a movie. Such heartless, fruitless tragedy doesn't make me sigh – it makes me angry. And I certainly don't find it romantic.
"Och, I hope not!" says Annie, "I've nevar yet wanted a car tae bend me ower the back of a couch, and tha's a fact!"
And with that, and a car-wide giggle, the conversation moves on to other things.
Coira starts up the car, crowing joyfully at the smooth purr of the engine, and the rest of us cheer as she pulls us out of the yard. A few seconds later, we clear the rows of balsam firs that line the drive, and turn onto the road to Cranesmuir. I look back at the solid bulk of the house, so washed-out and gray in this clouded-over morning light, but still looming impressively behind the bright evergreen of the surrounding trees.
It's my first trip away from Leoch since I got here, and at this moment, in a strange place back behind my heart, I feel almost more reluctance to leave it than I did Skycity 15.
I very much wonder why. I know it isn't because Leoch feels like home to me now, because it certainly does not. Nor is it that I'm dreading this trip into town, because I've been looking forward to it for days.
It might be the stability I've achieved, I think, as we drive past the wide, sleeping fields I know so intimately now. Perhaps it is the fact that at least I have a sort of refuge here, with a clean space about me, and more than one ally strong enough to shield me, should I need it.
Perhaps it is that at Leoch, there is steel-gray sky above me, and firm, immovable land beneath my feet, both of which contain a history and promise a future that no Skycity has ever possessed. The very stones here know their ancestry, the air itself breathes with the savour of ages past, and both together promise faithfully that they will still be here, a thousand, two thousand, ten thousand years from now.
Here, and warm, and alive. . .
"Sae what flavour are ye goin' tae get at the sugar house, Claire, hen?" asks Coira, breaking into my thoughts.
I blink, and gape a little bit, not knowing what on earth to say to such a question. The sugar house? She doesn't mean we're going to a. . . no! Annie would have said if. . . if. . . she would have told me.
Right?
And besides, surely – surely that phrase doesn't mean the same thing here as it does on the Skycities?
Right?
"Och, ye cannae spring such a question on the lass, Coi," says Annie, as reproachfully as her cheerfulness lets her get, "Wi'out explainin' the tradition of it, what can it mean tae her – aye?"
Oh, you sweet girl, you have no idea. . .
Annie turns around in the front seat, to face me as nearly as she can, "We allus stop by auld Fischer's sweetshop furst thing – his is the furst store in the row, sae we c'n excuse it, y'see."
Well, that sounds innocent enough, but I still hold back feeling relieved just yet. . .
"I. . . think so?" I say, hesitantly.
Annie chuckles, "He stocks sevaral dozen flavours of American-style saltwater taffy, y'see, an' this lot have made it their mission to try evary one of them," she shoves Coira playfully on the shoulder, "Sae we'ev made it our tradition tae each of us choose one piece right away, and whoevar finishes theirs furst pays fer tea. Whoevar finishes last gets tae choose where."
I smile, soothed and charmed by her explanation. "Oh. Well, in that case, I'd like to try pineapple. . ." I pause a second, "If you think they have it?" I ask, since pineapple is the most exotic fruit I've always wanted to try that I think they still might have heard of. . .
"Och," says Mai, "Be surprisin' if they don't. They have kiwi and lychee and marula flavours – dinnae ken why they wouldnae have pineapple."
I blink. I've not heard of two of those.
Right. Far past time to stop underestimating these allies of mine. . .
Their chatter moves blithely on again, and I gaze out across the fields, watching the landscape slowly change from arable tilth, to grazing lands, to wild scrub scattered with copse after copse of sudden, clustered trees, to full, looming forest, and back again – open fields under plough, and cropped, bleached pasture, interspersed with wild scrubland full of the black, untamed chaos of winter bushes and briers, and long, cold stretches under the shadow of innumerable trees, either grasping and skeletal with winter, or brilliantly dark green with their undying leafage.
Every bit of it is alien, stark, imposing, and utterly, utterly magical. A land of dreams and fairies, of ancient rites and myths and legends. . .
Suddenly, I understand what the feeling is behind my heart. I'm homesick.
It seems entirely absurd to long for the narrow, cramped and rusty streets of Skycity 15, and the desolate, howling void of the world as it is in 2279, but it is still the place I was born, and the world as I have always known it. Life two hundred years ago is undoubtedly richer, smoother, simpler – quantitatively and qualitatively better, in almost every way – but it is still a world I don't know, and do not belong to.
Trees. Land. Rivers, animals and grass. Clear skies, and sprawling, open towns.
Really, this whole place might as well be some alien world from a distant galaxy, as far as I'm concerned. I feel further away from my home than I would if I were floating alone in the midst of stars. . .
I sigh a bit, and pull myself back into the interior of the car, and the funny, light conversations happening around me.
The world has changed throughout the ages - as it always will - but Humans, now. . . Humans will always be the same.
Yes, that's the problem and you know it, Beauchamp!
I clench my jaw, trying to force myself to cheer up.
Time enough to be gloomy, Beauchamp. Be in the moment with these girls right now. They went to a lot of trouble for you. . .
I paste a smile on my face, and dive into the discussion of porridge with fresh versus preserved fruit that Mai and Coira are currently hashing out between them.
"Does brown sugar count as a fruit?" I ask, wryly.
The resulting good-natured debate brings us all the way into town.
A very small town, is Cranesmuir, even I can see that. Small, but well situated, well tenanted, and clearly self-sufficient. Shops of all types and description line a wide village square of generous proportions. I only catch a glimpse of it all before Coira pulls in to a parking space very near the small field in the middle of everything – the "village green" I recall Jamie calling it. A cold day in November it may be, and the central lawn bleached and browned, but the few pavilions set up on it are still quite unmistakable.
This must be the "farmer's market" that both he and Geordie have mentioned to me several times. It is where Leoch will, in due course, sell a large portion of its sheep, cattle, pigs, geese, ducks and other fowl, feed potatoes, silage beets, and vegetable haulms. It is the local market hub for professionals and businessmen – rather than the general "open fair" sort of event that I normally associate with the term "farmer's market". Both Murtagh and Jamie have offered to introduce me there in the spring, since we have little business to do there now. A few stock purchases, a few minor feed sales – but apparently Marc saw to the majority of this winter's business transactions there some three weeks ago. In the spring there will be many more of the wide, white pavilions too. Now, there are only four, and none of them looks busy.
The girls eagerly jump out of the car and, arm in arm, laughing, we all troop into the nearest building along the nearest row. Above the door is a sign, saying in fancy, curlicue letters - "The Sugar House". More laughter ensues while we are inside, and more teasing and jibing happens than any actual shopping, but eventually we all emerge into the square again, each of us with a sticky, flavoursome sweet tucked into our cheeks, and two or three of us with small bags of treats to take back with us to Leoch.
It is only on the way to our next stop that I really have a chance to look at this village square. The wide variety of stores and cafs is impossible to miss, given all the excellent brightly coloured signage, but the specifics have had to wait until now. Next to The Sugar House, there is a caf called "Hunan Tasty Pot", selling I know not what kind of food, but it smells good, at least from here. Then there are two residential houses, each set well back from the sidewalk with tiny garden plots, and both crowded with screening trees and bushes. Then there is a long, low building, subdivided into offices for a chiropractor, a dentist, a lawyer, and a podiatrist. Then, there are three tiny stores, all huddled very close together, and fronting directly onto the street – a baker, a jewelry shop, and a kind of supply store I have never seen before, called "Bait And Flitch". There are guns in the front display window, and tents, and long poles with very long spools of string attached to their bases, and knives, and boxes full of sharp little hooks, and dozens upon dozens of things "guaranteed to start a fire", and a large rack of various types of vacuum packed desiccated food. I stare at all these mysterious things for quite a while, wanting to ask every sort of question, but knowing I can't.
"Och, thinking of goin' on a camping trip, eh?" says Mai, elbowing me cheerfully.
"No," say, casually, "just interested."
Aside from the tent, the dried food, and possibly the knives, nothing in this window seems necessary for camping, as far as I can see. . .
Beyond this, there are four more residential houses, a small, elegant shop selling handmade lace, and then, finally, our current goal – a large, pastel establishment called, somewhat incongruously, "Brilliance". By the beautifully flamboyant displays in the windows, I can see this place sells cosmetics, bathing supplies, toiletries, and – discretely, of course - a certain amount of fabulously expensive lingerie. I enter the store somewhat hesitantly. Even when I lived in Central, I was never interested in these particular kinds of frivolities. A good skin cream, a flavoured lip oil, and a set of high quality nail clippers were about as far as I ever went.
But, in Annie and Coira's company, I am not allowed to be hesitant for long. In a very few minutes, I have purchased an essential oil aromatherapy set, a large pot of something called a "relaxing hair masque", three different flavours of lip balms, a small box of things called "bath bombs", three different lotions – one for feet, one for hands, and one very specifically for cuticles of all things – and one long-handled brush with very stiff bristles, made for scrubbing the middle of your back.
I and the rest of the girls make our purchases in a flurry of sweet scents, and then hustle off to our next destination – which is, mercifully, just next door. It is a dress shop. When I ask, the girls give me to understand that they also sell shoes, boots and other working clothes, and everyday ladies' underclothing – for which I am highly thankful. While my friends browse the dresses on special, and see what deals are to be had on stockings, I find the small booth near the rear of the store that measures and fits brassieres. The device has only changed superficially after 200 years, rendering it quite easy for me to operate. While it is altering the three bras I chose, I look around the racks of things stored nearby. I select two very nice, sturdy pairs of working jeans, appreciative of the large triple pockets down both legs, as well as the built-in tool belt. I find a good half-dozen flannel shirts on special, and grab them, eager to at last have a few things not in the MacKenzie tartan. I'm quite unable to resist a gorgeous deep maroon sweater, hat and glove set whose tags proudly proclaim they were knitted locally, and by hand. I find just the pair of galoshes I wanted, and am busily trying on Macintosh overcoats when the brassiere machine beeps to tell me it has finished. I take my specially-fitted bras out of the delivery slot, and lay them on top of the pile of things I mean to buy. I choose my coat, and then see there is a special on combo packs of cotton socks, underwear and t-shirts. I push five sets of them in behind the large armful of my other things as I go to check out.
"Stockin' up, I see," says the attendant, smiling.
"Yes," I say, smiling back, but not inviting any other comment.
When we are back out in the chilly air, our purchases all tidily folded away in bags, Kenzie announces she has finished her piece of taffy, and offers, therefore, to buy us all an ice cream at our next destination. Everyone agrees while chaffing her noisily, and we all cross the street to begin perusing the next side of the square.
With my tongue, I touch the little piece of pineapple flavoured candy still sitting comfortably in my cheek, and smile a little. Then, completely unexpectedly, the sharp, bittersweet feelings of homesickness come over me again, clouding my view of the picturesque village before me, rendering everything grey, stale, and unappetizing. This place is nothing – nothing - like my home.
Home. . .
I gaze around me, quite suddenly deeply forlorn, and trying desperately to stave it off. No. No, I mustn't slide into a depression. Not here, not now. What did I do last time, to prevent it? I had. . . I had. . .
I had held on to Jamie. . .
I take a deep breath, and remember the feeling of his hand, rough and big and warm, engulfing mine. I make a fist, tying to ape the pressure of his fingers on my palm.
"Steady now, lass. I'm here for ye."
I seem to hear his deep, gentle voice, whispering in my ear.
"This place isnae as alien as ye think. Take a look again, aye?"
I feel his thumb graze the side of my mouth, and the light press of his lips to mine.
"Dinnae fret, mo ghràidh. Ye'er in my hoom now. Ye cannae be a stranger annywhear tha's hoom tae me. Ken?"
I press my lips together, and my eyes slide shut as I remember the scent and taste of him, and the bright, vibrant, living feeling his presence always gives me.
"Aye, tha's right, lass. Let me hold ye together. . ."
I imagine his arms going around me, and me burying my face in his chest.
The looming darkness retreats a little. When I open my eyes again, the colours of the world are a little warmer, the feel of everything a little more inviting.
Nothing is fixed, but. . . well, a stopgap is at least something.
Right?
By now the girls are far ahead of me, and both Annie and Coira are gesticulating wildly, encouraging me to follow them as fast as I can.
I take another deep breath, and deliberately look about me as I stride to catch up.
And it turns out Jamie is right. Or, at least my dream facsimile of Jamie is right. There is one important similarity between this village square and the Skycity marketplaces I'm used to, which, when I focus on it, makes this place seem far less alien.
I pass five residences, two cafs, an auto repair shop, another bakery – this one with an adjoining tea room - and a perfectly charming grocery/chemist, before joining the girls outside a milk bar. They've already ordered me a chocolate chocolate-chip double-scoop milkshake – whatever that may be - so I am still free to pursue my own thoughts. And it's funny, how I didn't appreciate right away just how similar this place is to the markets aboard New Oxford, since I've been literally repeating the evidence of that similarity to myself ever since we got here.
Neither this market square, nor the markets on Skycity 15, were planned.
Cranesmuir, of course, was established before city planning was a thing, and so it is perfectly natural for the buildings to be a haphazard blend of residences, businesses, and business/residences. And to be honest, I don't know what it's like on other Skycities, but on New Oxford, it turned out that our intended Citywide functions – education and information storage – were not what our allotted resources were best suited for. With our superior filtration systems, it just made sense for us to become a farming and food processing community. As our culture and economy developed, none of the intended meeting places and market squares were situated properly – or indeed were large enough – to comfortably house the crowds that needed them. Some markets sprawled outwards, enveloping side neighborhoods, and some markets moved entirely. In either case, instead of neat, planned rows of stores and cafs, our marketplaces are now surrounded by a totally random blend of homes, stores, cafs, entertainment centers, water distribution stations, schools and so on.
Such a setting gives New Oxford markets a spontaneous, yet welcoming and settled air about them, or so I've always thought. And yes, different as this place is, it has a similar air about it. Unpretentious, cozy – and yet deeply cultured, and housing quite professional craftsmen and businessmen.
Our milkshakes are served, and the girls start discussing where we should go when we have tea. One of the tea rooms is the obvious answer, but Mai prefers one of the sandwich shops, and Annie wants go to the nearby "pizza parlour". I speak up, casting my vote for that, remembering how good the pizza was at the concert, but Coira reminds us all that Annie and Mai haven't finished their taffies yet, and so which of them gets to choose is still up in the air.
I smile again at their quaint little tradition, and deliberately swallow the last tiny fragment of my taffy, so as to not complicate matters any further.
I enjoy my milkshake very much.
At last we stroll onwards, taking this side of the square much more slowly than we did the first one. We stop by a general store, and a bookshop, and a tiny place that sells herbs and candles and crystals, and smells ferociously of incense. Next to that is the post office, and next to that is farming supplies. Then there is the corner of the square, and this is filled with a quite lovely little stone church. The churchyard contains a fountain, and a few other relics from a bygone time, and the stone-cobble paving leads off into a small walled-off garden visible to the right.
If charm were granted on looks alone, this church would get full marks.
The girls are still debating where we will have tea when I pull my attention back around to them. I'm still hoping for pizza, and say so.
We're just passing "Duncan's Farming Supplies", and I'm looking absently into the empty doorway when, without warning, a figure suddenly appears there, giving me quite a start.
She appeared in the space between blinks. . .
Her eyes flash, and she smirks as she registers our conversation.
Then, without preamble or permission, she reaches into our group and grabs me by the arm.
"Weel, I dinna ken aboot th'rest of ye," says Geillis Duncan, pulling me up the two steps into her shop, "but Missus Beauchamp is havin' tea wi' me."
Notes:
Soundtrack for this chapter - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JfPyJK3eDf4
Chapter 41: Weird Sisters
Chapter Text
Geillis is quite businesslike as she drags me through the retail portion of her shop, not bothering to coax or cajole me, divining at once that I'm quite willing to be reasonable.
Up to a point, of course. . .
Wordlessly, she impels me up a flight of stairs, and somehow directs me to leave all my purchases on a hall table, wash my hands in a tiny toilet station, and join her in the kitchen. It's quite impressive, really. I've never seen anyone communicate quite so forcefully with just body language before.
In fact, she has me installed at her kitchen table, with a cup of tea each and plate of cream cakes between us before she deigns to say anything at all.
"Well. Heer we are, then," she says, quietly, with almost dangerously bright eyes, and a positively ferocious grin.
"Yes," I take a sip of my tea, "Though. . . you were quite rude to them, you know. . ."
She waves a hand dismissively, "The only way, pet, the only way. They'd nevar ha' gi'en ye up if I hadnae forced the point."
"But why should you?"
"But why no'?"
I open my mouth to retort, but for some reason this stumps me for quite a few seconds, "Because. . ."
"I'm no' goin' tae let ye be monopolized by a meer set o' gigglers, pet – an' from Leoch, yet! That set c'n take an insult oor too from me – an' serve them right, as like as not."
I deeply dislike this attitude in-re Annie and Co. "Isn't that a bit unfair to them? They were just trying to include me-"
"Aye, an' what is it ye think I'm tryin' tae do?"
"I haven't the least idea!"
I grip my teacup hard to keep myself from jumping up and stomping out. There's something, something behind all of this – something Geillis is trying to do, or see, or discover. . .
All of the suspicions I had of Coira this morning return with redoubled force, focusing themselves unerringly on Geillis.
And this time I'm sure Dougal has something to do with it. . .
"Weel," she says with a toss of her fair red head, "Tha's fair enough, I suppose." She opens up a large jar of applesauce, and dishes out a small bowl for each of us, "Leoch brand," she points to the label, smiling, "How does it feel tae be managing one of th'largest food producers in the area, eh?"
I look at the now familiar circular logo, with its design of stylized flames, and proud words of Latin emblazoned across the center - "Luceo Non Uro" - and smile a bit. There's nothing subtle about Leoch's branding style. I find it charming, in its own way. . .
Only then do Geillis's words register in my mind. Was. . . was that a reference to Skycity 15? How. . . ?
But, was it? I'm far from certain. . .
"It's. . . interesting, to say the least," I say, after only a moderate pause.
"I jus' bet it is. Ha' ye evar done th'like befoor?"
"Not for a fully diversified farm like this," I shake my head, "No. But managing any business means managing men," I shrug, "And men are mostly the same, no matter the job, no matter the age, no matter the time."
There. If she can give vague, oblique hints, so can I.
She gives a light whistle, "*wheew* If I ken the MacKenzies atal, then I reckon they'll ha' their hands full managing you – and no' t'other way round, I'll be bound!"
I chuckle a little, "Well. . . you're not wrong."
"If t'ere's one thing any MacKenzie needs, it's tae be managed, right enough. And that's jus' what they won't let themselves evar be - sly, conniving devils, the lot of them!" She looks at me keenly, "Cannae think why ye evar took on t'job."
I wonder how much Dougal has told her about me. Not much, by the sound of it.
And yet, there's so much he could have told her. . .
Perhaps their. . . arrangement. . . isn't on those sorts of terms?
"Well, I didn't have anything else to do, and I needed a job, you see. And of course, I couldn't get one anywhere else, since I lost my ID card."
"Lost?" she raises her eyebrows very high.
I shrug, "Stolen, lost, it's all the same when you're trying to survive."
"Mmmm. Aye, it mus' be," she nods companionably, "And sae heer ye are, "survivin'" at Leoch. Ye did fetch up on rich pasture, didnn't ye?"
"All thanks to Mr. Fitzgibbons, of course."
"Oh, aye," she nods again, but a sour note has entered her voice, "An' a few thanks tae Colum too, I reckon."
Yes. A distinctly sour note.
And then suddenly it dawns on me. She's trying to find out just how much I know. Dougal hasn't told her anything.
I barely have a second to wonder why before a gruff, quavering voice calls in from the hallway, "Wheer are ye then, wooman? I want mah tea!"
A soft, kindly expression spreads over Geillis's face, and she jumps up to hastily prepare a tray. Lavish helpings of everything go on it, and then she troops dutifully into the other room with it.
Craning my neck only slightly, I can see a tall, spare man as he trundles slowly up the hallway, hunched over an aluminum walker. The lean, raw bones of him are clothed in lose folds of surplus skin, clearly testifying as to his former, far more generous shape. The raspy quaver in his voice was one of pain, and long - very long – suffering. Geillis speaks warmly and softly to him, serving him the tray over his knees just as soon as he settles into his easy chair. Then she brings him several things as he asks for them – an info-screen, a remote control for the television, a blanket for his shoulders, and a few other trifles. Finally, he is comfortably settled down to have his tea in the living room.
Geillis comes back to the kitchen, her face a study of gentleness and regret, of defiance and fear, of love, determination, and of absolute revulsion.
She nods as me, with a twitch of her head in his direction, "Tha's my puir Arthur, pet. It's Stage 3 pancreatic cancer, the dear love. It's sheer cussedness keeps him alive these days, ye ken?"
I smile softly at her, "And you love him very much for that, I have no doubt."
She looks fondly over her shoulder, "Och, aye. I doo."
I've had quite enough dancing around. I decide to go straight to the point.
"Well, in that case, I have to wonder why you've chosen to spend so much time with Dougal, of all people."
She smiles again, not exactly ruefully, but with some regret, "Och, ye dinnae need tae sound sae disapprovin', pet. Arthur an' I are poly – allus have been. He kens whoo I spend my nights with when I'm no' heer."
I cross my arms at her deflection, "That's fine, but it doesn't answer the question. Why Dougal?"
She smirks, "Ye mean besides the fact that he kens his way aboot the bedroom sae well he's even surprised me on occasion?"
"Yes, besides that."
"Weel, tae start wi', there's the no' insignificant fact that he's one o' the few people around heer who's well-traveled and well educated enough tae know what bein' poly even means. . ."
I wrinkle my forehead up in confusion, "But. . ."
"But what?"
"Well. . . people around here. . . . they seem to have accepted gay and trans people pretty well, and. . . well. . . I guess I don't see how poly is so much more than that."
This time her smile is ruefully sarcastic, "Jus' because the boxes people like tae put us in ha' been expanded, tha' doesnae mean the boxes are gone – oor that they're any less of a problem when we run up against them."
"No. . . I suppose not. . . "
"An' also t'ere's the fact that I ken exactly what Dougal is in this fer. He isnae evar goin' tae ask fer moor than I'm willin' tae give – mostly since he doesnae want too much out o' it himself." She shrugs, "An' I ken I deserve as much happiness as possible, especially given the circumstances. . ."
I nod. "That you most certainly do."
"Sae how did ye ken?"
I raise my eyebrows, "After you two danced at the concert. . ."
She waves an imperious hand, "Ye didnae ken after that. No' like this ye didn't. Yer mind was on other things then, an' small blame tae ye. When did it come tae ye?"
"The next day." Very generally, I outline the conversation I overheard between Jamie and Dougal that morning.
"Oh," says Geillis, quietly eating a spoonful of applesauce, "For a second there I thought ye might be tellin' me ye ha' the Sight."
I give a low, sharp laugh, "Jamie thinks I do."
"Does he now?" her face lights up, "Weel then, I'll hav'tae tek ye booth tae The Green Man one o' these days, an' see what Iona MacTavish has tae say about the twa ov ye."
That brings me up short.
"Iona MacTavish?" I say, in almost the identical tone of voice Murtagh did when I asked about her yesterday.
"Aye," says Geillis, "She works at the wee herb an' crystal shop doon the rood a bit," she tilts her head in the direction of the little shop I remember seeing a short while ago, "She has the Sight. Wee woman. Long brown hair. She'll be able tae tell if ye have it oor no'. . ." she trails off when she sees me vacantly staring.
"Och, she's no' a monstrous beastie, Claire, pet! Just a plain woman wi' the Sight. I think she was at the concert that night too – ye may evan ha' seen her. . ."
"And so I did," I say, noncommittally.
Geillis stares back at me, bewilderedly.
"I asked Murtagh – Mr. Fitzgibbons, you know – if it was possible for me to be introduced to her on this very outing today. But, it was the oddest thing. He said there wasn't any such person in Cranesmuir. And that, to his knowledge, there hasn't been, for at least four years."
I tap my fingers abstractedly on the table.
"And here you are, talking about her just as if she's a perfectly ordinary person. Odd. Very odd." I take a perfunctory sip of my tea. "Unless we are all three of us witches, I fail to see how such a thing is possible, don't you?"
She doesn't answer.
"And there's something else odd, you know. Here we have Dougal – a Scottish man who covets his brother's throne – and, that night, he danced with all three of us. That can't possibly be a coincidence, now, can it? Three weird sisters, and he danced with each one of us. Me. . . you. . . and a woman who doesn't exist. . ."
I pause. The silence, however brief, is full of significance.
"At least, she doesn't exist on this plane of reality-"
"How much do ye know?" she interrupts, eyes snapping. Suddenly her posture is one of a cornered animal, wild and alien. . .
I shake my head, "Almost nothing."
"These are nae the questions of someone who knows almost nothing, Claire."
"It's still the truth."
She sighs, and her fists clump on the table as she stands up to look at me more closely.
"Mebbe ye do have the Sight, then," she growls, her eyes boring into mine.
"Maybe. Who's to say?" I shrug, and return her gaze frankly and unashamedly.
Almost infinitesimally slowly, her posture relaxes into something recognizable, approachable, and almost Human. Abruptly, she turns away from me, to look out of the kitchen window, her pale face wary, a sudden fierce look in her eyes that is also strangely, eerily, hunted. Of all the people I've met here, the last person I would have guessed was running away from something would be Geillis.
But, there it is.
The silence draws out between us – tense, but also, somehow, safe, like the final gasp of blissful ignorance.
"Claire," she says, at last, more earnestly than I've yet heard her, "When. . . when you go home. . . could you. . . would you tell Lamb I'm sorry?"
Chapter 42: The Moon In Her Eyes
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
I set down my teacup with a somewhat louder clatter than is strictly necessary.
"Lamb. . ." I breathe, in a voice even I can scarcely hear, "Home. . ."
I fix Geillis with a sharp stare, and raise my voice, "You. . . don't mean Leoch? Do you?"
She looks at me, half reproachfully and half. . . unsure? Confused? Afraid? Though why she should be half anything at this moment is quite beyond me. . . "No, pet. Not Leoch."
Suddenly she whirls around and pounds her fists on the table, "Oh! What is the use of pretending? Are you going to tell me Quentin Lambert Beauchamp isn't yer uncle? That you aren't the precious niece from the Skycities he's always saying he's going tae find an excuse tae go visit?" She throws up her arms incredulously and sits down with a thump, "Why deny it? Why even try tae -" she points viciously at various parts of me, "when ye both have the same hair, the same eyes, the same way about ye, the same accent, the same last name, and the same scar?" She grabs my arm and gestures at the crook of my elbow, "I was suspicious the first minute I heard yer name being bandied about t'village, but when I saw this, I was sure. Only people born on the Skycities evar get crescent-shaped scars like that, 'specially there. And the only time I've evar heard the name Beauchamp is in connection wi' Lamb."
Her jaw sets, hard and fierce, "Now, are ye really going tae tell me he didnae send ye here after me?"
She narrows her eyes at me, sharp and insistent.
My head is whirling, my few dozen vague suspicions and half-realizations coalescing into certainties, and then breaking apart into confusing jumbles again, re-forming and shattering over and over inside my brain.
I pull my arm back, "Whatever else may be true, that last certainly is not," I say, earnestly.
Her eyes shift away from mine, still wary, but considering.
"He. . . Lamb, I mean," I say, faltering a bit, "He just. . . mourns for you. He. . . misses you. He feels guilty, I think. But he isn't. . . I'm sure he isn't plotting anything. . ."
He had plans, certainly. Plans, and hopes, and wild, fanciful dreams. But I feel sure Lamb had no plots of any kind.
But then. . . am I entirely sure of that?
After those first couple of days, I had given up trying to get a read on Uncle Lamb. His particular blend of boyish, impish enthusiasm, modern practicality, and timeless, ancient wisdom was too much of a foreign mindset for me to able to parse him beyond the superficial.
The only things I'm sure of about him are that he really, deeply cares for me, and that he has thrown himself into the Craigh na Dun project entirely – heart and soul.
And that means, it is possible that. . . that. . .
"Gi'en me up, has he?" says Geillis, her expression still hard, her gaze still far away.
"I. . . think so."
With a quick snap of her head, she meets my eyes, "How long ha'e I been gone?"
I conjure up the long talk Lamb and I had on the way home from Culloden moor, and sigh a little.
Culloden. . .
Home. . .
I shake my incoherent thoughts away, and force myself to remember the few times Lamb had gotten down to specifics.
"Three years."
An incomprehensible expression crosses her face, "I've been heer for almost seven."
"So. . . after all. . ." I say, wonderingly, "There isn't a way to tell? No way to say how long it will be – or seem – on the. . . the other side, I mean. . . when you. . . when you journey either way?"
Somehow, Geillis manages to understand the question, "Nae, there's a way. I'm heart sure of that." Then she hums, and says, dreamily, "It's only that nae mattar how much we know, they allus knew moor. Nae mattar how much we learn, or remember, there's allus going tae be sumthin' still lost – some things they had tha' we cannae even begin tae ken. . ."
Suddenly, a coherent picture of what is happening flashes before my eyes, but it is gone nearly as quickly.
"They?"
Her strange manner and tone have overwhelmed the moment, and several important points slip sideways, out of my grasp. . .
She blinks, and seems to return to the here and now, "The Druids, pet. The ones who figured the whole thing oot tae begin wi'."
"Oh, yes, I know that, it's just. . . "
"Aye?"
"You're speaking as though. . . as though. . ."
"Yes?"
"As though you're. . . related to them," I gesture vaguely, "Or. . . something like that."
She clicks her tongue, "*tsk* Dear dear. Mrs. Graham usually prepares Travelers bettar than that, pet. Soo does Lamb, come tae think of it."
I blush furiously, "Well. . . I. . . I didn't exactly. . . that is, there wasn't time-"
"Time?" she scoffs, "There's allus time, pet. Tha's the point, is it no'?"
"In the usual order of things, v-very probably," I stammer, "But. . . but. . ."
But I still don't know how much I am allowed to say to her. How much I can trust her. I lick my lips, cautiously, "Geillis. . . why do you want me to tell Lamb you're sorry? Is it because you haven't been able to change the future?"
She rounds on me, furiously, "Ye ken almost nothing else, but ye do ken that? How?"
"L-Lamb told me-"
"He told ye of what is kept secret except between fellow Travelers, but he didnae tell ye that. . . that. . ." the red fury in her eyes morphs into black suspicion, "Just how much do ye ken?"
I smirk, ruefully, "Like I said – almost nothing. This wasn't the plan, you see."
"But, Iona said. . ."
"So she is a time traveler too!" I exclaim, grasping firmly onto what has been merely a half-belief of mine since yesterday, "I knew she had to be! It's the only explanation that makes any sen-"
"Will ye stop that!" cuts in Geillis, her tone stuck somewhere in between exasperation and disbelief, "Stop it!" she hisses, "Ye an' I booth ken that the Sight is load of auld shite, an' if any Traveler seems tae have it, 'tis only because of prior knowledge of t'future!"
"Do we ken that?" I ask, suddenly back to being bewildered.
"Of course we feckin' do!" she almost yells, and then, suddenly remembering the man in the other room, lowers her voice to a ferocious whisper, "Sae how t'bluddy feckin' shite do ye ken nothing that ye should, an' evarything that ye shouldnae?"
I lean back in my chair.
The great jumble of my thoughts and suspicions are beginning to untangle in a few places. Not much. But enough.
I haven't been able to get a read on Geillis until this very moment. She's been too changeable and confusing, her signals too much one thing and then too rapidly the exact opposite.
If ever there was a self-contained paradox, it's Geillis Duncan.
She wants to know – needs to know – everything about me - for reasons I couldn't fathom even if she spelled them out one by one, but at the same time she's afraid – terrified – of me, of what I know, and of what my being here might mean. She likes me - but she hates me. She is desperate for what I know - but despises that I know it.
She may want me to tell Lamb she's sorry, but she isn't sorry for failing to change the past. At most, she's sorry that she can't believe in changing the past. All at once, that is very clear to me. She doesn't believe the past can be changed.
Or, perhaps, she doesn't believe the past can ever be changed enough.
And yet, equally clearly, she is terrified that she may have already done so. Changed the past, or the future, in some way she never intended.
It is not so much of a surprise to discover that this woman is a paradox. That a time traveler holds two opposing views at once is, perhaps, only to be expected. But such violently opposing views, held so closely together. . . matter and antimatter in such near proximity. . .
The wonder is that she hasn't yet exploded.
Well, that isn't so surprising either, really. It explains her rather neatly, I think.
Of course, of course she hasn't confided in Dougal. I'd be willing to bet she doesn't even like him all that much.
But she wants to. Perhaps more than she knows.
I decide to trust her, just a little. Perhaps a few confidences will put us on slightly firmer ground. . .
"Well, it was sort of an accident, you see. . ."
Carefully, I give her an abbreviated account of my adventures on Cold Island 12. My first sight of Craigh na Dun, my journey to and from Culloden, my talks with Lamb, my interactions with Mrs. Graham, and my final, fatal morning on that little hill crowned with trees and a ring of standing stones. . .
She nods, and looks down at her hands.
A deep silence falls between us for several minutes.
Finally, quietly, she sings, in a voice more melodious than I ever expected,
"Hey Nonny Nonny,
The Rowan-tree is bonny,
The Mountains are under the Spoon,
The Devil's Eye flashed,
To see such s'port,
And the Witches dance under the Moon."
She looks up to see my reaction, and I grin, relieved that here is something we can talk about freely at last.
"I heard that my first day here – on Cold Island 12, I mean," I exclaim, "Actually, almost my first minute of being here. What does it mean?"
She sighs, "Different things to different people, a'course. But to us. . . it's a song of summoning. A sort of touchstone, if you will."
"All right. But what does it mean?"
She traces a design with her fingertip on the surface of the tabletop while she dreamily explains.
"'The Rowan tree is bonny' – that means either in flower oor in fruit. So, Spring oor Fall. 'The Mountains are under the Spoon' – the 'spoon' is Ursa Major - the Big Dipper, as some call it. 'Tis in the sky. 'Tae see such s'port' – did the the folks ye heard sing it put in that little stutter there – 's'port'?"
I nod, "Yes, they did."
"That's because it doesnae mean 'sport'. It's short for 'transport', y'see. 'Tae see such transport' – meaning the doorway tae a different time is open. 'An' the Witches dance under the Moon'. Weel. I dinnae need tae explain that one, do I now? Ye saw."
Several of my vague wonderings finally resolve into firm certainty.
"So, it's a reminder of the time of year and celestial requirements for opening the time portal?"
"Aye, but 'tis a great deal moor than that, pet. It's a kind of. . . byword, I suppose you might say. Moor of a promise than a password, if ye take my meaning."
I don't. Not entirely. But I push onward anyway, eager to be learning even more answers.
"So, why did Lamb tell me about the known requirements but didn't say anything about the rhyme? Or would he have told me later and I just missed it by jumping the gun that morning?"
She smirks, wryly, "Lamb couldnae ha'e told ye about it if he'd wanted to. We havenae told him, more like," she meets my eyes, solemnly, "In the end, he is only a man, after all."
"We?"
She sighs, as though to a particularly stubborn child, "We Druids, pet. I'm no' one of Lamb's precious volunteers, ye ken. No' only that, annyway. I am - oor was – second tae Mrs. Graham herself. She is – oor was – oor will be, rather – Oldmother of our Circle that we have in Inverness. Jus' like her mother an' grandmother before her."
My eyebrows twitch up a bit, "Lamb said she – Mrs. Graham's mother, I mean – was a neo-Pagan. Is that what you mean?"
Geillis laughs a short laugh, sharp and dry, "Lamb would say that, the pet. He thinks he understands sae very much, but he knows what we've told him, an' nae moor," Her voice is cool and hard, "Druids arnae neo-Pagans, Claire. They're th'real thing – Pagans, in verity. An' it's a title, that – Druid – no' a religion. It takes seven years tae earn the name, an' a'least forty tae be hailed Oldmother. Years full o' study an' learning an' experience," her tone warms and softens a little, "We'er guardians of some of the oldest an' mos' precious knowledge in t'whole world, Claire. Knowledge handed doon from one wise woman tae th'next, on an' on, for thousands of years, direct an' continuous across the centuries. Across millennia. Jus' think on that."
I do think on it, for longer than I think Geillis expects me to. A long path, and an even longer journey, unbroken for thousands of years of Human history, unfolds slowly before my eyes. The ends fade into the mists of infinite distance in both directions, but the here and now are clear and plain enough. From Lamb I had got the impression that only one project was occurring at Craigh na Dun – his. Clearly, that is not the case. There is at least one more which, though concurrent, is entirely different, both in conception and ultimate goal.
Though what goal these Druids might be trying to accomplish I can't even begin to guess. . .
"You never answered my question," I say, finally, "Why do you want me to apologize to Lamb for you?"
Slowly, her eyes lose their hard sharpness, and turn inward, soft and contemplative, "I want ye tae tell him. . . I'm sorry I let him think I was Traveling for him. An' that I let him think I believed in his notions an' was going to dedicate all my time here to them an' nothing else. That. . . that I was going to come back at all. . ." her voice catches, and she stops, unable or unwilling to explain further.
Into the silence, I ask, quietly, "What makes you think I am going to go back?"
Her eyes flash their bright green at me, "Och, ye have the fire in ye, pet, I saw that straight away. The passion. The hope. Lamb got ye wi' his wild, romantic tales, didnn't he? Yer goin' tae change things - aren't ye?"
"Well. . . try. . ." I say, dubiously.
She shakes her head, "An' tha's jus' what ye'el nevar doo, pet. It doesnae mattar how many impossible stories he spun ye – changin' the past tae change the future cannae happen."
"But. . ." I wrinkle up my forehead in confusion, "Aren't there four World War III fighter pilots that might beg to differ on that point? Their futures at least were changed, and who can say what effect their loss had on the past?"
My confusion is echoed in Geillis's eyes, "Fighter pilots?" she asks, hesitantly, "Now then, which one of Lamb's stories was it included fighter pilots?"
"Why. . . it's the whole reason he came to Cold Island 12 in the first place. The five WWIII fighter pilots who sheltered next to Craigh na Dun, four of whom then disappeared. The one who was left behind told the authorities quite a tale, but then 70 years later four fighter pilots appeared in Inverness and tried to steal a boat."
"A boat?"
"Yes, that was my reaction. Who would think a boat of all things was a useful thing to steal, even fifty, a hundred years ago? But their evidence corroborated the story that that one prisoner of war had told seventy years before. The Cold Island Council decided to look into it, and a project was organized, and eventually Lamb got to hear of it, and that's why he's there at all. Didn't he ever tell you that story? I got the impression he doesn't mind telling it – not to people he considers on his side, anyway."
Geillis shakes her head, emphatically, "No. He never told me that. Nor ever anything like it, either. I don't know what started off the Council's interest in Craigh na Dun, but I do know Lamb was invited to the island by Reverend Wakefield, who was one of the directors of the project."
"Reverend Wakefield?" I ask, bewildered again, "But. . . he's been dead forty years. And Lamb's only been on Cold Island 12 for twenty two, maybe twenty three."
Geillis's face is set in an incomprehensible expression, "The Reverend died six years ago, pet. He left the manse tae Mrs. Graham, bless him – so she'd have no fears where she'd live, ever. He was always sae generous to the orphans and widows about him, dear Reggie. . ."
"But. . . Mrs. Graham isn't a widow," I insist, stridently, "Mr. Graham was the one who met me at the port – he's the chauffeur for the manse – and gardener. And it's Lamb who lives there, not this Wakefield person."
Each of us stares silently at the other for a very long minute.
"You know what this means, don't you?" I say, solemnly.
She doesn't reply.
"It means you have changed the future, Geillis. You have. Not much, perhaps – but you have changed it."
She rolls her eyes and sighs, exasperated, "Aye, an' tae what effect? A few people did a few things exactly the same, but for altered reasons. The future may be slightly different – bu' 'tis hardly changed, pet. One person cannae change the future – no' tae any real purpose."
"But how do you know that, Geillis? How can any of us know that? For sure?"
She laughs shortly, regretfully, sardonically,
"Iona MacTavish. . ."
The purring roar of a car engine sounds from the street outside. As she jumps up to go and look, I hear a great flurry of laughter, giggling and chattering, sharply curtailed with one curt word,
"Hush!"
Geillis peers out of the kitchen window, a strangely somber look on her face,
"Looks like the Sisters of Peace have brought in their group of refugee orphans taeday." She shakes her head. "An', I ask ye, what good does my knowing that their whole refuge house will be burnt down in the Withdrawal after the Second Battle of Culloden do them, oor me, oor anyone? Nothin'. Not a blame, blessed thing. . ."
Notes:
Soundtrack for this chapter - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DDqYBRKaEIo
Chapter 43: A Small Injustice
Chapter Text
I blink, too stunned to speak for a few seconds, "Refugees? In Scotland? During the British Cold War? Wh. . . what were they thinking?"
Geillis only shrugs noncommittally, still staring out the window at them. I can hear several padding, scurrying footsteps, but nothing else.
"Where are these refugees even from?" I ask, still gasping with shock, "There aren't that many conflicts bad enough to need evacuations during this time, are there?" I absentmindedly spoon up some applesauce, "After Culloden, yes, but not before, right?"
Geillis turns back to the kitchen table, "Yer forgettin' Poland, pet. And the Balkans. And the South African States," she shrugs, pragmatically, "Dinnae feel bad – everyone forgets them."
"Oh. Right. . ."
I manage not to blush, and draw myself up, casting my mind back rapidly to my primary school history lessons, "I guess they were called the Silent Wars for a reason."
"Mm. For several reasons." Geillis nods, takes a large bite of cream cake, and shrugs, "T'isn't the only set of events of worldwide significance tae be found hiding behind Culloden and the British Cold War. There's Spain, and Egypt too. Yugoslavia, of course. And Sicily, if you want tae stretch the point."
"I suppose so. . ."
"It was just such statement, y'see. Everyone wanted tae run that story, an that story only. A workers union revolution in Egypt or a student uprising in Lesotho has'nae got anything on an actual bloody battle in Scotland. A real turning point in history, that was."
I smirk a little, "Will be, you mean?"
She laughs a short, mirthless laugh, "Oh. Aye." She tilts her head, indicating the small crowd of refugee children still milling about the churchyard outside, "This little lot are over from France, since the resources there are stretched sae thin at the moment. Next year will be the immigration lockdown here, and they won't be able tae go back – which wouldnae be a problem, except that Culloden happens in a couple years, sae they'll be stuck heer then - an' the Peace Agents arenae very peaceful about their Withdrawal."
"They aren't very peaceful about anything, Geillis." I shiver, remembering Black Jack.
Again, she huffs a dry laugh, "Aye, true enough."
There is a long pause. My mind is humming with possibilities, questions and wonderings.
"Isn't there. . . anything we could do?" I ask.
She shrugs again, wiping crumbs from around her mouth, "Mebbe. Sure, there's lots we could doo, pet. But tae what purpose?"
I give an exasperated sigh, "To the purpose of saving refugee orphans from being burned horribly?"
She shakes her head, ruefully, "That sort of thing sounds nice, pet – an' ye can even spend all yer time and effort tryin'. Many a Traveler does – an' has – all throughout history. But none has evar stopped the tide of injustice, nor evan stemmed it. Not on purpose, annyway. All annyone has evar mannaged tae doo is divert history in little ways, and even then, only sometimes." Geillis sighs deeply, "In the end it's always the same. The big events are Written. Like the mountains. Like the stars. Like the sea itself."
"But we don't live in the sea – or under the mountains, or out among the stars. We live in the boundaries between them all." Frustrated, I slap my hand on the table, "Just because we can't move mountains doesn't mean we can't find a way around them, surely?"
Geillis snorts, apparently even more exasperated with me than I am with her, "Ye dinnae think evary time traveler since ancient times has tried that, pet? Nae nae – only insignificant things can be changed, and then only sometimes."
That strange haunted, hunted, almost frightened look has come into her eyes again. Almost as though. . . as though whatever insignificant things she has changed about the future, she's scared to go back there. Scared of what she would find. Or wouldn't find. Or. . .
My flailing mind grasps onto one very important, still unanswered point, "So. . . how does that explain Iona MacTavish?"
Geillis throws up her hands in a very Scottish gesture, "I'll no' be denying that Iona was verry good at changing the little things – t'was her Gift, I think."
The way she says it, I can hear the capital letter.
"Gift?"
The look in Geillis's eyes grows even stranger, this time in ways I don't even try to interpret, "Oh, aye. Evary Traveler has a Gift, ye ken."
"No. I didn't"
"Och, weel. Nae doot yers will show itself in time."
She smiles thinly at me, somehow neatly cutting off all further questioning on this subject.
"Iona was from the past – how far I dinnae exactly ken – but she said shee'd been back and forth ovar this part of history several times – research she called it."
"Research? Into small Scottish villages and the shopkeepers who live in them?"
"Aye. She said it was a great help in her chosen profession."
"Really? I can't imagine what that profession could possibly be. . ."
"Weel, she said she was an historical novelist."
"A. . ." I put my teacup down with a clatter, "Geillis, how can knowledge of the future help someone be an historical novelist?"
She shrugs, but lightly, and in a way that clearly tells me she's not saying everything she could, "Mebbe she just finds the time period inspirin' – whoo c'n say?"
I'm about to call bullshit, and try to maybe push past whatever this weird barrier is that's standing between me and her, when another, more important question occurs to me.
"Wait – you said she was good at changing the little things?"
"Aye."
"So that means she did try to change bigger things?"
"A'course she did. Nearly all of us doo, like I said. She never got annywhere though. Oor so she told me," she shrugs, "We only got to be friends a couple of months ago. She may no' have trusted me wi' any o' her big secrets yet. . ."
"But you don't think she managed it?"
She waves a hand dismissively, "Nah."
"But why not – how do you know it's impossible, Geillis?"
She drinks the last sip of her tea before answering.
"'Tis a mattar of momentum moor than annything, I think." She jumps up then, and replenishes the teapot with fresh leaves and hot water. "There are only evar one oor two Travelers in any one time, y'see. Perhaps a few moor on occasion, but nevar a lot of us."
She pours me a fresh cup of tea, and I take it, delicately.
"What has that to do with anything?"
"Weel, momentum, like I said. One person can only doo sae much, pet." She shrugs and refills her own cup, "Big events have hundreds, thousands, perhaps even millions of people behind them – pushing the event along, like. An' even famous, historically important people cannae divert forces like that very far – sae what chance do we normal folk have?"
I half smirk, "Leverage is very powerful force, Geillis."
She puts her teacup down, shaking her head, "Have ye no' been listening, pet? Leverage needs a target. One small and comprehensible enough tae be managed on a Human scale. History only rarely gets doon tae such events, an' when it does, there's such a weight tae things that the details themselves scarcely mattar. It's the story everyone tells themselves afterwards that makes the difference. Gutenberg's Bible – the Declaration of Independence – Pearl Harbor – ye could change thousands of things about the actual events and no' make any impact on the historical record." She gestures expansively, "Ye'ed have tae go back further beyond – tae change the story as people were telling it. Change how movable print was seen by the Church tae begin wi', oor the entire concept of colonialism, oor the whole culture of Imperial Japan. An verry quickly ye'el find ye'er oot of the Human scale and scope again, no' having any impact." She scratches the back of her neck, thoughtfully, "If there were hundreds or thousands of us Traveling all together, to specific places and times. . ." she shakes her head "But evan then I dinnae think it would work – no' as intended, annyway. Shoot an arrow inta a flock of geese and they scatter in directions ye cannae always predict. An' some of them come at you. Which is nae small problem wi' geese."
I wave her metaphor away. I know nothing about geese.
"I still think I'm here for a reason," I say, stubbornly, "A reason not intended by Lamb, or myself, or Mrs. Graham, or anyone else. And yet still. . . intended."
I say these things with conviction, even though the very idea hasn't really been clear to me until just now. Saying it aloud has somehow made it real. I'm not just here for any old reason – I'm here at the behest of a higher power.
I'm here to do something. And somehow I don't think that something will be all that small.
Whatever Geillis's rejoinder would have been, it's cut off by a commotion outside in the churchyard. It sounds unusually violent, and we both jump up to look out the window.
I see a flailing, protesting boy – no doubt one of the newly arrived orphans – being forcibly dragged by one ear by a man dressed as a priest. For all the boy's frantic screeching, the man is dangerously silent.
Geillis and I watch in horror as the priest continues to drag the child across the churchyard, to the antique display of stocks in one corner, and proceeds to clamp the boy into one of them. He growls something menacing that is almost entirely drowned out by the boy's wailing.
I'm about to stammer out something when the priest brings out a stout looking bamboo cane and lashes it heavily across the boy's back.
Both I and the boy go silent out of sheer shock.
He very quickly raises up his voice again – this time in very obvious pain.
It takes me a few more seconds to find my tongue.
"We. . . we have to do something, Geillis – we have to – just listen to that!"
The third blow has fallen, and the fourth, with the boy's response growing louder and more desperate each time
"You're telling me that if that boy survives this beating, he's only going to go on to die in a fire? No! I won't let it!" I stomp my foot, and wring my hands, not knowing exactly what I intend to do just yet. . .
The fifth blow falls. . .
"It's nae use I tell you," says Geillis, her voice pained, "It'll still happen – it's already happened. Tryin' tae change things will only mek trouble, Claire."
I look over at her, incredulously, "You? Are afraid to make trouble?"
She looks so startled at this that I have to look at her again. But it's true. I unintentionally keep hitting upon the exact word. Afraid. She's desperately, piteously afraid. I still don't know why, or of what, and at this point, I very nearly don't care.
The sixth blow sounds even harder than the previous five.
"Maybe you're right," I say, gruffly, "Maybe I never will make a difference. Maybe none of us can ever change the future for the better, or do anything that matters for the world as a whole." Dramatically, I point down to the churchyard, jerking my arm in time with my rapped out words, "But, I can do something that matters to that. one. boy."
With this, I whirl down the stairs, and across the street, completely ignoring the look of stunned terror still burning in Geillis's eyes.
Chapter 44: Wolf's Bain
Chapter Text
I don't have time to think as I hurtle through the churchyard. Very possibly, that's a good thing. But I do have time to marshal all the righteous indignation, white hot rage, and tooth-grinding stubbornness I've got, and that I know is a good thing. Somehow, I think they will stand me in good stead before the day is out.
Or, probably, before the minute is out.
Wordlessly, I fling myself sideways across the stocks, slipping neatly between the child's upturned back and the priest's descending cane. In the split second before the next blow falls, I brace against the wooden planks, and grab the boy's hand.
Two enormous, wild brown eyes, streaming with tears, turn up to stare at me. Slim childish fingers spasmodically grip mine.
And then, the cane strikes across my shoulders, and blue-white agony blots out everything else.
I don't know if I cry out, but for a very long eternity everything seems to be a rushing, screaming mess, jolts of pain, and flashes of light.
It is good that I took the boy's hand, for only that grounds me.
Achingly slowly, my vision clears. It is a little hard to breathe. Most of me hurts, though some parts of me are numb. . .
And then the cane falls again. . .
This time, as the pain slowly fades, I hear a shout, a growl – no, no, two shouts, and a scuffle – and then the whistling whoosh of bamboo being swung cruelly hard, only this time I don't feel pain again. But there is a yelp, and a howl, and a clash of limbs – a connection of fists and bodies and feet and knees and legs and arms. There are wordless, indignant cries, tearing cloth, and harsh, snarling barking.
I look down, and see the wide open, wild face of the boy, stretching his imprisoned neck, trying desperately to see what's happening.
It's only then that I notice that through it all, above it all, there has been a stream of fierce Gàidhlig, most of it shouted with a voice and intonation that some currently distant part of me recognizes.
"Why am I no' surprised?" says the voice, breaking into English, "That a man whoo'll beat a woman - an' a child – has nae compunction ovar thrashin' an innicent dog?"
A high, strained voice, choked with far more than just emotion, spits back, "Damn'ed creature. . ." the priest gurgles a bit, as though he is being held by the throat - which, if our rescuer is who I think it is, may well be true, ". . . bit me!"
"Only when she saw ye raisin' yer hand tae these puir lambs-"
"That devil child? Curs'ed sneakthie-"
They are interrupted by a vicious snarling, and the sound of more ripping cloth.
"Down, Laoghaire!" Jamie snaps, coldly, "Ye'ev done far an' away more than enough, lass!" There is a tiny metal click, as of a dog lead being reattached. "Now you! Ye call yerself a priest, do ye? A minister? Give me that!"
I hear him snatch something, and both the boy and I flinch at the sound of whistling bamboo, but then Jamie comes into my peripheral vision, and I see him break the priest's cane over his broad thigh – once, twice! - and then he throws the pieces over his shoulder, turning back to our adversary.
"I dinnae care what excuse ye think ye had", he says, urgently, but with a frigid, dangerous calm, "Beatin' three creatures weaker than yerself, in public, in the light of the honest day – weel. Dishonourable's nae word fer it, Father, and ye ken that as well as I, if no' bettar. So get thee off tae a doctor tae see tae yer leg there – now! An' be sharpish about it!"
In our tense, bruised state, either trapped by or draped over the stocks, neither the boy or myself has been able to see the priest during all these exchanges, but at a mighty shove from Jamie, he enters our view, and at last I can see his face.
He is a stony-browed, sour-mouthed creature, with a cruel sneer and poisonous eyes, but for all that there is a morbidly fascinating sort of dignity about him. He is not young, nor very old, though the absence of any visible hair on his face or head makes him difficult for me to age properly.
He trains those narrow, darkly flashing eyes on Jamie, and raises a fist, shouting, "Heretic! Heathen!" He tries to stamp his foot, but has to limp sideways in pain, and to avoid a torn trouser leg, "Traitor tae th'Church!"
Jamie's voice sounds close behind me now, "Aye, an' t'was filthy tyrants like ye whoo drove me from et tae begin wi', tae be sure! Now be off, ye violent auld man! Spew yer poison som'where else, afore I put my fist through yer teeth, age an' yer collar be damned!"
He stands there fuming for a minute, but clearly, there is nothing to be done, not against a very determined Jamie attended by a very well trained and loyal sheep dog.
Slowly, I see the priest's flaming anger freeze into something far more dangerous – an icy, crawling hate – and then he turns and limps away across the square, towards, I assume, a doctor's office.
Then I feel Jamie's hand take me gently by the elbow, and I push the priest and all the new dangers he represents from my mind.
"Are ye well there, lass?" Jamie asks, lifting me to my feet.
"My back is very sore. . ." I wince as I try to take a step, "But I can't imagine it's worse than. . ." I gesture stiffly at the boy, still on his knees, his head and wrists stuck into the stockboards.
"Mmmphm." Jamie grunts, and kneels to help disentangle the boy from his prison.
It is then that I notice the boy isn't entirely trapped anymore – somehow he got one hand free the minute the priest went away. I'm sure I saw both sleeves poking out on the other side of the stocks when I reached over and took his hand. . . I wonder how he did that. . . and if he did it with the one why didn't he do it with the other? What. . . ? That hand – his right one – now I can see. . . it is bound up tight in a dark blue handkerchief, making a stump that barely emerges from his sleeve. . . I must have taken his left hand, then. . .
I try to remember exactly. Yes. . . yes I had. . .
Then Jamie lifts the imprisoning board, and the boy leans back with a great sigh.
"Merci beaucoup, Monsieur!" he says, a huge amount of relief, and not a little bit of pain in his voice, "And to Mademoiselle too, of course." He looks up at me, and suddenly he is all sweetness and enchanting manners, though it is clear he can barely move from pain. "The light from the Blessed Virgin be upon you both, my rescuers, my friends for all time!" With great effort, he lifts his arms to Jamie, "S'il vous plait, Monsieur? I cannot seem to stand. . ."
Jamie does not lift him to his feet as he did for me, but instead eases the boy over his shoulder, and carries him out across the square.
In something of a daze, I follow them, the aching bruises across my back throbbing with every step I take.
We are back in front of the milk bar when Jamie speaks sharply to a group of lively children playing among the tables there.
"Hamish! Come help us please!"
The round head and bright eyes of the next Chieftain of the MacKenzies pops up from behind a chair, "What d'ye need, Uncle Jamie?"
"Go inside an' tell Mr. Carter we'll need ta use his back room, aye? An' his first aid kit, and several ice packs. Be quick now!"
Our small ambassador darts in front of us, and apparently does his job so well we aren't even questioned as we make our way past tables, counter, kitchen, and storerooms, to a small, comfortable, and very quiet back room.
I sit down at a little table where the first aid kit and ice packs are, and Jamie settles the boy on the nearby couch. Then he turns to me, and without a word, activates two ice packs, and lays them across my back. At once the deep throbbing subsides, and some of the fire leeches out of the bruises. I sigh with relief, and hunch over the table to better balance the packs on my back.
Then Jamie turns back to the boy, speaking softly in rapid, highly fluent French. The boy nods, and answers in the same language, as Jamie very carefully helps him out of his coat and shirt.
The boy is facing me, so I cannot see the damage as his back comes into view, but Jamie throws me a look that says it isn't good. Then his lip twists, and he looks determined, not worried, so I know it isn't all that bad, either.
He reaches for the first aid kit and more ice packs, and switches back to English.
"Now then, lad," Jamie says, very gently, "What's yer name?"
The child's response is to Jamie, of course, but those huge, almond-brown eyes are fixed on me, as he hesitates a moment, and then quavers out,
"Claudel. Claudel Ferguson."
Chapter 45: Le Petit Prince
Chapter Text
A look passes between Jamie and I. He puts a great deal into it – huge wordless things I have no hope of interpreting – but that doesn't matter right now. Just the look has made it clear that whatever is about to happen next, he needs me to support him in it.
I can only hope I will be able to support him half as well as he has been supporting me, these past few weeks. . .
"Weel lad," he says, sounding very carefully disinterested, "Are ye sure ye dinnae want tae reconsider that? We don't want people to be getting confused, now do we?"
"Confused, Monsieur?"
"Aye, well. . ." Jamie's eyes go very serious, "It doesnae say exactly that on yer birth certificate, now does it?"
The boy's huge brown eyes look back and forth several times between me and Jamie, visibly measuring us up. Then he lowers his gaze, yet at the same time draws the rest of himself up, in a strange sort of half-ashamed half-defiant attitude.
"Non, Monsieur."
Jamie doesn't say anything for a few seconds, but then continues, still in a carefully detached tone,
"If I were tae go an' ask the nuns for yer record, I wouldnae find annything of the sort, now would I?"
"Non, Monsieur."
In a very businesslike manner, Jamie begins applying bruise ointment to the boy's back.
"Fergus though, that's a name might help ye fit in here in the Highlands-"
Suddenly the boy is all eagerness, "Ooh. Do you think so, Monsieur?" he nods happily, "Yes. I shall be Fergus then. But what is your name?"
Jamie grins, "I'm James Fraser. But I'm on the run from the authorities too, ye ken, so the name I tell most people these days is James MacTavish. And either way, my friends call me Jamie."
The boy cocks his head sideways, digesting this.
"Oui. That is good. And your name Mademoiselle?" he turns wide eyes to me, "And your father's name also?"
I blink, and stammer, a little disconcerted at such vigorous directness, "W-well. . . uh. . . my name is Claire. Claire Beauchamp. My father's name was Henry."
He nods decisively. "Bien. Yes. I shall be Fergus Henri Fraser," he looks up at Jamie, "Yes?"
Jamie hums in approval, "Mm. Fine strong name, that. Now, does this hurt, lad?" He squeezes the boy's side, very gently, but Fergus still flinches and draws his breath in sharply. "Aye, ye'ev a cracked rib oor two, but nae fear," says Jamie, patting the boy's shoulder reassuringly, "We'll get ye taped up and settled in nae time at all."
In fact, it is nearly a quarter of an hour before the boy's back is dressed to Jamie's satisfaction. He's helping him back on with his shirt when he gestures casually at his still covered right wrist.
"What's the mattar there then, lad?"
Fergus shrugs, "I was born with it, Monsieur." Slowly, he begins to untie the knotted handkerchief, "Or, to say it correct, I was born without it." The cloth falls away, revealing an empty, smooth stump of a wrist, "The nuns all said it was a curse, that I should be born with no right hand." He gestures with his eyes at the square outside, "That was not good, but the priest here said it made me a devil child. I do not know what he meant, Monsieur, but I promise I did not mean to be."
"I believe ye, lad. T'was very wrong of them tae say such things over somthin' ye cannae control."
Fergus shrugs again, "It was not good, but it was better than what the street-men called me in Paris."
Jamie finishes helping him into shirt and coat, and reties the handkerchief around the empty wrist. "Oh? What was that then?"
Fergus hesitates, then gestures for Jamie to lean down. As he whispers in his ear, I see Jamie's eyes darken, his face going harder than I've ever yet seen it.
He throws me another long look, then stands and nods, "I promise ye, lad, they'll nevar call ye that again." He extends his left hand, and Fergus shakes it, very seriously, as though formally sealing a contract.
"But," Jamie raises a finger, "There is something else that mus' never happen again, as weel." He puts out his other hand, expectantly.
Fergus's head droops again, this time without the undercurrent of defiance. Slowly, he puts his hand in his pocket, withdraws something, and places it in Jamie's hand. I peer over, and see it is a small, crudely carved snake, all coiled up.
Jamie nods, and puts the thing in his pocket, "Aye, tha's one. . ."
He puts out an expectant hand again.
Fergus's eyes widen. Very, very slowly, he goes back to his pocket, and withdraws something else. Something much heavier this time. He places it most reluctantly in Jamie's hand, then sits back, dejected or disgusted, it is difficult to tell.
"Aye," Jamie nods, "An' tha's two."
He looks at the thing for a minute, then places it on the table next to me. It is a large, antique silver watch - well worn, well polished, and very expensive looking.
"Father Bain was right about one thing, wasn't he?" Jamie asks, turning back to Fergus.
All the blood has drained from the boy's face, and he answers with a very small, very scared voice,
"Oui."
Jamie nods, sternly, "An' is this all ye stole from him? Tell me the truth of it, lad."
Hesitantly, Fergus nods, his face and voice still pale.
"Yes. That is all. But. . . now he will kill me just the same. . ."
Jamie blinks, then roars an indignant laugh, "We didnae confront the wurst priest in the Highlands for ye, patch ye up an' make ye answer all our questions, only ta send ye back inta his clutches, lad!" He musses Fergus's silken brown curls, "Only promise me ye wilnae steal aught again – and I mean aught. No' a cake tae fill yer belly, nor a scrap tae wipe yer a-ah. . ." he pauses awkwardly for a second, but recovers, "Yer nose. Aye?"
After a long second of thought, Fergus nods, then holds out his hand to seal the compact.
"For as long as I may rely on you and upon Mademoiselle-"
"Madame," Jamie corrects him.
Fergus sends me an apologetic look, "Oui. For as long as I may rely upon you and Madame Claire, I will not steal. Not even a slice of bread to feed the birds. I promise Monsieur."
Jamie takes Fergus's hand, and smiles, "Weel, now that's settled, we must have ye up tae Leoch, an' right away too, isnae that right, Claire?"
"Of course," I dip my head solemnly in their direction, "With your permission, good sir, we will insist upon your presence at once. We can always send someone up here to fetch your things later."
Fergus, suddenly shy, smiles and blushes adorably.
Jesus H Roosevelt Christ, can this boy do anything that won't turn him into a mini Prince Charming? He even made admitting to being a pickpocket and thief the sweetest, cutest thing possible. . .
"Ye'el like it at Leoch, lad, nae doubt about it." Jamie grins companionably, "There's sae many kids livin' there, it qualifies as its own school district. They have official teachers, an' classrooms, an' a library, an' special extra courses – art, theater, sports, an' music, an' everything." He waves a hand towards the front of the milk bar, "In fact, tha's why I'm heer taeday – my Beginner riding class jus' finished their exams tae go on tae Intermediate 1, an' I promised that when they all passed, I'd take them out fer ice cream."
As Jamie talks, Fergus slowly perks back up, glitter and life coming back into eyes briefly dulled by fear.
"Would ye like some too, lad?" Jamie asks, holding out his hand.
Brightly, Fergus nods, and takes Jamie's hand with confidence. He is moving rather slowly, what with a heavily bruised back, and some cracked ribs, but I have never met a boy of Fergus's age that wasn't constantly hungry, so that has to be part of it, I think. . .
With a somewhat creaky groan of my own, I remove the ice packs, stand, and follow them into the main room of the milk bar.
Sitting indoors here is quite a bit different than sitting outdoors. Outdoors there are long wooden tables and benches, small metal tables and chairs, and white-painted trellises, and big potted plants, all arranged under very pretty awnings and umbrellas - while indoors it is all black and white tile, shiny pink and purple leather seats, fluorescent lighting, and an odd smell of sweet butter, undercut sharply by cleaning fluid and disinfectant.
It is a strangely appealing odour. . .
Jamie seats us, then calls a waitress over, and orders a three-scoop banana split for Fergus, prompting the boy to give his preferences for the ice creams.
"Strawberry, raspberry and walnut," Fergus says, with admirable dignity.
Than Jamie turns to me. I order something I've just noticed tucked away in the corner of the menu – as it is drawn on huge slate chalk boards hung up behind the bar counter.
"Hot cocoa?"
The waitress smiles, and makes a note.
"An' I'll have a plate of sliced fruit wi' yer caramel dippin' sauce, thankee Ellie."
She smiles even wider at that, "Oh, anything fer ye, Jammie Dodger!" she winks.
Jamie rolls his eyes, but she only laughs, "Och, dinnae be such a spoilsport, Wee Jamie! Ye ken I'm happily marrit!"
Jamie relents, giving her a somewhat rueful smile, "Oh, aye, I ken. But that doesnae stop some folks. . ."
Ellie only giggles at that, and goes off to fill our orders.
My attention wanders to the front of the shop. I can see the whole outdoor dining area through the huge frontage windows. Jamie's graduating class is out there, apparently playing a game of hide-and-go-seek, or something similar. Laoghaire's leash is tied to one of the metal tables, and most of the children give her a pat as they pass by her in the course of their play.
Fergus notices my interest, and begins watching them as well. His focus doesn't waver, even after our food and drinks arrive. For ten minutes straight, he takes bites of banana split without seeming to notice in the least what he is eating, his eyes are so fully and so hungrily devouring the scene of raucous but innocent play before him.
I remember the nuns, not more than an hour ago, hushing up all the orphans' very natural enthusiasm for being in a new place.
While his shirt was off, Fergus had looked adequately, if perhaps not over-generously, well-fed. But this wide staring speaks to a hunger no food of any sort or amount will be able to satisfy. . .
Jamie notices this too, and when the banana split has disappeared, he gets up, goes to the door, and calls Hamish in to us.
He then proceeds to introduce the two boys as if they were full-grown men.
"Fergus, this is Hamish MacKenzie – a wee cousin of mine. He's heir tae The MacKenzie himself – an important person in these parts."
Fergus nods, solemnly.
"Hamish, this is young Fergus. He'll be staying with us from now on. He's quite a history, an' no right hand. Now what d'ye say tae that?"
Hamish gives Fergus a long appraising look, "No right hand at all?" he asks, not unkindly.
Fergus shakes his head, and holds up his handkerchief-covered wrist, "Non. I was born without one, you see."
Hamish looks curious, but doesn't ask anything further, considering everything for quite a few seconds. Then he says, "My father cannae use 'is legs."
"Neither one?"
"No. Neither one. He mus' wear a robot to walk – like Wallace does in The Wrong Trousers."
"Cool!"
Fergus is very impressed.
Hamish nods in vigorous agreement, "Yes, an' if I ask him for ye, he might be able tae get ye a hand like that."
Fergus's eyes go wide, "Do. . . you think so?" he gasps, "Truly?"
Hamish nods, "Oh yes. An' if he can't, I c'n allus do it when I'm the MacKenzie."
Fergus turns dreamy, stunned eyes towards the children still frolicking outside.
"Aye, come play with us," says Hamish, happily, "We'll play Hands Off – an' ye'll ha' the advantage – wi' only one hand. Won't the others be jealous!" He takes Fergus by an elbow, and starts to lead him outdoors.
Jamie taps Hamish on the shoulder, "When ye'ev introduced him, come back in here tae us, Hamish."
He nods in agreement, and both boys disappear outside.
Jamie says nothing for a few minutes after the boys are gone, focusing instead on the small piles of apple and pear slices in front of him.
Finally, he looks over at me, a glint in his eyes -
"I can see perfectly well ye have questions, Sassenach. Go ahead an' ask 'em now."
"Well, only one really," I concede, "Why did you make the boy change his name? Claudel Ferguson sounded perfectly reasonable to me."
Jamie laughs very softly, and gives a rueful half smile.
"Claudel Ferguson is a French footballer the Rangers traded for last season. He's maybe the biggest name in all of football for the past five years or so - an' he won his last team the World Cup two seasons ago. I might as well go tae France and tell folks my name is Robert The Bruce. Iss'no' entirely impossible, of course, but is it likely? So I gave the lad a chance tae change it." He gives a dismissive wave, "Besides, around here a name like that is almost as bad as bein' called Jonathan Randall."
I flinch violently at hearing my married name in such a context. Fortunately, Jamie seems to think it a perfectly natural response.
"Is it really?"
"Oh, aye. I dinnae wonder the lad heard the name and picked it up, but we have a longstanding rivalry wi' the Rangers up here. Even jus' being called Claudel would'ha done him nae good at all."
"But then. . . why did he say it was his name?"
"He probably thought it would do him just as well as any other," Jamie shrugs, "Ye heard how willing he was tae change it once I prompted him. I doubt he has an official name – or that he knows it if he does. He'll pick up any name that lets him fit in. Or even just feel like he fits in."
I shudder. How lonely the poor boy's life must have been until now. How. . . unmoored.
"I do have another question, I think. . ."
He gestures for me to go ahead.
"What did he whisper to you? About what he was called in Paris?"
Jamie's face darkens at the memory. He looks quite reluctant to tell me, but eventually he says, slowly, "He said they used tae call him "hoor-boy". Moor because he was raised by hoors in a brothel, I take it, and no' because. . . well, y'know. . ."
I cringe with pity and disgust.
"Yeah. But still. . ."
"Aye. Still. . . He's terribly roughed up an' bruised of course, an' no' just his body, poor lad. He's been no end buffeted by life, if I ken the signs a'tall." Jamie shrugs lightly, "But a good six months at Leoch will work wonders, ye'el see. Warm food, a steady schedule, an' a safe bed'll be the best therapy for the boy, I've nae doubt in the world." He takes a big bite of his caramel and apples, "Jus' give Mrs. Fitz one fortnight wi' the lad, and ye'll see a powerful lot of change in him, I'll be bound. By the look an' manner of him, I daresay he's been neglected a great deal moor than he's been abused. No' that that's any better, a'course – s'just a bit easier tae fix, ye ken."
I nod, and take a sip of my cocoa. My mind wanders back to Coira, Annie, Ev, Kenzie and Mai. They're such dear girls, I know they'll take Fergus into their hearts at once. I wonder where they are right now. This morning feels like it was at least a decade ago. . .
"What did ye want then, Uncle Jamie?" asks Hamish, reappearing at our table.
"Ah," says Jamie, reaching into his inner pocket and extracting a wallet, "Furst, go ovar there an' buy four of those little round ball-bearing puzzle games, an' five of those chunky wooden yo-yos," he hands Hamish a small handful of largish coins, "Hop now!"
Hamish, accordingly, hops.
A large section of the far wall is covered with a display of brightly coloured toys and games, right next to a few "one coin per play" video-game stands that I think I actually vaguely recognize. . .
Hamish is only a minute or two, and the bag of cheap toys is upended in the middle of our table. Jamie selects one of the round wooden things he called "yo-yos" and swiftly removes the wires holding it to the stiff cardboard backing. Then he reaches into his pocket again, and pulls out the big silver watch. Using the same wires, he attaches it to the backing instead of the yo-yo. Then he gives it to Hamish to hold, and sweeps the rest of the toys back into the bag.
"Now then, lad," says Jamie, conspiratorially, "Tell wee Jim and Heather and Fran tae stay heer and play wi' Fergus, an' take these toys and hand them out tae the rest of the gang." He hands Hamish the bag, then taps the card holding the watch, "But ye take that one, an' be sure tae hold it in yer pocket so's naeun' c'n see it, aye?"
Hamish nods.
"An' then, lead the gang ovar tae the church, go in, and each put yer toy in the donation box. If yer asked, ye'er donating somethin' tae the new orphans, aye?"
Hamish nods again.
"But ye'el need tae mek sure ye'er two oor three places back in line, an' ye're tae slip the watch inta the box gentle an' quiet-like. Understand?"
"Yes, Uncle Jamie."
"Dinnae call attention tae yerselves, dinnae linger, and bring yerselves back all in one piece, ken?"
"Aye, I ken."
"Right. Be off wi' ye, then."
With that, Hamish puts the watch deep in his pocket, takes a firm hold of the paper bag, and goes out to the other children.
The whole crowd of them have made it across the square, disappearing one by one into the church, before I have finished looking admiringly at Jamie.
"Ach," he says at last, a warm blush rising on his cheeks, "S'only a simple wee plan, Sassenach."
"I know," I say, and finish the last sip of my cocoa. I slide my hand across the table, and he takes it, firmly. "But it was well thought of."
He runs his thumb gently across my knuckles, "Thankee, lass."
We don't say anything more for a while, simply enjoying sitting there, holding hands, in the sweet, sharp smell of the milk bar, surrounded by pink and purple, black and white, old and new. A gentle, peaceful harmony descends around us, and I think, just for a moment, that this is how I would like to spend the rest of my life.
In Scotland. . .
With this man. . .
Almost soundlessly, Hamish appears next to our table once again.
"All done, Uncle Jamie!" he grins.
Jamie grins in return, and hands him a small felt bag that clinks gently, "Grand job, lad. Heer, play some Pac-Man if ye like. . ."
He pockets the coins eagerly, "Did ye ken Uncle Dougal's in town? He saw the lot of us as we were comin' back from the church, an' he's heading over here now," Hamish lowers his voice almost to a whisper, "An'. . . he looks mad. . ."
Chapter 46: Fetch Ye
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
With an innocent, cheerful wave at us, Hamish rejoins his friends outside.
What the boy totally misses – and what I know I cannot in any way hide from Jamie – is the utter consternation he leaves behind.
Considerately, Jamie lets me speak first, stammering though I am.
"W-would you mind going over to Geillis's shop and getting the things I left over there? That sack I made to carry things on my back, y-you know? And the five or six bags of stuff I got with the girls this morning. . ."
"That many?" He looks mildly surprised, "D'ye really like shopping sae much then, Sassenach? I didnae take ye for the type. . ."
I huff a tiny chuckle, "I don't care for it all that much, no. It's just the first opportunity I've had to go shopping since I got here, so I had to get a bunch of essentials - and also, going out with the girls meant I had to get a lot of girly stuff, whether I wanted it or not."
"Oh, aye," Jamie smirks, "That's jus' tradition."
"Eee-xactly." My answering smirk is a perfect match to his.
He grins briefly, then goes quite serious, "Are ye certain ye want ta deal wi' Dougal alone, then? After all, it may be me he's comin' tae see. . ."
I roll my eyes, "Have you done anything to make him mad lately?"
"No' as such, but-"
"Yes, I want to confront him alone," I say, keeping my voice low but urgent, "Especially considering the next stage of our little plan. Or the current stage, I should say. We can move the next step forward a bit whenever we judge the time is right, but it's only been a few days – hardly long enough, I should think."
He considers briefly, then nods, "Aye, if ye feel comfortable dealing wi' him, I'll let the twa ov ye be. . ."
"Comfortable is the last thing I am. But I do think it's the best way, given the circumstances."
"Right." He stands up quickly then, calling to the large, jolly-looking man behind ice cream counter, "Carter?"
"Aye, Jamie lad?"
"Would ye mind askin' yer Wee Tomas ta drive my kids home in time fer their supper?" He flings a small set of keys over the counter.
Carter catches them deftly. "Aye. Dinna fash."
Jamie smiles his thanks, nods one last time at me, and in three strides is outside, untying Laoghaire's leash from her iron table, while digging a fuzzy green rubber ball out of his pocket. He throws it for her, and she leaps ecstatically after it. He disappears across the square with her, his stride easy, his posture light and casual.
I take a deep breath, and try to copy his example. Calm. Casual. Non-confrontational. After all, there's no need to deliberately antagonize Dougal at this point, and several reasons not to.
Come on, calm down now, Beauchamp. You can do it. . . Maybe it isn't even you he's angry at. . .
Dougal's scowling face and fiercely bristling silver beard appearing just that moment behind the glass door of the milk bar rather destroys that theory, however. . .
Thankfully, he doesn't start yelling right away, though he does fling the door open a good deal more violently than necessary.
I clamp down on the frail placid veneer I've managed to wind about myself, and stand up from the table, as gracefully and serenely as very sore shoulders and my third sugar rush of the day will allow.
I call my thanks to Carter and Ellie, only vaguely hearing their cheery replies, my eyes fixed on where Dougal is standing, waiting, blocking the door.
I raise my eyebrows as I approach, and lift my chin, only slightly defiantly.
"Well?" I ask, mildly enough.
He doesn't answer, but he does move aside long enough for me to exit the building.
I smile over at Jamie's group of kids, as they run about playing Hands Off, or whatever it is. Fergus is sitting in the midst of them, his eyes tight shut, counting slowly backwards from fifteen. All the others, including Hamish, scatter around him, but don't go far.
A light wind picks up, blowing a thick patch of snow-scented clouds just far enough down the sky to let the last rays of the afternoon sun in over the ridge of the western mountains. The light reflects warmly off the nearby walls of brick and stone, and gilds the sound of the children's laughter with all the airy solemnity of fairyland.
Fergus finishes his counting, and then the mere dozen or so children become innumerable, as they dart back and forth, and round and round the tables, chairs, plants and trellises, as quick and as mischievous as a band of devilish pixies.
I feel Dougal's presence loom up behind me, dark and insistent, and the adult world calls, regardless of the display of wild, bittersweet charm all around us.
I risk a glance at him, but his scowl only deepens.
I choose the table furthest from the children's brilliant chaos.
Dougal practically stomps after me, and once I sit, he leans on the iron table in such a way that he can loom at me with impunity.
"An' jus' what d'ye think ye'er doin' heer, Claire Beauchamp?" he growls.
I can't help but laugh. Not only does he have no idea what he's asking for, he'd have no idea what to do with it if I told him. And in the midst of his ignorance, he's so. . . ferocious – brown eyes blazing, silver hair bristling - and at the moment it all seems nothing other than totally silly. I've seen behaviour like this often enough before. . . in front of the breeding pens on chicken farms.
Right now he's acting exactly like one of Skycity 15's genetically modified breeder chickens - a puffed-up, ridiculous, waddling little rooster of a man – his bare pinons all spiky, his face flushed, his eyes red. But for all his bluster and sour attitude, he's still just a featherless noisemaker – annoying, and mildly hilarious, but on the whole, surprisingly dull.
There isn't much that's interesting about mindless bluster. . .
I shake my head. He's better than this. . .
"Oh, come on now, Dougal. Do you really want to know all the details of my girls' day out, or are you just miffed you weren't invited?"
His eyes flare.
Oops.
He hates the fact that I can read him, and he really hates it when show off how well I can do it.
So much for not antagonizing him today. . .
"Girls day out?" he snaps.
"Well, yes – I mean, I assume that's what you call it when six Leoch staff members of the feminine persuasion decide to go in to town together."
Grumpily, he crosses his arms, "Call it whate'er ye like. But when my brother sends me tae bring ye to him, I, for one, expect tae be able tae lay hands on ye in at least the first two places I look – or perhaps three, at a stretch – yer office, the fields, or your rooms – an' nae more than those!"
I raise my eyebrows pointedly at him, but he ignores my growing incredulity.
"So, from now on, I expect ye tae restrict yerself tae the bounds of Leoch, and tae give at least two days advance notice every time y-"
"No."
He blinks, words backing up inside a mouth suddenly only able to say one thing -
"What?"
"No," I say, simply, "I will not."
"What?"
"I will do no such ridiculous thing."
"Wh-"
"You're neither my father nor my gaolor, Dougal MacKenzie!" I grip the edge of the table to keep myself from pounding my fists upon it, "I'm an officially unpaid volunteer, donating my time and efforts to Leoch Farms – and as such, I don't take orders from you or Colum – you both ask me, politely, to do things, and in return I may agree to do as you request. But, then again, I may not. That is our arrangement, Dougal – like it or not – that is how it is. I haven't taken some archaic vow of obedience – not to you, or Colum, or anyone - and you have no right to control me, my life, or my choices, in any capacity whatever. Understand?"
Despite the words all too clearly still welling up inside him, he says nothing.
"Now then," I continue, more calmly, "Sit down. Slowly. Like we are having a mature and totally normal adult conversation."
In the middle of their play, two of the kids zip round our table, squealing and giggling – making my point for me.
Some of the heat goes out of his eyes. He does not want to disturb the children – the only thing, at this moment, upon which we totally agree.
The last of the sun slips behind the mountains, and all at once the entire village of Cranesmuir is cold, dark, windswept and smelling of impending snow.
He sits down.
"If you can present me with a logical and compelling reason why I should stay strictly within the boundaries of Leoch, I will, of course, consider doing so. But to order me to do so, especially in this high-handed, pompous fashion, for no other stated reason than making sure I'm constantly conveniently on hand to, to. . . service you, is archaic, idiotic, and absurd. Not to mention insulting, disgusting, and, I'm pretty sure, damn near illegal!"
Dougal starts at the last word, his mouth dropping open a little. Instead of holding back words, now he can't seem to find any.
"Leoch is my workplace, Dougal" I press forward my advantage, "Volunteer or not, living there or not, it's where I work – and you can't force me to stay there, or restrict my mobility in any way, without my consent. Doing so is technically called slavery. And that is very, very illeg-"
"Awright, awright," Dougal breaks out in a fierce, hissing whisper, "Ye'ev made yer point, lass, leave off already!" But a strange, gleaming twinkle flashes for a moment deep within his eyes, springing, I am certain, neither from hate or annoyance. He suppresses it far too quickly for me to be sure of anything else – if there is even anything to be sure of at all – and then moves on, "Fine then - will ye please come back wi' me tae Leoch? Now?"
I relent a little. That's about as good as I ever expect to get out of him, here and now especially. . .
"Why, what does Colum want?"
He sighs in frustration, "His walker robot is glitchin' a bit," he gestures broadly, "An' since auld Beaton usetae run maintenance on it from time tae time, naturally he thinks of ye before he thinks of calling in a specialist technician."
"Mm. Naturally." I shrug, "I can certainly give it a look. Unless it's a fairly obvious problem I doubt I can do any good, but I can try, at least."
He gives a reluctant nod of acknowledgment, "Thank ye. Now where's wee Jamie? The walker cuttin' out twitched Colum's back – he needs Jamie tae chiropractor him oor summat. . ."
"I'm heer, uncle," says Jamie, coming up behind Dougal just then, carrying all the things I left at Geillis's, "An' I think both the lady an' I are ready tae go, aren't we?" He looks grimly at the sky, and then hands me my canvas bag, and two or three of the paper bags from the shops.
I almost shoulder the sack before I remember my bruises, and sigh in frustration, "Yes, I think we are."
Jamie takes my arm and leads the way across the square, Laoghaire trotting calmly at his side. His warmth next to me is beyond welcoming, and he is so easy in his manner, so cheerful and normal that my heart practically aches with envy - with want. . . I haven't felt so relaxed, so at home, for so long, it feels like a hundred years - though intellectually I know that it hasn't even been a month yet. . .
For some reason, for a second I feel a bit like Hamlet, bemoaning his mother's quick remarriage.
A little month!
But no! No, no, of course - it actually has been a hundred years, hasn't it? Two hundred years, in fact. That they are backwards in time instead of forwards doesn't lessen their impact. Rather the opposite, really. . . Having tea with Geillis must have seriously messed with my brain if I've actually started to forget about when I am. . .
My mind stutters to a halt.
When. . .
Wait. . .
Forget. . .
There is something I have forgotten, isn't there?
What. . . ?
"Oh, Jamie!" I draw myself up short, "I didn't tell the girls! I don't even know where they-"
He grips my arm a little and shakes his head, "Dinnae fash. I forgot tae tell ye that I met wi' Coira as I was bringin' the kids ovar tae the milk bar. She explained where ye were an' why, an' I said if that was the case, I'd likely be wantin' tae bring ye home, and she said aye, t'was a good idea, an' that she an' the girls had decided on the pizza place after all, soo they'd get ye a takeaway slice of the veggie kind ye'd said ye liked, an' meet ye back at Leoch."
I smile in relief, "That's Coira and Annie, all right. . ."
"Aye, it is," he grins, "An' like Mai an' Ev too. I dinnae know Kenzie as well as I might – she's off in the sheepfolds most days, as far from my workshop as can be – but I've heard Lily speak highly of her." He gives my arm a companionable squeeze, "Tis good tae ken ye'er makin' friends, Sassenach."
Halfway across the square, Dougal lengthens his stride to overtake us. I wonder that he was content to follow behind us for so long, but there is a sort of tension, a whiff of something in the air that maybe he held back to investigate. . . I can smell it myself, and it speaks of wild knowledge and strange revelations. Of eerie whisperings and unearthly lights, flashing. . .
Or perhaps merely of simple realizations made otherworldly and divine by the magic breath of twilight.
Or. . . maybe it's just an early winter's evening in the Highlands of Scotland, with all its myths and legends crowding over the landscape like wandering untame creatures, trying to hurry in out of the cold. . .
I watch the well-worn but well-kept leather of Dougal's boots as he leads us round the square, close to the central green, and up to the Rover.
"Yes," I finally answer Jamie, as he quietly hands me and Laoghaire up into the back seat, "It is good to be making friends, especially girls like An-"
The world dissolves around me, as thoroughly and as suddenly as if I had walked through an invisible wall – and straight into hell itself.
Half the sky is now glowing a pulsating blood red, and the other half is pitch black, with a narrow border of caustic, unclean white spitting and sparking between them. Their combined dull glow dyes the grassy, rolling landscape a uniform ugly brown, with the pale white light only showing up a few harsh highlights of sickly green.
All around there is the clamour and horror of battle, though my brief, frantic look about shows me to be quite alone here. The whirring of blasts and bullets, the distant roar of heavy machinery, the clash and clatter of all too vulnerable Human bodies inflicting bloody damage on one another – the sound, the smell, the feel of it crowds in upon me, even as scan through the heavy, empty air, searching for any signs of life or hope.
The cries grow louder, more individualized – I think I can even recognize one or two of the voices – Angus, Murtagh. . . Geillis?
There is a long, tearing, female scream – of war and of vengeance, not of fear - and with it, up leaps a bright column of white light in the black half of the sky. It is the same hard, insane white that borders the red half, yet as I watch, it softens, broadens, and splits - forming into a great moving arc that slowly spreads itself between me and the sky, like a bloodstain creeping from the wounded void.
At last, the two white arcs of energy join together with an angry sparking hiss, scattering shards of light in all directions. Then the ends draw themselves up, up, into the apex if the dome, and the white light there grows into a great, flashing, fiery globe of fearsome radiance.
As it builds, the violent clamour around me slowly subsides, in reaction? Awe? Fear? I cannot tell. There is one final cry from the invisible armies, in what I can almost swear is Dougal's voice -
"Sorcha!"
The sharp sound of it startles me, almost as much as the sudden plummeting decent of the glowing white orb. It falls from the now wholly blood-red dome of the sky, with such an otherworldly suddenness it is as though it means to crash deep into the earth, but somehow that same eerie energy stops it, just above my head-height, and it hovers there, angrily spitting fire.
And then, as I watch, it slowly morphs itself into a face.
It is a long face, shovel-jawed, male and hard. Long lines of white sparks form into untidy silver curls, deep-set, flashing eyes, a straight, prominent nose, a scowling mouth, and heavy brow. It would be a stereotypically Scottish face, except that it wears no beard.
I don't recognize who it is. If it even is anybody. . .
Except. . .
There is something. . .
The face floats there, impassively scowling at the hellish landscape around us, but then, the most shocking thing that can happen in this land of blood and horror, happens.
Its eyes move. In a moment, they meet with mine. A glance across space, time, reality, possibility. . .
They flash, with a great crackle of blue-white light, and then, then, I know what I recognized about them.
They are Jamie's eyes. Aged, hardened, and formed into another man's face, but they are the same brilliant, frighteningly intelligent, deeply rich blue. . .
I look away, unable to stand the terrible presence of such familiar intimacy in the middle of such unending horror.
Then, finally, the ground opens up beneath me, and I fall into blessed oblivion.
The lights go out with a nauseating twist.
The world is dark, featureless grey for a moment. Or for eternity.
Or both.
Then, from a distance, I hear -
"Can I start the engine now, lad?"
The voice is sneering, impatient.
"Can ye no' give her one more minute, Uncle? She gets these wee anxiety attacks sometimes – is Colum sae desperate that a few minutes delay won't mean aught?"
This other voice is gentle, authoritative. Unafraid.
"Anxiety attacks? What t'hell does she have anxiety attacks for?"
"There's nae one of us doesnae have a past, Uncle. . ."
The first voice harrumphs, grudgingly conceding the point.
"Aye, weel. . . tha's no lie. . ."
Slowly, I come fully awake, opening my eyes and giving a soft, painful groan.
I can feel a walloping headache coming on. . .
"Easy there, Sassenach," Jamie's voice soothes into my ears, "Tak it slow, now."
"Can't do anything else. . ." I murmur, pushing myself a bit more upright. I take in the back seat of the Rover, with the smells of oil, and leather interior, and dog, and the wool of Jamie's tartan coat.
It seems today simply will not end.
How many days like this can I stand?
Jamie slips his hand around mine, his warmth seeping into my skin.
As many days as this man is willing to put up with me, apparently. . .
"All right," I nod feebly, looking forward into the cabin, and making eye contact with Dougal in the rear-view mirror, "Let's go."
He holds my eyes for a minute, then glowers down at the controls, and starts up the Rover's engine.
We pull out of Cranesmuir, and onto the Leoch road, in almost total silence.
Jamie brings his other hand over to pet the backs of my fingers without having to let me go. The sweet, intimate nature of the touch tells me that whatever it was that I just saw – be it vision or dream or doom – he saw it with me. He was there with me, even though I couldn't see him.
I grip his hand tightly, but turn to look out of the window. I don't think I could handle his eyes right now. . .
Eyes. . .
A little shiver runs though me.
There was something – something – about those few seconds of eye contact with Dougal.
Almost as is if, despite all probabilities to the contrary, he had seen that vision too. . .
I don't know. And I'm too exhausted to think.
I lean my forehead on the cool window glass, and sleep all the way back to Leoch.
Notes:
Soundtrack for this chapter - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tCT0-YcKww0
Chapter 47: Angels And Demons
Chapter Text
It takes us a while to reach Colum once we get back to Leoch.
We go first to the Manager's barn, Jamie coming in with me, but I barely pay attention to this, for after one wild orientating glance around, I stumble quickly into the tiny toilet station, where I then spend much longer than I care to admit staring down at the garbage receptacle, dazedly deciding whether or not to be violently sick.
My head aches. My shoulders ache. My legs and feet ache. My stomach aches.
And my heart aches. . .
I do not make a sound as tears well up in my eyes, and spill across my cheeks in two thin, warm lines. A heavy drop forms on the tip of my chin, and ponderously falls onto the closed lid of the toilet seat.
Another drop gathers, and falls.
And another.
Pat, pat, pat. . .
The water slowly drips from my face, and splashes softly on the cold white plastic.
Oh, I miss the simple sorrows of war. . .
Death and danger, battle and loss – these are things I know - things that other people can understand.
Death is terrible, loss hurts like hell, the terror of battle cannot be overstated, and the constant, looming, all-encompassing danger of war is like the long, slow, inevitable thrum of a fusion reactor – everything will burn eventually - there is no escape. It doesn't lead to depression – it is depression.
But soul-deadening hopelessness is still. . . normal!
I sniff indignantly, and drag the backs of my hands across the wet of my eyes, childlike, smearing their salt sting all across my face.
If only these tears were for the normal sorrow of losing a job, or a house, or a baby, or a parent, or a spouse. If only I had smoking wreckage, or screaming fighter planes, or cold, lifeless bodies to point to when explaining myself. Practically anyone would understand grief over those types of things.
But how can I ask for help when I don't even really understand what I'm crying over in the first place?
A vision? An abused boy? A cruel priest? A inexplicable fellow traveler? All of these? Or none of them?
Perhaps I am crying for all the futures I know there will never be.
Perhaps it is for all the pasts I know I'll never change.
But. . . perhaps they are selfish tears. Mere overflow of frustration at being the only one fighting at a losing battle.
I clench two fists tight. Why, oh, why did the future choose me to be its advocate? Weren't my griefs already enough for me to bear? Wasn't the lost potential of one child and one man's obliterated life enough for me to regret? Why give me a whole world's worth of lost men, women and children that I cannot save? And why laden me with such confusion on top of it all?
There is so much I do not understand. Too much. . .
But I cannot even close my eyes, for all I see whenever I do is that endless, empty, hopeless plain of mottled, ugly brown, with its sky of pulsing, oppressive red.
My depression calls to me from the deeps, mocking me, daring me to chase it over the edge. I am dangerously near to following after it, for the second time today. . .
The quiet, fathomless dark. . . the purposeless wandering. . . the blank and fruitless days. . .
All devils I know. . .
Too, too well, I know them. . .
They cry out to me from beyond the abyss, with the seductive siren's song of ease, of comfort, of understanding. . .
I feel my edges begin to dissolve with the longing to let go – the soul-deep desire to slide into a world that at least makes sense. . .
Suddenly, I kick the garbage bucket back into its place, too angry to let myself be sick.
By whatever gods may or may not exist, how dare the universe treat me this way!
Here I am, a time traveler, and as such, possessed of nearly endless advantages. But all I can find to focus on are some weird visions and my own PTSD?
I scowl at my image in the mirror, thoroughly disgusted with myself.
I have many, many more things to do than mope about, fretting over things I don't understand, and that might not even happen!
Deliberately, I clamp down on the steady, self-assured portion of myself that likes to kick about randomly inside me. Usually it only rears itself up when I'm under attack by Dougal and his ilk, but I need to be this Claire right now. General Claire. Sure. Calm. With the big picture in mind. More a planner than a fighter, but with plenty of fight in reserve.
I smirk ruefully as I wash my hands and face. If I could simply be General Claire at will, I wouldn't have been battling depression for all these years.
I pat my face and hands with a clean white cotton towel. Still. It can't hurt to try.
When I emerge from the toilet station, Jamie takes one long worried step towards me, but then stops, wary of invading my personal space, if I happen to need it. He says nothing, but care, concern, and a good many questions are written on his face.
I smile sadly. Heavens above, I do not deserve this man.
With a slight incline of my head, I invite him to follow me into the lab. He does, but only into the main room – not to the attached computer lab, which is where I am headed.
I retrieve an electronics tool kit from the nearest worktable, and quickly scan the bookshelves here to see if they contain anything that might help me.
I get lucky – the second shelf I look at yields up the manufacturer's spec manual for Colum's custom walker, a user's guide/troubleshooting booklet for that particular brand of support robot, and Davie Beaton's hand-written maintenance log book for this device in particular. There is also a handheld diagnostic interface and a pre-linked access card to a live-update help line. All I need is a network capable info screen, and I'm about as set as I can be in this situation.
I take my finds back out to the main lab, and sit down next to Jamie at the long counter.
He looks steadily at me, the care and concern in his eyes no less than they were a few minutes ago, but still, he says nothing.
I sort a few things in the tool box, and quickly flip through the logbook.
Then, finally, the silence is too much.
"I can tell you have questions, Jamie," I briefly meet his eyes, "So why don't you go ahead and ask them now?"
He smiles wanly, "I only have one."
"Oh? And what is that?"
He takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly before going on. "Why is it that ye – a Sassenach who's never been tae Scotland before – why is it that ye'er having visions of auld Simon's fetch?"
I blink several times, completely at sea.
"Fetch? What's a fetch?"
"A living ghost," he says, brow wrinkled with confusion, "The wandering spirit of someone still alive. 'Tis a terrible bad omen. . ."
"Oh." I take this in for a minute. "And who is old Simon?"
"My Da's father. Lord Lovat. Chieftain of Clan Fraser. But everyone calls him The Auld Fox."
"Oh."
The Old Fox. . . Somehow, that rings a very vague and distant sort of bell. . . Desperately, I try to remember everything I've ever heard about Scottish history. . .
But there's nothing. I've either forgotten, or I never knew.
"Oh," I say again, "I. . . don't know, Jamie. I don't know about any of it."
He shakes his head, and gently takes one of my hands in both of his, "How, how is it, Sassenach, that ye see these things wi'out in the least kennin' what it is tha' ye'ev seen?"
I shrug a little, "I don't know that either."
"I dinnae think it can be the Sight."
"You don't?"
"Nae. No' annymoor. 'Tis too strong. Too. . . meaningful. Those wi' the Sight usually always ken what the visions are about – even if they dinnae ken just what they mean – if ye follow me?"
I nod, "I do."
"An' I've nevar heard of som'un wi' Sight visions being able tae project them. But it was. . . it was like ye were made ov glass. I could see right through ye. Inta ye. I could see what ye were seein'."
His hands shake a little as they hold mine, "Ye'er a sublimely terrifyin' woman, Sassenach." He lifts my knuckles to his lips, and kisses them, long and reverently.
For the first time since the vision, I look deeply into his eyes.
All of his usual expression is there – all his brilliance, all his personality – his care, his leadership. . . his stubbornness. . .
Yes, now I can see a resemblance to the face I saw in that horrible, bloody dream world. The glint in the eyes is similar, their color and brightness the same. The men are totally different, of course – their lives and histories and ideals – I can tell that, absolutely. But yes, I can see that they might be related.
I grip his hand – not so much in reassurance, but with a promise that we will talk more about this subject later, "We should go, Jamie. Colum needs us."
He nods, and leads the way up to the house.
Chapter 48: In A Name
Chapter Text
Castle Leoch's infirmary is tucked into the far end of the family wing. It's a substantial hike from the side entrance in the guest wing Jamie leads me through. I am still a bit broody on the way, my shoulders still dully sore from Father Bain's beating, and my emotions still sparking raw from whatever that vision was on the way back.
A fetch, Jamie had said. A living ghost.
I shake my head. Impossible.
Right?
With all that has happened to me lately, the word "impossible" is rapidly losing all meaning. . .
Is anything impossible? Really truly impossible?
I reset my grip on my toolbox, Jamie thankfully letting me be.
He leads us silently through Leoch's long corridors and staircases. We've been walking a good five or ten minutes before I remember that this is my first foray into the family wing since my formal meeting with Colum. I perk up a little at that, my curiosity suddenly involved. I've grown mostly familiar with the guest wing and the main bulk of the house, the kitchens, and nearly all of the farm's outbuildings, but beyond that brief meeting with Himself, I've not seen anything of this part of the house.
Architecturally, over here isn't much different, so far as I can tell at first glance – the wall coverings, tile and carpeting are somewhat nicer, and the halls and doorways are a little bit wider, but if these things mean this wing is older - and thus has been updated more recently - or if the family wing simply receives more financial attention than the guest wing does, is more than I can immediately discern. What is instantly obvious is that there are many, many more children living in this section of the house than in the guest wing. Toys, clothes, books, dishes, babies' bottles, pots of paint, lumps of chalk, rocks, leaves, sticks, and art and science projects litter the halls. Instead of the smell of polished wood, books, and antique carpet that I have become used to, over here smells of laundry and dishes in every stage of cleanliness, bits of the outdoors brought indoors, muddy shoes, damp overcoats, a multitude of what I assume must be small animal pets, a great range of cleaning products, fresh Horlicks, stale cocoa, and, very distinctly, the food that the kitchens served for tea yesterday - but has not yet been aired out of the rooms today. All of the "good" books and fine china in evidence are on noticeably higher shelves, there are far fewer vases of fresh flowers scattered around, and I cannot detect a single scented oil diffuser anywhere.
I smile, suddenly completely relaxed. The rest of Leoch is a house. A place for business most of the time, and sometimes for fun too. A residence. A working farm. Perfectly functional, and quite livable. Notably impressive, and welcoming, in its own way. There is an entire wing for guests, after all.
But this wing. . .
This wing, is a home. The atmosphere is cozy, despite its size, and nothing here exists solely to impress anyone. Except, perhaps, the many collections of chunky clay sculptures that line most available window sills.
My smile widens indulgently. Has there ever been a parent of an even mildly decent description who hasn't displayed their child's artistic endeavours with exactly this level of pride? I know my parents did, in utter despite of the fact that my sculptural talents could at best be described as crudely primitive.
Jamie opens a door at the end of a long passage, and gestures me into the infirmary at last.
I can see at a glance that this is a fully kitted out suite of rooms – a very nice fully supplied miniature hospital – and even though the scatter of domestic detritus does seem to have penetrated into the "waiting room" area, the consulting rooms look and smell exactly as white and sterile as Dr. Woolsey's office did at home.
Suddenly, Jamie stands up straighter. Something around his eyes relaxes, and his expression becomes one of total peace and confidence. It is as if a strange weight has fallen away from him, leaving him finally free.
He looks so thoroughly in his element that I catch my breath.
James Fraser is always an impressive sight. A completely happy, bright, contented Jamie is something I never realized I needed to see. . .
Something in me yearns to be the one to bring that set to his shoulders, and that look to his face.
He points at a small sink, and makes us both wash our hands before taking me any further.
I wipe my hands dry, pick up my toolbox again, and follow him around the corner.
Unsurprisingly, Colum is already waiting for us, in the first and largest of the small side rooms. What does surprise us – or me, at least - is that he is already laid out on the examination table, on his stomach, wearing nothing but a small towel draped across his middle.
I blink a little, unsure of what to do next. Whatever age of the world I happen to be in, naked men are hardly my forté. . .
He looks up at our approach, and gestures imperiously across the narrow hall.
"Ah. Heer ye are then. My walker is in there, Mrs. Beauchamp."
His mouth twists slightly with pain then, and he looks ruefully over at Jamie,
"Twitched ma back, lad. See to it, will ye?"
"Of course, Uncle."
With a small sigh, Colum settles back into the thickly cushioned table, gesturing with his head in a strange mixture of peremptory conceit, blank medical detachment, and sweetly childlike relief.
Jamie ignores him, fussing in the corner with wraps and compresses, ointments, massage oils, and the like.
I nod faintly, but neither one of the men are paying me any mind.
With some effort, I turn my attention to the pair of prosthetic leg braces waiting for me across the hall.
I give myself a brief shake, and force myself to focus.
The braces are frozen in a strange position – and it looks like a very uncomfortable one. I push the powerup button. With a small quiet whirr, the lower left leg starts to twitch with an unsettling clicking noise, and the rest of the device twists a centimeter or two to the right, before snapping back to its original position. A few seconds later, the motion repeats, then again, over and over.
I push the power button again, putting the device back in standby mode. The clicking and twitching stop - which should be a relief, but I wrinkle my nose – I have no idea if I'm going to be able to fix this.
I plug Davie Beaton's diagnostic interface into a small slot near the base of the left hip. It beeps and blinks at me a few times, so I assume it's doing its job – I leave it to it. Then I open the troubleshooting booklet, and try to determine which maintenance readout will let me match the source of the problem with the proper protocol for fixing it.
I sigh a few times – whoever assembled this user's manual very clearly did not have time traveling farm technicians in mind when they wrote it. I smirk. I can't blame them for that, of course, but a great many of the abbreviations used baffle me far more than do the OS or programming language.
It takes an hour filled with minor yet pivotal frustrations before the braces show signs of yielding to treatment, but, finally, they do. Not much turns out to be wrong – a minor software feedback loop cascaded into a function lock on the servomoters in the left knee. If I have read the owner's guide correctly, this is not an uncommon problem with a device of this complexity. Whether it is or not, thankfully it is remedied simply enough – I smile grimly as I open an access panel and flip three switches in a very specific order. That ought to reset the relevant sections, and the built-in software self-repair programs should deal with the rest of it.
I hope. . .
Either way, I've done as much as I reasonably can do.
I let my focus broaden for the first time in a while, and I catch the tail-end of a discussion between Jamie and his uncle.
"Oh aye, lad, why not? What's one more, after all? I only wish ye could'ha claimed the boy without antagonizing Father Bain."
Jamie harrumphs. "Somewhat difficult given the circumstances, I think yee'l agree?"
"Oh, I ken, but nevartheless, nevartheless. The Father isnae as bad as ye paint him-"
Jamie snorts, "Abuse is abuse, Uncle."
"Aye, but there's abuse an' then there's discipline. . ."
"Any beating that leaves somun' wi' cracked ribs has gone far beyond discipline-"
"But the boy did admit to thievery?"
Jamie sighs, "Aye, but he might'ha stole the very rafters of the church itself an' he wouldnae have deserved the thrashin' Father Bain was givin' him – nae'un deserves a brutal beating like that – no mattar what they've done. Ye ken they don't, Uncle."
Colum gives a long, uncertain sigh. "I dinnae suppose they do, lad. Ye ken, these things were so much simpler in days gone by."
Jamie's voice lowers incredulously, "Ye cannae mean ye miss the days when beggars had their tongues cut off and ears gouged out, or when a woman might be beaten for flirting, or when children were nailed to the stocks in the open square, an' that was called a light sentence an' a mercy?"
"Nae, nae – no' exactly," Colum shifts a bit under Jamie's ministering hands, "Et's only that the auld way was clear. God – an' the men of God – were always right, an' what the Chieftain said was law, an' ye did what ye were told or ye paid the consequences. An eye for an eye. . . it wasnae always just, or kind -"
"Or even civilized!"
"Oh aye, I grant it, lad, I grant it – but it was sure." Colum sighs again, "There's so much uncertainty these days. So many grey areas, so much that we auld men simply dinnae understand. . ." he pauses thoughtfully, then goes on, "Nae doubt et's just the eyes of nostalgia – you see, I admit it freely! - but sometimes the auld way appeals tae me. No' for the brutality, but for the sheer comfort of knowing. Knowing where ye were. Ye see?"
Jamie pauses before replying, "I. . . suppose I do. Dinnae ken if I agree – in fact I'm fair ceartain I don't, but I see what ye mean – in general." He turns away from Colum's table, wiping his hands vigorously with a cotton towel.
"So what does this boy of yours call himself?"
A soft smile crosses Jamie's face, "Fergus. Fergus Henri."
"Mm. French, you said?"
"Aye."
"Weel than. An' just how far d'ye intend to go with this?"
Jamie's head jerks in my direction, "Ask Claire. T'was she who rescued him first – I only swooped in last minute tae mek sure she was successful."
Colum raises his head and looks at me, his face impassive, but his eyes grim, "Weel lass? Ye have this boy – what d'ye intend ta do with him?"
I take a deep breath before replying. Since rescuing Fergus, I've been too caught up in other things to give any thought to the future, but I do so quickly now. In fact, I am mildly surprised at just how quickly I am certain exactly what I want to do.
"Well, if he consents to it, of course, I'd like to adopt him – officially, I mean. Papers signed, name changed, the whole thing."
Colum's eyes widen a little, "Oh aye? An' are ye aware that as a non-citizen, ye cannot legally carry such a suit though even the first stages of official-"
"No," Jamie interrupts, "But she can co-sign on as second petitioner in my adoption suit." His voice is tightly controlled, but the look he sends over to me is both thankful and exultant, "Even if it means we must wait until the English finally leave Scotland, neither Claire nor I intend tae offer the lad annything less than full an' official adoption." He throws down his towel with finality, "An' now, Uncle, I've done all I can wi' massage."
"Still hurts. . ." Colum grumbles morosely.
"I ken. Ye have a few key meridians off. Yee'l need a jab or two for me tae deal with 'em properly - but I must go an' get my acupuncture kit furst – I didnae expect we'd need it taeday, but ye do. . ."
And so saying, he stalks down the hall and out of the infirmary. Distantly, I hear a door close behind him.
The silence left behind between Colum and me is wretchedly uncomfortable.
Colum breaks it with a gruff, low voice that doesn't ease the atmosphere at all,
"He's no' for ye, lass."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
His brow hardens, "He's no' for ye, lass. Dinnae try an' tell me ye dinnae ken what I mean. The two of ye – ye're dating, aye?"
I nod, and reply haltingly, "Y-yes. . ."
"Then, he's no' for ye. Ye ken?"
I have no words for this, so I don't react.
"Oh, ye c'n let him down easy, of course, but just you let him down soon. An' quickly, please."
"I. . . I don't. . ."
"An' I will say, it's a new approach. Tryin' ta adopt a child wi' the man – none of t'other chits has tried anything of t'sort – they all tried tae get at him through his cock, a'course – an' one oor two of the wiser ones tried his stomach, naturally – but ye're the furst tae actually get any sort o' hold on 'im, so I mus' congratulate ye on yer novel tactics." His expression hardens even further, "But still, ye may consider yerself warned - he's no for ye, lass."
My jaw clenches as I process this.
"Isn't that," I say, tightly, "For him to decide?"
Surprisingly, Colum's eyes soften a little at this. He pushes himself up on his elbows, and gives a small, imperious gesture at me.
"C'mere lass," he says, so softly he almost sounds conspiratorial about it.
Hesitantly, I cross the hall, stopping just inside the doorway of Colum's room.
"Closer," he gestures again, "Look at m'legs." He grimaces a little then, clearly in pain, and rests his head back upon his crossed arms.
I slowly step deeper into the room, unable to resist such morbid curiosity as I possess from leading my eyes to Colum's lower half.
The sharp white line of the towel ends just below his buttocks, and stretching out beyond that are two twisted, wrinkled, wasted bits of contaminated driftwood, rolling back and forth, back and forth, upon a dead beach surrounding a Hot Island. The brown, prematurely aged skin wraps the brittle, malformed bones in a frail, dusty-looking covering, leaving the wasted sinews and muscles standing out with obscene clarity. The anklebones of both feet have collapsed, and the toes of each are either painfully curled up, or unnaturally splayed out. It is impossible to imagine such things as legs, much less as living limbs attached to an animate creature.
"Quite something, aren't they?" says Colum, his voice eerily noncommittal.
"Yes," I say, matching his bland tone, but it isn't what I feel at all.
"Aye. Now then. When a man has felt such a death in his bones since he was very young, he gets to know the shape of death – the smell of it, the sound, the colour – ken?"
He glances over at me, and I nod.
"He gets to thinking about his legacy too – what, and who, he'll leave behind, and in what state. . ."
He sighs a little, and clears his throat.
"I'm hardly a fool, Mrs. Beauchamp. I ken what my son is."
I blink, and draw my breath in sharply, but before I can say anything, Colum continues, "He's a child, that's what he is. And he's goin' tae be such for many years yet – more years, maybe, than I have left to my own ledger. Oh yes. I've known that for a very long time indeed."
He looks straight at me then, the whole enormous family drama written clearly in his eyes.
"In the normal order of things, yes, of course wee Jamie could choose his own woman." He gestures expansively with one hand, "An' if she were a widow, an' older than him, or even a Sassenach, it wouldnae be a thing of any mattar – save pr'aps tae his mam, or his brothers an' sister. An' any reasonable mam or sibling would come 'round – given that the woman was a good woman – kind, an' generous, and true."
My mouth twists, reacting to the bitter undernote in Colum's voice, "But?"
"But, in this case. . . weel, what would ye have me do, Mrs. Beauchamp? Leave the governing of a large and difficult Clan in the hands of a mere boy? No! He must have a guardian until he comes of age, at least, and a steady, clearheaded advisor who will stay by him a good deal longer than that!"
"I still don't understand what this has to do with me, Mr. MacKenzie. . ."
He heaves a great sigh, "Dougal is a warrior, an' a fine one – but a warrior he is, an' no' at all cut out tae be a man of peace. One day he may have a go at changin' his spots, but he won't do so for Hamish, that I know. We don't need a man of war leading this Clan, an' that's a fact. The only other man I trust enough tae leave this Clan to is wee Jamie – he kens what they need, an' how tae lead them, an' he'll show Hamish how tae do it – next best thing tae me being here, ken?"
"Yes. . ." I say, still baffled, and prompting him to continue.
"Well, even if ye put aside the many useful partnerships Jamie could make by takin' a wife from one of our brother Clans – Grant or McCullough would be most advantageous – d'ye really think a Clan like MacKenzie would consent tae bein' ruled by a Sassenach? Even no' permanently, as a wife of a steward Chief?"
Understanding suddenly slams into me, and I burst out laughing. Blindly, I reach for one of the folding chairs over by the counter. By the time I get myself in hand, I've dragged it around to the head of Colum's bed, and manage to flop bonelessly into it, still chuckling spasmodically.
"An' what, pray tell," says Colum, coldly, "Is sae very funny?"
"Sorry," I say, running a hand over my face to try and regain some composure, "It's only that I happen to know that after the Clan Restoration Act, more than seventy Clans which hadn't had a Chieftain for generations, tracked one down through genetic testing, and do you know what? Well over half of the men and women they found were born and bred outside of Scotland. Almost a whole tenth of modern Clan Chieftains are Sassenachs, Colum MacKenzie. Including, if I'm not mistaken, the current Chieftain of Clan McCullough!"
I wave away the red bloom of rage I see growing in Colum's eyes, "No, no – don't you see? "Sassenach" is a state of mind. Where you're born doesn't matter. Who you're born to doesn't matter. If you want to be Scottish, you can be. It isn't about heredity so much as inclination. A rose by any other name, you see?"
"Blood," Colum growls, "Tells."
"Yes." I nod sagely, "It certainly does. But there is a lot more to the equation than that."
He only looks at me suspiciously.
"And anyway, aren't you being a bit premature?"
"What?"
"Well, dating is dating, of course, but marriage is a long way off, if Jamie and I are looking at marriage at all."
He looks at me, aghast, "Ye mean ye. . ."
I roll my eyes, "I've been here, what, barely four weeks? Saying we're anything still feels like rushing. I like the man, of course I do, but marriage? We're still several steps short of being sexual partners, let alone married."
Shocked confusion covers Colum's face, "Then. . . then what is all this about adoptin' a child, an' being foster parents to him?"
"Oh that!" I slap my knee, "That isn't a grand plan any more than my dating Jamie is. He told you what happened?"
He nods.
"Then that's the whole of it. My single motive was to save a child from a vicious beating, Jamie came along and helped me do so. Anything more than that is just two ordinary adults dealing with the consequences of their choices. We could hardly leave the boy at the orphanage, could we? And petitioning for full adoption just seems like the decent thing to do, doesn't it?"
He nods again, blankly, "Aye. It does."
A devious impulse rises in me, some small part of my soul craving to pay Colum back for his assumptions.
"And besides," I say, casually, "If I use my maiden name, I don't think the petition will even be delayed past Transition."
"Oh, aye? What's yer maiden name, then?"
"Claire Moriston."
I watch closely as disbelief replaces Colum's confusion.
"And, you know, it's funny. I only looked up my old name because I vaguely remembered my father mentioning something about my Scottish ancestry one year during an international sporting event – can't even remember what it was, now. Or what he said." I shrug, "But the network site I found that gave me information about Clan Moriston, also gave me a bunch of information about Clan Fraser. And one Miss Davina Porter in particular. It said she was mother of the only known surviving male line of descent for that branch of the clan. And that she was English."
I grin a little, and look Colum directly in the eyes, "Which means that our "Wee Jamie" is just as much English as I am Scot."
He doesn't exactly smile at this, but I do see a distinct twinkle in his eyes as he appreciates the irony.
"And any Clan that couldn't accept being led by one or the other of us – or both – or even anyone like us – mixed, striped, mottled and spotted as we all are – doesn't deserve to survive in this modern world."
Colum harrumphs. A grudging agreement, if it is agreement at all, but I don't care. I've said my say, and shaken his impressions, if nothing else.
"Reminds me," he says, gruffly, "Some mail came for ye today. Great manila envelope. I gave it to Mrs. Fitz – ye can get it from her just as soon as ye're done wi' my wee device."
He glances across the hall to where the long-forgotten braces are sitting, waiting for me to finish what maintenance I can do for them.
It is clearly a dismissal, and I go back to my job, kneeling down to scan a readout just as Jamie returns. He is instantly back in conversation with his uncle, spouting specifics about acupuncture and energy meridians as easily and naturally as I speak about tractor engines.
I push a few buttons on the leg braces, and bask in the warm, easy flow of Jamie's voice.
Not for me, eh?
We'll have to see about that. . .
Chapter 49: Ghillie Dhu
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Tea in the dining room is well over by the time Jamie and I leave the infirmary. Fortunately, tea in the kitchens is just beginning. I commandeer a small side table in a mostly isolated corner, while Jamie goes over to the big pots and pans laid out on the counters.
"First time I've had tea here in the kitchen since I were a lad of sixteen," he says, joining me a minute later, "An' I came in from the woods muddier than a boar and twice as hungry – an' too impatient ta shower before I ate!" He puts down two bowls of baked beans, a plate of hot stuffed tomatoes, a small jug of cheese sauce, and a big plateful of potato wedges fried in butter, "Weel, the dining room was quite out of the question, an' the kitchen verry nearly was too – Mrs. Fitz made me eat standin' up!"
I look dreamily at him, as he sits down and enthusiastically addresses his food. I must be more tired than I am willing to admit, even to myself, because all I can think of is what he must have been like all those years ago. He'd have been skinnier then – shorter too, most likely – his voice not yet fully deepened, his skin still unruly, and moving with the disjointed, rangy, all-arms-and-legs effect of most teenage boys. I can see him, playing and adventuring all over Leoch, getting into all manner of mischief, and sailing through it all with the same sweet, boyish smile he has today, but before it was tempered with the serious, caring look in his eyes I so often see there. My exhaustion is such that I can even half-imagine I see that boy now, at the kitchen door, dirty from head to foot, being told not to mess up anything while he eats, and him gobbling up his supper while still standing.
The vision fades, and fortunately these possible images from his past make for quite a charming contrast with who he is now. I am inexpressibly glad that I don't have that boy to work with - but I am willing to concede that his experiences as a boy here at Leoch probably were a benefit to him.
Just as I am sure they will be for another young boy we both know. . .
He smiles softly at me over his baked beans, and I wonder, not for the first time - what kind of father is he going to make?
This time, I also wonder what kind of mother am I going to make.
I only have the briefest of seconds to start to be terrified before a voice calls from across the room - "Madame Claire? Mon amie? Monsieur Jamie? Sir?"
Beyond the crowded main table, I see a mop of glossy, wavy brown curls weaving back and forth, clearly searching.
I jump up to collect Fergus. He smiles when he sees me, and leans heavily on my arm as I guide him back to our table. He moves slowly, clearly still in pain from this afternoon, and though he is doing his best to hide it, I can see his motions are still restricted from his taped-up ribs. My own shoulders twinge in sympathy. On the positive side, he has the glowing look of just having had a bath, and the clean, MacKenzie tartan pajamas he's wearing suit him beautifully. I seat him at the third chair at our table, and give him a quick peck on the top of the head.
He smiles shyly up at me, his expression one of sweet, delighted openness.
"I like that, Madame."
My heart swoops. I've always wanted to be a mother, but this isn't like anything I've ever imagined. . .
"You do?"
"Yes. When you do it that way the kiss is not sticky – so that I do not wish to wipe it off, you see."
Being dropped into the middle of a child's life – and such a child - without warning or even a plan, and then being hit in the face with such beautiful, unthinking trust. . .
My hands start to shake a little. I peck him lightly on the head again, and then sit back down, slowly.
"All settled in, lad?" Jamie asks him.
"Oui," Fergus nods, side-eyeing the plate of fried potatoes, "Hamish said the room next to his had an empty bunk – he has claimed it for me, and told everyone I was his new friend, coming to stay with him." He grins proudly, "There are four other boys sleeping there, but I have the bed near the door!"
I smile as I dish him up a few potatoes, "Oh? Is that a good thing?"
"I think it is. It has the best view of the axolotl tank."
He states this as though it explains everything, and he reaches matter-of-factly for the potatoes I've put in front of him. But Jamie puts a gentle hand over his.
"Wait, lad. Have ye brushed your teeth?"
Fergus nods.
"Mmm. Weel, then I'll get these packed up and re-heat them for ye tomorrow. House rules is ye canna eat anything after ye'ev brushed your teeth."
"Oh," says Fergus, faintly, drawing back his hand, and looking suddenly shy.
I blink. That's ridiculous. I open my mouth to protest, but then pause. It's probably a good idea to make sure Jamie maintains authority in front of the boy. I'll talk to him about it later. Besides, a different technicality is bothering me much more at this precise moment - "So, tell me, Fergus, why is it so good to have a view of the. . . axle-hotels?"
Both Fergus and Jamie grin at my obviously uninformed mispronunciation. "They belong to David and Eli, Hamish says," Fergus scrambles to explain, "And they are better than the geckos the other boys have, because you can watch them swim, and feed them tiny fish, or worms, or tadpoles, and then watch those squirm as they are eaten. He says it is fun to lay in bed and watch, and be comfortable, and not have to get up to look. But not all beds have a good view."
Jamie smiles indulgently, "Is tonight a feeding night, then?"
Fergus shakes his head, "Non. Tonight is Story Night."
The way he says it, I can hear the capital letters.
Jamie hums nonchalantly, like he knows what it means. My lip twists. He probably does, curse him. . . the bloody Scot might give me some help and explain.
If we're going to be parents, we need to have some serious discussions about what that is going to mean. And soon, too. . .
"What's story night?" I ask, my voice bland, but sending a pointed look at the man across from me.
As Fergus answers, Jamie at least has the grace to look abashed.
"Parents come to our rooms and sit on the beds and read, or tell stories, or sing, or even play a game, Hamish says. Sometimes they only do so with their own boy, but sometimes they include the whole room," he pauses for a long second, "Eli and David's older brother and sister come to them, because their parents are in New Zealand still, and Hamish says his uncle comes to read to him sometimes." He blinks and looks wide-eyed at Jamie, "And that you do too, sometimes, Monsieur."
Jamie nods, and then Fergus takes a deep breath, "And some boys have step-fathers, or aunts, or older cousins. . ." he trails off, a look of uncertainty coming into his eyes.
"Sounds like a lovely family tradition," I say, filling the awkward silence. Jamie and I share a slightly baffled look.
"And I wondered. . ." Fergus says, almost whispering, "If you would, for me."
It falls quite a ways short of a request. He sounds as though he fully expects us both to refuse.
Jamie's brow knits up in a confusion that mirrors my own, "Of course, lad, why wouldn't we?"
For the first time, I see Fergus taken aback. "It. . . it was. . . I mean. . ." he stammers, surprised for once into awkwardness, "It was not. . . not une certitude, Monsieur. . ." A bit of a blush comes up on his face, "To. . . to share a home, yes, that I know, a kind man and his lady would do – but. . . but. . ."
Jamie's stern look softens, "Ahhh, but it is ceartain lad. Wi' us, it is." He gently swipes a hand across the boy's shoulder, in lieu of giving him the hearty shove I can tell he wants to give him, but is too mindful of his cracked ribs and still fragile emotional state to give in to the impulse, "But we're still gitting tae know each other, soo it's no surprise ye didnae ken that yet." Jamie looks conspiratorially over at me, "We'd bettar take turns at it, lass – d'ye mind if I have a go first?"
"Of course," I say, smiling with understanding and relief, "But I had better come along just the same – I want to see these famous. . . not-geckos!"
"Axe-el-oh-tells," Fergus says, giggling, all his cares suddenly resolved, for the moment at least, and his unfettered boyish charm back in the ascendant.
"Ax-hel-ooh-tels," I repeat, carefully, my Central accent shaping the sounds distinctly differently than Fergus's 21st century Parisian accent, no matter how hard I try. But he only grins at my attempt this time, and turns to chat to Jamie in his easy, high-pitched, rapid French.
I finish the last few bites of my tea, then I get up to find Mrs. Fitz, suddenly remembering I need to retrieve my mail. I take Fergus's fried potatoes with me, which she packages up without me even needing to ask. House rules indeed. I wonder if she was the one who instituted them. It wouldn't surprise me. She hands them back to me along with a large and bulky manila envelope stamped all over with disconcertingly official-looking symbols. It must be my IdenTcard information and other official paperwork, at last. I tuck it casually under my arm, strangely uninterested in it at the moment. So much has happened today, it is difficult for me to care much about these things I've been living quite well without for weeks now. Ah well. They'll keep.
When I return to our little table, I find my two young men engrossed in an earnest, low-voiced conversation. I can only pick up a word here and there, speaking French as they are, and with their voices so quiet. . .
They both switch back to English as soon as they see me.
"An' that's how things stand, lad," says Jamie, conversationally, "It's all up to you, but that's what we want – have a good long think on it before ye make any response about it, aye?"
"Oui," says Fergus quietly, nodding.
"An' ye'er sure ye don' mind the name Fergus?"
"Non Monsieur. . ."
The negative sounds very certain, but the boy still pauses and looks up, attention oscillating rapidly between the two of us, "B-but. . . might I still be called Claudel, from time to time?"
Jamie grins, half sheepish and half indulgent, "But of course, lad. 'Fergus Claudel Henri Fraser' – We'll make sure it's official. Aye?"
"Aye," says the boy, in a soft, satisfied whisper.
"And now," I say, dumping my packages on the table and perching my hands lightly on my hips, "It's bedtime for you, young man."
"Yes, Madame Claire."
And with that, we march right out of the kitchen, Fergus leading us unerringly to somewhere in the middle of the family wing, where a substantial stretch of the hallway is given over to boys' and girls' dormitories.
There are already an impressive number of parents and other caretakers drifting back and forth throughout the hallway, and the three of us blend right in. Fergus takes us to a large corner room, not far from the sweeping staircase at this end of the corridor.
All in all it is a typical boy's room, I think, as he shows us around. I am not entirely certain, not having been in many boy's rooms – but the sprawling scatter of toys and clothes, mixed freely with sticks and rocks and clumps of moss and handfuls of pebbles, not to mention the several large glass tanks against one wall containing mysteriously squirming amphibious and lizard-y things, lead me to believe that this room is, if not exactly ordinary for all boys in Scotland, is at least fairly run-of-the-mill for most boys here at Leoch.
"And there are the axolotls," Fergus winds up triumphantly, pointing to the nearest tank in the row, "Eli says I can help feed them tomorrow."
"Tha's brilliant," says Jamie, grinning, "An' heer comes Eli now, I see. . ."
Four boys, all about the same age as Fergus, and their attendant guardians file in, and everyone starts the business of getting tucked in to bed. There are murmured words, and hugs, and several pecked kisses accepted with the half-shy, half-defiant attitude of most young boys. Two of them, obviously brothers, settle into the bunk beds opposite Fergus, and one into the single bed set against the long side wall, beyond the large reinforced table that holds the axolotls and their friends.
The fourth boy climbs up the ladder at the foot of Fergus's bunk bed, and plunks himself down on the top bunk, cross-legged, right at the same level with my head.
"Ahm Danny," he says without preamble, "Whoo'r yoo?"
I smile at such open, boyish speaking, "I'm Claire. Fergus's. . ." I quickly look at Fergus for confirmation. He nods, infinitesimally, but encouragingly, "Fergus's mother."
"Ooh," says Danny, "Aye. T'new boy." He reaches behind himself and picks up an improbably fluffy dinosaur toy. Then, with a sharp, matter-of-fact throw, he fires it directly at Fergus's head, "Tha's fer ye, new boy. Soo's ye dinnae get the hoomsickness, aye?" He snickers a bit, and the obvious teasing in his voice draws titters from all the other boys in the room.
Fergus fends off the ostensibly friendly missile with his good hand, "I do thank you, Danny. But I will not be homesick. Leoch is my home now." Nevertheless, he sets the plush toy upright next to his pillow.
There are a few more titters at this, but they go quiet quickly. A slender, dark-eyed man who, considering all I've seen in the past five minutes, I think is fairly safe to assume is Danny's father, turns the knob near the door, lowering the overhead light by about half. In the new dimness, he goes over to the small but heavy table in the middle of the room, and switches on a night light set prominently there. It is made of a large, elaborately decorated paper cylinder perforated with tiny pinpricks, and larger, star-shaped cutouts. There are ribbons, and feathers, and glitter, and crystals, and it is all surrounded by a large cloud of cotton wool. When activated, a bar of tiny coloured lights turn on inside it, and the cylinder begins to rotate, slowly.
Instantly, the ordinary boys' room is turned into a glittering, magical galaxy, each bed an island, floating in the middle of deep space.
"Weel then, Wee Jamie," says Danny's father, with a quiet, mildly teasing voice that is still somehow very respectful, "Taenight is many years before I evar expected ye tae have a wean ov ye'er oon heerabouts."
Jamie smiles, "Oh, aye Matt – nae doubt." He sits down proudly beside Fergus on his bed, "But what would ye have me do instead?"
Matt chuckles softly, "Nae nae – ye and yourn are as welcome heer as ye are in any other part of Leoch, nae fear ov that. We'er only surprised, ye ken."
Jamie shakes his head, "We cannae all have eight bairns – oor start havin' 'em at nineteen, like ye did – oor have twins twice, come tae that."
"Oh, aye, fair enough," Matt waves a hand expansively, "But since it's yer lad's furst time heer, would ye like tae start us off this e'en?" He silently looks at each of the other parents in the room. I feel more than see them all give their consent.
Jamie shrugs, "Aye, if ye like."
The parents all sit on their children's beds, and all the boys lean forward, waiting eagerly for Jamie to begin. I sit down at Fergus's other side, just as eager myself.
After a long, very expectant pause, Jamie's voice begins, much lower and more self-consciously Scottish than normal, with very broad vowels and tremendously rolling r's.
"Oonce upon a time, a verra long time ago – bu' no' so verra far away from heer - doon in a dell, beyont a gurt glassy pond, atop a wee granite hill, under a spraeding rowan tree, thear met all the many an' mightiest folk of Faieryland, fer thear grand Spring dance unnder t'stars. Thear were Brownies, an' Khoulies, an' Greenies, an' Meanies - an' Howlers, an' Yowlers, and gurt nameless birds that goo "Kee-kee-dee-kee!"
All the boys give tiny, subdued giggles.
"An' thean thear were the Oogles, an' the Woggles, an' the Wamblies – an' the Billy-Bye-Boos - the Booters, an' the Sneakers, an' the Crowlie-wowlie-woos. An' all the sprites of mud splashes, an' of leaky bottles, an' of grass stains, an' of pebbles in yer shoo, an' of sandwich crusts, an' of burnt toast, an' of sour milk – an' of coorse the wee goblins tha' gi' en yer mouth an' make yer baby teeth waggle."
Jamie taps his teeth with his fingernails, and all the boys giggle again.
"An' thean, a'coorse, thear were the Pixies an' the Trixies, an' the Will-o-the-Wisps, the Shivers and the Quivers, an' the Jhonny-Jump-Ups. No' forgettin' the Dryads, an' the Naiads, an' the Mermaids, an' the Selkies, an' the Kelpies, an' the Whelkies, an' awl t'wee faieries tha' bring us icicles, an' turn the leaves broon, an' mek them sprout again i' th' spring, an' whoo mek flowers bud, an' berds sing, an' worms wriggle, an' crabapples taste soor and strawberries taste sweet, an' mek blackberries stain yer fingers purple. An' a'coorse the bees were there too – an' wee laday bugs, an' awl t'dragonflies, an' moths, an' snails, an' spiders from a hunnert moils aroond."
The lowered light mutes the bright colours of Jamie's hair and eyes, letting the slow slide of multi-coloured stars from the night-light highlight the expressions that cross his face as he talks, and giving him a perfect otherworldly aspect. We are all experiencing everything he says, no matter how nonsensical or weird. It fits in. He fits in. He's got us all under his spell – we can not only see whatever he tells us, we can practically smell it.
Fergus stirs beside me, snuggling lightly into my side. My heart leaps, suddenly threatening to stick in my throat. The soft scent of his freshly shampooed hair twangs heartstrings I didn't know I had. My throat thickens, and my visions starts to blur.
A son.
Jamie and I have a son.
He may be unlooked-for, but he is far, far more than welcome.
It's going to take me some time before I can actually believe it. . .
I put a cautious but delighted arm around him, careful of his ribs, and then we both re-focus on Jamie's story.
"The King was thear – a gurt, fat, froggy creetur, all ower greenish broon, wi' warts the size a' yer fist, an' t'tiniest useless wee wings upoon his big auld shoolders, an' huge rollin' eyes, an' a swellin' stomach oot tae heer." He curves his arms out wide, and puffs out his cheeks in illustration, and all the boys laugh at the gesture.
"An' beyont him was the Queen of Faieryland, waitin' aloon in her pavilion of cobwebs frosted wi' dew." A soft, dreamy look enters Jamie's eyes, "Oh, an' shee was a queenly creetur indeed – awl tall an' pale like a waxen candle, her hair streamin' oot awl puffy an' white like a clood ov mist up from a burn on fine Spring morn, an' awl kinked up an' wild like dried goose grass frozen silver in the midwintar snoows - her eyes were golden-pale like sunshine, her great, wide wings were pale an' crackly like birch bark, an' her voice was pale like frost. Her laugh tinkled and crinkled like the soond of cold river watar, flowing fast and sharp under the brittle furst ice ov wintar. Her nails were like the claws ov a golden eagle, her dress like the stem of a mushroom, awl white velvet an' graceful curves. Her feet were bare, an' wee white snowdrops grew wherever she tred."
A small hand goes up.
"Yes, Davie boy, what is it?"
"How could she bear ta kiss the King?"
Jamie smiles broadly, "Ooh, evary princess kens how ta kiss a frog, lad – et's what turns them inta Queens ta begin wi'!"
This is apparently satisfactory, and Jamie plunges on, "T'was such a meeting of faieries, an' t'wee hill was sae full, right doon tae the banks ov t'grand pool, tha' naeun evan noticed there was an unusual guest there – until he announced himself, a'coorse."
Jamie deepens his voice even further, and thumps his chest as he booms -
"Tae t'Pale Laday!" shouted one large, broad-shooldered faiery, sae covered in moss and green leaves tha' no' even t'Dryads could tell whoo he was at furst, "Tae t'Queen ov Faieryland!"
A quiet, fascinated titter runs around the room.
"Now a'coorse evaryun had tae take up the cheer at this – because as they cleared a path for 'im, awl at'unce they awl kent – evaryune ov them – jus' whoo this newcomer was."
The pause he takes is terrible.
"T'was. . . The Ghillie Dhu!"
The whole room catches its breath.
"Aye! The Ghillie Dhu! Himself! Ye may have heard ov him – ye might! He has manay names, a'coourse – T'Green Man, Auld Man Willow, Soul of T'Forest, T'Man of T'Mountains, Fathar Earth, an' soo on, but, best ov awl, there are soome that say the Ghillie Dhu started his life as a Human baby."
The boys all say "oooh," very softly.
Jamie nods solemnly, "Aye, a changeling, as the tales say. An' some say too tha' et's wheere we might'ha got the story of Peter Pan, an' his like – Mowgli an' Lost Boys an' such, ye ken – a wee bairn taken bye t'faieries, t'grow up in their ways, an' forget he evar was Human. But thear are soom whoo say the Ghillie Dhu nevar forgot, an' tha's why soometimes hee'l be kind tae a lost wean, wanderin' in his woods, an' shoow him t'way hoom again, but bye t'same toaken, t'other Good Folk dinnae exactly ken what oor whoo the Ghillie Dhu is – is he one ov them, oor one ov us? They ken he doesnae show at most meetin's ov thears, but whean he does?" Jamie whistles, "*wheew* Et's like the wind, the sky – the very stars themsealves comin' doon tae dance wi' theam by twilight!"
Jamie gestures out into the room, as though his hands can catch the stars from the night-light, "An' as they awl stood gawpin' at 'im, the Ghillie Dhu shouted, "Beware! Beware! For the Time is changin'!"
There is a subdued rustling among all the parents and children present.
"Weel, the hosts of faieryland were awl baffled. They look't 'round, and saw nothin' but what they'd allus seen – trees an' grass, an' lakes, an' rivars, an' t'sky, cold stone an' the good warrum ground, wi' t'light jus' fading and the best time fer dancin' just tae begin.
"Change? We see no change," they murmurred quietly, "Are ye daft?"
Jamie leans back, and lowers his voice to a growl, "Nae!" boomed the Ghillie Dhu, "But I have seen t'future – an' no verry long future it be, for some of ye! Too long, too long we have hid - in wells an' caves, in high branches an' deep roots, under rocks an' stiles an' fenceposts, an' behint th' chimny pots! T'chealdren ov Men only ken us as t'wind, an' dinnae fear us as th' storm! Too often we have mischiefed Men, wi' thier deep eyes an' clevar fingers! They hav learnt the ways of ov wind an' watar, ov earth an' stone an' sky. Soon, soon they will hunt us awl – fer sport an' fer mear honour, no' fer need or fear, as thay hav' allus done befoor – hunt us tae th'death, an' beyont the bordars ov oor oon lands. Et's driven oot we will be – driven inta the Wide World, inta lands and ways we dinnae ken and cannae survive, until awl we are is a memory." He raised his arms, an' his gurt green cloak spraed oot wide, like wings of the enfolding forest, "Ye came heer taenight fer a dance – sae dance, dance Good Folk! Dance unnder th'moon an' beyont t'stars, an' forget this thin world of earth and air! Aye, dance on t'edge ov our verry destruction! Stay, doom'd sprites, an' proove me troo, be it upoon ye'r oon miserable heids!"
Jamie sweeps his arms in front of his face, "An' then he threw his cloak ovar his head, an' a sharp, skirlin' wee wind blew a flutter ov leaves across th'spot, an', ov a sudden, he was gone."
"Weel, thear was a gurt murmurin' from awl t'hosts of Faieryland, as ye may weel imagine! Evary sprite, goblin, brownie an' pixie lifted up thear voices in dismay – chatterin', screechin', an' bawlin' t'like ov which ye'ev nevar seen oor heard befoor."
"An' then – what d'ye think?"
For a minute, there is no sound in the room but the small purr of the nightlight motor.
"Then, in her pretty wee pavillion, the Queen stood up."
Jamie flashes a wide smile, "Ohch, aye – t'Queen herself stood up, an' came oot ov her little sanctuary, an' spread her wings wide befoor t' assembly. Weel, evaryune ov them settled doon in a wink – since et's a verry rare thing foor the Queen ov Faieryland Herself tae speak at a dance.
"My Good Folk an' my Kin", she said – an' her voice was far lower an' richer than ye might ixpect from sich a wee slender creeture, "A warning we have been given, an' a warning we have heard."
"She paused, an' took up the staff ov rowan that lay on two ov t'faiery stones atop t'wee hill, as it always does upoon these occasions. She lifted it high, an' then waved it slow – "But a warning we have not yet taken!" she said, an' drove t'staff sae deep inta the ground, it stood thear aloon, quiverin'."
"An' thean sumthin' happened that had nevar happened at a dance befoor – the Queen came doon the hill - the crowd slowly partin' befoor her - an' she passed through t'midst ov theam, dissapearin' inta t'trees, befoor a single dance had begun."
"It isnae knoon if that dance in Faieryland was ever danced – but 'tis knoon that t'wintar came earlay an' fierce that year – like t'verry sprites ov Wintar had come doon oot ov t'sky, an' up oot ov t'stones an' pools an t'deep sea, an' awl made a hoom heer oon earth. Thay say t'was like t'souls ov t'earth theamselves left thear places, an' came inta the real world, ta plague an' worry it."
"But we ken t'wasn't anny sich thing – we ken t'was only the puir Queen of the Faieries, oot in t' Wide World, saccrificin' herself fer awl ov her kind."
"Thay say she wandered for years an' years beyont count – until she near forgot who she was, oor whear she'd come from, oor that any like her still existed in Faieryland – in dark woods, oor deep caves, oor oon t'crags of mountains, oor in nooks at th' back of canyons, oor at t'bottom of wells. She drifted like t'wind, from oon place tae another, no' stayin' annywhear long."
"An' thean one day a laday awl in white came a-wanderin' through a fair Spring wood, wi' t'ice jus' meltin' an' wee snowdrops springin' up evarywhear, an' at a stone beside a wee gurglin' spring she sat, an' wept, foor she was lost, an' couldnae find her way hoom."
"Why do you cry, my Lady?" said a tall man, whose eyes an' coat were ov dark green, "Heer in t'bonnie woods, oon a warrum and fair Spring day?"
"I am lost – sae lost!" she cried, as her tears fell on t'stone, "Sae verry, verry lost."
"The man smiled softly at her, an' stooped ta kiss her cheek, "But how can ye be lost, whean t'woods themselves ken ye?" An' he pointed tae the trees beyont t'spring, whear a young rowan stood, slim an' straight, quiverin' in a breeze only it could feel. An' ferns an' leaves an' flowers unfurled, an' a spider's web caught t'last ov the mornin' dew jus' as t'sun peeked through t'rustlin' branches ovarhead, an' wee glitterin' darts ov light filled t'glade. The weepin' white lady lifted her head then, an' looked inta the man's green eyes, an' he held oot his hand, an' she took it."
"An' it isnae knoon how much either ov theam remembered oor kent from then on, oor whear thay went, oor what thay did, oor evan if thay are still alive – but it is knoon that it is because of them that thear are still magics in the world – still sith an' fae an' myth an' faun. Thanks tae one man's warnin' and one woman's bravery, Faieryland still survives."
Jamie lets these words hang in the star-glittered air for a long, long minute.
The room continues to be quiet for several long seconds after it is clear Jamie has finished. Then the rest of the parents move on, with David and Eli's older sister singing us a folk song, Matt reading short funny story about cows and sheep and chickens, and the other three adults playing a pretty pirate-theme sort of song on a recorder and a hurdy-gurdy.
I listen to it all, my arm still around Fergus, but my mind still far, far away, in an impossible land full of impossible beings, and Jamie's voice still ringing in my ears.
When everyone is done, there is one last round of kisses and hugs, and tuckings-in, and arrangements of pillows and blankets, and a few final whispered good-nights. Matt turns the overhead light off, but leaves the night-light on, as it still slowly spins its colorful stars, and he leads us all out of the room, leaving the door half-open behind us.
I follow Jamie then, not knowing or caring where he's taking me, my mind still drifting on the strange words of that fairy story. . .
I come back to myself quite suddenly, looking at a wide open doorway, and Jamie gesturing me through.
"Where are we?" I ask, faintly.
"My rooms," he grins, "If ye'ed do me the honor."
I nod somewhat absently as I step in, and take a look around.
The main room is a little larger than my front sitting room, but here the bed is central, and it shares the space with the couch, table and chairs. There are two doors off to other rooms on the side, and a tiny kitchen set up in one corner. A large fireplace stands across from the bed, with two big bookcases flanking it. The ceiling is much higher than in my rooms, and the carpeting much thicker and nicer.
"Lie there," says Jamie, gesturing at the near side of the bed, "On yer stomach, an' take off yer shirt – I need tae put some bruise ointment on yer shoulders."
Entirely too tired to protest, I obey.
He leaves me waiting no more than a minute or two, but I am still half asleep when he sits down next to me, and I jerk awake when he touches the clasp of my bra.
"Is this alright, Sassenach? The bruise goes down yer ribs a good way. . ."
"Oh, mmm. . . yes," I mumble, "Jus wassn't expecting. . ."
"Mmm," he hums, warmly, "Heer we are again, aye? Seems I'm always patchin' ye up." Gently, a cool, sweet-smelling substance finds its way across my twinging shoulders.
"How's it look then?" I ask, a little afraid of the answer.
"Not too bad," Jamie says, promptly, "All things considered, of course."
"Mph," I grunt, "Considering that the other victim has cracked ribs, you mean?"
I wince as he goes over a particularly sore spot.
"Yes," he says, grimly, "Tha's exactly what I mean. . ."
He trails off, and says nothing more for a quite a few minutes.
I'm almost asleep again when he speaks up, "Claire?"
"Mmm?"
"Would ye go out to dinner with me next week?"
"Mmph, I dunno," I say, with the best deadpan I can muster, "An ordinary dinner date with my boyfriend? Sounds a bit extreme." I turn my head to look up at him, and see his eyes crinkle up in a smile.
"I wantae take ye to Hunan Tasty Pot – even as it is now – and maybe afterwards it would be a good time tae introduce you to Iona MacTavish."
It takes several long seconds for his words to seep into my fuzzy brain.
"Iona MacTavish?" I murmur.
"Aye – ye remember? Ye asked if taeday would be a good time tae go see her, an' I said it wasnae a very good idea tae go an' see a lady wi' the Sight in the middle of what was supposed tae be a brisk girls day out. No' the right moving spirit tae be goin' an' doing that sort of thing – no' at all. Murtagh agreed wi' me. Remember?"
"I. . . remember," I say, slowly working past my shock, "But. . . um. . ."
"Yes?"
"That. . . that's not how I remember it."
He blinks and frowns.
Slowly, I explain to him, going over everything, from the night at the concert, to the conversation between Jamie, Murtagh and me in the garage office. The only thing I leave out is what I learned from Geillis this afternoon.
She's a time traveler. . .
Wait. . .
That ought to make everything clear to me, shouldn't it?
Shouldn't it?
I force my tired brain to go over everything Geillis and I talked about again. It strikes me suddenly just how little she actually told me.
But wasn't there something?
Something. . . right before the whole thing with Fergus. . .
A. . . gift?
I give up trying to remember for now, and wrap up my story to Jamie, "I don't know what's happening, I really don't, but. . ." A feeling gets past the fog in my head, and I catch my breath, "I'm scared Jamie."
Tears start up in my eyes. He runs the backs of his fingers across my cheek, soothingly, "I ken, lass."
He kisses my forehead softly, and then looks up and down, hesitating to tell me something. "D'ye. . . d'ye ken why it was I told that particular wee fairy tale tae Fergus and the boys taenight?"
I shake my head.
"It was because. . . weel, after that fetch came tae ye taeday, I. . . I'm no' exactly certain, mind, but I think. . . that is. . . it might be. . ."
He pauses, gets himself in hand, and looks me full in the eyes, "Mo ghràidh. . . I think ye might be an Auld One."
"An Old One?"
"Yes. Adrift in the world so long ye'ev forgot who ye are, or where ye come from. A soul at sea, alive tae every wild, Fairy thing, wi'out knowin' why."
That mad, hellish red vision comes back to me, and the magic of the twilit town, and the strange, disorienting conversation with Geillis, and even my sudden, soul-shaking connection with Fergus, and it's all quite, quite too much. I can't stop the tears that fall from my eyes, nor the quaver that enters my voice.
"I. . . I don't know what's going on Jamie. I don't know what's real."
He scoops up my hand, and holds it tight, fiercely kissing my knuckles.
"This, Sassenach. This is real."
I desperately try to believe him, and slide gratefully into sleep.
Notes:
Inspiration for this chapter - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VkK05OuFMw4
Chapter soundtrack -
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y1MwHn4JxX8
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gnCI_kFuG3g
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ELuo7SYPwQ
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=djqHYJbrFAU
Chapter 50: Changeling
Chapter Text
When you're a parent, everything changes.
I find this out first-hand the minute I open my eyes in the morning, for a pair of wide-awake, warm brown eyes are staring into mine, from barely ten centimeters away.
"I'm hungry, Madame Claire," says Fergus.
"Mmkph. . ." I grunt, trying to work some moisture back into a mouth very dry from a night's snoring, "Morin t' you to."
There is a grunt and a rustling movement on the bed beside me, and then Jamie's voice, also rough with sleep, says, "Mmgo down tae the kitchens, lad. Mmrs. Fitz will see tae ye. 'N when yer done, ask her tae send us up two trays – full spread - she'll ken what that means - an' a pot of tea. Ye c'n help out whoever brings it up too, if ye like, 'n sit wi' us while we eat - an' mebbe even have ye'er wee potatoes from last night, aye?" Jamie yawns hugely, "Now be off wi' ye."
Fergus grins, and scampers out of the room as quickly as his ribs will let him.
I yawn then, and stretch a little, and it is only then that I fully realize I am still lying on my stomach on Jamie's bed, wearing nothing but my trousers. I'm fully covered with a quilt, and there are at least fifty centimeters and who knows how many blankets between us, but I still start to blush. What must Jamie think? What am I thinking? What will everyone else think?
What does Fergus think?
Jesus H Roosevelt Christ, what if Fergus tells everyone?
I blink furiously and get a grip on myself. This is 2078, not 1878, and I'm just in bed with my boyfriend. I'm hardly dry-humping a total stranger in the middle of Central Market. No big deal, Beauchamp, calm down.
I twist around and pull myself upright, folding the quilt securely around me. I grunt at the many twinges from my sleep-stiffened shoulders.
"Sorry about the unplanned wake-up call, Jamie," I say, "I'll take him down to the school rooms today – sign him up, get him settled into a steady routine."
"No problem Sassenach – I'm no' annoyed," Jamie says, rolling out of bed and stretching until several of his joints pop, "And ye cannae do that stuff today anyway – it's Saturday."
"Oh. Right." I slouch a little, "I forgot."
He goes over to a chest of drawers and starts pulling out clothes, "Dinnae fash, mo nighean. I'll give ye both a tour of the stables this morning – that's just about the only place ye haven't been over yet, isn't it?"
I nod, "Mm. There and the sheepfolds. But Lily is good about communicating what she needs, and Geordie and Willie keep me up to date with Murtagh – so I haven't needed to visit either place so far – well, at least not nearly as much as I've been needed out in the fields, or in the Manager's barn."
"Aye. But I haven't met a lad yet who didnae love a stable full of horses. It'll keep him occupied – until lunchtime, at least – and it'll give you a chance to meet some of the animals – an' some of the men ye haven't met yet too."
He tosses me a long-sleeved t-shirt, an enormous woolen pullover, and a still-in-the-package pair of boxer-style underwear. Everything looks too big for me, but not so badly that it'll fall off. . . I hope. . .
"I'm goin' tae go get dressed in the bathroom, are ye set tae sort yerself out in heer?"
I nod, "I think so. Thanks."
He grins, comes around the bed, and gives me a quick peck on the cheek, "I'd use this opportunity to prove that I'm a True Scotsman, Sassenach, but, y'see, I'm no' in your bed this mornin', you are in mine." His grin turns mischievous, and he leans down and scrapes his morning stubble across the sensitive underside of my chin. I gasp, chicken flesh rising all over my body, and I roughly but playfully shove him away from me.
"None of that now," I say, my skin still shivering in a most exciting manner, "There will be plenty of time for that sort of thing later."
He pouts, but only briefly, "Ye'ev no idea how good it was tae wake up in the middle the night an' hear ye snoring, mo nighean."
I lift my chin, with flagrant Central Township hauteur, "I, do not snore!"
He knows I'm only playing, and so he smirks at me, amused and unimpressed, "Aye – ye doo – but dinnae fash – et's adorable."
Then he winks, and retreats to the bathroom, whistling as he goes.
I harrumph a little bit, but only in fun, and roll out of bed to get dressed before Fergus returns with our food.
Our breakfast is substantial and cheerful, but not at all chatty, and we are on our way into the stables, Fergus running some way ahead of us, before Jamie says anything of importance to me again.
"I've been wanting tae show ye Donas ever since he arrived twa weeks ago." He points past the first few large wooden stalls to one that's even bigger, and appears to be crowded with animals. Central among them is positively the largest living creature I've ever imagined, let alone seen – an absolute cargo-ship of a horse, all over deep almond-brown, with an ocean of a black mane, a wide white stripe up his nose, and four white legs, like socks up to his knees. "Grand beast, isn't he?"
I nod, half-mesmerized by this wall of an animal, instinctively stepping back to keep myself well away from the wide-open doors of the huge stall. He swings his demolition-crane of a neck around, and stares at me from one malevolently shining, fist-sized eye. I take another step back, running up against the opposite stall's doors – which are closed, thankfully.
"Y-yes, grand. Oh yes," I stammer, "Certainly."
Jamie chuckles darkly, "Ye'ev good instincts, Sassenach. The wee lad is a bit skittish still, but he's getting tae trust me."
"Wee? Skittish?" I say incredulously, still staring at the most menacing set of nostrils I've ever encountered, "That's downplaying it a bit, isn't it? He looks like he'd have someone's arm off as soon as look at them."
"Nah," Jamie grins, "Clydesdale crosses like him just need tae be reassured a bit before they feel safe, is all," he clicks his tongue, "C'mere Clarence."
A slim, silvery brownish-grey creature, with long ears and a straight back, slowly plods out of the stall, and buries its nose affectionately in Jamie's outstretched palm. He digs his other hand into his pocket and pulls out an apple, offering it to the animal. "Y'see? Clarence here kens what's up – tho mules usually do, I have tae say." He scratches Clarence vigorously between the ears, and nudges him away, "Be off wi' ye, now, an' let me give Penny his treat."
Clarence slowly retreats, and from around the far side of Donas there comes the widest, fattest little pony I think is physically possible. He practically bobs as he trots, and I can't help but chuckle at him, he's so incredibly impish. He even swishes his tail in a sort of coquettish greeting. He's a plain pale brown all over, but a large white spot on his forehead gives his face a charming, playful aspect totally lacking in Donas's steely expression.
Jamie gives Penny an apple as well, then crouches down, and holds out two small carrots, "Jib, Nod?" he calls, and two thin, reedy cries are followed by a pair of brindled brown and white goats. They crunch the carrots and nibble the still-attached greens, and then also go back into the stall.
I think all the treat-giving is over now, but then Jamie pulls out the small plastic bag I recognize as the one he put the remnants in of the smoked fish we had for breakfast. He upends it on a cobblestone, and calls out quietly, "Alec?. . . Alec? I ken ye'er here lad."
It takes a minute, but at last Alec's battered grey and black head pops up from the manger, and he gives a sharp, rusty miaow. Seconds later, he's devouring the fish skin and harshly purring as Jamie scratches the root of his tail.
Jamie smiles up at me, "See, mo nighean? All wee Donas needs is the company of his own folk, all of whom ken I wilnae hurt any of them. Another few more days and he'll be as gentle as a lamb."
He stands up then, and another apple appears on his palm. Slowly, he stretches his hand out and moves very cautiously towards Donas. The horse blows explosively out his nose a few times, and rears his head back a time or two, testing the security of the rope on his head, but eventually, his eyes stop rolling, his breathing settles down, and with surprising delicacy, he politely plucks the apple from Jamie's hand. He even seems to nod his head in thanks. Two crunches and a swallow later, he gives a low, rumbling purr of a sound, and lets Jamie pet him between the eyes. "There ye are, laddie. There ye are," Jamie murmurs back, "Ye'er jus' a gurt big softie really, ain't ye? 'Coorse ye are." He musses the fall of black curls over the horse's forehead, gives him one last pat, then retreats, still crooning endearments at the creature, "Tha's right, go an relax, lad, there ye go then. . ."
Jamie comes over and leans on the stall door next to me, "Lovely animal, Donas is. Impressive too. Dougal is no end looking forward tae trotting him out when we go back on campaign after Hogmanay."
"I just bet he is," I agree wholeheartedly. A horse like Donas could impress a battleship. "Are you looking forward to taking care of him during the trip?"
Jamie shrugs, "I'm no' exactly looking forward tae being away from Leoch for two months, that's certain." He gives me a pointed look.
Oh. I haven't actually thought about that yet. Two whole months at Leoch without Jamie. . .
Then again, two whole months at Leoch without Dougal either.
It'll be a painful trade-off, but a fair one, all things considered.
"Well," I smile up at him, slightly forlorn, "There's always instant messaging. I'm pretty sure Dougal still doesn't know I have a com – we can always text each other about our days – and maybe even view-chat."
"Weel. . ." Jaime tilts his head apprehensively, "I've been meaning tae tell ye about th-"
A pair of giggling, squealing boys come barreling down the passage towards Donas's stall. Jamie urgently leaps out in front of them, catching one up in each arm just before they get in range of the horse's huge swinging head, with its now rolling, wild eyes and growling, snapping teeth.
"Hamish James Edward MacKenzie, haud yer wheesht at once, d'ye hear me?" Jamie carries a suddenly quiet Hamish and Fergus over to a nearby bench and plunks them down on it, "Fergus here I can forgive – seein' as he's never been in this barn afore, and doesnae ken the rules entirely – but ye? Ye ken better than tae make a to-do like that near the new horses – an' even the auld ones dinnae like it – ye ken that!"
Both boys hang their heads.
"Sorry Uncle Jamie," murmurs Hamish.
He ruffles both boys' hair, "Weel now, no harm done, but ye both must learn to be more careful, aye?"
Both boys nod solemnly, and at a gesture from Jamie, tiptoe as fast as they can back out into the yard.
Jamie makes to follow with them, but looks around for me before he does, and raises an arm in my direction.
I go to him, nestling into his side. I sigh happily as his big, warm sleeve drapes across my slightly exposed and chilly neck.
"So, what were you saying about us texting while you're on campaign with Dougal?"
Jamie shakes his head a little, "We have special coms when we're out on campaign, Sassenach. Wi' government trackers and loggers and all manner of watchdog systems an' such. There are limits on all sorts of things – including personal calls and non-campaign related data usage. I dinnae ken how well I'll be able to keep in touch."
"Oh." My stomach sinks.
"So before I go, why don't we both write out a few dozen wee notes to each other? Jus' a word or two on slips of paper – then we'll exchange them, an' each take one slip out every day. That way we can each have a bit of a note from the other whenever we want the whole time I'm gone."
I don't answer just yet, but suddenly everything is warm and rosy. I put my arm around him, and hold him tight to my side. We emerge out into the yard, and go to lean on the high fence, watching Hamish and Fergus play with riding crops, and, of all people, Dougal, tending to a small pony in an open outdoor stall.
"That's the pony Colum promised Hamish for when he graduated Basic Riding," says Jamie, nodding over at them, then looking down at me, "Sae what d'ye think of my wee plan, Sassenach?"
I smile, "I think it's lovely, Jamie." I sigh, and lay my head on his chest, "And if it's the only way to for sure stay in touch, we ought to do it."
"Aye," he nods, watching the boys.
I watch Dougal. He finishes tending to the pony, then leads it into the stables. He is only gone a minute, and when he returns, he also has a riding crop, and he goes over to the boys, joining in on their mock sword-play. I don't know if he sees us, because as soon as he is en-garde with Hamish, every sign of a dignified war-chieftain falls away from him, and he is a little boy himself, playing sword-sticks with his friends. Shouts of laughter reach us, and the slap of leather against legs and rear ends. Dougal seems to get the better of it for the most part, but eventually Hamish manages to land a reverberating smack against Dougal's bare skin, up under the skirt of the belted plaid he's wearing.
Jamie and I exchange a glance.
"Weel, what d'ye knoo. . ." he breathes.
"Do you think we could use that?" I ask.
Jamie shrugs, "Maybe. Be a shame tae waste it, regardless."
"True."
"We'll need some setup if it's tae do any good, of course. . . There's a scheduling meeting for the campaign team taenight – I'll try and think of some excuse for you to be there."
"Oh, do you need me there? You know the plan, and what to say."
"Yes, but it's your battle, Sassenach – and only the second one in your wee war. Ye need tae be seen fighting it."
"True enough," I sigh, and shiver, "I'm cold, let's go in."
"Aye." He straightens up, "I'll go to the kitchens an' get us all some lunch. Where d'ye want me to bring yours?" We start walking towards the main house, around by the kitchen gardens next to the guest wing.
"The Manager's Barn office. I'm going to go change into some of my own clothes first, and pick up that manila folder of information I got last night – I mean, I assume you had that sent to my rooms sometime yesterday?"
"Aye, I did – that and all your bags of goodies from your wee shopping spree." He grins sideways at me, "An' best of all – your lunch today will be that pizza Annie an' the girls got ye yesterday."
"Oh that!" I grin back at him, "I'd forgotten all about that."
"Aye, I ken ye did," He leans down and kisses my temple, "See ye in a few minutes, Sassenach."
I drop by my rooms, change, and pick up what I need, then make my way over to the Manager's Barn.
Geordie meets me just outside the lab entrance.
"Dougal's in there waiting for ye, Claire," he says, shifting from foot to foot, nervously.
"What? He was just over by the stables, not a quarter of an hour ago."
"Maybe so, but he's here now."
I shake my head and sigh, then roll up the big lab door and go in to meet him. He's sitting near a chem-test I have going on the lab bench, a large plastic bin on the counter beside him. I toss my manila folder on the other end of the bench, as far from him as it is possible to be, and sit down with a thump on a lab stool.
"What do you want, Dougal?" I say, tiredly.
He doesn't look at me, but he does gesture at the box beside him.
"My team and I will be goin' back on campaign after Hogmanay, did'ye ken?"
"Yes, I did." I nod, slowly.
He opens the bin and turns it on its side. A great pile of coms slide around on the plastic, but none actually fall out – though a few get close.
"These," says Dougal in a low voice, and still not looking at me, "Are the government issued coms we are required tae use while on all campaign related activity."
I nod again, but don't reply.
"The security on them is shite, and they're all bugged like ye wouldnae believe."
I smirk. That's rich coming from Dougal. . .
"However, Davie Beaton found a way tae improve the signal encryption, and at the same time, circumvent the government blocks. He took the guts from newer coms and fit them inta the older cases, added a few chips here and there, and programmed them special – all I ken is that he called them "the changeling protocols"." He dips his hand into the pile of coms, and comes back out with a bag full of small computer chips, "Rupert tells me these have the latest security upgrade available, and should be an easy drop-in replacement for the auld ones. Can ye manage the actual upgrades, lassie?"
I blink furiously for a bit before I answer, "Well. . . I have seen a file folder on the farm database called the Changeling Protocols, but the data was encrypted, and I never seemed to need that information, so I left it alone. I'd need the decrypt code-"
He holds out a small scrap of paper with a string of letters and numbers on it. I take it, and smooth it out.
"Well, depending on just how esoteric this special programming is, and how fiddly the card installations are, I'd say I might be able to get this done for you in. . ." I take a quick count of how many coms there are and do a bit of mental calculation, "Eight days? Maybe ten, if things are more complicated than I anticipate."
He grunts, and shrugs a little, "Acceptable. Oh, and heer." He digs in his pocket, and pulls out yet another com, handing it to me with a strange little sideways glance that still doesn't meet my eyes, "That one's for ye."
I take it gingerly, "Oh. Okay?"
"Aye. An' ye'll be needed at the meeting taenight – nine o'clock in the conference room off the main hall – dinnae be late."
I wrinkle up my forehead in confusion. This encounter is just too, too strange.
"The. . . meeting?"
"Aye. Ta plan out the next two months of my campaign. Ye ken?"
"Y-yes. I do. But. . ." I sigh, thoroughly fed up, "Why are you telling me all this, Dougal?"
He runs a hand through his beard, and then finally, he brings himself to look at me. I see a strange mixture of very, very distant hope, and a deep, vicious, all too present revenge in his eyes.
"Why lass?" he gives me a leering half-smile, "Well, because ye're goin' with us."
Chapter 51: Embareassed
Chapter Text
I can't speak for a few very long seconds.
"Going. . . with you?" I say finally, "Wh. . . what possible use could I be on a two month political campaign with you? Especially when I'm needed here!" I thump the lab counter in exasperation.
"It's the dead of winter, lass," says Dougal, flatly, "There's more meat on a clay pigeon than work in the fields for the next two months."
I roll my eyes, "And there's more grass on the ocean than use I'd be traipsing around Scotland asking people to vote for you!" His eyes flash, but I press on, "Besides, there's Fergus to think of now, and-"
"Ach, yer wee French baguette will be just fine here with the rest of the weans," he waves a hand dismissively, "I'll even ask Letitia to take special notice of him, aye?"
My jaw drops and I stare at him, right in his eyes, until I can tell he finally feels uncomfortable. "Are. . . are you. . . listening, to yourself, right now, Dougal?"
He starts to reply, but I interrupt, "Because I know – I know – you did not just dehumanize an abused orphan child so you could take petty revenge on a homeless immigrant woman." I jab a finger at him, "You did not just do that, did you?"
"I. . ." he blinks and stutters helplessly.
"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ – how often are you going to just hand me ammunition?" I cross my arms, "What does Colum think of all this?"
He shrugs, "He's all for it."
"Oh really?"
"Aye. His prosthetic is working again, y'see. And he kens ye fix folk's cars and trucks when they come by and need some help – and he knows the job ye did for the Rover yer first day here."
"Alright. So?"
"So, when I said the campaign team needs a mechanic, yours was the only name that came up."
I throw my arms in the air, "But why, Dougal? Why me? I'm a farm tech. I'm an expert at crop regulators, and full crystolic fusion tractors, and that's it. Not full combustion engines, not hybrid engines, not domestic vehicles, and certainly not domestic utilities," I say, pointing at the coms. I tick off points on my fingers, "I can read a maintenance manual, I can do basic programming, I can usually figure out the basics of how engine-type things are supposed to go together, and I can keep and maintain farm equipment – and none of that makes me a qualified general mechanic, and it certainly doesn't make me someone you or anyone should want tinkering about with highly specialized automotive mechanisms while on the road." I shake my head, "Why do you want me to do this – hell, why does Colum want me to do this?"
He shrugs again, "Well, ye're here, your wages are cheap, ye're a conscientious worker, an' ye dinnae mind that some of the men are a bit rough."
"And you requested me."
His jaw juts out a little, and his eyes harden even further.
"Yes."
I sigh, put my elbows on the countertop, and my head in my hands, "Do you remember my first morning after taking this job, Dougal? When we sat in that office over there," I point vaguely, "And I gave you a chance to end this nonsense before we made each other's lives hell? Do you remember that?"
He grunts, very softly, but he doesn't answer otherwise.
"Nevermind, I know you do," I look over at him, "Well, here is another chance. Drop this now – right now – and I won't do everything in my power to make your life an utter, suppurating, oozing, stinking, hell."
He still doesn't speak, but he does give a very, very tiny smirk, and a gleam comes into his eyes.
"You don't think I can? Fine." I step boldly over to him and gather up the coms in their bin. Then I muster all of my Central Township arrogance and gesture with my free hand, "You may go."
It's such a cold, sneering dismissal I surprise even myself, but it shocks Dougal out of his metallic silence.
"Dinnae ye even wantae ken why I asked for ye?"
"Not particularly. But go ahead."
"It's because ye hate me. That way I ken I c'n trust ye."
He turns on his heel, growls "Don' be late," and stalks out.
I sigh, grab my manila envelope, and take it and the bin of coms into the office.
Geordie is sitting behind the desk, but he stands the minute I enter, "I heard raised voices – is everything alright?"
"Yee-es", I say, doubtfully drawing out the vowel, "Or, it will be, I think." I sit at the desk chair he's politely holding out for me, and nod him thanks, "So, how do you feel about being Acting Farm Manager for two months after Hogmanay?
He blinks a little, then grins uncertainly, "Good?"
"Good. That's all I can say for now – I'll let you know more when I know it myself."
He shrugs, "Awright. I'll be in the garage office if ye need me – there isnae much doin' taeday, anyroad." He saunters out, flipping and catching a little ten-cent coin, as he habitually does.
I settle a bit more easily into my desk chair, and finally turn my attention to the manila envelope. I pull out several handfuls of filler forms and waste paper before I finally get to the two main prizes. First, an official Oxford, England IdenTcard – or ID card, as I've learned they call it here – complete with a small photo of me, scans of my fingerprints, and my full name. I turn it over and over in my hands, glorying in the professionally plastic surface, all the perfectly official-looking numbers, and the horrible quality photo. A real IdenTcard, at last. Secondly, I carefully unfold what must be the world's most illegal birth certificate. I haven't forged the doctor's signature – I've stolen it, from the birth certificate of a random Oxford child, about the right number of years ago, and from a doctor who is now dead. All the other names and numbers are forged, except for the footprint, which is perhaps the only real thing about this document. Well, mostly real. It is my own footprint, shrunk and modified to resemble an infant's. I smile at the small stamp in the corner that says "copy" in red ink. A copy of a document that not only doesn't exist, but that never existed.
Or, rather, will exist, in two hundred years.
I shake my head, and carefully put the birth certificate back in the envelope.
Then, I pull out the last handful of papers – a collection of stuff offered by the interim Scottish government almost as an afterthought, given their current social and legal situation, but nevertheless of paramount importance to me.
I spread out in front of me the initial paperwork required to apply for Scottish citizenship. Of course, they don't mean much legally, Scotland can't officially naturalize anyone until the country's full independence is ratified – which won't be for nearly four years yet – but I figure a completed and logged petition for permanent residency and official allegiance can't hurt my standing here and now, with the people and officials of Leoch.
I put the IdenTcard into my pocket, and the citizenship papers back in the envelope.
I still don't know if I'm going to fill them out. I don't know if I'll need them. I don't know if I want them. Hell, I still don't know if I'm staying. . .
Jamie walks in then, carrying two steaming plates. He hands me my lovely reheated pizza, piled high with cheese and vegetables, and puts down his own lunch of Mrs. Fitz's famous broccoli beef and gravy over neep and tattie mash.
I grin as I thank him, "Smells lovely. Where's Fergus?"
He shrugs and smiles as he digs in, "In the dining room with Hamish an' the rest of the weans."
I smile too, "Good for him."
"Aye. It's allus good tae see the young ones making friends. An' I'm particularly happy for Hamish. He's needed a good friend his own age, and the rest of the boys feel a sort of separation from him – seein' as how he's the son of the Chief. But Fergus hasn't got the same feelings, being French an' all. And it's good for Fergus too. Hamish is a fine lad – they'll be good for each other."
I nod, and take a deep bite of my pizza. The flavours and textures of fresh vegetables and real cheese slowly infuse my soul. Just as good as it was last time. Better, maybe.
We eat companionably for a few minutes before Jamie notices the bin of coms next to me.
"What's that then?" he asks, nodding his head towards them.
"Oh. Those," I sigh, my elation at finally having an IdenTcard evaporating in the presence of my annoyance with Dougal, "Those are a bit of a story. . ."
I tell him, but instead of sharing my frustration, he brightens up at the prospect.
"This means we wilnea havetae spend two months apart, Sassenach – isn't that grand?"
"Well, of course that part is wonderful, yes, but what about the farm? What about Fergus?"
Jamie also dismisses the latter, but much more thoughtfully than Dougal did.
"He'll be fine here with all the lads his own age. It'll be better for him too – they start the full Winter curriculum after Hogmanay – the wean's schooling has been mostly Winter sports and games for the past month or so – wi' a bit of Home Economics and Arts and Crafts thrown in tae give them a part in preparing for Yule."
"Oh yes, Yule," I say, thinking of one of my current projects in the lab. . .
"An' Dougal was right about the farm – January an' February are the slowest time of the year – even with that test crop ye put in to try out the regulator."
"Mmm," I hum, mouth full, "An' wha' 'bout. . ." I swallow, "And what about the fact that going with you means I'll be spending the majority of my days in close company with the one person of influence at Leoch who manifestly hates my guts? How about that part, huh?"
"Ach, Dougal doesnae hate your guts, Sassenach."
I almost choke in disbelief, "What? How do you figure that?"
"Oh, he may think he hates ye, but really it's that he doesnae ken ye – and the man cannae stand no' tae understand something or someone he thinks he ought tae."
I half-grin, "And is that why you like me so much?"
"Well, I certainly ken ye better than Dougal does, but I'm no so obsessed wi' understandin' as he is. I'm content for there tae be mysteries in the world that I dinnae ken the secrets to." He looks at me slyly, and winks, a beautifully mischievous smile hovering around the corners of his mouth.
"And it does give us the perfect setup for tonight's little stunt, of course. Funny that, don't you think?"
"Think what, Sassenach?"
"The minute we need an in to a very private meeting – well, I do, at least - up pops this mandate from Dougal. Don't you think that's just a bit odd?"
"It's a coincidence, certainly," Jamie shrugs, "And in life, as in breakfast cereal, coincidences do happen."
I snort, and can't keep myself from laughing uncontrollably, "In life, as in breakfast cereal? You, Jamie Fraser, are too much."
I dissolve into giggles, and he laughs along with me.
"Well, now," I say, when we've finally calmed down, "Shall we make our plans for this coincidence-full meeting tonight?"
"Aye," he nods, "An' since he was so insistent for ye no' tae be late, I think ye should be early, and I should be late. . ."
We finish our lunch in earnest conversation.
When we're done, Jamie goes back to the house, to set some things up to make sure our plan will go smoothly tonight. We can't count on any more convenient coincidences. I make my way back into the lab, and work on a few personal projects for the rest of the afternoon.
I don't bother to change when I come in for tea, since I still feel far more at home in the casual atmosphere of the kitchen than I do the formalized attitudes of the family dining room. I'm a little early tonight, so I go and sit with Annie and Ev, making out that I'm intensely curious about all the things they did after we were separated on our shopping day. Which, in a way, I suppose I am, but I'm much less curious than I pretend to be.
Tea itself is the kitchen's usual fare of hearty, starchy, meaty dishes, full of cheese and butter and fat. I work my way through a plateful of roasted root vegetables, and a small portion of cream of chicken stew. I've mostly gotten used to all the fish and beef and pork they serve here, but I was born and raised on Skycity 15, and I still prefer chicken, whenever I can get it.
I finish in good time to be among the first in the conference room off the main hall. I take a look at the clock on the com that Dougal gave me earlier. 8:48. Two minutes before Jamie and I planned. Perfect. I take a seat about three-quarters of the way down the long table, and am industriously exploring the full capabilities of the government-issued com when the rest of Dougal's campaign team arrive. The man himself is also a little bit early, and he spends the few minutes talking to Angus, Rupert, and what are clearly other group leaders.
At nine o'clock exactly, he thumps his fist on the table a few times.
"Now are we all heer? Well, it doesnae matter, because we're startin' anyway."
There are some scattered chuckles, but they die down quickly.
"We've been sent the updated approved route and schedule-" here he gestures to Rupert, who starts handing out small sheaves of paper, "But as usual the interstitial time is ours tae fill as we please. If ye'll all turn tae page three, ye'll see the first village where we-"
One of the two doors into the conference room opens with an enormous gust of wind. The door itself bangs hard against the wall, and Dougal whirls at the sound. At the same time, the poorly secured other door yields to the air pressure – caused, as I know, by the industrial strength fans Jamie has strategically placed in the hallways – and another gust of wind comes in the other way.
With perfect timing, the heavy pleats of Dougal's kilt flutter up and catch on his belt, exposing his rear end.
And not only is he, indeed, a True Scotsman, there is a large red welt, prominently displayed in the middle of one cheek.
"Agch, sorrae I'm late!" says Jamie, coming through the first door, and rushing around to secure the second, "Brr!" he shivers, "Some housemaid or another must'ha left a door open somewhere – t'wind is fair brutal taenight."
Jamie bustles innocently about, but everyone is staring at Dougal. Even though he very quickly resettles his kilt into decency, everyone saw it, and you could cut the leering suspicion in the room with a laser drill.
His jaw is set, and the look in his eyes is one of almost desperate helplessness.
I wait until I hear one whisper say "-heard stories about that wee Geillis Duncan", before I speak up.
"I forgot to thank you for being kind to our new arrival this afternoon, Dougal."
All the whispers stop, and I am suddenly the center of attention.
"Fergus was playing with Hamish, and I saw you take part in their mock-sword battle – I see where Hamish got you there – Fergus got a couple of marks himself - but the boys had a wonderful time, and Fergus says he feels at home here already. Thank you for your part in that."
The entire feeling of the room changes instantly, much like it had in the dining room last week. Dougal hasn't let someone spank him – he has been a good host and mentor to two little boys – one of whom is the son of the Chief.
There is a little bit of shamefaced murmuring, but mostly, things go back to a casual, approving, businesslike atmosphere.
Jamie sits down silently next to me.
"Ye're. . . quite welcome, Mrs. Beauchamp," says Dougal, the helplessness in his eyes replaced with plain bewilderment, "Now then, as I was saying – on page three. . ."
The rest of the meeting goes without incident, and afterwards I manage to escape to my rooms without encountering Dougal in any way.
I am extremely careful to securely lock my door.
Chapter 52: Where Past And Future Meet
Chapter Text
I take a step back from the gene sequencing and imaging machine in the lab, and sit down heavily at a corner of the counter, staring fixedly at one of the nearby stainless steel taps, and one of the small Bunsen burners next to it.
What I've just seen is impossible. Utterly, utterly impossible.
Right?
There's no way. . . no possible way. . .
"D'ye have any more books like this'un, Mrs. Beauchamp?" asks Marc, standing over by the library wall and holding aloft one of Davie Beaton's many books on ecology.
"I. . . don't know, Marc," I peer at the cover, "Age Of Earth? Probably. I think it's part of a series. . ." I gesture around us, "Feel free to keep looking around."
"Thankee," he says, unsmiling, but not unfriendly.
He had shown up this morning, with a small group of workers over from the cattle barns and chicken coops, asking if I had any resources on native plants and bio-systems. Apparently, several acres of Leoch ground under his direction is undergoing a process called "rewilding", and he wants to know - "What tricks auld Beaton may have had up his sleeve." I shrugged, and gave him and his people the run of the lab, being up to my elbows in com upgrades at that particular moment. Rewilding sounds fascinating, and Marc coming to me for information or help of any kind is highly encouraging, but I simply am not in any position to properly interact with him right now.
It's my fourth day working almost exclusively on com upgrades, and I am so, so tired of them already. Not only are they approximately three times as fiddly as even the worst I was predicting, the repetitive nature of working on them irks me in a way I find difficult to tolerate – like repeatedly bumping up against a bruised shin, not because you are in any way clumsy, but because someone else keeps moving the furniture.
An hour ago, I gave them up for today, and decided to work on one or two of my personal projects for a while. I had checked up on the score of specialty hybrid trees I have sprouting in the Manager's greenhouse, and was pleased with what I saw. My speed-growth testing setup is only a cobbled-together version of what I had on Skycity 15, but it seems to be working very well. These trees are only the first prototype of this particular hybrid that I'm working on, and a very singular use-case, so the fact that more than half had sprouted, and one or two are ahead of all projected growth curves gives me hope that the prototype will be viable.
And then. . .
Then, I had come back into the lab to work on the second prototype I'm hoping to take from this hybrid.
I look over at the GSI machine, then hop up and punch several buttons on it, ordering a full printout of the current results, and another scan and a re-rendering for the present sample.
I wait impatiently by the printout slot, grabbing the small sheaf of papers almost before the last one is fully out of the machine. I stare at the top sheet, transfixed at the image that predicts what this prototype will look like when it is fully grown.
There must be some mistake.
There must be.
There's no way I, Claire Beauchamp, currently residing in 2078, could have designed the exact tree I saw for the first time in my life when Lamb drove me past the Cocknammon tree farms in 2279.
Well, first time in my life. . . in reality.
I look down at the tall, dark-skinned, dark-leaved, high-branched, stoutly-trunked tree on the paper, and I see not only the trees Lamb showed me on the way home from Culloden Field, I see the trees I dreamed about for days and days beforehand, while I was still on Skycity 15.
There's just no way. . .
I'd never been to Cold Island 12 until I visited Lamb. Hell, I'd hardly even set foot on land before then. But, most significantly, I've never worked on a genetic modification project involving trees before now, either. And if at some point I did, and just forgot, it would have been the miniaturized food trees we grow in hydroponics plots – apples, lemons, rose-hips, or almonds – spindly, flimsy things that virtually never grow more than a meter in height, and always need support to stay upright - not a sturdy, full-sized, looming behemoth like. . . like. . .
Like Fraser's Beech.
And to top it off, I hadn't even heard of a Fraser fir, or an English beech before reading about them in the botany book I got from Leoch's library two weeks ago.
Every new fact I think of just makes the whole thing more impossible.
And yet, here it is. A tree I just invented, except that it already exists in the future.
The future I came from. . .
The GSI machine beeps. I put the printout down, and go look at the newly redone DNA analysis scan and predictive image.
They're virtually identical to the previous one.
So that's that.
It can't be true. But it is.
There must be a mistake somewhere. . .
I sit back down on the lab counter, and think hard. Maybe. . . maybe I'm remembering the future wrong. It's possible – an awful lot has happened to me between now and the last time I had that eerie dream.
Then again, they weren't just dream trees – I saw acres and acres of them that day with Lamb. It's not as though I could miss much about them, and the predictive image looks exactly like them.
Maybe I've subconsciously copied them, then? Yes, yes that must be it. The dream and the trip to Culloden made such an impression on me that when designing this tree here, I unintentionally took inspiration from them.
Yes. That must be it.
Right?
Only. . .
This is the second iteration of my design. Wouldn't any subconscious influences have come out in the first, if they were going to do so at all? True, I had some very specific goals with that first design, but still. . .
I shake my head. There's no way to tell for sure. Lamb hadn't even named the trees we saw, and who knows what sort of things someone can see in dreams? There's no way to prove anything.
I might as well ignore it, put it out of my head. Forget it.
Yeah, right. . .
"Maman Claire! Maman Claire!" Fergus comes running in, his hands full of greenery, "Papa Jamie gave me these herbs from his garden, and this-" he holds up a thick doughnut of twigs bound together, "-and told me make a wreath to hang in the Great Hall for Yule!" He practically squirms with happiness, "May I sit in here to make it? Please, Maman Claire?"
I laugh in grateful relief at his eagerness, "Of course, mon fils – of course." I muss his hair a little, and give him a tiny push towards the stool nearest me, "All the other children made theirs nearly two weeks ago – high time you caught up, eh?"
"Aye," he says, smiling over his bunches of rosemary, winter savory, oregano and sage, "I shall make the best wreath of them all!"
"I'm sure you will, too," I say, meaning it completely. The determination in Fergus's face and posture is just as clear as his joy and eagerness.
He settles down contentedly at the lab counter, busily sorting the plain silvery-green branches from the ones with flowers, and the purple flowers from the white.
I look over at the greenhouse entrance. The first prototype of Fraser's Beech was also made specifically for Yule. . .
I had thought it was sheer coincidence when I found two trees that so closely resembled mine and Jamie's last names. I had thought it was mere whimsy to make a hybrid tree from them. In fact, they were going to be my Christmas present to Jamie – and then to Fergus too, naturally.
They were.
Now. . . I don't know.
If only there was some way to be sure. . .
"Maman?" Fergus pipes up, "Why don't you and Papa Jamie sleep together?"
My entire being stutters to a halt. The low conversation between Marc and his people goes silent.
An astonishingly heavy expectation hangs thickly in the air.
"I. . . am not sure that is an appropriate question, Fergus."
"But why not? David and Eli's brother and sister sleep together."
I blink several times. The atmosphere only gets heavier. "Uhm. . . do they?"
He nods vigorously, "Yes. Eli took me to play Turtle Crash in his brother's room, and while we were there, his sister came out of her room and told us to be quieter."
"Oh. So. . . they do sleep in separate rooms?"
"Yes, but they are together – one room, and then another room – why is Papa Jamie's room close to mine, but yours is on the other side of the house?"
I give a short, sharp sigh of intense relief, "Oh. I see. Well, it's because Jamie and I are dating, not married, so we haven't chosen to move in together yet."
"Oh." Fergus looks slightly dubious for a minute, "When will you sleep together, then?"
Barely restrained, very quiet laughter comes from Marc and his people. I have to hold back a smile myself.
"Now that is an inappropriate question, my lad. Make your wreath, and leave Jamie and me to our own business. We'll see you're taken care of, regardless of where we sleep."
He considers this quietly for a bit, then minutely shrugs, and turns his attention back to his neat piles of herbs.
I take a deep breath, attempting to marshal my suddenly completely addled wits. This child. . .
He had taken the news that both Jamie and I were going to be leaving "on a business trip" with suspiciously stoic composure, and has spent nearly 100% of his waking hours with one or the other of us ever since. Jamie told me two days ago he's never been asked so many questions about the herbs in his workroom before. My break room is suddenly full of puzzles and toys and sticks and rocks and bits of string. None of us have been allowed to be late for a meal by even a second, and we are frequently early. He has offered to coach me in French, and started calling us maman and papa just yesterday.
I smile fondly, remembering the first time he did it. Pinpricks tingle in my eyes, and I have to cough a bit to dispel them. This parenting thing. . . it ain't for wimps, that's for sure and certain. . .
Willie walks in from the office then, a large, soft-looking, brown-paper wrapped package under each arm. He grins at me, then nods to Fergus, "I heard yer voice in heer, young sir," he hefts the packages slightly, and rattles on, hurriedly, "An' y'see, my da an' stepbrother live in town, an' gave me these hand-me-down clothes last week on my day off, since Leoch has sich a powerful lot of growin' boys, an' a scrap o' cloth wi' a good bit o' wear in it yet wilnae evar go amiss-"
"Yes, I see," I smile indulgently at Willie, "Thank the young man, Fergus."
"Merci beaucoup, monsieur," Fergus says politely, going over to take one of the packages.
I get up and do the same.
"Let's take a break and go put these away, shall we? You can come back and finish your wreath when we're done. Yes?"
Fergus peeks beneath one corner of the wrapping, clearly pleased to have received something, "Oui. Let us go."
Our walk is very cold and grey outside, but nicely warm and cheerful indoors - the hallways noticeably growing more and more bright and decorated the closer the approach of Yule. There is even a string of twinkle lights above the lizard tanks in Fergus's room, and the quilts and pillowcases have taken on a decidedly festive aspect. As he happily unloads his new clothes into his drawer in the large dresser against the far wall, I more closely inspect his particular quilt. The background is pale green, and it is covered in a pattern of red berries, pine cones, and birds of a most improbable blue. The pillowcase matches, except that the open edge is trimmed in bright blue satin. I see a corner of it is flipped up, and I stoop to pull it straight, when I notice a rather knobbly bag concealed under the pillow.
"Fergus?" I ask, pulling out a very lumpy canvas sack, "What's this?"
He looks up, and a wild expression of terror crosses his face. He makes to dart forward, reaching out his good hand as though to grab the bag, but it ends up as only a twitch, as he restrains himself.
"I. . . I did not steal it!" he says desperately, "I promise, Madame. None of it. It was all given to me!"
"But, what is it, Fergus?" I ask, gently, sitting down on his bed and holding the bag out to him, letting him decide how to proceed.
Slowly, with several unwilling jerks, he takes the bag and sits down next to me. Then, he upends the sack onto the quilt. Out tumble several apples, half a dozen bread rolls, two or three half-eaten sandwiches, half a jar of applesauce, and two small lumps of cheese.
I gape at the food, then look over at Fergus's suddenly hanging head. He is blinking hard, and trying unsuccessfully to hide his need to sniff.
"I. . ." he stammers, "I cannot. . . that is, I do not. . . I mean. . ." he trails off, and the tremble in his voice tells me he is on the edge of breaking down into tears completely.
I scoop the food back into the bag, take his hand, and say, flatly, "Right then. I need to show you something, my lad."
I march him directly to my rooms, and to the bottom drawer of the dresser near my bed. I set his bag of food down on the floor, and sit cross-legged next to it. I gesture at the drawer. "Go ahead. Open it," I say, quietly.
He does, very slowly, and as he does, his jaw drops.
"You?. . . Maman. . . you. . ." he turns damp eyes towards me, confusion, pain, and incredible understanding in them, "We?"
"Yes," I say, nodding at the rows of canned vegetables, packs of dried fruit and nuts, tins of crackers, sticks of preserved meat, bottles of water, and bar after bar of chocolate that fill my drawer, "We both know what it is like to be hungry, Fergus Claudel Fraser. And we both need the comfort that having a store of food can bring. But this," I hold up his little sack, "Isn't a very good stash. Almost everything in it can and will go bad just a day or two from now. And even if the bread doesn't mold, it will go incredibly stale." I pour it out again, and hand him the empty bag, "Not a bad go at it, though – especially on your own. But we can do better. So. Fill it up, now." I pat the drawer full of food, "And make sure you take a water bottle – clean water is even more important than nutrition – trust me, I know."
Fergus smiles hesitantly, and, furiously blinking back tears, dips his hand into my stash again and again, not stopping until his little sack is bulging with snacks - and one very lonely water bottle.
"Good," I say, pleased, "Now, where do you want to keep it? In your room, Jamie's rooms, or my rooms? Or, do you want to carry it with you?"
He lays a hand tenderly on the overflowing little bag, "You. . . understand. . ."
I grab my homemade shoulder-sack off my desk and open it to show him. Inside are three water bottles, a whole roll of paper towels, and at least two of each of everything else from the drawer. "Yes. I understand. Sometimes you can't leave it. You don't feel safe unless you can feel the weight of it. Sometimes you even have to sleep next to it. Oh yes. I understand."
All my hungry months on the Rim come rushing back to me.
War is terrible. But starving is worse. And it leaves scars most people just can't see. . .
"You. . ." Fergus looks up at me, "You aren't upset?"
"Upset? Darling, I'll never be upset at you – not about this. I understand. I really really do." A random memory flips in my brain, "And I'll explain everything to Jamie. And Mrs. Fitz too, if you want. They won't ever tell you that you can't eat again, I promise."
He blinks hard once or twice, then breaks down into tears at last. I gather him to me, my heart breaking and exulting all at once.
This child.
This child. . .
Slowly, his crying eases. I hand him a tissue, and send him into the bathroom to rinse his face and blow his nose. He comes back out looking fresh, and only slightly red-eyed.
"You'll do," I say, brightly, "Here, hold this." I hand him my shoulder-sack, which I've emptied in his absence, and hold it open. Then I put in his food bag, another water bottle, a small pack of sanitation wipes, and two extra bars of chocolate. I pull the drawstring closed, and loop the bag over his shoulders. "There you are. Perfect."
He clutches at the shoulder strap, "Are you sure, maman?"
"Of course. I can make another one, easy as winking. You take that one – you need it more, right now."
He looks up at me, still unsure.
"Do you know what my physics professor told me once?"
"Non."
"Well, he shouldn't ever have been a physics professor – he wanted to be a poet, and he was much better at that than he was at science – but he did have a very compelling way of putting things during lectures. One time he was trying to explain the space-time continuum, and he said that the present was a swiftly moving point, where past and future meet."
Fergus wrinkles up his forehead in confusion.
"That means, you see, that everything happens because it's meant to happen, in some way. We're just points – points of light, maybe – we do get a say in what happens, and how things go, but you can't worry about the past, and you can't worry over the future, because the present is all you can control. So make it the best present you can. Understand now?"
He thinks a minute, then nods.
"Thank you," he says, quietly.
"You're very welcome, my lad." I kiss the top of his head. "Now, go finish your wreath. I'll be back in the Manager's barn in a few minutes, alright?"
"Alright," he nods and goes, slower than I'd like, but with his natural cheerfulness at least starting to show itself again.
When he is gone, I close my eyes, and give a very deep, very long sigh. Then I open the drawer above my food stash, and put in all the things I took out of the shoulder sack. I put Fergus's stash into a plastic bag I saved from last week's shopping trip. I'll take it into the kitchens before I go back out to the barn, and give it to Mrs. Fitz – maybe I'll explain a few things to her at the same time. . .
I'm about to close the drawer when the other things in this one catch my eye. My green cloak and bag of raw wool from my night on Craigh na Dun are folded atop the long white shift and thin leather shoes that Murtagh found me in. I pull out the white linen dress, and hold it up. Mrs. Fitz and the laundry here did a sterling job on it – the mud, grass, grease and coolant stains are near totally invisible. I sigh again a little bit, and fold it up to put it away. As I do, I take another look at the leather slippers and notice, as if for the first time, that they are held closed with a thin leather lacing, looped around a large wooden bead.
I blink.
A wooden bead. From 2278. On Cold Island 12.
A wooden bead. . .
Suddenly, my lungs don't work.
My hands shaking, I pick up the leather slippers, and go straight back out to the Manager's barn. I can talk to Mrs. Fitz later - this. . . this. . .
This. . . thisness, needs to be settled now. Once and for all. If possible.
Once back in the lab, I go over to the GSI machine, and remove the sample of Fraser fir and English beech hybrid from the scanning slot. With professional calm, I cut a piece off the side of one of the beads from the slippers, and put it through the solvent and extraction processes. The DNA yield is small, and not of particularly good quality, but the machine tells me it's good enough. 92% accuracy for species, 89% accuracy for line-bred traits.
I try not to hold my breath as it performs a full analytical scan. I order a printout the second it beeps that it's done, not even bothering to look at the screen.
I take the handful of papers back to my seat at the lab counter. I don't look too long at the predictive image – I know it's going to look like Fraser's Beech – feverishly, I flip though the analytics, skipping most of the charts and data write-ups, until I find the indicator sequence graph.
Sure enough, there are five little mountains at a point where there should be nothing but a smooth, angled line.
The signature that every farming tech on Skycity 15 puts on their work, so it can breed true throughout the plant's generations. It's in the right spot on the chromosome, the heights of the peaks are right, and in the right order for the signature I was assigned.
And, last week, I put my signature on Fraser's Beech. It wouldn't have occurred to me not to.
I put the papers down, and pick up the slipper with the still complete wooden bead.
So. It's true.
I designed the tree that Cold Island 12 has been farming for centuries. I designed it here – now. In the past. Except – not this past. Another past.
It's impossible, but it's true.
I'm not only in the past - I've been in the past before.
And I can't remember a thing about it. . .
Chapter 53: The Willow Tree
Chapter Text
I take a deep breath of the late afternoon air. A soft, almost gentle wind wanders aimlessly through the pale golden light of the sun, as it slants under the high, massed clouds. We've finally had our first deep freeze after a snowfall, so the sharp, cold stillness is accompanied by the tiny rustles and tinkles of a world encased in ice. I loop my arm through Jamie's, his warmth and my new jacket and cardigan letting me step out confidently into the chill. I tuck an escaping curl back under my new hat, and consider him surreptitiously while I do so.
His knee-length Macintosh currently conceals his white dress shirt and deep blue woolen pullover – a positively delicious combination he somehow manages to wear casually – and almost covers his long, long black slacks. A row of beautiful dark red curls peek out from under the band of his MacKenzie tartan cap. I inhale the faint but very present scent of the light, almost breezy cologne he's wearing.
A blush starts up to my cheeks as I recall the brief, tantalizing glimpse I got of his rear as he bent over to get his coat. . .
By all the gods that may or may not exist, this man. . .
"Ye'er looking mighty smart tonight, Sassenach," says Jamie, as we approach Leoch's main garage, "Smart. . . " he leans down and whispers in my ear, "An' edible. . ."
I squeak in surprise as he tries to nip my ear, but I twist away in time, giggling through the delicious rush of tingles that overtake me every time Jamie wants to play.
"You'll have to catch me first, you brute!"
He's fortunate that I want to play tonight too. . .
I dart into the garage, and behind the first cover I see – which is a car, unsurprisingly. Jamie follows me, by turns laughing and muttering Gaelic imprecations.
I run around and back and forth between the cars, the garage's motion-sensor lights coming on in staggered stages as I pass them, Jamie at my heels but just out of reach.
Deliberately, as it turns out. His longer stride and better knowledge of the space lets him catch me almost ridiculously easily, with a precise, hard, sharp thump, right up against the car we've borrowed for the evening.
He presses up against me, our chests heaving together, our laughter mingling in warm, panting breaths, "An' now that I've caught ye, wee vixen, what shall I do wi' ye?"
I wrap my arms around his waist, holding him securely to me. Then I wriggle a bit, just to make my point.
"What do you want to do?"
He groans helplessly, and practically falls against my mouth.
Kissing Jamie has always been a pleasure - and one I've only rarely denied myself since coming to Leoch – but tonight there is a deliberate, almost determined flavour to his caresses that I haven't noticed in them before.
Almost like the dear man wants to tell me something, but isn't sure how. . .
My mind blanks as he leaves my lips and begins on my neck. Another wave of tingles engulfs me as his freshly shaved cheeks slide like velvet against my skin, and his hot mouth nips softly at me, raising all manner of chicken-flesh everywhere.
"Mebbe," he whispers directly into my ear, "I'll skip takin' ye out tae dinner, an' I'll jus' have ye for dinner, instead."
This time, I am the one groaning helplessly, pinned up against a cold metal car, scrabbling desperately for the clasps of our coats, needing better contact, more purchase, more skin, more something, more. . .
More.
And then, incredibly loudly, my stomach growls.
We both freeze, and blink at each other. Then, we burst out in laughter just as joyous and breathless as our kisses were a moment before.
I sigh as we wind down, and hug him, leaning my head against his chest, no longer desperate, and somehow satisfied.
"Well," I say, "We can discuss that option later, but for now, I think I am surprising no one when I say – actually, I'm hungry, please take me to dinner."
"Aye."
He grins, opens the car with a button on his keychain, and hands me gallantly into the front seat.
It's an incredibly comfortable car interior, soft and warm, smelling of sweet spices and clean, rich leather - and not at all of feed, soil, or dogs.
A rarity in my life, these days.
I notice the logo embedded in the middle of the steering yoke – a silver horse, in full gallop.
A mustang. . .
My father had a mustang skycar when I was a teenager, and I was forever pestering him to let me borrow it. The few times he did are some of my nicest memories from those years of my life.
I wonder if Jamie is willing to let me drive us home. . .
He slips into the driver's seat, and backs us out slowly. A minute later, we're on the road into Cranesmuir, the last of the sunset light tipping the snow-crusted fir trees with rubies, copper and gold.
I settle comfortably into my seat, pleased with just about everything this evening has offered so far – the weather, the company, the transport, the destination. . .
"So, tell me about where we're going, Jamie."
"Hunan Tasty Pot?" he shrugs, "Weel, it's the first Chinese restaurant in Cranesmuir owned and operated by Chinese immigrants. Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby."
"Wait," I say, incredulously, "Willoughby?"
He shrugs again, "It's what they chose. Their family crest is a willow tree, so they picked an English name that sounded as close to that as possible. His born name is Yi Tein Cho. I'd known him years before he evar told me that, an' she's nevar told me hers, even yet. He often calls her Tina, tho'. I think it's rather endearing."
"They sound nice."
"Mm. Aye, very. He helped me study for my acupuncture qualifying test six years ago, too."
I smile, "So, what are their signature dishes?"
"Well, she's famous around heer for her homemade tofu, and he's well known for his Dong'an chicken, but what the restaurant is kent for is their turtle soup."
I blink a bit, hurriedly trying to remember what a turtle is, "Good, is it?"
"I'd go so far as tae say legendary, evan. Rumour has it there's a whole bottle of sherry in evary pot." He waggles his eyebrows at me and winks, "Ye ken what they say soup like that c'n do tae ye, aye?"
"Uhm. No. No, I don't." I look at his expression again. "But I can guess."
He chuckles, low and rich in the back of his throat, "Aye. They say ye c'n never get enough. . ."
I shake my head, amused and bemused at the same time, "The wonder is that this place isn't famous over all of Europe!"
"Aye, weel," he tilts his head and winks again, "Give it time."
We pull into Cranesmuir then, and park next to the village green, right across from the restaurant. The streetlights turn on just as we walk up, fortuitously illuminating the small slate chalkboard on the porch. 'The Willow Tree', it says, followed by 'Tonight's Menu'.
I think this is odd, but Jamie is telling me about a time Rupert ate one of the more spicy dishes they offer here, and how red and sweaty his face got, and I am too busy laughing to properly ask him what's going on.
A short, curvy young Scotswoman seats us in a small dining room of darkly varnished wood and brilliant red and green decorations. All the light fixtures are shaded in deep, ruby red, and there are jade green ceramic pots and sculptures everywhere. I can't stop looking around at how different and beautiful it all is. I've never seen a combination of green and red that did not in any way evoke Christmas before, but this doesn't. I would have thought it would be darkly oppressive too, what with all the heavy wood construction and dim lighting, but somehow it's cozy, not cave-like. There are several other couples in the room, and though we can hear their low conversations, we are all in nicely partitioned booths, so no one's conversations interrupts anyone else's.
Our server comes up to us, a tall and very chipper blond. She's obviously a local, in both her dress and her accent.
"Och, it's been tae long since ye were heer, wee Jammie!" she smiles at Jamie. Then she turns to me, just as friendly, but not so instantly familiar, "An' who is this, then?"
Jamie smiles back, "'Tis good tae see ye too, Kee. This is Claire – my girl."
She grins even wider, "Agh! Good for ye!" She taps me lightly on the shoulder with her pen, "Ye'ev got a good 'un heer, ye ken. 'Tis grand tae see him out an' about wi' a girl – he's tae often aloon."
"Awright, tha's enough, Kenina," says Jamie, gently chiding, "I ken weel enough this entire town's been plotting tae pair me off for the last four years – weel now I've finally got a girl, ye ken? Ye c'n stop rootlin' in my business now, aye?" He waggles a finger at her, clearly teasing, but there is something serious in his voice too.
"Agch! Ye'er nae fun," she slaps me lightly with her floppy paper note pad, "Make sure ye teach him how tae have fun, aye?"
I'm practically exploding with restrained laughter, so I only nod, and mutter, "Oh, I will," from behind the hand I have clapped over my mouth.
"The menu, Kee?" asks Jamie, rolling his eyes and exaggerating the world-weary exasperation in his tone.
"Ah. Aye." Kee composes herself and begins to speak in a formal manner that clashes awfully with her sweet, casual demeanor. "For the set-up taenight we have radish galette or Scotch eggs for starters," she says, flatly, as though she's reading aloud from a list, "Then French onion soup, an' warm tomato salad, then ribeye steak wi' caramelized honey carrots or baked potato for main, an' chef's special spice-glazed walnut butter cake for afters." Her voice relaxes a bit, and she nods encouragingly at us both, "We c'n do several things à la carte – an omelet, for example, or onion rings, or chips, or a vinaigrette salad – but those may take a bit longer than our set menu. There are two house red wines – a dry and a sweet – a local ale, an' a local whisky." Finally, she grins naturally again, and she clicks her pen open, "Sae what's yer pleasure taenight?"
Jamie looks questioningly at me.
I nod the choice back over to him, too confused at the moment to form sentences longer than a few words, "You order, Jamie. You know the place better."
"Alright. We'll have the set-up. Scotch eggs, carrots, steak medium rare. A carafe of dry red, an' two sides of French bread wi' browned butter à la carte. Sound good, mo ghràidh?"
I nod, a little bewildered. I've been at Leoch long enough now that I know what steak is – I've even seen a few – but I've never eaten one. I find I'm looking forward to it, even through my bewilderment.
"Sounds lovely."
And it does.
Except. . .
Kee writes up the order, and strides away, without a care.
"Jamie," I lean forward and whisper to him when she's gone, "This. . . none of this is Chinese food! Where's the tofu? Where's the turtle? Where are Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby?"
He looks at me very strangely for a minute or two – long enough, in fact, for Kee to return with our bread and butter, two wine glasses, and a tall carafe of wine, and then leave us again.
"I. . ." he starts, very carefully, "I ken ye'ev been fair hard up against it for a year or more, mo nighean donn. But. . . is it possible ye dinnae ken anything about The Clearings? They ended last year, it's true, but they'd been happenin' for years beforehand. Did'ye never know? Were ye never told?"
The Clearings. . .
The Clearings. . .
My mind scrambles so hard it practically slides off the term. Yes, it rings a few bells – Lamb mentioned it once, hadn't he? And I vaguely recall the word being mentioned a time or two in my Primary history classes.
"Yes," I say, slowly, "I've heard of it, a bit, but. . ." I desperately force my next words not to be a lie, "But things are so different where I'm from. We aren't told. . . well. . . people just don't say."
Jamie nods, sadly. "Aye, that I can well believe."
He sighs heavily, and composes himself to explain.
"After the Dissolution Act an' the forming of the Independence Committees, evary part of the former U.K. has been required tae restructure their governmental and social systems tae a stable an' independent format. Each place might do this as they see fit, but allus under the guidance an' partially under the control of designated overseers, an' a band of specially allocated Peace Agents."
He practically spits the last two words. Given what I've seen and experienced of Black Jack, I can hardly blame him.
"Yes, I know that part."
"Weel. That all started about five years ago. An' one of the first things the Peace Agents did was sweep the country of "all immigrants an' foreign nationals". They called it The Clearings, jus' tae rub it in our faces. . ."
Now I remember Lamb talking about this. I remember how flabbergasted I was when he did, too. I am not any less so now.
"But why, Jamie? What possible use would doing that be? And there's dozens of people, just at Leoch, from New Zealand, and South Africa, and America, and Canada. Now. Still. Why weren't they-"
He looks at me pityingly, "Sassenach. . . it wasnae immigrants they wanted tae to steal from us. It was black an' brown people."
"But. . . but why, Jamie?"
He shrugs, "Revenge, I suppose."
"Revenge? For what?"
He runs a hand across his chin, and scratches his ear, "Culloden, I think. All the Jacobite risings, really. An' Robert The Bruce."
"But all that's ancient history!"
"No' if yer Scottish. We keep auld things well up in our hearts. Alba gu Bràth, ye ken?"
"Okay. But. . . but. . . how does deporting people who don't look stereotypically Scottish wreak revenge on you?"
He looks at me, confused, shocked, and a little wary, "Ye're usually so much more aware of how politics works, Sassenach. By forcibly removing people along racial lines, they not only weakened our economy and culture, they deliberately emboldened a White Supremacist mindset. Both of these things together might, if we let them, make things so miserable in Free Scotland that we petition to have the English back in power, independence notwithstanding."
The truth of his words hit me like careening skycar. But it's not shocking to me that I never thought of it like that, because -
"That's. . . that's. . ."
"Machiavellian? Evil? Yes. Now ye ken why Sassenach usually isno' a pretty thing tae be around here. Weel, another reason, anyway."
"But - you aren't going to let it work, are you?"
"Nah," he smiles, and waves his hand to indicate the dining room around us, "Take this place, y'see. There's millions of places like it all up and down Scotland now. Businesses an' homes an' property still owned by immigrants an' outsiders, but being stewarded and cared for by their neighbors, until we're fully independent, an' can welcome them back."
A bit of hope rises in me, and more patriotic feeling for Scotland than I've ever felt for anywhere before. "Where did they all go, Jamie? Where were they sent?"
"Lots of places. England mostly. There's some enormous squatter settlements around York these days, I'm told. Many were sent tae France, some tae Spain. A few tae Germany. A few planeloads went tae the U.S. A goodly number had no option but tae join the Watch."
"The Watch?"
"Aye. Roving bands of outlaws, escapees, runaways an' deserters – they're the ones who attacked ye yer first night across the border, aye? Anyone out and about after dark is fair game, but an English car wi' English plates would be more fair than usual."
"Oh. . . Yes, Colum mentioned them to me. I remember now."
"But nearly all of our deported people have homes an' a life tae come back to when it's over – even though there was a clause in the Act that made it legal for folk to repossess whate'er was taken from a deported person, virtually no one did." He smiles proudly, and I quite agree with him, "Even pets an' gardens are bein' taken care of, jus' waitin' for them tae come home."
His face falls at the last word, and he goes silent for a while.
I leave him be, and pour out the wine. It is deep, and dry, and delicious, and pairs perfectly with the fresh, soft bread, and nutty, toasted butter.
He sips at his wine, and drizzles spoonfuls of the butter over his bread, but doesn't eat it.
"Ye ken," he says at last, "The Clearings are why I'm on the run?"
"No, I didn't. I know there's a murder you're accused of, but that's all you or anyone has told me about it."
He nods, solemnly, "They came for Ian. The Peace Agents did. Black Jack an' his cronies."
"Ian? But why?"
He laughs, not at all cheerfully, "Because he's black, Sassenach. His whole family is. An' the irony of it all is that the Murrays were Scottish before the English throne was."
"Huh."
"Aye. The injustice gets tae ye, doesn't it? The original ones werenae even slaves – they made a packet workin' on independent spice trader ships, bought a goodly slice of ancient Fraser land, an' were well an' fully established a whole fifteen years before England decided tae borrow James the Sixth an' put us all in this mess. My Da had tae buy land from them tae build our house. That's how Scottish they are."
"So what happened?"
"Well, we were all in the dining room, celebrating Jenny an' Ian's first anniversary, when a pack of Agents rolled up an' practically knocked the door down. Black Jack was leading 'em, so they were ruthless as all hell. We all resisted, except auld Mrs. Murray, but nothing was goin' tae stop them from arresting evary last one of the. . . the. . ." he coughs a little, and makes quotation marks in the air with his fingers, "The "black racial slur racial slurs"."
"But – they didn't end up arresting them, did they?"
He smiles a great, lopsided grin, "Nae. They didnae. I saw tae that. I made sure Black Jack arrested me instead."
"Oh. But how?"
Happy reminiscence fills his eyes, "I gave him a right wallop across the face. I was wearin' my da's ring at the time too – sliced his cheek wide open, an' broke his nose inta the bargain." He chuckles darkly, "He was sae furious he demanded I go wi' them, an' I said I'd go quietly if they left my family alone."
The happiness drains slowly out of his expression.
"And did they?"
"Oh, aye. They ought nevar tae have been there tae begin wi'. They just spotted Ian in town one day, an' jumped tae the wrong conclusion." He sighs a little, and finally starts to eat his bread. "I was in their lockup for a few days, but then they let me out. That was when. . ." He trails off for a moment, but then gives himself a shake, "I didnae even know a guard had been killed that same night until a week later, when one of the Broch Mordha lads came to warn us. That's when I fled tae Leoch."
"They didn't follow you? Pursue you?"
"That's the beauty of it, Sassenach." He sops up the last drops of butter with the heel of the loaf, "Leoch is officially registered Clan territory. Peace Agents arenae allowed tae go onto registered clanlands. Which, I grant ye, isnae perfect protection, but it's something. And wi' Collum and Dougal's status and influence. . ." he shrugs, "I just have tae hide a few years more. Then any outstanding warrants will be handed over to the Scottish authorities, an' then I'm home free."
"Scot free?"
He chuckles at the pun, "Aye. Something like that."
Our dinner arrives at this moment, and we both settle down to the business of eating.
Chapter 54: The Green Man
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
I listen to the low, warm hum of conversation in the Willow Tree dining room while Kee is clearing our table. The atmosphere here is entirely different than in any Skycity caf, but somehow, the feel is similar. I have always loved the protected openness, the public privacy, the communal individuality that a caf can provide, and such feelings pervade the air here, through and through.
It is almost as if the two-hundred year gulf between my time and now is bridged over, made as nothing, by the simple goodness of ordinary people.
Jamie smiles at Kee as she reaches for our plates, "Can ye bring the bill when ye bring out dessert, Kee?"
"Aye," she nods.
"An' I ken it isnae usual, but could ye see yer way clear tae a wee takeaway box?" he gestures down at his plate, which I now notice holds a good deal more leftovers than Jamie habitually leaves behind, "We have a new lad at home, y'see, an' he was mighty disappointed tae no' be invited tae come out wi' us taenight. So I promised tae bring him a wee nibble of everything we ordered, tae make him feel a part of things, ken?"
"Aye, we've all heard what the twa ov ye did for young Fergus," she smiles indulgently, "Ye stuck it tae auld Henbane good an' proper! He was right pished at how few of us showed up tae his service that Sunday, so he was."
I smirk at her name for the violent old priest, and chuckle at his continuing discomfiture.
"I dare say I can manage somethin'," she nods at Jamie's plate, "I'll bring a box when I bring the bill, aye?"
"Aye."
Jamie smiles after her as she walks away.
I look at him, heart melting.
"You didn't tell me you were going to do that for Fergus, Jamie."
"Aye, weel. . ." he half-smiles at me, "Sometimes there mus' be a few things just between the men, Sassenach." His eyes go very sober, "The lad has been through a lot. More than I expected – though less than I feared. He hasnae let the wee rucksack ye gave him out of his sight all week."
"He told you about what was in it?"
"Aye."
"And that none of it was stolen?"
He waves a hand, almost imperiously, "Oh aye. I ken that. Fergus is a man of his word. An' if he needs tae carry food about like a wee comfort blanket, I say let him. There are far worse coping habits." His mouth sets hard for minute, and then he changes the subject, "What did ye do for Story Night last night? I was sorry no' ta be there, but one of the cows had a rough calving and Marc needed me."
I nod, "Yes, Matt told them, and everyone understood. I read them a couple chapters of The Wizard Of Oz."
"How'd they like it?"
"Apparently Danny has seen part of a movie made from it, but none of the others had encountered it before. They liked it quite a bit, I think."
"You only think?"
"Well, boys that age, you know," I wave a hand a little vaguely, "It can be a tiny bit awkward for them to engage with story that has a girl protagonist. I'm pretty sure they liked Toto more than Dorothy."
"Agch," he huffs, "It's only because they havenae had many girl-led stories read tae them yet. Give them more of them – Anne of Green Gables, an' Alice in Wonderland, an' Jane Eyre an' Austen when they're ready – an' dozens of others in between – an' they'll warm up to the concept." He salutes me, with the casual, playful, yet deeply felt respect that most Scots seem to be able to project, "Ye'ev done good work, Sassenach, starting them off right."
I catch his hand in mine, pressing our palms together, and interlocking our fingers.
"Thank you. I've never been a mother before."
He squeezes my hand a little tighter, "Tha's no quite true. . . but regardless – by my lights, ye'er doin' grand so far."
Two hot tears prick in my eyes, for some reason I cannot understand. . .
Kee brings our dessert just then, along with the bill, and a strange trapezoidal box of thin white and red waxed cardboard, with elaborate Chinese symbols printed on each side.
"I found the Willoughby's auld store of these," she says, holding the box out proudly, "will that do?"
Jamie takes the thing, opens the flaps on top, and starts filling it with the bits he's saved from his dinner, "Aye – it's perfect." When he's done with the box, he scans the nearby slip of paper with his com, taps a few buttons, and hands the bill back to her, "There ye are, an' thanks."
"Thank ye, too. Enjoy yer dessert!"
She smiles, and disappears back towards the kitchens.
The walnut butter cake is excellent, but very rich. About a quarter of Jamie's slice, and over half of mine make it into the box for Fergus. We linger for a few minutes over the last of the wine, but soon after we are helping each other on with our coats, and then wandering through the cold, misty night back to the car, arm in arm.
"That was a wonderful dinner Jamie," I hum, content, "I got to try so many new things."
"Ye did? Even tho' t'wasnae Chinese food?"
"Oh, yes. I've had walnut cake before, but that spice glaze was brand new to me. And of course I've had Mrs. Fitz's Scotch eggs many times by now, but she never uses duck eggs – or Italian sausage, come to that. Spanish wine – I've never had that before. A warm salad – that was something new too. And it frankly never occurred to me that carrots could be glazed with honey, but they were delicious. And, uhm. . ." I pause a second, wondering exactly how odd this will sound to him, "Well, it's the first time I've had a steak."
He rounds on me, more shocked than I've seen him in a while.
"Ye've nevar had a steak before taenight?"
"Nope."
"Huh."
I don't offer any explanations. He doesn't ask for any. He does, however, look at me long and curiously as he hands me into the Mustang. He pauses a long time after he gets in next to me, too. Then he asks, "What did'ye think?"
I shrug, "It was very good. I found the texture a bit odd, but the flavour was very nice. I still might choose Mrs. Fitz's creamy chicken stew over it if I was given the choice every day, but the steak tasted much more special and occasion-worthy anyway." I lean over and squeeze his arm, "Thank you for taking me for un-Chinese food, Jamie."
He laughs, "Ye'er greatly welcome, Sassenach," then he kisses my forehead cheerfully, "Now then, are ye up tae goin' to see Iona MacTavish this e'en?"
Apprehension blooms in my stomach. "She'll be asleep for hours by now, won't she? Or gone to bed, surely – or home."
"Nae nae – I called ahead special. We have an appointment for a candlelight palm-reading session in. . ." he glances quickly at his com, "Ten minutes. She lives over her shop too, so it wasnae a big ask – an' anyroad, she always does these things for courtin' couples around here," he shrugs, and amends, "Now an' again, at least. It can make for a moor interesting date night than usual, ken?" He takes my chilly hands and warms them between his own for a minute, "D'ye feel up tae going, or should I call an' cancel?"
I lean back in my cushy leather seat, and think very hard for a minute.
If I say no, then I miss out on a chance to talk to a fellow time traveler. And who knows if by tomorrow she'll even exist in this time? Anyone who can pop in and out of reality so casually isn't someone I want to miss the opportunity to talk to, if I can.
Then again, Jamie will be there the whole time. How much am I going to be able to say, really, or ask, for that matter?
Then again again. . .
"I think I want to see her, Jamie. Just to make sure she really is real."
He smiles, "Oh, she's real enough. Settle yer mind on that score."
"But. . ."
"I ken she winked out of existence for Murtagh and me last week, apparently – I still dinnae remember it that way, but if you say we didnae remember her, then we mus' not have done so – but heer, now, she's real, an' alive, and I talked tae her yesterday. She's no sprite – jus' an ordinary woman with The Sight. And an herb an' crystal shop. An' perhaps a wee bit of an obsession with incense. . ."
I smile, "If the few minutes I spent there with Annie and the girls is any indication, that last is certainly true. . ."
"An' if ye'er ever uncomfortable at any time, jus' squeeze my hand, an' I'll get you out of there, no questions asked."
Very briefly, I lean my head on his shoulder.
"You're a good man, Jamie Fraser."
He gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, and then turns the car keys in the ignition.
The drive across the square is so short I don't have time to change my mind more than twice.
The door of The Green Man opens with a cascading tinkle of bells. They ring again in reverse as Jamie softly closes the door behind us. I hug my arms around myself as I look around, trying to dispel the outdoor chill.
At first glance, everything is the same as it was a few days ago – half the shop full of the same ranks of shelves stuffed with dried herbs in bunches, jars and bags, and the other half crowded with the same heaps of rough and uncut stones in boxes, buckets, trays and bins. The same fill-your-own-pouch station full of tumbled crystals and tiny drawstring bags is there in the corner, and the full spectrum of softly gleaming polished stones and handmade jewelry is the same, all shut up in display cabinets along the side wall. The chaotically scattered piles upon piles of books are still here – none of which seem to be written in English, and all of which are old, musty, and smell faintly of decaying leather. There are even the same old enormous ceramic jars full of what look like ancient vellum scrolls.
I can smell the same spicy, herbal scents, as they blend seamlessly with the strange, almost peppery odours of both raw and polished gemstones. And over it all is the same smoky, heavy, resinous pall of incense that seems to have soaked into the very wood and plaster of the place, almost but not quite masking its older, baser smell of mildewed wallpaper and ancient cigar smoke.
It ought to be stuffy and oppressive, and last time I was here it certainly was, but on a cold winter night like this, it's almost cozy. There are dozens of candles scattered around, but just like in Leoch's main hall, upon closer inspection they all turn out to be plastic battery operated facsimiles of real candles, so there is no danger of hot wax or fire.
They do make for a flickering and eerie atmosphere however, and Jamie and I only slowly approach the central checkout counter.
I give a quiet gasp as we get closer, for here everything is different.
Last time, the register was surrounded by an array of locally made jewelry, some racks of cheap picture postcards and tartan print magnets, a box or two of brand-name candy, and a few display crates of ridiculously overpriced fancy imported herbal teas.
Harmless, and predicable.
Now, however, the checkout area is positively overflowing with an extremely disconcerting collection of taxidermy animals.
Mice, rats, cats, frogs, owls, red and blue songbirds, lizards, snakes, fish, and dozens more things I cannot identify all stare dully at us as we approach the counter. I shiver, more creeped out than I can properly communicate. Jamie pulls me close and puts an arm around me. I huff a mirthless laugh, because I can feel him shivering too – in fear or distaste I do not know, and don't care to ask.
It's probably both.
I hope it's both. . .
I've only ever heard of taxidermy before. Other than a basic definition of the practice and a small line drawing in the encyclopedia entry, I've never even imagined what such creatures would look like. But now I know why every mention of it in my natural history books was so vague, and why they so strongly stressed the fact that "Nowadays doing any such thing to an animal of any kind is strictly outlawed." The ranks of glassy, lifeless eyes are bad enough, the many rows of shellacked, artificial looking teeth doubly so, but I am almost certain there are patchwork animals among this collection – half-and-half monstrosities, dead parts preserved and sewn together, in a gruesome mockery of life.
Their dank, horrible smell reaches me, and I am nearly sick, until I see the crowning prize amongst the horror, set proudly on a shelf behind the register – a gigantic lizard thing, fanged mouth half-open, clawed feet spread wide, long, scaly tail coiled menacingly as if to strike.
Seeing it is such a shock that the sheer adrenaline forces my stomach to behave.
I gape at it in speechless disgust, but Jamie reads out the words painted on the wooden plaque hanging beneath it.
"Speak, Goddess! Since 'tis Thou that best canst tell,
How ancient Leagues to modern Discord fell;
Whence 'twas, Physicians were so frugal grown,
Of others Lives, and lavish of their own;
How by a Journey to th' Elysian Plain,
Peace triumph'd, and old Time return'd again."
He slips a hand reassuringly into mine, and squeezes my fingers to remind me we can leave any time I want. I huddle closer to him, but don't squeeze back.
Not yet.
Then, a voice comes from the dimly lit doorway behind the counter.
"His shop the gazing vulgar's eyes employs,
With foreign trinkets and domestic toys.
Here mummies lay, most reverently stale,
And there the tortoise hung her coat of mail;
Not far from some huge shark's devouring head,
The flying-fish their finny pinions spread.
Aloft in rows large poppy-heads were strung,
And near, a scaly alligator hung.
In this place drugs in musty heaps decay'd,
In that dried bladders and false teeth were laid."
A small woman steps forth as she recites these words, an electric candle lighting itself in her hands, and illuminating her face while throwing weird, wavering shadows over it. She gestures for us to follow her behind the counter. When we do, she holds back the curtain of small, shiny beads for us to enter the softly lighted room beyond.
She continues to recite as we sit on heavily cushioned benches set around a low, circular table.
"An inner room receives the num'rous shoals,
Of such as pay to be reputed fools;
Globes stand by globes, volumes on volumes lie,
And planetary schemes amuse the eye.
The sage in velvet chair here lolls at ease,
To promise future health for present fees;
Then, as from tripod, solemn shams reveals,
And what the stars know nothing of foretells.
Our manufactures now they merely sell,
And their true value treacherously tell."
She sits down across from us, sets her candle next to a large, clear crystal ball, and then looks over at us and smiles.
Somehow, the pleasant normality of her dimples and laugh lines breaks the spell. Her part of it, anyway. She's just an ordinary woman in extraordinary circumstances.
Just like me. . .
"Well, my dears," she says, hefting a gently steaming teapot from the tray next to her, "Dragon's Blood tea?" she pours two small cups without waiting for us to answer, "It's sovereign good for hearts inflamed with passion." She smiles down at the cups as she pours, and Jamie and I share a suddenly awkward glance. Then she hands a cup to each of us, which we both dutifully take. Jamie sets his down untasted, but I take a sip of mine. It's woodsy, and fragrant, though a little too bitter for my preference, but I decide a warm and steadying drink is more than welcome at the moment. . .
This back room is just as cluttered and chaotic as the rest of the shop, but here the walls are covered with star charts, posters of galaxies, planetary photographs, and shelf after shelf of carved stone globes. I can't make out the patterns very well in this dim light, but as far as I can see, only the clear crystal one on the table has no colour to it or engraving on it.
Without further word or even a look at us, Iona sets a small wooden tray full of compacted white sand in front of her. Then she reaches for a brass disc perforated with a sweeping, coiled pattern, and a small jar of what is clearly incense. I just catch sight of the label – "True Vervain".
With precise and obviously ritualistic movements, she spoons some of the powdery incense over the brass disc, and with a small, flat stamp clearly made for the purpose, tamps it firmly down. Then she lifts the brass disc, leaving behind a swirling, circular pattern of incense on the sand. Delicately, she strikes a match, and touches the flame to one end of the labyrinthine trail. The stuff begins to burn, slowly filling the room with its soft, heavy odour.
Then she pours some clear, cold water into a shallow ceramic dish, and very carefully floats seven pressed and dried leaves and flowers across the surface. The only three I recognize are clover, primrose, and pasque flower. Then, she takes a handful of raw, cloudy grey crystals, and places them very deliberately around the central seeing-stone.
She sighs then, slowly and deeply, and finally looks at us again.
"Well. Now we're ready, dears. Is there anything specific you're wanting tae know tonight?"
Jamie promptly shakes his head, but I catch my breath a little, only just stopping myself from asking about time travel.
Several seconds too late, I shake my head too.
She peers closely at me in response, "Are you sure now?"
I nod, much more firmly this time.
Her eyes crinkle up in curiosity, "Haven't I seen you somewhere, dear? You look familiar. Have you been in the shop before?"
I scarcely know how to respond. I can hardly tell her that the last time I was here, she didn't exist. . .
Or can I?
"My friends and I stopped by for a few minutes several days ago but. . . um. . . if you recognize me, it's probably from the night of Gwyllyn's concert."
"Mm," she waves Gwyllyn away, "Maybe so, but what I really want tae know is – were there any things you were interested in, in the shop? Anything speak tae you?"
I blink, now entirely off-kilter, "Well. . . there was a little carnelian pendant-"
"Oh dear me, no!" she interrupts, "Not carnelian, of all things. . ." she looks at me with an odd sideways stare, "Amethyst, perhaps, or at an outside chance garnet, or. . ." her eyes narrow again, in confusion this time, "Yes, carnelian is there too, and rose agate. . . well, what do you know. . ."
She lifts a handful of crystals out of a nearby box, and begins to arrange them around the seeing-sphere and dish of floating flowers, murmuring to herself as she does so.
"Mars and Saturn, who would have thought? And Ursa and Jupiter, well I never. . ."
It is a few minutes before I feel comfortable interjecting a question, "What. . . uhm. . . what is strange about any of that?"
"Well dear," she says, her fingers tapping the table contemplatively, "Your core aura is ultramarine – and that doesn't seem to match your projected aura – which is red, and magenta, tending towards violet - and that is very strange."
"Um. . ."
"Which means – your innermost soul and outer life are virtually two different people, but you are presenting as fully integrated and completely energetically functional – which then means there must be another spiritual component. . ." she stops, then gestures peremptorily at Jamie, "Let's see your hand, young man – your dominant hand, now."
Jamie holds out his left hand. She peers at it briefly, then gestures at me, "Now yours, dear."
I hold out my left hand, but she shakes her head, "No dear, your dominant hand."
"B-but I'm left handed. . ."
"Are you? Now that's really odd. . ." she gestures for me to hold out both hands, which I do.
"Ahh, that must be part of it," she smiles knowingly, "You've had your hand read tae you before, but it wasn't your left, was it?"
"N-no. . ."
I desperately attempt to remember everything Mrs. Graham ever told me. . .
"A classic mistake. Most palm-readers assume right-hand dominance, and so most people's auras are focused there – which can be quite a problem for left-hand dominants, seeing as that projects any ley power you may gather into the past instead of into the future. It thoroughly disrupts any predictive scrying, and usually tangles all auric energies – but fortunately you seem to have been spared that. . ."
She gestures for Jamie's hand again.
After another, slightly longer look at his palm, she brings out another handful of crystals, and arranges them as she did the others – in spiraling, concentric circles around the clear crystal ball, and the water dish holding the seven dried flowers.
"Yes," she murmurs, "Sapphire and aquamarine, with a nod to yellow quartz, moss agate, and. . ." she gives a small ironic smirk, "Iona marble. That's Venus, the Moon, the Sun, and the Earth. Your core aura is orange, but your projected aura is cyan and green, tending towards gold. Well, that about settles it. Only. . ." she brings out yet another handful of crystals, "Let me try one last thing. . ."
These she ranges in a line between Jamie and I, and waves her hand slowly over them a few times. At last, her hand pauses, and picks up a small gem of dark red that seems to be edged with an odd deep green.
"Your convergence stone is Alexandrite. I'd say that's pretty conclusive, wouldn't you?"
"Weel," says Jamie flatly, and I can tell he's holding back a lot of frustration, "That would depend on what, exactly, we were concludin', would it no'?"
I nod, in emphatic agreement with him.
"Oh, didn't I say?" Iona smiles sweetly at both of us, "The two of you are soulmates."
Notes:
Chapter Soundtrack - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b8SkX9CSJQo
The stanzas quoted in this chapter are excepts from “The Dispensary” by Samuel Garth.
Full poem available here - https://quod.lib.umich.edu/e/eebo/A42418.0001.001/1:2?rgn=div1;view=fulltext
Chapter 55: See Change
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Jamie and I exchange another oddly awkward look. He doesn't look unhappy, but confusion and shock are very evident. I can only guess what my expression is.
And as for what I'm feeling. . .
I don't think even the best psychiatrists in the world could accurately untangle what I'm feeling at the moment.
I stammer slightly, "W-well, uhm. . . you see-"
"And you mustn't be misled by popular media's depiction of soulmates," Iona says, hurriedly, "No romantic connection is required. All it really means is you are both here in this time and place for a reason – a purpose – and that you are each the ideal support for the other in that purpose. In fact, it is said that everyone has a soulmate, but most of them are born into different ages of the world – the later one so they can finish the work left undone by former. That's why it's so special when soulmates meet."
The stunned, baffled expression hasn't left Jamie's face, "But. . ." he glances quickly at me, "An' please dinnae take this wrong Sassenach, but. . ." he turns back to Iona, "How?"
She shrugs, "Well, no one really knows how. So few mated souls have been observed by properly trained readers that it is extremely difficult tae fully document auric entanglement – but it is theorized that at some point in your spiritual past the two of you. . . well. . . exchanged souls."
Jamie tries to interrupt, but she quickly adds, "Well, that's not the right term, exactly. Merged is closer," she points at Jamie, "You are still very much you," and then at me, "and you are also you – but you are each expressing a soul that has originated from two individuals instead of one. That's all."
Jamie runs two fingers over his forehead, "Spiritual past?"
"Yes."
"Meaning?"
"The commonly understood term is reincarnation, but I prefer tae say something like temporal re-imaging. And in this case I would add that there appears tae have been an intentional radical spectral reflection, tae the point of near total vibrational inversion."
We both look at her blankly.
She sighs a little, "Basically, the two of you have been reincarnated together so many times in the past, you have each put on the other's soul-expressions as your own."
"Put on?"
"Taken up - taken on. Inhabited. Enclothed. Or something like that."
"Wait," I speak up, "You said intentional?"
"Oh yes – the inversion is much too clean to have been imposed or accidental. At some point the two of you chose tae. . . well. . . bear each other's burdens, I suppose you might say. You each voluntarily gave your self tae the other. And you each accepted." She gestures broadly, "That's what being a soul mate. . . is. Well, soulmates that have met, anyway. . ."
"So. . . it never just. . . happens?"
"Dear me, no," she sounds quite shocked, "Such intimacy is always built, my dear. Nothing like that simply happens."
Gently, Jamie puts a hand over mine. His is shaking, very slightly. "But. . . how is it possible? At all, I mean tae say."
She shrugs, "No one knows. Not really. I mean, it might be patterned quantum displacement, but I doubt it." Matter-of-factly, she starts picking up scattered crystals and sorting them back into her box, "I chalk it up to the Discworld theory, myself."
"Which is?"
She shrugs again, "Things just happen. What the hell?"
Jamie barks a laugh. I look silently at the studied motions of her hands as she puts things away. The crystals are deliberately sorted by size and colour, the shallow water dish is poured out, the incense is thoroughly quenched, and the little brass spoon she used to initially measure out the incense is placed on a small wooden cradle that is itself on a handsome stone base shaped like a trio of mountains.
"The mountains are under the spoon," I say, before I can stop myself.
Iona blinks.
"Ye-es," she says, slowly, looking at me with the same strange sideways stare she used when she first started talking about stones.
Stones. . .
What. . .
Abruptly, Jamie gets up, "Weel – it's been an experience, an' no mistakin', Mistress MacTavish," he bows, formally, "But nevar let it be said any MacTavish didnae ken when they wearnae wanted – especially James MacTavish."
I blink up at him, "But. . ."
"Nevar fear Sassenach," he leans down and kisses me, briefly, "There are some things that ought tae be jus' between the women, aye? I saw a goodly stock of chamomile out there amongst the herbs, an' my crop failed this year, so I'll jus' go an' amuse myself, shall I?"
He slips out of the room with far more silence and grace than any man as big and imposing as he is has any right to possess.
I watch him out, open-mouthed. When I turn back to Iona, her eyes are laughing at me.
"That's a good one you have there, I hope you know."
"Oh, yes, I do," I say, but absently, for Iona's voice has completely changed. All night, it has been a Scottish voice, but a very mildly accented one, with only one or two vocal signifiers. Now it is suddenly, very clearly and fully, an American voice.
Such a thing isn't entirely impossible in this time and place – I have encountered scores of accents from at least a dozen countries at Leoch, after all – but such a dramatically noticeable shift isn't common, even considering people like Dougal, who often deliberately change their accent when they want to change the impression they're making.
No, this sounds different. Like she's suddenly dropped a pretense. . .
"Yes, you probably do. I mean, I'm here to study the historical impact of both of you, after all," she looks at me excitedly, "I've been back and forth over this time period at least a dozen times by now – for research, you know - but this is the first time we've actually met – can I ask you some questions?" She pulls out a small notebook and a pen, and puts on a pair of tiny, half-moon glasses that make her look suddenly schoolteacher-ish and absurd.
Scratch that. It's not her. This whole thing is absurd.
"R-research?"
"Oh, yes dear. I'm an author, you know. Well, I am in my real time. Well, mostly. I mean, I do other things too, but what most people know me for is my writing. Historical Romance. And adventure. But mostly romance." She rummages in a bag on the seat next to her, and pulls out a tissue to wipe her glasses. "And I got this idea for a time travel story – a nurse from World War 2 goes back in time to the Battle of Culloden – and I was deep into researching it, and, well, what with one thing and another I discovered that it's so much easier to travel forward in time than it is back in time, and so if I wanted to do any hands-on research, it would have to be of the second battle of Culloden, and that's when I came across all these mentions of The Green Man and Red Sorcha, and, well, I've had to swap your roles a little bit," she puts her glasses back on and picks up her pad and pen again, "Or a lot, rather, seventeen-hundreds, you know – but you've just been a total inspiration, my dear, you really have – I'm ten books in, now – well, that and a lot of novellas and other side-projects, but ten main books, anyway - "
I stop her flow of words with a gesture, only barely able to keep up, "Wait. . . books?"
"Yes. Lots of books."
"You write historical books – about the future?"
"Historical fiction, yes. About the past. Inspired by the future."
"Inspired by - me? And Jamie?"
She nods, so excited she's almost star-struck, "Yes, and we've never actually met until now – oh, I kept hoping, of course, but-"
I reach across the table and grip her arms, "So, you know what's going to happen? At Culloden? To Jamie? Or. . . or me?" Strange memories I don't remember acquiring flood over me, "You said. . . Red Sorcha? Is that me? Do I go to Culloden? Do I die at Culloden? Does Jamie? Do. . . both of us?" A red mist of terror comes up before my eyes, and the screaming sounds of battle rise in my ears. The past and future merge like galaxies, and swirl like summer mist over the northern sea. . .
Red.
Red light, red sky, red blood, red soul, Red Sorcha.
Redcoats.
Red Jamie.
Which of us is who? And when?
A pair of small thumps bring me back to the here and now.
I've shaken Iona's wrists so hard, I've made her drop her notebook and pen. Slowly, I unclench my fingers, and let her go. Equally slowly, she picks them back up.
"The only futures that are certain are the ones written in books, my dear. In fiction books. I mean, I've lived this exact day at least half a dozen times, and this is the first time you two have visited me. History is always changing – all over the place."
I laugh, mirthlessly, "Right. And we just don't notice?"
"Of course not," she smiles, "Watch this."
She gestures for me to follow her, and I do, to the bead-hung doorway of this little side-room. She scribbles something on her notepad, and then points silently at the awful huge lizard-thing sitting on the shelf nearby.
Shockingly, as I watch, it fades and dissolves, as if it had never been.
Then, Iona points to the low shelves right across from the register counter.
And, again as I watch, the lizard-thing reappears, quietly and undramatically coalescing atop the shelves, just as if it had always been there.
Like she can read my mind, Iona whispers, "Now watch this, dear. Not only has it moved, it was always over there." She steps forward a little, and raises her voice, "Wee Jamie?"
"Aye?" comes a voice slightly muffled by the intervening shelves.
"Would you mind bringing us some of that chocolate pu-erh tea I've got out there? There's a box of it right under the stuffed alligator."
Jamie appears from around the shelves, and turns unerringly towards the newly moved lizard-thing.
Just as if it has always been there.
He brings us the box of tea with a smile, and then goes back to whatever he was doing.
In a daze, I follow her back to the low table, and watch as she makes us a fresh pot of tea.
I've taken several fortifying sips from the cup she hands me before I can formulate a coherent question. And even then, I only just manage it.
"But. . . how?"
She smiles, and gestures at her pad and paper, "It's my Gift, dear."
"Gift?" my staggered mind starts to whir, trying to remember. . . "Geillis said something about Gifts, but she was very vague."
"Ah yes, Geillis," Iona suddenly gets very solemn, "She would be vague, poor dear."
I don't have the time or mental energy to unpack what that could mean. . .
"So, what is a Gift?"
Iona takes a sip of her tea, and says companionably, "Well, you no doubt know that Craigh na Dun is a focus of ley power, right?"
"Y-yes. . . clearly."
"Right. Well the only way to get through them safely is to have a properly focused aura that is resonating in tune with them – and that means that once you are though, the focus stays." She leans forward, her voice very serious now, "To Travel, is to be given power." She gestures at her pad and paper again, "It manifests in different ways for everyone, of course – usually onto the Token you have to bring through the stones with you, but not always. What was your Token?"
"An. . . enameled steel bottle."
She nods contemplatively, as if evaluating my choice.
"Possible. Do you have everything else you brought?"
"Yes."
"Well, keep it all near you, wherever you go, that's my advice."
"But. . . but. . ." I take a gulp of tea, trying to marshal my thoughts into something less resembling breakfast porridge, "I haven't had any "manifestations of power" or whatever – only strange visions and impossible things from totally separate pasts I can't remember."
She perks up at this, "Oh, really? Tell me about those."
Briefly, I outline my experience with Fraser's Beech.
She puts down her cup, and says, dreamily, "Echoes. How interesting. Your Token must be a real Artifact. Though, I suppose that was only to be expected with a mated soul."
"Iona," I sigh, "I really don't understand any of what you just said. . ."
She smiles at me, "My friends call me Diana. And you don't have to understand yet. When it's time, you will."
"But I don't have a Gift – or not one that I notice, anyway. . ."
"That's what I mean, dear. That's what I've been trying to tell you – why we're even having this conversation." She lowers her eyes, and runs her fingers lightly over the rim of her teacup, "It certainly didn't start until after you came through the stones, and you probably have to be close for it to work particularly well, but. . . well. . ." She glances across the shop in the direction Jamie went, "You're mated souls, my dear. And, you see, Gifts are not bestowed on bodies, they're given to souls. Gifts are a focus of energy – they need another focus of energy to attach to in order to work, you see? And the two of you - your souls have merged. He is expressing your inner soul, and you are expressing his – you have, in a sense, become each other."
I stare at her, light dawning slowly in my mind.
"Yes," she says, solemnly, "Whatever Gift Craigh na Dun was going to give to you, it has, in this timeline at least, given it to Jamie instead."
Notes:
Soundtrack for this chapter - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aPquGh8avsQ
Chapter 56: Three Of Us Now
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
December fifteenth.
There was a time not long ago when I thought I'd never live to see another one.
December fifteenth.
A day.
The day.
The worst day.
I relax into the hot, scented water that fills my tub. It's taken me all the weeks I've been here on Cold Island 12 to get used to using water in the ways they do, but out of all of them, this is unquestionably my favourite.
Wait. . .
Not Cold Island 12.
Scotland.
I sigh, and sink a little deeper into the warm, comforting depths.
December fifteenth is really working a number on me.
I didn't go into work today, even though I ought to have done. Geordie covered for me, without me even having to ask, but I think he must have told Murtagh, because I have had several visits by the kitchen staff today, bringing me things like chicken noodle soup, hot milk with cayenne, tea with lemon and honey, innumerable digestive biscuits, and at least three hot toddies.
I'm honestly surprised he hasn't sent Jamie round in full doctor's kit, with a black bag in his hand, and a stethoscope around his shoulders.
I chuckle a little. Ridiculous.
Although. . .
The thought of Jamie giving me a shot is weirdly arousing for some reason. . .
I take a deep breath, and hold it, pushing myself just under the water in the tub. The heat soaks into my face, and I just float, dead to the world, inexplicably happy, as only a hot bath can make me.
December fifteenth.
Five years.
Five years to the day.
The worst day.
I surface to breathe, then go right back under.
I need the peace.
I need the silence.
I need to forget.
Come on Beauchamp!
Forget the argument.
Forget the tears.
Forget the baby you never held, the milk you never made, the crib and clothes you donated because you didn't need them anymore.
Forget the husband that cruelly blamed you, but only because he was so busy blaming himself.
Forget the bombs, those stupid remnants of a stupid war, that mindlessly threw blue fire across your future.
Forget the cold, forget the rain, forget the tent, forget the empty, fruitless days labouring only for yourself.
Forget the despair. Forget the pain. Forget the barren place inside you that clamours still for whatever the nearest 'tiller made yesterday, and is selling cheap today.
Forget the heavy, drunken dreams - of tiny, curl-fingered, disembodied hands - of chuckling, infant sounds overlaid with the scream of Silverwing fighters - of Frank's kind eyes turned cold and hard - of the home you built together dissolving in fierce blue light - of your past evaporating as if it had never been. . .
Forget. . .
Forget. . .
And still remember.
Remember. . .
Remember. . .
Remember December fifteenth. . .
Remember the day you lost him.
Remember – it was the day you lost yourself. . .
Remember every slowly passing second of every dragging week of each excruciating year that followed.
Remember. . .
Remember. . .
I surface to breathe again, my eyes stinging with more than just bathwater. . .
It doesn't matter that I'm two hundred years in the past, it has still been five whole years for me.
I get out of the tub, and wrap myself luxuriously in two towels and a huge bathrobe, very deliberately not looking at myself in the mirror as I do. My body feels pretty good right now – I don't need to see the disgust and self-loathing filling my eyes, tempting me to feel bad again.
Don't waste a good bath, Beauchamp! Just dry off and go lose yourself in a novel, or something.
I sigh, frustrated with myself. Depression is a bitch.
Never mind that December fifteenth always knocks me on my ass.
I throw myself heavily across my bed, bouncing petulantly once or twice.
Grief, survivor's guilt, depression, and loneliness make for one hell of a cocktail. And with a particularly vicious anniversary thrown in as a chaser, is it any wonder I'm craving however many fifths of 'tiller vodka I can drink without vomiting?
I look at the empty hot toddy mugs scattered across my little end-table.
A few spoonfuls of whisky in hot water had been nowhere near enough. . .
And no novel is going to be enough either. . .
I get dressed listlessly, not looking forward to going out into Leoch's cheery, lights-and-greenery-bedecked halls, but encouraged too – this is Leoch, after all, and Yule is coming right up.
There's bound to be an unattended case of alcohol laying around somewhere. Or two. I mean, hell, considering how often Geillis visits, and that Leticia lives here, there might even be a liquor cabinet specifically dedicated to the needs of stubborn, grieving women. . .
I'm dragging a brush through my barely-dry hair when I hear a soft, cautious knock at my door.
I sigh, and very nearly yell at whoever it is to go away, but instead I stomp over, and throw the door open.
It's Jamie, arms full of presents wrapped in green paper and silver bows, and his eyes full of suppressed but still obvious worry.
He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, I throw my arms around him, not caring what ribbons I'm crushing, and attach my mouth to his, drinking more deeply from him than I would any fifth of 'tiller vodka. . .
I bury one hand deep in his hair, gripping tight as I hold his head to mine. The other hand I thrust as hard as I can into his waistband, needing to be closer to him than I've ever been before. I pull roughly at the shirt he has so neatly tucked into his jeans, then dive back under his clothes until I finally find skin. His lower back is velvet-smooth, his hip is heavy and warm, and this is nowhere near enough contact, not enough of him, never, never enough. . .
I whimper as he pulls away, but it is only for a second. He dumps the packages somewhere, and then is back against me, pushing me up against the doorjamb, this time undoing his belt with a click, and deliberately placing my hand on his rear. . .
"I need you," I pant against his neck when we next surface for air. I step backwards, dragging him after me, and fall awkwardly across the sofa, thrilling as he tries to keep up, but stumbles into me instead. The sudden weight of him presses me deep into the cushions, and sends all kinds of wonderful feelings all through every bit of me.
"Mmm," I hum, as I shamelessly grope the soft skin of his backside, and lasciviously nibble on his lips, "So good, Jamie. Don't stop. . ."
He tries to speak in between giving me deep, exciting kisses.
"Sassenach, we ought. . . ye need, that is, I must. . . before we. . ."
He gives up with a groan, and one of his hands finally finds my chest, cupping me and massaging gently.
He has just given me one tiny, sweet, delicious twist, when I hear, "Uncle Murtagh said you needed to be cheered up, maman, and so we – oooh."
I open my eyes to a shining-eyed, grinning Fergus.
"Shall I come back later, maman?"
Jamie quickly levers himself off me, and the pair of us try desperately and unsuccessfully to make ourselves presentable in less than half a second.
"No, Fergus, dear," I say, simultaneously patting my hair and tugging my shirt straight, "Of course not. I'm sorry."
"Do not be sorry," he says, smiling, and putting the two presents he's carrying down onto the nearby coffee table, "It is high time you fucked."
"Fergus!" says Jamie, shocked and reproachful, "There's nae need for such language," he nods sideways at me, "An' in the presence of a lady."
Fergus shrugs, in this moment unquestionably one-hundred percent French, "What is true is true, monsieur."
Jamie shakes his head ruefully, then shoves him playfully on the shoulder, "Ya wee plague." Then he turns to me, "He's right, Sassenach – Murtagh did say ye were down, an' the twa of us decided we'd bring 'round all our Christmas gifts for each other, an' open 'em now." He shrugs a little, "Christmas is over a week away, true, but it'll be Yule in only a few days now – sae why not?"
Fergus eagerly gathers up Jamie's discarded packages, and brings them to the little coffee table too.
"Where shall we begin, maman?"
I stand up, already ten times brighter than I was a few minutes ago, "We will start, Fergus, with me going to go get my presents for the two of you. If we're doing this, we might as well do it right."
I am only gone a minute, and I bring back two largish boxes, and one big, nearly two-meter tall cone-shaped thing wrapped in preserv-plast. I put the boxes next to the prettily-wrapped ones on the coffee table.
"Sorry I haven't gotten around to wrapping them yet. . ."
Jamie shrugs, "Nae problem Sassenach," and he whips the crocheted doily from under the vase on the nearby flower table, grabs the small green blanket from the back of the lounge chair, and removes the top ribbon from one of the presents he brought. In fifteen seconds flat, one box is draped in fancy, knitted lace, with a few bright red rose petals scattered on top, and the other is covered in green wool, and topped with a shiny, silvery bow.
"There ye are. Wrapped an' ready."
He winks at me.
My heart leaps, adrenaline still coursing through me at the memory of his body pressed against mine, at the feel of his warm, living skin beneath my hands. . .
I cough a little, then turn back to the tall thing behind me. I set it up on its stand. Then, carefully, I take hold of the little tab built into the special preserving plastic it's wrapped in, and draw it down the whole length of the sleeve. It comes away perfectly, and the branches of the best surviving sample of the first Fraser's Beech prototype unfurl in perfect, sweet-smelling glory. There is an excellent array of cones – even one perfectly placed on the very top sprig.
I wait for all the branches to settle into their natural shape, and then I hand Jamie and Fergus a lighter each.
"Touch a flame to the top of each cone, and see what happens."
I smile, and step back.
Jamie clicks his lighter, and gingerly touches it to the top of the cone nearest him. The upright, tightly furled green cone begins to glow orange all over, and the scales slowly begin to open. The inner surface of each petal is coated in a waxy, yellow pollen. The flame dies quickly, but the heat has turned several nearby specialized leaf-buds a tangled, brilliant white – not quite like snow, but suggesting it pretty well, considering.
I step forward, and tap the now soot-blackened cone. Dozens of tiny, golden-winged seeds fly out, sparkling like glitter, and catch on the white and dark green bristles of the tree. They hold there, sticky with glue-like sap.
"It's a Christmas tree that decorates itself," I say, unable to keep the pride from my voice, "It's a special hybrid I made, just for us."
Fergus has watched the whole performance wide-eyed and transfixed. Now he practically leaps forward to light as many of the rest of the cones as he can, as fast as he can. He laughs when he realizes the inner pollen coating comes in several different colours – orange, red, red-orange, pale yellow, deep yellow, two shades of pink, and occasionally, a very pale bluish-green. He taps every one to release the showers of twirling, golden glitter.
When Fergus is done, Jamie lights the very top cone. It's slightly bigger than the others, and the inner pollen glows a brilliant, perfect gold.
"Ye never cease tae amaze me, Sassenach," he says, affectionately, and he takes my hand, weaving our fingers together.
Fergus is about to burst with excitement, and so we sit down on the couch, and let him open his presents.
There are the expected toys from Jamie – though the range and amount of them is quite impressive - and a rather beautiful collection of books and puzzles from Murtagh. There is a starter rock collection/identification kit ostensibly from Geordie - but it has been signed by most of the men from the stables. There's a huge box of gorgeously iced cookies from Mrs. Fitz, and no less than eight advent calendars from various other boys, including Hamish.
Last of all, Fergus removes the doily and petals from my present, and reverently opens the box. His eyes light up at the fully supplied chemistry set – complete with Bunsen burner, safety goggles, and white lab coat.
"I've set aside a corner of the lab counter for you to use too – gotta keep an eye on you."
He throws his arms around my neck and kisses me on both cheeks, "Thank you, maman. I love it - and the tree is beautiful. Happy Yule!" He hops away then, and soon has one of Murtagh's puzzles spread out all over the floor.
I watch him for a few minutes, my mind silent and far away, my heart aching in ways I cannot explain.
Eventually, Jamie slips a long, flat box into my hands.
"Will ye open this one first, Sassenach?"
I come back to life at his words, "Of course, Jamie dear."
The ribbon unties easily, and the paper is only stuck on with a single point of easy-peel glue, so soon I am removing the lid of a thin cardboard box, and looking down at three long, knitted black cords. The first is the plainest, but even this is some fancy seven- or eight-string braid in flat, coiled loops. The second is woven round, into a compound cord, and incorporates several large knots that look like beads at first sight. The third is a long, tapered triangle of fancy, intricate lace, with elaborate, interlocking flowers and leaves worked into the pattern.
I touch each one, marveling. The cord is plain, stout black Tyfon-fibre string – or something very much like it. Such cordage might be used for a myriad of reasons on Skycity 15. It's cheap, common, and utilitarian.
And they're beautiful. . .
"Jamie, I. . ."
"Ye did say such a thing was the gift ye missed most from Frank?" he interrupts quickly, "I ken nothing I make could evar replace summat like that, but, weel. . . what's the use of being able tae crochet if ye cannae make yer girlfriend some jewelry, aye?"
This is a fresh surprise, "You. . . made these?"
He draws himself up. "Aye, evary bit. I am capable of moor than patchin' ye up and kissing ye silly, ken."
My heart melts anew, even as other bits of me do the distinct opposite, "Of course you are, Jamie my lad – I'm just impressed. They're lovely." I run my fingers over the middle one with the large knots like beads, and pull it out. "Will you put this one on me now?"
He smiles, and does so. "I used a double slipknot bow, mo nighean – pull either free end, and it'll come right off."
I touch the cord, as it lays lightly on my throat. I didn't realize just how much I had missed my little bracelet/necklace cord until now. Wearing this one, and knowing it's something Jamie made with his own hands. . .
I want to cry, but I haven't felt so happy all day.
I'm about to suggest he open my gift to him now, when another knock sounds at my door, a very urgent one this time.
Geordie pokes his head in without waiting for us to answer, "Ah good – the both of ye are heer. Marc's called up – urgent. Betsy's calving her twins, an' they're tangled up somehow, an' the ultrasound is broken – he needs the both of ye twenty minutes ago, he says."
Jamie nods curtly, and turns to Fergus.
"Stay heer, lad, and mek sure ye lock the door before ye go tae the kitchen for yer supper – we may be some time. Aye?"
Fergus nods, "Aye."
Then Jamie grabs my hand, and we hurry out to the cattle barn.
Notes:
Soundtrack for this chapter -
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K6PDyt27dqo
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HH5qyyVXfI8
Chapter 57: I Burn, Not Shine
Chapter Text
I was unprepared. . .
I thought I couldn't be, but I am.
Thoroughly, deeply, elementally unprepared.
Breathlessly, shockingly unprepared. . .
I was prepared for the varied, powerful odours to be found in the cattle barn – and even for the ones specifically found in the birthing stalls.
I was prepared for the noise, I was prepared for the mess, the profusion of machinery, and its paradoxical proximity with bodily fluids. I was prepared to watch Marc casually shove his arm up a cow's vagina – well, mostly prepared. I was prepared for him to shout at me, curse modern technology, and grumble at Jamie.
I was prepared for the enormous Jersey-Friesian cross to. . . well, be cross, as it were. . .
I was even reasonably prepared to deal with the ultrasound machine that is beeping insistently at me right now, furious that I'm ignoring it.
But at the moment, there is nothing in my world except the fact that Jamie has just taken his shirt off.
I thought I was ready.
But I was not.
Good lord, I was not.
His hair glows a deeper red than usual under the cool LED lights of the barn, and his skin shows pale against the dark background of byre walls, putting me in mind of watercolour illustrations I've seen of ripe, blushing apricots. Even in cool, impersonal lighting, in a dirty, smelly cow shed, he shines. His body hair ranges in colour from pale blond to dark brown, and in texture from short, tight curls near his shoulders, to long and straight near where he – thank Christ! - is still wearing trousers.
Don't think about his trousers right now, Beauchamp! You can barely handle the man's naked chest!
My eyes range over him again and again, unable to look away. . .
He is smoothly, beautifully muscled, defined but not too much so, being softly rounded everywhere, and deliciously proportioned, with curves and dips in all the right places. Best of all, he's still confidently himself - listening respectfully to Marc, and scrubbing up with both the casually intense strength, and deliberate, businesslike control I've come to expect from him.
Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, this man. My hands practically itch to touch him, and I have never wanted to take a bite out of anyone before, but now. . .
My eyes get caught on the curve of his hip, where it disappears into his waistband. There is a tiny line of darker, reddish skin there, where my nails had found purchase, not half an hour ago.
Correction. My hands itch to touch him, again.
And then my lips would follow.
And then my tongue.
And then my teeth.
And then. . .
My mouth waters at the thought.
I have no idea where this sudden urge to taste him is coming from, but, well – there it is. I'll have to unpack that later.
Much, much later. . .
Bits of me throb, and I'm pretty sure I stopped breathing ten minutes ago.
If ever there was going to be a distraction from December fifteenth for me, James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser is that distraction. A magnificent, glorious distraction. . .
He finishes scrubbing up, and Marc hands him a big rubber apron and two long, plastic gloves. He puts them on, and turns around so Marc can fasten the apron.
Unfortunately, my jaw is already on the floor – so it cannot hit it again.
I thought I understood what being unprepared meant.
I was wrong.
So very, very wrong.
Long, puckered burn scars crisscross his back, some grotesquely uneven and random, and some looking horribly, horrendously straight and deliberate, like someone purposely slashed at him with red hot knives. Or scratched at him with burning claws. Nearly his entire back is shredded – mutilated. . . There are several places where it looks like he's been stabbed with a soldering iron, again and again, and again, and again. . .
They've all healed, but they still radiate pain, and torture, and evil. . .
Not Jamie's evil, but someone's. . .
My breath rushes back into me with fiery, scalding rage.
Who – who – would dare to. . . ? Such a desecration – such defilement. . . Who would have the heartlessness. . . the gall?
Who?
I touch my cheek, remembering.
Somehow, I know who it was.
I can even guess at why. . .
A vat of ice water could not have quashed my arousal more efficiently. I shake myself out of my ogling stupor, and turn to the now desperately beeping ultrasound machine. Marc shouts something I don't hear, as I clear contacts and punch buttons as though my life depends on it.
With both Marc and Jamie in the room, it probably does. . .
"It's fixed now!" I yell over Betsy's bellowing, "It should take ten seconds for the screen to reset!"
"Aye lass!" Marc grabs the imaging wand, and rams it up against the cow's painfully bulging stomach. A few seconds later, he calls out, "Second calf's breech, wi' its leg back, like I thowt, lad. Ye'el need tae gi' in there wi' a rope, double time – yer reach is longer'n mine." Then Marc dumps a whole bottle of sharply antiseptic-smelling gel over a long coil of twine, works it in with two rough scrubs, and ties the end in a complicated loop, "Ee's blockin' 'is sister, an' shee mus' com oot furst, sae mek shure ye git it b'tween the cleats, an' be ready tae shove when I say – aye?" He slaps the twine into Jamie's outstretched hand.
"Aye," says Jamie, his single-minded focus making him sound more curt and brusque than I've ever heard him before.
He gives one brief look at the ultrasound screen, and then he's shoulder-deep in the cow, trailing twine and dripping fluids everywhere. He makes several comic, straining faces that I would laugh at were not the situation so clearly dire. And then, his expression clears.
"Got it!" he crows, triumphant.
Marc starts barking orders in the Gàidhlig, and goes over to take the trailing end of sodden twine. Together, they push, and they haul, yell at each other and at the cow, and I might as well not exist, and at this moment, I'm glad I don't. Finally, two shining, slimy hooves appear, followed in a rush by a nose, a head, and a long, slippery body.
The calf practically splats onto the straw, nearly unheeded by the men, as they labour to get the second calf out.
I've only seen someone do this once before, and only then on a vidcast show, but I take up a big handful of dry straw from the pile next to me, go over to the newborn calf, and start scrubbing at its wet, sticky pelt. I brush some jelly-like stuff away from its nostrils, and suddenly its ears perk up, and it shakes its head, blowing sharp, uneven breaths across my hand. A minute later, she's pushing herself half up on tottering, shaky legs, trying valiantly to stand.
She's very nearly managed it by the time her brother joins us. Shrugging, I scrub down this calf with straw as well, marveling at how quickly he tries to stand up too.
Marc looks down at the pair of them, and nods solemnly at me.
"Thankee, lass. Ye'ev done a man's work," he turns, and clouts Jamie on the shoulder, "An' ye'ev done two. Well done, laddie."
And then he's at the bucket of hot water, swilling himself down, without another word.
Jamie and I look at each other, over the pair of newborn calf backs struggling to find their mother's udder.
I can't find words to say. But Jamie can.
"Ardeo, non luceo, Sassenach. Ye ken what that means?"
I nod.
"Weel, it's true. I'm no' a MacKenzie. I do burn."
"So. . . so I see."
"I've been tryin' tae find a way tae tell ye for weeks now, ye ken."
"You have?"
"Aye. But it's a hell of a downer of a tale, an'. . . weel. . ." he shrugs, and starts to peel off the long plastic gloves, "Issno exactly something I tell tae everyone – sae I didnae know how tae begin."
"Well. . . you've begun now."
He nods a little, "True. But this isnae the place. An' I need a shower."
He removes the apron, and hangs it in the birthing stall's sanitation chamber. Then, he wraps a large horse blanket around himself so he doesn't freeze before we get back inside. Gingerly, he takes my hand, and we run across the barn yard. Once indoors again, he leads me to his rooms. I go directly to the little sink he has in his tiny corner-kitchen, and with nothing more than a sigh of both relief and finality, he disappears into his bathroom.
I'm waiting on his couch for him when he emerges, half an hour later – his hair slicked back, fragrant steam still rising off his skin, and wearing nothing but an enormous, fluffy white bathrobe.
He sits down next to me, not saying anything, not meeting my eyes.
The earthy-stink of cow barn is gone, leaving nothing but the soft odour of warm cotton, the faint, complex scent of his own custom soaps, and the dark, musky perfume of Jamie himself.
I lean a little closer to him and inhale deeply. He has never smelled this good. It's better than steak – better than bacon – better than chocolate.
The wild, mouthwatering desire to taste him comes back to me with treble force. I fight it back, and tamp it down. This is not the time, Beauchamp!
He reaches a hand out to me.
I take it, twining our fingers together.
He looks up then, and catches my gaze, holding it for several seconds past when it ought to feel awkward, but it somehow doesn't.
He is merely my intense, lovely laddie, with something important to tell me.
His grip tightens for a minute, then he pulls a little away, gesturing at his robe.
"May I show ye?" he asks, quietly.
"Of course."
He loosens the top of his bathrobe, and lets it fall to his waist. Slowly, but deliberately, he turns, exposing his entire back to my sight.
It isn't any better up close.
Whole areas of his back have been taken over by nothing but scar tissue, spreading their thick, bloodless lines across what ought to be healthy, glowing skin. I see his muscles move as he shifts slightly, so clearly everything still functions, but. . .
But. . .
I'm unable to keep from touching him any longer. I smooth my hands across his shoulders, and bury my lips in the cleft of his spine. I stroke down his sides, and kiss along the line of his shoulder blade, and then he is suddenly gone from the couch, standing and whirling on me, a painfully shocked look on his face.
"Claire!" he stammers, wordless for a minute, "Ye. . . ye. . . I thought. . . I thought ye'd be repulsed. Disgusted. . ."
I bark a mirthless laugh, "I am disgusted. But not by you. Jamie!" Gently, I pull him back down next to me, and take him lightly by the jaw, "Darling! You're wonderful. Perfect. You hear me? Completely, totally, shockingly perfect." I kiss him on the sides of his mouth, then get up, push him a little more onto the couch, and plunk myself in his lap. I wrap my arms around him, deliberately placing my hands on his scars, my fingers spread as wide as I can, to cover as many of them as I can reach. Then I massage up and down his back, kissing him every time I lean in, and giving my hips a little shimmy against his every time I pull back.
Slowly, his arms go around me. As they tighten, I stop moving, holding his head to my chest.
We sit there, very still, for an age and an age of the world. Or a few minutes, at least.
"It was the day they came for Ian," Jamie says at last, his words only mildly muffled by my shirt, "Black Jack was leadin' 'em. Bloody bastard."
I don't respond, just letting him talk.
"They stomped 'round our dining room, cursin' an' threatenin', beatin' people up, or startin' tae, anyroad, but the minute Black Jack saw Ian he. . . he. . ."
He buries his head a little deeper into my shoulder, "He said he'd let everyone go if Ian would give him a night in his bed."
I clench my jaw, red rage and disgust boiling hot in my stomach.
"Ian stood there gawpin' for a minute, no' bein' able tae believe what he jus' heard, an' nae wonder, bu' just then auld Mrs. Murray screamed, an' leapt out tae protect Ian, an' one of the Agents clouted her across the head wi' the butt of his stun-stick. She fell back, gaspin', an' two days later she died."
He clutches me closer, and takes a deep breath before going on, "That's when I walloped the bastard across his disgusting face, an' there isnae a hell or a purgatory in any religion anywhear tha' c'n mek me sorrae I did it."
"Of course not," I say, gently petting his hair.
"But he put me in lockup instead of Ian, an' spent two days doin' this tae me." He jerks his head, indicating his back. "An' the whole time he was whisperin' he would stop if I'd let him do to me everything he'd planned tae do tae Ian. . ." He gives a long, tortured sigh, "Sassenach, I. . . I considered it. Moor than once. Almost gave in moor than once too. . ."
"Of course you did," I say, with only a little forced brightness, "Anyone would. If it meant escaping - " I stroke up and down his back one more time, " - this."
"That doesnae disgust ye either?"
"Of course not! He does though."
He nods, emphatically. "Aye."
"How did you ever escape him, Jamie?"
"Dougal got a statement of Unlawful Detainment from Overseer Sandringham. Murtagh brought it at the end of the second day. Took me straight home tae the hospital in Broch Mordha. Neither of us kent a guard was murdered that same night – an' we still dinnae ken much about it, save that he was stabbed in the back. I was still wrapped up in gauze an' ointment the day the warrant for my arrest on suspicion of murder came 'round. That's why Murtagh ran here tae Leoch wi' me. An' why I cannae stand the smell of lavender anymore. . ."
His voice slowly peters out, and we relax silently, leaning against each other, holding each other up.
Chapter 58: Pitch And Moment
Chapter Text
"Evenin', Mrs. Beauchamp."
"Good evening," I take my place in Leoch's AV control room, two chairs over from Rupert, "We about ready to go?"
"Aye. Jus' waitin' for the last few signals tae go online." He hands me a speaker headset, and a small com controller, "Ye evar done one o' these jaunts before?"
I settle the earbuds into my ears, and give the speaker a quick check, "Not quite like this. I've worked on farms where every crop regulator had a comm connection, and they could talk back and forth with each other too – but it's quite remarkable how little farm equipment has to say to each other, most days."
He smirks, "Ye don' say?"
"That's right," I deadpan, looking over my control boards and flipping a few switches, "And neither did they." I hold down a button and click my tongue a couple of times, "Test test, one two three, this is a test, can everyone hear me? Call signs please, this is Control, repeat, test is active, call signs please."
There is a small pop and a crackle over my headset, and a blip on one of the screens highlights itself in red.
"Red Lead here, loud an' clear Control."
Dougal's voice.
Another blip lights up.
"Red Two, all clear."
Angus's voice this time.
And another lighted blip, and another, and another, all with voices I know.
"Red Three, signal nominal."
"Red Four, signing in."
"Red Five, all clear."
"Red Six, signal's good."
"Blue Lead, loud an' clear."
The call signs go on for another minute or two, each one lighting up a blip on the screen, showing Rupert and I where each signal is coming from. The members of Dougal's campaign team are scattered all over Leoch, in three separate groups – Red, Blue and Green – to test the efficiency of the coms I've just finished upgrading. It took me longer than anticipated, and this test is much closer to Yule than either Dougal or I would like, but at least it did get done – and appears to be going well, so far.
"Green Three, here."
I can only barely recognize Jamie's voice. There's quite a bit more static than I was expecting. I'm unsure if it's the signal, or the weather – since it is December, and the Green team are all outside – but since the Red team wasn't static-y, and they are all inside buildings, and none of the Blue team had any interference, and they're in cars, I'm guessing it's probably the wind. I adjust a couple of the signal gains monitors, just to be sure.
"Green Ten, ready to go."
That's it. There are six people in Red, six in Blue, and ten in Green.
"This is Control," says Rupert, "We're go here." He gestures at me to go ahead.
I take a deep breath. Stage One of Jamie's and my war with Dougal went very well. Stage Two was also a success. And now. . .
"We are go for Stage Three. . ." I murmur, too low for Rupert or anyone else to hear. Then I raise my voice, "Engaging security upgrade Overlay One, in three, two, one. . ." I flip a small row of switches, and push two glowing buttons. The map screen full of coloured dots flickers once or twice, but nothing else changes.
"Security upgrade engaged," says Rupert, "You are go for Testing-Protocol One, repeat, you are go for Testing-Protocol One."
"Red Lead to Green Lead, what is the state of the roads out tae Cranesmuir? We expected ice-"
Dougal's voice is overridden by several sputtering and popping sounds from the other coms on the security network.
Well, it is Dougal's voice, clearly, the call sign and mannerisms of it make that clear, but he sounds like one of those chipmunks from old comedy cartoons, high and squeaky, and utterly ridiculous.
Rupert is practically collapsing into giggles, and gestures wildly at me.
Perfect. All according to plan. . .
"Thank you Red Lead," I say, unable to keep the amusement from my own voice, "That confirms this overlay's pitch shift glitch. We have a baseline. Switching to Overlay Two." I punch a couple of buttons, and wait a moment or two, "Overlay Two engaged. And thanks for taking one for the team, Red Lead. I know you were worried about changing the factory settings to get rid of that."
There is a long pause over the coms.
"Of course, Control," comes Dougal's restored voice, "You can never be too careful."
"No indeed," I check my readouts, "Overlay Two appears to be performing at optimal security efficiency, despite the settings change."
"Good tae know, Control. Are we go to continue Testing-Protocol One?"
"You are, Red Lead."
"Good. Red Lead to Green Lead, how are those road conditions?"
I lean back in my chair, and let Rupert deal with the rest of the com tests. They are completed without further incident.
When everyone has signed off, Rupert takes off his headset, and heaves a great sigh before turning to me, more serious than he habitually is.
"Sassenach, may I ask ye a question?"
I smile, "Shall I point out that that is a question, or just say yes?"
He looks a little abashed for a second, but sobers quickly, "There's a rumour goin' round, ye see – that ye'er part Scot. An' I wanted tae ask ye. Is it true?"
I pause a minute, wondering how such a rumour might have gotten around. . .
Oh well. It can only make things better for me. At the moment, at least.
"Yes. It is."
"Oh."
Rupert doesn't look surprised, but he does look much more thoughtful than I would have expected from him.
"Whi-"
"Clan Moriston."
"Oh."
"It never meant much to me growing up, but now. . . well. . ." I shrug, "I'm not sure what it means to me now, but it does mean something."
He nods, "Weel, we've all been there."
"Not as much of a shock that I ate haggis without question now, is it?"
"Nae, no' quite as much. . ." he turns a contemplative look to me, "D'ye plan on being at the Oathtakin' on Christmas Day?"
"I don't know yet. I may look in, if there's room on the balcony. Jamie can't be there at all, of course, so I certainly won't stay."
He raises his eyebrows, "Only on the balcony, then?"
"Well, yes. To enter on the ground floor would be to enter The Presence, would it not? Colum's Presence, that is. Since he is Chieftain, and all. And doing that means tacitly declaring an intention to take the Oath. And since Jamie's a Fraser, he can't do that, and I don't intend to either."
"Weel, ye'ev ceartainly done yer research."
I snort, "Hardly. That's just what was written on the first page of the first search result when I put in "Oathtaking". It's practically common knowledge."
"Jamie's real last name isnae common knowledge. His stated Clan allegiance isnae either."
"And is it very shocking that I know those things?"
"Shocking? That? Nae, it isnae," he puts out a hand, "Alba gu Bràth, Mrs. Beauchamp."
"Indeed," I take his hand and shake it, briefly, "And my friends call me Claire."
He grins, his expression going right back to mischievous so quickly it's as though the contemplative Rupert never existed, "I think I'll stick tae Sassenach, if ye dinnae mind."
"Oh, I do mind. But I doubt that'll matter much to you," I stand up, and lightly punch his shoulder, "Just so long as I can call you PertDragRacer, we're all good."
He chuckles, "We were in this verry room when ye hacked us that time. I've hardly dared get on Leoch's chat-app evar since."
"Healthy fear is good for the soul, Rupert," I say, breezily, and go out into the hall.
I pause, halfway down the passage.
Stage Three went surprisingly well. That little bonus conversation with Rupert was quite unexpected, and very encouraging.
Rumours that I'm part Scot, eh?
I turn down a different hallway, determined to go find Leticia, and talk to her about Stage Four.
Chapter 59: My Own Flesh And Blood
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
People are Gathering at Leoch.
They've been doing so in ones and twos, or in small family groups for weeks now, of course, but today has been wave after wave of people, new people, from all over Scotland, arriving at Leoch for tonight's Yuletide Feast.
All of the decorations are up by now – all the lights and greenery, wreaths and stockings, paper chains, fake snow, sham icicles, advent calendars, rainbows of striped candies, and tray after tray after tray of frosted sugar cookies. The children, when they haven't been scarfing up the abundant treats, have been playing with whistles, crackers, pop-ups, whizz-bangers, clapper-ats, and dozens more noisemaking toys almost since dawn.
This morning, Jamie declared it positive sacrilege for either of us to go into the office on Yule, and instead positioned us in a convenient corner of the balcony that surrounds the Great Hall, right in the middle of the action. He's been introducing me to this MacKenzie's nephew's step-sister's lad's second wife, and that MacKenzie's third cousin once removed husband's fourth child's niece, and so-and-so MacKenzie's great-aunt's half-brother's daughter's twins all day, straining even my unnatural capacity to remember names and faces.
It is honestly lovely to see Jamie so excited over seeing such a number of his family members he hasn't seen for so long, but I do find myself getting tired of them greeting me with - "Oh, aye, I'd heard Colum had got hissealf a wee Sassenach tae manage t'farm – could scarce beleave et!".
My patient smile and tolerant expression are wearing a bit thin. . .
On the plus side – I have heard more embarrassing tales about Jamie's childhood than I think I'll ever need. I'm still giggling about the one story a priceless old lady told me about a cow and a milk bucket.
The story itself wasn't all that funny, but the way Jamie blushed at the memory was hilarious.
Gwyllyn and the rest of the Cuckoos have been on stage just below us for an impressive number of hours, with only a few breaks, playing what Jamie calls "cèilidh music", for one and all. There is quite a bit of dancing, and several pockets of people singing along. The kitchen staff have been working in droves, delivering so many drinks, sweets and snacks to the multitudes, I don't think anyone has noticed that both lunch and tea haven't happened, to "leave room", as I heard Mrs. Fitz say yesterday, for the grand feast planned for tonight. The connecting doors with the formal dining room have been open all day, and if the looks of the tables are any indication – even the very tiny sliver of them I can see from our position – then "grand" will hardly do it justice, and "feast" seems a mighty small word for what she's planning.
All at once, Fergus appears in front of us – fortunately in a lull between Jamie's introduction sessions - with a hesitant smile, wide, curious eyes, and dressed in very nice, nearly-brand-new clothes, a festive red and green silk handkerchief wrapped around his empty wrist.
"Here the laddie is, then," says Jamie, clapping Fergus on the shoulder, "Dressed tae the nines an' in good time for the biggest meal of the day – jus' like a good boy. We've hardly seen ye since breakfast, lad – where have ye been?"
He sways sideways a little from Jamie's more-enthusiastic-than-usual playful shove, "About with the boys, Monsieur," he says, tamely, "There have been many games today, and Tammas and Hamish and Lindsey and Danny and Davie and Eli all wanted me on their teams for so many things. . ."
Jamie pushes his way past a knot of conversing guests, and comes back with a chair, which he plunks down between the two reserved for us, "Aye, it's a day for good times, lad. Have a seat. Stay wi' us a while."
He blinks once or twice at the chair, and looks around at the crowd a little reluctantly.
"This is a family affair, Monsieur. Am I allowed to sit here?"
Jamie is instantly down on one knee in front of the boy, a big hand on his narrow shoulder.
"Fergus, laddie – listen tae me, aye?"
He nods, minutely.
"First of all – there's far more than family here. Why, practically everyone with any connection at all tae the MacKenzies has sent a representative, at the very least. An Oathtaking doesnae happen evary year, ken?"
Fergus just looks at Jamie, a little dazed, and silent.
"And in your case specifically – weel, ye're my son." He holds up a hand to forestall any protests, "Son of my name, as it may be – or soon tae be so, anyroad – but still my son, Fergus, lad. Chosen family is still family, ken?" Jamie smiles knowingly, "Sometimes more so than any other sort. Sae ye belong here jus' as much as anyone of my own flesh an' blood. Aye?"
Slowly, Fergus nods. Then, he sits down next to me, puts his his chin in his hands, and stares about him, saying nothing, seeming a bit overwhelmed.
I have to agree with him there. Just the sheer noise alone would have been too much for me hours ago if not for the constant grounding of Jamie's presence.
He brings up a nice young couple just then, and introduces them as his Aunt Flora's third cousin's lad, and his wife, and then with a gesture at us, says this is his girlfriend, and our son, and isn't it wonderful that. . .
I tune out, suddenly realizing that Fergus doesn't have his food sack with him. I get up politely, and go in search of some snacks for him. It isn't difficult, and very soon I have a plate of fancy sandwiches, several deviled eggs, a handful of candied almonds, some nameless deep-fried chicken thing on a stick, and a surreptitious bag of crisps one of the kitchen staff handed me after asking if the food was for me or one of the children.
I pause to listen to Gwyllyn a while on the way back, impressed once again at the Welshman's breadth of talent, not to mention fortitude. Dozens of MacKenzies whirl about him as he plays a reel, and hundreds more give a hearty cheer when the song finishes.
Chosen family indeed.
I put the food down on the small table beside our chairs, quite ready for a bit of a rest myself. But before I can ask Fergus about his day, Jamie comes over to introduce a pair of his cousins yet again. I get drawn into the conversation this time, however, for the young woman of the pair is also a farm labourer, moved here from Canada three years ago, and is fascinated by the art of food hybridization. She has some very good ideas too, and I learn quite a bit about Scottish farming culture I haven't been here long enough to pick up on my own yet, but are still fresh and interesting facts to her.
I smile over at Jamie, as he talks to the young woman's brother. Or rather, as the young man talks to him. Jamie only smiles and nods sometimes, making soothing noises in the Gàidhlig. Suddenly, it strikes me as odd that I haven't seen Colum or Dougal about much today. Jamie is the only one acting the host, or doing anything Chieftain-like, anywhere on the balcony or in the Great Hall. I did see Dougal around an hour or so ago, but so briefly as to almost not have been here at all. I saw Leticia come down for Colum's breakfast tray this morning, but he hasn't even put in an appearance in the Great Hall today.
Odd. Very odd. For both of them. . .
A young man I recognize as one of Colum's personal household staff comes up to Jamie then, and starts whispering fiercely in his ear.
I am about to ask what's wrong, when I hear a soft thump behind me.
I turn, and the first thing I notice is that none of the snacks I brought for Fergus have been eaten. . .
Then I look a meter over. . .
All sound fades from my hearing, and the world narrows to one chair, and to one small boy, collapsed on the floor beside it.
I am at his side so fast, I don't remember moving. I cradle his head in my arms, and start breathing again when he moans.
"Shh, don't try and speak, darling," I murmur, looking wildly around for Jamie.
Suddenly, he is looking down at us, his eyes grim, his jaw set.
"Hamish is ill too, Sassenach. Come wi' me."
He stoops, and heaves Fergus over his shoulder, and we practically run down to the infirmary.
Notes:
Soundtrack for this chapter - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-FP-eA08Pfk
Chapter 60: In The Devil's Kirkyard
Chapter Text
When we get to the infirmary, it is in an uproar.
Jamie has to push past a wildly arguing Colum and Dougal just to get to the beds, and then, the first one is surrounded. I see several of Colum's staff, some people in black that I don't recognize, and on the far side of the consulting room, Leticia weeping, with only Murtagh trying to comfort her.
It takes Jamie a few seconds to settle the still moaning Fergus on the second bed, but then he closes his eyes, and I can see him gather himself.
"Silence!" he bellows through the clamour, "The God-dammed bloody lot of ye!"
The room goes quiet, out of sheer shock. Jamie doesn't give in to raging fury very often, and I must say, it is very effective when he does.
"Dougal?" he asks, voice clipped and cold, "What's happenin'?"
Dougal's own jaw is set hard, and his words come out flat, and emotionless, "Wee Hamish came in an hour ago, feeling sick, an' dizzy. He fainted about ten minutes later, and hasnae fully woke up since. Leticia called Father Bain," Dougal nods at the tight group of men dressed in black, who then part to reveal the priest, huddled among his attendants, clutching a crucifix to his chest, "An' there appears tae be a dispute as tae the next course of action tae take."
"Nae dispute," barks the priest, "The lad is possessed, an' the demon mus' be thrown out befoor it infects the lot of us!"
"Wi' what?" Jamie sneers, "Whisky an' spirits? Moanin' an' groanin' isnae a germ, an' faintin' isnae demons! These lads have been poisoned, an' I'll thank ye all tae go an'-"
"That devil child?" Father Bain points at Fergus and spits his next words viciously at him, "He probably gave it tae the young Laird tae begin wi'!"
"Oh? How by, exactly? Droplet infection? Demon possession isnae a diagnosis, it's a bloody superstition! Be off wi' yer damn prehistoric shite, an' let me work!"
Jamie comes round the bed then, arms pulled back, fists clenched, and a cold, intense fire in his eyes.
Things are about to go very, very bad. . .
"Have you ever seen a drunk man, Father Bain?" I ask, into the blistering silence.
The whole room turns to look at me, and even Jamie's righteous fury takes a pause.
"A-aye?" says the priest, shocked into something like curiosity.
"Then you also must know that certain kinds of head injury can result in being what is called "punch drunk", yes?"
"Aye, lass, but what-"
"And it naturally follows, does it not, that the symptoms of both afflictions, being similar, may lead to one being diagnosed as the other?"
He doesn't answer this time, but I push on, "And treating one like the other is almost never a good idea – in fact, it can lead to death in some cases – I'm sure you know that too."
The whole room blinks, submerged in confusion.
I gather to me all my Central authority, all my Beauchamp nobility, and every bit of pure, Claire-ish stubbornness I can find, and look Father Bain straight in the eye.
"Well then. Clearly poisoning and possession have the same symptoms in this case. But, if we treat one like the other, we may very well make the problem worse. It might be possession masquerading as poison. Or even the other way around. So, I suggest we let Jamie look over the boys, and give him a chance to at least assess the problem. And I promise you, Father," I say, with a chilly respect that is very nearly a threat, "If it turns out to be possession, I will be the first one to insist on your involvement. No one here knows anything about exorcisms."
I wait a heartbeat, but either no one picks up on the implied insult, or the sheer audacity of it lets it pass.
"But, in the meantime," I smile with all the sweet, overbearing hauteur of a Central dignitary, and gesture towards the waiting room area outside, "There is a family here in great distress, Father. I hear that prayer and supplication can help with that. And I know that priests are good at prayer. Are they not?"
"A-aye. Of course," says Father Bain, now totally bemused. Like all bullies, he's a coward at heart, and not any match at all for Warrior Claire in full Central mode. He finds himself obeying my gesture out of pure, dumbfounded bewilderment. He realizes what he's doing halfway across the room, of course, but he's committed to leaving now, and cannot gracefully stay.
Slowly, everyone follows him into the waiting room, Murtagh last of all, helping a still weeping Leticia, though she is quieter now.
"Come back soon, mo goistidh," says Jamie, leaning over Hamish and inspecting his eyes, "We need ye heer, aye?"
Murtagh grunts, and closes the door between us.
Warrior Claire falls away from me in a sickening rush, leaving behind a very frightened, extremely anxious mother, who almost wishes she was Letitia at this moment.
At least then I could cry. . .
Jamie works over Hamish in silence for a few minutes, and then says, almost meekly, "Thank ye, Sassenach. I would not have handled that nearly as. . . neatly."
He smiles wryly at me, but I don't answer beyond a nod, letting him focus.
I'm in too much of a state to speak for a little bit anyway. . .
Eventually, Jamie gives Hamish an injection, and sets him up on a saline drip. He goes back around to Fergus, and gives him the same things. Then, he leans on the foot of the beds, one fist gripping each railing, and heaves a great sigh.
"Damn an' blast that bloody priest!" he shoves himself away from the beds, and grips his hair in his hands, "Jesus, Mary an' Bride, I had a thought what this could be befoor that hell-preacher drove it from my mind!"
I shake free of my worry to ask a question that's been nagging at me since we got here - "And, it's definitely poison?"
"Agch," he growls, "Of course it's poison, thank ye very much."
"All right, all right," I raise a hand defensively, "I only meant to ask if it couldn't be venom. Or a rapid-onset bacterial infection, maybe. Or anemia. Poison isn't the only scientific option, you know."
"Agh – I ken, an' I'm sorrae, Sassenach," he sits heavily in a nearby chair, and stares off into space, "Evary time I'm in the presence of that man I feel like I'm in the Devil's own kirk. . ." He looks over at me sharply, "Fergus did mention the boys he was playin' with this morning, yes?"
"Yes, but-"
"Was one of them a Tammas, or a Lindsey?"
"Yes, he mentioned both, but-"
Jamie claps his hands, barks a harsh laugh, and strides over to the door, calling insistently for Murtagh. The man appears a moment later, looking several different types of worried.
But Jamie ignores that, "Go an' find Tammas Baxter an' Lindsay Macneill, an' bring them here tae me, Murtagh. Be insistent wi' them, please. Very insistent."
Murtagh's eyebrows go up, "Oh? Important that ye talk tae them, is it?"
"Aye, very."
"Weel, alright then."
Murtagh nods and goes, the worry not leaving his face, but determination joining it.
Silence returns to the infirmary, broken only by our two boys' low, subdued moaning, and the distant ringing sound of Father Bain's prayers.
Jamie lets the silence hang for a minute, then turns to me.
"There's an auld ruin of a place, not a mile from here, in the hills west a ways," he nods his head in that direction, "A monastery it was, way back. Nowadays it's called The Black Kirk. Folks say it's haunted by the Devil himself, an' that his demons play in the kirkyard by moonlight. Goin' there an' pissin' on the doorstep has been a stunt an' a challenge for local boys for centuries. Often they'll eat somethin' growin' there too – tae steal the power of the place, ken?" He growls, frustrated, "An' that's where the demon stories come from – boys comin' home sick, raving, thrashin' about – but it isnae possession, it's poison. There's dozens of auld things from medieval times still growin' up there, an' more wild things than c'n be counted, an' chances are even tae good that any random thing ye pick was nevar meant tae be eaten atal. Yer chances are fair tae even that it'll be poisonous, an' I wouldnae like tae tell ye jus' how many of those are more than likely tae be fatal."
I choke a little, but manage to speak anyway, "Alright. But how do we know they- " I look over at Fergus and Hamish, and can't finish the sentence.
"Hamish has been warned for years against goin' there - strictly - more strictly even than most other boys around here, but what with the Gathering, an' Yule, and so many other boys bein' here, an' him bein' the Chieftain's son, I make no doubts he finally couldnae resist it. Especially if. . ."
Murtagh comes back in then, dragging two protesting boys by their earlobes.
"Heer ye have a Lindsay Macneill - " Murtagh pushes one boy towards Jamie with a very firm, but not unkind shove, "An' heer ye have a Tammas Baxter," he gives a second shove to the other boy. "Try tae leave them in one piece, lad, their mothers are verra fond of them."
Murtagh grins wickedly, and promptly leaves again.
A kindly, mischievous twinkle enters Jamie's eyes for a moment, but he quickly quashes it, and sets his face hard against the boys. He stands, crosses his arms, and looms like only a two-meter tall Scotsman can loom.
"Now then, lads," he says, nodding seriously, "I ken the twa ov ye went tae The Black Kirk once, an' came back unharmed – an' I ken ye'ev spent yer days evar since darin' other boys tae go an' do the same thing, like it's naught but a game." He puts a hand on each boy's shoulder, making sure they are looking at the two boys in the hospital beds, "But this is no game, lads. This is slow, fatal poison. An' if ye lie tae me about it, it'll be murder." He spins them both around, and makes them look up at him, "Ye wilnae have meant tae. But that's what it'll be. D'ye ken what it is I'm telling ye?"
Both boys nod, solemnly.
"Alright. Now then," he makes direct eye contact with each one of them in turn, "Did either of ye dare Hamish or Fergus tae go tae The Black Kirk?"
Very, very quietly, they both whisper, "Yes."
They nod their heads, and squirm uncomfortably, but Jamie visibly relaxes. His whispered "Thank you" sounds like a sigh.
"Ye dared both of them?"
They nod.
"Did ye see them go?"
They nod again.
"Did either of ye go with them? Or anyone else go with them?"
They shake their heads.
"Alright," Jamie waves a hand, "Ye can go. But remember this next time ye think ye'er just playin' dares. Aye?"
"Yes sir, Jamie sir," the boys chorus quietly, and then practically sprint out of the room.
As soon as they're gone, Jamie sits back down on the chair, and grips his hair, growling in frustration again.
"What?" I ask, surprised, "I thought that was the confirmation you needed!"
"Oh, it helps, aye, but it doesnae narrow things down at all. There's dozens of things up there that might hurt ye if ye ate them, like I said, an' wi'out knowing which, or how much they ate, or exactly how long ago, or how much they've absorbed, it's almost random chance which antidote they need, or how much tae give them. I c'n tell a lot by the symptoms, bu' nowise near enough." He scrubs his hands over his face, "'Tis a fearful guess tae have tae make – sometimes the cure is worse than the disease in these cases – 'specially if you get it wrong."
We both look over at Fergus and Hamish – who are much quieter now, thanks to Jamie's treatment, but still in obvious pain and distress. It is quite clear that neither of them would survive if Jamie gets it wrong.
Something occurs to me. . .
"Jamie. . ." I say, slowly, "I have all sorts of purification and isolation apparatus out in the Manager's barn – and I don't want to brag, but, I am something of an expert in figuring out plants. What if we – well you - ran a full bloodwork lab on the boys, and then we went up to this Black Kirk and gathered samples of everything they might have eaten? I could tell you which one matched their blood-chem, and the toxicity levels and concentration, absorption rate – everything."
He looks up, wild hope in his eyes, "Ye could?"
"Yes," I nod confidently, "It would only take a few minutes per plant."
He practically leaps up, and starts gathering things from a nearby cupboard – supplies to do a blood-lab, I'm assuming, "Let's no' waste any time, then. Call Murtagh back in, would ye?"
I do. He comes even more reluctantly this time.
"What is it lad?"
"Tell Geordie tae bring over some lads from the stables, aye? Five or six, at the least. They're tae stand here, in this room, and prevent anyone from approaching the beds – save yourself, and Leticia – until Claire and I get back. Aye?"
"Wh-what-"
"Dinnae ask questions, please, mo goistidh. I'll explain later. I need six men, blocking off access tae the beds. Will ye do this for me? For us?"
"Aye, a'course, but-"
"Evarything else mus' wait – I'm sorrae, bu' it must." He swipes an alcohol pad across Hamish's arm, and extracts a blood sample. He unwraps another syringe, and does the same to Fergus. Then he goes over to the counter, and starts laying out indicators, and labeling test tubes. He's so intent on his work that Murtagh doesn't try to ask anything more. In a moment, he goes.
I also don't interrupt Jamie's concentration, instead going over to hold Hamish's hand, and kiss Fergus on the top of his head.
My stomach twists at the thought that it may be for the last time. . .
The next few minutes take years to pass.
"That's that, Sassenach," says Jamie, at last, wrapping up the bloodwork results in two neat packages, "Let's go-"
Geordie comes into the room then, leading a veritable squadron of stablehands. Jamie puts the two carefully labeled packages into Geordie's hands.
"Thank ye, lad. Now deliver these tae the Manager's barn, an' wait there for us, aye?"
Jamie has grabbed my arm, led us into the passage, and out through a back door before Geordie has time to respond.
Our feet crunch grimly through the snow, neither of us saying anything. I am shivering heavily by the time we reach the garage. Jamie hands one of the random jackets kept there to me, and takes one himself.
"Brr. They walked two whole miles in this?"
Jamie shrugs, "They're young. An' were dressed for it. Plus it wasnae so cold when the sun was high an' before the wind was up." He opens a car with a click, and hands me into the driver's side.
"Would ye mind drivin' Sassenach? I wantae look some things up on my com – the most likely plants – confirm some symptomatic indications – aye?"
"Yes, of course," I scan the buttons and controls, confirming that I know them all, "But I don't know how to get there. . ."
"It's easy, I'll show ye."
It is easy, and after the first couple of tricky turning spots, he barely has to show me.
The wooded, hilly place stands out against the late afternoon sky like a Skycity over the sea. The dark outlines of earth and trees heave up against the horizon, practically creaking and groaning with presence. Long bars of setting sunlight cast themselves upwards through the mist, and reflect in blues and purples all across the snowy shadows.
It is no surprise to me at all that the place is thought to be haunted.
Haunted by all the ghosts and goblins that a close-knit, creative, hard-living culture, obsessed with their often cruel, unfeeling history can conjure up. . .
I drive between two massive, yet very tumbledown and moss-eaten pillars, and pull to a stop when I feel the crunch of gravel and the bump of cobblestones beneath the tyres.
Jamie looks up from his com, "We here then?"
"Yes."
"Good."
He gets out without another word, and is instantly scanning all the rocks and old wall fragments for anything our boys may have eaten. There is much less snow here, but still a hard, frozen crust lies over everything, making pretty much the entire place look the very definition of unappetizing. I can't imagine what. . .
"Is that a yew tree?" I point, and Jamie looks over.
"Aye, well spotted, mo nighean." He goes over and cuts a sample into a bag. Then he takes a tissue out of his pocket, and uses it to extract something from the dirt without having to touch the thin, frozen, scraggly stalk. He puts it carefully into another bag, murmuring, "Monk's hood – though we call it wolfsbane around here." He seals the bag, and hands both to me, "It isnae likely tae be that – the symptoms don' really match. But it's as well tae be sure."
"Certainly," I say, scanning the looming woods, and stamping my feet to try and keep warm, "How about that?" I point again, this time at a clump of white berries I more than recognize.
"Mistletoe," says Jamie, cutting a spray, and putting it in a third bag. "Not bad, but I still dinnae think-"
"What's that?" I ask, going over to look at something I've spotted past a wide breach in the ancient curtain wall, "It looks like. . ."
It looks like a smooth brown rock, but in this scene of hard, frozen white, and dingy, dirty blacks and grays, clean, unmarked brown stands out.
It turns out it isn't a rock at all. It is Fergus's canvas rucksack, and there are two sets of footprints broken through the snow nearby, leading deeper into the woods. . .
Chapter 61: The Cuckoo In The Grove
Chapter Text
Jamie and I follow the footprints for as far as we can. It isn't far. Several meters into the stand of pines and oaks, the snow thins out, leaving only dry, hard, spindly grasses that don't keep traces well. Jamie stops near the last clear set of prints, and looks around, staring into the trees as though willing them to speak. I reset my grip on the shoulder strap of Fergus's bag, refusing to allow myself to descend into anxious worry.
"They must'ha seen something ta make them come this way, mo nighean. They must. There's nae other reason tae go inta these woods."
"Well, I don't see anything poisonous growing here, at least. . ."
"True," he plants his fists on his hips, "Oak an' fir couldnae do them much harm, nor the wild grasses neither. I just wish I knew why. . ." He seems to spot something behind a thick clump of hazel brush, and gestures for me to follow him. In fact he's seen something on the hazel, not behind it. He cups the long trailing end of one twig, and holds it out for me to see.
"Catkins, Sassenach," he says, voice awed, eyes baffled.
I feel very nearly the same way.
"What are spring flowers doing out in the middle of winter?"
"Dinnae ken. But it must be what they saw." He pushes past a few more layers of whippy, spindly twigs, then stops abruptly, lashing me with branches, and nearly making me run into him.
"Jamie!" I snap, annoyed, "What-"
"Huish!," he hisses, and reaches back to grab my arm and pull me up level with him.
"Ow! What – ohh."
All protests are cut off as I take in our surroundings.
Beyond the thick, enclosing hedge of hazel and fir, there is a circle of graceful ash trees, arching their branches over a still-green lawn of delicate clover. The only place that shows signs of frost is one dark spot in the center, where freezing snow made it through the protecting canopy, leaving behind a bruise when it thawed. The ashes themselves are bare and snow-wreathed in their upper branches, but their lower ones are astonishingly in flower, mimicking the look of snow, but with the heavy, heady breath of spring. It is distinctly warmer here, the air thick with the rich, damp scents of active, flourishing life. There are patches of golden primroses everywhere, with the coils of fiddlehead ferns showing here and there among them. Spikes of wild garlic show green and fresh next to the gray ridges of ash bark. Red and white clover flowers sprinkle the lawn as though with festive confetti, and little cushions of moss campion nestle in tree roots and on stones, and in the nooks of fallen branches.
But the most arresting thing is the utter, total profusion of lady's smock. The white, pink-veined flowers lie in heaps surrounding the clover lawn, and push up against the hazel hedge, like piles of shoveled snow, waiting for the warmth of spring. But the tall, thin, tangled plants are green now, giving off a spicy, herbal smell that intoxicates as much as it bewilders.
"Cuckoo flowers," Jamie breathes, "This. . . this must be a unicorn's glade."
"A what?" I whisper, still unsure if what I'm looking at can possibly be real.
"Fairyland, Sassenach. Where it's always Spring. Where a unicorn lives, and fairies dance under the stars."
"But that's. . ."
I'm about to say impossible.
I take another look around.
Nothing is impossible.
"Do you think the boys ate anything from here? All the plants look harmless to me. Primroses are edible, clover is edible, wild garlic is edible, lady's smock is edible. In fact, I believe ash flowers and fiddlehead sprouts are edible too. Campion. . . is non-toxic, I think. I don't know much about hazel, but there's only that one cluster of catkins, and I don't think they chewed on sticks. That's about all that's here, and I don't think any of it would hurt them. . ."
"Everything here could hurt them, Sassenach," says Jamie, still staring at the abundant flowers with a stunned, wondering expression.
"What?"
"It's Fairyland," he says, grabbing my arm again and shaking me slightly, "Eating anything in Fairyland c'n get ye cursed."
"Cursed? What are you talking about, Jamie?"
"Ye cannae take anything from Fairyland – no' a sip tae quench yer thirst, no' a bite tae quell yer belly, no' a rose petal, no' a leaf, no' a grain of pollen, or the Fae will come tae ye in yer sleep, an' steal yer soul. The only way out ov it is tae pay them in gold for whate'er ye took, and leave an offering at the same place ye took it."
"Jamie!" I pull my arm away from him, "I'm surprised at you. This is the same kind of superstitious guff that Father Bain was spouting!"
"Aye, demons is one thing, Sassenach, bu' I'll no' be defying the Fae while standin' on their oon doorstep!"
I gape at him, "You. . . believe all that?"
He clenches his fists, "Nae. No' believe. I ken it. Ye cannae live in Scotland long wi'out knowin', Sassenach. Knowin' there's somethin' moor than what we c'n see – things we cannae evar, evar understand."
I stand there, mouth open, unable to speak.
He's right.
I know he's right.
Craigh na Dun proves he's right.
Dammit.
"Alright," I say, finally, "Let's go, then."
To my further shock, he shakes his head, "No, this is the place - I'm sure of it, mo ghràidh."
"But. . . but if we can't take samples - and any we did take would be of perfectly harmless plants anyway – what are you thinking we can do, Jamie?" I sigh, exasperated, "There's nothing to do – let's just go. I'll test the plants we've gathered already, and if we haven't found a match you'll just have to take a guess. And. . . hope. Or. . . pray, I suppose. . ."
I shrug, and turn to go, but suddenly, he grabs my shoulder. Or, rather, the strap on my shoulder.
Fergus's food bag.
"Let me see in there, Sassenach," he says, lifting it from me and opening it to rummage around, "When Fergus was showin' me befoor, I thought I saw. . ." his hand comes out holding two bars of chocolate, "Here we are."
He removes their outer paper labels, revealing the inner, gold-coloured foil wrappers. Then, he takes a knife from his pocket, and steps cautiously into the glade.
The lightest wind picks up, wafting the scent of snow across the scene of impossible spring.
Jamie approaches one of the ash trees, and crouches down in front of it. He murmurs something long and complicated in the Gàidhlig, and then half unwraps the two chocolate bars, leaving the candy visible, but set in two glittering nests of gold. Then, with one quick, smooth motion, he slices the top off a plant of wild garlic.
In less than three strides he's back with me, dragging me away from the place as fast as we can humanly go.
"Wh-why - did you - take the - the garlic?" I pant, nearly needing to run to keep up with him.
"Tis'nae garlic," he says, pushing some long fir branches out of my way, "'S lily o' th'valley. . ."
He doesn't say anything else until we're back in the car, and driving away. I toss the keys to him, and get in the passenger seat, my lap full of sample bags. I've just finished labeling them when he glances over at me.
"Ye' dinnae think I'm an utter fool now, d'ye, Sassenach?"
I take another long look at the lily of the valley sample, wondering again how I could have made such a misidentification. . .
"A fool? No. Or if I do, we can both share the title," I tap the bags on my lap, "We're both people of science, Jamie. People of facts, and reality, and good, solid common sense. But. . . well." I shrug, and quote, "'There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio.'"
He nods, and turns us onto Leoch's long gravel drive.
A few minutes later we're at the Manager's barn, Geordie waiting anxiously for us.
"What-" he starts, but stops at a gesture from Jamie.
"Later," he says, "Let Claire do her work now. . ."
I get down to it in the lab, with two very willing assistants. . .
Matching the poison with the boys' blood toxin samples takes only slightly longer than I predicted it would, and the full antidote write-up and synthesis recipe takes less time than any of us could possibly have hoped.
It was the lily of the valley. . .
Jamie grabs the two vials of specially formulated antidote from the synthesizer, and holds them aloft with a gesture of triumph.
"Three cheers for Claire Beauchamp!" He hugs me to him, and kisses me soundly on the forehead.
"Let's make sure it works before we celebrate, yes?"
"Yes," says Geordie, grinning while hurrying us back into our hastily-shed coats, "An' I'm comin' wi' ye, if ye don' mind."
Jamie claps him on the shoulder in response, then takes my arm, and we all hurry back to the infirmary.
Father Bain is still in the waiting room area, praying in a highly theatrical manner, surrounded by his attending priests, Colum's personal staff, Murtagh, and Dougal. Jamie barely gives a glance to them though, and hurries in to the boys.
The attending squad of stablehands are still here, but beyond them is Leticia, sitting solemnly next to Hamish, and Colum, his prosthetic off, his hands folded, perched on a high folding stool between the beds, angled so he can look at both boys equally.
Jamie pauses in his rush.
"I changed places wi' Murtagh," says Colum, gesturing regally, "I. . . needed. . . tae be heer."
Jamie nods shortly, shrugging off his coat and going over to the sink to wash his hands, "I understand, Uncle."
Colum takes a long look at Fergus.
"Aye. I suspect ye do. It's a good thing ye'ev done for the lad. The twa ov ye."
He includes me with a glance, and a twitch of his eyebrows.
"Only the decent thing," says Jamie, pulling a dose of the antidote into a syringe, and coming around to Fergus's bedside.
"He'll be a good legacy to ye, lad," Colum whispers, nodding as Jamie injects the antidote. Then he looks over at Hamish, and nods again as Jamie injects him too, "There is more tae heredity than blood."
He looks up, and makes eye contact with Leticia, "An' moor tae love than a name."
Jamie nods, and whispers agreement, but is obviously focused solely on the boys, and if and when the antidote will take effect.
It is a long, long few minutes, with Jamie fussing over them, taking their pulses, listening to their breathing, his eyes flashing with blue fire every time there is even the tiniest change.
Finally, as he gently brushes back the hair from Hamish's forehead, the boy's eyelids flutter, and he takes a deep, distress-free breath.
Leticia leaps forward with a cry, and clutches her son to her chest.
I pretend not to notice the shining moisture around Colum's eyes.
"Call Dougal to us, please. . ." he says, not bothering to wipe the tears from his cheeks.
I call Dougal in, and then go and sit with Jamie by Fergus's side. He has drawn the privacy curtain between the beds, giving his uncles as much space as possible, and Fergus as much quiet as can be reasonably expected. He holds Fergus's hand, and combs his fingers through the boy's long brown curls.
"Why hasn't it worked yet?" I ask, eyes burning, heart thudding so hard against my ribs I think it might burst.
If it doesn't work, I'll have had Fergus for even less time than I was pregnant. . .
"Probably body weight. Depends on how much he ate, an' how well he'll react tae the-"
"Papa?" Fergus rasps though dry lips, "What happened?"
Jamie smiles, even as he suddenly cannot keep from weeping, "Ye were ill, lad."
Very carefully, he lifts our son, and hugs him close, "But ye're better now."
I bolt to the nearest bathroom, slamming the door behind me and hunching over the sink, nearly hyperventilating in my efforts not to faint with relief.
Eventually, I collapse onto the closed toilet, holding my head in my hands.
This mothering thing isn't for the faint of heart. . .
It is only then that I finally let myself cry.
Chapter 62: Swear Words
Chapter Text
"On the fiiiifth day of Christmas, my true love sent to meeeeee – five gol-den riiiiiiiings-"
"Agch, enough, Fergus, ya wee plague!"
Jamie jumps up from his couch, and starts chasing Fergus around the room, a mock-serious scowl on his face. Fergus darts away, laughing while continuing to sing.
"Four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves-"
Jamie catches him, and holds him upside-down, where he swings while triumphantly squeaking out the last line of the verse - "
"-and a paaaaaartridge in a pear treeeeeeeeee-"
Jamie growls like a cartoon lion, and lightly tosses Fergus onto the nearby bed. He bounces for a few seconds, squealing with laughter.
"On the siiiixth day-"
"Arrrgh!" Jamie pounces then, and starts tickling Fergus, until he's laughing so hard he cannot continue singing.
Very soon, he clings onto Jamie's neck, "Throw me again, papa, throw me again!"
Chuckling, Jamie scoops him up, and tosses him onto the middle of the bed. He bounces up, claps his hands and yells "Again, again!"
Jamie does.
"Again, again!", says Fergus, rolling on the rumpled quilt, and pushing back his magnificently tousled curls, "Again, again!"
And again, Jamie does, and again and again, and again, until finally he flops down next to our still-laughing son, "Agh! I'm too young tae be feelin' this old, Fergus, lad!"
In response, Fergus rattles off something unintelligible in what I assume is Gàidhlig, so glibly that Jamie sits up, laughing incredulously.
"An' wheer exactly did ye learn tae cuss like a Scot, lad?"
Fergus digs in his pocket, and brings out a small booklet, "It was in my stocking this morning – from Hamish – and at breakfast he said anything from it could liven up any conversation."
"The Bonnie Book of Barkit Bangers and Baws, a Treasury of Scottish Slang," Jamie reads out the title, voice unbelieving, "For Bampots, Belters, Burds, and Bairns of All Ages."
He sits and blinks for a minute, then throws his head back, and laughs. Then he shakes his head, "Fergus, laddie, the day may come when ye cease tae surprise me, but that day is not taeday." He taps the little paper book, "Jus' remember that if somethin' can only refer to a person – no' their actions or their choices – only the person – there's a chance it's a slur. An' there's no good use of slurs. Ye mus' think befoor ye speak. Ken?"
Fergus nods, and Jamie musses his already thoroughly mussed hair, pulling him in for a hug. Fergus pulls away with one last bounce on the bed, "I must go now, papa, the movies will start soon."
"Aye, I recall. They mean tae put on a show for the weans during the Oathtaking, yes?"
Fergus nods, "Three movies, yes. One in each classroom. We all voted yesterday."
"Oh aye? An' which three won?"
"Elf, Home Alone, and Die Hard."
I close my book, not that I've been reading it anyway, "Die Hard? What is that about?"
"I do not know. I voted for Gremlins."
"Oh," I shrug, never having heard of any of the movies he's mentioned, "My family always used to watch Casablanca. . ."
"Eli said we could put Skittles in our popcorn, too."
"Exciting."
I smile as Fergus hugs me, and scampers out of Jamie's rooms. I look after him fondly for a minute, then turn to Jamie.
"So. . . exactly how long did you think before you started calling me Sassenach, you bloody beastly Scot?" I grin mischievously, and go over to him, standing between his knees, and resting my arms on his shoulders, "Or does that slur not count?"
He kisses my chin, "I thought a good bit, in fact, mo chridhe," he leans in and whispers in my ear, "Tha gaol agam ort," he nuzzles against my neck a little, "An' I dinnae think it is a slur, really, tae point out that ye'er different," he pulls back and smirks at me, looking me up and down, "I have said that I like that part about ye, have I not?"
"Not that I recall. Not in so many words."
"Oh? Remiss of me, then. . ."
He pulls the neckline of my shimmery dark-gray dress to the side a little, and nibbles along my collarbone for a minute, before running the tip of his tongue up my neck until he reaches the fancy black lace cord-necklace of his I'm wearing. He wraps his lips around it, and tugs, not hard, but enough to send surprising tingles down my back, all the way to my toes.
"Dhia, ye'er incredible," he mutters into my skin, "A true Sassenach – unlike anyone I've evar met before," he kisses across my jaw, and runs a thumb over my lips, "An' tha's a good thing. A precious thing. A delicious thing. . ."
He pulls my mouth down to his, his tongue tracing where his thumb just was.
I sigh as I let him in. Good lord this man can make me feel things. . .
Wanted. . .
Important. . .
Alive. . .
"Not that. . . this isn't. . . fun and all. . ." I say, pausing every few words to kiss him again, "But the Oathtaking is about to begin, isn't it?"
"Aye. It is."
"Did you get the Stage Four stuff to Leticia?"
He huffs a little laugh, "Bit late tae be askin', but yes. Handed it off tae her yesterday. She said she'd manage it."
"Are you sure it'll be strong enough?"
"My formula? It could take down an army."
I chuckle, "Heh. Just one man is all we need. But strategically. Do you think he noticed it?"
"In the lamb stew we had for lunch? Nae'un could detect horse apples if they were slipped inta Mrs. Fitz's gravy."
I laugh loudly, "I'm sure she'd love to hear that. . ."
"Figure of speech, Sassenach – nothin' more. He'll nevar ken what hit him." He kisses me soundly on the cheek, then gets up, "Come and find me in the stables when ye've seen enough, aye?"
"I will."
I squeeze his arm, then let him go.
Slowly, I make my way to the Great Hall balcony. I'm greeted there by many members of the household, and several people from the village that I've met, including Ellie and Mr. Carter, who own the milk bar.
"Here tae see the fun?" asks Ellie.
I tilt my head a little, not quite saying yes, "Something like that – though nothing I've read about an Oathtaking has suggested it's a particularly fun event. . ."
"Och, on paper it isnae – but in real life? Tae see the high an' mighty MacKenzies – schemers one an' all – tae be made tae kneel before their master, an' acknowledge he's bettar than them? Oor more in control, a'least?" she makes a kissing gesture, "Wonderful."
I smile, "I suppose the prospect does have its charms, certainly."
"Aye, that it does."
"This is the first Oathtaking since the Clan Restoration Act, isn't it?"
"For Clan MacKenzie it is, aye. An' there's dozens more household-heads here now than there were individual MacKenzies in the whole of Scotland the last time."
"That many?"
"Aye. We'll be here hours."
She smiles at the idea, as though a couple hundred men repeating the same, time-worn words continuously will be entertaining for no matter how long it takes to get through them all.
I shrug. To each their own.
I lean on the balcony's sturdy wrought-iron railing, and peer down at the Great Hall's stage. It is very clearly a dais today, with one very sophisticated wooden throne set in the exact middle of it. The only other furniture on the stage is a small, ornately carved side table, with a large ceramic jug, and a brightly polished brass two-handled cup atop it. If my research into Oathtakings is at all accurate, this would be the Loving Cup, and the Oathwine, a "light or moderate ale, a gentle wine, or a well-watered whisky", from which both the oath-taker and the Chieftain must drink, to seal their alliance. In times gone by, it was not unknown to spike the Oathwine with all manner of things - from the harmless, like vinegar or garlic - to the stomach-churning, like mustard seed, bayberry, or salt - to the technically non-lethal, like bitter cascara, animal dung, or rotted milk. Sometimes, it was merely that the whisky wasn't watered at all, leaving each Oathtaker unharmed, but the Chieftain made to drink perhaps two full liters of undiluted spirits.
Part of the drama, as I understand it, is to watch and see how long the Laird can stand it.
Well, that's what I'm counting on, at least. . .
There is a short fanfare from two of the Cuckoos In The Grove bagpipers. Very quickly, the Great Hall goes quiet. Slowly, Colum enters through the right rear door. His prosthetic carries him up the dais, where he stops, and steps out of it. Then, he settles himself regally on the throne, sitting very upright, and proud as anything. I must admit, I am surprised he hasn't insisted Hamish be here too, as the heir apparent of all this. Or I am until Dougal arrives, that is.
There is no fanfare for him, but the silently parting crowd, and his dignified journey up the whole length of the Great Hall to kneel before the dais is even more impressive, and to anyone watching who doesn't know both Colum and Dougal very well, the thought might just arise that the Lairdship is. . . well. . . a bit misplaced.
I nearly applaud. The man is brilliant, I have to give him that.
A brilliant snake, but still. . .
Of course today is a battle between brothers – probably both of them have independently seen to it that Hamish is completely out of the equation.
Into the silence, Dougal's voice booms out the first part of the Oath, in deep, ringing Gàidhlig. Then he stands, takes up the Loving Cup, and salutes Colum, saying,
"Today, it is my great honour tae be the furst among many tae pledge tae ye my fealty, my love, an' my obedience," he raises the cup even higher, "For my allegiance is tae the name that we bear, my Laird, my Chief, my dear brother. . ." he drinks deeply from the cup, then offers it to Colum.
He takes it, and drinks as well, "We are honoured by your pledge, and humbled by your humility."
Dougal goes back to his knees, and delivers the second half of the prescribed Oath, in the same loud, melodious Gàidhlig as before. When he is done, at a gesture from Colum, Dougal rises again, and goes to stand next to the great wooden throne, facing the crowd.
I watch a line form behind the next person who comes forward to kneel before Colum and give the Oath, barely seeing any of them, I am so bewildered with shock and disbelief.
This, I did not expect.
That Dougal would put himself forward to take the Oath first, yes, I'd anticipated that, and so had Jamie, from moment one. We had even surmised that Dougal would be given a place on the dais – though we hadn't been sure of that, so it is good to see our theory confirmed. But in none of mine and Jamie's planning had either of us expected that Dougal would change the Oath.
In the old days, like kilts, and tartan patterns and colours, and most other things, each Clan had taken the Oath in their own way, haphazardly and informally building up individualized rituals surrounding a core of basically accepted practices. But, after centuries of oppression, and generation after generation of imposed rules from an outside culture, the forms and words of the Oath became much more rigidly prescribed – like kilts, and like tartans had too.
In the Clan Restoration Act, there is an entire section detailing exactly how the Oath must be taken, and to who, and in what order their actions must be.
By making his own speech in the middle, and drinking to the Chieftain out of order, I think, technically, legally – Dougal hasn't taken the Oath at all.
Which if so, means that as War Chieftain, his having a place on the dais means something else entirely now.
Technically speaking, right now everyone in Clan MacKenzie is pledging the Oath to Dougal, as well.
I shake my head.
A brilliant, brilliant snake.
I've seen enough. Far more than enough.
I'd better get out of here before Stage Four happens.
Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ. . .
Chapter 63: Clean Pease Straw
Chapter Text
The empty farmyard at twilight is far eerier than it has any right to be. I've been through here dozens of times by now, and never has it been so quiet, so lonesome, so. . . ghostly. Never have the last few rays of light spread themselves out behind the feed barn and supplies barn with such a growling, threatening red sprawl. Never have the cool, aloof lights of the horse barn beckoned with such a sinister gleam. . .
I shiver, thankful I changed into outdoor clothes before coming to find Jamie, and doubly thankful I decided to throw my old green woolen cloak over everything.
I pull it closer about me now, and quicken my pace towards the stables.
We haven't had snow for several days, so the rough, dirty clumps of ice left from last week line the most common footpaths through the yard, like spilled collections of shattered, twisted robot skulls. As the blood red light of sunset fades behind me, the whole scene turns livid gray, and almost fantastically ugly.
I nearly trip on the ice-slick cobbles in my rushed efforts to get inside, just to escape the looming, glowering outdoors. . .
I don't take my cloak off in the office either. It's colder than usual in here tonight, and much, much lonelier than usual. In just a few visits I've grown accustomed to the noise and bustle of the place, and without it now it just seems. . . dead. Even the eternal poker game in the corner, with Peter, Edan and Tory isn't happening tonight. Most of the stalls are shut up too, so I can't even greet the horses I know while I trail up and down the aisles of white, forbidding doors.
Finally coming across a wheelbarrow of muck, and hearing the scrape-thud, scrape-thud of a dung shovel, is a positive relief.
Knowing that it must be Jamie manages to almost completely lift my mood out of the Lower Townships.
His back is facing me when I finally see him, bent half-over and raking out the empty stall. Suddenly, I remember something he said to me my first morning here.
A bright spark of mischief rises in my heart. . .
"So, are you thinking of me?"
He turns instantly, grinning at me so delightedly, you'd think we'd been apart for months, not less than an hour, "Always, Sassenach," he dumps one last shovel of shit into the barrow, "But not particularly specifically at the moment, no. . ." he comes out of the stall, closing the door behind him, and rolling the barrow away into another empty enclosure, "Why do ye ask?"
I loop an arm through his, "Well, remember my first morning here, when you said you'd never muck out a stall again without thinking of the shape and smell of me. . .?"
"Ahh, yes, I was wonderin' why the feel of that fine arse of yours up against my thighs was sae strong in my memory taenight."
The firm weight of his hand rests for a minute on the curve of my hip, then slides lower, grabbing a handful that sends tingles up my spine, even through my thick cloak and jeans.
"I dream of that first night in the van, Claire," he lowers his forehead to mine, sighing contentedly, "Your legs draped over my lap, my arms cradling ye close tae me. . ." he runs his hands up and down my arms, "The perfume of your hair, still sweet from a strange shampoo I'd never smelled before. . . God I wanted tae kiss ye then."
"You did? But I was a mess. . ."
"Aye, mebbe so, but from the first moment I saw ye, I wanted tae-" he looks up as we pass a feed and bedding station, "Have ye been up tae the hayloft out heer?"
"No."
"Nae time like the present. . ."
He takes my hand, and leads me up the broad rungs of a ladder built into the wall. I sneeze a few times from the spicy-smelling dust, and then my body acclimates to the warmer, herbal-scented air. We swing off the ladder and on to the upper level, looking around at the stacks of green and gold bales piled in neat rows, with rakes and pitchforks leant along them at regular intervals in a very businesslike manner. Small sounds come up from the occupied stalls below, but the only light comes from the feed station we just left, and a thin line of twinkle lights strung along the center point of the ceiling.
I wrap my arms around Jamie, and pull him with me as I lean against a tall stack of rustling fodder. I wriggle a bit as I get him set firmly against me, and then I look up at him, pertly.
"Right. You were saying? About what you wanted to do to m-"
My words are cut off as his mouth covers mine. His hands are instantly under my cloak and grabbing hard at my arse, lifting me even more firmly against him. He drags one hand down my thigh, and wraps my leg around his hip, pushing me roughly against the solid wall of bales.
Even through thick clothing, the contact brings me alive. I kiss him back eagerly, nipping hard at his stubble-rough chin, then going back to drown in his soft, hot, exquisite lips.
I gasp, coming up for air, "God I want your mouth all over me, Jamie."
"Mmm?" he hums, busy sucking a bruise onto my neck, "Aye, jus' tell me whear. . ." He drops his head lower, to nibble on the small bit of collarbone he can reach.
"Where? Everywh-"
There is a sudden commotion from the room below. Stomping feet, raucous laughter, sighs, giggles, and heavy, thumping bodies. A wheedling, familiar voice says,
"Oh, aye, ye like that, lass? Weel I c'n-"
"Rupert!" I yell, annoyed, "Do you mind? Some of us are trying to make out with our boyfriend up here!"
A huge laugh comes up to us in response, "An' some of us are tryin' tae get laid doon heer, Sassenach! How is that gurt swate virgin good enough for ye annyway? Experienced lass like ye needs an experienced laddie!"
"He's good enough because I prefer men to lads, Rupert!"
There is another huge laugh, and a dismissive, "Aye, be off wi' ye!", before the sounds devolve into nothing but happy, yet highly off-putting shouts and moans.
Without a word, Jamie leads me down the long corridor of the hayloft, dropping us down into another feed station just far enough away that we don't have to hear Rupert's liaison.
Well. . . don't have to hear most of it, anyway.
"Wait here, mo nighean," Jamie says, kissing my lightly on the lips, "Be jus' a minute."
He is several more minutes than I am comfortable with, but eventually he comes back, leading a fully saddled-up Donas.
I shrink back, remembering last time we met, not caring that now the horse looks indifferent, and almost sleepy.
Jamie takes my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles, "Dinnae fash, mo chridhe, he's gentled now. I jus' want tae run away wi' ye."
"Run away? Where to?"
"Och, special place I've got. It's wonderfully isolated an'. . . erm. . ." he glances back at the distant feed station from which we can still hear occasional screaming, ". . . private. Come see it wi' me?" He reaches both arms out, ready to help me into the saddle.
I'm curious, I'm all riled up, and he's asking nicely.
I can't resist.
He lifts me easily into the wide leather seat, and then jumps up himself, settling in close behind me.
"Weel this is nice, aye? Yer lovely arse all snugged up against me again, an' yer neck in easy range tae kiss?" He pulls the cloak hood out of the way, and kisses me soundly on the jaw, "Plus we're on an adventure. . ."
I smile, leaning back into him, very much enjoying his solid weight behind me, even as I am quite nervous about the tonne or more of horse I'm sitting on. . .
Slowly, steadily, we clop-clop out into the dark farmyard, along paths only illuminated by the pale light from the stable windows. I clutch hard onto the pommel in front of me, and try not to think about what would happen if Donas trips. . .
"Y-yes – an adventure. And speaking of, Jamie, I need to tell you about the Oathtaking."
In a very few words, I tell him everything I saw, and most of what I surmised. He gives a long, low whistle.
"*wheeew* Crafty auld cat. It doesnae change much as far as Stage Four is concerned, though, does it?"
"No. But it might change Stage Five, if any of the men happen to twig to what he's done."
"Nah, don' think they will. Y'see, splittin' the Oath like that is – or usedtae be – a common way of doin' it at a Clan MacKenzie Gathering. For som'un who wanted tae make a show of his Oath, that is."
"I see."
"Aye, an' I dinnae think most of the men will have read the Clan Restoration Act as closely as ye have. Or at all, tae be honest."
"Do you think Colum has figured out what Dougal is doing?"
I feel Jamie's shoulders shift behind me, "No idea. But Colum's no fool. Leave him tae his own business – he's an auld hand at it."
We've reached the far side of the farmyard, looking out over the dark paths of the fields laid before us. A few streaks of old snow glow pale in the clouded starlight, but most everything else is deep, shrouded grey.
Off behind us there is a long, wild scream - a strange, inhuman bellow, that for one disorienting second, I think must have come from Rupert – or his date.
Jamie feels me freeze against him, and answers my unspoken question, "Dinnae fash. It's just the wild boar Marc's brought in for Hogmanay."
"Oh." I relax a little, but not all the way. I listen to Donas's low, thudding footfalls on the icy gravel paths between the fields. "Why is there a wild boar for Hogmanay?"
"For the Twelfth Night Hunt."
"Oh."
There is quiet for a long few seconds, broken only by the clinking of Donas's bridle, and the steady rhythm of his hooves.
"Soooo, you're not going to explain that either, then?"
There's a smile in Jamie's voice now, "It's an auld Leoch tradition. It used tae be the guests could hunt the wild boar that lived 'round here on their own – but nowadays, what wi' them bein' nearly extinct, they have tae be captive bred an' brought in special. The boar, I mean, no' the guests."
I want to smile at his joke, but I can't. "It seems so cruel. To breed a creature just so some people can chase and kill it."
"That's one way of lookin' at it, certainly."
"There's another?"
"Aye. A species has been saved from oblivion. Some of them die for Humans' amusement, true, but most of them are breeding sows, an' even the majority of the boars are raised for meat – no' sport. It's a rare person c'n afford tae buy a huntin' boar."
"I. . . suppose that's so."
"Don' take me wrong – I dinnae approve of blood sports, and trophy huntin' isnae my cup of tea at all – but there's more tae it than just some men torturin' a helpless frightened pig jus' because they think it's fun."
"Given the sound of that scream, I'd say that's very true. Frightened? Yes. Helpless? No."
He chuckles darkly, "Too right. A boar's no joke. Even a captive bred, special delivery one."
His arms go around me as he flicks the reins, guiding Donas through the wide strip of woods that edge Leoch's arable fields. Beyond them are the wide lower meadows, and the sheep-grazing fields.
The last place in Leoch where I've never been.
Donas plods serenely down the hill, and into the wide, untilled scrubland of the lower acres. I've only seen this bit of Leoch on maps. By night doesn't count as "seeing". We weave through the spindly gorse bushes and blackberry brambles, following a barely discernible path that's only slightly darker than the surrounding ground. There are a few single trees, but not many.
Then, as suddenly as if it just this second dropped in from the sky, a stone building looms up in front of us, with one pale artificial light gleaming in an ancient, shattered dooryard.
It is so clearly, obviously a ruin that for a second I think the light is a trapped soul, haunting a scene of destruction. . .
"What is this place?" I ask, almost scared of the answer.
Jamie briefly kisses the side of my head, then nudges Donas forward. "This? This is Castle Leoch."
Chapter 64: Living History
Chapter Text
We are nearly past the broken gatehouse tower by the time I find breath to speak again.
“But, I thought. . . we lived in Castle Leoch!”
“Aye, the new one,” Jamie nods around at the burnt-out hulk as he guides Donas inside it, “This one was the original. Plundered an’ burnt by the English during the Clearances. After the ‘45.”
So, this place is haunted, after all. . .
“The Jacobite risings. . .” I murmur, looking at the still soot-black stones around me, “Culloden.”
“Aye,” he slides off Donas, then lifts me down as well, “Where we live now used tae be the auld hunting lodge. Nowt but a smoke-filled hall, wi’ a few manky chambers around it.”
He ties Donas up, and leads me down a corridor, and around a few turns, to a big, sunken room, that looks and smells not unlike the hayloft we just left.
“S’where Lily keeps the bedding for the sheep,” he says, leading me over to the large open space at the back of the room, “It used tae be the auld stillroom – where the Clan healer would work. I’ve allus wondered what it was like back then. What anyone could do tae help hard-livin’ reckless men wi’ nothin’ but herbs an’ a prayer or two.” He runs a hand over the ancient stone walls, “Tennyrate – what MacKenzies were left in Scotland after the ‘45 moved inta the auld hunting lodge, an’ over the generations they added tae it, an’ fixed it up, until it’s the house we have taeday. But it all started here. A long time ago.”
He stoops into an old fireplace, where a large heat lamp now stands. He turns it on, and points it at an open and relatively clean patch of floor. Then he brings over a big double armful of straw, and a whole pile of blankets, making us a comfy place to sit, warm and cozy. He waits once I’m settled, and throws the last blanket over both of us, cuddling up close.
Then, he takes a deep breath, and says, “So, mo nighean. . . d’ye want tae talk about what Rupert said? About me being a virgin?”
I laugh, lightly, “Oh, he was just taking a piss, I'm sure. You're not a virgin. . . right?”
His cheeks go a little red, “No. No. . . but. . . what if I was?”
“But, you're not. . .”
“No' technically. . .”
“You mean technically you are?”
"Would tha' be. . . bad?”
I open and close my mouth a few times, unbelieving.
"You. . . do not kiss like a virgin, James Fraser! Technical or otherwise!”
The way he touches me, the things he says, the way he makes me feel – none of that has said “virgin” at all. . .
“You make out like a freaking pro. And don’t get me started on your hands. . . or your bedroom eyes!"
“A virgin doesnae mean a priest, Sassenach. Or a saint. I've done plenty of things I would have had tae do penance for if I still went tae confession. I've just nevar. . . found the right one. Tae. . . weel. Ye ken."
"Yes. I do." I smile, and relent, "There were a half a dozen boys I kissed before Frank, and four I dated. None of them were particularly memorable. The most we ever did was kiss and. . . well. . . get handsy. I didn't even want to go beyond that until I met Frank.” I sigh, remembering, “In every way that matters, I suppose, he was my first. My only, really. Not that I hadn't. . . explored my body before that, of course. . . and after, to be perfectly honest. . ."
He chuckles, "A'coorse. Ye’er an adventurous one - I'd expect nothin' less of ye." He shifts the blanket closer around us, "I've only had three relationships tae speak of - an' I'm no' ashamed of any of them. Would ye like tae hear about them?"
"That I would, James Fraser."
“Weel. I had my first kiss when I was eleven. I was still livin' in Broch Mordha then, a'course. It was behind the little schoolhouse there, wi' a girl I’d been makin' eyes at over my history and geography books all day.”
I smile, “So how was it? Who was she?”
“If ye can believe me, Sassenach, I cannae remember her name. It was a kiss like most first kisses, I expect. Very brief an' no' exactly noteworthy, except tha' it starts something," he taps his chest, "Ye ken?"
"Yes, I ken."
And I do. There’s something about firsts that speaks to the Human sense of pride. From continents to cookies, the desire to get there first, claim it first, name it first, just be there first, seems built in.
"Soo, after that. . . weel, there were several. . . what should I call them? Experiences. Nowt worth mentioning, except that they each taught me summat. How tae breathe durin' a kiss - how important tongues can be – an’ noses too. How tae tell if someone doesnae like it - how tae take no fer an answer. . . an’ so on."
He sighs, heavily, "There wasnae anyone important until Laoghaire."
My mind blanks for a second, quite unable to take in what he just said.
“Wait. . . your first girlfriend. . . was a dog?”
He laughs, “A’course no’ – a girl. . . Mrs. Fitz’s granddaughter. . . Laoghaire?” he blinks at my uncomprehending stare, “Ye really dinnae ken that Mrs. Fitz names the pups she keeps after her grandchildren? She says it keeps 'em close. It’s the only thing that does, at that. She has two in China, three in South America, one in Africa, one in Japan, and two in the U.S. That's where Laoghaire is - or I assume she's still thear. I havenae heard from her in near ten years."
With a lurch, the world swings back into focus.
“Okay. . . okay.” I clasp his hand, interlocking our fingers, “Go on, sorry I interrupted you.”
“I was sixteen when it started. I was on summertime holiday, here at Leoch. We met down by the river there, an’. . . ahm. . . explored. Only wi’ kissing, cuddling, an’ clumsily using our hands, but we still explored rather thoroughly for all that. For the three weeks I was heer, we met nearly evary day, an’ made each other feel good. It was all surface – we barely kent each other, really – there were no promises made, an’ no feelings shared. We nevar even ventured under our clothes. Jus’. . .” he gives a frustrated sigh, “It got in my head. She got in my head.”
“No shock there – you were a teenager.”
“Aye, but it didn’t stop there. The next summer, she had another boy. Young Hugh MacKenzie. I’d spent the whole year lookin’ forward tae seeing her again, an’ now she was hangin’ off some other bloke’s arm an’ wouldnae hardly give me the time of day.”
A strange, bitter fury rises in me. I’ve never seen this woman, but I want to rip every dirty blonde hair from her head, handful by handful, and make her. . .
I push back the feeling. I don’t know her. She’s done nothing to me. I don’t even know that she’s blonde.
And, clearly, this haunted old ruin is getting to me. . .
I click my tongue instead, “Shame. Her loss, clearly.”
He bares his teeth in a growl of remembrance, “It drove me mad. I practically begged anyone who would listen tae tell me what I’d done wrong, or why I deserved how she was treatin’ me. An’ I wouldnae hear anyone who told me I hadnae done anything wrong, an’ didnae deserve it, either.” He shakes his head at his younger self, then goes on, “I was mopin’ around our auld spot by the river one day, when I heard her an’ young Hugh talkin’. She was complainin’ that Colum wouldnae support her going tae dance school in the States, an’ how unfair he was being. Hugh could hardly get a word in edgewise, poor lad.”
He looks off into the distance for a bit, and shakes his head again, “So I went tae Colum, on her behalf. Stood in front of him an’ told him tae his face he was bein' unfair. That there were far less worthy dreams than dancin' in America. That her jus' havin' the dream was worthy enough, an' he ought tae respect that. That there's some who never dream for anythin', never reach beyond what others put in front of them - an' if Laoghaire was a silly girl wi' silly dreams, then it'd be made clear good an' fast. I said that if he sent her tae a good school wi' a good job lined up, she might even do him credit. . .”
“Wow.”
“Aye. I laid it on thick.”
“I'll say.”
“An’ three days later, she was gone. Off tae America, tae follow her dreams. Wi’out a word tae me.”
My jaw drops with shock, “After all that. . .”
“Aye, after all that. An' I still havenae heard from her, ten years on.”
“Not even a thank you?”
“No' even that.”
I sniff, my dark, instinctive fury rising again, “Entitled asshole.”
“It might be she didnae ken I was the one who-”
I interrupt, shaking my head, “No, Jamie. People don't do things like that unless it's deliberate. And they don't deliberately do those things unless they care a lot about the outcome. She knew. She'd have made it her business to know. She probably knew you were there listening to her and Hugh. It wouldn’t surprise me if you being there was why she said what she said in the first place.”
And wanted to make you suffer even more, my dear, darling man. . .
He thinks for a minute, then tilts his head to the side a little. “Possibly. However it was, that's how it ended. That autumn Bobby died, and I changed all my plans for school, an’ mam an’ Rob moved tae France, an’ Laoghaire was off in the States, ignoring me. So I forgot her. Tae be honest, I havenae even thought about her in years.”
He moves his arm a little more comfortably around me, “Then, there was Annalise. I'd been a year at Université, going back and forth between Paris and a tiny village in Provence, still mourning Bobby, busy wi' classes, an’ projects, an’ my students’ job. We met at a café – started talking, made friends, an’ met up a few days later. It was jus’ dating tae begin wi’ – lunch, an’ shows, an’ walks in the park – ye ken the kind of thing.”
“I do.”
“It was such a relief tae be havin’ fun wi’ someun’ I liked. She brought me out of a dark place, and for that, I’ll be forever grateful tae her. I’d never kent anyone so bright as her before. It was like she was made of sunshine.” He grips my hand a little tighter, “An’ then one day she invited me tae her home. Tae meet the other three people she was dating.”
“Oh.”
Funnily enough, I don’t feel any anger at this woman. Only a mild dislike. Even a sort of benevolent detachment.
Strange. . .
Given what I know about myself, I would have predicted my feelings to be the exact opposite – forgiving the teenager, and anger at lies by omission from an adult.
Just whose feelings is this place making me feel?
“Oh, indeed. She hadnae said she was poly before that, so it was a bit of a shock. But I met them, an’ they were all very nice. Welcoming, supportive. Nae’un could ask for a bettar set of partners. She an’ I went on dating for a while, but I ended it a few months later.”
“Why? What was the problem?”
“I’m monogamous, Sassenach. Deeply so. Much as I liked Annalise, I couldnae get past the fact that she wasn’t.”
“But. . .”
“Bein’ poly isnae wrong, mo nighean, but it’s very wrong for me.”
“And that was. . . a barrier?”
“No' a barrier. Distance. We each existed in places the other couldnae go. We werenae blocked, we couldnae get there at all. We liked each other, but we were wrong for each other. Simple as that.”
“So, nothing ever. . . happened?”
“Weel,” he tries to smirk modestly, and can’t manage it, “While we were together I learned a great deal about. . . in the U.S. they call it 'third base', I think."
I'm not sure exactly what the term means, but if “bases” are anything like "exploring the Lower townships", "touring the Core", "being welcomed to Central", and "climbing The Spire", then it's clear enough what he's getting at.
The undiluted pride in his eyes only clinches it. So to speak.
Every man thinks he’s the first to discover female pleasure. Every single one of them. . .
"I learned how tae pay attention to my partner, an' figure out what they liked - no' jus' what they didnae like,” he continues, grinning, “An' I learned a great deal moor about what I like. Laoghaire was never good about. . . reciprocating. Annalise was very good about it, an’ more – and she was wonderfully accommodating an’ understanding of my preferences an’ boundaries. There was much less distance between us, as far as she was concerned, of course. Tae her, I jus' needed tae 'loosen up'. But it was moor than inhibitions. It was. . . well. . . Monogamy is how I am, ye ken. I couldnae be wi' her wi'out denying an essential part of myself. I didnae blame her for being how she was, but. . ." he sighs, "It couldnae last. An' it didn't.”
He is silent for a long few minutes, staring at the glowing heat lamp.
“An' then. . . there was John.”
I'm struck speechless again, for several more seconds than is quite polite.
". . . . . . John?" I turn and look at him, with who knows what kind of confusion on my face.
But whatever it is, it's nothing compared to the confusion on his.
"Ye didn. . . ye didnae ken I'm bi?"
"Of course not, Jamie! How on earth would I ken that? We haven't talked about this until now!"
"But. . . but. . . that ye hadnae heard how Mrs. Fitz names her sheepdog pups I can believe, but the lads nevar let me forget that I'm no' het. Rupert especially, he calls me "the arse man in moor ways than one" an' teases me mercilessly - he even calls the clam an' sausage chowder Mrs. Fitz makes evary summer her 'Fraser Special'!"
I snort, quietly, but he rounds on me, flicked on the raw, "It's no' funny!"
"No. It isn't. But that Rupert had the wit to make such a joke is a little funny, Jamie."
"Maybe. Bu' he's nevar so kind as tae let someone I like go ten minutes wi'out blabbin’ about it tae them. Granted he’s no’ done it in my hearin’ jus’ lately, bu’ I only figured he was sayin’ it behind my back. I thought for ceartain he'd have told ye. . ."
"Well, he didn't."
He shakes his head, in utter disbelief. Then he sighs, and opens and closes his mouth a few times, hesitantly.
“Is. . . is that. . . is it. . . a problem?”
“I don't see why it needs to be,” I gesture expansively, “Any more than the girls in Cranesmuir chasing you has to be a problem. I mean, it certainly could be. If either one of us handles a situation in a way we shouldn't, or fails to communicate with the other well enough, it could become a problem - but that's on us - on our actions. It doesn’t hinge on what gender the other person is, and it doesn't. . . it doesn't change. . . our feelings. Right?”
The real problem, of course, is that, despite everything, so far neither of us has actually said what our feelings are. . .
He takes both my hands in his, “I need tae be sure, Claire. I need ye tae be sure. It really doesnae bother ye that I've kissed other men?”
For whatever reason, no extra guiding emotion comes to me on this one, only a very distant, pitying sorrow, for a world where ordinary, good, loving people’s very existence is somehow a taboo. Which is something I feel anyway. . .
“Just. . . so long as it doesn't bother you that I've kissed other men. . . other than Frank, I mean.”
He waves this away, "Nah. Ye'er a beautiful, passionate women, Claire. Ye could walk up an' take any man ye want from anywhere ye choose."
I scoff.
"Aye, ye could! Ye'er so bold and bonny - ye'er intoxicating." He runs a finger down my jaw, gently tilting my chin up to look at him, "Aye, it is a bit surprisin’ tae me that ye'ev only fully had one man. . ." he swallows heavily, "One extremely lucky man. . . But then, it's nae surprise at all that so far only one man has lived up tae yer standards of havin'."
He lowers his head, and gives me a long, soft, wonderful kiss. I lean back when we’re done, quite thoroughly assured that whatever our pasts, we very much like each other now.
And now is what really matters. . .
I smile at him. "So. John."
He nods, "Aye. It was my last year of Université, an’ his first. We were takin’ classes next door tae each other and met in the corridor one mornin’. We fell hard, and fast. It wasnae the first time I'd had feelings for a man, but. . . that was the first time it felt serious - the first time I felt serious - about anyone, man or woman. An’ John was – is – so wonderful. A gentleman in evary way, kind, funny, interesting, and brilliant. Good at everythin’ – but nevar makin’ ye feel bad about it. The best friend a man could evar hope tae meet, an’ a sweet, thoughtful lover too.”
A deep sorrow rises in his eyes.
“So. . . why didn't you. . .”
“He asked me tae marry him, Sassenach. On our second date.”
I’m brought up completely short, “Oh. Wow. That. . . that's. . . a bit. . . uhm. . . sudden.”
"Aye. T'was. An' I didnae react as well as I might ha' done. It does rather break the mood when the person just proposed tae asks the one proposin' what in bloody heck he thinks he's doin'."
"Ouch."
"Aye. I c’n still see the hurt in his eyes. I’d a’ rather have broken his arm."
"But. . . but why didn't you marry him? If he's all you say. . ."
"Aye, he is all that, an' moor. An' I dunno, maybe I would'ha married him, had things been different. But as they were. . ." he sighs, mournfully, "He was only just eighteen, Sassenach. I was nearly twenty-three, and in my last year at Uni. I was about tae graduate, an' go back tae Scotland. Now, from Inverness tae Paris isnae exactly half the world, a'course, but it's still no' a walk across the street, aye? An' if I’d got the job I wanted, I'd ha' been hither an' yon, who kens where, while he'd ha' been stuck in Paris for four years, alone. Tha's nae way tae start a marriage, especially when one of the partners hasnae had his last growth spurt yet."
I blink, shocked, "Why did that matter, of all things?"
"He hadnae finished growin' up, y'see. He was still a lad. In places, still a child in his mind. A good-hearted, fine-souled teenager, but he was still too young for what he was askin'. He hadnae even considered that if we got married, we'd be in a long-distance relationship in a few weeks - an' that was enough for me tae ken he wasnae ready. An' as fer me. . ."
He gives a long, sad sigh.
"I did love him, ye ken. Still do, in a way. But my father allus told Bobby, an’ Bobby allus told me that I'd ken it in my bones, in the core of my soul, when I found the right one. That I'd ken it like I kent how tae breathe, an' that I'd need them just as much as my lungs needed air. And when John Grey got down on one knee and asked me tae be his husband. . . I didn't. It didnae feel wrong. But it didnae feel right either. Ye ken?"
"Not exactly. I haven't had that particular experience. But I can imagine."
"Mebbe it was jus' too fast, I dinnae ken. Marriage. . . it ought tae be a thing well considered before venturing. John hadn't, an' he didnae give me much of a chance tae consider it after he asked. . ."
"Wait, you broke up over that?"
It is strange indeed, but I haven’t felt any jealousy up ‘til now. And somehow, knowing this stranger – this young man I’ve never met nor am ever likely to meet – broke up with my wonderful, delightful boyfriend for such a reason has me deeply, ragingly jealous.
"Aye. From meetin', tae dating, tae proposal, tae breakup, in just ower two weeks."
"But that's insane!"
How dare that. . . cub. . . throw away what we must work so hard to keep! Like Jamie's regard were some toy - to be bought and then discarded!
"No' when ye'er eighteen an' hungry, mo chridhe. John was jus’ out of the closet, an’ needed somethin’ I wasnae ready tae give."
"Oh. Right."
My envy collapses at a touch. For a minute I had actually forgotten that this whole discussion began with the revelation that the man before me is still mostly a virgin. . .
"So. . . so you didn't. . . that is, you hadn't. . ."
"No. We'd touched each other, used our hands, an’ kissed, a’course, but nothing else, no' yet. Christ, there was hardly time - we'd only been officially dating fer five days! But he thought I wouldn't until marriage, so he took the plunge. An' then thought I refused him because I didnae want tae at all. When really all I wanted was a step back, tae think before we went ahead."
"Oh, Jamie. You poor sweet."
I curl an arm around his, and lean my head on his shoulder.
"Nah, I could'ha handled it bettar. I could have been gentler - clearer. In that moment, I didnae love him like I ought tae have done. I was selfish."
“But he sprang marriage on you. . .”
"Oh, I was shocked, and he was wrong, but I was still selfish. I instantly wanted a step back tae consider my own situation, but I gave barely a thought tae his until weeks later. I didnae think about my words when I told him no. An' I didnae fight for us - didnae put myself out tae keep this amazing thing we'd both found. But what really shames me is. . . it was a relief. I felt relieved no' tae have tae deal wi' romance an' sex an' marriage and all that goes along wi' them. It was my final semester at Uni, and all I wanted was tae pass my exams an' go home. . ."
"There's no shame in that, Jamie."
"Mebbe no'. But it shames me nevertheless."
We are both quiet a long time.
“And then. . .” I start.
“An’ then. . . the Dissolution Act.”
“And Peace Agents, and the Clearings. . . and Black Jack.”
“An' the murder.”
“And the murder.”
He holds my gaze for a long minute.
“An’ then, there was ye. . .”
He dips his head to kiss me, but I put a hand on his chest, needing to give voice to the tense ice cube that’s been forming in my stomach for most of this conversation. I’ve been trying to ignore it, but I can’t anymore.
“Jamie – I’m scared.”
“Scared? Why? What of?”
“Of us. Of this. That we’re going to fall apart and totally destroy each other. We’re only having this conversation now, Jamie. Lack of communication. Just like with Annalise and with John. And Laoghaire too – more on her side than yours, but still.”
He opens his mouth to speak, but I put a hand to his lips, and press on.
“And then there’s mental and emotional distance. Lest we forget - I have a secret. A secret I can't tell you, and I can't even tell you why. And to cap it off, you just have to trust me that it isn't anything horrifically disgusting or illegal. There’s a space between us. Just like with Annalise and Laoghaire.”
His brows draw together, but he lets me continue.
“There was age difference too, with John. You're. . . I assume, twenty six now?”
“Twenty seven.”
“And I'm thirty-four. That’s not so very drastic, but twenty-three and eighteen isn’t very drastic either – and when you take into account that I’m a widow, and an outlander too. . .”
I sigh, “And then the problem was physical distance. With John and with Laoghaire. Well, all I’ll say is we got lucky about this upcoming campaign trip with Dougal. Who knows how well we’d have handled it if we’d been forced apart?”
I ball up my fists, determined to get through everything, “And as for going too fast. . . I've only known you seven, almost eight weeks? And whatever else we have or haven’t done, we’ve already adopted a son. What’s that, sixth base? Seventh?”
He chuckles, but briefly, and sobers quickly.
“That's five for five, Jamie. My being with you hits all of the points that ruined your previous relationships. I’m scared.”
And it’s all my own feelings too – nothing extra.
Don’t forget that he makes you feel things, Beauchamp!
At that thought I shiver, and tears prick behind my eyes. Oh yes. . . He makes me feel so many things. With just a touch, with just a word, with just a look. I’m so vulnerable around him – I haven’t any of my usual defenses. He has my trust, but it’s still scary. . .
The things he could do to me, all without even raising a hand. . .
He traces the lines of my cheekbone and jaw with a contemplative fingertip for a minute, then meets my eyes, very sincerely.
"What's for ye will no' go by ye, Sassenach. They've all gone by me. Evary one of them. Doesnae mattar whose fault it was – what’s for ye, will no’ go by ye. They werenae for me."
"And. . . that means I am?"
"Ye havenae gone by me yet. Tha's all I need, for now."
And for now, all I need is to rest, in his arms, in a warm, safe place, cared for and comforted. I tell him so.
Like everything else, Jamie gives me this, freely and generously, no questions asked.
Chapter 65: Back To You
Chapter Text
I am nearly asleep, fading back into this ancient castle Leoch as if into a dream, when a voice comes out of the dark.
"Jamie? Mr. Jamie sir?"
The warm pair of arms encircling me stir a bit, "Yes, Willie, what is it?"
"It's Mr. Dougal sir. He's fainted. They've had tae take him away from the Oathtaking. They say he won't wake up sir. An' nae'un could find ye, sir – t'was Murtagh sent me heer, jus' tae check – what should we do, sir?"
A low rumble sounds beneath my ear, "Did Dougal hurt himself when he fell?"
"No, sir. The men takin' the Oath jus' then caught him, sir. They say he's snorin' good an' proper, sir."
"Then jus' let him sleep it off. There's probably nowt far wrong."
"But sir. . ."
"Make him comfortable, an' leave him be. Understand?"
"Yes sir."
"An' Willie?"
"Yes sir?"
"Ye dinnae have tae call me sir."
"Yes sir."
There are faint shufflings, and the arms around me re-settle themselves. The dark goes silent again.
Once more I fade, back, back, back into a thin grey mist, swept across stone and earth and sea, swirling, drifting, clouding then clearing, a soft, pale silver wave, floating under the moon, and under the stars. . .
A circle of trees spring up around me, each burning bright with blue-edged argent fire. I fall to the ground like snow, and run across the earth like a dozen flooding rivers, crashing and boiling with stony, ice-cold rage. I pour into a burning pit of brimstone, and rise like flame, red and fierce and wild. I lead a wall of fire across the plain, evaporating all in our path, and ending the world with a thunderclap. A great pearl-white beast steps out from oblivion, golden winged, blue-eyed, and crowned with scarlet berries. A beam of red-gold light comes from the single horn on its head, reaching out to illuminate one star in the western sky.
Spring-green leaves unfold and cradle me, and scented white flowers breathe warmth across my chilled skin.
Something petal-soft gently touches my mouth.
"Sleep well, Sassenach," says the warming, healing wind.
I turn my head, and smell the sachet of sweet herbs Mrs. Fitz always puts under my pillow.
"G'night," I grunt.
I hear my door close. Then I fall into blessedly dreamless sleep.
When I wake up in the morning, I feel absurdly like I have a hangover.
It doesn't make any sense, but I don't question it. I take a shower, and go down to the kitchens for breakfast.
When I get there, the place is alive with chatter.
"Hev ye heard. . . hev ye heard. . . hev ye heard?"
Annie and the rest of the girls are gossiping over by the porridge buffet, while the male kitchen staff are clustered around three large crates they've just dragged in from the delivery bay.
"Whoo're thay from. . . wheer d'we tak them. . . whoo're thay for. . . what are thay?"
I smile as I serve myself up some toast and bacon. Stage Four completed, and Stage Five loaded and ready. . .
"Have I heard what?" I ask casually, sitting down next to Coira and Mai.
"Dougal fainted halfway though the Oathtakin'! Nae'un kens why. Bu' he's up an' about this mornin', an' furious – so Mrs. Fitz says-"
That good lady herself enters the room then, going over to the three crates, and shooing the men away from them, "Be off then!" she orders, "Finnish yer breakfast an' dinnae mind what's nae business of yourn. Nae doot et's jus' a Boxin' Day present for some of th'men – we should all be sae lucky! - go on, go on!" She snaps her hand towel at the retreating back of one of the chore-boys, and then finally turns to the crates, her lips moving and eyebrows rising as she reads the labels.
I smile privately. Leticia came through handsomely. . .
In ones and twos, the men of the stables and garages, Colum's private staff, and Dougal's dedicated campaign team, all show up in the kitchens to eat a leisurely breakfast, and indulge in the even more sustaining meat of gossip.
I've finished my food, and had two relaxing cups of tea when I stand up, go over to one of the men's tool boxes waiting for them along the back wall, and pick out a good crowbar. Then I walk up to the nearest crate, and with a few swift motions, crack the top right off. I fish in the excelsior packing, and bring out a small card of thick, embossed paper, written with a flowing, formal script.
All eyes are already on me, and I do not have to call for silence as I read out what it says.
"For standing by me in our hour of need. May you have a blessed Boxing Day, and sixth day of Yule. Luceo, non uro. Regards, Dougal Mackenzie."
I reach into the crate again, and bring out a very nice bottle of champagne. I've unpeeled the gold foil cap and uncorked the bottle with a loud pop before the rest of the room finds its voice again.
"Bu' what's he thankin' us for?" asks Angus, a sentiment loudly echoed by nearly everyone else in the room.
Gil and Harry both look expectantly at me.
I shrug, and start to fill the glasses that Mrs. Fitz brings over to me, "Who can say? Probably for keeping the gossip all about him this morning."
"Bu' what else would we be talkin' about?" asks Angus, grumpily taking a glass of champagne, and drinking it back in one go.
I shrug again, "Colum?"
Everyone stares at me.
I gesture as though what I'm saying is a matter of course, "That is a big part of the Oathtaking, right? Watching to see if the Laird is any the worse for drink?"
"Aye lass," growls Marc, "But what-"
"Well, what other reason could there be for Dougal fainting out of nowhere? He saw that Colum was starting to flag, or that he needed a break, or maybe even was starting to feel the effects of the Oathwine. And what else was there to do but direct the attention away from him for a while?" I pass a few full glasses to Annie and the girls, "I doubt it's the first time Dougal's taken a fall for Colum' sake, and it probably won't be the last - not by a long way."
The room falls deathly quiet.
Two of Colum's personal staff come up to me, and after asking permission with their eyes, from both me and Mrs. Fitz, start to unpack and serve out the bottles of champagne.
Everyone takes their glasses solemnly, not drinking from them, only looking contemplatively at the glittery golden bubbles.
Now, to see if I've timed this right. . .
Sure enough, at this very moment, the kitchen's big double doors slam open, and a frothing, seething Dougal bursts through, red-faced and spitting curses.
Instantly, he is swept up into a resounding cheer of "Hip-hip-huzzah!" and several overlapping choruses of "For He's a Jolly-good Fellow". Angus and Gil parade him around on their shoulders for a minute, and then spend several more toasting him with at least three bottles of champagne.
I let things go for a good while, and then start handing out unopened bottles, saying, "Why not go share with the folks in the dining room? It is Boxing Day, after all. . ."
I hand the very last bottle to Mrs. Fitz herself, who kisses me delightedly on both cheeks, and goes up to the dining room on Murtagh's arm.
Leaving the kitchens empty, with just me, and Dougal.
Stage Six.
Endgame.
He's still holding a half-empty bottle. He stares at it dazedly for a moment, as though contemplating whether to drink from it, or use it as a club.
In the end he does neither, setting it down carefully on the long table next to me. Then he crosses his arms, and glowers in my face.
"Awright lass. Who are ye?"
I huff a surprised laugh, "Who am I? Claire Beauchamp, formerly of Oxford, now Farm Mana-"
He jabs a finger at my chest, but doesn't actually touch me, "Ye ken what I mean. We've played this game long enough, you an' I. Now who are ye? An' what are ye doing?"
I back up a little, sitting on the edge of one of the empty crates. I look up at the ceiling, dreamily.
"How long do you think it'll take?"
"What?"
I look him directly in the eye, "How long, Dougal? It's happening already. Only a few of them are doing it now, but it'll be more and more each time. How long do you think it'll take before it's all of them? Months? Weeks?. . . Days?"
He stares hard at me, trying to be intimidating, succeeding only in being bewildered.
I cross my arms, "How many times, Dougal, can I give your face back to you before your face comes from me? How long do you think it'll take before they start looking to me, and never look back to you at all?"
I stand up, and press a finger to the middle of his chest, "How long, do you think, before I'm the Chief of Clan MacKenzie?"
He blinks, aghast, "Ye wouldnae dare-"
I scoff, "Haven't I already dared? What do you think all this has been, Dougal? Chess? In that case, this pawn just got made Queen, and you know it."
He slaps a hand down on the table, making plates and bottles jump, "What did ye put in the Oathwine?"
"The Oathwine? Nothing."
"Dinnae lie tae me, ye must've-"
"There was valerian root extract in your lunch. Powerful, but slow-acting. And harmless. All we needed was for you to fall asleep."
"We?"
I sigh, "I thought we were done playing games? You know who. Or if you don't you're even stupider than I thought."
He grits his teeth, furiously, "What is yer game, woman? Ye have Wee Jamie, all ye'd need tae do is scupper me wi' Colum an' ye'd get Leoch – why all this. . . this. . ."
I laugh, hard, but mirthlessly, "Leoch? Leoch? You think I want Leoch? You think I want to take the Lairdship away from you? You think I want to be Chief of Clan MacKenzie?"
"But then, why. . ."
I throw up my hands in disgust, "And you still don't get it, do you? None of this was about getting Leoch. Or the Clan. Or about taking anything away from you. None of it, Dougal."
I get as close to him as I dare, and whisper in his face, "This was about showing you. Showing you what it's like." I gesture at the mess of the kitchen all around us, "This, Dougal, is what it's like when we are enemies."
I sit back down on the crate, cross my arms, and look defiantly up at him, "And you've never once thought about what things might be like if we were allies, have you? Well, time to think fast, bucko."
I grab the half-empty champagne bottle, turn, and stalk out of the kitchen.
His eyes follow me the whole way.
Chapter 66: A Hog Too Many
Notes:
CONTENT WARNING – Blood/gore
Chapter Text
"Twelfth night! Or what you will. . ." Jamie welcomes me into his herb workshop with a quote, a grin, and a kiss, "How was your first Yule with us, Sassenach?"
"Oh, you know," I flop gratefully onto his couch, "Other than almost losing my son and his best friend to poisoning, meeting more MacKenzies than I can possibly count - let alone keep track of - witnessing family drama that has very possibly international implications, participating in family drama that has who knows what implications, and trying to keep my daily sugar and fats intake down to something just slightly less than lethal, it's been pretty nice overall." I stretch and yawn a bit, scooting a little closer to the space heater next to the wall, "On the plus side, it's snowing again, our son didn't die - and is pretty awesome generally – and not only does my boyfriend make the best gifts, and gives me the best kisses, he also takes me on the most interesting dates." I grin up at him, "So, there's that, at least."
"Speaking of dates – are ye almost ready for the campaign trail?"
"I suppose so. I don't need too much – I'm only going as maintenance staff, after all. I've already packed some clothes and some books. I've added a few extra tools to the usual set every vehicle carries, and I've filled my four allocated boxes in the supply van." I wave a casual hand, "Easy."
"That part of it is, I suppose," says Jamie, going back to what he was doing before I came in, "But are ye ready in your mind? We leave in two days – that's no' much time tae get ready if ye'er no' already." He dips a long strip of cloth in melted paraffin, and begins to wrap it tightly around one end of a pine-smelling stick.
"Oh, I'm never going to be ready for two months on the road with Dougal. Resigned to? Yes. Ready for? No."
He half smiles in reluctant agreement, then nods at a cardboard box on his desk, "Speaking of two months – did ye get them all done?"
"Oh those! Yes, I did. Finished them last night." I take off my new canvas shoulder-sack and pull out a small paper bag, "There you go."
He dumps the bag into the box, smiling at all the little pieces of folded paper. He runs a hand through them, mixing them with the pile of paper slips that were already in the box.
"Wonderful," he says, taping the box shut, leaving only one small slot open where the slips of paper can be removed, "Now Fergus c'n have a note from one or the other of us every day while we're gone."
"And I told him yesterday that we'd use some of whatever personal time we get on our coms to keep in touch with him."
"Aye, that we will," he says, brightly, tying another long oil-soaked cloth strip to the end of another stick, and hanging it upside-down to dry next to several of its fellows.
"Why are you making torches, Jamie?"
"For the torchlight procession taenight, a'course," he grins, and starts another one, "Auld Hogmanay tradition."
"Oh, yes, of course. Should have known."
He half-smirks at my sarcasm, "Aye, weel – we mus' light the way for the First Foot."
I chuckle, and shake my head, "You know what? I'm not even going to ask."
"Weel, if ye'd spent less time readin' the Clan Restoration Act an' suchlike, ye'd have had time tae ken that on the Eve of-"
He is interrupted by a long call on a horn, a lot of hounds baying, and the bellowing, inhuman shriek of a wild boar.
"An' they're off," he says, shaking his head, helplessly, "I keep telling Colum someun's gonna get hurt if they keep doin' it the auld way, wi' ghillies an' horses an' hounds. Bu' he wilnae hear of addin' chase cars, or evan a protective stunpike barrier. Two hounds were gored last year, an' a horse was lamed the year before that. I dinnae like blood sport, but there's ways an' ways of conductin' one. There's bettar ways than this, an' no mistake."
I go over to one of the diamond-pane windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of the hunting party, "Jamie? How do they. . . I mean, how can they. . . when it's. . . over. . . and they have to. . . end it. . . what do they use? Aren't all non-ceremonial guns banned until after the Transitional Period?"
He looks at me with mild surprise, "Well a case might be made here, bu' they use a spear-gun usually – those are allowed for huntin'. . . an' d'ye really think all of Scotland is unarmed jus' because the English say we mus' be?"
"Well, no, not exactly, but if a Peace Agent found someone with a gun, they could-"
He scoffs, "An' Agent doesnae have tae find annythin' tae mek an arrest, Sassenach! All they haveta do is suspect – an' they dinna need proof tae bring a charge either. So mos' people figure – why bother tae comply?"
"But. . . but. . ." I flail.
"For someun' as smart as ye are, Sassenach, ye do have some of the strangest blind spots." He shakes his head, "The Peace Agents areno' heer tae be agents of peace – they're a militant police force, who abide by few rules save whatever cruelties wander through their heids on any given day, an' they serve nae purpose but tae be hammers for the higher-ups, keepin' us Scots in line, whatever that might mean on any given day. The Watch are thievin' murderin' rogues, an' I'd risk runnin' afoul of them evary day for a year before I trusted a loaf of bread in the hands of Black Jack or his like."
"But they aren't all as bad as Black Jack, surely?"
He sighs deeply, "No' bein' a torturing rapist is an extremely low bar tae clear, mo nighean donn. An' a good half of them cannae evan do that."
I try again, "But. . ."
"An' jus' wheer is this comin' from, might I ask? An' wheer is it goin'? I havetae say, Agent apologism isnae somethin' I expected from ye, of all people, Sassenach. . ."
I sigh, and look out at the fields under their covering of fresh, newly fallen snow, "It isn't apologism, Jamie, really it's not. It's experience. Or lack of experience, rather." I turn away from the window, and sit back down on the couch, "You see, until that little run-in with Black Jack and his men, all my experiences with policemen of any kind had been uniformly positive." I rest my chin on my fist, "And when you haven't experienced something, your whole perception of it is different. It's like. . ." I half-smile at the irony, "It's like history, I suppose. You have to trust what historians say about things, and you do, because what else is there? But no matter how truthful they are, you still were never there. You don't know. Not actually know. And so your perspective is different." I lean back, staring up at the thatched ceiling, "I have no trouble believing the Peace Agents are bad men doing a bad job for bad reasons, but I still can't square it. Not with my own experiences beforehand, not with the actual situation in Scotland now, and not with what anyone in charge purports to want for the future. It doesn't make sense to treat people like they do."
"No, it doesnae, Sassenach," he sighs, and starts to wrap another torch, "The ones like Black Jack do it because they like bein' evil – they find joy in it."
I shudder. I know he's right.
"An' most of the rest of 'em follow along because it's the path of least resistance – which I could almost forgive, a bit, since resistin' Black Jack or anny'un like him c'n easily get ye killed – or worse. But nae'un's keepin' 'em in the force – if they didnae wantae follow horrible men an' do horrible things, they could jus' quit." He shrugs, "So most of 'em must get something out of it moor'n a paycheck."
I sigh, and shake my head, "I just keep going back and forth between wishing I understood, and hoping I never do."
He hangs up the last finished torch, "We've invented a saying heer, the past few years, Sassenach – one Peace Agent is one tae many. There isnae a single thing they've made bettar, and many, many they've made worse."
"I believe it. . ."
I trail off, and let my eyes rove all over Jamie's little office. There are a few wreaths and lights in evidence of the season, but little else has changed since the last time I was here. The piles of paper on his desk are different, of course, and. . . I smile. The decorations are different too. There are three clear resin cubes lined up next to his e-padd, each with a different specimen embedded in it. The first, a small grey rock with a fascinating pattern of red and yellow lichen all over it, the second, a piece of dark brown bark nearly covered with a startlingly emerald green moss, and the third, a beautiful iridescent blue dragonfly.
I'd found all three while walking the fields last month, before the snow. I preserved each one in this time's approximation of Chronicler's Resin – at first for my own collection, and then later as Jamie's Christmas present. It is unexpectedly good to see them displayed so prominently in a place where he sees them every day. I touch the little knitted cord I have wrapped around my wrist today.
Pieces of ourselves we've each gifted to the other. . .
I wonder, very much, what it actually means to be someone's soulmate. . .
There is a distant, but still very loud whoosh noise, and an agonized squeal, mingled with a great deal of agitated shouting.
"They must've got it," say Jamie, dully somber, "Odd. They usually span it out longer'n that."
"Well, at least it's over," I say, matching his depressed tone.
"Aye."
But instead of subsiding after the kill, the shouting grows louder and louder, and nearer, and more intelligible -
"Jam! Jam! Come quick man!"
Jamie leaps up, and grabs his first aid box just as Alain and Leo burst into the cottage, tumbling over each other in their haste.
"The boar got someun'," pants Leo, "For God's sake man, come on."
Jamie hustles them out of the cottage without a word, and we all jump on board the runabout at the gate.
"Who is it?" snaps Jamie, in instant doctor mode.
"Dinnae ken – we didnae see," says Alain, driving us urgently towards the forest line, "Gil did – he was in the middle of callin' the ambulance when he sent us for ye."
Jamie nods curtly, "The boar's dead?"
"Aye, Dougal got it."
"Bit close tae the house for a kill, isn't it?"
"Aye, it got through our cordon, an' we couldnae turn it. . ."
Jamie bursts out in a long string of fierce, raging Gàidhlig, "Did I no' warn the lot of ye? Time, an' time, an' time again?", he punches the roof support next to him, so hard he nearly bends the aluminum strut, and descends into vicious swearing once again.
It stops the moment he spots the small circle of men gathered in a white-wreathed clearing, their hats off, and expressions somber.
I just barely keep up with Jamie as he jumps from the runabout, and runs to the stricken figure splayed across the ground.
And then I am looking down at a mouth open in panting, silent screams, with blood and entrails making a red, ever-growing stain across the virgin snow, and the wide, pain-glazed eyes of young Willie. . .
Chapter 67: Silver And Gold
Notes:
CONTENT WARNING – Blood/gore
Chapter Text
Jamie works feverishly for ten minutes that feel like ten years. He shouted off three different men who tried to offer help, so it is only after he sits back, and his red-stained hands go still, resting on his snow-soaked knees that I approach, kneeling down on Willie's other side.
I take Willie's hand in both of mine, warming his fingers in between my palms. His eyes and mouth are closed now, his breath rapid but even – probably as a result of the three injections Jamie has given him. But there is nothing to be done about the giant gashes torn into his abdomen and thighs, nothing to be done about the pieces of him spread across the snow, nothing to be done about the filth, and blood, and ooze, and bodily fluids I'm horrified to even learn the name of. . .
Nothing to be done - not with a first-aid kit and four years of pre-med, in the dead of winter, long minutes away from a hospital, and hours away from a surgeon of any description.
Jamie has to know that.
He has to know it better than anyone else here.
I don't dare look at him. I know what I would see on his face, and I am not ready to see it there.
Instead, I gently brush Willie's cheek, trying to give him what little distraction I can provide. Or perhaps a kindly voice, at least. . .
"Willie?" I say, quietly. Then a little louder, "William?"
Jamie's head turns toward me at the sound of the name, but I ignore him, focusing on the dark brown of Willie's suddenly open eyes.
"Aye?"
"It's Claire, William."
He smiles, very faintly, "Oh, aye. Bonnie Miss Claire."
"Will you. . . talk to me?"
"Aye. Wha' about?"
I swallow heavily, pulling bright cheerfulness from somewhere, "Well. . . I've. . . never seen Scotland in the springtime. Why don't you. . . describe it to me?"
I reach down with my other hand, and gently untie the tourniquet Jamie put around his thigh, as a ridiculous sop to first aid.
I don't know anything about medicine. But I know Death when I meet Him. We've met too many times before for there to be any mistake. . .
"Aye. They doo say, ye ken, tha'. . . tha' the fields, in the springtime. . . they grow silver and gold."
"Do they?"
"They doo," He looks up dreamily at the pale blue sky, the few high, wispy clouds reflecting from his eyes, "When the frost breaks, it throws up a mist - a mist as fine as powder, an' as pure as snow. It keeps away fairies. . . an' all who would doo us harm. In the light b'tween starshine an' the dawn, it's clean, bright silver, shieldin' the land wi' its power."
Jamie notices the great stain of blood growing around me again. I muster all my courage, and look over at him. For a moment our eyes meet with fierce, Earth-rending disbelief, that changes quickly into an expression of black, smouldering loss - the fiery look of those who find they must stare into the eyes of the One who comes for us all, and meet Him face-to-face.
It is all I feared. And worse.
Much, much worse.
I turn back to Willie, "And then?"
He swallows a few times, "An' then, when th'sun comes up, the mist turns tae gold. It burns away, from t'heat of its own beauty. It leaves the scent. . . of dragon's breath behind. . . tha' c'n heal. . . even God's oon wounds. . ."
He trails off, as his own wounds reassert themselves. The pool of blood around my knees is huge, dark, and horrible. The snow hisses, and steams with the heat of a life, burned fast and strong and pure. . . Before he loses consciousness, I lean forward, and press my lips to his. For a moment, his cheeks warm with a smile, for the last time.
"Bonnie Miss Claire. Bonniest lass in th'Highlands. . . bu' I've nae chance. . . no' wi' Ja. . ."
His eyes close again, and his rapid, shallow breath slows. All the tension and pain flow out of him, and a look comes over his features that only decades of living could have put there otherwise. Gone is the skinny, awkward boy, the loud, grinning, over-eager innocent. In his place is a patriarch, beardless but venerable, unlined but wise, uplifted and kind, gentle, generous and good.
They say only the perfect die young. I've never believed that until now.
I lay his hand across his breast, my vision blurring with tears.
One of the men comes up then, and lays a blanket reverently over him. It's Dougal, with tears streaming down his own face. He doesn't look at me.
Someone takes my hand, and leads me back to the runabout. We're back at Hotel California cottage before I realize it's Jamie. He's gesturing me out of the runabout, and into the cottage to get cleaned up.
It takes fifty lifetimes to wash my hands.
It takes Jamie even longer.
Then he sits down next to me on the couch, and the people we were half an hour ago are not the ones sitting here now. . .
He whispers at the lamp across the room.
"Why did ye do it."
He isn't asking. I answer anyway.
"Because it was the right thing to do."
"An' how d'ye ken that?"
All my anger at the universe rolls out of me in one great sob, "How do I know it? You saw his injuries, Jamie! How can you object to a clean end, on land he loved, under a clear blue sky? To a release from suffering? From intense, overwhelming pain? From lifelong mutilation, even if he had survived? To free a young, sweet boy from that? It was the right thing to do, Jamie. In your heart you know that, just as well as I do."
His voice is utterly flat, still speaking at something across the room, "The ambulance was comin'. It's still comin'. He might'a lived."
"Maybe. But do you really believe it?"
His silence is answer enough.
"You couldn't do it, Jamie. I know that. But I could."
"It wasnae your decision tae make."
"Oh, but it was."
His hands ball into fists, and finally he looks at me, "An' how d'ye ken that?"
I have never seen such consuming fire in anyone's eyes before. Such fury, such agony, passion and loss. . .
"Be-because I'm the only one here, Jamie. The only one who knows."
"Who kens what?"
My past rises in me, a staggering wave of nausea and gall. . .
I'm the only one here who knows what it sounds like when a man freezes to death.
I'm the only one here who knows exactly what the last week of a starving child looks like.
I'm the only one who knows what the air tastes like after ten hours of sustained nuclear blasts.
The only one who could describe the smell of people half-cooked by radiation, and the bone-deep chill of their screams.
Who could convey the feeling of the Blueblast bombs, as one-by-one, for eight, long, interminable years, they slowly destroy every thing and every one you ever cared about. . .
Jamie may know about loss, about oppression, about torture, about grief, about pain. . .
I am the one who knows about war.
About death.
About hell. . .
Hell isn't death. Hell is dying slowly.
I draw a hand across my face, hot tears spreading across my cheeks like burning lava, "I'm the only one who. . . who knows what. . . what a blessing it is, Jamie. To die fast."
And then, there is nothing left for me to do but run, and so, I run.
Chapter 68: Campaign
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be,
For my unconquerable soul."
I look out over Loch Ness, experiencing the Stygian Blue of deep, clean water for the first time since my flight in from Skycity 15.
More than ten weeks ago, and in two hundred years yet to be. . .
"In the fell clutch of circumstance,
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance,
My head is bloody, but unbowed."
Ned comes up beside me, softly quoting,
"Beyond this place of wrath and tears,
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years,
Finds and shall find me unafraid."
The heavy cold of the winter wind ruffles the surface of the water, pushing freezing, oppressive damp into our lungs.
I link an arm though Ned's, and take one last look at the Loch.
"It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul."
He mouths the words as I say them, gently smiling. "I would not have thought you knoo much of Henley, Mrs. Beauchamp."
As we turn back to the hotel, I pull a smile from somewhere, I have no idea where, and say brightly, "Well, let's just say I have a bit of a weakness for broad-shouldered redheads, Mr. Gowan."
I can't tell him I'd never even heard of Henley until I found a book of his poems in the Leoch library nearly a month ago. . .
"Ach, Ned, please," he waves a thin, imperious hand, "'Mr. Gowan' makes me feel a hundred. Ann'm onlay sixty three, after all."
I pat his arm, "In that case, you must call me Claire. A fortnight's friendship is enough for a first-name basis, I think."
I really can't tell him he's the only friend I have at the moment. . .
"Weel, 's'yer opinion that mattars o'course." He smirks, slyly, "An' aye, I have notissed you bear a certain. . . affinity, as it were. . . for our wee Green Man. . . aye?" He lifts his eyebrows in my direction.
I don't directly acknowledge Jamie's code name, any more than I did the first time I realized the electronic crew listings we must present at all official checkpoints always have one automatically marked box, all alone under the heading "Other" – namely, "The Green Man".
Be he ghost, sprite, fairy or foundling, he's on our side, the listing seems to say. I had brought it up to Ned that day, and he gave me one of his usual lawyerly runaround speeches, but I managed to gather that all official campaign parties are allowed to put a "phantom name" on their roster – only one, and their actual tally of members must never include them. They say it's for "good luck", but legally, as I understand it, it's there to make sure each campaign party receives enough governmental supply requisitions, is booked for enough rooms at each hotel, and maybe gets a little extra network time on their official coms. It's a place-holder of a sort. Gives them some wiggle room.
Un-legally, of course, it's there to make sure Jamie doesn't have to sleep in the hallway every night. . .
"There is something fascinating about a man of mystery, isn't there?", I say, cheerfully but vaguely.
"Weel, I've alwayss found it verry effective, yes."
"I've no doubt you have."
I certainly can't tell him that there's no mystery about it – only the bleak, simple fact that we've been on the campaign trail for fifteen days, and it's been seventeen since Jamie has talked to me. . .
I fell into a deep depression after Willie, waking up the next morning in perhaps the blackest mood I'd been in since my campsite on the Rim. I barely remember handing the farm over to Geordie, and only just recall saying goodbye to Fergus.
I only know one way to run, and only one place to run to, and that is the deep, barren place inside my own heart, where I can exist without feeling, work without thinking, and die without dying.
On the worst days, it is the only place that makes sense – the only part of me I can concede is at all worthwhile.
On the worst days, I barely exist at all.
On the worst days, that is my only comfort.
Perhaps it is the coward's way out, but if it gives me an excuse to keep breathing, however fruitless, however empty, I will take it.
Depression may be a bitch, but sometimes, it is also my saviour. . .
It took nearly six days on campaign for me to realize no one was speaking to me. It took another three for me to realize why.
We are traveling from tiny Highland village to tiny Highland village – places so sparsely populated one might easily assume they aren't worth nearly the effort Dougal and the team are putting in – but then I remember that for the first leg of this stage of the campaign, we've been assigned a Nationwide Broadcast video crew. Every speech, every procession, every parade, and every celebratory moment in the pub afterwards is being recorded, and sent out to viewers everywhere – even population centers like Glasgow, or Edinburgh. International networks will be picking them up too, I have no doubt.
And for any of these broadcasts to land properly, make the right impression, and maybe, possibly garner some voters that aren't Highland clansmen, everyone in our party, without exception, must speak nothing but the Gàidhlig when in front of the cameras. Even pure Scots would be too English for the impression Dougal wants to make, and so, the Gàidhlig, in every case, at all times.
This had been mentioned in the planning meetings, of course, but I did not know then that he meant all times – even when we are shut up in our cars between villages, or in the halls of the hotels late at night, or when the Rover broke down outside a village last week, and when I asked what had happened all I could get was a long string of unintelligible muttering from Angus, and ashamed looks from everyone else.
And then, paradoxically, I understood.
I know how much this generation of Scots are proud of the resurgence of this great keystone of their culture, and I have never and will never grudge them the use of it – but that isn't what's going on. It isn't just a political campaign that's happening here. Dougal is trying to isolate me again.
And this time, he's succeeded.
It isn't the enforced use of a language I don't know that's done it, of course – not only that. I've been picking up bits of the Gàidhlig here and there – and more than bits, in a few crucial areas. So what they're saying isn't a complete blank to me. No, it is the deliberate, calculated othering that comes along with it that's done the damage.
I've been the Sassenach – only the Sassenach – for over two weeks. It's the only thing anyone has called me, and not often then.
Jamie called me that from the first, of course – nearly always with affection – but to the rest of the men, it has always been a club of a word, used to bludgeon me back into my place, or attempt to do so, anyway. Dougal has taken advantage of that, and spent these first days on the road deliberately, surgically isolating me, in a mad, desperate bid to get me dependent on him. He's the candidate here – the provider, the one with all the power. This far away from Colum, I have nothing to hold over Dougal at all – if the spy cameras are still something I could use to do that, and if I even knew where the cameras ended up. . .
It's a classic siege. By-the-book tactics to starve out your prey. I can't even be mad. He's flying his colours, declared his intent, and even trumpeted his attack that day in the Manager's barn when he told me to modify the coms. His turn has come, and he's known it for weeks. No wonder our attacks on him at Leoch gave him such annoyance, but made so little actual effect.
So now I am besieged, a lone island of English womanhood, surrounded by swirling waves of untamed Scottish men - who roar and crash to the tune that Dougal pipes, as easily and as naturally as the tides beat against the shore. It is elemental that they should abandon me. I'm an Outlander. I am not of them.
I have no idea what Dougal has made of my blank, effortlessly neutral acceptance of the situation.
I do know it has utterly baffled the other men I know – Angus, Rupert, Alain, Peter, and three or four or Colum's general duty men.
And Murtagh.
And as for Jamie. . .
I have to admit it. I've only known the man a little over two months. I don't know him very well.
Or at all. . .
My sweet, gentle Ghillie Dhu has not been in evidence much these past two weeks, no matter how many people have been referring to him as The Green Man lately. Of course he's had to avoid the cameras like the plague, and I've been in such a dark place I'd have hardly noticed if a Skycity crashed in front of my face, but he hasn't even glanced my way, or made any attempt to contact me in secret.
I've considered sending him a packet of Jammie Dodgers, just to see if it would get a reaction out of him, but such a thing seems childish when. . .
When. . .
I have suspected it for some time, but the ease with which he seems to live without me has only confirmed that he. . .
That he doesn't. . .
I cry myself to sleep for three nights in a row before I can let myself think the word.
He doesn't love me.
I never expected him to, of course, but it is still a blow to realize that all I ever was to him was an infatuation. A sort of living dream he could touch at will, a pretty piece of bewitching womanhood - an embodiment of his ideals.
Love wouldn't abandon me like he has. Love wouldn't leave me in the dark canyons of my despair with never a word, with never a look, with never a whisper. . .
Of course he never pretended to love me either. He never said it. He never even implied it.
And I. . .
I've never had the mental or emotional capacity to fully analyze just what I feel about him, not in all the weeks I've been here. So I haven't tried.
I'm certainly not going to try now.
I'm tired, and he hasn't earned it.
And so I'm alone, in a group of men that either don't like or actively hate me, and everything I stand for – admittedly not without reason, from their perspective. I'm powerless, nameless, and voiceless, with all my gains forgotten, all my allies neutralized, and all my progress to do over again.
The only bright spark has been Ned.
He'd introduced himself, in English, in the second village we were at, while all the important people were parading through the streets, making a good show of themselves, and the camera crews were paying all their attention to them, not to us.
I'd asked him why he wasn't using the Gàidhlig like everyone else was.
"Jusst old enough not tae ha' learnt it in school, Lassie," he smiled and gestured with his hands, palm up, "Simple'a s'that. I c'n get along fine in the more formal applications, but in the day-tae-day? Ach."
He'd shrugged, and went back to tapping away on his e-padd – what I have learned this time calls an info-screen. After a few minutes, he grunted, complaining about the padd's slow processes and poor data transfers.
I'd smiled, and gave him a data-compression app to download, one I'd written myself, just a few weeks ago.
"So, you want me tae download more data, tae help me with a congestion of data?" He'd shaken his head, and chuckled grimly, but he'd done it. And it had worked, too.
We've been fast friends ever since – him offering me any and all lawyering services that I happen to need, and me offering all computer maintenance chores that I can reasonably perform.
On a whim, I filled out my application for Scottish citizenship and gave it to him to file.
I don't know why.
I'm not going to stay. . .
Ned sees me to the door of my hotel room, and salutes me as he turns to go to his. I close my door quietly behind me, and go over to the bedside table, where my large, homemade rucksack sits. It isn't full of food this time, but a clean linen dress, a dark green woolen cloak, a pair of soft leather shoes, a woven bag of raw woolen yarn, and a steel bottle with chipped enamel.
Iona told me to take them with me everywhere, and now I'm glad I did.
In nineteen days, we will be in Inverness.
Craigh na Dun beckons to me. In my sleep, and before my waking eyes. . .
I'll have to write a letter to Jamie and Fergus, explaining. . .
Explaining. . .
Well, explaining everything.
They probably won't believe me, but I do know they will be better off without me.
They belong here. I do not. Dougal has made that very clear, if it wasn't abundantly clear already.
Yes. . .
Dougal. . .
My hands form into fists, and somewhere, deep behind the empty, howling void of my heart, Warrior Claire pleads to be let off her chain.
Well.
I do have nineteen days to spend. . .
If Dougal wanted a tame surrender, it's high time he knew he's dealing with the wrong Sassenach. . .
I stay awake for hours, planning my campaign.
Notes:
“Invictus” by William Ernest Henley can be found here - https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/51642/invictus
Soundtrack for this chapter - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tudDGvT---A
Chapter 69: Red Sorcha
Chapter Text
"And – action!"
A roll of drums, and a steady clop-clopping of horses' hooves sound behind me.
I duck into the Invermorsiton Emporium, intent on avoiding the camera crew. I slip behind some racks of clothing, and peer out at the high street, as Donas bears Dougal at the head of a long procession down to the riverbank.
This is the third time they've made this run.
He does have a speech later today, but it seems more b-roll is necessary. . .
We only have our government-assigned camera crew for a few more days, and they're somewhat desperately trying to get enough footage of Dougal for the fully edited bio-segment each candidate must submit at the end of their official broadcast time.
The problem, of course, is that Dougal is terrific at getting attention, but absolutely pants at inspiring real interest. He can give a speech as well as any professor, and he can lead a parade better than Mickey Mouse – he can even make grand toasts at the pub, sing, play darts, and put away beer or whisky with the best of them. But he interviews like a steel crate. Literal sawdust has a more engaging, natural presence in a formalized one-on-one setting – as the crew discovered last week, when they attempted a recorded interview, but had to call it when the homemade scarecrows decorating the stage kept stealing the scene. Even Angus had interviewed better – at least he could tell a mildly indecent joke without sounding painfully scripted.
At this point, the crew is almost out of options – I've surreptitiously been listening around the corner from the editing room, so I know they've crammed in about as many side interviews, fluff narration, digressions and b-roll shots as they can, and they still have almost five minutes to fill. All but about thirty seconds of Dougal's interview was "almost devoid of human interest", I heard the scene director say.
If I can find the right angle, that's probably going to be my best bet. . .
I'm done with complicated chess games, and the subtle intrigues of familial drama.
I'm finished with confusing, non-explanations about time travel, and if I can or should try to change the future. Or the past. Or whatever. The future is probably screwed no matter what I try, so why should I care?
I've had enough of magic. Time for me to get back to plain, practical nihilism.
If the universe has failed me, then I'm going to fail it right back.
I give a little sigh.
Well, at least I've finally come down to petty, satisfying revenge. At last – a goal I have some chance of reaching. . .
I watch Donas and company finally round the corner.
They want human interest? I'll show them human interest. . .
I only have a couple more weeks of Dougal to endure, and until I get back to Craigh na Dun, I am going to make his life as unpleasant and uncomfortable as possible.
Just to see how he likes it.
And if the best way to do that includes stealing his thunder, then that's what I'll do. . .
I look around the Invermorsiton Emporium, at the impressive array of tartan clothing, printed t-shirts, collectible teapots, mugs, and whisky and shot glasses, and the whole wall full of merchandise with the town name and crest blazoned over it all.
I haven't always learned the names of the places we've stayed on this campaign, most of them are so small, and we've stayed there so briefly. But we've been here four days, and Invermoriston is quite large by comparison to most – it has three sizable hotels, rather than the usual small B & B that can barely accommodate our party of thirty or more – several officially labeled "Scenic Places Of Interest", that I am sure will be quite profitable when or if Scotland ever becomes a tourist destination again – a dock and staging area for Loch tours, and even a dedicated Loch Ness Monster museum. I've noticed these latter are quite common to the area, but the one here is better curated than usual, and focuses more on the Monster Watcher phenomenon than on Nessie herself. I've been there twice since we got here, and wasn't bored either time, though I think the amusement is played out for me now.
I browse through a rack of tartan scarves, reading the large nearby plaque about which Clans' patterns they are, and some of the history of each.
I find MacKenzie, and Fraser, Campbell and MacTavish, and several more names I recognize, just out of curiosity.
And then I see Clan Moriston. . .
Not so strange, perhaps, to find it here, all things considered, but it suddenly strikes me that the bright red of it, striped with sea-green and white, would be such a beacon against the blue-grey of a MacKenzie background.
It's perfect, really. And the irony is simply delicious. Here, of all places, now of all times, and me, of all people. . .
"Are ye bein' served, miss?" an attendant comes up and asks politely.
"Not yet," I look at the girl inquiringly, gesturing at the Moriston scarf, "Do you have this in a dress? Preferably a princess cut?"
"I dinnae ken. Le' me check for ye right quick. . ."
After a few moments at the register, she gestures me over to a nearby fitting booth. The machine scans me, and gives a few preview images of what I'd look like wearing the patterns available. I make a few adjustment requests, then tap the result I want the machine to make for me.
The attendant smiles at me as I step out of the booth, "Th' alteration won' tak too long, miss. Wha' name shall I call when it s'ready?"
I reach onto my pocket, and pull out the last of the coins I earned at Leoch. Dark, sneering irony stares at me out of my own heart.
What the hell, if I'm going to do this, I might as well own it.
"Sorcha."
She taps the name into her e-padd, completely unaware of the drama she's participating in.
A half an hour later I'm back at the hotel. An hour after that, I'm in the attached restaurant, dressed triumphantly for tea.
Dougal's group files in, slowly, each one of them looking more tired than one speech and a few hours of pick-up shots should rightly account for.
Evidently, it has not been a good day for the camera crew. . .
The director and lead interviewer come in together, and I wave them over to my table. It takes them a split second to recognize me, but when they do take in my new dress, they come over quite eagerly. The interviewer pulls out a chair for the director, so she can sit across from me, then takes a seat himself.
"I see yer day's been bettar than ours – oor brighter, a'least, miss. . ."
I smile, and Warrior Claire draws her sword.
"Moriston. Sorcha Moriston."
She gives me a brief double-take, "I. . . I thought ye were English. I didnae ken ye. . ." she trails off, gesturing at the dress.
"No one chooses their ancestry – and no one earns their blood. It's mere chance I'm here with Clan MacKenzie for a while. And it isn't a permanent position at all."
"Ye'er th' lead mechanic, aren't ye?"
"Specialist mechanic. But yes."
"Ye must have some fascinatin' stories about all the things s'been happenin' in Scotland ov late."
I lean forward, smiling amiably, "Oh, you have no idea. . ."
The next morning, there is not only a long article posted on the campaign's network site, there is a huge front-page spread on Invermoriston's hardcopy-print paper, where the headline reads -
Red Sorcha!
A Sassenach's View Of The Journey Towards Scottish Independence
The speech Dougal gave yesterday is on page four.
I smile over my morning tea.
The next two weeks aren't going to be easy - but satisfying? That, yes.
Very, very satisfying. . .
Chapter 70: The Mountains Of Home
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It's a couple of days later, once again in a tiny pub, in a village I don't know the name of that my revenge really starts, however.
It's our second to last day with the camera crew, and our last stop along the shores of Loch Ness for weeks. We go back into registered Clan lands tomorrow – there's going to be a whole ceremony when we leave State-controlled territory and everything. There's a little informal cèilidh in the pub tonight, meant to be a sort of farewell party. To the crew? To the wider world? To Nessie? I'm not entirely sure.
But I do know the pub room is packed, and that the musicians on the little stage at one end are really very good. Not perhaps in Gwyllyn's class, but still very impressive nonetheless. I can hear the whole crowd singing along, and the enthusiastic dancing even in my room two floors up.
I come down after the music is well along, to maximize my chance of making an entrance. I don't get to, as it happens, since the room is so unbelievably full. Fortunately, Ned has saved a place for me at the bar, and ordered me a plate of steak and chips before the food ran out. I thank him profusely, and as I eat I relax a little into the comfort a full caf always gives me.
I dreamed about the Skycities last night. Great mountains of metal, gleaming in places, rusty in others, floating over a glowing sea that reflects the pinpricks of starlight in the clear, dusky sky. The Spire glitters with artificial lights, and the Safnet screens shimmer red-gold.
A cheer goes up around me, reminding me just how alive things are in this time, and how dead things are in mine.
I sigh.
My past three weeks have been almost entirely gloomy grey skies, and old, dirty snow. There was a film of ice over the water in my washbasin this morning.
I think I am allowed to miss my home every now and then. . .
I just wish I didn't feel guilty about it.
I am going to miss this old Scotland, of course. I'll probably never see trees again, or the clean ocean, probably never have steak again, or real butter, or chocolate, or strawberries, or pizza.
But I have proven I can be a farm manager, to myself at the very least. And I think I've made enough connections in Central Township as a power peddler to at least leverage an interview with one of the big farming concerns. All I want is enough of a salary to get me off the Rim. I'll even live in Core Township if I have to, but I want a house, food, and steady work. I can make a big company see I'm worth that. I am worth that.
And it will be nice to see Lamb again, of course. I think of his boyish eagerness, his all-in attitude, his utter dedication to this project of his, and I smile. He of all people won't be upset at me. Not for coming home, not for failing to change the past, not for being so overwhelmed by it all.
And not for making friends in the past either. . .
I smile at Ned, as he talks to his other neighbor at the bar. I'll miss him. And Geordie too, and Murtagh, Gil, Harry, Annie, Mrs. Fitz, Coira, Ev, and many, many more.
And Fergus most of all, naturally.
My lovely little prince, Fergus. . .
I've spent most of today trying to find the right way to phrase it.
"Darling, maman is from the future. . ."
"My dear, I'm not from this time. . ."
"Wee Fergus, lad, there's something I must tell you. . ."
If I can find the right way to say it to him, I can find the right way to say it to-
My wandering eyes catch a glimpse of bright red curls escaping from underneath a cap of MacKenzie tartan.
Jamie hasn't come down to eat with the rest of the party for the entire time the camera crew has been with us, but I suppose he figured the room is so crowded tonight, he might manage to avoid being noticed.
A cold pit of loneliness opens in my stomach.
I want Frank.
I need Frank.
But Frank is dead.
Frank won't be born for another two hundred years.
And in two hundred years, he'll be dead.
My arms are so very empty, and my skin is practically starving for touch. Hell, I haven't even touched myself in over three weeks. I haven't had the energy, or the desire.
I push away the remnants of my supper. There's nothing I can do to fill the ache inside me, and the pub doesn't have enough alcohol to make me forget.
It doesn't matter how much they actually have – it isn't enough.
I order a beer anyway. Maybe it'll take the edge off.
I can only hope. . .
During a lull in the music, one of the villagers gets up on stage, and speaks in the Gàidhlig for a couple of minutes. I pick up a few words here and there, but I'm not quite knowledgeable enough yet to parse full sentences. I think he was saying something about friendship and sharing. . .
It's all made clear a moment later, when one of our party gets up on stage, and proceeds to sing a pop song. It's been translated into the Gàidhlig, but it is very clearly a pop song. Several other people follow him, members of our party and villagers alike – even one member of the camera crew.
I see the editor and director encouraging Dougal to go up and show us his stuff next – and he has proven he does have a very pleasant singing voice before now.
So, of course, I know what I have to do.
I whisper my plan to Ned before getting up to skirt the crowd as best as I can, and his voice follows me into the press of people -
"Bu' I thought you couldnae speak the Gàidhlig?"
I can't.
But I can sing it. . .
I make it to the stage a bare few seconds before Dougal does. But as I predicted, my bright red dress and feminine appearance strikes such a contrast to the rest of our party, a bit of a cheer goes up the minute most of the crowd sees I'm volunteering, and Dougal has to back off a little. I can feel his eyes on me though. . .
I force myself to ignore him.
"Chì Mi Na Mòrbheanna," I say to the lead musician, a little breathlessly, and a little more than badly pronounced. I gather myself for a second, then say it again, very carefully, "Chì Mi Na Mòrbheanna."
He still looks a little confused, so I turn to the mic, and launch into the first chorus a cappela -
"O chì, chì mi na mòr-bheanna,
O chì, chì mi na còrr-bheanna,
O chì, chì mi na coireachan,
Chì mi na sgoran fo cheò."
Oh, I see, I see the great mountains, oh, I see, I see the lofty mountains, oh, I see, I see the Corries, I see the peaks beneath the mist. . .
I close my eyes and see Skycity 15, old and rusty and ugly and beautiful, and home. . .
The musicians understand me now, and start up the music, soft and slow at first, building to something quite wonderful.
"Chì mi gun dàil an t-àite san d'rugadh mi,
Cuirear orm fàilte sa chànain a thuigeas mi,
Gheibh mi ann aoidh agus gràdh nuair a ruigeam,
Nach reicinn air tunnachan òir."
I see, straight away, the place of my birth. I will be welcomed in a language which I understand. I will receive hospitality and love when I reach there, that I would not trade for a ton of gold. . .
For reasons I do not understand and have not questioned, my singing voice can form the syllables of the Gàidhlig smoothly, almost perfectly, while my speaking voice can only make halting attempts at them.
The look of pride on Ned's face is a lovely thing to see.
The look of surprise on Murtagh's is even more so.
But I am living for the look of shocked horror on Dougal's face.
It's the look of a man who had just realized his worst fear – that his most dedicated enemy has broken his ultimate secret code.
I haven't, of course. But he thinks I have.
And that's enough for my revenge. More than enough.
The looks of embarrassment or shame on most of the rest of the men's faces boosts my ego in a way I didn't think was possible since the last time Jamie kis-
No, Beauchamp. Don't go there now. . .
Sing, Beauchamp. Sing for your supper. . .
"Chì mi na coilltean, chì mi na doireachan,
Chì mi ann màghan bàna is toraiche,
Chì mi na féidh air làr nan coireachan,
Falaicht' an trusgan de cheò."
I see woods there, I see thickets there. I see fair, fertile fields there. I see the deer on the ground of the Corries, shrouded in a garment of mist. . .
It's been so long since I've sung anything – since I've felt like singing anything. A decade at least, or more. But I used to be rather good.
Or at least that's what mum used to say. . .
Frank used to love it too. . .
"Beanntaichean àrda is àillidh leacainnean,
Sluagh ann an còmhnuidh is còire cleachdainnean,
'S aotrom mo cheum a' leum g'am faicinn,
Is fanaidh mi tacan le deòin."
High mountains with lovely slopes, folk there who are always kind. Light is my step when I go bounding to see them, and I will willingly remain there for a long while.
Strange a Gàidhlig song should make me long so much for New Oxford, but there it is.
I stopped questioning my heart the day I first dreamed of Jamie. . .
I finish the last chorus, and there is a long pause. After a breath there is quite a bit more than polite applause. It isn't wild applause – nothing overwhelming – but it is very, extremely pleasant. I am also encouraged to see Ned, Murtagh, Angus, Rupert, and Alain all give me nods of approval.
I am delighted to see Dougal's scowl.
I very deliberately do not look for Jamie. . .
The lead musician leans in to me, as he swaps out his guitar for a handheld drum.
"Hùg Air A' Bhonaid Mhòir?" he asks, nodding significantly at me.
I smile and nod back. I know that one too, even though it's much more difficult. It's basically a nonsense song, made to sound good and be easy to dance to, rather than have much meaning in itself.
The music starts, and people start pairing up. . .
I close my eyes and focus on the rhythm, as the crowded little room dances and leaps around me. . .
This time when the song finishes, the applause is even more enthusiastic. Dougal has been pushed off to the side a ways by the dancers, but he is still hovering by the stage, still intending on participating tonight.
I've been lifted just enough out of my depression that I can feel a little bit of disgust at him, and even a touch of hatred for how he's been making the men treat me.
But I'm still being driven by petty spite. It's all I've really felt for days, and I'm not willing to give up wallowing just yet.
I have to give a performance that it's impossible for him to follow. I only know one song that might do it – the problem is that it's the most difficult one for me to pronounce.
Very slowly and deliberately, I say to the lead musician - "Dh'èirich Mi Moch Madainn Cheòthar."
He's gotten a little used to the quirks in my spoken pronunciation now, and I only have to repeat myself twice before he nods vigorously, and picks up a tin whistle. . .
This one is half a nonsense song – the rollicking little chorus is totally meaningless – but the rest of the lyrics are about a woman abandoned by her young lover, and mistreated by the older man who was supposed to care for her. . .
If everyone in the room doesn't get the point, then at least the most important ones will.
A few people dance to this one too, but mostly, people sing along.
It's the first time that's ever happened to me. True, most folks only chime in on the nonsense chorus, but I still find it one of the most joyful, touching experiences of my life.
One beautiful memory, at least, to take back with me through the stones. . .
When this song finishes, the applause still isn't wild, but it is some of the most sincere, heartfelt applause I've ever participated in – on either side of the stage. I bow as graciously as I know how, and gesture at the musicians around me, applauding them myself.
Murtagh comes up to escort me back to Ned, and I even catch a wink from Angus.
Dougal is nowhere to be seen.
I don't relax my guard, but it does satisfy the little knot of resentment I've been chewing on these past few days.
Squirm, snake. Squirm.
I spend a few minutes with Ned, manage to finish my cold leftovers and avoid being bought more than two drinks, before making my way back up to my room.
A much different night than I was expecting, but also more successful. . .
I turn off the stairs onto the landing, and a hand comes out of the shadows. A tall silhouette collides with me, slamming me into the opposite wall. A forehead presses to mine, and Jamie's voice comes out of the darkness -
"Why? Why did ye no' tell me ye could sing?"
Notes:
Soundtrack for this chapter -
Chì Mi Na Mòrbheanna (The Mist Covered Mountains of Home) - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NgTzxScVhXM
LYRICS - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aQ5fotIT8Z4
- https://www.omniglot.com/songs/gaelic/chimi.php
Hùg Air A' Bhonaid Mhòir (Celebrate The Big Bonnet) - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x7jW5qDexnc
LYRICS - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xygAB-Z_QQw
Dh’èirich Mi Moch Madainn Cheòthar (I Arose Early On A Misty Morning) - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oZEhc3j2t8I
LYRICS - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VUIOp8jVUqA
Chapter 71: Sawney
Chapter Text
Before I can stop myself, my knee connects hard with Jamie's groin, and I roughly shove him off of me.
"Why should I tell you anything, you goddamn hypocritical piece of shit?"
He folds in half with a grunt, and starts a long string of Gàidhlig curses even I haven't heard yet.
And after Leoch, that's saying something. . .
"Sorry!" I hiss, and groan in frustrated sympathy, hammering my fists on the wall behind me, "You surprised me out of the dark and you pushed me around and Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ it's been three weeks Jamie what. . . what. . ." I weakly punch his shoulders, again and again and again, and suddenly I'm on the floor, crying, and he's curled up behind me, his attention divided between managing his own pain, and trying to hold me. I try to slap his hands away - not because I don't want his comfort, but because I want him take care of himself. This only frustrates me more, and confuses him, and we're both in serious danger of complete nervous breakdowns when in desperation, he grabs my hand. He locks our fingers together, and holds hard.
"My room," he says, voice pale, and shaking with more than physical pain, "Down the hall. C'n ye make it?"
I take a deep breath, and finally get my sobbing under some semblance of control, "Yes. Can you?"
"Aye."
We both struggle to our feet, not letting go of each other, and manage to stumble our way to his room.
He locks the door behind us, and for the first time in over three weeks I feel safe.
We're here. Together. Neither of us can leave.
Everything will be okay. . .
A huge band of tension releases all down my back, and I collapse onto his bed, still crying, but quietly now.
He lets me go, and brings over a box of tissues before laying down next to me. He doesn't say anything.
I twist my eyes closed, and just let the tears happen.
Several generations and half a box of tissues later, I look over at him, still snuffling, but very sincere, "I'm sorry I kicked you."
He huffs a laugh, "It isnae ye tha' needs tae be apologizin' at this moment, Claire."
"But I am sorry – it was just a self-defense reaction - if I'd known it was you I wouldn't have-"
"An' I appreciate that," he shifts gingerly, "Ceartain parts of me less so, bu' still – Claire, I. . ."
He doesn't go on. The room goes very quiet, with only the ticking of the clock in the hall, and the distant thrum of music from the pub breaking the silence. He digs in his pocket for a second, and brings out an oddly shaped palm-sized knickknack thing I cannot identify in the low light. He runs it lovingly between his fingers several times, his thumb lightly caressing the textured upper surface. Then his big hand engulfs it, and he sits up to turn on the bedside lamp.
"I've told ye about most of my family by now, mo nighean," he says, laying back down on the quilt next to me, "Ceartainly all the ones I grew up close to. I've named them, a'least, if I've no' described them much."
He opens his hand, and shows me the little object. It is now easy to tell it is a crude carving of a coiled snake, made from a dark, beautiful wood.
"But I've nevar told ye about my da."
"No. You haven't."
I shift my head to rest against his shoulder, both of us still looking up at the little snake.
"His name was Brian – Black Brian, they called him, for his hair – an' he eloped wi' my mother, against both their parents' wishes. They'd deliberately got her pregnant wi' Bobby furst though, sae nae'un could say aught against it."
He runs his thumb tenderly over the little carving again.
"Ye ken Bobby was a special nickname, aye? Only mam called him that. "Bright as a bobbin", she'd allus say. Da carved a wee sunburst for him, an' put the name on the back of it, but he never called him Bobby."
He swallows, then looks at me, eyes red and damp, "Th'rest of us called him Willie."
My heart thumps at the name.
"Oh. . . Jamie. . . I. . ."
He shakes his head, plowing through, "Nae, I need tae tell ye." He nods at the little snake," Da made Jenny a wee shell, wi' "Winkle" on the side, 'cause mam allus said she was quick as a wink. And he made this'un for me - " he turns it over, " - 'cause mam said I was sly as sawneys."
And indeed, the word "Sawney" is carved deeply into the underside of the piece of wood.
"Sly? You?"
He shrugs a little, "I usetae smile in my sleep, mam said. She meant cunning or cute, I think. . ."
"And for Rob?"
He sighs, and puts the snake away, "He nevar met Rob. He died in a car accident four months before he was born. I was five. Jenny was seven. Willie was ten."
I slip a hand back into his, "I'm sorry Jamie. . ."
"Nah," he grips my fingers tight, "S'jus' one of those things tha' happen, an' we were lucky. We had Willie. He really stepped up – became the man of the house. Though mam allus made sure he had time tae be a boy too," his eyes crinkle up with happy memories, "Those years werenae bad mo ghràidh, no' bad atal." His face darkens as dramatically as a winter sky, "It was only after Bobby died that things went wrong. Y'see, mam usetae paint – usetae dance - " he looks at me, long sorrow in his eyes, "Usetae sing. She was the best, most beautiful mother, an' none of that changed after da died. After Willie though. . ." he shakes his head, "She stopped singin', stopped paintin', didnae dance annymore. An' she nevar said our special nicknames again. Tha's why I call him Bobby now – tae keep the name alive. Tae keep him alive. Tae keep her alive. As vibrantly alive as she was back then. . ."
I push some curls away from his forehead, and cradle his cheek, "But you've watched people sing lots of times since then, Jamie – what was so different about tonight? What did I do to make you-"
"It was the Gàidhlig. An' the dancin'. An' ye bein' sae bright an' bonny." He looks at our still-clasped hands, "An' Willie bein' on my mind. . ."
He doesn't say which one.
I know it's both.
I close my eyes, but I can still see the red, steaming snow around my knees, soaking into my jeans. I can hear it, smell it. . .
"Three weeks, Jamie. Three weeks. And not a word from you. Not a look, not a note, not a hint. For three. Damn. Bloody. Weeks." I pull my hands away from him as they form two tight fists, "There's no excuse for that. Not even one horrible death that reminds you of another horrible death."
"I ken," he runs his fingers through his hair, and scratches the back of his neck, "An' if that means ye cannae be my girlfriend annymore, I'll. . . I'll try an' accept that, but. . . please, please tell me where ye learned those songs before ye go, Sassena-"
"Don't call me that!" I snap, "I haven't heard anything else from anyone for three goddamn shit weeks – I don't have to take it from you too, and so I won't – not for a long time - we clear?"
"Very."
"And I notice you still haven't apologized for any of it."
The edges of his mouth lift a little with hope, "Does that mean ye'd accept an apology from me?"
I set my jaw, and purse my lips, "You'll never know unless you try, Fraser."
He gently cups my face and speaks low, and sincerely, "I am so, so sorry Claire. Wi' all that is in me, I'm sorry. I was mad, an' sad, and. . . wild, wi' grief. I was angry at ye, horribly thankful for ye, furious at the universe, an' feckin' disgusted wi' myself." He shakes his head, "If only Colum had listened tae me – if only I had told him the dangers one more time. . . if only I was a real doctor, if only the ambulance had got there quicker, if only it hadnae been Willie. . . if only, if only, if only. . . I couldnae look at ye wi'out feelin' all of it at once, an' then. . ." he sighs, "Dougal ordered us no' tae speak tae ye, or use any language other than the Gàidhlig in yer presence. It was a shite thing tae do, I ken, but then it seemed the only way out that didnae leave me in pieces during a time when I need tae be sae alert an' on my guard. I regretted it the very first minute, an' havnae stopped regretting it, bu' once begun there jus' didnae seem any way tae stop. No' wi' the camera crew still here, an' my deal wi' Dougal," his thumb ghosts over my lips, "Can ye forgive me, Claire, mo chridhe?"
I hold his hands to my face, feeling the warmth of his skin against my own.
"You damn great brute. Of course."
I jump at him, practically biting my way into his mouth. I sink against his body, pushing him into the mattress, taking handfuls of his shirt that dig my nails into his chest. His arms clamp around me, much too hard, crushing the air from my lungs.
It hurts, but pain has never been such a relief as this.
We're both totally breathless when we finally let each other go, and we lie there panting for some few minutes. It's impossible to tell how many.
"I learned those songs for Story Night. From network vidcasts. Those and several others."
He smiles, his lips pressed against my forehead, "All for wee Fergus, then?"
"Not exactly. For me too. I'm not great at languages, but having some Gàidhlig is a survival skill in Scotland these days, and learning something I could immediately use seemed the smartest place to start."
His smile widens, "Ye'er such a good mother. . ."
My heart stutters a bit, a hole opening up in my stomach.
He's been so vulnerable with me tonight.
Perhaps. . . perhaps. . . I can. . .
"It was five years since Frank. The day you showed me your back. Five years. The baby was three months before that. Our house was almost a year ago, ditto my job. My parents were almost eight years ago. Ditto almost everything they ever owned. My entire past is a wasteland, Jamie. How. . . how can you possibly know that I'm a good anything? I'm a hollow, empty wreck. What do you see in me? What can you see?"
He spends a long minute running his fingertips along the ridge of my knuckles. Then he lifts me off him, and rolls us so I'm in his arms, facing him.
"I think about that wee bairn of yours, every now and then, you know."
I gasp in disbelief, "You. . . you do?"
"Aye. An' a lot more jus' lately."
"But. . ."
"I've kept on asking myself – if I could'ha fixed things so it had lived – I dunno, sent ye back in time, or whatever – if any choice of mine could've made ye happy, even if it meant I nevar met ye at all – would I still do it?"
"And. . ." my voice catches, "Would you?"
"Aye. In a heartbeat."
His eyes meet mine, and the look in them is so soft, so tender, so. . . so. . .
So nameless. . .
"It isnae what ye have, mo nighean. It's who ye are. I think of your wee bairn for the same reason I think of Frank sometimes. An' Lamb. An' yer father. An' Oxford." He lays a gentle hand on my chest, "They are part of ye. An' ye carry them wi' ye. Evan when they aren-"
"Her name was Faith."
He blinks, "Her. . ."
"Frank always insisted it was going to be a boy, but I just knew it wasn't. I called her Faith. Something I'd never had before. And would never have again. . ."
His arms close gently around me. I speak into his shirt, "I've never told anyone that before."
Very, very softly, he pets my hair.
"Yer secret's safe wi' me, mo ghràidh."
Chapter 72: Waulk In The Park
Chapter Text
Jamie pulls the Rover into the little Highland town just as the pale winter's day deepens into gold. The black and white cottages surrounding the icy village green are gilded orange and red, and the grey stone church glows almost pink. We swing around to the rear dooryard of the latter, hoping some accommodation will have been made for the horses. . .
With the official camera crew departing this morning, Jamie has taken an immediately more active role in the care of the animals. There is another horse besides Donas in the trailer – one I have not been introduced to – and apparently Auld Alec came along with us too – at his own insistence, Jamie says.
With our conversation last night, he's resumed his active care of me, as well. When we headed out, he insisted on driving the Rover, and made quite a point of requesting me to ride with him.
We had a longer drive than usual today, up into some very isolated hills a good ways west of Loch Ness. This town looks smaller than most too, even than most of the ones too small to have an old converted manor house or castle to turn into a hotel big enough for a party of thirty odd. There is usually some sort of barn in these places, but here, it is instantly apparent, there is only a hastily prepared, very small, damp and drafty old church outbuilding. Its one door is open, and from here I can see few sprinklings of straw and a pitiful water bucket – accommodations that would hardly be adequate for one or two sheep, let alone for two horses and a cat.
Horses are no longer common in towns this size, if they ever were – a thing I have trouble visualizing, even though Jamie assures me that once they were the backbone of the economy. After seeing what Donas can do with just a swing of his head, I can almost believe it. Not quite, but almost.
In either case, it is clear no one in this town has had to take care of horses at any time within the recent past.
Jamie jumps out to make a quick inspection, but almost immediately jumps back in, rubbing his hands and folding them into his sleeves for a minute to warm away the chill.
"Hopeless," he shakes his head, "Cannae blame the villagers – they did their best – but I'm no' putting any creature I have tae do wi' in a hut like tha' on a night like this – no' in a million years. Evan if they'd fit – which they wouldnae – they'd freeze befoor the sun goes down, let alone all night."
"Then what can we do? They're putting us up in the church – just like usual when there's no big converted house, but where can the horses go?"
"We'll jus' haveta take them inta the church wi' us. There's usually a vestry or summat – we'll find a way."
We. It is nice to be a "we" again. . .
My lip twists with a thought that no doubt should have occurred to me weeks ago, but that I've been much too wrapped up in my own problems to have before now.
"Hosting such a large group of people must be a terrible burden on some of these places, isn't it?"
"Hmm?" He looks from the line of headlights announcing the approach of our other vehicles, to the large side door of the church, logistics clearly uppermost in his mind, "Oh aye, sometimes. Bu' the government pays for it all – supposed tae, a'least – an' it turns out tha' having a score or more armed Highlanders suddenly in yer village has other unexpected benefits."
"Armed?"
I've only seen the men with a few defensive Stunbows, and occasionally a small, shiny dagger, worn more like jewelry than a weapon. . .
"Oh, only wi' ceremonial stuff an' our officially allocated modern stun weaponry a'course, bu' the point still stands. We have an effect."
"An effect I'll grant you. But what benefits could there be?"
"Other than network broadcasts allus showin' Dougal's location when he participates in a network-wide debate? Therefore bringing the place to some usually positive attention?"
"Yes, other than that."
"Weel, there's the Watch tae consider."
". . . oh."
He has backed up the Rover with its trailer to his liking, and he jumps out again, shouting a few sharp words of Gàidhlig to several of the men, clearly ordering them to help us find a way to stable the horses in the church.
"Are the Watch really such a threat then?" I ask, when he gets back in.
"Tae a place this size? Aye. They rove in bands of ten or less, most days, but when they come across a tiny place like this they c'n all join up tae take the prize. I've heard tell of Watch raidin' parties of three hundred or moor. There's evan a few villages tha' ha' been totally wiped out."
I shudder at the thought.
"Nasty."
"Aye. It's one reason why the big Clan farms have been gaining traction these past few years. A'tennyrate, housin' and feedin' one of these political groups is a walk in the park next tae a raid by the Watch." He rummages in one of the console compartments for a moment, and pulls out a flask. He takes a drink, then hands it to me. "Have a wee nip, mo Sorcha. S'tae cold tae be outside for long wi'out it."
I roll my eyes as I take a sip, "You of all people should know alcohol doesn't actually help with that. . ."
"Oh, I ken – bu' it feels like it does. An' for the three minutes or so it's gonna take us tae get from here tae there, t'wilnae do any harm."
I heartily agree, and plunge out into the cold to help him with the animals. Donas is actually quite comfortable with me now, if not the other way around, but I leave him to Jamie tonight, instead searching back behind the feed buckets for Auld Alec, picking him up by his scruff, and bundling him close in the breast of my jacket.
He miaows a little, annoyed with me, but he doesn't squirm or scratch. The cold wind on his nose told him why I'm cat-handling him so roughly. His dignity may be offended, but he's much too sensible a creature to actually damage his warm personal transport vehicle. . .
There is something of a hullabaloo in the church when we walk in leading two horses – one of which has the general size and demeanor of a Blackmark gun emplacement – but the local vicar is clearly a practical soul, and in less than an hour, the vestry has been cleared, and transformed into a tidy little stables, with deep straw, good feed, and nice clean water. Auld Alec even has a whole bale of hay all to himself in the warmest corner. He curls up there the minute I let him into the room, and he's soon snoring away, dreaming of whatever it is that good cats dream.
As soon as the animals are settled, Jamie and I wander back into the main hall. He goes in search of food, while I take a more general look around.
Nearly all of the pews have been heaped with pillows, sleeping bags, inflatable pads, blankets and feather beds, providing, at a quick count, thirty-six quite cozy looking sleeping spots. This has been a common tactic in towns too small for a hotel, and when I can manage to disregard the unavoidable amount of snide jokes and malicious snickering from the men, a relatively comfortable option, me included. I scope out the most private looking corner, and am about to claim it for myself when the vicar's wife comes up to me.
"Miss Moriston?"
I smile, but shake my head, "Beauchamp, actually. Mrs. Claire Beauchamp."
"Oh," she looks taken aback, "Ye're t'onlay woman among the MacKenzie party, sae I thought ye were Sorcha Moriston."
I ought to know by now – in the Highlands, gossip travels faster than light. It's only been a few days since that Red Sorcha article, and even a place like this – with thready access to the international network at the best of times, and less now with the strain our presence will put on their equipment – they'll still have heard nearly all the news, seemingly just as quickly.
I nod, "Moriston is my maiden name. And Sorcha is Claire in the Gàidhlig. That's all."
"Ah. I see," she says, expression clearing, "I jus' came tae tell ye that ye dinnae need tae sleep out heer amongst th'men, Sorcha – may I call ye Sorcha, or d'ye prefer Claire?"
"Either will do."
She smiles and takes me lightly by the arm, "We've made up one of t'auld bell tower rooms for ye – t'ere's a lock on t'door an' errythin'."
Rupert is passing by just then, a steaming bowl in his hand, and he barks a loud chuckle, "Goin' tae sleep in the bell tower, Sassenach? Now why does tha' sound sae. . ." his eyes glitter with his usual not-entirely-well-intentioned glee, ". . . excitin'?"
"Because you're a bellend, Rupert."
He walks away with another roar of laughter, but our hostess stops in her tracks, staring at me, a shocked look on her face.
Oh. . . right. After Leoch, it's easy to forget – or it is for me at least – that it's still the Second Victorian Era, and Ladies Do Not Swear. They may think crude language, but They Do Not Speak It.
"Sorry about that," I smile ruefully, "A lady has to develop a most unique set of defense tactics when traveling with so many men, I'm afraid."
She relaxes at this explanation, "Ah, yes, I doo imagine so."
"They're not so bad, really. Most of them are family men, if you can believe it. They've just gotten so used to the exclusive company of men on this trip that, well, they only think of me as a person if I also act like a man."
She shakes her head, "Same auld storey, aye?"
"I fear so."
She opens a door in a curved wall, and starts to lead me up some very narrow stone stairs.
"Sorcha, deerie, might I ask a bit of a favour?"
"I don't know – how much is a bit?"
She smiles, "Weel, ye see, some of our ladies an' I ha' made a reacord – a musical reacord – it's a collection of auld wool-waulkin' songs – and we'er sellin' it on a network site."
"Are you? Good for you."
I'd come across many wool-waulking songs while learning things for Story Night. I'd enjoyed listening to them, but since most were written to be work-chants, the words mean much less than the rhythm and timing of the sounds. And since it's much easier for me to learn lyrics that mean something, I hadn't focused on learning many of the nonsense ones.
"Aye, an' it's been selling well – verreh nice foor us, an' all – but y'see," she grips my elbow a little tighter, "Ye'er the only woman in this group. We wanted tae do a demonstration for some of the men taemorrow – an' we will – bu' ye'er invited tae participate. At the table, ye ken."
"Oh. But I don't know anything about-"
She waves this away, "Nae a problem Sorcha, hen! Half ov us hae been teachin' th'other half for years annyway – one moor wilnae be a difficulty."
"Oh. Well, in that case I accept. Thank you."
She smiles, with a pleased, "Nae, thank ye," and unlocks the door to my room with a flourish. It's an adorable little round place, with curved windows, and a very warm-looking cot bed. She hands me the key, and bids me good evening with a cheery, "An' I hoop ye'el be verry comfortable deerie!"
I arrange my things for a minute, brush the cat hair off the inside of my jacket, and am just starting to wonder where the toilet facilities are, when a knock sounds at my door. It's Jamie, holding two bowls of hot, savoury-smelling stew, with a large hunk of bread balanced on the edge of each. I take one, gratefully, but do not open the door further, or invite him in – both of which he was clearly expecting.
I shake my head ruefully, "No Jamie. Not here."
"Why no', mo leannan?" he asks, his eyes mildly hurt.
"This isn't Leoch, Jamie. They're open-minded there. Broader-minded, at least. They're much less so here. I've just been reminded of that. If you come into my room here, both our reputations will be ruined. I won't do that to you, and I'm not terribly fond of the thought of doing it to myself either, honestly. And even though we're only spending two nights here, word will get around, we'd both better believe that."
"Bu'. . . last night? This morning?"
I pat his shoulder sympathetically, "Riding in the same car in broad daylight, and emergencies that no else saw are one thing – you spending more than a minute up here at night, when everyone knows where you are is quite another."
He sighs, exasperated, "Ye'er right, a'course – 'specially about the gossip - bu' it does seem silly when ye'ev spent all night on a pew or a cot next to the entire lot of us at least half a dozen times this trip, an' nae'un has said a single thing about it!"
I shrug, "I never said the rules made sense, my lad."
"Alright. . ." he pouts a little.
I raise my face to his, feeling much the same way.
He pecks me chastely on the mouth, then resolutely turns and goes.
I lock the door behind him with a sigh, and attempt to enjoy my stew.
The next morning dawns bright, clear, and very, very cold.
Jamie brings me a pot of tea, and a bowl of porridge and cream, once again only staying with me for a bare minute.
But he's talking to me, and we both know what's going on, so this separation doesn't hurt.
Not as much, anyway. . .
I lounge about most of the morning, anxious to keep out of Dougal's way. He has a nationwide debate he must participate in via network livecast this afternoon, but with last night being so fresh on everyone's mind, and Red Sorcha having reached all the way out here already, I think it would be a good idea if I stayed out of his immediate vicinity.
Reconciling with Jamie has drained me of all spite, and very nearly all of my desire for revenge.
The problem is, it's left me drained.
I read from one or two of the books I brought, staying under my cot's blankets even after I change clothes, in an attempt to keep warm. I can't seem to settle down to any of the stories in the books though – even the collection of short-form poems – and so I resign myself to a few hours of boredom.
I stare at the frost on the edges of the window and wish, very much, that I had something to do. Even during my worst times on the Rim, depressed, lonely and starving, I still had work to do. Pulling collector panels and being a power peddler may not be a living – or it is a highly precarious one at best – but it is, undoubtedly, always work. It kept me occupied.
Right now, I only have my own company, and worse, only my own thoughts.
If I was comfortable living inside my own head, that wouldn't matter, but I'm desperately trying to come back from a shocking depression – inside my own mind is the least comfortable place for me to be right now. My balance is still highly precarious - the blank freedom of nihilism still beckons around every corner, contrasted sharply with an aching, keening hope, and a sharp, lacerating yearning.
Hoping for what? Yearning for what? I don't know. And my mind is too unfocused to be able to properly investigate. Neither feeling is want, not exactly.
It's more like my mind is moving one way, but my soul is moving in another.
I shake my head. Even I don't know what I mean. I have to start thinking of something else, or I'm going to be in danger of slipping sideways into depression again.
But the neutral, thudding grey boredom of this morning is not helping. . .
I want home. I want to stop having to battle the people around me. I want to stop needing to explain my existence.
I want to stop feeling like a. . . a. . .
An accessory. An add-on. A plus-one.
An optional extra.
If I can't be loved, it would be nice to be needed.
There was a brief amount of time there where it felt like Jamie needed me. He even felt like home for a minute. He's certainly the closest friend I've made.
My arms suddenly ache for Fergus. He, at least, had certainly needed me once. But he needs stability more now, and I clearly cannot give him that.
Knowing that doesn't stop me wishing I could hug him one last time. Kiss him on his hair one last time. See him smile one last time.
After I go home, no one will ever call me maman again. . .
I can't stand it. I get up, and go in search of the kitchen, the chance of running into Dougal be damned. I find it built on to the other side of the church from the vestry-turned-stables, in a big stone room I'm fairly certain was not originally intended to be a kitchen, but is obviously very much up to the task anyway.
Our hostess and the cook greet me cheerfully. I wave politely at them, and go sit in a corner next to the antique wood-burning stove. I warm my hands over it, marveling once again at how different the quality of the warmth is when it is a real fire. . .
If it had been a shock to me that people burned wood for warmth in this era of history, then it was not shocking at all to learn they cooked food with it, as well. Much less commonly so, of course, but Marc had even cooked pig food with it.
I look around the charming, cozy kitchen, a bittersweet feeling rising through my soul.
I wish I belonged here.
There is a knock at the outer doors, and the cook goes over to let in a team of four villagers, as they labour to deliver what looks like a whole dead cow.
It is a whole dead cow.
A whole, recently slaughtered, all-the-bits-still-on-it, cow.
A heifer, if my time interacting with Marc has taught me anything at all. . .
Well then.
That's a bright good-morning, and no mistake.
There is a whole section of the kitchen clearly dedicated to things like this, with specialty tables and racks and tools on shelves across an entire wall and everything. Our hostess directs them to a certain spot, and after they finally get the carcass situated to her liking, she offers them some fresh-brewed tea and a chat.
They've been chatting the whole time, naturally, but in a unique and charming blend of the Gàidhlig and English that I haven't heard anywhere else on our trip so far. Not quite like this. I know I technically shouldn't, but I can't help listening, trying to parse the meaning of the half of the conversation I don't understand from the half I do.
Apparently this is the last cow from. . . someone. . . and they'd be – grateful? - if. . . there is no immediate need, of course, but the children you see. . . and the mother is. . . burdened? I think. Or maybe laden. . .
There is a long set of sentences I don't understand at all, and then money changes hands, and the men leave, unhurriedly.
I sit on a little kitchen stool and watch them go, my jaw clenched, my hands forming fists in my lap.
If I don't know all the words they said, I do know what it sounds like when you have to sell your last resource, just to get by, even when you actually need that very thing if you're going to get by. It happened every day to someone on the Rim, and very nearly happened to me more times than I can comfortably count.
I might know extremely few things about the beef industry, but two months at Leoch has taught me that heifers are almost never slaughtered. Not in this time and place, and not healthy, well-grown, well-fleshed ones like that dead one over there. Like hens, what female cows can produce far outweighs their direct market value, and a heifer has produced none of it yet. Not calves, not milk, not manure. Well, some manure, obviously, but nowhere near as much as even the average well-tended milk cow would produce during her lifetime.
They needed that cow. Probably the whole village needed that cow. Needed it more than any of the men on this trip ever will, and there it hangs, sold to feed thirty men who will almost certainly never know what it means to be really, truly hungry.
The universe has a sick, vicious sense of humour. . .
The fact that the whole village is clearly willing to help and support each other through it all doesn't make me any less furious.
And less than forty-eight hours of dubious protection from The Watch is no fit compensation, either.
Slowly, I clench and unclench my fists in growing, impotent rage. There's nothing I can do. I have no money, no influence with Dougal, and little enough influence with the men. I could speak to Jamie about it, but he's in the same predicament as myself at the moment. Murtagh? Perhaps. Jamie told me this morning that I'm back in his good graces now he knows our three week estrangement wasn't me trying to break up with his godson. Which is encouraging. But I heard the weight of the coins our hostess paid over, and I very much doubt Murtagh casually walks around with that much on him.
No, there's nothing to be done. Except rage silently at how unfair the world is.
The vicar's wife comes up to me, smiling, "I am glad ye'ev come down, Sorcha, hen. The waulking demonstration is set tae start soon."
I hastily tamp down on my fury. "Oh, is it?"
"Aye. D'ye still wan'tae participate?"
"Of course. Lead the way."
For the longest time I didn't understand these days in between the departure of the camera crew and our arrival in Inverness. If all the effort put in to these tiny Highland towns seemed low-reward at best beforehand, then one might think they'd be entirely negligible now.
But I finally realized, that's the point. These places are entirely negligible – at least as far as the final vote tally is concerned. Dougal will connect in for his nationwide debates, and the rest of the party will still make a show of themselves, but, essentially, by planning it just right, we've been given almost two weeks off in the middle of a grueling ten-week campaign push. Left solely to English organizers, I have no doubt the whole group would be entirely exhausted by the time of the final big in-person debates in March. It's really quite brilliant – once again, the Scots have found a measure of freedom within their oppression.
But it's a good thing I'm not hung up on spite anymore, because there won't be much of Dougal's thunder to steal out here. . .
There is a big pavilion set up in the car park. It is quite large, and looks to be military grade. Which is good, since it is freezing out here, and the only way a tent is keeping any of us warm is if it has some built-in insulation.
And it is much warmer inside it, but also. . .
"Eugh," I choke back an instinctive need to vomit, "It smells like piss in here!"
"Aye," says the vicar's wife, "We use commercially produced ammonia now, but et used tae be stale piss – men's foor preference. It was called maistir."
"Ag-ufm. . ." I cough a little, "Appropriate," my head is reeling, and my eyes are stinging, but I manage to control my stomach through sheer force of will, "So what do you want me to do?"
"Weel put this on, an' jus' sit at the end there." She hands me an apron, and gestures at a long table where ten or eleven other women are soaking a huge roll of tweed with the ammonia mixture. "An' then do as I doo – an' sing along if ye think yec'n manage et."
A few musicians file in – one with a hand drum, one with a small flute, and one with a violin – and they set up next to the long table. With a few taps of bow against chair leg, the music starts. A few seconds later, the singing begins. Each woman takes a large handful of the wet cloth, and starts rhythmically slapping it against the table, singing old, cadenced words, in time with the music.
It is barely thirty seconds before the men start appearing. First Ned, then Angus, then Colum's boys, then Peter, then several of the men who wrangle the horses when Jamie can't do it, and on and on, in one and twos, they hear the music and come over, curious what is happening, and interested when they see it.
Most of them take out their coms, and I hear the snapping of pictures, and see some taking video of the waulking too.
I wait until after the first song is finished before I join in, but then I am fully confident of at least not being in anyone's way. It is easy to pick up on the chorus of each song, and the motions of the waulking are quite intuitive, actually – once you've gotten past the thought of putting your bare hands in the piss-chemical, of course.
We're just starting the fourth song when I overhear at least two of the men speaking into their coms, using much lighter and softer voices than usual. They take more pictures and video too, clearly discussing the waulking with whoever it is they are speaking to.
And then I recognize the names they're saying.
They've called their sons.
Dougal has duties today, but for most of the rest of the men, this is a day off. Our weekly ration of personal network time must have dropped last night.
I manage to stay at the waulking table until the song finishes, but then I leave the pavilion as quickly as is politely possible.
I can talk to Fergus one last time. Heaven only knows what he thinks of me for not doing so for the past three weeks.
My chest hurts, and even the persistent smell of ammonia could not make me nearly as nauseous as I feel now.
I forgot to call him. Forgot. And only even wanted to when I felt lonely and selfish enough to want someone to commiserate with me.
This. This is why I must go home. Depression turns me into someone I do not want to be. And I don't have Frank anymore, to show me to myself, or hold me to my own higher standards. So the only way I'm ever going to get better is if I face up to the world as it is.
Not the world as it used to be. . .
But, until I can get to Craigh na Dun. . .
I pull out my com, and dial Leoch.
As I wait for the connection to go through, I look around the churchyard, and the little snowed-over streets of the town. In a corner of the car park, Rupert is flying his drone, attended by the usual small crowd of children who always appear whenever he plays with it.
My com pings, and Fergus's face appears on the little screen.
"Maman!" he exclaims, before I can say anything, "You are better!"
"Better. . . yes," I say, keeping my voice blank in an attempt to hide my confusion.
"Papa said you could not speak, and that was why you had not called."
Jamie?
What. . .
"Oh. . . when did he say that?"
"Three times – when he called every week. It is good to see you, maman."
My heart hurts even more. Even when he wasn't talking to me, he still had my back. . .
And I kneed him in the groin. . .
Depression really is a bitch.
"It's good to see you too, sweet lad. And yes – I had completely lost my voice."
True. If not exactly literal. . .
"But it is back now?"
"Yes darling. Tell me what your favourite class was today."
He launches happily into a long recital of all the noteworthy happenings at Leoch since we've been gone – including all the books they've read in Literature class, all the puppies that have been born in the barn, all the times they've had cheese and broccoli for supper and Hamish has refused to eat his portion, so Fergus ate it for him, all the things they've made in art class, and how the teachers might let him take archery in the springtime.
I listen, more than a little fascinated, and deeply, deeply grateful, both for Jamie and for our lovely little prince.
It's a good half hour before I realize I am shivering, and nearly frozen to the spot.
A big warm cloak suddenly folds over me, and Jamie says over my shoulder,
"Aye, I ken ye'ev had a busy week, lad, but it's cold an' we mus' go in. Say goodnight for now, aye?"
Fergus smiles even more broadly at Jamie's voice, "Aye, papa! Goodnight maman." He kisses his hand at me, and I do so back, "Until next time!"
The screen goes dark.
I huddle the cloak around me, and lean into Jamie's side.
"Thank you," I say, very quietly.
"Agch. S'jus' a wee cloak."
"Not that. For not letting Fergus know the state I. . . we. . . were in."
He smiles, and throws an arm around me, "The only decent thing to do, mo Sorcha."
I flinch a little at the name. He notices.
"Problem?"
"Oh. . . no. Not as such. It's just that after that article, the vicar's wife here is calling me Sorcha too, and it sounded odd coming from you all of a sudden."
Slowly, we start making our way back inside the church, the rhythm of the waulking songs still sounding from the tent behind us.
"Weel, my advice would be tae get used tae it if ye can. Ye'ev convinced a lot of folks ye'er no' jus' an outlander, but a Scot too." He nods at the sliver of Moriston tartan dress that can be seen beneath the cloak, "Tha's nae small thing, an' a goodly number of folks will wantae gi' ye a more Scots name than Claire. There's worse ones than Sorcha, aye?"
"That there certainly are," I say, chuckling.
He escorts me up the stairs to my room. "Dougal is on his network debate jus' now – sae will ye come down for lunch, oor will I bring it up heer for ye?"
I pause a second before I open my door, "Well, I was actually thinking we-"
The sight of my cot drives all words from my mouth, and all thoughts from my head.
All other thoughts.
Because the bed is piled with offal. Brains and lungs and tripes and kidneys and liver. . .
Still in their fat. Still with tendons and sinews attached. Still oozing whatever bloodlike things are left in a body after having been totally bled. . .
I stand frozen for long moments, washed in the vicious red haze of my own rage. Jamie tries to say something, but one look from me stops him. I take one full step towards the cot, and scoop up an enormous handful of the cow parts. Then I stomp down the stairs and into the kitchen, where I yank a long butchery knife from the wall, and then storm into the main room, where the men not still watching the waulking are having lunch.
I scan them, and find the one with the most malice in his eye.
I stride up to him, and slap him across the face with my handful of offal.
Not surprisingly, the room goes silent. I speak into the sudden quiet, my voice hard, and vibrating with righteous fury.
"How dare you waste food!"
That's not what any of them expected me to say. I take full advantage of their bafflement.
"There are Scots in this town – and probably every other small Highland town we've been in – who are starving themselves for you!"
I point the butcher's knife, enjoying the men's timid reactions to it far, far more than I should, "Just because you've gotten used to Leoch does not mean everyone else has it so good. The people who feed and care for you at these places might have to go hungry and cold in order for you to be fed and warm. Your fellow Scots – your countrymen."
One of the men tries to say something. I round on him and, almost accidentally, slice off a button from his jacket.
Almost accidentally.
He decides not to say anything.
"But instead of being grateful for what you have been given, you decided that it was more important to play a prank on the damn Sassenach, did you?"
"We were onl-" starts the one I hit with offal.
"Only what? Following orders?"
He looks dubiously at the knife, and gives a very, very small nod.
"Well, since you seem to be good at that, here are some more. You will get up now, every man jack of you, and you will clean up your mess, and you will find out who donated that cow, and you will pay them – full market value for their animal. I don't care if you have to sell your own shoes to do it either – that is what you will do. And you will thank them, each and every one of you, will thank them, for their generous and loyal hospitality."
I feel a great deal of resistance still, so I swing around and remove another button, "And if any of you even think of doing otherwise, then let me assure you," I gesture with the knife at the scattered bits of organ meat, "This poor creature will not be the only one butchered today."
I lean in to the leader, pulling my arm back as if to thrust with the knife, and I say, very clearly and distinctly, the one Gàidhlig phrase I've made it my business to be able to pronounce correctly.
"Tha thu gam thuigsinn a-nis, nach eil?"
I have rarely seen so many big men move so quickly.
When the room is empty, Jamie comes over, carrying a bowl of hot water, a towel and some soap. He sets them on the table near me, and then, gently, takes my knife.
He waits silently while I wash.
I am still breathless with residual fury, but I manage to clean my hands without shaking so much as to overturn the bowl.
He doesn't speak when I'm finished either, instead taking my arm, and leading me back outside.
We go across the street, and down a ways, to the cottage that has been given over to Dougal for an office while we're here.
He doesn't notice us when we enter, being actively busy with his network debate. Jamie goes over to the nearest wall, and after scanning it a little while, finds what he's looking for. He stoops, and unplugs this cottage's network connection.
Dougal curses, then looks up and notices us.
"The hell d'ye think-"
Jamie holds out a fist, and opens it in front of his uncle's eyes.
In his hand are the spy cameras and microphone wires Dougal tried to use Jamie to blackmail me to get.
Dougal's jaw clenches, and his eyes go icy cold.
"I wasnae there when Jenny came hoom from her first tour abroad, ye ken," says Jamie, almost conversationally, "Bu' I was there when they sent her hoom from her second. The one where she lost her leg. It tore her up in moor ways than one, that did. I was glad I was there. But d'ye know what she was most afraid of those days? It wasnae the nightmares, oor the pain – oor anythin' else tae do wi' war. She was most afraid tha' Ian wouldnae feel the same for her annymore. An' d'ye ken what I told her when she shared that wi' me? I said tha' the furst thing annyun' needs tae ken about themselves is what they're worth. Tae themselves, an' tae erryun' else."
Jamie closes his fist again, "Weel. I ken my worth tae ye, uncle. An' it's time ye kent Claire's."
He turns to me, "D'ye ken what a Burns Supper is?"
I look back and forth between the two men, more impressed by the sudden terror on Dougal's face than Jamie's words to me.
"Um. . . yes, I think so. You meet and dance and eat haggis and recite the poetry of Robert Burns, yes?"
"Yes," he may be talking to me, but he has locked eyes with Dougal now, "There's a big supper bein' held taenight in a farm house not five miles up the road from heer. It's outside ov our campaign borders, an' it's illegal for us tae go. Five of us are goin' anyway. Would ye care tae come along?"
The horror has only been growing in Dougal's eyes. For once, I actually agree with him.
What is Jamie doing?
He raises his voice a little, but still looks fixedly at Dougal, "Claire? Would ye care tae come?"
"Uhm. Yes. I would."
"Good."
Then he opens his hand again, and, staring at Dougal, he drops the cameras on the floor.
"Ye have my price, then. That's all debts paid."
Oh.
Oh.
He was making sure I had new leverage over Dougal before he gave away our old leverage. . .
"Once moor into the breech, Dougal. An' then nevar again."
His voice is cold, and his eyes snap with icy fire.
Dougal says nothing.
Jamie takes my hand, and leads me out of the cottage.
Notes:
“Tha thu gam thuigsinn a-nis, nach eil?” - You understand me now, don't you?
Soundtrack for this chapter -
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=avLlyNs3ROQ
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4DlfKqM07Qs
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NRcXCdwfM9k
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zJolZxVvj-0
Chapter 73: Burns Night
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
We go to the impromptu stables so that we can talk. It's practically the only place we can be alone together indoors around here, and not spark scandal. He hands me a currycomb and gestures at the horses. I nod. I've learned how to do this now, and at least Donas seems to enjoy it.
"Jamie, just what is. . . what was your deal with Dougal?"
He gives Donas's coat a few industrious scrubs before answering.
"Jus' how much d'ye know about the '45?"
"Not very much, I'm afraid. I know the Jacobite Risings happened, and they ended at Culloden moor."
"Aye. Ye evar been there?"
I nod, "Once."
Or perhaps a thousand, a million times. . .
"Then mebbe ye ken. It's haunted. By the souls of murdured Scots. Along wi' their most ancient birthright," his eyes meet mine sadly, "Freedom."
"Yes," I say, very quietly, "I ken."
"I may be agnostic in my mind, Sorcha, but. . . weel. I dinnae need god tae tell me that moor is holy. Sacred ground."
"I can understand that."
"Sae that's where we're goin' tae resurrect our freedom."
The most I ever knew – or thought I knew – about the Second Battle of Culloden, was that a band of militant Scots had lured nearly all of the country's contingent of Peace Agents to the moor, and then murdered them, in a bloody, vengeful reversal of the First Battle of Culloden. Most of the attacking Scots died in the process too, and Scotland and most of Europe was plunged into chaos for years afterwards – leading, eventually, to World War III.
Which led, eventually, to World War IV. . .
"I'm. . . not sure I understand that."
He nods, contemplatively, and focuses on Donas's flank for a minute.
"I have family that died there, mo nighean. Tho, at Culloden, all Scots are family," he smiles a tight, grim little smile, "It's about the only place where that's true. Bu' the point is – when a place mattars t'ye as much as Scotland does tae us, there's hardly any limit on how far ye'er willin' tae go."
"For freedom?"
"For freedom."
"But. . . doesn't the Dissolution Act already ensure your freedom?"
"Aye," he combs Donas's hide stolidly, his voice hard, "A cruel, cold, unconscionable freedom – a freedom that demands we accept years of direct exploitation and abuse beforehand, and take the generations of oppression in our history wi'out a word. A freedom that demands that of ye isnae freedom, Sorcha. Freedom wi'out justice is only a more subtle slavery."
I nod. I've never thought about it quite that way, but I very much agree.
"So then. . . it's justice you'll go to any lengths for?"
"Aye. C'n ye understand that?"
Asks the man I've adopted a son with after knowing him less than three months, almost solely out of impulsive notions of justice.
"Yes, I think I can."
"An' can ye understand that, in this case, justice looks like the elimination of those tha' ha' been perpetrating atrocities on us for years now, and will ceartainly continue tae do so? Can ye understand that t'would be nae good tae simply drive them out, tae kill an' rape an' pillage elsewhere, but tha' they must be stopped here, for good? Ended? Finished? C'n ye understand tha' we cannae let them escape? Cannae let them get away wi' it?"
I brush Donas in silence for a while.
"Jamie. . . you're talking about. . . bringing about the death of thousands."
"Aye. The deaths of thousands of rapists. Of thousands of murdurers. Of thousands of thieves, an' abusers, and cruel, heartless men I've watched punch a child in the face because he cried tae loudly when they deported his immigrant mother. Thousands of men who would kill an auld woman for the crime of loving her son, an' tryin' tae protect him. Thousands of men who would slowly, deliberately torture someone, all the while offering him rape as a way out. Or if they wouldnae do exactly that, they would stand idly by an' no' lift a finger tae stop it." His voice lowers, and he looks sideways at me, "Thousands of the kind of men who would see a limping, innocent woman walking down the road, an' assault her for the crime of being. Thousands of men who trade in the souls and bodies of Human beings, and call it peace. Thousands of men who arenae just our enemies – bu' ha' declared themselves tae be enemies of all mankind."
I take this in for bit. Crimes against Humanity are a thing of course, even in this time. But they are notoriously difficult to bring home to the perpetrators, for many and varied reasons, even in my time.
That the Scots took justice into their own hands makes some sense after having met Jonathan Randall.
It makes much more sense when the person explaining it has suffered as much as Jamie has.
It makes all the sense in the world when you actually look at history, and realize how little justice there has ever been. For anyone.
"Jamie I. . ." I reset my grip on my currycomb, "I don't like it. But I do understand."
He smiles mirthlessly, "Naeun's askin' ye tae like it, Sorcha. We dinnae like it. Tha's the point, in fact."
"Is it?"
"Aye. My deal wi' Dougal is tae help convince people tae join us. Tae contribute in some way tae the massive undertaking that is the Free Scottish Underground. No' erryun wants tae, at furst. Bu' after they see my back. . ."
He trails off, voice cracking a little.
My stomach goes cold.
I knew Dougal must be using him in some way, but I'd never have guessed it was like that.
"Oh, Jamie. . . no. . ."
"Aye. T'was Dougal who got the writ of Unlawful Detainment tha' got me away from Black Jack. T'was Dougal who set me an' Murtagh up at Leoch." He runs his hand through Donas's mane, "I owed him, Sorcha. I owed him a lot. Our deal was I'd do as I was told in the mattar of my back, an' I'd support him in his campaign – whate're that ended up meanin'."
He looks at me, significantly.
Thousands of tiny things finally slot into place.
"And then there was me. . ."
"An' then there was ye, aye."
"And. . . the cameras?"
"Aye. The cameras. Accordin' tae the rules of noble warfare," he tilts his head in salute to me, "Once a price has been declared for a hostage, it may no' be altered wi'out the full participation an' consent of both negotiating parties. Unless the hostage escapes, dies en route, or is otherwise freed by outside means, the agreed-upon price shall stand as his full and fair value. Is this no' the case?"
"It is."
"Weel that bein' so, ye were right - that morning after the concert when ye said Dougal offered me tae ye in exchange for those cameras, ye were right - he set my price. He hasnae changed it since. So I bought myself free of him, by your good grace, an' by his own dealing. I dinnae owe him anymore."
"But. . . but why now, Jamie? What about freedom? What about justice? Those haven't changed. Why has this?"
He turns around, and starts currying down the second horse, "I ken the men, Sorcha. They arenae the types tha' would put offal on yer bed. Even givin' ye the silent treatment was further than mos' of them wanted tae go."
My lip twists, "I know the men too. . . or thought I did. But you're doubtless right. So. . ."
"So, I ken that Dougal must ha' ordered it. In revenge for ye stealin' his thunder wi' that Red Sorcha article." He looks over at me, as I start currying the horse's other side, "I ken ye probably asked the men if they were "only following orders" as sarcasm and an indictment – but they wouldnae go so far as that wi'out orders, an' Dougal is the only one among us who would dream of ordering such a thing."
"Right, but-"
"Justice wi'out mercy is only more subtle murdur, Sorcha. An' mercy is nothin' at all wi'out wisdom. The minute Dougal refused tae consider mercy, is the minute he lost my allegiance. He's proven he hasnae any wisdom atal. I'll finish what I started, an' give him my services for the rest of this trip – an' then never nae more. Bu' I want ye there taenight. I want Dougal tae ken ye know his secrets, an' mine, an' that he got himself here by the consequence of his own choices."
He meets my eyes, voice softening for the first time in what feels like ages, "I want him tae ken your worth. I want him tae ken your worth tae me."
He puts away our currycombs, pulls me over to auld Alec's corner, and kisses me, long, and soft, and sweet, and oh, I've missed this. . .
My hands are soon buried in his hair, and his are shamelessly massaging my arse.
"God. . . the shape of ye, mo chridhe. The smell of ye. The sound of ye. . ."
He burrows his face into my neck, and lifts my thigh against his hip, kissing me more, and longer, and decidedly less sweetly. . .
"We'd better stop this. . ." I say, but go in for yet another kiss anyway, "We have somewhere to be tonight."
"Mmm," he growls, sending tingles all over my skin, "Rabbie Burns c'n go tae hell."
He pushes me against the nearest wall, and gets down to the important business of making me forget I need to breathe. . .
"Dhia! I said kiss her, lad, not swallow her."
Murtagh's voice sounds from the doorway, followed by the man himself.
"Dougal wants tae leave early – apparently some bigwig is goin' tae be there taenight, an' he wants tae hob-nob. Sae cut it out."
Jamie sighs, and reluctantly releases me, "Alright. Give us fifteen minutes tae clean up."
"Aye. I've already laid out yer kilt. An' as fer ye," he nods solemnly at me, "Whate'er ye said oor did tae the men this afternoon, would ye teach me? I've nevar seen them sae industrious an' helpful about a place. I've already caught no less than three ov 'em sweepin' the church, two polishin' the brass, an' two more helpin' in the kitchen."
Jamie and I both chuckle as we follow Murtagh out of the stable, "Aye, we'el explain later, mo goistidh."
When we're in the car with Murtagh a few minutes later, following the car that Dougal, Ned and Angus are in, I turn to him, curious,
"So, this is what you were doing the day we met? Drumming up support for the Free Scottish Underground?"
He doesn't look surprised at the question, "Aye – on our way back from it, rather. No' a Burns supper then, a'course – jus' a meetin', that time."
"Are these things always outside the campaign boundary?"
"Oh no – they're more usually inside them. Bu' sometimes our allowed territory doesnae have a place tha's safe or sheltered enough, away from pryin' eyes. An' since the only way the English have tae effectively patrol an' enforce such a complex set of boundaries is the trackers in our coms. . ." he takes his out and waves it, "Weel, let me jus' say, both ye and Davie Beeton hae been ov material searvice tae the cause ov Scottish freedom."
I smile, a little hesitantly. Murtagh isn't usually this voluble. . .
He notices my uncertain look, "Ach, I wanted tae tell ye weeks ago, lass." He reaches forward and clouts Jamie's shoulder, but gently, not wanting to disrupt his godson's driving, "It was this wee plague wanted tae tell ye about his back furst – an' then the twa ov ye hadtae go an' have a wee spat."
"I'm. . . not certain I would say our reactions to Willie's death qualify as "a wee spat", Murtagh. But I take your point."
"Aye. The real problem, a'course, is that Dougal has been an absaelute fool ovar ye, th'eedjit. There didnae end up being much he could do tae ye while at Leoch – no wi' how he works – an' ceartainly no' wi' how ye work." He shrugs, "Sae heer we are."
"Here we are, I agree."
Jamie glances back at us in the rear-view mirror, "D'ye wantae tell him, Sorcha, or shall I?"
"Eh?" Murtagh scowls, looking back and forth between us, "Tell me what, then?"
"Jamie's bought himself free of Dougal now."
"He's. . ."
"He's bought himself free. He won't have to show his back at these things anymore, or be part of Dougal's support team at all after this trip."
Murtagh looks more stunned than I've ever seen him before.
"Wh. . ."
Quickly, Jamie gives him an abbreviated explanation of the spy cameras I found watching me and Colum, and how I used them to get some control over my life at Leoch, and then how Dougal tried to use Jamie to get that control back from me.
"*phewww*," he whistles, "I have been wonderin' jus' what all happened between ye. Dougal's a puir stick, aye, bu' he's nae usually determined tae be stupid enough tae pick a fight wi' another warrior jus' as experienced as he is." He gives me an appraising look, "Or more than he is. Point bein' – he's been actin' odd. Most o' it makes sense now."
I give him a quick rundown of our chess match against Dougal – all our subtle attacks, and mind-game follow-throughs.
Murtagh crosses his arms, "Hmph. I dinnae pretend tae understand ye. All that? Foor what?"
"To show him, Murtagh. To show him what we are capable of. To show him why he should want us on his side, not actively working against him. We can lead men. We can influence whole cities, whole cultures, if given the resources. That's what Jamie and I can do when we try."
"An' when ye don't try."
"Pardon me?"
"Weel," he gestures broadly, "Most of the men feel guilty about the stunt Dougal pulled wi' the Gàidhlig, an' there isnae a one ov them doesnae hate what he makes Jamie do at these meetings – good cause tho' it may be. And nearly all ov them admire ye for singing at that place two nights ago."
"Alright. So?"
"So, ye'er already leadin' the men again. Wi'out tryin'. Need I remind ye I found seven of them doin' housework this afternoon? Ye dinnae need fancy plans an' mind games. Tha's all twaddle annyroad – t'wilnae work, in the end. All ye need is tae be." He pats my hand, "Ye'er a bettar War Chieftain than Dougal will evar be, an' tha's a mattar of blood an' bone, no' convoluted strategies an' subtle psychological bullshite."
"I. . ."
He's right.
I know he's right.
I look quickly at Jamie, and see he knows it too.
I tell Murtagh about the offal on my bed, and my reaction.
"An' after that, ye still wantae be Dougal's ally d'ye?"
"W-well. . ." I stammer.
"Agch, if ye wantae rush in where angils fear tae tread, then work towards gittin' Jamie's warrant lifted – now that's som'thin' I'd be impressed if ye could do."
"Wait. Dougal couldn't do that, if he wanted?"
He shakes his head vigorously, "Nah. He hadtae go all the way up the laddar tae Sandringham jus' tae get an Unlawful Detainment order. He'd havetae go all the way up tae Queen Victoria herself if he wanted som'thin' like a warrant cancellation, an' Dougal hasnae got that kind of influence, an' nevar will, evan if he does win this Council race ov his."
"D'ye really think we could get my warrant lifted, mo goistidh?"
Jamie's voice is quiet, but full to the brim with dozens of emotions.
Murtagh makes an untranslatable, round Scottish noise, "The pair ov ye made Peter Harris walk inta a kitchen and volunteer tae wash dishes. Ye c'n do anything."
All three of us are still chuckling as we pull into a big, secluded farmyard.
Dougal leads us up to the entrance, and a porter lets us in.
From outside this place looked like one of the large family residences that are fairly standard in this area – old, stone-built homes that local families still live in. However, from the moment we walk through the doors, it is clear this is one of the even more common old converted farmhouses. A hotel, a museum, a distillery – there's a whole range of options. This one is very clearly a hotel. Our party has stayed in over a dozen such places by now, so nothing about it should be strange. But what does strike me as very strange is that this place was designated outside the campaign zone. If it had still been a private residence, that would not have mattered, but this is a hotel. Why are we staying in the church instead of here? It is not any further from the center of town than half the places we've stayed at before. . .
The moment we enter the main room, a man who is clearly our host comes up to us and appropriates Dougal and Jamie, muttering something about "taenight's programme".
Murtagh takes my arm, and we start to mingle with the score or so of guests.
"Weel speak ov the devil. . ." mutters Murtagh, and nods surreptitiously over at a tall, blonde man, with a bright neon-blue suit and a face like a shovel.
There aren't many people here in the past that I could have any reasonable expectation of recognizing, but that face has been in my encyclopedia, and my history books. And the suit just clinches it.
Insistently, I clutch Murtagh's arm, and draw him far enough away from the milling, chatting group that a low voiced conversation will not be overheard.
"Are you telling me Sandringham is part of the Underground?"
What. . .
What.
How?
Sandringham hated Scots. He hated Scotland. He directly enabled the Peace Agents in their violence, and he got personally wealthy in the process. It's a matter of history.
Right?
Am I wrong? Is history wrong?
Or not?
Why in god's name is he here?
My mind is buzzing with the implications. What on earth does this mean?
Murtagh nods a bit, answering with a hard voice, "Aye, ye didnae ken that by now?"
I roll my eyes, "Why do people always assume I know things we've never talked about?"
"Mebbe because ye allus seem tae ken things wi'out bein' told them." He gives a sidelong glance across the room, "Now, I'll grant ye he's distinctive, bu' he's no' famous. No' by half. How did ye ken who he was?"
My brain races to keep up with my heart. . . There's only one other thing I happen to remember about the man. . .
"You mean other than the fact that we were just talking about him, and you said "speak of the devil" just now? I don't know – that fashion magazine thing, maybe?"
I think there was a slightly more than mild scandal involving him and some very young male models at some point. . .
Murtagh nods, knowingly, "Ach, that. Weel. Ye should have said."
I can barely contain my rapid, anxious breathing. I lift a whisky from a nearby waiter's tray and take a long drink. "Should have said? Should have said? Why didn't you say that the English Overseer of the Scottish Independence Committee was a member of this illegal and very dangerous Underground?"
"Why should I ha' said anything? I didnae ken the clarty bastard would be heer! "Bigwig" was all Dougal said – how was I tae ken?"
Well. At least this hotel being outside our campaign borders makes sense now. As the official English Overseer and a moderator for this election, he is not allowed to make any appearance on behalf of any traveling party, publicly or privately, or cross into their territories in any way. With this place officially outside the borders, he has plausible deniability.
At the very real cost of safety to the six of us, but what is a consideration like that to a man like him?
Dougal comes up to us then, gesturing grandly and speaking loudly.
"Weel, here ye are then – our very own Red Sorcha! Come an' meet yer countryman." He offers his arm to me with a cheerful grin, and with a dark, vicious look in his eyes.
But his smile is so pleasant, the moment so seemingly friendly and normal, that Murtagh has no choice but to hand me over.
I look around desperately for Jamie, but he still isn't back from wherever our host took him and Dougal.
I kick back the rest of my drink, then plaster a smile on my face. I take Dougal's arm, and let a poisonous sweetness enter my voice.
"Delighted, I'm sure."
On our way across the room, he mutters through his teeth, "I take it I c'n trust ye tae be charming an' civil tae him?"
I speak similarly though my frozen smile, "Can you give me one good reason why I should be?"
"An' heer I thought ye wanted tae be on the same side."
He tries to shift his grip on my arm so he can hold my hand. I dig a pinkie nail into the soft part of his palm so hard he flinches. He doesn't try again.
"Exploitation is not alliance, Dougal. Don't expect to be rewarded when what you're doing is abuse."
Before he can answer, we arrive.
"Overseer Sandringham," says Dougal, his graciousness only slightly forced, "May I present Mrs. Claire Beauchamp, official Guest of Clan MacKenzie, affectionately known among us as Red Sorcha."
Sandringham bows regally, then offers me a hand, "A pleasure, Mrs. Beauchamp."
I delicately touch my fingertips to his palm, but do not take his hand, though the gesture makes it look as though I did, "Indeed. It is always a pleasure to be introduced to a gentleman."
Something in my tone makes him narrow his eyes. I hope it is the disgust, and not the fear.
"May I offer you a drink?"
"No, thank you. I prefer to do most of my drinking during a meal."
Dougal withdraws, murmuring something about finding our host.
"Have you ever been to a Burns supper before?", asks Sandringham, pleasantly enough.
"No, I never have."
"A most charming Scotch tradition. For a most charming Scotch bard."
He smiles, with disturbing, preternaturally white teeth. They look fake, but at the same time, not nearly fake enough. They are the Uncanny Valley of teeth.
"There is only one Bard, Overseer. As Englishmen, it behooves us to only quote him tonight."
He harrumphs, "Oh, I wouldn't dream of quoting Shakespeare on Burns night."
"Who said anything about Shakespeare? I meant the character from The Hobbit."
He blinks, bewildered, "Oh? And what iconic sayings would you take from such a children's tale?"
I half smile at him, and quote, "'Why do you tell us these things? Are you betraying your friends? Or are you threatening us?' - Chapter Sixteen – A Thief In The Night."
I watch his eyes as I speak, and something ugly comes into them. Something else does too. Fear.
Something sighs, deep in my soul. There's no mystery here. He is what history has always painted him. Just another weak, evil little chunk of radioactive waste matter. Worse, there's nothing interesting about him. Not even anything powerful enough to be fascinating. Just brutal, mindless, habitual evil. How he's managed to make anyone in this Free Scottish Underground believe he's on their side is beyond me.
It's men like this that make Dougal look good.
"I don't know what you've heard of me, my dear lady," Sandringham continues, almost smoothly, "But let me assure you that very nearly all of it will have been libelous falsities."
Oh, the millions and millions of things the history books never say!
"I shall keep that in mind, Overseer."
Our host and Dougal re-enter the room at this point, and our host calls out, loudly,
"Some hae meat an' canna eat,
And some wad eat tha' want et,
But we hae meat an' we c'n eat,
Sae let the Lorrd be thankit!"
A cheer goes up, and we all file slowly into the dining room. Ned comes over to escort me to my place round the table. I am surprised to find I am seated second, only two places down from the head of the table, and Ned is third, just on my right. I am, however, disappointed to find that Sandringham is seated first. . .
I manage to avoid speaking to him, though, since our host goes to the little podium set up in the clear space behind the head of the table, followed by a bagpiper in full regalia, and a rosy-faced woman dressed in a white chef's uniform. The piper begins to play Scotland The Brave, and two other kitchen staff walk slowly up the room, carrying a huge haggis on a platter between them.
As the final strains of the song are played, they deposit it atop the podium, behind a line of three drams of whisky.
Our host takes a deep breath, and begins.
"Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great Chieftain o' the Puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm."
He goes on a long while, with words I cannot follow, but with gestures and tones that somehow make everything entirely clear. The whisky is drunk, a knife is deftly wielded, and it's clearly all in very good fun. I never expected to laugh so much at a poem I couldn't understand.
Then, the haggis is marched away again, back to the kitchens, and as our host sits in, we are all served a bowl of Scotch broth.
I lean over to Ned, and whisper, "Where is Jamie?"
"The kitchen," he says back, softly, "Our host thought he'd make a better entrance if he was served his supper apart from us."
"Ah."
I enjoy the broth. Then the haggis reappears, accompanied by neeps, tatties, and whisky sauce. Then a slice of steak pie, crusty soda bread, and a glorious golden beet and kale salad with red wine vinegar dressing. And then a blackberry and apple cranachan, and clootie dumpling with custard.
Finally, while we linger over an abundant cheese board, replete with oatcakes, pots of preserved fruit, and the fourth dram of whisky we've been served tonight, our host goes to the podium again.
"Now we all ken why we'er really heer taenight – an' alas, it isnae tae celebrate Scotland's favourite son." There is a bit of a titter at this, but it dies quickly, "Sae instead of the usual speeches an' toasts, taenight, I give ye Dougal MacKenzie – wi' his address, 'An Appeal Tae The Scot'." He retreats, applauding.
Dougal takes his place.
He is very good at this part of things – I admit that quite freely. He launches into impassioned Gàidhlig with such practiced ease he catches me up too. His voice rises and falls, he gestures with grand, distinctive moves that tell a story all by themselves, and his eyes flash with all the righteous fervour of a self-proclaimed Messiah.
If I didn't know the man, I might be completely taken in.
Seeing him up here tonight, if I had any money, I'd want him to have it. If I had the choice to join a resistance movement, I'd want him to lead me. If I wanted a cause to believe in, I'd want it to be the same as his.
He has the entire room eating out of his hand.
And then. . .
Jamie emerges from a side door I hadn't noticed until now. His red hair glows in the warm light, the cool MacKenzie tartan framing his body beautifully. He stops next to the podium, and then, with casual, practiced ease, undoes his formal jacket and shirt, and, turning around, removes them.
There are a few audible gasps, but mostly there is nothing but icy silence. I feel the fervent, patriotic atmosphere Dougal has built up slowly solidify into stubborn implacability.
There it is. That perfect blend of independence and loyalty that Dougal needs, but only Jamie can truly inspire. . .
Sandringham however, openly gawks at the sight of Jamie's back, idly rubbing his hands together in a strange, vaguely disturbing fashion. He murmurs in my general direction, "Magnificent, don't you think?"
I have never wished to know what contaminated sludge would look like if it took Human shape, but now I feel that I know all too well.
"Oh, yes," I agree brightly, "But I think Jamie is rather wonderful too."
At last, Sandringham is brought up short. He barks a small laugh, "How sharper than a serpent's tooth, my dear."
I smile tightly. Evil, a traitor, and a hypocrite. "I'm no child, Overseer. And you're no king."
A small muscle in his cheek twitches, "Fortunately."
"For both of us."
He has no comeback to that, and so turns to speak to our host.
The programme of Highland dancing begins a few minutes later. I politely avoid all requests to join in, and manage to sneak Jamie out to the car, where we can wait in peace for Murtagh.
We huddle in each other's arms, keeping each other warm, not saying anything at all.
Notes:
Inspiration for this chapter - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3vRSOIOjBQw
The Definitive Address To The Haggis - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5VFIIABZVzk
For more about Burns Night suppers - https://www.nts.org.uk/visit/things-to-do/celebrating-burns-night
Quote from King Lear - https://poemanalysis.com/shakespeare-quotes/how-sharper-than-a-serpents-tooth/
Chapter 74: Parcel O' Rogues
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Four days and two villages later, I am driving the Rover, following the party's lead car, heading into Brockton, our first official checkpoint town in nearly a week, and our last one until Inverness.
Jamie is beside me, doing something on his com, enjoying the last hour or so of his freedom before he must go into his hiding place in the horse trailer again. He's had to hide there at every checkpoint, of course, but today has been so clear and beautiful the prospect must be particularly galling. The winter sun hasn't been especially warm, but inside the Rover that doesn't matter much. Out in the trailer, though, he will have none of the day's benefits, and all of its drawbacks.
My hands tighten on the steering yoke. It's not fair. No one should be subjected to how Jamie is being forced to live, and that he's sweet, and kind, and wonderful just make it worse.
Unfair.
Unjust.
Of course, justice has always been a tricky thing, in my view. So much of what is right and wrong depend on what is going on inside an individual's own head, and applying that socially has never been simple. But external, performative justice isn't any better, and attempting to blend the two is a big part of how Scotland got saddled with Peace Agents in the first place.
It only gets more complicated when I remember that the only reason Jamie has ever had to hide in the horse trailer at all is because he is actively supporting a nationwide conspiracy to summarily execute thousands of men.
It may be right, but is it justice? And if it is justice, is it right? And what are all the small injustices along way if the end in view is such a question in itself?
From my world, of dead oceans and floating cities, it is impossible to tell. It is terribly easy to suggest that the Second Battle of Culloden doomed the world to widespread destruction, but did it really? It was a pivot-point in history, that is certain enough, but taking it away would not prevent history from pivoting around something else.
And that's assuming it could be prevented in the first place, let alone should.
I begin to understand what Geillis meant about changing things not actually changing things. . .
Fate is a capricious goddess.
I look at the little cord-bracelet I have wrapped twice around my wrist.
When I fell in love with Frank, every feeling felt new – bright, fresh, interesting.
Safe.
So far with Jamie, every feeling has felt old – mysterious, towering, elemental.
Frightening.
I realize now I've been waiting for a new feeling to show up, and tell me that this world two hundred years ago is my world, and staying here could possibly work. To tell me I don't need to be frightened. That even here and now, I can be safe.
At last, I understand that it's never going to happen. That isn't what Jamie inspires in me.
Oh, he can make me feel safe – but around him, I am not a safe person.
And so I have no idea what's right, or what I should do. A big part of me wants to wholly embrace the better life two-hundred years in the past can provide me, but I can't help but feel that going back to Craigh na Dun would be right, and staying would be selfish.
And then, an even bigger part of me knows that justice isn't nearly as ephemeral and difficult as I'm making it out to be. I'm here for a reason, and I haven't done much towards that reason so far. Something tells me I'm not done with the stones atop that hill, but the same something is telling me – not yet. Don't go yet. Don't make the decision yet.
Don't give up yet.
It's a hard thing to listen to when there's a crawling dark place inside you that's been whispering for years that there's nothing worth doing ever, so the world might as well go to hell. . .
At some point in your spiritual past the two of you exchanged souls. . . you chose to bear each other's burdens. . . you each voluntarily gave your self to the other. And you each accepted. . .
Iona's words come back to me suddenly, like an echo skipping off a cliff face.
Soulmates. . .
. . . most of them are born into different ages of the world – the later one so they can finish the work left undone by the former. That's why it's so special when soulmates meet. . .
Jamie and I belong to two whole different eras of the world. Ought I to go back to my time, and finish his work? Or ought I to stay here, to begin my own?
Is my being here an accident, or fate?
Is my connection with Jamie a choice, or inevitable?
And how many times have I thought these things before? If Fraser's Beech is a remnant of a different past, then I might have been here, in this Rover, watching Jamie sit in this exact sunlight, a dozen, a hundred, a thousand times before. Who knows how many pasts I have lived without knowing? And who knows how, or why, the cycle keeps going? There must be some way of finding out – some sort of scholarship on this sort of thing. . .
"Ye'er thinking so loud I c'n practically hear ye, Sorcha," Jamie looks up from his com with a half-smile and a glint in his eye, "Care tae share wi' the class?"
"I was. . . thinking about what Iona said," I say, half-haltingly, "About. . . soulmates."
"Ah. Were ye now?"
"Yes. I was."
"Think there's anything in it, then?"
His voice is light and conversational, but there is something almost stern back behind his tone.
"I don't know, Jamie," I sigh, "It seemed so hopelessly story-bookish at first blush, you know?"
"Aye, I felt the same. But now?"
"Well, compared to that unicorn glade, nothing seems overly story-bookish anymore. . ."
He chuckles a little bit, "Aye, I ken what you mean."
"But it's not the kind of thing I can just accept – I mean what is it supposed to mean? It's all very well to say "soulmates" and spout metaphysical buzzwords, but out here in the real world, what does it boil down to? We like each other?" I smile at him, "We've known that for months."
"Aye. We have."
"So, practically, pragmatically, what does being soulmates – mean?"
He scratches behind his ear, "Weel, I see it like this. Soulmates are. . . perfect complements, aye? Each one zigs where the other one zags, if ye catch my meanin'."
"I follow you, yes."
"So that means they're a perfect machine. They fit taegether, tae do somethin'. There's nae gaps, an' nae extra bits – they belong."
"And they have a job to do?"
"Oh aye, that's a given."
"Alright, so what's our job, Jamie? I hardly think we're destined to be attached to Dougal's retinue for all eternity – or be holed away back at Leoch either. What are we here for? Why do we exist?"
He laughs, "Remind me what ye were saying about metaphysical buzzwords?"
"Alright alright – but I did mean practically. A machine exists for a reason. It does things for a reason. So what's our reason?"
"Dinnae ken for sure, mo nighean. But it may ha' something tae do wi' this," his taps the screen on his com.
"The information Murtagh gave you?"
"Aye."
Heroically, Murtagh had forged a trail for us in regards to Sandringham the night of the Burns supper. It was actually fortunate we left when we did, he'd told us later, because then he, Murtagh, could speak to him without fear of interruption from either of us.
He had asked him if there was anything he could do to help in lifting the arrest warrant on his godson. He hadn't mentioned Jamie, just said his godson.
Sandringham had been pleasant – or as pleasant as possible, under the circumstances – but hadn't given up much – either because he didn't know it, there wasn't much to know, or he simply didn't want to say, Murtagh wasn't sure. But the end result was a small data drive, delivered to us the next morning via one of the hotel's staff.
Jamie has spent a good amount of his spare time since looking through it. Apparently it is dry stuff – scheduling and requisition documents mostly – for all the Peace Agents garrisoned in the Third Highland Quarter – namely – Inverness Section.
What good we're supposed to get out stuff like that I have no idea, but I suppose that's why Sandringham gave it to us. It's been a brilliant distraction for Jamie the past few days, and if there's one thing I am certain Sandringham is good at, it's smoke and mirrors.
"Found something at last, have you?"
"No' exactly."
"Why am I not surprised?"
"It's no' exactly something – bu' it might be an indication of something."
"I'm all ears."
"It says heer that an armoured vehicle is scheduled tae make a transfer run through the Inverness pipeline the furst week of February. An' the attached requisition says. . ." he scrolls down several screens, "Room and meal chits for one driver, two guards, an' one custodian, for three days."
"A custodian?"
"Aye, it means they'll be carryin' sensitive documents."
"Alright. . ."
"Oh, an' one last thing. . ." he scrolls back up, a long ways, "Heer we are. An armoured vehicle is scheduled tae leave the Second Highland Quarter on or about the last day of January."
I don't say anything.
"Broch Mordha is in the Second Highland Quarter, Sorcha."
He gestures a little. Then I get it.
"Oh! You mean that truck might be carrying information about the murder you're under warrant for?"
"Aye. It might."
"I see."
"It may no' end up swinging things much, if things go tae trial, but if we c'n proove I didnae kill him, it might gi' Sandringham the excuse he needs tae lift the warrant."
I shake my head, "I still have a hard time believing he's a genuine revolutionary."
We've had several not-quite arguments about Sandringham the past few days. . .
"Aye, I ken, an' I do see yer point. Bu' we havetae try, don' we?"
"Of course we do – no question of that – but I just wonder. . ."
Jamie sighs, "Wonder what?"
"Well – could it be a trap?"
He laughs, "A trap hidden in months' worth of schedule an' requisition documents?"
"You never know, Jamie."
He sobers quickly, "Aye, tha's true. Bu' I dinnae really think it is, ye ken?"
"You might be right."
He pauses a long time, expectantly.
My forehead wrinkles in confusion, "Do you want me to say something else, Jamie?"
"Weel. I was waitin' for ye tae say tha' a wee arrest warrant is hardly reason enough tae bring soulmates taegether. . ."
"Jamie!" I gasp in rebuke, "You don't really think that of me do you? It's your life. I'd never say that. Your happiness alone would be reason enough as far as I'm concerned, but with your actual life and limb at stake?" I take one hand off the wheel, and grip his hand, hard, but briefly, "If giving you your life back is the only reason I'm here, then it's a joy, an honour, and a privilege, James Fraser."
He's staring at me, almost reverent wonder written all over him.
"Christ, an' ye mean it, too."
I laugh, shortly, "You bet your sweet backside, I do," I steal a quick look at him, "I'm a woman, Jamie. I can handle pain. Sometimes not very well, when there's too much of it, but I can take more than anybody ever thinks I can. Including myself." Quickly, I grip his hand again.
"I can't handle your pain at all."
He considers this a long time.
"D'ye think mebbe that's part of it?" he says at last.
"Part of the soulmate thing?"
"Aye."
"Could be," I shrug.
"An' is it irony or poetry tha' I'm the one allus patchin' ye up?"
"How about serendipity?"
He grins, "Fair enough."
I see the lead car pull over. We must be just one or two turns out of eyeshot of Brockton. It's time for Jamie to get into his hiding place.
But when we get out of the Rover, the first thing we notice in the chill breeze of the late afternoon, is an horrifically foul stench on the air.
Dougal and the rest of the men in the lead car practically tumble out of it, and stand staring up at something by the side of the road.
There is a small stand of trees between here and there, so Jamie and I cannot see what they are looking at.
I am only very reluctantly morbidly curious. But the rest of the cars have stopped now, and as the men crowd up behind us, they carry us along to stand near Dougal.
I only catch the merest glimpse of the pair of corpses nailed to two x-form crosses before I turn my head away. I have seen and smelled decaying Humanity before, and it is not an image I need in my mind again. But in ducking my head down, my eyes catch a glimpse of strange marks on wrists and ankles.
Not rope gouges. Not cuff-bruises. Not anything one might expect to be on prisoners or kidnap victims.
Burns.
I gather all my courage, hold my breath, and manage to take one long look at the bodies.
Each has a large T branded into their chest.
"The Watch carve that inta folks who put the Agents onta them," says Dougal, his voice very bleak and grim, "An' they leave them out as warnings. For what happens tae traitors." He looks around at us all, "Back tae yer cars, lads. This isn't any of our business."
Very, very slowly, the men comply.
Half the men are just past the Rover when there is a great shout, and suddenly the air is full of stones and smoking burning rags, and bits of brick and metal. Jamie hustles me to shelter behind the horse trailer, and pulls a knife from somewhere. He claps it into my hand, and says urgently, "If things go south, Sorcha, run like hell's followin' after ye – 'cause it is." Then he shouts something in Gàidhlig to Angus, who tosses him a long stunpike, already sparking at one end with incapacitating electricity.
"Jamie, you're a doctor!" I say, fear and confusion muddling everything else.
"Aye, I'm a Scot too, Sorcha!" he shouts, just as a screaming wave of men in ragged black break upon our line of cars. Jamie leaps into the fray, and our men fire Stunbows, and zap and strike with their other electric weapons – far more weapons than I knew they could even field. There are more whizzing rocks, and sizzling sounds, and the smell of burned cloth and rancid meat, and more shouting and thumping and glass crashing, and long ripping noises, and I clutch my knife in the lee of the horse trailer, and feel supremely useless. I bat away a few stones, and stamp out one bit of burning cloth, but I have no idea what else is happening, and no notion at all what I am supposed to do with the knife in my hand.
It is over in less than three minutes, but it feels more like a week.
All at once Jamie is back beside me, his stunpike deactivated, but the battle-light still bright in his eyes.
"What was that?" I nearly screech, now more furious than scared.
"The Watch," he says, throwing open a back door of the Rover and pulling out a first aid kit, "Angus!" he shouts, "Wha's the damage?"
"Four tyres, twa windows, twa long cuts, lots of nicks an' stabs, burns an' bruises," comes Angus's voice, from behind one of the nearby cars.
"They get anything?"
"A dozen water bottles an' a crate of flyers."
There is a good deal of scattered laughter.
"Any dead?"
"One of theirs, none of ours."
"Good lad!"
There is a lot of shuffling and murmuring, as the men start to regroup and clean up. Several men go to the supply van – the one that had two of its windows broken – and pull out some tape and canvas to make a temporary repair. The two regular car maintenance crews assemble themselves, find where the slashed tyres are, and start to replace them.
Once again, I feel supremely useless. I could do any of those things, but I'm the specialty mechanic – here to nurse the Rover if it acts up.
"They don't just use those crucifixions as warnings, do they?" I ask, going along with Jamie as he starts to see to the wounded.
He shakes his head, "No. They're lures too, right enough."
I lean close and whisper, "Jamie, there's something strange about those corps-"
"Tell me later, Sorcha," he snaps, in urgent doctor-mode, "It'll keep, aye?"
I nod, and let him get back to it.
I wander back toward the stand of trees, making sure all the burning bits of rags are fully stamped out.
I resolutely do not look at the pair of crucifixes again.
But a little ways up the hill behind them, there is Dougal, hacking away at the hard-packed snow with a dung shovel he must have gotten from the trailer.
I take in what he's doing at a glance, and know he's never going to manage it. Not in the middle of January. . .
I put Jamie's knife carefully into one of the compartments in the Rover, then go back around behind it, and unhitch the horse trailer. Then I dig around in one of my boxes in the supply van, getting in everybody's way, but I am very insistent. I take the plasma filter hose and fuel distributor bar, and carefully drive the Rover to where Dougal is labouring alone. I don't speak to him, I just get out, open the bonnet, and hook up my hose and distributor. I pace off the correct distance, adjust the point limiter, and flip a switch.
Perfectly controlled plasma jets out, melting the snow and biting deep into the frozen ground.
Dougal stops hacking, and stares at me.
Once I have a two by one meter rectangle fully defrosted, I gesture him over.
"It'll only be soft for about forty centimeters down. Tell me when you need me to heat the ground again."
He nods grimly, and starts shoveling.
I melt out two more rectangles, get another shovel, and help him.
Eventually, as the men finish with their own tasks, they start to notice what we're doing. Soon, a crowd of them are watching us, confusion and some disdain in their expressions.
"Ye ken the bastards gave information tae the Peace Agents, aye, Sassenach?" Angus sneers in my direction.
"Did they?" I ask, with a sneer of equal hauteur, "I suggest you go and take one more look at those corpses then."
"Oh aye?"
I stop shoveling for a moment, and stretch my back, "Yes. You saw those Watch attackers just now – what kind of weapons did they have?"
He scoffs, but answers, "Knives an' sticks an' stones an' fire, lass – all deadly enough."
"And if I recall correctly, Dougal said the Watch carves their symbol on traitors."
"Aye, but-"
"Well if you'd shut your trap and look for once, Angus, you'd see those two men were not cut. They were burned. In lines so perfectly straight they look like cuts. Who around here has the technology to burn their victims in such an elaborate, calculated, and businesslike way? Who around here has the proclivity? Who around here has a vested interest in keeping all Scots in as much conflict with each other as possible? Who, Angus?"
"She's right," says Jamie, coming up behind everyone, "Half those burns had evan started healin'. Caused before death. A long time before death. Days. Maybe a whole week. The Watch doesnae do that. Ye either get away wi' mild injuries, ye'er dead in a minute, or recruited tae be one ov 'em." He steps up to the third grave, and digs in a shovel, "Only Peace Agents go in for torture."
"And I for one don't give a flying chicken shit if they were traitors or not. They were betrayed too. Every Scot has been," I fling out one more shovelful of earth, "Maybe they deserved what they got – I'm certainly not going to be the one to say. Maybe they deserved a dram and free suppers for the rest of their lives. At this point, does it matter? Either way, they deserve this too." I bend my head resolutely to my digging.
The men wander away in ones and twos, every one of them coming back with something that can either dig, or carry earth.
All three graves are dug in record time.
When the two crucified corpses and one Watch casualty are each securely beneath their own good Scottish soil, a plain cross at the head of every one, Dougal takes a rag and a lighter, and starts the two great x's ablaze. He removes his cap in respect, but clenches his jaw, clearly still deep inside his soldier's mind, and not in any shape to know what to say.
But I do. I can't sing it all, since I only started learning the song two days ago, when I got curious and looked up more information about Burns suppers.
But the men will fill in what I don't know. I'm one-hundred percent certain of it.
"Fareweel tae all oor Scottish fame,
Fareweel oor ancient glory."
My Scottish accent isn't perfect, even in my singing voice, but how every man's ears perk up at the sound tells me that, for once, it won't matter.
"Fareweel ev'n tae the Scottish name,
Sae fam'd in martial story."
Dougal's eyes slip closed, and he takes up the next verse,
"Noo Sark rins o'er the Solway sands,
An' Tweed rins tae the ocean,
Too mark wheer England's province stands-"
All the men join in for the last line of the verse,
"Such a parcel o' rogues in a nation!"
That's all the words I've memorized so far, but I was right. First Rupert, then Alain, then Angus, then Murtagh each take up the next verses, all of us joining in on the repeated line -
"Such a parcel o' rogues in a nation!"
Halfway through, Dougal opens his eyes again, and stares at me, curious, cold, suspicious, and jealously, disgustedly, grudgingly admiring.
I wonder for a moment what his next move will be. Then, I decide I do not want to know.
"Such a parcel o' rogues in a nation!"
Notes:
Soundtrack for this chapter - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DtSEaUAs5L4
Chapter 75: Beyond The Pale
Chapter Text
We arrived in Brockton too late last night to run the checkpoint. Normally these far-flung stations do stay open past sunset, but apparently there has been an increase of Watch activity in the area. . .
I had snorted aloud when Dougal announced that, and again when he followed it up with us being ordered to stay in the official tent-camp site across the brook – because all checkpoint towns are outside campaign borders, and it would be illegal for us to be accommodated there.
I didn't mind about the camping facilities – in fact, they are well maintained, and if a bit spare, then at least functional – no, it was leaving Jamie shut up in the horse trailer all night I objected to.
Which is why I'm up and about early this morning, even before the sun is properly up. I use the excuse that Donas mostly tolerates me to win my way into the stabling area. I feed him half a raw beet from the food we were given last night, pat his nose, and wait for the men to finish feeding and watering him. Auld Alec is curled up next to the manger. I stoop and hand him a fragment of roast beef, which he sniffs and nibbles at for a long time, before swallowing it nearly whole.
"Greedy wee beastie," I murmur at him fondly, and scritch his favourite spot at the root of his tail.
Jamie had reassured me last night that he'd be okay – that it was hardly the first time he'd spent long hours shut up in his hiding place – but I just want to give him a breather, at least. And maybe a kiss or two. . .
The men finish caring for the other horse as well, and then go in search of a hot drink and breakfast. There are a few empty stalls between me and the rear tent flap – which leads out to where the Rover is parked with its trailer. All I need to do is hang out with the horses a few minutes more. . .
Dougal appears at my side, handing a chunk of raw carrot to the other horse. He clicks his tongue, and pats it between the ears, and then turns to me.
His eyes are closed off, and very cool, but not actually antagonistic at the moment. He gives a minute jerk with his head, indicating I should follow him. I sigh, and do so reluctantly, slowly falling into step with him along the pathway next to the brook.
His hands are clasped behind his back, his lips set firmly shut, his whole posture suggesting he's more invested in watching the warm beginnings of the sunrise over the hills than he is in speaking to me.
I let the silence linger. The things I have to hide from Dougal are not things he'd ever expect to see – so being alone with him in silence is no danger to me.
Silence being a great revealer, of course. . .
"I've asked ye many a time who ye are, Sassenach," he says finally, in a quiet, reasonable tone, "But it occurs to me that I may not have been entirely clear what I mean by that."
"Oh? Do you mean something more than the usual?"
"Aye. I mean what are ye doing?" He touches his lips with two fingers of one hand, then makes a fist as his eyes harden immeasurably, "And toward what end?"
I smirk, sardonically. I couldn't answer that even if I wanted to.
"That's just about the one thing you'll never get out of me, Dougal. And my name is Claire, Mrs. Beauchamp, or lassie. Anything else, and I will end this conversation."
He shakes his head, bemused, "Ye. Have the gall to make demands-"
"Boundaries, Dougal. Not demands. And we all know just how important boundaries are in this situation, don't we?"
He gives an ugly sneer, "What the damm'ned hell kind of quim hev ye got on ye that would mek the lad turn on me like-"
"It's your own fault. And you know it."
He grinds his teeth.
"And if you don't know by now that I am not the sort who can be bullied into giving away things that are nobody's business but my own, then you're not only stupid, you're willfully ignorant, which is far worse."
Suddenly, he grabs me by both lapels of my jacket, "Ye will tell me who ye are, an' what's goin' on wi' ye, and ye will-"
"Are you alright, miss?"
We have come up to the small bridge that crosses the brook, and directly across it is a young, very smartly turned out Peace Agent.
A Peace Agent who bears a remarkable resemblance to a younger Frank, as he was when I first met him. . .
"I'm. . . fine. . . yes, thank you, officer," Dougal's grip on my coat slackens, and I pull away from him, as both of us stare quite unabashedly at this polite newcomer, "Uhm. . . have we met before? And it's Mrs."
"Lieutenant," he says brightly, "Lieutenant Randall, missus. And I don't think so. Perhaps you mean my brother, Captain Randall? We've always looked a lot alike."
My mind is an absolute jumble, being pulled in what seems like a dozen ways at once, "O-oh. Yes. Probably. Did you. . . want something, Lieutenant?"
He pulls himself very upright, and says, formally, "The commanding officer of the Brockton Checkpoint station would deem it an honour if the good woman traveling with the MacKenzie Campaign party would consent to have breakfast with him and his team of-"
"Now this really is beyond the pale!" snaps Dougal, viciously, "Furst ye refuse us checkpoint searvice ten minutes after yer arbitrary shuttering time, an' now ye-"
"Actually sir, you are the ones outside the Pale."
Dougal stutters to a halt, "ye- . . . what?"
"The Pale was an area of British protection, sir. Those who insisted upon their own independence went to live "beyond the Pale". When you or any of your party are invited into the officially English areas of this town sir, you are stepping into our protection, not out of it."
The incredulous look on Dougal's face really is something to see, "Your protec- young man, d'ye have evan the slightest notion-"
"I'm authorized to allow the lady to bring a companion with her to meet my commander, if she wishes," he looks at me and nods respectfully, "Shall I extend the invitation to you both, missus?"
I look back and forth between the utterly improbable young man on one side of me, and the intensely fuming Scot on the other.
The world has not seemed quite so surreal to me for some considerable time. . .
I take a deep breath, and summon all my Central trained dignity to my aid, "Yes. Come along Dougal, shall we be just, and hear the man out fairly?" I offer him my arm, as though I am the one with any power or control in this situation. Both men stare at me, struck by this sudden reversal of my personality. A strange light comes into Dougal's eyes – an odd, untranslatable thing I've seen there before, but don't have time to question now. . .
He takes my arm, in a grotesque parody of politeness, "Aye. Let's."
Chapter 76: Command And Control
Notes:
Content Warning – Transphobia, misgendering, deadnaming
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It is very strange to have my first official steps on English soil happen in a small town in the middle of the Scottish Highlands, two hundred years before I was born.
It is even stranger when I realize that the full-blooded Scot beside me is now technically the sassenach, and I am, technically, home.
Anywhere can be home if you declare it to be, Beauchamp. Focus!
Lieutenant Randall leads us up into town, into a small but very well-stocked pub, and up the stairs to a beautifully well-appointed dining room. Four Peace Agents are sitting there, at one end of a long table. A fifth man, who is clearly their leader – even without the extra two silver bars on the cuffs and lapel of his dark blue uniform, it would be clear he is in charge here – or at least thinks he is – is standing a little to the side, looking out of a nearby window.
"Ah. Here we are," he says, turning and nodding graciously, "Thank you Randall. Have a seat. And some tea, if you wish."
The lieutenant salutes smartly, "No thank you sir. I just went on duty, sir. I'll stand guard outside this room, if it's all the same to you."
"Just as you wish, my boy," the head man says, waving an imperious hand. When the door has closed behind Randall, he comes over, and bows very shortly to us both, "Commander Thomas is my name, and I would like to welcome you formally to Brockton."
I bow as well as I can, and Dougal gives a very brief, cold nod.
"And if the checkpoint queue is correct, you must be Candidate MacKenzie, am I right?"
Dougal raps out something in the Gàidhlig I can only half translate. And that half. . .
I desperately try not to snort with laughter, and only mostly succeed.
Commander Thomas looks at me, half bewildered, and unsure if he ought to be offended, "Didn't catch a word. Did you understand him, m'lady?"
"Well. . ." I cough, and vigorously stamp down a wild need to smirk, "I'm not very conversant in the Gàidhlig either, but I think he was complimenting your. . . jam."
To give this weight, I give a quick sideways look to the table laid out for breakfast. I don't dare look at Dougal.
"Ah. Really," the commander still looks unsure, but shrugs it off, "Everything I hear from these Highland candidates is always in that unpronounceable lingo of theirs. Can this fellow even speak proper English?"
I blink a moment, totally shocked. He's speaking to me as if Dougal doesn't exist, and isn't standing right here.
But my Central blood is up, and this man is starting to annoy me.
A bit more than starting to, in fact. . .
"Well, that does rather depend on what is meant by "proper", now, doesn't it?" I say sweetly, but with a hidden barb in my voice, "Put someone from Birmingham in York, or vise-versa, and ask them to find someone who speaks properly. You might get some surprising results."
"Oh dialects!" he sniffs, long and sharply, "That is different, of course. That's just a matter of education. Most people speak three entirely unique languages up here and still can't seem to manage a decent formal English."
"Oh yes," I say, keeping my face and voice rigourously impassive, "That is quite a commentary upon the efficiency of the Scottish education system."
He blinks a little, but decides to take that how he wants to take it, "Yes. Well." He sits down at the head of the table, and opens a slim folder, "The official MacKenzie travel campaign roster lists you as one Mrs. Claire Beauchamp, is that correct?"
"It is."
"And you are here as an official Guest of Clan MacKenzie, with a regular English ID, and no special permits?"
"I am."
He scans a few papers, impassively, "And are you aware, Mrs. Beauchamp, that all immigrants, foreign nationals, migrant workers, undocumented residents, out-of-country tourists and residential exchange students have been removed from the Scottish economy for the duration of the Transitional Period?"
He looks over at Dougal and me, his gaze almost disgustingly clinical.
"I am, sir. I am also aware that certain exceptions have been made for Clans, and official Guests of said Clans."
"Indeed. A rather specific necessity that becomes something of an open question when the official Guest is not currently residing within that specific Clan's territory."
His voice has remained light and conversational this whole time, but the threat in it is very evident now, if it wasn't before.
I smile thinly, "The question becomes somewhat more closed when the fact is remembered that the Peace Agents' jurisdiction does not extend to officially registered clanlands."
"Just so, just so," he nods, "And as an officer of the law, I am required to warn you to remember this, and henceforward, to remain upon officially registered clanlands, or the question will be re-opened. I trust I make myself plain?"
"You do, sir," I gesture towards the door, "Shall we remove ourselves at once, then?"
"Oh no," he smiles now, with undisguised condescension, "There is no need for anyone to rush. Not at this hour of the morning." He rings a small hand bell that sits near his empty plate, "I fear there is only one extra serving available for breakfast up here, however, so one of you will have to find refreshment in the taproom – at my own expense, of course."
"Of course," I agree, and turn to leave, but Dougal stops me, pressing the edge of his hand against my arm.
"T'ere's nae sae gud a' wee drap parritch i' t'morn, aye? Wi' t'gud Scots ale b'side. Slàinte mhath."
With an exaggerated nod at the commander, and a barely perceptible one at me, Dougal makes his extremely dignified way back down to the pub.
"That means-" I start.
"Oh, I understood most of that speech, thank you," says Commander Thomas, "After years of this, most of the time, when they speak English I can understand it, no matter how mangled it is. Do sit in, Mrs. Beauchamp." He stands, and gestures for me to sit at the head of the table.
More than a little reluctantly, I do.
A few moments later, servers enter the room, in response to the bell. They distribute bowls of a richly red stew, and glasses of sparkling wine, then go away again. Commander Thomas makes his men move over, and sits at the place next to me. I look down into my bowl, and sniff delicately. Mrs. Fitz made something like this for supper once, not too long ago. . .
"Borscht? An unconventional choice for the morning, isn't it?"
He picks up his spoon, "It would seem so, until you realize that it is practically impossible to get anything but oat porridge for breakfast in places like this, and the stuff palls after a week or so, let alone months or years. And the only other things they seem to grow around here with any consistency are root vegetables and beef. Oh, and just enough grain to make an unending stream of whisky so strong it hardly matters what you eat, you can't taste it anyway. Thank heavens they haven't embargoed the imported wines. Yet." He takes a long drink from his glass, "I hunted the wild boar in the stew myself, you may be interested to hear."
I take a bite. It's nowhere near as good as anything made in Mrs. Fitz' kitchen, but it's perfectly passable nevertheless, "Oh? I thought wild boar were nearly extinct."
"Not extinct enough, dear lady. Dangerous animals, we're better off without them."
"Or they are better off within us, you mean?"
"Ah," he laughs lightly, "A clever woman, how refreshing. Oh, I meant to ask while that uncouth brute was here – does he know you have applied for Scottish citizenship?"
Huh. How does he know about that? I manage to finish chewing and swallowing my bite of stew with barely a hitch, "I don't know. Probably. Why?"
He pulls a cutting of the Red Sorcha article out of his folder, "Well, it puts a different spin on this, wouldn't you say, if you are in fact, not English at all, but a wandering, homeless Scot, awaiting repatriation?"
"No, I don't think so."
"Oh? And why not?"
Strange. I have no idea where he's going with this. . .
"Because I'd have said anything in that article. Anything to get attention. That just happened to be what the interviewer wanted to talk about."
"But you are Scottish?"
"By blood, partially, yes. But not by birth. The same as the royal family."
He shrugs, "That I'll grant you. But why even speak to the news agents at all? An educated Englishwoman like you? Why sell out to a cheap political interviewer working the backwaters of this campaign?"
I smile a little, marveling at just how much has changed in only a few days. Quickly, I construct a story that's far easier for me to explain, and that this man will probably accept.
"Well, you see, the sad fact is, that "uncouth brute", as you call him, has had the unmitigated temerity to fall in love with me. Or in lust, at least."
He smirks, clearly enjoying my gossipy tone, and he leans in eagerly, "Somehow that doesn't surprise me. But go on."
"Well, I've told him to leave me alone, multiple times, but the man doesn't understand the word "no"."
"Of course not. How terrible."
"So the only way for me to fend him off is to fight fire with fire, as it were. The only thing he cares anything about is this campaign – well, power, I should say, but this campaign is his path to that, or so he thinks – and so every time he ignores my boundaries, I do something that negatively impacts his campaign. He treats me badly, I make his campaign go badly. Simple."
"I see. Fascinating."
I shrug, and take another bite of the beet stew, and take a sip of the wine. By the taste, it is genuine French champagne. Extremely good French champagne. I've only had it twice at Leoch, and neither time was it this good.
Top quality imported wine. . . at breakfast?
What. . .
How?
"Speaking of boundaries, and ignoring them – have you ever witnessed your party campaigning beyond said borders?"
Fortunately, I've anticipated this sort of question, so I'm not caught off guard.
I tilt my head a little, almost casually, "It wouldn't surprise me in the least."
"It would not surprise you. . . but you have no evidence of it?"
I chuckle, low and conspiratorially, "More evidence of my own eyes and mind than you could throw stones at. But nothing non-circumstantial."
"Nothing you could testify to in court, then?"
"Oh, I could testify, certainly. I simply doubt that it would very much signify."
"Mm," he nods, still gossipy and casual, "And so what does it signify that you have applied for Scottish citizenship?"
Ah. Right. My mind races, and a flips me a small lifeline, "Job security."
He sits back, the very picture of confusion. But his eyes are too sharp for it to be real.
"Job security?"
He doesn't take me in, but I follow through as if he has, "Yes. The Chieftain of Clan MacKenzie has given me a job. A good job. Which is more than anyone ever did for me in Oxford, let me tell you. But official Guests cannot be paid – not directly, not in the traditional sense – and so if I want to keep this job for any length of time, I have to show willing to commit. My citizenship, at least."
"But not your loyalty?"
"Pardon?"
"Your application for a change of citizenship is not a reflection of your changing loyalties?"
Ah. So that's where he's going with this.
I gather all my Central hauteur to me, and practically look down my nose at him, "Certainly not."
With an air of overly practiced grace, he takes up his glass of champagne, and nods to me, "In that case, would you lead us in a toast, Madame?"
It is perhaps the most childish and obvious of loyalty tests, but I do not see how it could hurt to comply. . .
I pick up my own glass, and lightly tap it against his. The four other men raise theirs as well.
Quite sincerely, I say, "God save the Queen!"
The commander's face freezes.
The other men at the table have been complete non-entities up until now. Nearly inert table decorations. But now they hastily put their glasses down, and all look intensely awkward.
Then Commander Thomas takes his napkin, and wipes slowly and deliberately around his mouth.
"Oxford, you said, Mrs. Beauchamp?"
"Yes," I say, not even trying to disguise my bewilderment.
"Well. Perhaps that explains it."
"Explains. . . what?"
"As a town of. . . avant-garde tendencies, and considering your. . . obvious. . ." he gestures vaguely, ". . . distinction. . . I must assume you have simply been. . . persuaded. Peer pressure is not an insignificant thing, after all. One must consider one's. . . environment."
I blink, very slowly. "I am certain one must."
"That being said. . ." he spreads his hands out on the tablecloth, almost as though he is about to deliver some sort of benediction, "I really cannot abide any such blasphemy against King Bennet."
Well, that's one I did not see coming. . .
". . . blasphemy?"
He raises one hand, "A King is a King by divine right, be he ill, deformed, afflicted or mad – and I will follow my King, no matter what delusions he has, or what rot lives in his soul, but I will not stand, for anyone, least of all a strange girl of uncertain virtue, to impugn his name and title in such a cavalier fashion!" He brings his hand back down on the table with a bang. The other four men jump at the sound.
I do not.
Who this man is, and what, is clear now. If I was slightly hesitant before, my uncertainty has vanished.
"My good sir," I say, folding my hands neatly, "By the divine right of kings, is it not customary for a monarch to choose the name by which they are called?"
A sour look replaces the touch of mad fervour he had in his eye, "Yes."
"Well then, whoever, and whatever, they were to begin with, is irrelevant. They have become Queen Victoria the Second – by her own choice and power, given to her by divine right. It is that choice, that power, and that right which I respect." I take a long drink of champagne, to calm my stomach, and perhaps let the atmosphere settle a touch. "And, by the same token," I say, as kindly as I can manage, "I am certain your unwavering loyalty is of unquestioned value to the crown."
Of such unquestioned value that he has been running a small secondary checkpoint station in the Scottish Highlands for four years. . .
He sneers a little, "Well, at least he found a good Queen. And their children seem normal. . ."
I smile indulgently, and raise my glass again, "In that case, long live Queen Judith!"
This seems to be an acceptable toast, at least, and a good deal of the tension leaves the room.
There is silence for several minutes, and we manage to finish our breakfast. The commander wipes his mouth one final time, then stands up and goes to the door. He holds it open and shouts, "Randall!" several times, very loudly. I wonder why he is being so noisy and insistent for a person who I thought was standing right next to the door, but then, I remember. . .
There are two. . .
Black Jack is not particularly impressive upon second sight. His blue coat is unbuttoned, his hair is a mess, and he has not yet shaved this morning. But, as he steps through the door to the dining room, the deep gold of the early morning sunlight streaming through the window gilds his white shirt a rich orange, almost crimson, and brightens his brown hair and hazel eyes into something resembling a bronze statue.
I catch my breath, not out of fear of Jack, but out of memory of Frank.
It is so eerie, to see him again like this. . .
The atmosphere has been tinged with evil all morning, but this is the first time I can practically taste it.
Alright, also out of fear of Jack.
Commander Thomas exchanges a few quiet words with him before they both approach the table again. Black Jack leans on the back of the commander's vacated chair, and it is his orders which come next, and his will which is unquestioningly obeyed.
"Thank you for your presence, gentlemen, but I wish to speak to Mistress Beauchamp now. Alone please."
He waves a slender, distinguished hand, so like Frank's used to be my heart hurts to see it on a person like Jack.
He looks directly at me for the first time, and smiles such a small, neat smile it is very nearly a bladed weapon, "We will not be very long. I do not think."
The commander and his men leave the room with such instant obedience I wonder, I very much wonder, what it is this man does to the people supposedly on his side.
I know some of what he does to his enemies, but what, oh, what does he do to his friends?
He sits down, and leans back in the chair, not speaking, and not even looking at me for while.
I notice a long, thin scar across his right cheek, and a minute deviation in the line of his nose.
I almost smile. Frank had neither of those features.
Frank was never hit in the face by Jamie Fraser. . .
At last, he looks at me, the full force of his personality altering his looks so greatly I can no longer see Frank in him. He holds my gaze, as a surgeon would a scalpel. When he speaks his voice is flat, but with an incredible undercurrent of tightly controlled violence. He is a bomb with a lit fuse, a chained beast, a caged madman. . .
He steeples his elegant fingers against each other, and says, very softly,
"Who is Frank?"
Notes:
In Gàidhlig idiom, “bad jam” = shite
Chapter 77: Jackboots
Notes:
Content Warning – Vomit, descriptions of torture, rape ideation
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"My husband."
My answer is so automatic it takes me several seconds before I wonder how he knew to ask me that. I've been thinking of Frank since Jack entered the room, yes, but I haven't said Frank's name out loud, have I?
Have I?
If I haven't, then how is Jack reading my mind?
And then I remember. The only word that I said to him before was "Frank".
Right before he hit me. . .
"Does he know you're here?"
"No."
His eyes narrow suspiciously, "I should warn you – I can smell lies."
I roll my eyes, "I'm a widow."
"Ah," he says, flatly, "And I may safely assume he looked something like me?"
"You bear a superficial resemblance. That is all."
"Mm."
It is an entirely noncommittal noise, and far more disconcerting than any such quiet, wordless vocalization has any right to be.
"Are you aware that your. . . friend. . . Candidate MacKenzie is downstairs getting blind drunk at eight in the morning?"
"Is he? Well, it doesn't surprise me."
I have to get some measure of this man. Let's see if that does it.
"It doesn't?" he sounds genuinely surprised.
"Well, you know how Scots are – if they aren't drunk, they're hoping to be."
It's a popular stereotype, but he looks as though he's never heard it before.
"Curious. That has not been my experience at all."
I very nearly ask him what his experience has been. . . then I stop myself. There was a subtle, distant gleam in his eye just then. . .
My heart rate kicks up for a moment, before I can control it. I must control it. It's been years since I've encountered anyone as adept at mind games as this. He got me curious, got me talking, and almost got me to open up, in the guise of letting me get him to open up.
He almost got a hook into me.
My stomach coils into a tense knot of stubborn, resentful pride. How dare he!
I control this too. There is no room for personal feelings. No room, and no time. Only complete awareness and precision will get me though this now. I haven't sparred with anyone on this level in ages, and judging by the sharp gleam in his eyes when he realizes his first thrust failed, it is possible I haven't sparred with anyone on this level, ever.
"I get the feeling, Captain, that your experiences have been somewhat. . . precisely curated."
"Oh, indeed. The life of a Peace Agent is not easy, Mistress Beauchamp."
"A policeman's lot is not a happy one", in fact?"
"Taking one consideration with another, yes."
Thrust. Parry.
Nil all.
"Do you think the commander will let us run the checkpoint soon?"
Bland and businesslike. Perhaps that will make a dent.
"He told me he was going to open the scanning station just as he left the room."
Nope.
He stands up then, and saunters over to the window. He clasps his hands behind him and looks out, impassively.
It is absurd, but the only thing about him I can focus on is his boots. They are meticulously, almost ridiculously well polished, black and well cut, fine, good, sturdy boots. The rest of him is so slap-dash, so untidy, it clashes with this part of him. His boots are so. . . so. . .
Deliberate.
And then I know – his appearance is deliberate too. Did he choose this specific way of putting me off-kilter, or is this the way he treats all interrogations of this type?
Best to assume the former. Don't take anything for granted.
"Well then, they ought to be ready to go by the time we're done here, at least."
He makes eye contact with me through his reflection in the window.
"He asked for it, you know."
"Excuse me?"
Cold-burning acid rises in my chest, and my heart clutches. The fire of seduction gleams in his eyes now, and a tiny, come-hither smirk plays around his lips.
He turns, and leans on the table, thrusting his head at me, "Fraser. When I had him on the table, stripped to the skin and shivering, I offered him a way out, but he refused, and asked for it. Every sweet, screaming stripe of it. Like he wanted the pain. Like he craved my expertise."
I recall the first time I saw Jamie's scars, and the evil I saw pouring off them.
Well, here it is, burning bright, and as repulsive as Jamie is wonderful.
"What are you talking about?"
His eyes close, and he inhales deeply, as though savouring the scent of the entire room, but of me especially. Then he stands up straight again, and looks me in the eyes,
"You," he smiles tightly, "Are a beautiful liar."
He sits back down with a swagger, slightly breathless, and a little flushed, almost as though. . .
As though. . .
There is only one context when I ever saw Frank look like that, and. . .
The smile Jack gives me is the same one Frank used to use on mornings after we made love. . .
"Have you ever imagined it?"
It is playing his game, on his chosen ground, but I am so put off by him at the moment, I cannot think of a reasonable deflection. I have to give him the response he wants. I just have to hope he'll overplay the advantage. . .
"Imagined what?"
"The pure ecstasy of controlling someone," he runs a finger along his lower lip, "Their pain, their pleasure. Their blood. Their breath. When they eat. When they shit. Have you ever imagined complete. . . harmony? The total joining of a soul to yours – for eternity?" Glittering passion rises in his eyes, "Fraser was the first perfect subject I ever had. He was magnificent."
The word cuts though my rising, churning disgust.
Magnificent.
There is something in the way he says that. . . some tone, some flavour. . .
Sandringham!
I don't know how or why – yet – but there is a connection between Sandringham and Jack.
And that means. . .
He knows.
Jack knows.
Jamie is here with us, and I know where he's hiding.
And Jack knows I know.
So now he's. . .
Playing with me. Getting in my head, rummaging around in my emotions, finding anything he can pull on, anything he can hurt, or slice open, or poison. . .
No. It's worse than that. He's trying to seduce me. Trying to get a hold upon me by any line he can control, be it hatred, anger, spite, malice, or fear.
If he has me by one heartstring, he has me by all of them.
And then. . .
He can consume me.
"I never considered myself an artist until he came along, you know. That back of his was my first masterpiece. I can't think of it without-"
I don't know how it happens, but I somehow manage to slip into the dry, bleak place inside my soul, and a veil of silence is drawn between us. I watch his lips move, and see the flashes of things in his eyes, with perfect, unheeding detachment. I can feel his words reaching my ears, but they do not enter my mind.
Suddenly, in the quiet, I look into the soul before me. He is no longer a man, just as I am no longer a woman – we are mere collections of stardust, with images projected upon them. I see the warm reds and purples of my own soul surrounding me, with a core of Stygian Blue at my heart, and am not surprised.
In this place, in this time, there is no surprise.
I expect to see blood, or fire, or something else horrible when I look into Jack.
Instead, I see nothing.
There is a thin wisp of dust, and inside it, there is nothing.
He's. . . empty.
Entirely. Utterly. Devoid of substance. Devoid of a soul.
Whatever there is to see of him in the real world isn't even truly alive – it is lairing in his space for a while, before being released back into oblivion.
He is more barren than all the desolation in my heart has ever been, put together, doubled, trebled, and doubled again. I am merely trapped here sometimes. He lives here.
Not only is he empty – he has never known anything else.
He was born in this dark place which I am forever trying to escape. And not only that, he is comfortable here.
Suddenly I can feel sympathy, even pity, for a soul this lost, for a mind so bereft, for a life so entirely worthless.
There but for the grace of gods go I. . .
". . . and I suppose you think that makes me a monster."
With a snap, I coalesce back into reality.
Slowly, he looks at me again, voluptuous, hungry malice in his eyes. He practically licks his lips, thinking he knows what he's going to see in me, eager to feast upon whatever it is.
He's expecting horror, disbelief, terror, shock, perhaps even nausea or pain. Certainly more disgust.
He's expecting to be feared.
He is not at all expecting to be known.
When our eyes meet, it takes a moment. Then, it hits him like a supernova. He stills with utter shock as his heart and bones and mind tremble under the sudden weight of a single point of cleansing fire, as it expands outward, reaching into every dark place and lighting it ablaze. He didn't know he'd let me in so deep, certainly didn't know I spoke the language of his soul, and would never have believed I could burn him to ashes like this even if he had.
Deep in his eyes, I see it happen, like the swirling gasses of a distant galaxy exploding before they pull into darkness. I watch as his emptiness collapses into itself, leaving the vast waste of his soul exposed, cold and fruitless and void. He's bare before me, and worse – of no account. There is some power behind him still, but his control is as blank as the space between stars. He's nothing. Less than nothing. As seductive as a maggot. As dead as an unmemorable dream.
He's dull. He's unimportant. He's forgettable.
He can still hurt me – give me pain, make me suffer, torture me – hell, he might even kill me – but I have still defeated him, here and now, and there is nothing he can do to erase that victory.
No matter what he says, or does, or inflicts on me from now on, he's lost any hold he had on my spirit, and he knows it.
"No," I say into the infinite silence, "Monsters are human."
With one smooth, utterly unavoidable motion, he buries his fist in my solar plexus.
The air rushes out of me with a great choking sigh. A hard clap on the ear knocks me out of my chair, and leaves me groaning and writhing on the floor, gasping for air, dizzy with pain.
The hard, cold toe of his boot presses hard underneath my chin, and he pushes my head back as far as it will stretch.
"Lexy!" he calls urgently, "Lexy! Get in here!"
I hear light, quick footsteps, and manage to open my eyes enough to see the face of the young, sweet Frank, come and stand next to the older, defiled one.
"This woman has confessed to being a traitor, Lexy."
Young Frank looks at me, concerned and unsure.
"Kick her, Lexy."
"But, Jacky. . ."
"It will be good for her soul, and good for yours. Kick her."
As I watch young Frank's foot go slowly back, there is an enormous stumbling crash from the doorway, the sound of smashing glass, and a huge, slurring roar -
"Ahh'l thh-ank ye ta tek yer boots off'n mah Shashenack!"
I am in no condition to be impressed at the moment, but later I come to appreciate just how much courage it took for Dougal to charge into the room just then, playing up his drunkenness to perfection, armed with nothing but an empty beer bottle and his bare hands, knowing only that Black Jack was here, and that I needed rescuing.
Baws, as they say, are not always of such high quality brass.
He slashes at the two Franks with the beer bottle, getting them to back off, as with his other hand he yanks me upright.
My head and stomach whirl, my throat slides up, and I vomit my breakfast all over Black Jack. The horrible, acid red of the beets stain his shirt like blood.
Dougal throws the broken bottle at them, and scoops me up, his gait magically steadying, his expression instantly hardening back into his usual cold sneer.
The final, and most lingering images I have of that room are the grim, intense face of Dougal as he carries me away, the shocked and horrified faces of the Randall brothers, and the disgusting red of my sick, dripping all over the pristine surface of Black Jack's boots.
Notes:
Soundtrack for this chapter - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fXh2d2tN9QI
Gilbert and Sullivan quotes - https://www.gsarchive.net/pirates/web_op/pirates24.html
Chapter 78: The Devil You Know
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
We are in Dougal's car, through the checkpoint, and several kilometers down the road before I find the strength, will, or ability to speak.
I try to thank him, but he motions me to be silent. I obey, with some considerable relief.
It is the first time I have been alone indoors with Dougal since Boxing Day. I am not terribly eager to remind him of that. Especially now that I must explain. . . explain. . .
Well – whatever that was.
How he even knew I needed rescuing at that moment, I do not know, but I am grateful enough to him to give him the lead for a little while. The interrogation will no doubt start soon enough.
What was that? The encounter with Commander Thomas had been unpleasant enough, but to be deliberately targeted by Black Jack was pure hell on earth. And as for seeing into his soul. . .
What was that?
Jamie had spoken of "seeing into" me the day I apparently saw the fetch of old Simon Fraser, but was this the same thing? When Iona read my aura, she had seen the same colours I had on myself in that seeing state, but for her "seeing" had appeared deliberate, and my slipping into that "seeing state" or whatever had been entirely fortuitous.
Well. If you want to call anything that brings you a clearer understanding of Jack bloody Randall fortuitous.
I shiver, even though the car interior is quite warm. At last I understand the phrase "Better to bear those ills we have, than fly to others we know nought of." It is not a warning against seeking to improve your situation, nor an invalidation of burdens, but a clear, ringing endorsement of everyday, common problems. Much, much better to face those than to be saddled with. . . with. . .
If Old Ones exist, if unicorns exist, if witches and magic and soulmates exist. . .
If time travel is real. . .
Then might not demons be real too?
Such empty, consuming evil surely could not be human.
Surely.
I recall Blueblast bombs, and the night the Spire fell.
That had been this planet's fourth world war. And it is comically easy to find stories from the previous three that were far, far, far worse than that.
Yes, humans are capable of empty, consuming evil just as devilish and cruel as Jack's. Capable enough.
But I had not needed some strange mystical Zen-state to understand the evil in war. That was an ill I knew long before any of this started happening.
No, it is not the depth of Jack's evil that is inhuman.
It is the immediacy. The smooth, easy flow of it. The strength of it.
No human, no matter how historic or legendary, has had power beyond their own. They may wield power beyond them – the power of other humans, of followers, of nations, of armies - but, in the end, we are all children alone with ourselves, and anything else is merely bestowed upon us temporarily.
But I had seen something about Jack that had been different than all that. Some ability to be that defied the state of humanity. A power that would utterly destroy a human being from within if they tried to contain it.
I have heard of demon possession, of course. I never believed in it, but still. It was a part of the world as I knew it before this morning. But I have never, ever encountered the notion of demon manifestation before. Not like this. Not with siblings and parents and descendants – one of which I happened to be married to five years ago. . .
Frank. . .
I miss him now, more than ever. But I am glad he never knew about this part of his past.
Dougal turns the car off road, and parks it in a little stone glade behind a rise. He gets out, comes around, opens my door, lifts me out of the car, and sets me on my feet. I stare blankly at him, still stuck in that room with Jack, my stomach still clenching from the feel of his fist, the sound of his voice, the look in his eyes. . . that desolation in his soul. . .
Determination rolls over me.
I must keep Jamie out of his reach. I must protect my sweet Jammie Dodger, my brave Ghillie Dhu, my dear, darling Green Man. Even if that means leaving him. Even if it means stealing a car and running to Craigh na Dun. Now. Tonight.
Even if it means I don't get to say goodbye. . .
Dougal doesn't speak, just takes my hand, and leads me along a narrow, steep path, around a few sharp turns, and down into a moss-grown canyon, where water flows, dark and cold and fast.
I follow tamely, too exhausted at the moment to do anything else.
"What is this place?"
"Dinnae mind about the name now, jus' take a drink. Ye'el feel better for it."
I sniff delicately, and look suspiciously at the coffee coloured river, "It. . . smells. . . and the water is. . . brown. . ."
It almost smells like coffee too, as well as looking like it.
"Aye, tis a mineral spring. But it will rinse away the taste of your sick."
I blink a bit. That's certainly true. . .
"Where are the rest of the men, Dougal?"
He crosses his arms, "I sent them through the checkpoint ahead of us. We'll catch up wi' them soon."
I shrug a bit, and kneel down to wash my face and rinse my mouth. The water tastes as suspicious as it looks – earthy and mineral-laden. It is also very cold, so I only swallow one mouthful of it, and shake my hands free of drips as much as I can.
Impassively, Dougal hands me a clean rag.
I hesitate a little, but take it.
He certainly seems to have this little interlude carefully planned out. . .
"Now then, lass," he says, his voice not unkind, but somehow more insistent than I've ever heard from him before, "Ye will tell me - who ye are, an' why ye'er heer."
I sigh. I've just faced down a demon and won. I am currently contemplating ghosting the only man here I truly care about, for his own protection. I'm too tired for this shit. . .
I throw down the rag.
"Piss off, Dougal. I'm not up for your bullcrap right now."
He advances on me, pushing my shoulders, forcing me up against the rocks,
"Who. Are. You?" he growls in my face.
My anger finally flares, and I shout at him,
"I'm the Queen of the fairies!"
For some reason, this makes him back off. He looks me up and down too, smirking a little. Then, as he stares at me, his expression morphs into disbelief, then uncomprehension, then suspicion, and then. . . fear. Raw, untempered, outright fear.
And then, gradually, reluctant, terrified respect.
"Saints in heaven preserve us. . ." he whispers.
Then, he reaches behind the lapel of my jacket, and pulls out a microphone wire.
Notes:
Soundtrack for this chapter - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tCT0-YcKww0
Chapter 79: The Devil You Don't
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Whatever reaction he was expecting, I'm certain I do the opposite.
I burst into tears.
Ugly, wracking sobs tear out of my chest, the full force of everything that's happened this morning finally coming to bear on me. My eyes burn, and great streams of tears roll down my face.
Dougal puts a tentative, and very awkward hand on my shoulder, "Dhia, lass, I never thought ye'd take it like this, I. . . I didnae. . . Christ, why are ye so. . ."
I push his hand away, not harshly, only to alleviate the awkwardness, which is a very big last straw for me at the moment. . .
"You idiot," I say, my voice so full of conflicting emotions, it sounds more like a compliment than a curse, "It means I don't have to explain. I don't. . . don't have to go back there. I don't have to live it again. And again and again and again. My god. Thank you."
I take a few deep, shuddering breaths, and manage to get myself back into some semblance of control.
His lip gives a dubious twist, "Does this mean I'm forgiven?"
I give a very flat, very mirthless laugh, "Hah. No. But I'm not going to shout at you over it. For the moment."
"Good. Because there's one in the Rover too."
I snap my eyes to his, "What? For how long?"
"Since the Burns supper. I didnae want tae break our agreement, lass, but I had tae know. I had tae. There are lives at stake."
"Yes," I agree with a nod, "There are."
He hefts the mic wire, "That's why I put this on ye this mornin'. The one in the Rover wasnae givin' much. Ye an' Jamie are so. . ." he chuckles shortly, "Innocent."
"Glad you noticed."
"Aye. A'tennyrate, I had no idea this morning would work out sae well for me. Tae say what ye said tae Thomas, and take a beatin' from Randall. . . weel. I ken ye're nae traitor, now, nor spy. But I still don' know who ye are. Didn't know. That's why I brought ye here." He gestures around.
"What is this place?"
"It's called the Devil's Spring. They say the water comes from Hell itself, an' if ye drink it an' tell a lie, the water'll burn out ov yer belly like brimstone, an' go back tae where it first came, showin' ye the path ye mus' tread inta Hell."
I stare at him while he says all this, fascinated by the light of true fervour in his eyes. He doesn't often look like this – not even in the middle of giving big official speeches.
"You believe that," I say.
It isn't a question. He answers anyway.
"Yes."
I cross my arms, "Then take a drink."
He meets my eyes for a minute, then nods, shortly.
"Aye, that's fair."
He scoops up a palm-full of water, and drinks it.
"Were this wire and the one in the Rover the only ones?"
"Yes."
"Were they only there since Burns night and this morning?"
"Yes."
"How many people were listening?"
"Just me, lass. Ye versus me. That was our agreement. I stuck tae that part, a'least."
"And now you. . . really think I'm a fairy?"
"No. I ken yer an Auld One. The Fairy Queen. The Pale Lady. Where Spring an' Winter meet."
There is awe in his voice. In a day of strangeness, this is perhaps the strangest thing yet.
"But, I. . ." a memory flips in my brain, and I completely change course, "You know what I think about Sandringham!"
"What ye've told wee Jamie, aye, but. . ."
I clutch at his wrists, "You have to get control of the money away from him!"
"Control of the. . ."
"The money you've been collecting for the Culloden operation. He's got control of it, yes? He's the one hiding it. That's why Ned was there, right? To go over the books or make a deposit or something?" This interpretation of things had only occurred to me two days ago, and I haven't mentioned it to Jamie yet. . . "You have to get the money away from Sandringham. Just do that, at least. I don't care how, just do it. As soon as possible."
Shock and wonder mingle in his eyes, "Lass, how d'ye ken-"
"You have just told me you believe I am a literal supernatural creature, Dougal. Just for once, trust me, okay?"
His eyes rove over my face, long and searchingly.
"Aye, lass. Alright."
I sigh with relief, and lean back against the stones, exhaustion creeping over me again.
"Ye ken two of those lives at stake are yers and wee Jamie's, aye? An' no' from any random Peace Agent or Watch action – from Black Jack himself. He'll want both your heids now – an' more."
I look up at the cold, grey sky.
"Aye. I ken."
"That's why I lodged an official complaint against him – in your name – wi' your ID."
"What? When? How? Why? And what good does it do?"
He chuckles, "Nae'un notices a Scot in a pub when he's drinkin'. One ale an' I'm near invisible. I saw Randall down there, waitin' his cue, but he didnae see me."
"But. . . he told me he saw you."
"Aye. He was lyin'. He knew he ought tae have seen me, so he said he did. But he didn't."
"Okay. . ."
"I messaged Ned the minute after ye told Thomas yer testimony against us wouldnae signify in court. He drew up a complaint, attached yer ID, and had it all submitted, tidy an' official, by the time Randal was tellin' ye his friendly wee rape stories."
I shiver in disgust at the memory.
"Now as tae why. . ."
"Yes?"
"Peace agents need tae look good tae be doin' what they are tae us. Oh, they're right bastards, but they keep tae the letter of their own rules when anyone is watchin'."
"Okay, but I still don't see. . ."
"One of their rules is that any complaint must be addressed in the complainant's own home county."
I blink.
"Ooh. That means. . ."
He nods, "Randall must go to Oxfordshire. At once. That gives us a few days breathin' space, an' time tae act."
My mind musters once more, racing to find some solution. . . "But what can we do? I can try staying on clanlands, but I'm an English foreign national, and it's legal to remove me. I even think it's legal for Peace Agents to go onto clanlands when in pursuit of someone there illegally, isn't it?"
He nods.
"I've submitted my petition for Scottish citizenship, but it's illegal for that to be completed until after the Transitional Period. All exceptions given to official Clan Guests are open to interpretation – as we've seen. So what is there to do, Dougal?"
Run. I can run. I have to run. There's nothing else to do. . .
"There's only one loophole. Ye havetae marry a Scot."
My mind screeches to a halt.
"Marry?"
"Better tae marry than tae burn, lass."
"But. . . but. . . who?"
I only realize after I've said it that this is a patently idiotic question.
I am so, so tired. . .
But Dougal only grins, "Weel, there's several bachelors an' widowers among us. There's Rupert, a'course. Angus too. And Alain, Murtagh, Ned. . . three or four other men. An' myself. Ye c'n take yer pick. I doubt any of us would say no."
He gives me a sidelong leer, but it is tinged with good nature, and not nearly as predatory as it might be, "But after ye've picked Jamie, I'll have Ned draw up a contract, and we'll have ourselves a wee weddin'. We have a couple of days in the next town – jus' enough time. An' it's in clanland territory too. Wi' Jack out ov the way, ye'el be safe as houses."
"And. . . after that?"
"We dinnae go off the clanlands for weeks – except for Inverness. We won't take ye inta town wi' us, that's all."
"Oh. Okay. . ."
"An' ye c'n go back tae Leoch early."
Why. . . why is he being so nice?
I can't help but suspect there's something else behind this, that he has some ulterior motive, but I am far, far too tired to think. . .
"Would you mind explaining the situation to Jamie? I need a nap. And some food. And a drink. Two drinks. Or three."
He smirks, "Aye, I will."
"And tell him we'll discuss it. Nothing official until we talk."
"Oh, a'course, nae question ov that."
He offers me his arm. I take it, in genuine fear that if I don't, I'll fall over on the way back to the car.
On the slow walk back up the path, I notice a large niche in the rocks that I didn't see on the way down. There are a few patches of snow here and there on the stones, and a great deal of moss and lichen, but the main feature of the spot is a large carving on the back wall of it. A octagonal sunburst circle with a curling, coiling labyrinth in the center of it, and a cross extending from the bottom. It suggests a very strange flower, or maybe an insane eyeball. . .
I stop and point, "What is that?"
He looks up, uninterested, "It's called the Devil's Eye," he shrugs, "It's the symbol of the place."
"But. . . it looks like a more complicated version of the symbol for Venus."
He gives a broad, mischievous grin, "Oh. Aye. Didnae ye ken? The Devil is a woman."
Notes:
For an image of the Devil’s Eye pattern, please see the cover image here - https://www.fanfiction.net/s/14055079/1/Parallel-Crossings
Chapter 80: Laird Love Ye
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
When I wake up from my nap, it is late afternoon. A few flashes of sunlight are slipping beneath the high cloud cover, and into my room at our latest B&B. There is a tray on my bedside table, and on it are the remains of a small meal, an empty pot of tea, and an open whisky bottle, still about two-thirds full. I sit up, and pour myself another dram.
Well. Back at it, then.
I go over to the little desk by the window, and pull out the two letters I started before I simply had to sleep.
One to Fergus, one to Jamie. Both explaining who I am, when I am from, and why I must leave.
Well. A few of the reasons.
By all the gods that may or may not exist. . .
I want to stay.
Oh, I want to. . .
I have so many reasons to go. And there are just as many reasons not to. Jamie is a collision of them all.
He may not be in love with me, but he does care for me. I may not belong here, but he makes me feel like I do. I may crave home, but he can make me feel like he is my home. It may be my responsibility to go, but he is my responsibility too. We might be soulmates, but that might mean it is my destiny to leave.
He is and will be a much more stable parent for Fergus – and both of them might be better off without me – but by the same token, he is a wonderful father, and deserves whatever support and co-parenting I can give him.
Leaving is the only way I can protect Jamie from Jack, but staying is the only way I can continue to protect him from Jack.
Going back through the stones might be the best way to keep me safe, but marrying him. . .
Marrying Jamie might make my life safer, but my heart. . .
The things he could do to me, without even trying. The things he has done, without even knowing.
Marrying him could utterly destroy us both.
But Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, do I want to do it anyway.
Leaving may be right, but if it is, then being with him is also right.
I have to go.
I have to stay.
And both feel incredibly selfish.
I kick back my drink, and pour myself another.
The universe has a sick, twisted sense of humour.
I don't deserve him. I do want him.
I want him like my lungs want air. . .
There is a quiet knock at my door.
"Come in."
Jamie steps through the door. I quickly shuffle the letters under some blank pages, and gesture him in. There is only the one chair, so he sits on the edge of the bed. I finish my dram, pour another, and hand it to him. He takes a sip, and looks down into the glass.
"Dougal wants us to be married," he says, almost forlorn.
"I know."
He kicks back his drink, and slaps the glass down on the desk. I refill it.
"Christ, Sorcha, ye'd think we'd been sentenced tae tha gallows wi' how we're drinkin' over this," he picks up the glass, and sips again.
"This" being the car you're going to appropriate for me, and the run to Inverness we're going to make tonight, I assume?"
He looks sharply at me, "What?"
"Well, that's the only way I can see of doing it. Give me a bit of money and a ride into Inverness, and I'll go back the way I came. Safest way for everyone. I'll miss you and Fergus and Murtagh and the boys, but-"
His eyes are incredulous, "Lord love ye, Sorcha, ye cannae be thinkin' of leavin'?"
"Well, what else do you want me to be thinking of?"
He takes a long sip of his drink, "Weel, other than the fact that wi' the uproar ye caused this mornin', I verry much doubt the Agents will let ye get to, through, around, in or out of Inverness safely - that or any non-clanland place, for that matter - I did think ye might spare a thought or two towards marryin' me. . ."
"Jamie," I sigh, "I'd never spring a marriage on you, no matter how much of a bind I'm in. It's far from the worst option, of course, and yes, I have spared a thought or two towards it – more than two, in fact. And I very quickly came to the conclusion that I'd never rush you into something unconsidered like this. Not after all you've told me. What kind of girlfriend would I be if did that to you?"
"What makes ye think I havenae considered marrying ye, Sorcha?"
I sit up straight at that, "You. . . mean you have?"
"Every day. A dozen times a day," he swirls his whisky, dreamily, "I've imagined ye in. . . oh, it mus' be a million different wedding dresses, an' in a thousand different places all over the world, sayin' hundreds o' different versions of vows in front of a myriad o' different witnesses."
I should have remembered the depth of his crush on me. It's more than like – he has me on a pedestal. I am a dream woman to him – not myself.
He has no idea who I really am. . . what I am really like. . . And he wouldn't believe it, even if I told him.
"I've been imaginin' marryin' ye for months, Sassenach."
I flinch a little at the nickname, feeling terrible about this whole situation.
"Sorry. I've called ye that so much, still think of ye as Sassenach, evan when I cannae say it."
I have to give him something before I go. Something. Something more than a letter of explanation. And I need as much of him as I can get. So I'll know. So I'll remember. . .
"Our first morning as man and wife. You can call me Sassenach again then. Deal?"
"Does that mean. . . ye will marry me?"
He doesn't really love me. It's more than he's never said the words – he is clearly just obsessed with me. Everything he's done and said on this campaign has only confirmed that. The whole soulmate thing sounds nice, but it's just an excuse, really. So maybe doing this would be good for both of us. Let him get it out of his system. Give me the memories I'll need to survive. . .
"Only if you're sure, Jamie. I'm still willing to risk a run to Inverness if-"
His arms are around me, and his mouth is on mine. I moan into his lips, and hold him closer.
God do I want this man. . .
One night. Just let me get my fill of him for one night.
Maybe that will be enough. . .
"We have all of tomorrow, an' part of the next day tae plan, an' bring it all together," he sits back down on the bed, pulling me along beside him, "Then we'll get married that afternoon, an' that night. . ." he trails off and coughs a little, "The landlady here has already agreed tae cook up a big reception feast, along wi' a cake, an' considering the men involved, almost enough drink."
I chuckle. "And has Dougal agreed to pay for all that?"
"Oh aye. An' more. He seems tae think it'll make a good campaign moment. . ."
"Oh. Right."
This consideration strikes incredibly cold when surrounded by all the other things that have happened today, but it is actually a little reassuring to me. At least this is the Dougal I have come to know and not hate over-much. . .
Jamie can clearly feel my consternation.
"Aye. I feel the same, Sorcha. But let's no' think of it now, agreed?"
"Agreed. What else have you planned while I was sleeping?"
"Weel, I refuse tae get married in a church, so-"
"Wait. . . you do? Don't, I mean? Don't want to get married in a church?"
"No. I wilnae ask a god I dinnae believe in tae bless the one thing I do."
"Do believe in?"
"Aye. Marriage. It's the only Catholic sacrament worth a damn."
I snort, "That's certainly a. . . striking way to put it. . ."
"Aye. Now we c'n go fully secular, if ye want – a procurator fiscal wilnae be difficult tae track down in a place this size – but Murtagh said a Druid lady approached him jus' as we got inta town."
"Oh? How odd."
"It was, he said. But she said she'd had a dream or a vision or summat, and offered tae conduct the full ceremony for free. He didnae ken what she was talking about until Dougal came an' explained what ye needed. . ."
"And. . . how do you feel about a ceremony like that?"
He shrugs, "Pagan is as close tae organized religion as I wantae get these days. How do you feel about it, mo nighean?"
"About the same."
"Alright, sae that'll be easy enough done. I'll havetae track down a Fraser tartan taemorrow, an' ye'll havetae find a dress ye like, but the real sticking points are the rings, an' our wedding gifts."
"Are they? Why?"
He pulls something metal out of his pocket, and shows me, "I want our rings tae be made of this, an' I dinnae ken if there will be time."
It's a key. An antique, very fancy key.
"But. . . why, Jamie?"
He runs a thumb over it, "Because there's only three of these auld keys tae Lallybroch left in the world, and I've carried this'un the whole four years of my exile."
"Lallybroch? The whisky brand you like so much?"
"Aye. I ken I've no' told ye yet, but I'm Laird of Broch Tuarach. Every'un calls it Lallybroch, but the full name is Broch Tuarach."
I reach out and cup the hand he has holding the key, "A laird? Why didn't you ever tell me?"
He shrugs, "Didnae seem important. Until now."
I snuggle into his side, "So now can you tell me about it?"
"Aye. There's over a dozen tenants on our land, an' the auld stone manor house was turned inta a distillery four or five generations ago. The broch itself is jus' a landmark now, a'course."
"So where do you live?"
"The Big House. Or that's what Da called it while he was buildin' it. Jenny an' Ian live there now."
"Sounds like somewhere I'd want to live too."
He smiles, "Aye, ye'd look a treat at the head of the table there, Sorcha, so ye would."
"So, what about the key?"
"Oh, aye," he hands it to me for a minute, "It's good auld steel – more than enough metal for a pair o' rings."
"So I see." I hand it back.
"An' I ken what I want, but it takes a bit ov time – reforging, electroplating, an' such."
"A whole working day and a half? Should be enough time. Especially with Dougal paying."
"Aye, but I want some complicated figuring. An' enamels. An' engraving." He looks hard at me, suddenly concerned, "Ye dinnae have any preference yourself? Ye'er willing tae let me have my way in this?"
"I don't see why not. You clearly care a lot about it, you've thought it through, and I trust you."
"But ye dinnae want any input?"
"Not really. Frank and I never had wedding rings – he called them a ridiculous remnant of a time when wives were chattel."
"But, what do ye think of them, Sorcha?"
He is looking at me very intently, and I take a second to consider my thoughts.
"I've honestly never thought too much about them at all. Jewelry is all very well, but it's individuals who attach meaning to things – or they should be, in my opinion. What society says things mean can be a framework – and a very useful and necessary framework, at times – but it's living that matters. What you do, how you think – the value you put in to something, not just the value you get out it." I close his fingers around the key, "You've put time and effort and thought into these rings, Jamie. I value that, and I will value that, more than any piece of jewelry you ever give me."
He gives me a soft, warm smile, and an even softer, warmer kiss.
"Tha's good tae ken, mo ghràidh – because I havenae a brass farthing tae give ye for a wedding present."
Gently, I run the backs of my fingers over the stubble on his chin. He is such a dear, darling man. . .
If we are doing this, I might as well go for broke.
"I want you to tell me you love me."
He blinks hard at me a few times, "Wh. . ."
"For my wedding present, I want you to tell me you love me. Whenever I ask you to, you'll say it. And. . . try to mean it. Or, at least. . . don't let me see if you don't mean it. I know we've promised each other truth, but just this once, I'm asking you to. . . bend that a little. Please."
He looks silently at me, shocked quite speechless.
"And, in return. . . I'll give you the wedding night of your dreams."
Shock doesn't begin to cover the look he gives me now.
He runs a hand over his face, and is silent for a long minute or two. Then, he takes me gently by the shoulders, and looks me in my eyes, "So. . . let me be verrah clear, Sorcha. You are offering me your body. . . in exchange for me sayin' I love ye?"
I shake my head. "No. I'm offering the best wedding night I can give you. In exchange for the best wedding night you can give me."
"And. . . that means offering. . . so much - in exchange for so little?"
My conscience strikes me from several different directions.
"It isn't little, Jamie. Those three words. . . I haven't heard them in so very long. And the last person I heard them from. . ." I angrily swipe at the tears pricking in my eyes, "Jamie, Frank said some terrible things to me the night before he died. I know he loved me, but his last words to me were not "I love you". We never got to make that up. I just. . . just for one night, I want to hear those words again. And I want to hear them from you."
He pulls away a little, closes his eyes, and visibly gathers himself. When he speaks it is in a formal, reverent tone.
"Whenever ye ask it of me, Sorcha, I will tell ye I love ye. That's a promise."
I grin, "That, James Fraser, is a gift."
I throw a leg over his lap, and kiss him breathless while he takes the opportunity to get a proper handful or two of my arse. . .
I am running a long line of kisses down his neck when I ask what I know is probably the silliest and most obvious of questions. But I still have to know for sure. . .
"You do want me, right?"
He snorts a laugh, "Christ Sorcha, I dinnae think I could evar be near ye an' no' want ye. The question is how I've managed tae keep my hands from ye all this time."
I wriggle my backside in his grasp, "Oh? You think this qualifies as "keeping your hands off me", do you?"
"Weel. . ."
"At least that means my half of this bargain will be easy enough. . ."
He gives a mischievous grin, "Oh will it now? An' what if I'm inta feet? Or I want ye tae sing show tunes?"
"That," I pull his face to mine, "Can be arranged."
We only stop kissing when there is another quiet, polite knock. Jamie lifts me back into my chair, and goes to open the door. It's Ned, delivering the contract of marriage. He is closely followed by Dougal, who dismisses him, so abruptly as to be almost inconsiderate.
Ah. I see the imperious, cool-hearted Dougal is back with a vengeance.
Where he ever went, and why, is beyond me at the moment, what with the feel of Jamie's hands and mouth still tingling all over me. . .
When Ned is gone, Dougal waves the papers in front of both of us, very seriously.
"Now then, listen, the pair of ye. This is a Hail Mary play. There's tae be nae question of this marriage bein' legal. It will be consummated, regardless of any private agreements between ye - even if we all have tae troop in an' watch ye do the deed tae make sure ye've done it. Do I make myself clear?"
It is very nearly worth everything that's happened today to see the confusion on Dougal's face when we both burst out laughing.
Notes:
Soundtrack for this chapter - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=65GkIhHUWW8
Chapter 81: Roundelays
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
"Did ye really boak all over Black Jack, Sorcha?"
Jamie and I have been ring and kilt shopping all morning, so now we are enjoying a bit of early lunch, nestled into the back corner of a very nice and warm little sandwich shop.
I grin around my last bite of chicken salad melt, "Yep. Beet and wild boar stew. All over him."
He chuckles, "I'd have paid good money to see that."
"It wasn't pretty."
His eyebrows pull in as he sobers quickly, "Abattoirs never are."
"It was his own fault too. If he wants to go around punching people in the stomach, he's going to have to live with the consequences."
"Or, preferably, not."
I snicker a bit, "That too."
He takes a final long drink from his glass of café au lait, "We have a meeting wi' the priestess in about a quarter of an hour, mo nighean. Do ye want tae walk?"
"Is it still sunny out?"
He leans back to see out of the shop windows, "Aye. Doesnae look too windy either."
"Then yes, let's walk."
He pays our bill, and takes my arm, and we walk slowly up the long main street of the town. There hasn't been snow in several days, so what ice there is in the streets is grey and disheveled, but the patches of it on lawns and rooftops are still clean and white. There are many trees in this town – more than is usual, from what I have seen. Most of them are evergreens too, and so with the pale blue sky and deep green and white around us, I can't help but think it's the most beautiful day we've had in a while.
Of course the man next to me has a lot to do with that, too. . .
"Are ye sure ye want tae trust this dress Ned said he's found for ye, Sorcha?"
"Dress? No, Ned was going to find me a place to stay tonight that wasn't the B&B. Because apparently it's bad luck or something, if you see me the night before? I didn't quite catch what Dougal said, what with you so insistent we get to the jeweler's the minute it opened. . ."
He grins, "Aye, that's all so, but Ned said. . ." he pulls out his com, ". . . didnae he message ye too?"
"Apparently not."
He shows me the text message. I hand the com back to him, frowning, "Well, I don't understand what he could mean by a "three for one special", but if it means I don't have to go endlessly searching for something to wear, it couldn't hurt to have a look, could it?"
"Suppose no'. But ye arenae tae settle jus' because it's the easy option, ken? There's a perfectly good dress shop jus' down the road a ways," he gestures behind us, "An' when I called this morning, they were thrilled at the idea of dressin' ye. So ye neednae settle, an' I insist ye don't."
I smile, and squeeze his arm, "I won't, I promise."
We walk up to the door of a large and very tidy cottage right at the end of the main street. A long grove of trees wrap around behind this side of the town, and end in this cottage's back garden. The door is painted green, and bears a small sign that reads "It is unlocked – come in!"
I smile as I push the door open, "Do we know this woman's name?"
"Murtagh said she introduced herself as Fiona. . ."
"Yes, that's me!" comes a voice from an upper room, "Make yourselves comfortable, I'll be down in moment!"
I look around the flowery-cushion, sparkling-knickknack, and knitted-lace bedecked sitting room, and give Jamie a half-smile, half grimace of comedic terror, "I think I'll stand. I'm afraid I'll break something. . ."
A rustle comes from the staircase, and we both turn to see a short, pleasant looking middle-aged woman, in a green and brown print dress and long, warm Macintosh, a look of astonished happiness all over her face.
"My Lady?" she asks, holding out her hands towards me, "Is it really you?"
I blink, and cannot answer.
"I knew we'd have a wedding for Imbolc, but I never dreamed it would be you." She takes both my hands, and bows over them. Then she looks up at me, as though I am a long lost and very dear friend, "It is good to see you again, Oldmother. I never thought we should meet like this."
All of this is sufficiently weird enough to render me entirely awkward.
I let my hands fall gracelessly from her grasp, "I. . . give you greetings?"
She smiles, "You don't remember. Or don't know yet. Or perhaps both. Then all is as it should be, thank heaven. We are here for you - never forget that, at least," she looks over at Jamie, "Oh, and here is the King of the Greenwood himself! But of course, how silly of me. You wouldn't be marrying anyone else."
Jamie's eyes widen a bit, but he bows politely, "No, ma'am. An' I'm nae king – we're only soulmates."
She smiles wider, and claps her hands, "Of course. Why didn't I understand before? Of course that's what the dreamwords meant. "To fulfill the Time, Bride will have her day." Of course."
Jamie and I look at each other, totally bewildered.
We are just about to start asking questions when she waves a hand to forestall us both, "Never mind, either of you. All is as it should be. That is all you need to know."
She hands Jamie a paper with a long list of items on it. He holds it so we both can read it. It is a detailed breakdown of the wedding ceremony, complete with places for us to write in the vows we want to say. As Jamie bends over a table to do so, I tentatively voice my only uncertainty.
"Is. . . is the song you are planning to sing while we. . . walk. . . is that. . ."
"Non-negotiable, I'm afraid, my Lady. But of course you would worry about that now. You must not worry – we are here for you."
I don't know what to say to that. Jamie hands her the paper, with the simple vows we discussed this morning written neatly in the space for them.
"All set? Good," Fiona takes the paper, "Now, come witness the Shriving."
Jamie's expression darkens, but she again anticipates him, "And that means nothing at all similar to the Catholic term in this house, young man – never fear."
We follow her out into her back garden, and into the wide grove of trees that surround it. There is a wide, circular clearing among the evergreens, where eight other women are waiting for us, evenly spaced around the circle, all dressed in identical long, white robes, and with impassive, faraway-looking faces.
Fiona does not introduce them, instead taking up a long wooden staff set across two low stones lying nearby. Then she makes a round of the clearing, touching the forehead of each other priestess with the top of the staff.
As she comes back around, I can see a small bunch of dried herbs is tied to the end of the thing. It is this that she's been touching to the women's foreheads. Some sort of blessing I assume. . . She puts the staff back across the two low stones. The moment she does, the eight women advance, slowly but deliberately, towards the center of the circle. They reach out as they near each other, and stop as soon as they touch hands. Then, still slowly, but with increasing speed, the circle of women turns. Then they slow again, and begin to turn the other direction.
All this time a low hum has been growing louder and louder. It takes until it is nearly a shout before I can tell it is human voices, and the moment I do figure this out, they stop, and begin a soft, rhythmic chanting.
Each woman lifts a small brass bowl in their hands, and reaching out, fills it from a pile of something at the very center of the circle.
I had initially thought it was a small pile of snow, but I can see now that it is ashes.
With a soft, rolling, whispering sweep of sound, the chanting becomes deep, intense, vibrating singing. As the music rolls over the clearing, the women break from their formation, and begin to dance in wide, intertwining arcs, one this way, the other that. As they go, they spill a little of the ashes from their bowls, leaving long, curving trails on the cold, dark ground.
It is the same dance the women danced with fire, that night upon Craigh na Dun.
This time I can see the pattern of it, left clear by the ashes, and drawn out plain on the paper Fiona had given us.
But I didn't understand until now. . .
The dance makes a labyrinth. A deliberate pattern. A pattern I've seen several times before, and not just that night with Lamb and Mrs. Graham.
A pattern Geillis had traced on the table while she explained the summoning rhyme to me. The little incense press that Iona had used the night we visited her. The carved coils of the Sawney snake that Jamie carries.
The center of the Devil's Eye, yesterday. . .
They are all the same labyrinth. And we must walk this one tomorrow, to make us man and wife. . .
The eight priestesses finish their dance, and their song, at exactly the same moment. Then, they come over to us, and stand in two loose circles, one around Jamie, and one around me.
"Well, there's that done, and well done too, if I do say so myself," says Fiona, smiling at both of us, "The morning dew will sanctify the circle, and we can conduct the ceremony three hours after noon – one for the Sun, one for the Moon, and one for the Star of Morning – as is proper for an Imbolc wedding."
"So. Be here by three P.M." I say, a bit irritated that this woman seems not at all inclined to explain herself, but I'm too in awe to actually complain about it.
"Or a little before. Punctuality is not the most important thing in this, but it would be good to be timely, at least."
Jamie and I both nod.
"You must leave by separate ways, each one of you, and you cannot set eyes on each other again until the ceremony."
"Alright," I agree with a sigh. I go to give Jamie a hug, at least, but she stops me.
"And you mustn't touch."
I sigh again, but Jamie chuckles,
"I'll call Murtagh – he'll tak ye tae find Ned."
"Alright," I say, flatly, and take one last long look at him as the women lead us away.
Notes:
Soundtrack for this chapter - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lorjd-5DL-k
Chapter 82: Houseguest
Chapter Text
It turns out the "three for one special" Ned has found for me. . . is a sugar house.
"Murtagh. . ." I sigh, and lean my forehead on his shoulder for a moment, "Why have you brought me to a brothel?"
He shrugs, looking around the reception room very awkwardly. It is a flamboyant, very. . . pink and red place, and Murtagh fits in here about as well as a carrot in a bouquet of roses.
I don't feel much better. . .
He checks his com, "Dinnae ken. Says i' s'the right place. . ."
"That et is!" says Ned, coming in from the next room, "Come an' meet th' ladies." He gestures us to go back with him.
This room is all emerald green, turquoise, and black, even more flamboyant than the last, and utilizes much, much more. . . interesting. . . decorations. Explicit would probably be a better term, but there are so many. . . items. . . and not just pictures or sculpture that the word feels. . . inadequate. The place is almost a museum to the art of professional pleasure.
I am impressed, but not any more comfortable, and yet oddly, Murtagh seems much less awkward here, stepping forward to be the first of us introduced to the women.
"Avota, Morag, an' Edina," says Ned, with almost an artist's pride in his voice, "An' at first they were onlay going to give ye houseroom for the night, lass. Apparently there's a whole back suite that clients nevar see. . ."
"There's an' extra bed an' evarythin'," says Morag, smiling at me, "Evar since Tannis got wed an' moved out – we'er sure ye'd be comfortable."
"But then Neddie said ye'er getting wed yerself taemorrow," says Avota, "An' look a' this!" She rolls out a dress stand, and on it is a gorgeous pale grey dress, almost entirely covered with white lace and silver embroidery, with a low neckline, ruffled bell sleeves, and mermaid skirt. There is even an accompanying satin corset. Not only is it beautiful, it even looks like it might fit me reasonably well, too. . . "A Chieftain's son paid me with it last year – an' I've been waitin' tae wear it until another gentleman came along – but Ned's shown us some pictures of yer young man, and he's worth a dress like this, an' no' mistakin'!"
"An' I'm a licensed beautician, dearie," says Edina, "Any spa treatments or hair doin's ye happen tae want, t'would be much bettar tae have 'em done all i' the one place, aye?"
"And that's a three for one special!" Ned winds up, proudly, "Ye cannae say fairer than that, can ye?"
I look at all of them smiling at me, and suddenly all my discomfort falls away, and I am just me, in the presence of ordinary people who wish me well. No dressmaker's shop could be more welcoming, no shopkeepers more eager, no facilities more accommodating.
"You certainly can't."
Murtagh nods, solemnly, "I'll go bring in yer stuff."
The three women escort me to their private suite, fussing at each other over details the whole way.
"Nae, nae, the sapphire earrings - for somethin' blue – the wee lad's colours are blue an' red-"
"Aye, bu' those are set in gold, an' the dress is silver-"
"Ne'er ye mind that' – there's nae'un cares about matchin' metals that much, how about the-"
"I think I ha' a real sixpence somewheres – what's yer shoo size, Sorcha, pet?"
For answer, I sit down on the cozy beige couch in the simple, homey back room, remove a boot and hold it out, "Ladies eight by forty slim in the new sizing method, but just line whatever shoes you want up against this, it fits me pretty perfectly."
Morag takes my boot, and she and Edina go over to their combined closet spaces, still arguing over minutia.
Avota smiles at them, then goes over to her bed, and pulls a long, flat box from underneath it.
"Ye'el still need somthin' auld, an' somethin' new, but I'd be honoured if ye took this tae be yer "somthin' borrowed"." She smiles a sly, private smile, "Tho' I dinna really expect it back – no' whole, ken?"
The logo on the box is of a very famous, and very expensive lingerie brand.
I put a hand on hers, "This is entirely too much, Avota-"
"Nae, nae, I want ye tae-"
"No, that's not what I mean. . ." I lean over and whisper as much of an explanation as I can.
She's quiet a second, but then she practically shouts.
"He's a virgin?"
All the petty squabbling in the room stops, abruptly.
Very quickly, I have a pair of stockings for my "something new", and three extremely avid listeners to any "stories" I feel like sharing. . .
I am saved by Murtagh, re-entering with my frugal luggage.
"I'll jus'. . . go settle up wi' Ned, shall I?" says Morag, and Edina and Avota refocus on getting the dress just right.
Murtagh follows me over to where I'll be sleeping, and I readjust a foldable screen to give us a little privacy to talk.
"Are they being properly paid for all this, Murtagh?" I ask, making sure my voice is too low to be overheard from across the room.
"Oh, aye. Dougal's really splashin' out – nevar fear."
For his own reasons, and in his own way. . .
"Have they been invited to the wedding and reception?"
Murtagh jolts a bit, taken aback, "Oh. No, dinnae think so."
"Well, I'm inviting them."
Several dozen emotions and thoughts cross his face, "Lass, ye ken that means havin' hoors on your side during the wed-"
"It's a Pagan ceremony, Murtagh. There are no sides." I sigh, "They're just workers. Just women. There are no sides."
He nods, slowly, shrugs, then hesitates. I haven't noticed the sporran in his hand until now, but now he opens it, and pulls out a long, lacy bit of ivory ribbon. He holds it in his hands, touching it reverently.
"I've nevar been a man ov passion. No' evan when I was young. Nevar evan looked at a woman, 'cept tae acknowledge she was verrah pretty." He gives a soft, faraway smile, "All that changed the first day I saw Ellen MacKenzie." He looks up at me a moment, "Wee Jamie's mam."
I nod, and let him continue.
"Weel, she wasnae the sort tae settle for a man like me. She fell for auld Brian in a big way – an' nae blame tae her – he was the brightest an' best ov us. They eloped, did ye ken?"
"Yes."
"Aye, t'was quite the family drama."
"You mean MacKenzies have family drama?"
He chuckles, "Aye, evan back then," he hefts the ribbon, "She sent me this from her wedding gown. I've carried it evar since." With a slow, almost worshipful gesture, he lays the ribbon on my knee, "Take it. For yer somethin' auld."
I put a hand over his, quite overwhelmed at the level of fealty he's giving me with this.
"I'll. . . take great care with it. . . godfather."
He smiles at me, eyes shining, "Aye. I ken ye will."
After he goes, it is at least a quarter of an hour before I can bring myself to care about stockings and earrings and hair clips. . .
Chapter 83: Je Suis Prêt
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
When I wake up the next morning, I am not sure that I have. Colours are heightened, tastes and smells are too, and all sounds seem to be coming from far, far away. I am not certain if the world feels unreal, or if I do.
I float through breakfast, and am hardly present at all for the extended bathing and getting dressed process the girls put me through.
It isn't until Morag is fastening a crown of white heather around my elaborately arranged curls that at last the world does not seem a shining, silver cloud, reflecting every sense back onto me, until I cannot hear for all the echoes.
It is a softly pearl-gray day, the first of February, and I am going to marry Jamie.
I am going to marry Jamie.
That, at least, feels very real.
Morag hands me a small, unfamiliar looking coin.
"Found the sixpence," she grins, "Put it in yer shoe."
I do, very glad that Edina's feet and taste in formal footwear align so well with my own. Flat, easy to walk in slippers, of soft, supple leather, in a very light, matte gray.
So different from my wedding to Frank.
We hadn't had any special clothes then - we hadn't been able to afford them. We just wore the nicest things we already owned. We signed papers at the registrar's office in West-2, said a few words of confirmation in front of witnesses, and then spent three days in North-1, in a tiny room above a caf, with a highly obstructed view of Central Gardens.
It had been so simple. So good. So right.
And this time it's so complicated, so overwhelming. So uncertain.
But it's also Jamie. So I'm not afraid.
"Well, ye'er ready," says Avota.
Edina bundles a cloak around me, and hustles me into their old, drafty car. It only takes few minutes to get to Fiona's cottage, and a few more to make our way out into the grove of trees.
Dougal and his men are gathered to one side of the labyrinth. The girls leave me at one edge of the open space, and join them.
A small table with a brass hand bell sits at the foot of a tree to my right. I make eye contact with Fiona, where she stands at the entrance to the labyrinth, and wordlessly ask a question. She nods yes.
I take up the bell, and ring one high, rolling clang.
Jamie steps out from the trees at other side of the circle, takes up a similar bell, and rings it.
The eight priestesses ranged around the labyrinth take up a low, humming chant.
Jamie and I take up our bells and ring them at the same time. Then we walk forward slowly, pacing ourselves so we will meet in front of Fiona.
As we walk, my eyes drink him in. He is positively regal in his full, formal Highlander's garb. From boots to tie, he's perfect. The warm blues and grays of the Fraser tartan drape around him, and he is crowned with white rowanberries. His plaid is pinned over one shoulder by a brooch I do not recognize, but as we finally get close enough to touch, I see it is a stag's head, with a French phrase beneath it. I do not bother trying to read it, being far too busy looking at him, and desperately trying to keep my hands to myself.
The chant rises a little, and Fiona holds out a small brass tray. On it are two golden rings, bearing a beautiful Celtic knot pattern, on a background of softly-toned blue enamel. There are a few spots of red enamel too, set like jewels in the center of the knots. There is a line of engraving on the inside of each ring.
Give me a hundred thousand kisses, inside mine.
And me a hundred thousand more, inside his.
Our eyes meet, and it's like we've said the words.
We each take up the other's ring, and place them on each other's hands. Then we turn to Fiona. I hold out my left arm, and Jamie rolls up his sleeve, and holds out his right. Fiona lights a small bunch of herbs, and waves out the flame above our hands. When the ember has died, she waves the ash over our skin, very close, but not touching.
Then, one in each hand, she raises two small silver things that look like bells, but are not. She sets them on our wrists, pulls up the lances, and drops them.
There is a tiny prick, and hardly any pain.
When she takes the lances away, there are two very small drops of blood on our wrists.
I place my arm atop Jamie's, making sure the drops of blood touch, and take his hand. Then we both shift, and instead, we lace our fingers together.
Fiona smiles at the gesture. Then she takes a ribbon of dual-sided tartan – Fraser on one side, Moriston on the other - and ties it around our wrists, wrapping the whole length of it down to our fingers. Then she waves her hands above our bound ones, giving a silent benediction.
Jamie squeezes my hand, in acknowledgment of our vow.
There are no words, but it is a vow.
We are married now. It is written in blood, spoken in blood, engraved in blood.
And now we must take our first journey together.
Fiona steps aside, making way for us to enter the labyrinth.
"D'ye ken my Clan motto, Sorcha?" Jamie whispers, moments before we reach it.
"No."
"Je suis prêt."
"I am. . ."
"Ready."
"And so we are."
"An' so we are."
And for one infinite, very clear second, it is true.
The moment we enter the long, curving maze, the priestesses begin to sing.
"A clouded dream on an earthly night,
Hangs upon the crescent moon,
A voiceless song in an ageless light,
Sings at the coming dawn."
It is easy to pace together, easy to match our steps one to the other, easy to find our paired rhythm. Easy. . .
And the most difficult thing either of us have ever done. . .
"Birds in flight are calling there,
Where the heart moves the stones,
It's there that my heart is longing for,
All for, for the love of you."
I look up at him, and our eyes lock, in a bond so strong it takes my breath away.
"A painting hangs on an ivy wall,
Nestled in the emerald moss,
The eyes declare a truce of trust,
And then it draws me far away,
Where deep in the desert twilight,
Sand melts in pools of the sky,
When darkness lays her crimson cloak,
Your lamps will call, call me home."
Back and forth, we walk, closer and closer to the center, further and further away from who we were before.
From who we were alone.
"And so it's there my homage's due,
Clutched by the still of the night,
And now I feel, feel you move,
And every breath, breath is full,
So it's there my homage's due,
Clutched by the still of the night,
Even the distance feels so near,
All for, for the love of you,"
A small pile of embers is waiting for us, glowing soft and rich at our journey's end. . .
"A clouded dream on an earthly night,
Hangs upon the crescent moon,
A voiceless song in an ageless light,
Sings at the coming dawn."
My soul rises like smoke, and entwines with Jamie's next to me, and we blend into the sky, immortal, invisible, and free.
"Birds in flight are calling there,
Where the heart moves the stones,
It's there that my heart is longing for,
All for, for the love of you."
The song ends, and we reach the small pile of embers. We hold our still bound wrists above it, and say three lines to each other, in unison.
"Blood of my blood, and bone of my bone."
"I give you my body, that we two may be one."
I close my eyes a moment, and take a deep breath.
"I give you my spirit, 'til our life shall be done."
Then he is smiling at me, and at last, I can kiss him.
And he can kiss me.
It is very brief, and very chaste, and witnessed by dozens of people. But it is still the most private, most intimate kiss we have ever shared, and possibly ever will.
The universe opens up before me, and nothing matters but us.
I'm never sure how we get back to the hotel. All I know is that a photographer is suddenly posing us in the greenhouse, in front of a wall grown with ivy. He tells me to look up, and when I meet Jamie's eyes again, the universe tells me everything is going to be okay.
Notes:
Soundtrack for this chapter -
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QFAfWH_CKVw
Chapter 84: Gathered For The Feast
Notes:
From here on out, some chapters of this fic will not be strictly T-rated. The overall rating has gone up in reflection of this, though nothing will go above a non-graphic and/or mild M, (sorry smut fans) and it will only be some chapters. All such chapters will be rated individually, and say what for, so you’ll know if you want to skip something or not. You have been warned. (But who are we kidding, most of these will be exactly what y'all are here for! ;)
Either way, enjoy, my lovelies!
Chapter Rating - Soft M for non-graphic married nookie, and adult discussions of same.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
We are still handsfast when we come in from the greenhouse. Our landlady stops us in the hall, and helps us take off the ribbon, carefully preserving the knot. Then she unpins both our crowns, and puts all three things on a nearby tray. She wipes our wrists over with disinfectant pads, tidies our hair a bit, and looks us both up and down. Then, with a grunt of gruff approval, she directs us towards the dining room, from which is already coming some very loud sounds of music and cheering.
When we reach the big open doors, there is a small hazel broom on the floor in front of them. I look at her, and she mimes for us to jump over it.
I look at Jamie, as I have not heard of this tradition before, and it was not on the list of things Fiona had us doing. . .
He nods that we should go ahead.
The men inside notice we have arrived, and very loud, suggestive chaffing begins to urge us on.
"Aye, jump t'wee besom!"
"Shocked ye havenae dun et already!"
"Best besom I've seen in ages!"
"We'el close oor eyes iff'n ye want!"
"Bu' we wilnae close oor ears!"
There is much laughter, and when to the clapping chant of "Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump!", we finally hop over the thing, much whistling and applause.
The landlady picks the broom up, and leads us to a small reception nook. She places it on a low table there, and scatters a few coins next to it.
Then she leaves us, on display, like trophies, where we must greet the rest of the guests as they come in.
Jamie's arm comes up behind me, and rests gently on my shoulder. He leans over, and murmurs to me,
"The greetin' will onlay take a few minutes, mo nighean donn – then we'll have supper."
My mind is still like smoke, off in some dreamland where magic words can make the past into the future, and the impossible into the only reliable thing.
Where the heart moves the stones. . .
All for the love of you. . .
"Please tell me you love me, Jamie."
He starts a little, as though shocked I would ask for my wedding gift in public. He leans even closer, and whispers in my ear,
"I love ye, Sorcha. My Claire."
My mind solidifies a little bit, and I am able to draw upon my years of Central training to face the suddenly ceaseless stream of guests coming in from the town. One or two at a time they pass us, kissing my hand and shaking Jamie's, dropping coins by the hazel broom, and always, always, making some sort of off colour comment.
After a while I tune out, greeting everyone on auto-pilot, while I am actually taking a long look at the whole dining room. There are three whole tables full of food – two with meats and salads and pies, and one with nothing but desserts. Just beyond them is a very large fireplace, with four musicians sitting in front of it, playing some rollicking, festival tunes.
Auld Alec is curled up beside the chair of one of them, his snores just audible underneath the uproar.
Morag, Edina and Avota enter just then, and I give each of them a hug. They grin at us, drop several more coins than is required, and eagerly join the feasting throng.
I look after them very dubiously for a minute, but of course they know what they're doing, and what sort of crowd they're getting into. . .
Jamie notices my concern, "Dinna fash, mo chridhe – Murtagh told all the men the girls were no' onlay here at your personal invitation, they were here off the clock. That they're no' workin', ken? The men c'n try an' get whate're they want out ov 'em, bu' they cannae use money tae force the issue. By Murtagh's orders. An' when he gives an order, the men ken he means et."
I smile in relief, "He's a good man, your godfather."
He nods, and pecks me on the cheek, "Aye, I ken it well."
Guests from the town are still coming in, some younger, single men now, and most of their comments are more off-colour than the rest. . .
Bawdy jokes. . .
Jokes that must have done duty at weddings since the dawn of time.
And some that haven't. . .
After five solid minutes of comments I don't understand, I finally lean over to Jamie,
"Why do they keep saying things about a jacuzzi?"
And what the hell is a jacuzzi?
At last there is a lull in arrivals, so we retreat a little into the recess to talk more freely.
"Our landlady upgraded us to the honeymoon suite."
"Oh. That was kind of her."
"Aye. It's got a private deck, wi' a hot tub on it."
I know what a hot tub is. I've never seen one, but I know what one is. At last I understand all the jokes about cold weather and. . . well, what the cold can do to certain body parts. . .
"And they think that would be a good place to. . ."
"Aye, weel, they're havin' a go at us – it's how they do these things - 'round heer, a'least."
"Around everywhere, I should think. . ."
"Aye. Ye ken they wilnae stop until we. . . retire. . . aye?"
I sigh, dreading the thought of actually sitting among this lot and eating a prolonged meal while having to listen to it all. But rushing through would be even worse, and no matter what, when we do manage to leave, I have no doubt at all they're going to. . . going to. . . "But then they'll just go on celebrating that we have. . . retired. Won't they?"
"Aye, but we wilnae havetae deal wi' it then."
"True."
A playful look comes up in his eyes, "Would ye care tae retire now?"
My heart lifts at the prospect of relief, "Can we? Right now?"
"Aye. I arranged it all wi' the landlady yesterday. As soon as we cut the cake, she'll bring us whate're we want for supper tae the table in our room. We dinnae havetae see anybody else until taemorrow."
My heart goes soft, "You've arranged all that, just for me?"
He smirks, "For th'booth ov us, moor like. I'd jus' as soon no' havetae-"
"Ah, there he is – th'man o' the hour!" Rupert comes up, leering at us both, and slaps Jamie on the back, "Oor th'man ov the twa minutes, as may be! Ye'll ha'etae let us ken, eh Claire?"
"Will I?" I say, unamused.
"Aye, issno' evary day a lass gets tae break in a Fraser stallion, ken?" He punches Jamie just a bit too hard on the shoulder, all too obviously trying to get a rise out of him.
"Be that as it may, what makes you think I'll be sharing details?"
"Weel, no' sae much sharin' as shoutin' 'em, aye?" His leer broadens into a grin, and he winks at me.
Despite how little weight I usually give to such teasing from him, tonight, my nerves are frayed, and my annoyance flares easily to the surface, "Why, I had no idea you were so interested in what Jamie could do in bed! That's the real news here, I think, right darling?" I ostentatiously loop my arm through Jamie's.
"Och, aye," Janie smirks, "Ef only ye'ed let me ken sooner, but I'm afraid I'm marrit now, lad." He pats Rupert condescendingly on the cheek.
Rupert roars with laughter in response, but retreats, giving us our tiny bit of privacy back.
Jamie exhales, and visibly shakes some tension from his neck and shoulders, "As I was sayin' - I'd jus' as soon no' havetae deal wi' that all night, ken?"
"Too right."
"So let's cut the cake now, an' make a toast oor two, and leave them tae it."
"Sounds lovely."
There is a raucous cheer as we step out of the little side-nook, and more than a few wolf-whistles. We ignore it all, and go straight over to the table with all the desserts laid out on it.
The centerpiece, of course, is the three tiered, white-frosted cake, decorated with curls of preserved citrus peel, tiny sprigs of candied fir tips, and sugared rose petals. I take up the provided knife, and Jamie wraps his hand around mine, so we can cut the cake together. After we serve ourselves a small wedge, Jamie picks up a fork, and feeds me a bite. It's incredibly rich – loaded with fruit, fragrant with spices, and soaked with whisky.
Even Mrs. Fitz hasn't made anything quite so good in all my time here in Scotland.
There is a second fork by the plate, and I pick it up to give Jamie a bite too.
Our eyes meet as I do, and all at once the loud, coarse jeering from the men means nothing. Less than nothing.
All that matters is we're married, and he made plans to give us privacy.
He often gives the illusion of being perfect, but he's really earning it so far tonight. . .
The landlady comes up and hands us two glasses of wine, gesturing us to the small open space at the front of the dining room, where two tiny microphones hang from the rafters. I look around as we take our places, and just down the hall, peeking out from around the corner, I can see a food cart, loaded with tureens and covered dishes.
Our way of escape is quite, quite clear. . .
Jamie goes over to exchange a few words with Murtagh, so I end up being the first to raise a glass, and call out for a toast.
The room quiets remarkably quickly.
A devilish little imp rises in my soul, and, almost without thinking, I say -
"Hey diddle diddle,
The cat and the fiddle,
The pair jumped over a broom.
The little men laughed,
To see such fun,
And the bride ran away with the groom."
Then I grab Jamie's hand, and pull him out into the hall.
It is a good twenty seconds before we hear the shouting and laughter start up again.
We smirk at each other. That showed them. . .
When we reach our rooms, the landlady follows us in, pushing the food cart, and smiling a quiet, knowledgeable smile.
As she unloads the food and sets the table, I look around this special suite she's given us. There is a large closet, a fireplace, a bathroom only accessible to us, a mini kitchen in one corner, much like the one Jamie has in his rooms back at Leoch, and big French doors just beyond the table. That must be how we could access the jacuzzi, if we wanted to. But it's the first of February, and there's no way we're going outside just to sit in water, no matter how warm that water may be.
I shiver, and look over at the bed.
It is a huge four-poster, canopied but without drapes, spotlessly clean, and looks very comfortable. Our landlady has hung our handfasting ribbon from the center of the richly carved headboard, with each of our wedding crowns on either side of it.
Jamie sees me noticing them, and briefly squeezes my hand.
She finishes setting out our supper, and turns to us.
"Weel, that's a bit of just about evarythin' the men'll be havin' in the dinin' room taenight. Is there annythin' else special ye'el be wantin' then?"
"I'm going to want some more of that cake. . ." I say, grinning.
"We'll be savin' t'whole top tier for ye, Mestress. Et's tradition."
"Oh. Well. . ." I pause a second, inexplicably at a loss. "That's nice. Thank you."
Jamie goes over to the bedstead, and reaching out, breaks off a tiny sprig from each of our crowns, making very sure to get a full flower of the heather, and three of the white rowanberries. He hands them very formally to the landlady, and as he does so, says something in the Gàidhlig. It sounds remarkably like what I remember Lamb saying at the beginning of that fateful night at Craigh na Dun. . .
"An' a blessing on all heer," Jamie finishes, solemnly, "Many thanks t'ye for yer excellent hospitality."
The landlady, wide-eyed, takes his offering as though he were handing her precious gems.
"Thank ye, sir. Et isnae often we get a groom who remembers t'auld ways."
Then she bows to us a little, "I hoop ye'el enjoy yer supper."
She goes out quietly, and Jamie locks the door behind her. Then he seats me at the table, as formally as though this were the High Table at Leoch, and serves up both our plates with all the studied dignity of a Laird.
I know he is one, only. . .
He told me that so recently, it still strikes me as odd, especially when we've been such friends these past three months.
Laird Broch Tuarach. . .
I once saw the Laird of Broch Tuarach with his arm up the business end of a cow.
And I've held him as he explained the maiming and burning of his back. . .
I've kissed him. Hugged him. Playfully elbowed and smacked him. Smelled him mere minutes after he's gotten out of the shower. . .
For some reason, I cannot make any of that align with "Laird" in my head at all.
When his eyes darken with determination, disbelief, or fury? Yes. That his hands can go from strong and powerful to delicate and gentle in an instant? Yes. The change in his posture whenever he enters his doctor-mode? Yes.
He is a Laird all those times. But when he's soft with me? Playful? Kind? No. He's someone else then.
He's my Jamie lad. My sly Sawney. My sweet Jammie Dodger. My dear Green Man. My gentle Ghillie Dhu. . .
He hands me my plate, and sits down across from me. The slices of slow-roast beef, and lashings of gravy smell wonderful, but I still go in for the cheese and bacon mash first. There's several other things on the plate – buttered green peas, honey roasted turnips, pepper cured salmon sliced thin on dark rye bread, and sweet spiced apple sauce – but there is just something I find comforting about mash that reminds me of home.
Home. . .
I wish I could take him home with me. . .
How I wish this was my home. . .
"Please tell me you love me, Jamie."
He looks over at me, takes my hand and kisses it.
"I love ye, Claire." He turns my hand over, and drops a kiss in my palm too, "I love ye. Tae the end ov days. . ."
I smile, and manage to relax a little. That sounded so sincere. So very nearly real. . . I turn my hand in his, and press our palms together, interlocking our fingers. Suddenly I notice - his hands are smooth, soft and pink – hardly callused at all.
Well that's new. Why I haven't noticed before now, I don't know. . .
Well, actually I do know. . .
But still. . .
I nod at his fingers, "How did you. . . ?"
He grins proudly, "Found a pineapple. The shopkeeper thought I was daft, tae be buying such a thing at this time ov the year, and at such a price as it was. Cannae say I blame him, at that. Felt fair daft myself. But I whirled it up in a blender and poured it inta a pair of gardener's gloves. Wore 'em for about an hour, and then scrubbed away wi' soap an' a toothbrush for I dinnae ken how long. Then I treated the skin wi' a balm I make from castor oil, beeswax, aloe an' rosemary." He pulls his hand away from mine, then holds them up, flexes them both, and turns them about for me to inspect, "Did pretty well, I think."
"I'll say." I tap my silvery painted nails lightly against each other, "The girls gave me a manicure last night, but it was nothing close to that."
"Agch, 'cause ye didnae need such measures, mo nighean."
I remember some of Edina's not-quite-grumbling comments about "leathery paws", and smile a little, "Possibly. But, why did you do it at all? I've always found your hands quite. . ." I fight back the beginnings of a blush, ". . . quite satisfactory, just as they are. Why go to such measures in the first place?"
"Weel. . . in the past four years I. . ." he pauses, and his eyes turn quite serious, ". . . I've often promised myself that when I wed, it would be with a Laird's hands. No' a stable boy's."
He looks down at his plate, his jaw sternly set.
"Oh, Jamie," I whisper, fondly reproachful, "You've never been a stable boy."
A muscle in one of his cheeks twitches, "Maybe no'. But I've felt like one often enough, takin' care of another man's stock on another man's land, for the benefit of another man's son. An' tae tell the truth, I've only rarely felt like a proper Laird, even sittin' at the head of the table at Lallybroch. Which I've done nobbut twice tae any purpose." He sighs the deep sigh I've come to recognize as the one he gives when he regrets the cruel inevitabilities of fate. "After mam moved tae France, I spent most o' my school holidays in Provence wi' her and Rob. An' then when I did go hoom for good, it was only a few weeks until. . ."
Until a particularly fateful encounter with one Mr. Jonathan Randall. . .
A loud thump on the French doors interrupts the suddenly somber mood.
Jamie jumps up, and grabs a steak knife from the table. Cautiously, he unlocks the doors, and stands out of the swing zone as he carefully turns the handle. . .
With a gust of freezing air, Angus and Rupert burst in, stumbling into each other in a great, lumbering rush, and coming within a hand-span of knocking the table over. Jamie barks several Gàidhlig curses, and wrestles them back beyond the doorframe. They hardly notice, being too busy arguing with each other.
"Ahgch - they're no' evan undressed yet."
"Ye can do it wi'out-"
"Aye, bu' no' on yer wedding night, ya eejit!"
"Bu' yoo said-"
"An' a wee keek wouldnae-"
"D'ye mind?" Jamie shouts incredulously, "We'er eatin' heer!" he gestures pointedly at the table, "An' I'd prefer it if ye didnae make my wife sick, but she will boak on ye, if ye annoy us too much – remember that!"
I nearly choke, holding back laughter.
"An' I may have gone out for doctor's trainin', but do recall yer dealin' wi' a Fraser, a son ov Black Brian, an' nephew tae one ov the most experienced War Chieftains in all ov the Highlands! Do! Mac Dubh!"
They blink at him, finally taking in that he is, in fact, bigger than them, very angry, and holding a sharp pointed object. . .
He slams the doors on them before they can properly respond.
He fastens the locks again, pounding on the door a few times for good measure, muttering curses all the while.
I smile, "My hero."
I'm not being sarcastic.
He turns to me, eyes softening.
He reaches a hand out towards me, "The first promise I evar made ye was that ye'ed be safe wi' me, Claire. An' now, everything I am is there tae shield ye. Anny weapon I c'n wield," he drops the steak knife back on the table, "My skill as a healer. My name. My clan. My fists. My body, an' my soul itself. I'll use them all tae protect ye."
I tuck the fingers of one hand lightly into the cool skin of his broad, smooth palm, "Thank you, Jamie. You're so sweet. So good to me. . ." I pull his hand to me, cradling it against my face. "Although. . . I have to admit. . . tonight. . ." I look up at him, "It wasn't exactly your body's protection that I was hoping for. . ."
He blinks rapidly, and gently pulls his hand away, "Are ye done eatin'?"
"Yes." I nod, "For now."
He takes both our barely tasted plates of food, and goes to put them in the small refrigeration unit that is humming quietly in the corner. Then he covers the platters and serving bowls, activating the fridgevac mechanisms built into their bases, and clears the table of our silverware and napkins.
I pick up my glass of wine, and go sit on the couch in front of the fire.
I expect him to join me as soon as he's done clearing the table, but first he goes over to the huge walk-in closet, and removes his boots, setting them neatly just inside the door. Then, deftly, he takes off his sporran, his sparkling cufflinks, the little sword-shaped pin in the flap of his kilt, the small sapphire tack he has holding down his tie, a heavy gold watch and chain he has in his vest pocket. . .
I wonder who he borrowed all that jewelry from. The kilt pin we bought together yesterday, of course, and the stag's head brooch must be from Murtagh, since he is the only other Fraser here, but the rest of it. . .
I touch the bit of ivory ribbon I have tied around my neck. Come to think of it, he probably has the right idea. . .
Without comment, I slide out of my shoes and stockings, pushing them into a little pile underneath the coffee table. I untie Murtagh's ribbon, and put it carefully on the table, away from the wine, just in case. I take off my earrings, dropping both into the heel of one of my shoes. My entire hairdo is held up with what Edina had called "an' absolutely magical clip", and it must be, because it is only just now beginning to tug painfully on my scalp. I decide to let Jamie remove it.
If he wants to. . .
When the time comes, of course. . .
I clamp down hard on the strange nervous feeling rising in the core of my stomach. I have no reason – no reason at all – to feel nervous.
Right?
We're married. We've agreed to do this. We like each other. We've flirted and made out dozens of times. . .
I take a few halting sips of my wine.
I hear him give a light, satisfied sigh, and then he pads over to the fireplace, and crouching down, puts piece of wood on the fire.
All of a sudden, the silence between us is unbearable.
"So. . ." I say, proud of how little my voice shakes, "No second thoughts?"
He smirks, turning halfway towards me, "Noo. Though - I did think ye might have had some."
"You did? When?"
"Aye. . ." he pokes at the fire, "When ye paused befoor the last line of the vows, I. . . weel, for a second my heart thought that mebbe ye'ed thought bettar of it at the last. . ." he gestures vaguely with the poker, not looking at me.
"Oh." I take another sip of my wine, "But you don't think that now?"
"Noo. I dinnae."
I don't reply to that, instead letting the silence ask my next question.
He stands up then, addressing his next few phrases to the painting over the hearth.
"T'was when they were posin' us for the photo that did it."
I wrinkle up my forehead. It's an answer, but one I cannot parse. "Did. . . what, exactly?"
He puts the poker away in its stand, "Reassured me, I suppose. When ye lifted yer eyes and met mine so squarely, so surely," he leans lightly against the hearth shelf, "When ye looked at me like that, I. . . I knew. Some part of me knew, annyway. Ye didnae regret marryin' me."
My stomach drops, "No. No regrets at all, my lad."
No. Not yet. . .
The more I remember the ceremony, and that song, the more selfish leaving feels. . .
It's there that my heart is longing for. . .
All for the love of you. . .
All the reasons I have to go crowd into my mind, reminding me how selfish staying would be. . .
My heart rate kicks up, and my conscience shouts at me.
He didn't sign up to untie your Gordian knots, Beauchamp! Give him a chance to back out! You have to!
"You know we don't have to do this tonight, right?" I say, as lightly as possible, "A cob for what Dougal says, and even less for what anyone thinks - we can wait, if that's what you want."
He turns, raising his eyebrows, but still not meeting my eyes.
"Is'tha what ye want?"
I shake my head, decisively, "No."
No, I want to experience and explore and savour you as much as I can, my sweet, darling man. If memories of you are all I'm going to have, I want as many of them as possible. . .
He nods, and finally comes to sit next to me on the couch, "Then let's. . . forge ahead, aye?"
But he still doesn't reach out to me, instead staring fixedly into the fireplace, his expression a thousand miles away.
"Jamie?"
"Aye?"
"Could you at least look at me?"
He glances at my hands, where they're curled around my wine glass, then slowly runs his palm across my wrists. He lifts my left hand, and turns it over, delicately tracing his fingertips around the tiny spot that is all that remains of my half of our blood vow. But he still doesn't speak, or meet my eyes, his tension and continuing hesitation clear in every movement.
"You know you can relax, right?" I say, with only slightly forced levity, "It's not as though I'm going to suddenly jump on you, I promise. . ." I smirk, wryly, "Fun as that would be."
He nods, eyes still lowered, but he also grins with such boyish sweetness my heart clutches at the sight of it.
"Aye."
I poke his shoulder, teasingly, "And it isn't as if we've never slept together before. . ."
His grin fades, and he draws his eyebrows together, "Aye, slept. But we havenae been properly bedded atal. An' besides. . ." he trails off.
I put down my wine. Whatever happens tonight, I'm going to face it entirely sober. He deserves that much from me, if not a whole lot more.
"Yes? And?"
Finally, he turns brilliant, smoldering eyes to mine, and looks me up and down.
His look is like a touch – I can feel it, curling and coiling all over me, shifting and slipping, caressing all over my skin. . .
And then he starts running his fingertips lightly across my arms, over my bodice, and up to my neck, face and hair, gracing every bit of my exposed skin with delicate, feather-light contact. He pushes back the few curls left free at my temples, and traces the edges of my ears with his thumbs.
The resinous snapping from the fireplace is echoed in the sharp, electric tingling each touch of his leaves zinging through my body.
In mere seconds, I go from mild anticipation, to wildly regretting my promise not to jump on him.
"Claire, mo Sorcha," he murmurs, barely above a whisper, "Heer I am, presented wi' my marriage feast. . ." He runs one fingertip over my chin, and gently down the front of my throat. Then he glides his palms down the front of my dress, and wraps both hands around my waist, tugging me sharply towards him, "Such. . . rich abundance, mo leannan. . . I havenae the slightest idea whear tae begin. An' I'm-"
He pauses, and I smile at him. He's begun already, oh yes indeed, though he clearly doesn't quite understand that. . .
"I'm. . ." his ears go brilliant red, and his voice trembles roughly, "Would ye think it very childish of me if I said I was nervous, mo chridhe?"
I shake my head, "No, my lad. Not childish at all." I run a hand up and down the lapel of his coat, feeling the smooth layers of cloth shifting beneath my fingers, "Apprehension over the unknown? I think that's probably the only mature response." I lightly kiss his chin. "Would you like to hear some of the best advice I've ever been given?"
He nods vigorously, "Aye. Aye, I would."
I lift his right wrist, push up the sleeve, and kiss right above his tiny spot, "Start with what you know. And learn from there."
"Mph," he grunts, softly, "Seems simple enough. . ."
"It is, really," I say, trying to sound practical and reassuring, "Why don't you give it a try? Say one thing you know - about me, or about. . . well, this - and then tell me something you would like to learn."
"Alright. . ." He sighs a bit, and reaches out to cup the back of my head. Slowly, he removes the hair clip, and watches as my curls tumble down over my shoulders. I sigh softly at the welcome release, and he smiles at the small sound. He runs his fingers through my hair, and pushes some long curls behind my ears. Then, he runs a thumb down my cheekbone and across my mouth.
"I. . ." his lips twitch in a hesitant smile, "I ken how tae kiss ye."
"Yes," I sigh, happily, "Yes you do."
He leans in, as though he indeed means to kiss me, but then holds back, "An'. . . an' I'd very much like tae learn. . . what it's like tae kiss ye. . . here."
Then, he dips his head to my décolletage, my daring neckline allowing him to explore far lower than he's ever had easy access to before. He nuzzles and tastes my skin with an almost frenzied passion, but still with the same delightful sweetness he always uses when kissing me. My hands find his own curls, and I run my fingers through them, enjoying his touch, his closeness, and like always, his scent. Him kissing the soft skin of my chest was one of the first things I ever imagined him doing, back in that cupboard that seems so long ago. . .
Like so many things, the reality is far, far superior to dreams.
Suddenly he nips at me, and not gently. The gasp and moan I give in response are so sharp and loud, I'm almost embarrassed. The enormous rush of heat I feel though. . . well. . . there's no almost about it. . .
He's always had this effect on me, of course, but this is ridiculous. . .
It's been over five years since I've. . . well. . . been properly bedded. That must be it.
Yes.
No other reason. . .
"I had a devil o' a time rememberin' tae do things in the right order after I saw ye dressed like this, mo nighean donn," he mutters into my skin, "God, ye'er almost spillin' ovar. . ." then he soothes the place he's bitten with a long, slow, warm lick. "Mmmmph. Like sweet ice cream. . ." His lips fasten onto another soft spot, and he bites down again.
The jolt this gives me is very nearly too much. I almost stop him right here, pull away and go. . . somewhere – anywhere - to find where my composure has fled to.
Just how close I am to completely losing it right now is utterly mortifying. . .
"I-I'm not. . . used to corsets, I'm afraid," I babble shakily, "I didn't realize how - how much it would. . . um. . . emphasize my curves, and. . . u-uh-"
I break off as he lifts his head, and gives me an utterly disarming half-smile, "Keep talkin' like tha', Sorcha, an' I'll be thinkin' ye'er jus' as nervous as I am."
"B-but I am, Jamie."
He blinks, incredulous, "Are ye really?"
I nod.
"But. . . ye'ev done this afore. . ."
I shake my head, "Not with you, I haven't." I cup his jaw, and run my thumb along his cheekbone and lips, mimicking the caress he gave me a minute ago, "And you of all people should already know that who you do it with makes all the difference. All the difference in the world."
"Weel," he smiles softly, "If tha's the case. . . tak yer oon advice then." He leans back a little, and opens his arms, in both invitation and reverence.
It's silly, but the gesture does calm me, quite significantly.
I regard him for a minute, running my eyes over the long, formidable lines of his body, from the curls I've mussed, to the strong jut of his chin, across his broad shoulders, to the wide, graceful sweep of his arms, down to his thickly muscled legs, where they stretch out from beneath his kilt.
Every bit of him is the very image of male power and beauty.
I have to push past yet another hitch in my breath. I cannot believe my glorious luck. Here he is, a wild, practically unbelievable fantasy, as large as life and twice as sexy, sitting there wrapped in Fraser tartan. . .
And he's mine.
Mine to touch, mine to kiss, mine to teach.
For a little while, anyway. . .
"I know what you look like with your shirt off," I say, at last.
"Aye, ye do, thank Christ."
He chuckles ruefully, and all at once the vision of primal power before me is transformed into a sweet, inexperienced young man, who is bravely approaching this unexpected wedding night of his with all the tenderness and grace as would befit a prince.
My heart swells with affection for him – this darling, perfect laddie, who is trusting me to teach him, and who will tell me he loves me if I ask him to. . .
"Now, I want to learn what it's like to take your shirt off. All by myself."
He nods, and drops his arms slack to his sides.
Tenderly, I unclasp the Fraser brooch from his shoulder, and let the top half of the plaid fall to his waist. I slip the brooch into the breast pocket of his coat before I begin to unbutton it. I tap each small brass disc before I pull it from its buttonhole, making a pleasant rhythm and a pattern that he echoes with light tapping touches to my knee. It's reassuring to be in harmony, even over such a tiny thing. As I undo the last button, he smiles such a soft, comforting smile at me that I can't help but lean in for a kiss. It's gentle, and sweet, and somehow completely grounds me.
Whatever happens next between us may well be awkward. Clumsy, even. But I am not nervous or embarrassed anymore.
With fully mustered confidence, I push his coat open, and undo his vest, and then his tie. Finally, I slide my hands up his chest, then across his shoulders and down his back, peeling all three garments off at once.
And then he's there in his shirtsleeves, looking at me with a strange mixture of mischief and awe. He's warm beneath my touch, with waves of his scent coming up to me like an earnest of all the pleasure to come.
I bend my head to kiss the underside of his jaw, then continue kissing downwards as I undo his shirt buttons one by one.
"Please tell me you love me, Jamie," I murmur, suddenly needing to hear it again.
"Ah, mo Sorcha," he hums, and throws his arms loosely around me, "I love ye. I love everaythin' about ye. From yer wild curlywig, tae yer wee sharp tongue, tae yer fine round arse. . ." Suddenly he reaches down and grabs me playfully, "Tha' especially."
I snort as I laughingly raise my head to his. "You insufferable beast," I say, fondly, and lean in to kiss him again, slow and soft and lingering. . .
He tastes of the spices from our wedding supper, edged with a tiny tang of wine, but through it all there is the warm richness of his lips that I have come to know so well these past months.
Know, and enjoy.
And crave. . .
Once I finally let go of his mouth, I work my fingers under the hem of his undershirt, and push it up his chest. But his dress shirt is still on, so it gets stuck halfway. I push some more, utterly ineffectually, expecting him to raise his arms so I can finish taking them off.
He doesn't.
"Jamie. . ." I whine, "Come on! Help a girl out."
He looks at me, eyes delightfully mischievous, "Oh? Whatever happened tae doin' it all by yerself then?"
I growl, and slap his shoulder, "Unfaiiiiir."
He smirks, "Ye were the one who said I was insufferable. . ."
"Mmm. And so you are," I bring my lips to his ear, and whisper, flirtatiously, "Insufferable. . . Incorrigible. . . Impossible. . ."
I bury my face in his neck and inhale deeply. Tonight his skin smells like spiced peanut butter cookies, steaming fresh from a caf's first bake of the morning.
I have never, ever, wanted to just devour him as much as I do this instant. . .
He deftly removes both garments with one smooth motion.
"Incredible. . ." I breathe.
And incredible is the word. I sit back to look at him more fully.
The few glimpses I've had before are nothing to him now, shirtless in the golden firelight, brilliant red hair loose around his shoulders, sprawled on the couch, wearing nothing but a belted plaid draped over his hips. Such an expanse of pale skin – soft over firm flesh, begging to be caressed and kissed, simply pleading for me to hold myself against it, drag my entire body all over it, bite and lick and nuzzle and. . .
I gently brush my fingers down the little valley that starts at the base of his throat and ends just above his belt buckle.
Or rather, disappears beneath it. . .
"You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen, James Fraser. Bar none."
In fact, he's so beautiful that I'm beginning to feel slightly insecure. I've never been all that notable in the looks department, and I'm certainly not a textbook specimen like he is.
I let my hand trail back and forth, and up and down, lightly caressing his side, hip, stomach and chest. Suddenly, he stops me, catching my wrist.
"Now then," he rumbles, "Ye'ev had yer eyeful, an' a chance tae explore a bit," He nods meaningfully at my clothes, "Fair is fair – now I wantae look at ye, an' do a bit ov explorin' on my own account."
I smile a small, private grin, and turn around. He hasn't had much of a chance to look at the back of my dress yet. . .
"Lord love ye, mo ghràidh!" he gasps, "Sae many laces!"
I chuckle, and look pertly over my shoulder, "Feeling up to it, Fraser?"
He snorts, "Ye'ed bettar believe it. Mrs. Fraser," and gives me a brief kiss behind the ear, proceeding to get to work.
Since it is all one piece, the overdress is fairly simple, despite all its frills and embroidery. It takes him several minutes, but eventually he peels me carefully out of the top half of it, and I stand up to slip off the skirt. I drape the whole thing over the back of a nearby chair, and sit back down. The two piece underdress baffles him a bit, until I show him the hidden ties at my waist. Then he manages deftly enough. Once that is gone, the quilted satin panels and long criss-crossed laces of the corset are fully revealed, complex and sturdy, like the steel-beam support of a Skycity Spire. He pauses, and runs his fingers along the elegant curve it makes of my body.
"How did these evar go out of fashion, I wonder?"
I grin, "Enjoying the view?"
"Och, ye've nae idea, mo Sorcha." He curls both arms around my middle, and buries his lips in the back of my neck. I hum, and wriggle my shoulders against the bare skin of his chest, enjoying the warmth and pressure of him. Touching is good. We're equals when we touch. . .
"Such a sight as this," he sighs hotly against the back of my head, "Any man would be blest tae see but once in his whole life, mo chridhe. I've ceartainly nevar seen aught that equals it." He runs a hand up my arm, and across my shoulder, down my spine, and finally curls his long fingers around my hip, tugging me towards him again.
I just barely keep myself from flinching. I'm hardly that special. And what with times being what they are, and the international computer network being what it is, he has to have seen hundreds of women – thousands maybe – no doubt each one far more beautiful than I am, and in a much more advanced state of undress.
But any half-formed protest I might have made dies in my throat as he gently sets his teeth in the crook of my neck, and bites down a little, moaning as though he's starving, and I am some delectable confection. The feel and sound of him jolt straight down my spine, then jump up into my stomach and twirl there, hot and vibrating.
"Mmm, an' tae touch ye too? Tae ken I dinnae havetae stop touchin' ye this time?" he moans again, and it is positively indecent, the things the sounds of him do to me. . . "God save me Sorcha, evary time I touch ye. . ." he gives me hot, open-mouthed kisses all the way up my neck, "I'd be thinkin' I'd died and gone tae heaven, save that there's nae marryin' nor givin' in marriage there. . ." One of his hands comes around, and presses me more fully to him, running slowly up and down my stomach.
I reach back and lean a fist against his knee, needing to steady myself. He's right. Oh yes. He has no idea how right. Just touching him is a blessing, far beyond any I have ever deserved.
And this is only the beginning. . .
Finally, he pulls back, and starts tugging at the corset's laces. There's nothing hurried or greedy about his motions, just steady, deliberate pulls, leaving not the slightest doubt as to his ultimate intention.
Somehow, it's the most arousing thing he's done to me yet, and leaves my heart racing, my skin completely flushed.
At last he lifts it free, and reveals the gauzy, lacy slip of a shift Avota chose for me after learning of his inexperience. My "something borrowed". It's still a bit much, I think - an absurd cobweb of a thing that leaves incredibly little to the imagination. . .
Somewhat shakily, I stand up, putting the corset neatly next to the overdress. Then I turn back to him.
He is staring fixedly at me, his mouth slightly open, his expression thoroughly stunned.
I realize that, as I am now backlit by the fireplace, from his perspective I am leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. I restrain the impulse to automatically cross my arms in front of relevant bits of myself.
His eyes flick me up and down a few times, and he closes his mouth, only to visibly swallow hard and clench his jaw tightly closed. Other than that, he does not react.
A few long seconds pass. As they do, each one slower than the last, I grow more and more uncomfortable, worried that I've offended some residual Catholic sensibility of his, or moved too fast for his virginity to keep up with just yet, or. . .
Oh god, has he finally noticed how normal-looking I am compared to him?
A wave of insecurity nearly swamps me, "Will you please bloody say something?" I whine, just barely avoiding stamping my foot like a child.
He blinks rapidly, then snaps his eyes to mine, "Ye'ev only gone and made me speechless, woman, there's nae need tae get vulgar about it. . ." He holds my gaze for a second longer, and then he reaches out and drags me to him, pressing me against his chest and stroking hungrily up and down my sides and back. My worries melt under his warm, eager touch, and finally I let my hands begin their own exploration of his neck, shoulders, and back.
When I touched his scars before it was not with any intention of enjoying doing so. I'm surprised how much of a difference my approach makes. They feel so much more attractive tonight - the slick, leathery texture of them contrasting with the softer, warmer feel of his unmarked skin, and underneath them, the sleek, powerful bunching of his muscles accentuating the hard, heavy angles of him, the solid bones, the sturdy frame.
He isn't just irresistible, he's indestructible.
I drag my nails lightly up and down his spine. Christ, even his bones are stubborn!
Bloody Scot.
But I wouldn't have him any other way. . .
His hands are planted firmly on my arse when his mouth finds mine again, and he leans back, carrying me with him, kissing and caressing me all the while. The thin gauze of my shift and the heavy wool of his kilt bunch and slide tantalizingly between us with soft, rustling sounds.
We're well on our way to being thoroughly tangled up. . .
"Mmm," I hum against his neck, "There isn't much room here. Shall we move this to the bed?"
"Ah. Ye-es," he nearly slurs, sounding almost drunk with passion, "Goo' idea."
I stand up slowly, letting his eyes linger on every inch of me. I turn then, walking slowly across the room, giving him an eyeful of the arse he likes so much.
I hear him stand, and I can feel his intent, voracious gaze all over my body.
I shiver, anticipating all the lovely things that look means. . .
"And Jamie?" I say, over my shoulder, "Lose the kilt."
He blinks, stunned again. Either at my words or at my open display of myself, I'm not sure.
Come to think of it, it's probably both. . .
I turn again to face him, and lick my lips as seductively as I know how. Then, I raise my arms, and slowly, provocatively, remove the shift. I stand there for a just moment, basking in his continuing hungry gaze, and then slip easily between the bed's gloriously clean sheets.
I flick my eyes to his, and smile mischievously, patting the bed beside me, "Well, there's room. Get in."
He blinks again, his mouth falling open, but still standing there, speechless and moveless. He never expected those words of his to come back to bite him. Not like this anyway. . .
"We did agree that next time I had you in my bed, you were going to prove that True Scotsman thing, didn't we?" I prompt him, teasingly.
He swallows hard and finally finds his words, "Aye. We did," he says, hoarsely, "But I'm no' in yer bed yet. . ."
"Oh?" I lift a mocking eyebrow, "Is that a threat?"
"Noo. . . et's only. . ."
"Yes?"
I was certain his ears could not possibly be redder, but it turns out I was wrong. . .
"Weel. . ." he coughs a little, "I'm nervous enough, ye ken?"
"You're still nervous?"
"Aye, still."
I rake my eyes over him, from those shaggy, rakish curls, to his deeply muscled chest, to the kilt now hanging precariously off his slim, delicious hips. Give him a claymore, and he'd be the living embodiment of every trashy Highland Romance novel cover ever published.
But he isn't. He's my sweet Scottish laddie, wise and tender and good, and so very, very dear. There's not an atom of trash about him.
I smile, softly, "You have absolutely no reason to be. But it's alright if you are. I won't push you. Not tonight, anyway." I look at him saucily, "Now will you get in? Husband?"
He blinks at the word, the blue of his eyes almost drowning in dark, burning black, "Aye. Wife."
He slips off his plaid just as he slides under the covers next to me. I watch him only out of the corner of my eye, not trying to see anything more than he's willing to show me yet. I don't reach over to him immediately either, letting both of us acclimate at our own pace, getting used to the novelty of being this close to each other without any barriers between.
As the warmth of him soaks into the sheets, I reach over and run my fingers down his arm. Then, I slide my hand into his, and weave our fingers together, just like we have done so many times before. Just like we did when we were handfasted. He relaxes noticeably at this familiar caress, and squeezes my hand reassuringly, before letting go as he turns himself up on one side.
"So where d'ye want me, then?"
I giggle at such practical words, said in the rough, breathy whispers we're both using so much tonight. With that tone of voice, I'm certain he could make a discussion of sheep manure sound romantic.
"Hm. Let's start here, shall we?"
I curl my arms around his neck, and kiss him, slowly, but deeply and repeatedly, all the while easing our bodies closer, bit by bit. Eventually, his arms wrap around me, and he pulls us the last few centimeters of the way.
The first full contact of our skin does not come with a shock, which is rather a shock in itself. Neither is there any discomfort, or even any awkwardness – instead, he breaks our kiss, smiles delightedly, then leans into me and kisses me again, all with the blessedly sweet reassurance of astonishing normalcy, of soul-deep familiarity – almost as though we have been here a thousand times before, and our skin still remembers it - even though the rest of our minds and bodies have forgotten, somehow.
It's impossible.
But it's true.
As always for me, there is something inexplicably easy about being intimate with Jamie.
Then, our hands start to wander, our limbs twine together, and I blithely lose track of time. . .
A familiar, misty haze rises up from the depths of my mind. It swells and swirls to cover over all of my senses, making me glow with warmth and excitement. It seeps into my bones, gently guiding me back into a sweet, sensuous place in my soul that I haven't been to for so very, very long. . .
A mist among the trees. Flowers in a field. Deep water glowing with fire. A wild glade filled with rich orange light. . .
Rain and sun, and a star calling me home. . .
Ye know how to please a man. . .
Slowly, I wake up to the fact that parts of me are aching. I remember the feeling. It's hunger, not pain. A humming, inviting emptiness - an essential, delectable sort of yearning. It's so insistent that I can't ignore it. . . and I don't want to. . .
"Mmm. Jamie. . . please. . ." I say, with a moan that only a fool could misinterpret.
He is anything but a fool.
"Mmphm. I ken a woman can have pleasure moor than once, an' now I wantae learn if I can-"
His hands know where to go next, but his touch is too direct, too firm, too fast. . . and then his words register in my mind. . .
"Whoa there, my lad," I say, snapping out of my glorious haze depressingly quickly. I catch his wrist and bring it to my side. After a brief moment of surprise, he concedes with a nod, and goes back to stroking up and down my spine.
I sigh a bit, "First, that whole multiples thing doesn't necessarily apply to all women."
"Oh, it doesnae?"
"No."
He pauses a second, "Not. . . all women, then?"
His italics are pointed and devastating.
"No. Not all of us."
And never me, no matter how often Frank tried. No matter how often I've tried myself, for that matter.
"Ah."
There is a great deal more understanding in that one syllable than any virgin should be allowed to have. . .
And speaking of that. . .
I clear my throat, a little uncomfortably, "Secondly, what do you mean if you can? I thought this was half the reason you're only technically a virgin!"
"Weel. . . aye, mostly."
"Mostly?"
"Aye. . . it. . . I mean. . . that is. . ."
Suddenly, his face closes off, his eyes shutting me out.
He sits up, turning resolutely away from me. The chill of his abrupt absence washes across my skin.
My stomach drops. Uh-oh. This can not be good. . .
He sighs, long and deeply, "Dougal said-"
"Oh hell!" I interrupt with a growl of frustration. "I might have known! He gave you "advice" last night, didn't he?"
He nods, confusion and worry written all over his posture.
Well. Better to deal with this crap now than to let it fester until later.
I glide a hand across his back, his muscles unbelievably tense beneath the scars. What on earth did Dougal tell him?
"First of all - come back to me."
I open my arms and pull him close, stroking the smooth skin of his chest and arms, trying to soothe him. Finally, with a full-body shiver, he shakes off his worries for the moment, and wraps his arms around me again, burrowing his face into my neck.
"Now," I say, gently petting his hair, "What did Dougal say?"
He huffs a sigh, "He said. . . he said that most women faked it anyway, an' tha' I shouldnae be worrit if I couldnae please ye, especially since I'd no' be the furst tae. . ."
I tamp down on a spurt of fury that's much stronger than I expected it to be, and say, encouragingly, "Yes?"
"Since I'd no' be the furst tae. . . grind yer corn." His face blazes against my skin, clearly offended at such crude language from his uncle, "An' that has me wonderin', y'see – can I even. . . did I evar. . . I mean, how if Laoghaire and Annalise were only faking? I ken John wasn't, but that's hardly a comfort in this situation. . ."
I sigh, so angry at Dougal I have to let it go for the moment, or it's going to seem like I'm angry at Jamie. . . "Alright. Is that all?"
"No' exactly. . . The other men told me things too."
I sigh again. Of course they did.
"Okay then. Let's hear what they said."
He sighs with reluctance, but continues, "Murtagh said most women prefer a. . . a "French novel" an' a di. . . I mean. . . a device, rather than a living man, sae I ought tae jus' get taenight over with. An' then after taenight I ought tae let ye come tae me only when ye want tae, and no' tae bother ye with my oon desires."
My lips twist into a disappointed sneer. "Oh. He said all that, did he?"
"Aye. An' Angus said I should play wi' yer breasts a lot, and Rupert said I ought tae. . ." he gives a light cough, "That is, he offerd tae gi' me advice on how tae. . . weel, how tae kiss ye. . . in places that arenae exactly yer mouth. Ken?"
I huff a short, sharp laugh, "Oh, I ken just fine."
"Aye. An' neither of them believed me when I said I already kent how tae do those things, an' went on quite a while about various. . . weel, they called them 'attack patterns'." He half-smiles against my neck, voice softening, "An' Ned said that ye were an experienced, self-assured women, very clear on what ye want and what ye dinnae, sae if I would jus' listen tae ye, an' go slow, I probably wouldnae go too far wrong."
"That last is good advice."
He lifts his head, "Is it now?"
"Of course it is!" I snort, "If you didn't think so, just what do you think you've been doing up 'til now?"
His arms tighten a bit around me, "I kent his advice was good, Sorcha, but I wasnae quite sure about it for taenight, y'see. What wi' our choice of wedding gifts, things are a bit. . . a bit different than the usual, aye?"
"True that," I run the tip of my nose across his cheek, and kiss along his jaw.
"So I just thought I'd. . . let ye mek the decisions taenight. I could give those tae ye, at least. Whatever decisions needed tae be made, they'd be yers. An' I'd jus'. . . trust ye fer th'rest. . ."
I melt at the warm purr of affection in his voice, "Well. . ." I run a fingertip across his lips, "To be honest, that's not such a bad rule of thumb either."
He grins.
"Anyhow. . . way to go, Ned." I pause a second, and purse my lips, "Rupert and Angus aren't wrong either. . . "
His eyebrows fly up and he laughs aloud, "Ov all the things I expected I might hear taenight, that was not among them, mo Sorcha!"
I laugh along with him, "I know - trust me, I'm just as shocked as you are."
He grins at me, playfully, "Mebbe now would be a good time tae tell ye then. . . I admit, I think their suggestions sounded mighty interestin'. Weel, some of them did, anyway. Ye'll haveta show me what ye like, aye?"
I smile back, "I will. Never fear. And I want to learn what you like too."
He curls a finger around my chin, lifting my eyes to his.
"I like you."
I give him a soft, sweet kiss that is somehow even more intimate than our current naked cuddling.
"So. . . what about what Murtagh said, then?"
I squirm a bit, ". . . well, I'd hardly expect gold-standard advice from a bachelor – although Ned puts the lie to that, doesn't he?"
He smirks, "Apparently so. . ."
"But if this were the seventeenth or eighteenth century or something, what Murtagh said might fly. . . if I were the virgin instead of you. Just get the first unpleasantness over, and then let me decide where we go from there? That's. . . not ridiculously awful advice. . . for three hundred or so years ago, maybe."
"Three hundred years ago. . . an' our positions were reversed, ye mean?"
I wince, "Yeah. Either way. . . not great when it comes to practicalities. Or modern expectations, for that matter."
"So, ye wilnae evar choose a romance novel ovar me?"
I scoff, "I'd say the odds of that are extremely slim."
He pauses, and his ears go red, "An' what about. . . devices?"
"Oh," I shrug, "They have their place."
He blinks a few times, incredulously, his Catholic upbringing showing very clearly all over his face, "Doo they indeed?"
I nod, "Yep. A very distinct place. Some of them you'll like too, I'm sure. In fact, there are a few I can practically guarantee you'll love – but I think that's a discussion for another time."
"Agreed." He smiles sweetly now, an encouraged look spreading across his features.
"Now. As to what Dougal said. . ."
The look fades as he sobers very quickly, "Aye?"
"Well, I can't speak for all women, obviously, but that most of them fake it. . . seems unlikely, to say the least. I'm sure some people do, but I can't imagine it's most by any stretch, and it wouldn't only be women if it were. And then again, perhaps most people do fake it - but only at one time or another. If someone doesn't have a very considerate lover, it can probably seem like the least troublesome option. It makes a sort of sense, if you think about it." I look him straight in the eyes, "But - more relevant than all of those things - do you really think I would ever lie to you like that?"
He blinks rapidly, as though he hadn't fully considered that aspect of it until now, "Weel, given what ye'ev asked ov me taenight, I. . . I thought ye might. . . might. . ."
"What I am asking from you is a very specific, negotiated exception, so your next word better be "not", James Fraser. . ."
He looks unsure, and his lips twitch dubiously, "Not. . . not even. . . if ye'ed promised a man the wedding night ov his dreams? Ye wouldnae lie tae him, jus' a little bit, then? Tae smooth things ovar, like? Mek him feel less awkward?"
And for a brief moment he looks younger than his years – like a boy barely out of his teens, lanky and disjointed, in a situation far, far over his head. . .
"Jamie. . ." I sigh, and shake my head, "I promised you truth months ago. We set no limits on that promise. Honour and truth, for always. Do you think I would go back on that? Especially now, while the scars from our blood pact are still open on our wrists?" I lift my arm and point at the little spot, "Do you think I would betray you like that? Do you?"
He shakes his head, decisively, "No. I dinnae."
"Good. Because I'm telling you now, my lad, there will come a time when you'll wish I could lie to you – wish I would lie to you, even. But I won't. Not about this, and not about anything else. . ."
Visions of the stones of Craigh na Dun dance before my eyes. I lower my gaze, and study the tiny curls of his chest hair for a long minute.
I lick my lips, slowly, "Doubtless, it will make some things a whole lot more difficult between us, but all the same, I'll do it, Jamie. I will always tell you the truth. Out of sheer bloody-minded stubbornness, if for no other reason. You know I will."
"Aye. I do."
I nod in agreement, "Alright then. There's that sorted." I hold him firmly to me, "When you have a truly caring lover, faking it isn't necessary anyway. If you care enough, you'll always find better ways to communicate than that."
"Aye, a'course. So ye would." Finally, he looks relieved.
"And besides that, let me tell you, my lad. . . when I. . ." I cough a bit, and can't stop a blush from warming my cheeks and ears, "When. . . it happens. . . you'll know."
"Will I now? How d'ye ken?"
I give a low chuckle, "Because it's thoroughly unmistakable, that's how. Or at least it is for me. You'll see. I couldn't fake it if I tried, Jamie. Not here and now, and certainly not with you – not ever with you."
"Did. . ." he pauses, gathering his still-scattered self confidence, "Did ye evar. . . wi' Frank?"
"Ever get there, or ever fake it?"
"Both."
I smile softly at him, "Let me be very clear - the first is irrelevant right now. . ." I pat his shoulder, "But in the interest of honesty - yes. And it's an emphatic no to the second. Don't get me wrong, I wanted to, on more than one occasion." I sigh, "It's just the way things go, sometimes." I smooth my fingers across his shoulders, then run them delightedly over his backside, just because I can. "But we always talked through it. Got past it. Figured things out. Because. . ."
"Because he loved ye. . ." He lowers his head to mine, but I pull back for a moment.
"Because this isn't just about pleasure, Jamie. It - this - is about us. Our relationship. You and me, together."
"Mm. Aye. Together. I like the sound of that. . ."
Then he kisses me, so warm and slow that I practically bathe in the comfort of it. My mind blanks with the force of being here, with him, like this.
Just a few months ago, I was a widowed, homeless power peddler, camping on the Rim of Skycity 15. How on earth have I ended up here, being passionately embraced by my gorgeous Scottish Laird of a husband, 200 years in the past?
With the touch, scent and flavour of Jamie all around me, it doesn't matter how. Only that it is.
Oh, how I'm going to miss him when I go home. . .
Finally, he pulls back to let me breathe, "I ken what ye sound like when I kiss ye." His eyes narrow, slyly, "Now, I wantae learn what ye sound like. . . when I tickle ye. . ." He moves his fingers boldly up and down my sides as I shriek, and laugh, and try to push him away. He laughs along with me, then stops suddenly, pulling me close.
"I ken what it's like tae have a caring-" he kisses over my right ear with a resounding smack, "-beautiful-" a similar kiss right in the middle of my forehead, "-generous-" one cheek, "-understanding-" then the other, "-delicious wife-" he finishes with a kiss to my chin, "Who is sae wonderful, shee'll evan interrupt her own wedding night tae explain the misconceptions of a daft loon tae him." He runs a finger softly down the side of my throat, lingering along the curve of my collarbone. "An' now, I wantae learn the most surprising place ye like tae be kissed. No' the naughtiest, mind – the most surprisin'. Tell me, an' I'll kiss ye thear - wheresoevar it be."
I grin, and point to the middle of the right side of my jaw, "Here. I don't know why, but gentle touches there sends tingles all down my spine. . . to here." I lift his hand and place it very precisely on the back of my thigh.
He looks up from kissing the place I indicated, eyes wide, fingers flexing spasmodically, "Och, all the way doon tae there, aye?"
"Mmm-hmm," I hum.
"Agch, tha's good tae ken, mo leannan. Verrah, verrah good. . ." he dips his head, and gets back to work. . .
It takes us at least half an hour to get back to where we were before, but it is time very pleasantly spent, learning sweet, intimate details about each other. I get to discover how much he likes it when I run my nails lightly up and down his pecs, scraping gently over his nipples. He discovers a place on my inner arm that sends shivers through my stomach – a spot which I didn't know about before either. I learn that the tops of his feet are surprisingly sensitive, and he learns that I love it when he combs his fingers through the hair on the back of my head, and pulls, ever so slightly roughly. He finds out exactly how much I have always adored his big, warm hands, and I find out just how much he has always wanted me to nip him hard on the collarbone. . .
I'm running my hands luxuriously through his curls, watching him softly kiss patterns across my stomach, when I finally ache again. It's the same hazy, warm, blooming hunger as before, but sharper for having been so long in abeyance, coming back even stronger than it was a half an hour ago.
"Jamie?"
"Mmm?" he rumbles against my skin.
"I know what you look like when you make a discovery," I gently tug on his earlobe, but he doesn't look up, "Now, I want to learn what you look like when. . . when you. . . lose something."
Then, he does look up, and there is not the slightest particle of misunderstanding in his eyes.
"I want to see the look on your face when you're completely mine, my lad."
"Oh, aye?"
"Aye."
"Alright. . ."
At last, he moves over me, kissing me, and whispering my name as I guide him. Then he rears back with a gasp, and his eyes rake across my face. There is something indescribable in their expression, raw and naked and new. I am completely sure he's never looked like this before - that he's never looked at anyone like this before.
This is a Jamie Fraser neither of us have ever met.
But, he is intent on showing me this final, most intimate part of his soul. He threads the fingers of one hand through mine, pressing our palms together, as though such a touch will give us lead-tells in this, the most ancient of all dances.
Perhaps it will.
This touch of his, at least, I know.
Our eyes lock, and I grip his hand tightly, saying his name in a voice I can hardly recognize as my own.
He desperately whispers my name in response. . .
And then. . .
And then, I am not in the least surprised to learn that even the hidden, guarded, most secret parts of this man are stunningly, heartrendingly, achingly beautiful.
Notes:
Soundtrack for this chapter -
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YQ3uNTd4KtI
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bIM5SpbyuP0
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iJ0eXr6_nIA
Chapter 85: Scottish Pearls
Notes:
Chapter Rating - M for non-graphic married nookie, and discussion/implication of bodily fluids
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Jamie pulls away from me, and flips onto his back, landing on his pillows with an enormous sigh of deep content. I smile slyly to myself, ridiculously proud that I was the one who got him to make that sound.
I doubt either of us will ever again feel exactly like we do right now. Jamie, clearly indescribably content, with a fresh, new shine about him, and me, balanced precariously between the familiar warmth of heavy, breathless anticipation, and an unfamiliar, confusing sort of chill. My body isn't used to being left quite so abruptly - or at all - while I'm still unsatisfied. But, because it's Jamie next to me, so happy he's practically humming with it, it's surprisingly easy for me to forget the state of my own body, and focus on his.
I turn a bit so I can look at him, all stretched out and relaxed, much like Adso or Alec are after a particularly busy day's worth of napping.
I smile wider at the comparison to cats, since Jamie has done his fair share of purring in the last few minutes. And growling and roaring too, for that matter. . .
No one ever told me just how wonderful being someone's first could be. I'm not really surprised - it isn't exactly the sort of thing that has much weight to it when it comes to the more popularly idealized notions of intimacy - certainly not about men, at least.
But here, now, with him, that seems a tremendous shame. This isn't just about pleasure, after all – it's about us. The two of us, being together. Whatever else he's done tonight – or hasn't yet done, specifically – he has, most certainly, let me into the innermost circle of his heart. I have pride of place, both in his mind and in his soul, I have no doubts at all about that. He may not be touching me at all at the moment, but I've never felt nearer to him than I do right now.
I let my mind drift, appreciating the sight and sound of him.
My dear, dear lad. . .
All of a sudden, he grins, and grabs me, pulling me close, sliding our limbs together and burying his face in my neck.
Oooh, and he's an after-cuddler too? Will this man ever stop being perfect?
I give a long, happy sigh. Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to, Beauchamp.
He pulls back just far enough to look in my eyes. His mouth works a bit too, and I wonder what he's going say. I'm expecting some sweet endearment, or a happy, cheery quip of some sort, but the first words out of his mouth are the last ones I expected from him tonight.
"I'm sorry."
I scrunch up my face, utterly baffled, "Sorry? Whatever for?"
If he weren't already flushed, I'm sure his cheeks would be going red right now. "Weel. . . I'm only ceartain there's nae way ye enjoyed that anywhere near as much as I did. . ."
"Oh, Jamie," I smile indulgently, "In one sense, you're right. But in another. . ." I kiss him, softly lingering on the edges of his mouth, "I was just thinking how unfair it is that male virginity is so underrated."
"Oh, aye? Were ye really?"
"Yes. I was." I curl into his side, and murmur against his shoulder, "You trusted me, my lad. You let me see you – really see you - let me watch as you discovered something new and wonderful. It was an unbelievable honour – but it wasn't just that. . ."
I inhale deeply. The earthy-sweet, freshly-baked scent of him has deepened into a sharply spicy tang I've never smelled from him before. It's heady, rich and dark, like the first billow of steam that rises as boiling water is poured over tea leaves. I hum, thoroughly intoxicated. I think I love the scent of post-passion Jamie even more than that of freshly showered Jamie.
"You were gorgeous, my dear. So beautiful. So full of joy. So splendidly. . ." I twine an arm around him and snuggle into his still-glowing skin. "Splendid. I could watch you enjoy yourself like that for hours, I really could."
He chuckles softly, "Ah, ye'er a rare woman, mo Sorcha, an' I love ye more than I can say."
My heart leaps at his words. He said it. He actually said it, without my asking him to. I grin foolishly at him, then roll onto my back and stare dreamily at the canopy above us, "Oh, I do like my wedding gift, Jamie. Say it again?"
He leans over to whisper in my ear, "I love ye, mo nighean donn."
A shiver runs though me, so sweet and good that for a minute I almost forget that he's just humouring me. . . "Mmm. That's the stuff," I sigh contentedly, then twist onto my side, propping myself up on one elbow, "So. . . how does being fully un-virgined feel?
"Hmm," he grins playfully, "Like I might need a shower?"
He looks at me askance, and we both burst out laughing.
"Well, that's a good sign you're enjoying my wedding gift. . ." I chuckle, and lean in to kiss his cheek.
"Aye. I am. Incredibly so. . ." he is still smiling, but he trails off, a strange look crossing his face.
"What? What is it?"
He shrugs, "Oh, no' much. It's only. . . this. . . all this. . . it's so different than I evar dreamed it would be. No' less-than, mind – only. . . so very, very different. I wish. . ."
"Yes?"
"I wish I had more tae give ye. Both for taenight an' for the rest of our marriage. More tae offer ye. For the future, ye ken?"
"Oh, Jamie, you're offering me yourself. Your partnership. That ought to be enough for any decent woman."
And he is, by any measure, far, far more than I deserve. . .
"Aye, mebbe in theory. But jus' partnership doesnae put food on the table, or clothes on yer back, or a roof over yer head."
"No. Hard work does that. Hard work, planning, determination, and a little bit of luck. Or bull-headed stubbornness if you can't find luck. And do you think either one of us is lacking in any of those things?"
"Nah. . . it's just. . ."
I wait for him to continue. In a minute, he does.
"It's only that I've always dreamed of what this night would be, and what our gifts would symbolize. An' taenight is just so different than I ever thought it would be. . . I dinnae ken what tae think o' most of it, yet."
You and me both, my lad.
He's speaking as if he really has imagined a future with me in it. As though I'm not just a dream-woman, there to be a convenient living face in his romantic fantasies. No, he's speaking as if he really, truly wants me for his mate and life-partner – me, myself - even Human and flawed and terribly, terribly fallible as I am. . .
And I have no idea what to make of that. . .
If he brought very little into this marriage, then I brought nothing. I own an old steel bottle with chipped enamel, a linen dress, a woolen cloak, a pair of soft leather shoes, and a knitted woolen bag, and that's literally it.
Well, and three crocheted necklaces, but still. . .
Regardless, I'm taking them all and going to Craigh na Dun. . . soon. So very, very soon. . .
He's worried he can't give me anything more yet.
Suddenly, I'm terrified I can't give him anything at all.
Neither a future, nor a present, nor a past. Not even a wholesome memory, if he truly does want me – me, not just his idealized perceptions of me.
If that's the case, then. . .
Leaving would be the worst thing I could do, no matter what the danger is, no matter how many explanatory letters I leave. It would destroy him.
And just the possibility of that would destroy me. . .
But I'm in far too deep to be thinking of that right now. . .
"What was your dream wedding present, Jamie? If you don't mind telling me?"
He grins, "A'coorse no'. I always dreamed my wife would gi' me a genuine antique Fraser dirk – wi' the original scabbard. I'd ha' gi'en her the traditional shilling for it a'course."
"A shilling?"
I have no idea what a shilling is. . .
"Oh, aye. A blade must nevar be given as a gift – 'specially no' between lovers."
Ah. Money. It must be like a sixpence. . .
"If it's no' bought an' paid for, it'll cut the pair of ye in twain, sure as steel."
The symbolism alone is enough to cut me to the heart. . .
"Oh."
"I dinnae truck wi' most superstitions, as ye ken. Bu' that one I doo."
I shrug off a feeling of eerie foreboding, and sigh a bit, "A harmless enough tradition, all things considered."
"Aye. An' it would'ha symbolized the continuation of the Fraser clan. Of the Laird of Lallybroch finally bringin' hoom his bride."
He kisses my cheek, and I smile at him, "Sounds lovely. But where could a discerning bride have found such a thing?"
He shakes his head, "Oh, no one could. No' these days. Most of the known ones have fetched up at the Castle Beaufort armoury long since. T'was jus' a dream gift, aye?"
"I see. . ."
"An' a'course I wanted tae give ye the Fraser jewels. Those are accessible enough, thank god, an' I c'n give them to ye jus' as soon as it's safe for us tae go tae Lallybroch. They'd have symbolized ye truly becoming a Fraser. Bein' fully inducted inta our family traditions an' all." He sighs happily, eyes unfocusing as he looks at his visions of the future.
His visions of the future, and his memories of the past. With me connected to both of them.
He really does want me there with him, throughout all the plain mundanities of life, for whatever future we can build together.
He may not truly love me - yet - but he does want me for me, and not as some storybook fairy queen.
Have I really misread him so utterly? And for so long?
My heart is screaming with self-reproach. And how do I even know he doesn't love me truly? Have I misread that about him too?
But no. That can't be so. He never said it. He never told me he loves me until I asked him to. Jamie is the kind who says things - he always comes right out with his intentions, even if his trust follows later. And still he never said it. It must be because some part of him knew he was just infatuated with me, not really, truly in love.
Right?
"The 'Fraser Jewels' sounds so grand, Jamie. Will you tell me about them?"
I must keep him talking. Keep him distracted. Then maybe he won't notice the terror and self-loathing behind my eyes. . .
"Och, they're nae sae much when it comes tae value, ye ken. There's moor plain silver than anything else, and some gilt, most set with garnets, or enamels. There's some good auld amber in there too, an' a few great walloping lumps of jasper and carnelian. They're all pretty things – oor are tae me, a'least - bu' there's nowt grand about them. They're mostly bracelets, necklaces and brooches – but the best stones are actually set inta a pair of ancient wedding crowns, would ye believe? Slightly ratty auld things they are, save the stones, a'course - but there's a charm tae them. An' of course there's plenty of rings an' earrings too. There's a set of smoky yellow Cairngorm ear drops I'd love tae see on ye, and an auld, auld Fraser brooch of mother-of-pearl for yer earasaid that I cannae wait for ye tae use."
He runs his fingers lightly down my neck and across my shoulders, "But the thing I most wanted tae gi' ye taenight was a long string o' freshwater pearls. Scotch pearls, they are. Rare beasts, even if they arenae worth much. They're worth a chest full of gold tae me. One of the few things da contributed to the collection himself. Mam usetae wear them all the time, 'specially when she was paintin'. She said they inspired her. I've always loved them, glowing with all their soft, subtle colours, so smooth and cool. . ." He hums, and runs his lips down the length of my throat, "Jus' like yer skin. . ."
I shiver a bit, and run my nails lightly over his chest in response. Somehow his voice is washing my mind clean, and his touches are carrying me away. . .
He hums again, and kisses me very softly at the crook of my neck. "There's those as say pearls are the only true gems in all the world – did ye ken tha'?"
I shake my head, wordlessly pleading for him to continue speaking.
"For ye see, they are the only ones just as beautiful at the start as when they're in the finished piece. No' like diamonds, or sapphires or such that need tae be cut an' polished. Or like gold an' silver ore that mus' be melted an' refined. A pearl is just a piece of pure loveliness, made from hardship and endurance already transformed inta brightness an' joy the minute it's created." He leans further down, and gently kisses above my left breast, just over my heart, "An' I soo wanted tae see them on ye taenight. Tae see them gently gleaming, all ovar yer skin. . ." he traces a long line with his lips, across my chest and down, halfway to my stomach.
I practically purr in contentment, then stop, as I realize exactly what he's been telling me.
"Wait, wait - you. . . you wanted to give me a necklace on our wedding night? A pearl necklace?"
"Aye," he says, dreamily, "I still wish I could. . ."
I snort a laugh, "Really? Really really?"
He looks at me, eyes wide, the picture of confused innocence, "Aye, an' what's wrong wi' that?"
My heart quite overflows with affection. This man. This man. How can someone be so deliberately naughty and so deliciously crystal-pure at the same time?
"There's nothing wrong with that," I give him a soft smile, "Not a single thing, Jamie darling. It's just. . . oh, my sweet, sweet man. . ." I draw his face to mine and run a line of tiny kisses down his jaw, ending with a peck to the cleft in his chin, "There is a way you still can. . ."
"I can? Bu' how?"
I grin at him, and run the tip of my nose along the bridge of his, "You might have only been a technical virgin, my lad, but you still have a very great deal to learn yet. . ."
"Aye, I ken that. An' that I'm blest tae have the bonniest teacher this side of-" He breaks off as I lean down to nibble my way across his chest. I'm not rough, but neither am I entirely gentle, enjoying seeing the imprint of my teeth in his skin far more than I ever thought I would.
I glance back up at him, checking to make sure he likes it too.
The look on his face is heart-meltingly eager.
My own heart soars. I've never inspired such a look before. Frank was an exemplary lover, but he was unfailingly plain in his tastes. To him "experimenting" meant trying a new flavour of toothpaste, or different coloured sheets. A wild night of passion was making love twice on the couch. I always found him more than satisfactory in bed – he was thoughtful, thorough, scrupulous and generous - but he was never adventurous, and now I realize, never inspiring. It was the one area where he never challenged me. I didn't ever have to investigate, didn't ever have to explore to find what pleased him. I never had to exert myself for him, since he always took what I gave – happily, passionately – but never curiously. For someone as unrelentingly curious as I am, this often left me strangely flat in ways I am only just now beginning to notice, let alone understand. . .
I run my hands over Jamie's chest, and over his smooth, warm skin, enjoying the contrast of textures as his body hair goes from rough, tight curls, to soft, flat tufts. My lips follow my hands, and slowly, I follow a pattern down his breastbone to his belly, nipping and kissing as I go.
I very rarely felt any great need to. . . well, to service Frank, nor felt that it was especially appreciated whenever I happened to do so. He never asked for it.
But, here, now, with a different man, in a different time. . .
The bare thought of discovering exactly how Jamie likes to be serviced has me more excited than I've been since. . .
Since. . .
Since maybe ever, actually.
Huh. How odd. . .
I shake aside my bafflement, and get back to work. . .
The fact that Jamie himself only partially knows what he likes, and will be discovering a lot of his preferences at the same time I do, only adds to the appeal, as far as I'm concerned. Let him associate this with me – let me give this to him, at least – let him learn thoroughly, entirely how it should be done. . .
Let our eyes lock in the midst of intimacy once again, and let a flood of communication flow, hot and wordless, along that powerful, endless glance.
I'm busy exploring the skin rippling over his ribs when he finally catches on to where I'm headed.
"What. . . what are ye aiming tae do tae me, lass?"
"Why, I'm going to get my Scottish pearls, of course." I nip him in the side, teasingly, and enjoy seeing his stomach muscles jump in response. "I want my necklace, right now, and I'm going to make you give it to me," I lick my lips, ostentatiously, "I'm going to drag those pearls out of you, Jamie Fraser, and drape them all over myself. One way, or another. . ." I dig my nails into the thick muscle of his thigh, and he groans, helplessly. I grin, "What did you expect? You can't promise to give a girl jewelry and then not follow through. . . husband. . ."
He swallows audibly, "Ye. . . ye dinnae have tae-"
"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," I growl, "I want to, okay? I'm not the sort of woman who offers anything like this without wanting it myself." I meet his worried eyes for a second, then lower my head and sigh into his skin, "My aim is to enjoy you, James Fraser. Every bit of you. In every way allowed by the Church. And in several ways that aren't. Are we clear?"
He cups the back of my head, running his fingers reverently through my hair, "Agch, ye'll be the death of me, mo Sorcha."
I chuckle, low and mischievous. Then, overwhelming all the teasing, pushing past all the innuendo, a strangely unexpected power trip blazes through my veins. If just the suggestion of this makes him react this strongly, what will happen when I actually. . .
If I was excited to do this before, now I'm desperate.
"Death, he says!" I moan, "Oh no, my lad, not that. Never that." I look up, meet his eyes again, and smirk, "We-ell. . ." I draw out my vowel as I draw one finger up his hip, settling my hand on the flat of his belly, "Maybe. . . just a little. . ."
I lick my lips again, achingly slowly.
"A very, very little. . . death. . ."
He snorts softly, picking up on my irony, because there is virtually nothing little about what is going to happen next.
In fact, neither of us are even capable of speech for the next several minutes, but afterwards. . .
Afterwards, we both definitely need a shower. . .
Notes:
Soundtrack for this chapter -
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w9JSKZ7TzWU
Chapter 86: Upon You
Notes:
Chapter Rating - Soft M, for non-graphic married nookie, and adult themes.
Chapter Text
I am delighted to discover that Jamie makes just as good a shower-mate as he does a bedmate. He scrubs my back and washes my hair as a matter of course, all the while displaying an ease in his own skin that somehow does not seem at odds with how tense and unsure he's been up til now. Perhaps it's the fact that he's constantly smiling, making jokes and gentle teasing remarks, unable to keep his hands or his mouth off me. In short, he's playing all the bold, boyish games any young, lively lad who has just gotten laid would very naturally be inclined to play. The simple rightness of it all is impressive, and soothes me far more than anything else could.
Maybe I've given him something good to remember after all. . .
I step out of the shower just as soon as I am finished returning the favour of scrubbing his back and rinsing his hair, not wanting to linger too long in any water tonight. The fire has warmed our room, and the house is very well insulated, but it is still winter, in the middle of the Scottish Highlands, and nothing can keep the air from striking cold on damp skin and wet hair.
I bundle myself across the room, wrapped in several towels, and take up a position directly in front of the fire. I readjust the towel wrapped around my still-dripping curls, and then look up as Jamie joins me on the hearthrug. He's also wrapped in several towels, except for his hair, which is still sopping wet, but he was smart and brought a wide-bristled brush and some condition-spray.
He gestures at me to turn, and I shift so I can angle the back of my head towards him.
He unwraps my hair, and slowly, carefully, starts to brush it out.
Very quietly, I moan. It's been a ridiculously long time since anyone did this for me, and it feels so, so intensely good.
It takes nearly three-quarters of an hour for my hair to dry properly, but he shows incredible patience with it. Only after all my curls are cared for does he start the whole process over with his own.
I watch him for a few minutes, then I raise my left hand, turning it so the firelight plays across the golden surface of my ring. As his hand goes back and forth, warm reflections flash from his ring too, almost as though it is responding to mine.
"Rather a good look for a key to Lallybroch, isn't it, my Laird?"
"Aye."
"Rings made from a piece of the Drunken Tower, of whisky fame."
"The very same," he leans back a little, and ruffles his nearly dry curls once more in the heat from the fireplace, "Though tae be honest, I never could see much of a lean tae it. I suppose, from certain angles, it might seem tae be a wee bit tilted - no more than that. But the Drunken Tower it is."
I smirk, "I'll have you know, Mr. Fraser, that your tower is not drunk. . ." I pause, and chuckle at him, ". . . but it is a wee bit tilted."
"Agch! Ye wer'nt complaining an hour ago! Mrs. Fraser!"
He throws down the brush, turns and pounces on my ticklish places, using all his new-found knowledge of my body to his advantage.
I manage to gasp, in between shrieks of helpless laughter, "Who. . . says I'm. . . complaining now?"
He stops, abruptly somber.
"But. . . I haven't. . . I mean, ye haven't. . ."
I sigh, and roll my eyes, "Why do people always act like a wedding night is the end of everything, Jamie? Like if we don't instantly make the earth shatter into stars or something, we're somehow failing?" I put my hand on his chest, and feel his steady, thudding heartbeat. "If everything doesn't happen right now, tonight. . . we will. . . what, never have another chance? C'mon, Jamie, let's be real. This is only the very beginning. Of what I expect to be a very happy marriage, thank you very much."
All too brief, perhaps. But full to overflowing with happiness. Or, a form of it, at least. . .
I gather him to me, pulling off the uppermost of his towels, and running my hands boldly up and down his back, "And if it turns out not to be, I know for absolute certain it won't be for lack of. . ." I smile wryly at him, ". . . well, not to put too fine a point on it, for lack of trying. So let me give to you tonight, alright? My experience is what I brought into this, after all, so why not let me share it with you?" My fingers lightly trace the map of his scars as I meet his eyes sincerely. "I promise I can be as insatiable as you want. . . I'll start tomorrow, okay?"
You told yourself one night, Beauchamp. One. This is not one.
Shut up, Beauchamp! There's too much going on here to make decisions right now. . .
But that was a decision, and you know it, Beauchamp.
How many times do I have to tell you to shut up, Beauchamp?
Jamie blinks and shakes his head, ruefully, "Aye, ye have the better of me on all counts, Sorcha - save one. . . and that one is your gift tae me. . ." he heaves a great sigh, "Dhia, it'll take my whole life tae make it up tae ye, mo chridhe."
My still unsatisfied body gives a delightful shiver of anticipation, "Can I hold you to that?"
He laughs, "Ye can hold me wherever ye like. . ."
I poke him in the ribs, "You greedy, insufferab-"
He cuts me off with a kiss. A long, sweet, utterly delicious kiss. Then he lifts me up, casually, and deposits me back on the bed, already a hundred times more confident in handling me than he was a mere hour ago. He leans me back, and hovers over me, the solid, glowing weight of him perhaps the most intoxicating thing I've ever felt. The thought of him actually taking charge this time. . . I moan, and clutch at him, helpless with hot, cavernous hunger.
Oh, my dearest Jamie. I was a fool for thinking I could ever get enough of you. . .
"Tha gaol agam ort," he whispers against my mouth.
"Ha gool akham erst," I repeat back, my Gàidhlig sounding as inept as usual. He's said that several times the past few months. I can't help wondering what. . . "Mmm. . . You said once. . . that you'd tell me. . . what that meant. . . one day." I kiss him messily as I writhe against him, drunk with his presence, vague about everything except that I want more of him, right now. . .
"Aye. I did."
He stills. His brows draw together, and he visibly makes a decision.
I had thought we were past all the big, important steps we needed to take tonight, so now we could just relax and enjoy each other. . .
I was wrong.
I sober up quickly, refocusing my attention away from his body, and onto his face.
"It means," he says, slowly, seriously, "It means. . . all my love. . . is upon ye."
I blink.
Oh.
An icy thread uncoils in my stomach.
Oh.
Oh no. . .
My eyes go wide, and who knows what my face looks like. . . "Oh. . . Jamie, I. . ."
He presses his fingers to my lips, "Shh, now. I ken, an' I don't need ye tae say it." He looks into my eyes, "Ye hear me, Claire? I don't need ye tae say it back. I dinnae even need ye tae feel it. . . yet. One day soon I will, but no' now. No' yet."
My mind flips and fumbles, and my voice comes out very small.
"What do you need?"
He could ask for the world itself, and I'd give it to him. . .
He looks at me, his expression in a strange place between bashful and stern, "I need ye tae hear it. I need ye tae ken it. I need ye tae be. . . suffused with it. Like. . . air in your lungs. Like blood in your heart. Like sunshine on the water in a burn, all motion and colours and light." He slides his hands underneath my shoulders and presses me tightly to his chest, "I need tae see ye come alive with love, Claire. My love."
Oh. . .
It's like he knows the quickest way to destroy me. . .
Slowly, I raise my eyes to his, and tell him the only truth I can.
"I always feel alive when I'm with you, Jamie."
I've never felt quite so lost in a kiss as the one he gives me now. It lasts a long, long time. A whole age of this world, in fact. With a language and a culture between. But the touch of him, his being, the very fact that he exists - bridge all of that over, reaching deep into the barren place inside my heart and lifting me, catching me up, whirling me around in a cloud of glimmering dust and wrapping me in peace and joy and safety and. . . something more, too. Something glorious, eternal, essential. . .
What. . . ?
"Tha gaol agam ort," Jamie breathes intensely against my mouth for a moment, then practically attacks my neck with hard, rapid kisses.
"I love ye. . ."
He moves on to my shoulders.
"Mo Sorcha."
He meets my eyes for a moment, and I smile at him, because I know what that means, at least. But he gives a tiny shake of his head, and runs the backs of his fingers over my cheek.
"My light. . ." he translates.
Oh. . .
His kisses move lower on my chest.
"Mo chridhe," he murmurs, then meets my eyes again, "My heart. . ." he translates again, while kissing over my left breast.
"Oh. . ."
"Mo ghràidh," he says, lips gently caressing my ear, "My darling. . ."
Oh. . .
"Mo leannan," he whispers, purposefully nibbling the tingly spot on my jaw.
I shiver at the touch, and smile again. He doesn't use that nickname often, but I learned it while learning songs for Story Night. It means sweetheart.
He sighs against my skin, "My lover. . ."
My breath stutters for a second.
Oh. . .
Oh.
"Mo nighean donn."
Both his hands rake through my hair, and he dives deep into a kiss. Then he pulls back, fingers still playing with my curls, a look of almost incredulous wonder in his eyes.
"My brown haired lass. . ."
Oh.
"I've carried that wee curl of yours next to my heart evar since ye gave it tae me, Claire. Sometimes I'd take it out, an' look at it, an' whisper all the things I wanted tae tell ye, bu' I thought ye werenae ready tae hear. I thought ye didnae want tae hear most ov them. . . mebbe evar." He sighs, ruefully, "Bu' may any gods that are or evar were forgive me for evar lettin' ye think I didnae love ye, wi' evary grain ov my soul."
I stare up at the canopy, breathless, and quite beyond stunned.
Oh.
All those things. . . all those nicknames he gave me that I refused to learn anything about because I was too afraid of what they might mean. . . of what the knowledge might do to me if I knew. . .
"When?"
His expression goes soft.
"When did I want ye, or when did I love ye?"
"Both."
"I wanted ye the first moment I saw ye. But. . . I loved ye when ye wept in my arms the first day ye came tae my workshop."
Yes, that was the first time he had said it.
"As far back as that?"
"Aye."
He never had me on a pedestal. He always wanted me for myself. . .
"Tha gaol agam ort," he says again, and takes my mouth briefly, "T'isnae a pretense, nor a lie, Claire, lass. No' evan a white lie. Not the least bit of one. Nevar has been."
Then he nudges his head into the crook of my neck, and he nuzzles me, holding me close, rocking gently.
Oh, my lad. . .
All this time I've been afraid of what he could do to me if I let him, and now I find my heart was safe with him from the beginning.
I can feel tears gathering in my throat, but I refuse to cry on what is supposed to be the happiest day of our lives. Instead, I bury my hand in the hair on the back of his head, and pull hard enough to bring him back eye-to-eye with me.
"Now, you listen to me, James Fraser," I say, my repressed tears making my voice both sultry and stern, "You must never think that you haven't given me just as much - more! - than I've given you tonight. Do you hear? You are not allowed to think your gift doesn't surpass mine. By a hundred, by a thousand, by a hundred thousand times. . ." I kiss him, fierce with that thing I cannot name, ". . . do you understand me?"
For answer, he pushes me into the mattress, and is all over me again, with his hands and his mouth and everything else, stroking, gliding, pressing. . . caressing. . . gripping. . .
He uses every bit of what both his old and his new experiences have taught him.
And this time. . .
I'm so wound up. . . he is so determined. . .
This time. . .
This time the pleasure is so great, I nearly lose consciousness.
When we can breathe again, I'm stretched out next to him, tracing my fingers through the hair on his chest, marveling at how beautiful the universe can be when it tries.
He takes my hand, and kisses my fingertips, one by one. Then he looks down at me, for some reason still slightly hesitant. . .
"I may assume. . . tha' was. . . it?"
I chuckle, and shake my head in disbelief. I'm beginning to think this man will never be done with impressing me. "Yes, Jamie. That was it. The very, the indubitable it. The last word in its."
"Weel, ye were right. Quite unmistakable."
For a minute, I also feel inexplicably hesitant. "Did you. . . like. . . it?"
His eyes go wide, "Och. . . 'like' isn't nearly strong enough a word tae say. . . it. . . I. . . I've nevar. . ." he kisses the palm of my hand, then holds it to his heart, "Claire, I'm fair sure now those other girls werenae faking, but evan so - I've nevar seen, nevar heard, nevar felt annything like that before. Nothing previous was like that at all. It. . . this. . . you. . ." He smirks a little, "T'was ten times bettar." He dips his head to kiss the little cleft between my collarbones, "Feeling ye thrill like that. . . feelin' ye clutch at me, yer nails diggin' inta my back - it was so. . . direct. So immediate an' strong, so. . . Dhia, I dinnae ken." He sighs, deeply content, "So good, mo nighean. T'was like. . . like there were mirrors between us. Reflecting everythin' back and forth. Amplifying it." He grins and hums at me, cuddling me close, "I think I want it tae be that way every time."
"Oh, if only, my lad." I stretch and turn over, mildly surprised I can even move, given how impossibly comfortable I am at the moment.
"It will be," he says, stubbornly, "That and bettar, if I ha' anythin' tae say in the matter."
"Better huh?" I grin, and snuggle my shoulders into his chest, "How did I get so lucky?"
"Lucky?"
"Yes, lucky, you silly idiot! I'm married to a man who is kind, gentle, passionate, smart, fun, interesting, a hard worker, and an amazing father, and that's just the beginning. He's also a quick study, a cuddler, a fantastic kisser, he looks like a young god, smells like pure heaven, and wants nothing more than to give me pleasure." I sigh, "That's not just jackpot lucky, that's. . . that's betting against the house and winning enough to buy the casino lucky. That's plotting a random hyperspace course and finding a planet full of friendly non-toxic aliens whose hugs cure cancer lucky. That's Jesus existed lucky. That's how lucky I am right now, Jamie."
And I'm even luckier than that – because he loves me. . .
He loves me. . .
He never just said it because I asked him, he really actually does.
"Mmpf," he grunts in my ear, "Doesnae sound like luck tae me. Sounds like fate. . ." His voice fades off, and his breathing evens out. The arm he has draped over my side relaxes fully, molding to my curves. The weight of him against me takes on the heavy immovability of sleep.
I can feel sleep lurking just around the corner for myself as well, but at this exact moment, I am strangely, almost unnaturally awake, one idea rocketing around in my brain, repeating itself over and over.
He loves me.
Jamie loves me.
He loves me.
And I. . .
I. . .
Just exactly how do I feel about him?
I've spent all of tonight with him, speaking to him, touching him. . . tasting him. . . experiencing him. . . and thinking about him – about us. And most of the time I've been doing so almost as if. . . as if. . .
As if we have a future.
As if we'll be together forever.
As if I'm never going to leave.
He loves me.
I wish he hadn't said it. I wish he'd never said it. It's going to make next week so incredibly difficult. . .
I twitch the blankets a little closer around us, and settle a little deeper into my husband's arms.
My mind stutters to a halt.
My husband.
My husband.
Already, I am thinking of Jamie entirely as my husband. I have been all night. It's been easy. Natural.
Inevitable.
My husband. All mine.
Only mine.
The word echoes importantly through my thoughts, crashing into the other phrases hovering there, and blending into them.
Mine. . .
Love. . .
Me. . .
Us. . .
And then, I know. I have no idea why now is the moment, but it is. A crystalline-blue wave of realization overtakes me, flooding my mind with memories and feelings – our whole history replayed in a moment of delight so intense, it's almost painful.
I love him, too.
I love him. . .
I'd die for him. I'd live for him.
I'd come back from the dead for him.
My heart pounds, and I twist my eyes shut for a moment.
I love him. I love Jamie.
I, who was once nearly dead of loneliness, love Jamie. And he loves me. We will never be lonely again.
I'm breathless with the truth of it.
I almost wake him up to tell him, but then I stop. I can't say it to him just yet – the realization was too sudden. I can hardly wrap my own mind around it yet, and he has every reason to disbelieve any such declaration of mine, especially tonight.
I thought he didn't love me.
He knew I didn't love him.
So how can he possibly believe me if I only barely believe it myself? I'll have to find a way to convince him, to prove it to him. . .
Soon. One day very soon. Tomorrow, perhaps. Just not right now. . .
I run my fingers across the hand he has curled over my hip. I feel his heart beating against my back, and his breath against the top of my head.
Every part of him, even that ghostly touch of his breath on my hair, is suddenly infinitely precious.
I did care for him before. And adored, liked, wanted, respected and admired him.
And lusted after him. Lusted quite shamelessly.
But now. . .
Now he's more to me than my own life.
I love him. So much. So, so much. I'm overflowing with it. I'm suffused with it. Every particle of me glows with it.
It. . . it isn't a new feeling at all.
It's just been with me so long, and pushed aside so much, I didn't realize what it was until now. I've loved him since he dream-kissed me that night at Lamb's manse, and I've only fallen deeper in love with him since then.
I shake my head at myself.
Love.
Overwhelming, all-consuming love.
And then the next revelation hits me, almost as hard as the last.
I can't leave him.
I won't leave him.
Let anyone threaten us how they will, I am not going to leave him. Not for the future's sake, not for the past's sake, not for the present's sake, not for any reason. Maybe it is selfish, and maybe it isn't right, but I don't care. Leaving is unthinkable. Jamie is mine. All mine. And I'm his. Completely, thoroughly his. We belong to each other - we belong with each other - and that's all there is to say.
Maybe there is something in this whole soulmate thing after all. . .
A self-determination like Geillis's, and a stubbornness like Letitia's, mixed with a fiery passion all my own rises in me.
I'm going to stay here, and love him, as hard as I can, for as long as I can. Just let anyone try and stop me. . .
And I will deserve you too, my love - your mind, your soul, and your heart. I swear, by whatever deities may or may not exist. . .
I reach back, and run my fingers lightly across his hip.
I smile to myself. I can't ever deserve his body, of course. That level of sainthood simply doesn't exist. . .
My smile fades. He's everything, everything to me. How I missed it for so long, I don't know.
But I know I love him now.
Start with what you know. And learn from there. . .
I know so very little. And I have so much to learn. . .
But I will make you happy, my love. I promise.
"Ha gool akham erst," I murmur, then pause to listen.
His breathing doesn't change. He's asleep.
"I love you. I love you. I love you," I whisper, fiercely, "All my love is upon you, Jamie. I love you."
I can't get enough of saying it. I'm hungry to say it to his face. To see the look in his eyes when I do. To feel the kisses he'll give me after that. My stomach swoops deliciously at the thought. Almost, I turn in his arms, and wake him with my mouth caressing every available bit of his skin. . .
Almost.
There will be plenty of time for that. I'll find a way to prove myself to him soon enough. For now, let him sleep. My heart leaps at the peaceful, contented sound of his breathing, and I smirk at myself.
I am so, so gone. . .
Well, this changes things, doesn't it, Beauchamp?
Yes. . . yes it does. . .
Maybe. . . perhaps. . . it is Fate. Maybe this is what I was meant to do here.
Maybe this is why either of us exists.
Maybe. . .
Hope rises in my heart.
Maybe loving Jamie will be enough to change the future.
And if it isn't, then. . .
I can't imagine what then. Not tonight, anyway.
I stare for a long time at my wedding ring, and fall asleep with it pressed to my lips.
Chapter 87: Of Us
Chapter Text
The growling in my stomach wakes me up.
I smile.
I suppose, if I wanted to eat virtually nothing for almost a whole day, and then engage in highly vigourous exercise for almost a whole night, I ought to have expected such consequences. . .
At the very least. . .
I hop somewhat awkwardly to the bathroom. It's been a long time since I've had to deal with the. . . other consequences. . . of a long, passionate night with my husband. . .
Fortunately, the bathroom is close.
I stretch in front of the mirror after, enjoying how deliciously sore I am, in every place I should be, and admiring all my lovely marks, in spots I'm ridiculously proud of. I touch the little pink love-bite over my right breast, and stroke over the softly purple finger-shaped bruises on my left hip. I wish I could show them to the world, and shout "Jamie Fraser loves me!", so loud even people who won't be born for twenty years could hear me.
I make a face at myself in the mirror, and shake my head.
You are such a fool in love, Beauchamp!
I brush my teeth, scrub my face, and just manage to get a comb through my wild tangle of curls. All that work Jamie did last night. . . only to undo it with all that. . . work. . . he did last night.
I grin. One night your big round arse, Beauchamp. One lifetime isn't going to be enough. . .
I shiver as I come back into the cooler main room, and my stomach growls again.
Clothes, then food. Then. . .
I look at the shape of my husband, sprawled out under the covers, only his head and one hand visible, his mouth slightly open, his breathing smooth and deep.
Then, perhaps, I start to show him how much I love him. . .
But food first. And clothes before that.
I look around at my options. My wedding dress took three women who weren't me to get me into it properly. Jamie's dress shirt doesn't cover nearly enough of me, especially with how cold it is this morning. My shift is a distinct no. There's really only one choice. . .
I wriggle into Jamie's plaid, tightening the belt to the very last hole. The top half of it nearly swamps me, but I eventually manage to arrange it so I'm decently covered, and have full use of my arms. I use Jamie's brooch to pin it closed. There. Not great, but functional.
I go over to the mini kitchen, determined to heat up most if not all of our leftovers, and make a decent dent in them before Jamie wakes up.
My stomach rumbles again at the thought. Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, I'm hungry. . .
Where the mini kitchen should have a stove, or wave-heater oven, at least, there is a small card.
"Please request hot plate at manager's office"
I sigh.
Fine.
To my mild surprise, the night-porter is a woman. She hands over the hot plate with a grin, and when she asks if there is anything else, I ask her to see to the transfer of my things. I don't even know if they're still back at the sugar house. . .
But she smiles, and brings my bags out from the luggage room.
"Thanks. I'll come back down to get them after I have some breakfast. . ."
"Just as you please."
My way back to our suite takes me past the dining room. I can't help but look in. Places like this are so different when they're empty. . .
But the dining room isn't quite empty.
Dougal is there, sitting at a chair in front of the dying fire, three-quarters of the way through a bottle of whisky.
He looks up, and sneers at me. Then he kicks back his dram, and gestures at the chair across from him.
I go stand by it, but do not sit down.
"Arenae ye going tae thank me foor findin' ye someone better tae doo than ye muckin' up my campaign?"
Someone, not something. And his accent is deliberately deepened. He's trying to rile me up.
"It hadn't occurred to me to do so. No."
"Ye ken, if he cannae serve ye properly, ye have a'least one moor option."
He looks me up and down, a disgusting half-drunken leer spread all over his face.
I put the hot plate down, grab a shot glass from a side table, pour a shot of whisky from his bottle, take a sip, and sit down. I don't speak, instead looking deeply into the glowing red embers of the fire.
He hasn't miscalculated this badly since the night of the concert.
What the hell is he playing at?
I let the silence linger for several long, long minutes. Too often, he's rushed me into a confrontation. This time, I'm going to take a few minutes to think.
At first, the silence is wretchedly uncomfortable. Then, it deepens into something resembling peace.
I realize some things. Some things that should have been blatantly obvious to me before, but I was too distracted to notice. Some things I could never have noticed until I realized how much I loved Jamie. . .
Finally, the silence grows sharp, like a knife's edge.
At last, I break it, with a deliberately baffling non-sequitur.
"Jamie calls it Hotel California. Did you know that?"
Dougal looks just as off-kilter as I intended.
"What?"
"His workshop at Leoch."
"Oh. No. I didnae know that."
Of course he didn't. Such details are beneath him.
And that's my advantage. . .
"And, you know, that baffled me a long time. Even after he'd told me it was his favourite Eagles song, and even after I'd heard it. For a long time I wondered. Because it just didn't seem like him. He's more creative than that, surely? What could he possibly mean by calling a cottage something like that? So I listened to the song again. Several more times. But things didn't fall into place – or have a chance to, anyway - until two days ago. When you told me the devil was a woman. And then it struck me."
I tap a nail on the side of my shot glass.
"The song is a very evocative depiction of hell. Or. . . maybe. . . heaven. The lyrics even say so. But either way, it all builds to one line – "You can check out any time you like – but you can never leave"."
I put my glass down.
"He feels stuck at Leoch, Dougal. Trapped. Imprisoned. Like he'll never get out."
I look at him, not needing to gauge his reaction, but very much wanting him to see how furious I am with him.
"Why do you think he ever agreed to help with your campaign? And I don't mean your political campaign – I mean Culloden. Perpetrating what is essentially the murder of thousands of men. Guilty men, maybe, but still men. And still murder. Why do you think he agreed to help with that? Letting you use him. Showing his scars and everything. It took him almost two months to tell me about them, and even then it was just luck. . . or fate. . . that forced his hand. Why do you think he would agree to show strangers? I'll tell you why."
I lean back, and tap my fingertips on the arm of my chair.
"Until Jack is dead, he's stuck everywhere. It doesn't matter where he is, or who he's with – he's in the room with Jack. Listening to the whispers of a demon that wants him – him, specifically. Not wants him dead – wants him."
He heard my confrontation with Jack. He knows I'm right.
"Culloden is his only way out. It's his one best chance to see Jack dead, and seeing Jack dead is his only way out. You are his one best path to Culloden, and so you are his only way out. So he'll show his scars, go against all his doctor's instincts, hide in horse trailers, keep secrets from me, or try to, and comb through insane amounts of data given to us by a dubious ally – all for a chance – a chance – to leave the room with Jack."
I wave a finger. Just once, and very decisively.
"And now he has me on his side. So. When you get to Inverness, you're going to intercept that armored information transfer truck I know you know about now. You're going to do everything in your power to get his warrant lifted. You are going to help me protect him. And you are going to help me free him."
He takes a long drink, and looks at me defiantly, not understanding just how much I have over him now. "Or else?"
I shake my head, "There is no or else. I'm telling you what you are going to do for us. I'm giving you orders, Dougal. Because I'm the one in charge here now."
He leaps to his feet, "An' jus' what meks ye thi-"
"A weak come-on - to a bride - after her wedding night - with the groom you knew she would choose to marry!"
That stops him in his tracks.
"Now, sit down, and shut up. I'm going to talk a while, and you will listen to me. When I am finished, then you can speak."
Very, very slowly, he sits back down. His fiery rage morphs into cold, sharp steel, equally slowly.
"A come-on like that is not like you, Dougal. I mean, you're pretty much always weak on the strategic, but with tactical? No, this isn't like you at all. You're much better with tactics than a half-arsed leer at a woman who you know has just been bedded. You're more skillful than that too. So, I have to wonder. . . why? What is it about this situation specifically that has you so tangled up that you think propositioning me - here, and now of all times - is a good move?"
I shake my head, "It can't be about your political campaign. You want to get me to stop stealing your thunder? Stop treating me like shit. Easy." I shrug a little, "Well, maybe for a good man it'd be easy. But still. . ." I shake my head again, "No, you know how I approach our battles by now. I open with defense. I stay on the defense, for as long as possible. And then, if forced onto the offensive, I move decisively. And inexorably." I take a long sip of my drink, "But not implacably. In fact, you have ample proof that it is easy to come to terms with me. But you pole-vaulted over "terms" the day you put cow-guts in my bed. You chose to do that. In petty revenge for an interview. So. Whatever is going on here is about much, much more than me being better at politics than you."
He blinks at that, but doesn't deny it. In fact, he hardly reacts at all, his face a frozen mask.
"I suppose it could be another move to try and get me beholden to you. Like the whole silent treatment and Gàidhlig thing. But that's a strange choice to make after spending a lot of money and effort to marry me off to someone else. And it's an even stranger choice if it's yet another move to get Jamie beholden to you."
He inhales sharply. It isn't much - barely a sniff, really - and no other signs of surprise or dismay show on his face. But I've learned his tells very well by now.
"Oh, yes, you didn't know I knew about that too? Well, it became entirely too obvious, I'm afraid. You're about as subtle as a bolt of lightning, especially when you really want something. You can be good at playing the long game, but you're very obvious about it."
I tick points off on my fingers,
"You got Jamie out of Jack's clutches the first time, gave him a place to run to when the warrant came down, gave him a new name, a job, a workshop, and his godfather nearby. You ordered the men to stop teasing him about being bi, and ordered them to dial back the jokes about his being a virgin."
Because that's the only reason I can think of that Rupert didn't tell me either of those things a long time ago. . .
"So, telling him to marry me wasn't going to tip the scales either way. I don't really think you thought it was going to. He's already bought himself off you, and if he doesn't consider himself spiritually beholden to you personally, he probably won't ever feel that way, no matter what you do or don't do. And even if you do think otherwise, casually flirting with me isn't going to help you with that. So, all this isn't another ploy to try and get him under your heel. . ."
I realize I'm giving away a lot of how I think, showing Dougal just what my mental processes are, but at this point, that might actually be what I need to do, more than anything else. . .
"Perhaps, it may have something to do with the fact that Jamie is your older sister's son? He certainly could be the next MacKenzie, if enough of the clan wants him to be. And I'll grant - a Sassenach wife might scuttle that chance for him. But there's three good reasons why that isn't what's going on here either."
I pick up my glass, and take a small sip.
"First and foremost. He doesn't want it. He's one-hundred-percent a Fraser. Even the name he chose to hide under wasn't MacKenzie. If by some chance he ever does get forced to be Chief, well, he'd do his duty for as long as he is needed, and then hand the position over to someone else just as soon as humanly possible. And if I know that, then you know it too."
"Secondly, it's 2079. I may be a Sassenach, but I'm also part Scot. Dozens of current Clan Chieftains can say the same thing these days. Functionally, in my case, it's about as much of an obstacle as Jamie being bi. Which is to say - it isn't one. Or, at least, it shouldn't be. I don't discount it entirely, but would you to go to these lengths just to marry a rival off to "an unsuitable woman" - who may or may not even be considered unsuitable? I don't think so. And if you did, you wouldn't be coming on to me after succeeding. You'd want our marriage to last - which clearly you don't."
"Thirdly. . . if you really want to be The MacKenzie that much, having a Sassenach lover who is also your niece-in-law is not the smartest way to go about it. You do have your blind spots, of course, but I seriously doubt you're that bad with strategy. Especially considering that you're at least nominally Catholic."
"No, this isn't about MacKenzie being a Tanist clan. You have nothing to fear on that score. Not from Jamie, or me. Colum's successor has to be either you or Hamish." I give him a pointed look, "So - you, either way."
"Now then, what's left? You know I'm not a spy, and that I'm no danger to your Culloden campaign."
Not now that I know exactly how much it means to Jamie. . .
"You could just be trying to get me, I suppose. Blunt, unsophisticated, flat-out sexual domination, without any sort of stable relationship otherwise. Which, if you've learned anything about me at all, you'd know is not one of my turn-ons. Particularly from the likes of you, and especially after a wedding night with Jamie."
I soften a little bit, remembering.
"He was entirely wonderful, by the way. Perfection, in every respect. I am thoroughly satisfied with my choice of husband. In case that wasn't clear."
I twitch a fold of the Fraser tartan a little closer around me.
"And then, it was such a half-hearted come-on, Dougal. . . No, if you just wanted to sleep with me, you wouldn't insinuate - you'd just take. Or try to. And I'd kick you in the balls if you did. Which. . . I think you know. Or at least strongly suspect. So that's not it."
I kick my shot back, and slap the glass down.
"No. No, there's only one thing that makes any sense."
I give a long, very tired sigh.
"It could only mean that I got it right. By sheer, wild chance, I got it right. While I was in the room with Commander Thomas, I said you'd fallen in lust with me. Which, honestly, I never thought was true."
He inhales sharply again.
"Oh, yes. Mrs. Fitz suggested as much to me my second morning at Leoch. And several things have suggested it since. But so. . . outlandish an idea. . ." I smirk at the pun, "No, I never suspected it was true. But it must be the case, because why else would you marry me off to your nephew, and still think you had a chance with me? You knew Jamie and I were attracted to each other, but you didn't know how far it had or hadn't gone. Even after listening to us in the Rover, you had no idea how much I knew about him. You didn't even know if I'd seen his back before Burns Night, or knew the story behind it. So. . . rush us into marriage and. . . maybe. . . it will drive us apart. Marriage is a lot of work. It takes a lot of commitment, a lot of effort. A lot of love. Manipulate the situation enough, and perhaps. . . Jamie and I won't work out. It's a gamble, but if you plant the suggestion in my mind that you're ready and willing to rescue me from a hasty and unconsidered marriage. . . well. Who else am I going to run to? Who else would understand the situation and graciously take me under his wing? Strictly for my comfort, of course."
Of course, I could probably run to Ned. Or Murtagh. Or Mrs. Fitz. Or Leticia. Or a few dozen others at Leoch.
Or Craigh na Dun. . .
But that's irrelevant right now. . .
"And, it would explain your actions surrounding the wedding. Spending so much money without a word of protest. Being so nice to me about it all, but being so blunt with Jamie. Telling us we had to consummate the marriage when you were unsure if I was aware of Jamie's inexperience. Or if I even knew he was bi, for that matter. Giving him such awful advice for the wedding night – faking it indeed!"
I give him a look of such cold, infinite disdain, a tiny portion of his steely armor crumbles.
"You couldn't keep Geillis on a string if you couldn't make a woman go wild in bed. You know women don't usually fake it. Not with men they like, and who like them. You monster."
Never, ever has a positive statement of a man's sexual prowess been such a deep, personal insult.
"How dare you speak to him like that. You messed with his head. You bruised his heart. You damaged him." Very slowly, I unclench my sudden fists, and flex my hands in the firelight, "I could strangle you right now, Dougal, and I'd watch you die without a qualm. You hurt him. In an attempt to get at me. The latter is bad enough, but you hurt my husband. Deliberately. You have no idea what I am capable of doing to people who hurt the ones I love. Justice and vengeance are very well acquainted, you know."
But, as Jamie says, justice without mercy is only another form of murder. I take a deep breath, and banish Warrior Claire to her armoury, until I need her again.
"And then, you enabled such crude behaviour from Rupert and company – because how else did he and Angus get access to our rooms last night?"
And why did they feel like they had the right to come snooping around the honeymoon suite?
"Throw Jamie and me into enough awkward situations, and maybe our marriage will fall apart before it starts. Maybe he won't "serve me properly". Maybe he won't live up to my expectations. Maybe I'll be so shocked by all the wedding night revelations that by the next morning, I'll be looking for other options. Maybe I'll be desperate enough to run to the arms of a man who has threatened and mistreated me for months, trying to isolate, control and manipulate me, under the mistaken notion that I want to be anything other than his ally. Maybe I'll even be grateful to him for giving me sanctuary. Maybe I'll be seduced by his power."
I say the word with such a vicious snarl, he knows just how little he has over me now.
"Maybe you thought I didn't love Jamie. You could be forgiven for thinking that, of course. I only just discovered it myself. But I do. I've loved him from the start, if unconsciously, and I love him now, eyes wide open, with all my heart, and every particle of myself. He might not be the best man I've ever met. He might not be the noblest, or the kindest, or the most supportive, or the strongest, or the sweetest. . . but, then again. . . he might well be all of that, and more."
I press my hands together, and tap my fingers against my lips.
"Though, one thing is for sure. Rank and titles not withstanding. . . he's your superior. In every way."
I let my hands drop.
"And he's my husband. Which means I'm your superior too. And since you believe I'm an Auld One, that means I'm in charge now. So. You will help me free him from Jack. You will use your position in the Underground to get control of the money away from Sandringham. And in every other instance you will leave us the hell alone."
With a sneer, he stands, and turns to leave the room.
"You have too much honour, Dougal."
He stops. But he doesn't turn around.
"But it's all the wrong kind. It's all outward. A show. A pretense. Politics. You betrayed your inner self the minute you chose to let Colum kill himself with ignorance."
His back goes rigidly straight. He didn't know anyone knew that.
"Except you're not a demon. You're not even a villain. You've just done some monstrous things. As have we all."
He doesn't move.
"It's time to join us, Dougal. The people of the light. It's where you belong. There's already room for you here. There's always been room for you here."
He still doesn't move.
"I'll be waiting."
With a clatter of boots and a cold gust of air, Angus enters the room, and strides over to the fire, rubbing his hands and pouring himself a drink.
"Oof, tha' drive from Brockton is a chill one a' this hour. . ."
He trails off, staring at Dougal, who seems to be practically frozen.
"I'll. . . go check on the horses, then-" he starts, absently.
"Agch, I did that befoor I came in – they're fine, I-"
"Then I'll check on them again, shall I?" Dougal snaps, grabs his coat and cap from the table nearby, and stalks through the door.
Angus grunts, "What's wi' him?"
"Hangover, I think."
He grunts again. "S'the season for 'em, eh?" He nudges my knee, "I jus' got back from hand-deliverin' yer marriage papers inta Brockton."
"Oh?"
"Aye. An' I think even ye'd be shocked a' the swearin' I heard."
I chuckle, "That'd be difficult to do, after months with you lot."
He laughs along with me, giving me a long, appraising look.
"He was good tae ye, then. Jamie?"
"Very."
Angus nods, then says, in a voice much gentler than I've ever heard from him before, "Claire?"
"Yes?"
"He's. . . weel. Jamie's no' the man tae raise his hands tae ye, evar. Bu' if he does, tell me, aye? I'll knock his block off for ye. . ."
I grin, and hold out my hand, "I don't think I ever thanked you, Angus."
"Foor what? I havnae knocked his block off yet. . ."
"Not for that. I mean. . . the first day. My first day here, in Scotland. When Black Jack attacked me. You were there, with Murtagh. It was your shot took down Jack. I never thanked you for that."
He shrugs, but takes my hand, briefly, "Wasnae anythin' special. I'd shoot Black Jack anny day, for anny reason. For no reason. An' I'd do t'same again, an' moor, for ye. 'Specially now ye'er one of us."
"One of us. I like the sound of that."
"Aye," he scratches his ear, a little awkwardly, "Ye kind of were before, but this. . . I mean. . . he. . ."
"I know. Jamie changes most equations, doesn't he?"
"Aye. Reckon he does."
I get up, clutch the hot plate to me, and give him one more nod. Then I turn, and make my way back to our suite.
And to Jamie.
Talk about changing equations.
Reckon he does. . .
Chapter 88: On A Misty Morning
Notes:
Chapter Rating – M for non-graphic married nookie, adult themes, and mild kinkiness.
Chapter Text
Jamie is in the bathroom when I get back. I can hear him shuffling around, and the water turning on and off.
I smile as I activate the hot plate and start to warm up our breakfast. I've heard his little domestic sounds before. I've heard him burp, and his joints pop when he stretches, and the tiny smack his lips make when he swallows a sip of really good whisky. I know the sound his socks make against the inside of his boots, and the difference between his waking-up yawns and his falling-asleep yawns. But they were all just normal Human noises until now. Common. Unremarkable. Now, they are his noises, filling up our domestic space, and every one of them is important. Cherished. Precious.
The slap of his bare feet against tile, the clink of his water glass, the rattle as he puts his toothbrush back in its travel holder.
They all indicate life. That Jamie is alive. And that he's here.
I've never been in this hotel before, and we are going to leave it in a few short hours – but somehow it feels more like home to me now than any place ever has. Even Skycity 15.
Just because Jamie is here. . .
Love really does change things.
I've always known that, of course, but as I keep telling myself - knowing and experiencing are two very different things. . .
I hear the bathroom door open, and he steps into the main room.
"There ye are, Sassenach, I - "
He sounds happy, but his voice breaks off suddenly.
"Yes?" I turn, and go speechless myself.
Even after last night, the sight of him there, framed in the doorway, tall, strong, and beautifully naked, utterly short-circuits my brain.
My god he's perfect. . .
How?
How have I survived this long knowing him, without having him? And how did I go so long without knowing I loved him?
And that hits even harder right now, because he's currently looking at me like I'm perfect too. . .
"Christ. I kent ye hadtae be wearin' my plaid, but tae see ye in the Fraser tartan, mo chridhe. . ."
In two strides he has me in his arms, kissing me with a sort of reckless urgency that wouldn't be shocking if we'd been apart for months.
But it's been minutes. . .
He reaches behind me and turns off the hot plate. Then he backs up across the room, tugging on the plaid belt, urging me to go with him.
"Come back tae bed, Sassenach."
"But I'm hungry."
"Aye, weel, ye c'n take a bite ov me."
For the second time in twenty-four hours, Jamie's kilt gets left on the floor.
I manage to wrangle us so he gets in bed first, and I push at him until he's flat on his back. He sees the determination in my eyes, shakes his head, and speaks in between our urgent kisses,
"I. . . jus'. . . want ye, Sassenach. . . ye dinnae. . . havetae do annythin'. . . special for me this-"
I put a finger across his lips, and a leg over his thighs, "I'm not doing this for you. Rest assured, this is all for me. . ."
I sigh as I lean over him. It's like coming home. . .
His eyes widen, and he gasps out, "Aye. Aye it is. All for ye. . ."
I don't precisely know what it takes to "break in" a Fraser stallion, but I don't imagine it involves much kissing. Nor moaning. Nor filthy, impassioned whispering. Nor nipping your husband's collarbone so hard you taste metal. Nor white-hot pleasure so deep it literally makes you forget to breathe.
But I am fairly certain these sorts of things are what Rupert meant. . .
I collapse across Jamie's chest, utterly worn out, and helpless for the moment.
He strokes soothingly up and down my spine, and softly kisses my forehead.
"I understand now."
It takes me a second to pull words from the neep and tattie mash that is currently my brain, "Oh? Understand what?
"Last night. How ye could be satisfied wi' jus' watchin'. Christ, tha' was beautiful."
I give him a huge, lopsided grin, "You were hardly "just watching" this time, my lad."
"Neither were ye last night," he smiles back, "But I get it now."
"Mm. Good," I hum, and kiss his chin, "But now I need to have breakfast or I really will take a bite out of you. . ."
"I think ye already did, Sassenach."
"Oh. . ." I lift my head and look down at the blotchy red mark on his shoulder, with a few smears of darker red on its edges. . . "I'm sorry, I-"
"Dinnae fash. I'll go disinfect it jus' as soon as my legs work again. . ."
I chuckle, and sit up to show him my hip, "If it makes you feel any better. . ." I twist to show him the brand-new fingermarks on my other hip, "I have a lovely matched set."
"Ye really like 'em?"
"God yes. I wish I could frame them."
"Oh."
I cross my arms, "And what's wrong with that, then?"
"Not a thing, Sassenach," he pushes himself up for a kiss, "No' a single, solitary thing. It's only. . . since ye feel that way about them. . . c'n I show this one?" He brushes his fingers over the darkening purplish blotch.
I blink, utterly baffled, "Show it?"
"Aye."
". . . sure. I don't pretend to understand why you need to ask, though. It's your body, Jamie. And you're being generous enough to let me enjoy it," I wrap my arms around him, and kiss him, nice and slow, "Whatever I leave with you is yours to do with as you will."
"Mmm, ye'er a rare woman, Sorcha."
"Rare?" I scoff a bit, and get up to go put on his dress shirt, "It's basic bodily autonomy, Jamie. I appreciate you caring how I feel about it, but I have no right to tell you what you can or can't do with your own self."
"Mebbe no', but ye c'n have strong opinions."
He gets out of bed, untangles the plaid, and lays it out to start re-pleating it. I go back over to the mini kitchen, now ravenously hungry.
"Well, my opinion is - if it's on a body part you'd show in public anyway, show it whenever you want. Be proud of it. Have fun with it. If sex can't be fun, then what the bloody hell part of life can?"
He smirks, lays down on the prepared plaid, and wraps it around himself, "Ye do have quite a way of expressing yerself, Sorcha."
I load up two plates with steaming leftovers, put them on the table, and dig in without waiting for him. "Ri' now m'spressin' hunger, J'mie," I say around a bite of roast beef, "Did'n eat mush yesserday."
He agrees with a chuckle, and joins me.
We're both loading our plates for thirds before either of us feel like speaking again.
"Claire – when's yer birthday?"
"May first. When's yours?"
"October twentieth. Isn't it funny?"
I blink, in between bites of buttered peas, "October? Not really. . ."
"Nae, no' October. That we're this close an' only jus' now asking about birthdays?"
I shrug, "They haven't been important until now."
"Suppose not. . ."
We make it through most of the food, and Jamie puts the last few slices of beef on the uneaten dinner rolls, and wraps them up for later. Then he goes downstairs to retrieve our baggage, and I start to gather up our things here. He comes back wrangling all our bags, and one big, flat cardboard box.
"The landlady was up, an' gave me this for us," he says, handing me the box, "An' this too," he dumps our luggage on the couch, and unfastens a large pouch from his belt. As he hands it to me, it makes the unmistakable clink of coinage.
I open the box on the bed. The besom broom is set into a large cardboard cutaway on the bottom half of the box, and there are three empty cutaways on the top half. I am confused, but Jamie only grins, and lifts our handfasting ribbon and wedding crowns off the headboard, fitting them into the spaces provided.
"I'll dry-preserve the crowns properly when we get back tae Leoch, Sassenach. What's in the pouch? Weel, I ken what's in the pouch, but I wantae see how much."
"Of course." I upend the bag, and dump a truly surprising amount of money onto the bed.
He starts counting it, and putting it back in, "If this isnae enough tae repay Dougal what he spent on us, I'll get a stall at the market this spring. Sell some soaps an' lotions and things. I wilnae be beholden tae him in this – or annythin' – bu' especially this."
I smile at him fondly, but my voice is sarcastic, "Oh, he'll love to hear that. . ."
"Eh?"
Briefly, I tell him about this morning's confrontation with Dougal. He blinks at me, an almost dazed look in his eyes, "Did ye really give him orders, Sassenach?"
"I did."
"Christ, ye'er terrifying. I keep forgettin' it, 'cause I love ye so much," he gives me a hearty, resounding kiss, "Bu' I mean tae pay him off in any case, aye?"
"Oh, I didn't mean to imply you shouldn't. I think you absolutely should. And I also think a stall in the market sounds like a grand idea, regardless. I think we should both do that, no matter what."
He looks at me for a long moment, then reaches out and traces a finger under my chin, "D'ye ken, in no' a single one of my fantasies about bein' married t'ye did I dream the mos' arousin' thing about ye would be ye tellin' me I ha' good ideas? Nowhere near close."
"Oh, aye?" I chuckle and kiss him, "But that's marriage, Jamie. It's all about support, and partnership, and building the other up."
"Oh, I ken. S'jus' nevar struck me like this before."
"Well, then welcome to the first day of the rest of our lives."
"Mmm. Sounds lovely," he briefly hugs me close, "Bu' right now we need tae change clothes, an' get ready tae go."
I sigh, but lightly, "We do."
We bustle about, each of us doing our own thing for quite a while. Eventually, I meet him in the dooryard with our luggage, while he brings the Rover around.
As we load up, Jamie going over the day's planned itinerary, Rupert appears, a broad, leering smirk on his face.
"Mornin' Jam. How was yer first time then? Did ye bleed?"
Jamie rolls his eyes, but only so I can see, "Aye," he turns, and pulls his shirt to the side so he can show the dark red and purple mark on his collarbone.
I smirk, understanding his request now.
"But it's nae moor than I expected, lad. When ye bed a vixen, ye'er gonna get bit – et onlay stands tae reason."
"Och, is that what it stands for?" says Rupert, mockingly. But his tone is very clearly jealous.
"Aye. An' when ye wed, ye may learn it isnae manners tae-"
"Did you get anywhere with the girls last night, Rupert?" I interrupt, hearing a danger-note of real anger in Jamie's voice.
"Weel. . . as tae that. . ." Rupert looks around awkwardly, and if I didn't know better, I could almost swear he blushes, "Y'see. . ."
At this moment, a side door opens, and Edina and Morag clatter into the dooryard, chaffing and teasing each other with a great deal of the morning-type of giggling.
Which, as a girl, I know is different than the afternoon, or evening, or middle-of-the-night types of giggling – but I've rarely heard such truly good-morning giggles from anyone, ever.
Then Avota appears in the doorway, Ned on her arm. She gives him a parting, full-tongue kiss, and a fond caress on the cheek. He kisses his fingertips to Morag and Edina, and bows to all three of them, then goes back inside.
The girls start across the dooryard, paying very little attention to us, until I call out - "Now that's what I call a three for one special!"
I ignore the boys' frozen, shocked expressions, and go over to give each of the girls a hug, promising to try and come back for an anniversary some day. . .
Chapter 89: Glowed In Her Soul
Notes:
Chapter Rating – M for non-graphic married nookie, mild kinkiness, discussion of same, and discussion of past trauma
Chapter Text
Our next campaign stop is only a few kilometers down the road. The dawn's mist has barely had time to settle into an early-morning fog by the time the picturesque rows of shops and cottages weave into sight. As we pull up to the little hotel, and smell the wonderful odours from the bakery next door, Murtagh taps on the Rover window, signaling Jamie to roll it down.
"About half the men'll be stayin' in cottages heer, lad, an' Dougal's one is wheer the stables are. Also wee Donas needs his exercise taeday, an'. . ." he trails off, with an apologetic look at me.
I smile, and kiss Jamie's cheek, "Never mind, my dear. You go to work. I'll go get us checked in. Hurry back to me."
He grins a little at that, "No fear of anythin' else, Sassenach."
I manage to wrangle all our luggage inside, where the landlord helps me with it. I hand him our official MacKenzie requisition notices and itinerary, and he gives me a respectful nod and a pair of keys.
"Sae are ye th'laas whoo got marrit yeastarday?" he asks, leading me upstairs.
I smile. Gossip really does move faster than light. . . "Oh. Yes."
"Mennay happay returns," he nods in over his shoulder in solemn salute.
"Thank you."
"Wisht I couldv'e made it tae th'partay, bu' t'was holed up heer."
I find the right door number, and unlock it, "I wish you could have been there too. It was a very good party."
"Aye. Sae wheer's th'laad?" He arranges our bags neatly in front of a large wardrobe.
"Working. He'll be along presently."
"Good good," he gestures around, "Gave ye a single room wi' a biggar bed, rather than a double wi' twa smaller. Ye'll let me ken iff'n t'ere's aught ye need?"
"I will. Or one or the other of us will. Thank you."
"Good good," he says again, and goes back downstairs, to deal with the rest of the men clattering into the reception area. I can hear their loud footsteps and incessant chaffing, even all the way up here. . .
Very, very deliberately, I push all thoughts of other men out of my mind, and go sit on one of the two easy chairs by the coffee table.
Jamie.
He was very quiet on the drive over. In fact the whole ride was remarkably silent. It was the soft, companionable sort of silence that reassures rather than worries, and refuses to be filled with anything but sweet, sidelong looks, and gentle, surreptitious touches.
I hadn't touched a book or my com, he hadn't reached for the radio, or put on any music. We had simply. . . basked.
A half a dozen times, I had begun to open my mouth to tell him I loved him, but the silence stopped me. It was too perfect to break, even with something good.
And I still haven't earned the right to say it anyway. . .
I didn't say it this morning when he did, and he didn't act as though he expected me to. I sigh. He is so sure I don't. . . and I know that's my fault. My own clueless, distracted, traumatized heart's fault. I might have walked into this with my eyes open, but I also did it without fully knowing my own soul.
And so now it's easier for me to tell Dougal that I love Jamie, than it is for me to tell Jamie himself.
How? How am I going to prove it to him?
I've never had this problem before. The declarations Frank and I shared had been so natural and commonplace that I'm not even sure now the ones I remember as "firsts" really were. None of my other relationships had progressed that far.
In this, conceivably, Jamie is actually more experienced than I am. . .
Besides, the Claire I am now is manifestly not the Claire I was then.
And none of the men were Jamie.
How?
How?
I immediately decide against a deliberate grand gesture. Those only work in vidcasts, and not very well then.
An intimate, personalized gesture sounds better, but also. . . contrived. Like "I love you" is a line to be spoken, not a feeling to be felt, and a life to be lived alongside someone. Like I'm not proving anything, just setting up a scene to be played out.
And just blurting it out whenever my heart wants to say it wouldn't be proving it either.
I shake my head at myself. I know I'm overthinking this terribly. . .
It's just that my lovely Jammie Dodger deserves so much more than I've given him. . .
Jamie comes through the door like a whirlwind. He lifts me out of my chair, and deposits me on the bed in less time than it takes me to think it. I don't remember which of us started to kiss who first, but with his mouth on mine, that scarcely matters. . . I pull back with a gasp.
"You're here much sooner than I expecte-"
"Aye," he takes my mouth again, grunting as he tears off his overcoat, "I must have ye." He nibbles and licks at the tingly spot on my jaw, fully exploiting everything he knows about my body now. . .
"Mmm. Yes, right there. And the horses?"
"Made Murtagh take charge of carin' for 'em."
"Ah. And the men?"
"Told 'em ye were carsick on the way over, an' needed an acupuncture session."
He's down to his shirtsleeves, and reaches for the zipper on my cardigan. . .
"Acupuncture?" I laugh, "That's a new way of putting it. And they believed you, did they?"
"Och, there's nae chance in hell they believed me. Bu' they let me come tae ye. That's all tha' mattars. No' that annythin' could'ha stopped me. . ."
He tries to push me down onto the bed, but all this talk has reminded me of a particularly delicious little fantasy of mine. . .
I stand up, turn around, and test the height of the bed. It's a little low, so I grab the cushion from an easy chair, and try again. Perfect. I give him a mischievous grin, and wriggle my backside at him.
He doesn't look bewildered so much as several competing types of excited.
"What's in yer mind then, lass?"
I chuckle at him, "I said I could be insatiable, didn't I? I said I'd start tomorrow, yes? Well, it's tomorrow, and here I am, and I want you to. . ." I yank his head to mine, and whisper some truly filthy things into his ear. . .
He pulls back to stare at me, his eyes blazing blue even as they darken almost wholly to black, "Humans really can do it like horses, then? I havenae thought about it like that since I were a wee lad. A very wee lad, I-"
I snort, "Not precisely like horses, I imagine. . ."
"Noo, no' exactly, but-"
"Too much talking, Jamie. . ." I fumble a little with his belt, then manage to get it off.
"Mmm, yes but. . ."
"Still too much talking. . ."
He agrees with a grunt, and then we both burn with such insistent heat we don't bother trying to remove any more of our clothes than absolutely necessary.
One of his hands anchors my thighs to him, and the other grips my hair just exactly how I wanted him to. . .
It's all over far too quickly, and not a moment too soon. . .
"How, Jamie?" I pant, still breathless, face down and spread out at an awkward angle all over the bed, "How are you so good at this already?"
"Hmmmpf," he flops down in an equally inelegant sprawl next to me, "Passionate exuberance. A lifetime of abstinence mixed wi' intense curiosity. An' extreme motivation."
"Well, the first ones I grant you," I smile, and run my fingers along the bit of him that's the easiest for me to reach, which at the moment happens to be the collar of his shirt, ". . . but. . . extreme motivation? You weren't that desperate for this, were you?"
"Mmm, no' exactly, mo chridhe," he lifts my arm a little and nuzzles into my wrist, "I'll explain what I mean when we get back tae Leoch. Deal?"
I'm much too satisfied at the moment to ask any more questions, "Deal."
He buries his lips in the palm of my hand, then gives a very long, half-pleased, half-frustrated sigh, "Christ above, does it ever stop, Sassenach? Do ye know?"
I blink, and pull myself away from the edge of hazy, beckoning sleep, "Stop? What. . ."
"This ache, Sassenach. The. . . the wanting. The hunger of it. I've just had ye, and I'm still ravenous. More desperate than I was that day I first gave ye a love bite," he kisses my fingers, one by one, and moans at the memory, "God, ye'll nevar ken jus' how close I came tae ravishin' ye that day - how badly I wanted tae taste all of ye." He sighs again, "An' now we'er heer, an' I can, an' it's only worse. Does it ever stop?"
I love him. That means I can read him now, like I never could before. He isn't asking if his feelings are alright with me – he's asking if I think he's a better lover than Frank.
I love him so much, the truth is easy.
"I honestly don't know, Jamie. I've never felt this way before either."
A questioning line appears between his brows, "But. . ."
I shake my head, "Things were never like this with Frank. Yes, I loved him, and he loved me. Yes, we made love, and we tried to have children. Yes, we built a life, and it was warm and beautiful. When he died, yes, for years I was bereft and hollow with grief. But most of that was how he died – not simply that he died. If I'd been able to resolve things between us – apologize, tell him I loved him. . . if I'd been able to say goodbye. . . Well, I don't know how I would have felt, exactly, but I know the past five years would have been a much different prospect."
I shift around, and snuggle into his side, "The truth is, you gave him back to me, Jamie."
There is confusion, and uncertainty in his eyes.
"Thinking of him isn't a cold or empty thing for me anymore. It doesn't hurt me like it used to." I twine my arms around his neck, and run the tip of my nose across his jaw, "I still miss him, but in the way we all miss people who are gone forever. What is essential is invisible to the eye – remember? And a lot of that is thanks to you, Jamie darling. Everything that was good, or worthy, or wonderful about my life with him then, is echoed somewhere in my life with you now. And everything with you is so much better, my dear."
His eyes light up, but his voice is still a little hesitant, "Everything?"
"Yes. Everything. From the sound of your voice, to the feel of your touch, to the scent of your skin. Every. Single. Thing."
It's the truth. He can hear it.
"But. . ."
I set my jaw, "You, James Fraser, are the best I've ever had, and that's the complete, one-hundred percent truth."
I kiss him then, in a way that leaves no room between us. No room even for doubt.
When I pull away, I look deeply into his his warm, beautiful eyes, and feel the echo of his soul inside my own.
"With him, I never felt like I would starve if he didn't kiss me. Or like I might evaporate if I couldn't touch him. I never felt like I would cheerfully face Hell itself if it meant saving him one minute's pain. We were close, yes," I put my hand over Jamie's heart, and look him straight in the eyes, "But I never. . . belonged to him. Nor he to me. We had affection, stability, friendship, equality, respect – everything really. Except. . ."
"Except. . . passion?"
"Except – we weren't soulmates."
Heaven help me, I love him. Can I tell him now? Have I proved it enough? Simple sex in a hotel room doesn't feel like anywhere near enough, fantastic though it was. . .
"Ye ha' nae moor doubts we're soulmates, then?"
"We must be, Jamie. We certainly fit perfectly."
"Mmm. That we do."
He kisses me, delicately.
"But. . . does it ever stop?"
I sigh, "Jamie. . ."
"Because I've just had ye – twice if ye count this mornin', an' as soon as I c'n convince my body tae cooperate, I'm bound I'll have ye again. An' again an' again. As often as ye say yes an' I c'n stand for it."
"Sounds lovely to me. . ."
"But. . . I nevar dreamed that marrying ye would make the wanting worse, Sassenach. Does it evar stop?"
He isn't asking about Frank this time. He's asking about us.
"It must. Married couples get other things done than just this all the time, no matter how much they want each other."
He shakes his head, "Reckon we're not like other folks, then. It cannae always feel this way between people."
I sigh, and sit up, starting to free myself from my tangle of clothes, "Probably not, but I don't think that signifies too much, really. We're soulmates, Jamie. That may not be usual, and it's certainly different, but it doesn't mean we're mythical inhuman creatures that can't be explained or understood. If it's happening to us, it has happened to countless other people all through the ages. If we can feel it, it's been felt by thousands of generations before us. We're just Humans. No matter how unique we are, we're not special."
He scratches his chest through his shirt, "Now, why is that comfortin'?"
"Peter Pan."
"What?"
"'All this has happened before. All this will happen again,'" I quote, "It's comforting to know you're just a step in a cycle, just one chapter in a book, just one piece of a larger puzzle. It means the whole thing doesn't rest on you, no matter how connected you are to everything else." I put the cushion back on the easy chair, dump my clothes on it, then shiver my way under the blankets on the bed, "It means you can just do your best, and that will always be enough."
"Huh."
He says it contemplatively, and doesn't say anything else for quite a while. He gets up, removes the rest of his clothes, and joins me under the covers. He cuddles me close, and caresses me with long, sweeping strokes.
"Let me do my best, then, tae discover all the ways ye like tae be touched. . ."
I grin eagerly, and am just about to lose myself in his kisses again, when I glance at his shoulder. . .
"Jamie! What happened?"
I brush my fingers over the mark I made on him this morning. Or rather, the nearly invisible yellowish-green stain where my mark used to be.
He glances down, "Oh tha'. I towld ye I was going tae disinfect it, aye? Went an' put some of my own ointment on it too, while we were packin' up this mornin'."
"Your own ointment my foot – it's almost gone."
"S' a good formula, s'pose. . ."
"Can't just be the formula, Jamie – I broke the skin this morning, and it's only been, what, two hours? Three?" I brush my fingers over the spot again, "How?"
He shrugs, "Dinnae ken. Jus' as well tho."
Wonder and confusion collide in my brain. I blink at him, not knowing what to say.
"Ye did say I could do whate're I liked wi' it, aye?"
"Of course – that's not the question at all – I just. . . completely misunderstood what you actually did want to do with it. I thought you wanted to show it."
He chuckles, "Nae, I wanted tae show it tae Rupert. Or one of his kind. Tae stave off the teasin', ken? I knew the virgin jokes were comin', an' saw potential in it," he touches the spot himself, "Didnae think the chance tae use it would come so soon after, bu' I'm glad it did. An' if I heal up quick, sae much the bettar."
My confusion only deepens, "But. . . but, Jamie, you. . . you asked me to bite you. You told me to do it – you almost ordered me. Hell, you practically begged me there at one point. . ."
A flush comes up on his cheeks, and he clears his throat, "I like a little pain, mo chridhe. A wee sting. A tiny nip. A pinch, here an' there. A poke. Pressure tha's no' quite comfortable. It makes the contrast so much the sweetar, in the end."
I nod, in full agreement.
"Bu' I hate bein' marked. I hate it a lot."
I gasp, as realization dawns, "Oh god, I'm such an idiot!" I slide a hand across his shoulders, "Of course you do. Of course."
"Aye, my back has summat tae do wi' it, right enough," he nods, "I hate it much more now. But I was allus like that, even before." He touches the spot again, "The feel of it was good, mo nighean. The mark of it, nae sae much."
My whole self burns with shame, "I'm so, so sorry Jamie."
"Nae, it's alright. Ye didnae ken."
"No, I didn't."
But that's hardly an excuse. . .
"An' besides. Marks from ye get a pass-"
I shake my head emphatically, "No. No they don't."
He is brought up short, and looks at me, mirroring my previous confusion.
"No, I bloody well don't get a pass, Jamie," I cup his face with both hands, "If you aren't going to lay down a boundary here, then I most certainly am. We didn't just promise each other truth, you know. We promised honour too. So you listen to me, and listen well, my lad. Until you clearly and specifically tell me that both your feelings and your wants on this matter have changed, I will not mark your skin again. Never deliberately, and I will do everything in my power to make sure I don't do it accidentally either. That's not just a promise, that's a line in the damned sand. Are we clear?"
"Aye, very," he says, eyes roving desperately all over my face, "Christ, I've nevar wanted ye as much as I do right now, Sassenach. . ."
He rolls us over, and takes me hard, and so fast that I plummet deeper into gorgeous oblivion than I've ever been before. I'm incapable of speech for so long afterwards I'd be embarrassed if I didn't feel so wonderful. . .
"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ," I manage to say, finally, "How are you so good at this already?"
He chuckles, "Mebbe it's that I have an excellent teacher. . ."
I grin, "Excellent answer. I suppose the real mystery is why I'm any good at this at all anymore. It's been five very lonely years, Jamie."
He nuzzles my cheek, and kisses my ear, "Ach. It's like riding a bike, I expect."
I am incredibly satisfied. My mind is somewhere misty and golden and rosy and completely protected from the world outside.
It's the only excuse I have for what I say next.
"Mmm. What's a bike?"
I haven't heard him mention that kind of horse before. . .
His whole body freezes, and he looks at me, not incredulous, just intensely confused, "A bike. . . ye ken. . . a. . . bicycle?"
"Oh. . ." I try and look as though that word isn't just as unknown to me. I try to parse it. Bi-cycle – two wheeled? The only things with two wheels on Skycity 15 are mobile market stalls, and no one rides on those – at least not on purpose. . .
"They. . . dinnae call them bikes in Oxford?"
I shrug, "They must not. I've never heard the idiom before."
It is a measure of how relaxed I feel that the prospect of telling him my last secret doesn't terrify me in the least. . .
"My beautiful Sassenach," he whispers behind my ear, "Sae sweet, sae strong, sae strange. . ." he runs the tip of his tongue down my neck, and sucks gently on all the tender spots he left on my chest last night, "Hot as the sun. Lovely as the moon. . ." his hand disappears beneath the covers, "Slick as waterweed. . ."
Warm, nourishing fire burns between us again, and I am completely engulfed once more.
I don't know if this feeling ever stops, my love – because I think we might in fact be made of it. . .
Chapter 90: A Dragonfly Of Amber
Notes:
Chapter Rating – Soft M for graphically suggestive cat-calling, adult discussion and themes, and mild kinkiness
Chapter Text
"Bu' ye cannae jus' wait up heer, Sassenach. That bannock ye had was hours ago!"
Jamie looks at me reproachfully while tucking in his shirt.
I sigh, "I had a few slices of roast beef too-"
"Aye, I ken, an' tha's nowise near enough tae survive on any longer," he pauses, and his cheeks flush, "No' what wi' all we'ev been. . ."
The past several hours replay in high-speed flashes in my head. Eyes and hands and soft words and sweet touches. . . and some not so sweet. . . and some not sweet at all. . .
The scent of his hair is still on the pillow I'm currently cuddling to my chest. I shiver, even though the room isn't too cold, and the bed is still very warm. . .
"And that's my point, Jamie. All we've been. And everyone knows we have been, too. You are welcome to go down to tea if you want. But if you want to have it with me, let's order it up here. Or bring me up something after you have yours, like I suggested. I'll survive just fine. The only thing both of us going down to the dining room will achieve is a lot of embarrassment."
He stops in the middle of putting on his boots, "Ye. . . ye arenae ashamed of-"
I roll my eyes, "Of course not, Jamie!" I groan with frustration, and flip the edge of the blankets over my head for a second, "But if there's one thing the Ruperts of this world are good at, it's being embarrassing."
And so much of what has happened between us since yesterday is so intensely private. Not just the fun we've had – the serious business of learning to be a married couple too. Those memories are ours – I'm not sure I want to dilute them with very probably less-than-pleasant memories involving other people just now.
And I'm also still getting used to the feelings of intense belonging that loving him has given me. I am sure I don't want to dilute those at the moment. . .
"Aye, I ken there'll be teasin' – a merciless lot o' it – but. . ." he rubs his hands together, then gets up, and kneels by the bed, bringing his face level to mine, "But I wantae be seen wi' ye, mo nighean donn. I want us tae show each other off. I want anyone who sees either of us tae automatically think of the other. So they all go out inta the world, declarin' that we belong tae each other. An' if that means endurin' a storm of crude comments made by unimaginative men, weel. . ." he runs a fingertip around the edge of my ear, then sighs a little, "I'd say that's nothin'. Bu' that's jus' my idea. I'm more used tae them than most – both the men, an' the comments. I'm not ye, an' I shouldnae assume. Jus' because ye can fight, an' well too, it doesnae mean ye like it or want tae do it – I ken that well enough. Would it be tae much for ye jus' now, Sorcha?"
I gape at him a little. This man. Will loving him ever not be a constant string of surprises?
Shut up and answer the man, Beauchamp.
"I. . . hadn't considered the showing each other off part."
He grins, "Aye, d'ye think I'm pretty enough tae be yer arm candy?" He runs a hand through his hair and preens shamelessly.
My breath catches, and some thoroughly tired bits of me remember in vivid detail exactly how they got so tired. . .
I can't resist him.
Dammit.
"Alright. Give me a minute."
When we enter the dining room, the downright fatherly looks we get from both Murtagh and Ned almost make up for the mocking applause and wolf whistles we get from everyone else.
Well. They make up for it a little bit, anyway. . .
Jamie directs us towards the most isolated corner, but we are still chaffed and teased mercilessly on our way there.
"Back from yer climb up Ben Nevis then, lassie?"
"Didnae ken they wasted Scottish cream fillin' English cakes 'round heer. . ."
"The Lioness an' the Unicorn were fightin' all round the town, eh?"
"Gi' 'er plum cake now an' gi' back tae drummin', aye?"
"What's the weather like i' the South, lad?"
"High pressure an' wet?"
"Aye, an' a bit stormy, I'll warrant!"
"Bu' does the wee rose have thorns?"
"She does now!"
"One, annyroad!"
As Jamie seats us in a tiny booth tucked under the staircase, most of the room loses sight of us, and the laughter and jibes become more general, and slightly more tolerable.
I sigh. As though I needed more proof that there's never anything new when men do this to me. . . It wouldn't be quite so bad if it were ever interesting, but it is always either crude sexual remarks, and class sneers, or both. Add in all the sassenach stuff and it gets too, too predictable.
Hatred isn't just nasty – it's boring.
Just once I wish someone would insult my fashion sense – which I fully admit is often overly utilitarian and woefully unsophisticated in a lot of ways – or maybe my thoroughly ridiculous ability to remember the name and face of practically every person I've ever met, no matter how briefly, or how long ago – or even focus a little bit on my frankly silly French accent, or how funny most Gàidhlig still sounds when I try to do anything but sing it.
But no. All of that would mean getting to know me. Acknowledging my quirks. My individuality. My Humanity.
It's much less easy to dehumanize someone when you've used what time you've had in their company to get to know them. . .
I had thought I was past most of this with the majority of the men - again - but apparently marrying Jamie means a free pass back to day one with me. Again.
It wouldn't hurt so much if they weren't dragging Jamie into it this time too. He's lived with them for four years, and they respect and love him. They'd follow him as their Chieftain in a heartbeat. But the chance of a crude joke at his expense is still worth more than all of it.
And even that I'd dismiss as nothing more than rough affection or post-wedding exuberance, if it were not for the fact that Jamie unflinchingly accepted bearing a mark on his skin if it meant staving off just a small portion of it all. No, there's more happening here than simple teasing, and Jamie knows it better than I do. . .
These men have spent many weeks in the company and under the direct leadership of a man whose primary objective for years has been - and for the next three years will be – to bring about the violent and utter destruction of practically every English person currently in Scotland.
Is it any wonder that every time I'm vulnerable, the men see it as their own private preview of Culloden?
Why did Jamie insist we come down to tea, again?
He gives me an understanding smile and touches his fingers to mine, "Would ye like ale or whisky wi' our food, Sorcha?"
"Whisky," I give a lopsided grin that is almost a sneer, "Emphatically whisky."
"Aye, right enough," he signals down a server and gives our orders in the Gàidhlig.
As we wait, he tells me about the Korean novel he's currently reading, how much it's improving his vocabulary, and how different the idioms and ideas are, but also how fundamentally similar and Human they all turn out to be, once truly observed and understood. . .
I nod along, sipping on my whisky when it arrives, most of my attention on the still rowdy men surrounding us. . .
Then my brain finally makes the connection. What he's really telling me. . .
Oh.
We aren't just showing each other off here. He's humanizing me. In front of them. And it's working too – no one has approached us since we sat down, and we are able to have a perfectly private conversation, if we keep our voices low.
Well, this early on in the process it might just be him, of course – all two meters, extremely fit, newly-minted husband of him. Rupert and Angus did walk away with quite a story to tell about us last night, after all – and I just bet they embellished it, too.
But still.
My clever, brilliant, wise, delicious, sweetheart. . .
Just when I thought I couldn't possibly love him more.
He deserves a reward. . .
Surreptitiously, I slide my shoe along his boot, and his steady stream of words falters momentarily. Clearly no one has played footsie with him in a long time – if ever. I grin at him mischievously.
"Oh, do go on, Jamie dear. I'm listening."
He nods, inhales, backs up a little, and starts again. . .
The toe of my shoe caresses lightly around his anklebone.
He falters again.
"What's the matter darling? Whisky too strong?"
"Nae fear," he kicks back his portion and signals a server for more, "The opposite, rather. I said gi' ye a weapon an' ye'er deadly, did I no'?"
"Deadly?" I say, making my voice as low and sultry as I can in the middle of a crowded and noisy dining room, "And what weapon? Why, I can't pretend to understand what you're talking about, Jamie."
Slowly, I run my foot up the side of his boot, to where the seam of his jeans is tucked into them.
His expression goes from pained and bemused to simmering and dangerous in a thoroughly arousing blink of an eye, "Stop it, Sorcha," he says, in a voice so low I can barely hear it, "Or I'll bend ye ovar this table an' take ye right here. An' ye wouldnae enjoy that a bit."
"Oh?" I press my toe up along the seam a little further, wondering exactly where the boundary is going to be here. . . "Are you so certain I wouldn't?"
His eyes blaze with barely restrained fire, "Jesus, Mary and Bride. . ."
I give a sneaky little smile, and lick my lips, "You said we were going to show each other off, but you never said how much. . ."
I slowly work my foot between his knees. . .
He gapes at me, shocked back into the sweet lad he usually is.
My eyes flick to the men around us, and I push my foot forward. . . "Besides, I bet they'd love to see a Sassenach get f-"
"Mo Dhia. . ." his hand flies across the table, and grips my wrist firmly. I can feel his pulse beat in his palm.
The light of a real warning glows in his eyes.
There it is. The Gàidhlig marks the boundary. Yes, that tracks. . .
Very well then.
I pull my foot back.
Good to know.
"I only promised I wouldn't push you last night, Jamie. I never said anything about today. You should know by now I love a good sparring match."
He closes his eyes, and takes a long, deep breath, exhaling slowly, "Promise me ye wilnae spar wi' me in public, Sorcha, please? No' about this. For now, a'least?"
He doesn't sound angry, he sounds. . . sorrowful. . .
What?
I twist my wrist out of his softened grip, and touch his hand soothingly, "Of course, my dear, if that's what you want. But. . ."
Our food comes just then, and we pause to address the steak and ale pie, pickled carrots, and curry baked cauliflower.
"I'm sorry I wasnae clear about it earlier, Sorcha," he says, a few minutes later, "I do love the boldness of ye. I do want tae show ye off, an' be shown off by ye. But this. . ." the toe of his boot touches my ankle, "This is sae new between us that I. . . I. . ."
I see him fight back a blush, but he can't stop his ears from turning a lovely soft pink.
Oh. . .
"You can't be jealous, Jamie?"
A Laird's look rises in his eyes.
"I can."
"But. . . of who?" I glance around, incredulously.
"What d'ye mean of who? Of ye. Of us. Of this," his boot strokes up and down my leg a little.
"But Jamie, you played along. You escalated it. . ."
He quirks his eyebrows, "An' ye were the one who didnae want tae come down tae tea at all because there might be embarrassment."
I pause, and tilt my head in acknowledgment, "Okay. Fair point."
"A'course I played along, mo ghràidh. A'course I escalated. Ye'er my wife." He gestures with his fork, "Sparrin' wi' ye is half the fun of it. I jus' didnae gauge ye right, an' we went somewhere I wasnae expectin'. Did I no' tell ye I keep forgettin' how terrifyin' ye are?"
"But you can't think. . ." I look around again, "Not really think. . ."
"I don't."
"Well then?"
He sighs, "Jealousy isnae just anger against rivals, mo nighean donn. Surely ye ken that? It's also a bone deep need tae. . . protect. Tae fence somethin' away sae securely that there's nae question it's yers. Tae guard it." He playfully bumps the toe of his boot against my shoe, "In the auld auld days, that was love. Honour too. We may ha' grown as a species since, but some of us still feel like that sometimes. Have ye ever felt in such a way, Sorcha?"
The past two days wrap themselves up together and snuggle into my heart. How did I ever question that this man was my soulmate? I smile softly, "Of course I have, Jamie. Why don't you take a minute and really parse the reason I didn't want to come down to tea, hmm?"
I see the gears whirl in his mind for a little bit. An enchanting smolder joins the Laird's expression in his eyes, "Really?"
"Of course really, you sweet strawberry biscuit!" I take a bite of cauliflower, and look at him saucily, "You're my Jammie Dodger. No one gets to dunk you in their tea but me, and as for giving you a wee nibble. . ." I swipe a hand across my mouth, and touch my tongue to a fingertip with a coy little flourish.
A rather. . . reminiscent little move. I've only done anything like it in his presence once before. . . Exactly once. Pearls may or may not have been involved. . .
His jaw drops as he realizes what I'm talking about, and then he throws his head back and laughs so loudly that most of the people in our range of vision pause their conversations a little to stare. But he waves the looks away, and getting himself under control, smiles broadly at me, "I've never liked that nickname until now, Sorcha."
I rest my chin in one hand, "How about if I promise to be careful about sparring with you in public? Words and gestures, but no touching, since that seems to be what fires you up so badly?"
He considers a minute, "Aye, I think that might work, mo chridhe. A chess match, instead of a game of shinty." Pointedly, he rests the toe of his boot firmly on my foot.
I lightly kick-slap him away, like my shoe is a caman-stick and his foot is the ball, "Save the tackling for the bedroom, got it."
He snort-laughs so hard he almost spits out a sip of whisky. But he doesn't, and after a centering moment, looks at me with a very insistent request in his eyes.
"All right, no more just now. I promise."
He grins, and focuses back on his food. I watch him eat for a few minutes, so full of loving him that I cannot understand how I am containing it all.
I must tell him soon.
I must. Or I think I might burst.
But I certainly can't say it here. . .
"Tell me more about the kite flying festival, Jamie?"
"Oh, aye. Weel. . ."
He launches back into the story of his novel. He's such an evocative storyteller himself that I can see the kites as he describes them – fantastical creatures dancing in the air, as the wind pushes them further and further into the sky, the scent of the dry grass and the sweep of the clouds framing the entire earth in silver and gold. . .
A small but heavy paper-wrapped package flies in from who knows where, and lands with a solid thunk on the table between us.
Jamie picks it up, curiously. Whatever it is, it's about the size of a ten-pound coin, or. . . yes, a Jammie Dodger biscuit. . . It is wrapped in a very thickly-folded strip of plain white writing paper.
"Hugh?" Jamie says, looking around.
I look around too, bewildered, "What? Who-"
"One o' Lallybroch's tenants – tha's how he usedtae communicate wi' us boys – he'd throw a stone wi' a note tied 'round it ovar the fence. . ."
Jamie holds out his arms and makes few strange but very precise gestures.
Gestures I. . . know? Gestures I can read?
What. . .
~Where are you?~
~You are here. I know you are here~
And then a gesture I don't know, but that I assume is Hugh's name.
Oh.
Of course.
It's been so long. . .
~Time has been very too long~, say a pair of hands that appear beside our table. We both look up into the smiling face of a man pushing a small luggage cart, ~We miss you Black Son~
Jamie smiles so hard I think he might start crying. He signs the gesture I don't know again, "Hugh!", he says, and then envelops the man in an enormous hug. Then he stands him off with a great shout of laughter, and signs some more, ~To see you is very good. Very good. How are you here?~ "Sae good tae see ye. What brings ye here?"
~Church-father message sent to wobble-spire~
~I see. I was not knowing~ "Oh. I didnae know he'd done tha'."
~Yes. He said you had been married~
Jamie grins some more, and nods towards me, using both hands to sign as he says, "~Yes, this is-~"
I have to spell the name, and I am very rusty at the other signs, but it's all come back to me remarkably well. . .
"~M-u-r-t-a-g-h is a good man. Thank you for being here~"
Both men stare at me, delighted surprise on Hugh's face, and plain shock on Jamie's.
Hugh recovers first.
~You sign! How do you know it?~
~Tractors are very loud. Sometimes to speak we cannot speak~ "Sometimes farm equipment is so loud it's the only way to talk."
Considering the span of time, and the vast divide in cultures, not a lot has changed from Hugh's expressive hand-speech to the farming station Standard Core Gestural dialect I know. Skycity Core fusion generator rooms are extremely noisy places, so it is not surprising that SCG first developed there, but it was maintained in the farming stations. Get all the crop regulators in a station going at once, and you have to wear ear protection even when you're working in the back-room laboratories. On busy days, SCG is the only effective way to communicate.
"Will wondars nevar cease," Jamie breathes, staring at me, and not signing.
~I see Black Son married good~ Hugh holds out his hand.
I take it, trying desperately to remember how to introduce myself. I can easily recall the signs for test tubes or sprouting trays, but the simple pleasantries are very far back in my memory. . .
~I am C-l-a-i-r-e. You good. To meet is~ "My name's Claire. I'm very glad to meet you."
His eyes carefully follow the movement of my lips as well as my hands, and he doesn't mention my slightly mangled signing.
~I have a marriage present for you pair~ He points at the large package resting on the luggage cart.
I try out the gesture Hugh called Jamie, just to see what it's like ~You made Black Son happy. That is good present enough~ "You made Jamie smile. That's enough for me."
Hugh smiles, but doesn't reply, starting to wrangle the clearly very heavy box off the cart.
At the sight and sound of his name, Jamie snaps out of his wondering haze, and helps Hugh lift the cloth-wrapped present onto our table. It lands with a decided thud, and a distant, very faint, metallic rustle. Jamie undoes the long set of cords wrapped around the thing, and folds back the plain gray wool wrapping. Underneath is a plain chest, covered in black leather.
For the second time in as many minutes, Jamie lights up so brightly tears start to form in his eyes.
~The strawberry _! Who gave them?~ "The Fraser jewels! How did ye get them?"
~Some. Not all. Church-father told _ to give me the most good things and bring here~
~_! That means-~ "Ian! I'll havetae-"
~I see you are here~ "Glad ye got here, Hugh," Murtagh interrupts, ~Sad to part you so soon, purpose that brings _ he _ -~ "Sorrae tae take ye away sae quick, but ye ken Dougal when he has a bee in his-"
"~Dougal? What does he-~"
~Yes. He has a species of _ he wants to do in _ and-~ "Aye, t'ere's some kinda commando thing he wants tae run in Inverness, an'-"
~And he needs me for _~
I am so bewildered, trying to keep up with the speech, and the signing, and the signs I don't know, and what with everyone interrupting each other, I am very nearly lost. . .
I hold my hands out in the middle of everyone, and mime the latest of Hugh's signs I don't know, and an emphatic question mark.
It's the signing equivalent of shouting to make myself heard.
Everyone settles a bit, and Jamie answers me.
"~Intelligence~"
"~Aye, an' does he ever need it. . .~" says Murtagh, smirking. He embraces Hugh then, slapping him on the back a few times. Then they walk slowly out of the dining room, signing a pleasant conversation as they go.
Jamie watches them for a long minute, then turns back to me, all sorts of wonder in his eyes.
"Ye are, unquestionably, the most amazin' woman I've evar met, Sorcha."
A thoroughly inexplicable blush warms my face, "For knowing sign language?"
He leans on the jewel casket in front of him, "Nae, no' just for that." He undoes the hasp, and throws back the lid, revealing a black velvet interior, full of shining, gleaming, sparkling colours. He reverently lifts something out of one corner, and bending over to me, slips a long string of pearls over my head, "For being the most natural Lady Lallybroch any man could'ha asked for, the best War Chieftain I've evar met, and prettier than the bonniest bride I evar dreamed, inta the bargain." He bends down a bit further, and kisses me briefly, then sits back down to finish his tea.
I run the pearls between my fingers, not knowing what to say. A mere "thank you" would be woefully inadequate after that, and I positively refuse to let a public dining room be the first place he hears "I love you, Jamie" from me. . .
I repeatedly stroke my thumb over the smooth, soothing surface of the pearls instead. I've seen pearls before, even touched one or two, but never so many at once, and never such lovely ones as these. They are all slightly irregular, and somehow this brings out their gloss and subtle colours all the more.
When the words do finally come, they are remarkably simple and easy.
"They're beautiful, Jamie. I can see why your mother was inspired by them."
"Aye."
There are a lifetime of memories in his smile.
I let the necklace drop, for now, and re-focus on all the myriad of other things that just happened. . .
"Now, what was Murtagh saying about Inverness and a commando run?"
He shrugs, "Dinnae ken. Ye do pretty much havetae go through Inverness tae get heer from Broch Mordha, a'course, bu' as for Dougal's plans, weel – ye'ev spoken tae him more recently than I have, an' that was-"
The answer hits me all at once, "Oh!" I clap a hand over my mouth for a second, then significantly lower my voice, "That was one of the orders I gave him."
"A commando raid was? What. . ."
I nod, "Yes. I ordered him to help us get your warrant lifted. And one of the things we need if we're even going to try to do that. . ."
"The armoured truck goin' through Inverness. . ." he leans his head in his hands a moment, "Christ, Sorcha. He's followin' yer orders. Dougal!"
"For his own reasons, and in his own way, I'm certain."
"Och. Aye, a'course. Bu' still."
Yes.
Still. . .
Alain approaches our table, eyes lowered, with literally his cap in his hand.
"Jam?", he says, respectfully, "The men would like tae ken if we're tae see the weddin' gifts or no'. . ."
"Agch! A'course!" Jamie grabs the little paper-wrapped package, and untwists the long folded strip from around the thing in the center.
When opened up, it is clear the papers are an inventory. He runs down it quickly, skimming over the pages with a few nods of recognition.
Then Jamie tells Alain to help him, and together they shift the heavy casket to the nearest larger table. The people sitting there eagerly move their things out of the way.
He opens the chest again, and lifts out several trays of beautiful, colourful things, and then dips into two drawers of even more. He isn't half finished laying everything out to his satisfaction before nearly the whole room has either queued up along one side of the table, or crowded around the other.
I smile at them. A flash of gold still on our own table catches my eye.
The thing the inventory papers were wrapped around.
I pick it up and inspect it. It is either a very small plaid brooch, or a very large statement pin, in the shape of a very odd insect. The body is clearly that of a dragonfly, made of polished amber cabochons in a brass setting, and the wings are just as clearly those of a moth, in sulfur yellow enamel on silver. I'd say it was some sort of mistake, but everything about it is far too deliberate for that. . .
Jamie sits back down across from me, grinning over at the men as they file past the Fraser jewels, pointing and exclaiming and discussing. Angus has taken up a station at the table, supervising them if they want to pick anything up.
"Auld wedding tradition, Sorcha," says Jamie, turning back to me with a smile, "The guests get tae view the gifts. Usually at the reception feast."
I laugh, very quietly, "Good thing they don't know what our gifts actually were, then. . ."
"Aye," he chuckles, "I wouldnae ha' stood for tha'."
"Me either," I laugh along with him, then hold up the insect brooch, "What is this, Jamie? It's half one thing, half another – I can't work it out."
He takes it gently from me, and holds it up by its long backing pin, "This issa Meetin' Sprite, Sorcha. A fairy that takes on the aspects of twa or more people or ideas in harmony, an' that's where it draws its power from. Fairy like that c'n drain the life out ov a friendship in three Sundays flat – oor so they say." He lays it down on the table between us again, "Wear a representation of them like this tho, an' ye draw the power back. It c'n be any set ov livin' things. They say it's wheer we got the idea of griffons an' chimeras an' the like, and mebbe evan mermaids, winged horses, an' centaurs – compound, impossible creeturs – all dangerous an' strange. Yet somehow, still fascinatin'." He lightly taps a fingertip on the cool enamel of the wings, "Dinnae ken the exact story of this one heer. Bound tae have been one tho."
I draw a fingertip down the line of smooth amber jewels that make up the dragonfly's body. . .
"Would you wear it, Jamie?"
He blinks, surprised. "Certainly. . ." he says, slowly, but makes no move to pick it up.
"For me?" I ask, touching the pearls around my neck, only half knowing where I'm going with this, "Because you and I. . ." I reach out and take his hand, "I don't know how we're going to get through this, Jamie, but I do know we're meant to be together. Even if we do look like a. . ." I push the brooch towards him a little, ". . . a. . . sort of dangerous accident no one can really explain."
He nods, contemplatively, then picks up the fairy talisman, and pins it over his heart.
Chapter 91: Two Fools
Notes:
Chapter Rating – Soft M for non-graphic married nookie
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
I back up under the stream of water as far as I can without getting my hair wet. I let the shower beat against my shoulders for a long few minutes while I reflect. We leave for our next stop tomorrow, which also happens to be our last stop before Inverness. In fact, tomorrow night we'll be staying in the same little town where the Rover broke down three months ago, where Murtagh and Angus brought me after rescuing me from Black Jack.
Strange, the things I remember about that day. Single images and feelings that will stay with me down the years.
The smell of the earth. The impact of stone on flesh. The feel of stun-gel making contact with my skin. The look in Black Jack's eyes as he prepared to shoot me.
Strange what I have forgotten too.
Ask me what I said to Murtagh, or what Angus said to me all that day, and I don't know that I could.
In the end, that day, and those events, were merely the last in a long, long line of days and events, each compounding to bring me finally, inexorably, miraculously, to Jamie.
Strange to think that more has happened to me in the past four months of my life than in all of the three and a half decades prior. And those hadn't exactly been empty.
It's not everyone who can say they've had two hundred years happen to them in a single day. . .
I step out of the shower and dry off, wrapping a large towel around myself.
It's not everyone who can look forward to a life married to James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser as a consequence, either. . .
I open the bathroom door, and he is the first thing I see.
I stand stock still, drinking him in.
He's sitting in an easy chair next to the coffee table, reading one of the paper-bound books I brought from Leoch. The warm light from the lamp spills across him like a golden mantle. His broad, sinewy hands hold the book like a goblet of fine wine, and his lips mouth the occasional word as he reads it.
His personality fills the room. It is only an ordinary hotel room in a thoroughly common Scottish B&B, but his presence makes it a mansion. A castle. A palace.
I no longer know what to call the feeling building up inside me. Love itself seems too weak and simple a word. I feel the need to either redefine it, or redefine myself.
I could kneel before him in this moment. Pledge my fealty. Take the Oath. Promise him the moon, or the very stars. Spill my own heart's blood.
Nothing would be enough. Everything wouldn't be enough.
Whatever this is, it is more than all of it.
I'll never be able to prove it to him. Because there's nothing to prove. It simply is. We are. There's no proving what is already so fundamentally understood. The only thing to do now - the only thing - is to live. Live our lives together, giving each other honor and truth every day, for the rest of our time in this world. . . and whatever time we have in whatever comes next.
All of a sudden, saying it is easy.
"I love you, Jamie."
He looks up slowly from his book.
His eyes take me in, the burning blue of them raking me up and down a half a dozen times. He looks at me as though I am the ghost of someone he loved long ago, blended seamlessly into a stranger he's just met. Then he stands with one great lunge, casts my book aside, and takes two strides towards me, before stopping with a jerk, as though caught in an invisible Safnet screen.
An utterly forlorn hope enters his eyes, and his voice comes out low.
"Are ye real, Sorcha?"
I don't blame him for his disbelief. I do feel rather beyond the bounds of real just now. . .
"Yes. I love you, Jamie."
With one more step he's on his knees before me, his arms wrapped around my body, his face pressed hard against my stomach, and shuddering, wracking sobs running through him.
I rest my hands on his head like a coronet, then stroke his hair gently, speaking all the love-words I know.
"Shh, my love, I know. . . I know. . . all will be well now, I promise. . . all will be well. . ."
I go on and on like that, and slowly but surely, he calms, nuzzling into me, and stroking with his hands up my sides and down my legs.
Suddenly, I feel like a queen, and that this is a most inequitable position.
"On your feet, Lord Fraser," I say, all of my Central nobility in my voice.
Something in him reacts automatically to the sound of the title, and all at once he is taller than me again, looking down into my eyes, and cradling my face in both hands.
"Say it again, I beg ye."
"I love you, James Fraser."
His eyes slide closed, "Again."
"I love you."
"Again."
"I love you."
"Again."
"I love you."
He kisses me, so carefully it's like he's afraid I might break.
Or like he might. . .
"When, Sorcha? When?"
His voice still wavers with emotion, but he has himself in hand now.
"When did I love you, or when did I know?"
"Both."
"I loved you the very first time you kissed me. But I didn't know it until last night, right after you fell asleep for good."
He gives a long, gusty, groaning sigh, "An' said nothing all day? Why, my heart? Why?" He kisses me again, reproachfully.
I work my hands underneath his shirt, and caress his scars, "Well, it was such a shocking thing to discover, Jamie. Not only that I loved you, but that I loved you so much. I've never loved anyone as much as this. Nowhere close. I didn't know love like this was real. And it was doubly shocking to realize that I had loved you this much, from the start. It's quite a thing to realize you've been feeling without knowing it."
He half smiles through the tear-tracks still on his face, "Aye, it mus' be."
"I was waiting until I'd gotten a little used to the idea before I said anything definite. You see, I. . ." I look down, and a fearsome blush overtakes me, "I thought I might have to convince you. . ."
He wipes furiously at his eyes, "Mmm, aye, Sassenach, please, please convince me."
I hug him closer to me, "I love you. With all my heart and soul I love you, my husband, my darling. If any gods exist, may they forgive me for not saying it every hour, every second since I knew you existed. I love you. More than mere words can say, I love you. I'll never stop. Never."
"God in heaven save me. . . ye'er so much more than I evar dreamed. Kiss me, Sorcha."
I pull his mouth to mine, and convince him that way for a while. . .
"Are ye sure ye'er real, my heart?" he murmurs, some minutes later, "But nae, ye must be."
I smile, wryly, "And why is that?"
"Even the wantingest dreams of a hungry lad couldnae possibly have delivered the taste of ye, Claire. . . the taste of ye. . . gods, ye'er sae sweet I could die of it. . ." He gives me several hot, nipping kisses along my neck. I can't help but moan.
"I love you, Jamie."
He grins, "No dream could make my heart beat sae fast at the sound of those words, mo Sorcha. Pretend I'm still no' convinced. What more were ye going tae say?"
I lean my head on his chest, "If this life was ten thousand years it wouldn't be long enough to start to live a life with you, Jamie. One life isn't enough, however long. A million lives wouldn't be enough. I insist on infinity. That might just satisfy me."
He is smiling now, but he is also crying again, "I'm such a fool for ye, Sassenach."
"And I for you."
His expression darkens a little, "For a minute there. . . when ye said it first. . . I thought ye'd read my mind. Near scairt the life out ov me."
"What do you mean?"
"I was readin' yer wee book of poetry there, and had jus' got tae John Donne. . ."
I frown little, "Absence, hear thou my protestation?"
"No. "I am two fools, I know. . ."
"Oh, that one."
"Aye."
"I see. . ."
His arms tighten a little around me, "Mmm. Come tae bed, Sassenach. Jus' tae sleep, taenight. . ."
But I smile softly, and shake my head.
I pull away from him, go over to the coffee table, and reach into the jewelry case. I slip the freshwater pearls around my neck, and let my towel fall.
I look at him, as a queen might look at a god.
"Make love to me, Jamie."
Eyes warm with rapt astonishment, he picks me up, and lays me down, all slow tenderness and gentle fervency.
We've done this slowly a few times by now. But this is the first time neither of us is hesitant or nervous, nor searching, nor exploring.
For the first time, we're doing this for its own sake.
For the first time, it's not sex. It is worship.
"I am two fools, I know," I quote while gently kissing my way down his neck, "For loving, and for saying so."
Touches flow between us like cool, pure water, when it runs along underground, the fruit of endless secret springs, clean, essential, and true.
"But where's tha' wiseman, tha' would no' be I? If she would no' deny?"
His kisses are as intoxicating as ever, but there is no hunger in them this time. There is only immortality. Only so much life we neither of us can contain it all.
We are bright with it. Replete with it.
We are suffused with it. . .
"And I, which was two fools, do so grow three. . ."
The brilliant blues and greens of his soul envelop me, so completely, so perfectly, I am astonished I ever doubted we were meant for this. . .
This time the pleasure doesn't burst, or break, or crash, or explode. It wells up silently, and inexorably, and lasts what feels like an age.
I have never felt sacred after making love before. But holding him now, my fingers tangled in the copper gold of his hair, his fingers entwined with my pearls, I feel something important is bound up in us. Something pure. Something essential. Something sanctified.
Something holy.
I don't ask questions. I just open my heart to love as much as I can, and hope.
And hope. . .
And hope. . .
Before sleep claims us, he whispers the last line of the poem into the curls above my ear.
"Who art a little wise, th'best fools be. . ."
Notes:
“The Triple Fool” by John Donne can be found here - https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44130/the-triple-fool
Chapter 92: The Place I Was Before
Chapter Text
We are floating in pearl-gray smoke. The ground is blue flame, and the sky glows white. Between the heavens and horizon there is only the sound of fire, until a great bell clangs.
The flames become the sea, poison-green, glowing with radioactivity. We are drawn across the waves, and up a Skycity Spire, to a room with silver walls.
In the distance, Blackwing fighters dogfight over the sea. Their thunder reaches us, echoing, and golden pearls fill the room. Blue lightning flashes from Jamie's eyes, and we are standing in the middle of Culloden field, the grass brown and dry, the sky silver and gold, our hands full of weapons, the air full of screaming. Then the great bell clangs again, and the sky turns red.
Jamie takes my hand, and we run, over land and sky and sea, to the hilltop of stones they call Craigh na Dun. Jamie gives me a handful of flowers. They turn to insects in my grasp, all moths and dragonflies, and they leap into the air, and fill the sky like smoke. One lands on the tall central stone and disappears. The sun rises and sets in crimson fire, over and over and over again, faster and faster and faster, until the track of the sun is nothing but a glowing band of gold across a blood-red sky.
"You
walked the Fire Dance. You spoke the Song of Summoning. You gave the Golden Sacrifice."
Lamb appears before me, like an image of soot painted on a mirror.
"We can speak together at last."
But a black cloak of silence is thrown over the world instead. There is only the pressure of Jamie's hand against my own.
We walk in the midst of a grove of trees, the wind sighing in soft, rushing sweeps through the rustling leaves.
The pressure on my hand grows heavier, and the rushing wind grows rougher, louder. . .
It is my own snoring. I am only aware of it for a partial second before I wake up fully. I blink. My right hand is wedged underneath Jamie's right shoulder, and my fingers have lost feeling. I pull my hand in close, and flex my fingers until the painful tingling goes away.
As it fades, so do the images from that dream. . .
I yawn, and rub the sleep from my eyes. Then I push forward a little, and snuggle into Jamie's back.
Strange. . .
Just a few days ago, pressing my naked self full-length against Jamie's scars would have felt noteworthy, at the very least. Now. . .
I wrap an arm around him. Now, it is no more than I intend to do every morning for the rest of our lives.
Idly, I play lightly with his chest hair, and bask in the lazy heat of his sleep. I close my eyes and relax, allowing myself to wake up slowly.
Funny about that dream though. . .
No.
I push it very firmly out of my mind. There have been too many dreams. Too many unexplained mysteries and cryptic images. Too many passwords, too many meaningless sayings, too much "ancient wisdom". Too many knowledgeable people still unwilling to actually explain things.
Too many secrets.
Well, I say no. I didn't ask for any of it. So, no.
I am just an ordinary woman, in love with her man. I don't need grand mystic enigmas or magical cosmic plans. I cannot save the world.
I only want the man in front of me. I just need Jamie, and room to live our life.
That is enough.
He will always be enough. . .
The cadence of his breathing changes, and he stirs in my arms. He yawns, and grunts, then snuggles his shoulders back a little deeper into my chest.
"How did ye know?" he asks, voice still gravelly with sleep.
"Mmm," I hum, "Know what?"
"Tha' I've allus wanted tae be the little spoon."
I smile, and chuckle softly, gently running my nails up and down between his pecs, "Pure luck, my love. Besides, you might be a spoon in this scenario, perhaps. The front spoon, maybe. But little? You? No." I kiss his ear, then wrap a leg halfway around him, cuddling him even closer, "One of your nicknames might be Wee Jamie, but nothing about you is little, my darling."
He shakes his head, chuckling too, "Ye do ken how tae stroke a man's ego, Sassenach."
My fingers still, and I flatten my hand against his chest, "Oh, this is your ego then, is it? Silly me, I always thought that bit was significantly lower on the male anatomy – not to mention an entirely different shape. But never mind – good to know." I go back to gently playing with his chest hair.
"Haud yer wheesht, woman," he says, voice full of adoring fondness, "Are ye sae bound an' determined tae gi' me a swollen heid?"
"Mmm. Depends on which one you mean," I slide my hand down to his belly, "And what you intend on doing with it once I have."
He pulls my hand back up to his face, and kisses my fingers one by one, "An' what would ye do if I said "both" an' "everythin'"?"
"Welllll, I am your wife, so I suppose I would be expected to bring you back down to sea level."
He goes still. "Sea level?"
"Yep." I nod casually, but an icy hole opens in my stomach. Is that not a common idiom here? I thought for sure I'd heard someone say. . .
"No' back down tae earth?"
"Nope, sea level."
My stomach ties itself into a firm knot. I've only just told him I love him. How on earth am I going to tell him this too? I know I have to, eventually. It was always the plan. And truly, I do want to. . .
But. . .
"Huh."
And just like that, he lets it drop. He re-sets his shoulders against me, yawns again, and lets himself continue to wake up in slow, easy stages.
My stomach untwists.
But I can't keep relying on him letting things go. I have to find a way to tell him.
The problem, of course, is there's no good way to phrase it.
'I love you' and 'I'm a time traveler' might be somewhat similar when it comes to their wow factor – certainly when it comes to their ultimate impact on a relationship - but one comes with the forgiveness built in, and the other one comes with a prescription for anti-psychotics.
There's no way he'll just believe me, and I don't really have any way to prove it, either.
Except by disappearing through the stones of Craigh na Dun, of course. . .
So, I have no real way to prove it. And unlike 'I love you', simple acceptance isn't the end of the issue, even if he does believe me.
Time travel has a lot of strings attached.
Like how, for instance. And why. Not to mention when.
And what for. . .
I put the sight and sound of the dream out of my head once more.
But Lamb. . .
No. Shut up, Beauchamp.
But. . .
No. You're happy here. You love him, he loves you, and you have a son.
What more do you want, Beauchamp? Everything else is just frosting, and you know it. You've got the cake, all three tiers of it. Stop overthinking things.
And what about justice, hmm? What about Culloden?
I peck him on the shoulder, give a long yawn and a stretch, and roll out of bed to use the bathroom.
Well, what about Culloden, then?
He needs it to happen Beauchamp. That's what about Culloden bloody moor.
No, he doesn't need Culloden to happen, Beauchamp, he needs Jack to die. Are you seriously prepared to write off the lives of thousands of other men as collateral damage?
Guilty men. Criminals. Abusers. Evil men.
Yes. Who are still men.
And most of the Scots died too, remember. Don't write them off either. . .
Oh, and go ahead and be honest with yourself – he doesn't even need Jack to die. That might be satisfying, but it's not really necessary. Jamie just needs to be able to leave the room. Jack existing isn't the problem. Jamie hearing the whispers is the problem. Until that is fixed, Culloden won't fix anything.
War never does. You know that, Beauchamp.
Except that stopping it is in no way simple or easy, and may not, in fact, be possible.
Or right. Because there is a lot more going on here than one man's fight for his own soul. There is a whole culture involved here. A whole world, when you take just the smallest step back. . .
So now I'm back to where I was before.
I am a time traveler, sent with a seemingly simple mission – make the future a better place, by making the past a better place. Simply living and loving might do that, of course, but I also have a downright plethora of things in front of me that I could choose to work on, and all of them, all of them, pivot around Culloden bloody moor.
But I do live, and I do love, and Jamie is half my soul. Jamie has half my soul.
How? How do I tell him?
Forget proving it just now, Beauchamp, how are you even going to explain? It took Lamb taking you to Culloden itself before he managed to explain it to you, remember? And you can't even use those same stories until you explain all of the next two hundred years to Jamie, and maybe not even then.
But you can't move forward on any of this until you do tell him, and you know it.
You're stuck, Beauchamp. Just like Jamie is stuck in the room with Jack. You're stuck between Craigh na Dun and Culloden moor.
Welcome to Hotel feckin' California. . .
I wash my hands, and go into the main room to get dressed.
Jamie is in the middle of putting his boots on when I walk in. He looks up and sees me, a wide, delighted grin crossing his face.
"Now, that's a sight I could get used tae seein' evary mornin', an' no mistake."
I giggle, and wriggle my backside at him, "Good, because it's the one you signed up for, and the only one I've got." I unzip my suitcase, and start pulling out clothes, "I need to do some laundry soon."
"Me too. I'll ask if it's do-it-yourself or a service at the next place we stay at, aye?"
"Sounds good."
"D'ye wantae go down for breakfast, or order it up heer?"
"We might as well go down. We're leaving very soon after we eat, right? And we need to go down to get a cart for the jewel case anyway."
"Good point."
He sidles over to kiss my cheek. I pause in buttoning up my shirt, and put my arms around him.
"It's been a long time since I was this comfortably domestic with someone, Jamie. Thank you."
"For the basics?" he scoffs.
"No. For putting the effort in as constantly as you do. It started long before our wedding night, and I just want to let you know I see it. And I appreciate it." I squeeze him a little tighter, and kiss his jaw, "And I love you. And you need to shave." I rub the prickly feeling of his scruff off my lips, then sit down to put on my shoes.
He laughs, "Aye, twa nights and one whole day abed wi' a wild wee vixen ov a woman is moor than enough tae be makin' a barbarian ov me, Sassenach," he leans down and deliberately scrapes his cheek along the side of my neck, "An', I note, ye didnae complain last night."
I snort, even though my whole body is suddenly alive with tingling. I push him playfully away, "I am not complaining, you lovely great brute. You just need to shave, unless you want to get started on a beard."
"Ah." He bustles around a bit, gathering up the few things we have scattered around, "An' if I wanted tae grow one?"
"It's all the same to me, Jamie. I'll love you either way – and at every stage in between."
He comes over to my chair, and leans his forehead against mine for a minute. He's no fool. He knows we're not just talking about facial hair.
"Every stage?"
"Every one."
"Evan when I grow gray an' grizzled an' thin on top?"
"And plump in the middle and bent in the shoulders, and dim in the eyes."
"Oh, aye?"
"I want to be there for all of it, Jamie. I wouldn't miss it for the world."
He sinks his mouth against mine, and reaching down, scoops me up out of the chair, holding me hard against him.
"Christ, Sorcha. I never thought someone could mean more tae me than life."
I scrape my fingertips along the roughness of his chin, "Blood of my blood, and bone of my bone."
He pushes me up against the wardrobe, and kisses me, deep and slow, "I always kent it would be forever, for me, aye? When I found my one, they'd be my only."
"Mmmm," I moan wordlessly, and go in for another kiss.
"Bu' I didnae ken it would be like this. S' more than wanting, now, Sorcha. It's need now too. A physical, keening thing. It's only evar quiet when I'm inside ye. . ."
He takes my mouth, with lips and tongue and teeth, and the same fervency as when he takes all of me. Then he rests his forehead against mine again.
"An' s' a good thing I've already given ye my soul, mo nighean donn, for ye draw it out of me wi' evary word ye say, evary beat of yer heart, evary blessed breath of air ye breathe. Mo Dhia, how can our two Human bodies weather it?"
"I don't know. . ." I bury my fingers in his hair, and pull his mouth to mine again, "But I do know possessing your soul means you're always inside me, Jamie."
"'Til our life shall be done."
I shake my head, "It means there's nothing in this world – or the next – no matter what it is, or if it is – there's nothing anywhere that can part us."
"Mmm – no evan death?"
"Death, James Fraser, hasn't got a chance."
And I truly think he's going to stand here all day, making love to me with his mouth, until Murtagh interrupts us a few minutes later. I'm never quite sure how we make it through breakfast, or how we manage to keep our hands to ourselves in the Rover, but we do – just.
Then, we pull into the dooryard of our next hotel, and I look up, and see all the distinctive lines and features of Uncle Lamb's manse.
Chapter 93: The Call
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The thing about living in the past is, you're haunted by the future. Ghosts of people and things yet to be are just as spooky as the ones who have passed on, and they meet you around just as many corners, and await you behind just as many slowly creaking doors. There is just as much uncertainty – did you really see that, or just imagine it? Was that an image from a dream, or from reality? Do you really remember what they were wearing, or did you invent that shirt, or those shoes, or that scarf? There is just as much of a desire to shrug it off, say it's impossible, that ghosts aren't real, that the world works in a certain way because that is the way you've always been told the world works, and to come to know any differently is to risk losing the ability to know anything at all.
There is just as much fear. Just as much raw, creeping dread.
There are things the Human mind is not wired to know. Things the Human body is not meant to survive. Things the Human soul was not built to experience.
And if somehow you do, and live on, the only rational response is to run.
The difference is – ghosts of the past come from the outside. They may be with you for some time, but all their paths lead away from you. All your paths lead away from them. You are destined to part.
But ghosts of the future come from the inside. All of their paths are tangled up in your own mind. You are destined to meet. For however long they exist, you have no place to run.
The room that Jamie leads me to is the same room Mrs. Graham gave me my first night here.
Flashes of vivid yet-to-be-memories had followed me out of the Rover, into the manse, and all the way up the stairs. The images of Mr. and Mrs. Graham, and Uncle Lamb, and brimstone moths, and tea leaves, and spiced milk, and oatcakes, and rowanberry jam, and more and more and more, hovered over every side table, in front of every bookshelf, along every staircase, and around every brass doorknob.
But even all those are nothing compared to what awaits inside this room.
For in this room, are many ghosts of me.
Jamie and the landlady exchange a few pleasantries at the door, words I do not hear and cannot recall. The ghosts crowd in upon me, and all I can hear are echoes.
Who I was two hundred years in the future grins at me from every bedpost, from every oaken wall panel, from every cheap knickknack and decorative chunk of soap. It doesn't matter how many details are different, the bones of it are all the same, and they rattle and shift, like skeletons in a box.
I suppose, in the end, I was always going to end up haunting myself. It's one of the risks you take when you step beyond the boundaries of Time. Though, perhaps we all do, in a way. Every time we look in a mirror, every time we hope for the future, we construct a life, a spirit, a soul we will inhabit one day, only to look back from who we are then and say - that person is no more. We are not continuous beings.
We are merely points of light, where past and future meet. . .
It's impossible for me not to dissociate, for me not to become the very ghosts I have already been. For even the sight of a water jug, or a small velvet pillow to reduce me to a state of empty, floating shock.
I stare at everything like it isn't there, and don't react to anything unless it happens directly in front of me.
Jamie, bless him, takes it all in stride, and with remarkable grace - though even in my current state I can tell he is as terrified and baffled by my reactions as any fond husband would be.
Distantly, I hear him tell me we'll be staying here almost a week, since we won't be going to the live debates in Inverness.
"Three months ago," I say, and see him start. It takes me a moment, but then I realize they're the first words I've said in at least fifteen minutes. "I saw this building three months ago. Before you. Before Murtagh. Before Black Jack. It was empty then." I look into his deeply concerned blue eyes, only to see there yet another spirit of what was and is yet to be. I shiver, and look away, "Why is it a hotel now?"
He shrugs, at so much of a loss that some detached part of me cannot believe he's holding himself together, "Dinnae ken. I c'n ask if ye want."
"No, it's not important."
"It is if ye-"
"Please Jamie-" I reach out to him, and he's at my side instantly. I clutch at his jacket and bury my face in his chest, grounding myself in the feel and scent of him, "Just don't go."
"Aye, lass. I'm no' goin' annywhear. Nae fear."
He sits down next to me on the bed, and briefly does something with his com, before lightly tossing it aside. Then he gathers me into his arms, and strokes my hair.
I can feel the questions backed up inside his throat, held in restraint by the heavy sinews of his neck, a determinedly clenched jaw, and his sheer, stubborn Scottish will.
He asks me nothing, only holds me, rhythmically stroking my hair and my back and my sides, until at last I solidify into something more substantial than a cloud.
"Jamie darling, the past few days have been. . . a lot," I take a deep breath of his light cologne, "Even the things I wouldn't change."
"Aye, that's true enough."
"I think I need to sleep."
"Good idea."
He kneels and removes my shoes, but won't let me change clothes, saying rightly that it's unnecessary, and would only tire me more. He tucks me under the covers, then gets under them with me, and tucks me into the long, welcoming curve of his body. There are still questions waiting in the tension of his limbs, but he doesn't let them out, only holding me like a fragile, precious thing sheltering away from storms and waves and buffetings that he can't see, but that are rocking him just as harshly as they are me.
I feel like a thin film of dust across a tabletop, that can't be seen unless the light hits it just right.
In the Gàidhlig, Claire is Sorcha.
Sorcha means light.
I close my eyes, so I might be in the dark, and have no name.
The next few days are a blurred mist. Even now I am unsure how many nights it takes, they blend so into the days. I sleep more than I wake, more terrified of the dreams that await me in the light than in the dark.
I do not know how Jamie survives it.
I am used to my cloud moods, my journeys to the depths of blankness, my cold and barren inner heart. My soul of Stygian Blue.
But Jamie?
He's seen me like this before, to be sure, but we hadn't declared our love for each other then. We hadn't taken each other to new heights of pleasure, or such plummeting depths of joy.
We hadn't become one another's heart.
He brings me food, makes me eat. Leads me to the bathroom, makes me wash. He sits with me, and tries to talk, though mostly he holds me while I sleep.
At last it is the night of the full moon, though I have no idea how I know it. My sleeping and my waking have blent into each other all day, in grays and soft blues, and half-dreams, and partial reality.
The night is no different, as I sit up in bed, and see the room in black and white, all silvered over with the light of the moon, even though the long, heavy drapes are shut.
I stand up, and my clothes transform into a long white shift, and green, woolen cloak.
I am barefoot in the grass, tiny white lilies growing at every step I take. A grove of rowan trees clothes itself in flowers as I approach, and blazes into blood-red fruit as I pass. The sky is full of golden primrose petals, and the lantern in my hand glows cyan-blue. Patches of clover and wolfsbane grow in unequal harmony, and a necklace of cuckoo flowers coils round my neck. A girdle of forget-me-nots settles around my hips, far heavier than it should be, like the weight of a child in the womb. The high piping of birds and the low singing of frogs chorus into a sky of silver and gold.
I climb a hill, small but steep, and stand in the midst of its crown of standing stones.
A distant voice calls from the central stone, nearer and nearer, and louder and louder.
"Claire? . . . Claire? . . . Claire?"
It is a name I do not know.
I am the Lady Of Light, made of stars, and lamb's wool, and the wax of bees.
"Claire?"
A man emerges from the stones, like a ghost drawn in charcoal. His face is old, but mostly unlined, and bears a pair of eyes that glow like the moon the moment before dawn.
Something in me knows those eyes. . .
"Claire! You're here, at last!" he says, and smiles, so warm and kindly I wish he was my sire. . .
"We've been looking for you for weeks, my dear, and I fear there isn't much time, even now. You must find an Oldmother – she will be able to help you back to us. I know that's not much to give you, but we mustn't disturb the continuum too much either." His eyes grow concerned, "Claire? Can you not hear me? Or can't you speak?"
I haven't tried yet. But there is only one thing I can say.
"Tell the bees that I am gone."
His eyes grow sad, but still he smiles, "I was afraid of that. Ah well. It was to be expected, I suppose. You will make him very happy, I know you will. You may give him my blessing, if he cares for it." His spectral hand reaches towards my cheek, but he cannot make contact with me, "And you have my blessing as well, though I know you'd never need to ask."
I smile back at him, grateful for such familial loyalty, "Thank you, my Merlin. We won't forget you."
His eyes light up with joy, "Do you really think-"
"Claire!"
It is a different voice, from a different time. My drifting mind pulls away, searching, searching for that voice that calls my name. . .
"Claire!"
I blink, and wake up. Or maybe the world does.
Lamb winks out of existence, and the whole world descends into the silvery black of a moonlit midnight.
"Claire!"
I have just enough time to register the fact that I am, in fact, in the middle of the stones of Craigh na Dun, and actually wearing my linen shift and woolen cloak, before the shape and sound of Jamie barrel right into me, scooping me up and and carrying me off into the dark.
Notes:
Soundtrack for this chapter - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=83reId9C_aI
Chapter 94: Revelations
Notes:
Chapter Rating – M for non-graphic married nookie, kinkiness, and discussion/negotiation of same. (negotiate your kinks, y'all, for serious)
Chapter Text
Jamie doesn't put me down until we're back at the manse. Then he throws me on our bed, and bends over me, his face shadowed and glowering in the half-light.
"Christ Sorcha, dinnae ye dare turn sleepwalker! Dinnae put that burden on me too. Am I tae have nae rest? Isnae worryin' about ye all day enough? There's only sae much one man can stand, mo chridhe, an' I passed that by three days ago. Have some god damm'ned mercy, Claire."
I am still floating. . . scattered. . . awake, but not aware.
"Wh. . . what happened, Jamie?"
He gives a long, extremely frustrated sigh.
"Ne'er mind. Lay yer heid. We'll talk in the mornin'."
Then his warmth envelops me, and I escape into sleep.
Oblivion may be forever, but that's no matter when Time doesn't exist there either. . .
Slowly. . . very slowly. . . warmth and softness part, and there is a line, a single point of heat. I rise through it, and then there are long, shivering ripples of. . . something. . .
I open my eyes, and Jamie is there, pressed full length to my side, his nose caressing my cheekbone, and his hand. . .
His hand is having its way with me. . .
"Three days without ye, Claire. 'Tis a mighty long time when a man's only just learnt what he's been missin'."
His fingers press, and twist just right. . .
"I might'ha given ye a long string ov pearls, Sassenach. But all I need is one. . ."
I gasp, and moan, and clutch at him, "I. . . I need you inside me, Jamie."
He shakes his head, "I am inside ye, Claire. An' besides. I wantae watch ye. I need tae see ye fall apart."
Except that's not what he's doing to me. He's putting me back together. I don't know how, but he is. I thrum, and whirl, and crackle, and coalesce into a single point of living flame.
And then. . .
Then, somehow. . . I am able to be Claire again.
He gives me one long, slow kiss, and finally, I fall into an actually refreshing sleep.
When I next surface, he's over by the chest of drawers, zipping up his jacket.
"Good," he says, mildly, "I dinnae havetae wake ye before I go."
"Go?"
"Aye. I need a few hours away from this room. I'm goin' tae go care for the horses."
"Oh. Good idea."
He comes over to the bed, and lightly touches my cheek with a one slightly trembling finger, "Promise me, promise me, Claire, that ye'el be here when I get back?"
I smile, "Of course."
His eyes turn very serious, "You, will be here?"
Oh. That.
I gather all my newly reconstituted self together, and nod, "Yes, Jamie."
With several backward glances, and more than a little hesitation, he goes.
As the silence descends, something rises in me.
No matter what it takes, I am going to battle my ghosts.
The sun is setting when Jamie gets back, and he finds me on the couch, reading the only book I've found it relevant to read today. He looks briefly over my shoulder as he goes to wash his hands and put away his jacket.
"Revelations, Sassenach? Strange thing tae be readin' for pleasure."
I put the bible down, and wait until he comes back into the main room to answer him.
"I just. . . wanted to read about someone else who had visions. I read that whole statue passage from Daniel too. And a couple of the other prophetic stories. I thought there might be some. . . guidance."
"Has there been?"
"Not so far. . ."
"Not a lot of lifeless seas an' blood-red skies in the bible, then?"
I smile, "I don't know about that. . ."
There are. And I've read quite a bit about floating mountains and otherworldly beasts today too. . .
"But it hasn't really helped, regardless. I'm not Christian enough, I suppose. . ."
"Or Jewish enough?"
I chuckle, "That too. Or Muslim enough, come to think of it. . ."
He sits down on the couch too, a little further away from me than I'd like. . .
"Weel, Sassenach, mebbe I'm no' man enough, but. . ." he sighs, "I cannae handle ye going out tae fairy circles in the dead ov night. No' wi'out some considerable warning. And especially no' with the Watch about."
"Is the Watch about?"
"We'er right near by where ye were attacked three months ago, Sassenach," he shakes his head, "That's all I need tae ken."
"But-"
He punches a fist into his palm, "I dinnae think ye understand, Claire, just the lengths I'm willin' tae go tae keep ye. The things I'm willin' tae do tae keep ye safe. Marrying ye is nowhere near the half of it. Nor yet the tenth."
He sighs again, and drags a hand across his face.
"An' these past few days, I. . . I havenae understood what's happenin' tae ye, and now. . . now I wantae. . ."
His eyes twist shut and his hands make fists on his knees.
"Christ, I wantae hold ye like a wee chick in my breast pocket, shieldin' ye and giving tae ye from all that I am, an' at the same time I wantae throw ye down and use ye sae hard ye cannae recall aught but the feel of me against ye, inside an' out." He swallows hard, "I wantae throw somethin' at the ground until it breaks, I wantae hit somethin' until I'm bloody – an' I wantae scoop up one palmful of soil, an' feel the tiny movements of an earthworm in it, an' I wantae stand stock-still an' listen tae the wind rustle in a field of flowers. I'm everythin' an' nothin' an' all places an' nowhere, an' I'm bewildered, an' scared, an' relieved, an' confused, an' sae much in love wi' ye I dinnae ken how I c'n hold it all. . ."
I edge a little closer to him, and try to push a fall of curls back behind his ear. He catches my wrist and pushes my hand away, not quite roughly, but forcefully.
"No' now, Claire," he says, voice tense and sorrowful, "Forget all I jus' said. I'm mad. Mad clear through tae the bone. Mad at ye, mad at the world, mad at myself. I'm sae angry I could spit. There's more tae it than jus' that, but that's the main thing. An' hours wi' the horses didnae help. So now I dinnae ken what tae do about it."
He sinks his head into his hands, and makes fists in his hair.
A long-held, long-repressed desire wells in me. I've wanted something for years and years, but never dared even broach the subject with Frank. He would never have understood.
Jamie, on the other hand. . .
I lean over and whisper, "In that case. . . maybe I deserve a spanking."
If there's one thing all my battles with depression have taught me, it's that nothing disrupts a downward slide quite like a new idea.
Jamie lifts his head, and gapes at me, his slide thoroughly disrupted.
"Did. . . did I hear that right, Sassenach?"
"I'm sure you did," I smirk at him, half-close my eyes, and purr, "I've been so naughty, Jamie. You'd better come teach me a lesson."
He blinks hard, "But ye. . . ye can't. . . ye can't want. . ."
I chuckle, and gently touch his cheek, "Why not? We both need a safe place to feel things right now, Jamie. So let's give that to each other."
"But. . . how could. . . that. . . evar be safe, mo nighean?"
"Oxfordshire."
He blinks again.
"Either one of us says that, and the other one stops. At once. No questions, no hesitation, no matter what."
"Either one of us?"
"Of course. That's what safety means."
He takes that in for a minute. Then I scoot up close to him, and kiss his shoulder.
"Lallybroch."
"What about Lallybroch, Sassenach?"
"If we want to check in, want to make sure everything is okay, but don't want to actively stop, we can say Lallybroch."
He takes this in too.
"And come to think of it, this is a good moment to lay down a hard line of my own." I take a deep breath, and speak from my heart, "No matter what we end up doing tonight, or tomorrow, or at any time, there's to be no verbal degradation, Jamie. Diminutives are fine, teasing is fine, and agreed-upon nicknames are fine, but no insults, no slurs, and no dehumanizing language, no matter the context. That's my "do not cross", like you don't want marks on your skin. If there's a question about something, we discuss it first. No free passes, no testing the boundary. If I want anything about this to change, I'll be upfront about it. Understood?"
The declaration of a clear and sturdy rule visibly relaxes him. "Understood," he nods, solemnly, "An' ye only mean us tae explore this one new thing, aye? Nae surprises?"
"No surprises. Only revelations."
He pulls away from me, gets up, and paces a bit. He runs his hands through his hair, and scratches the back of his neck. I watch a mixture of confusion, worry, helpless arousal, and intense curiosity cross his features, all battling for dominance.
After a minute, worry jumps to the forefront, "Sassenach, what if I hurt ye? I mean really, truly hurt ye. I could, ye know. Easily. I'm verrah, verrah aware of that. What's tae stop me?"
I ask, matter-of-factly, "Do you want to really hurt me, Jamie?"
He whirls and grabs me, "No! How. . . how could I. . ." He pauses, and looks down at where his hands are gripping my arms. Too hard.
"Oxfordshire."
Instantly, he releases his hold, and steps back.
I smile, "You see? You will stop you. And when you can't, I will. The words are there for this exact reason."
"But. . ."
"Freedom within limits is what a safe place is for, Jamie," I nudge him back onto the couch, and sit on his lap, "Once we put our limits up, anything left between them is fair game. That includes you feeling your feelings, and giving me a nice hard smack or two on the backside." I lean my head against his, "You've already trusted me with your love, my sweet. Now, trust me with your anger too."
He gives a long, heavy sigh, drapes his arms around me, pulls me close, and kisses me softly on the neck, "But. . . what could ye possibly get out of it, Claire?"
I chuckle delightedly. If that's his objection at this point, this is going to be so good, "Why, the same things you will, my love. The power of self control. The absolute joy of knowing everything is in order. The wild bliss of pure freedom, salted deliciously with the knowledge of perfect safety." I nuzzle his cheek, and kiss his chin, "You may have noticed I've been a bit scattered these past few days."
He gives one flat, extremely mirthless laugh. "Hah."
"Yes, exactly. But you anchored me, Jamie. So easily, you anchored me. You're my grounding-wire. My safe place. My home. Why do you think I was able to wake up feeling like myself again, right before you left?"
He shakes his head, still struggling to understand, "But. . . how does that mean. . . how does such a feeling translate tae. . ."
I stroke my hands up and down his spine, "Do you know how empowering it is to trust someone as much as I trust you? How absolutely ecstatic it is? To give myself to you, a floating, scattered cloud, and have you give me back to myself, whole? A cold, dead soul, suddenly alive again? Because of you? I feel like a queen – no, like god herself – every time you do it Jamie."
"Every time?" he looks quizzically at me, "Ye mean. . . I've. . . done such for ye before this mornin'?"
"Yes Jamie," I nod, eagerly, "You have ever since the very first day we met. It's been half a dozen times so far, at least. More, probably. You've only done it unconsciously up til now, of course. It seems to be your natural response to seeing me in distress. Now, I want you to do it on purpose, and at my request. That's all."
"So. . . it wasnae. . . that is, it doesnae have tae be. . . sexual?"
I shake my head, "Nothing is sexual except sex, Jamie. And everything can be sexual if you want it to be."
He holds me a little closer, and sits and thinks a long time.
"If. . . if we do this. . . I dinnae want tae be me."
I give a short nod, "Alright. Who do you want to be?"
"Alexander MacKenzie. Laird of Balriggan."
"Sounds good."
"But ye'er only allowed tae call me Sir, or my Laird."
"Okay."
There is no hesitation in my answer, but there is a question. But I won't ask it if he doesn't want to answer. . .
But it seems he does -
"I wantae be someone else in my mind, Claire – but I dinnae wantae hear anything new."
"Ah. Okay. That makes perfect sense."
He takes one of my hands in both of his, "An' ye can't be you, either."
I nod, "Fair enough."
I pause and think for a bit.
"I'm Libby – your English maid."
"Alright. An' I'll only call ye woman, or lass."
"Same reason?"
"Same reason."
"Okay."
Slowly, he kisses the hand he has clasped in his, "An' the. . . impetus . . . the ah. . . inciting incident?. . . cannae be ours."
I smile. That one is easy.
"You caught me taking home food that wasn't leftovers."
He chuckles, "Is that all?"
I shrug, "I can have her stealing art supplies to paint her magically superpowered body armor made from genetically-altered shapeshifting alien slugs if you want. . ."
He throws back his head and laughs.
Something hard and very frightened inside my stomach untwists and relaxes. If he can laugh, everything might just be alright. . .
"I shouldha kent bettar than tae question yer powers ov invention. Alright, Sassenach," he puts a hand over my heart, suddenly very solemn again, "But, jus' tae be sure – I need tae be sure, ye ken - ye do want all this from me?"
I put my hand on his, "I do very much want this, Jamie, but not from you. With you. If you don't want this – if you have any objections at all, if you aren't in it one-hundred percent - then we won't do it. I won't be disappointed. In fact, I'll be proud of you for making the judgment call."
He shakes his head, "It's less a mattar of no' wanting it as nevar havin' thought of some particular things as pairs until jus' now, mo Sorcha. Doin' a Laird's duties, an' havin' a husband's advantages. Bein' wild, an' bein' safe. Pretendin', an' living a truth. Bein' in charge, an' bein' under orders. None of 'em are paradoxes. They arenae evan in conflict – or dinnae have tae be. It's a lot tae take in all at once."
I nod, "And that's why we can stop any time, for any reason. No questions asked, no excuses needed. We don't have to do this. We are choosing to do this. Together."
"Aye, together."
Then he pauses, and his lip twists, as if he's thought of half a joke and doesn't know the punchline.
"Huh."
"What?"
"Jus' a strange thought."
I wrap my arms around him, and lean my head on his shoulder, "Well?"
"Knowin' that nothing about this is necessary. . . suddenly. . . it's as though. . . everything is possible."
I smile, and kiss his temple, "That's my Ghillie Dhu."
He gives a tiny little smirk, a lovely glint of mischief sparkling in his eyes, "Now then. Ye wilnae be speakin' tae yer master wi' such disrespect."
Sweet tingles rush though me, to the very tips of my fingers and toes. I scramble to my feet, clasp my arms behind my back, and bow my head a little.
"Yes, my Laird."
His eyes flash at my utterly sincere use of the honourific.
"Have ye been workin' here long, lass?"
I shift my feet awkwardly, "N-no sir."
He stands, and comes over to me, just a little too close, deliberately looming over me, but not touching. Not yet.
"Then mebbe ye dinnae ken the rules, but heer, takin' that which doesnae belong tae ye is called stealin'."
I blink up at him and gasp, just a little theatrically, "Oh. But sir-"
"And there are consequences for such things in this house, lass," he says, bringing his mouth so close to mine I ache for the kiss he isn't giving me.
I whimper, utterly under his power.
And so, so happy to be there. . .
"Have ye evar been tae Lallybroch?" he whispers, a sudden look of concern in his eyes.
I look at him, and shake my head firmly, "No sir. Where is Lallybroch?"
I can actually see the word form on his lips.
Oxfordshire.
But he doesn't say it. He does close his eyes and center himself for a long few seconds.
When he opens them again, he is someone else. Nowhere is my sweet, darling laddie, with gentle fingers and a knowing smile. Gone too is the slightly over-cautious gentleman of the last minute or so, who was clearly just a bit of an experiment. . .
Now, his eyes are hard, and there is a new set to his shoulders, a different tilt to his head. This is Laird Broch Tuarach, fierce and implacable, and so in control of the moment, I am forbidden to even call him by his name.
The mere act of looking at a man has never had me closer to spontaneous combustion. . .
"Please. . . my Laird. . . don't send me away." I look down, meekly, "I promise, I'll never do it again."
His hand wraps firmly around my chin, and lifts my head to meet his eyes.
"Aye. Ye won't."
My breath stutters. By all the gods that may or may not exist, his voice. . . Parts of me start vibrating at the deep, forceful rumble of it.
I already knew the sound of him could do things to me, but god dammit. . .
What have I unleashed here?
"Is. . . that a threat, sir? Or a promise?"
"Aye."
I look at him, as innocently wide-eyed as I can manage, "Both?"
"Aye. Both."
I feign confusion, "But. . ."
He releases my chin, but moves his hand to close like a vise around my upper arm, "I dinnae make idle threats, lass," he pulls hard, until my face is only a whisper from his, "An' I dinnae make frivolous promises, eithar. Now," he shoves me, just hard enough that I stagger back, off-kilter, "Take yer clothes off, an' get in the bed. On yer hands an' knees."
Oh. . .
Bits of me are positively melting. . .
I play up my confusion, drawing out the moment.
"But sir. . ."
He strides forward, and takes my chin again, more roughly this time, "Was I. . . unclear?"
"N-no, my Laird."
His eyes blaze, and he lowers his head, and carefully, deliberately, licks around the edge of my ear.
"Then ye'ed best see, woman, that ye dinnae keep me waitin'."
Then he shoves me towards the bed again, and starts to methodically unbutton his shirt.
Holy hell. I'm practically panting, and he's barely touched me yet. . .
I undress frantically, and am in the bed waiting for him, when he removes his belt with an ostentatious, snapping flourish.
"D'ye want my hands or the strap, lass?"
"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ. . ." I moan, and completely lose myself into pure sensation. . .
Well. . . maybe not exactly pure. . .
Two hours, two sets of bedsheets, a very brief and extremely apologetic conversation with the landlady awkwardly in the middle of things, and then several more revelatory experiences for both of us later, and I'm cocooned in Jamie's arms, snuggled up and ready to go to sleep.
All in all, an almost ideal first go at this sort of thing, I think. . .
There had been several comfortably placed mentions of Lallybroch, and no mentions of Oxfordshire at all. Afterwards there was a shower, a neck and back massage for each of us, a portion of Welsh rarebit, tomato soup, and mulled ale for each of us too, and a pot of tea, a mug of coffee, a plate of chocolate biscuits, and a lot of lazy, quiet conversation to end on. All of his bewildering, angry confusion is gone, and I haven't felt more solid and alive for days.
The ghosts of the future can't haunt us when the present shines as brightly as this. . .
I cuddle into his skin, reveling in the fact that we both appear to adore sleeping naked.
"Claire?" he asks, softly stroking my hair.
"Yes, my love?"
"Why did ye run?"
I'm so relaxed, I'm having a little trouble keeping up.
"Hmm?"
"Why did ye run?"
"What do you mean?"
He sighs, and meets my questioning look with a very concerned one, "I mean ye. . . went from me. I dinnae mean jus' that fairy circle, I mean all these past few days. Ye'ev been. . . somewhere else. Hidin'. Or. . . I dinnae ken. Ye'ev been somewhere I couldnae follow. Why. . . why did ye go there, wherever it was? Why did ye run from me?"
He sounds aggrieved. Hurt. As if he thinks I was actually trying to get away from him.
Oh, no, my sweet, wonderful, delicious darling. . .
I have kept our promise of truth. Secrets though. . . I still have a few secrets.
One.
One secret.
Only one that really matters. . .
I really, really hadn't planned on doing this now, but, after tonight, keeping any part of myself from him seems utterly absurd.
"Jamie. . . I. . ."
This is it. I might destroy us, right here, right now. If anything can, this will.
Well, at least we'll go out with a bang. . .
I take a deep breath, and look directly into his beautiful, beloved, searching blue eyes.
"I'm from the future."
Chapter 95: The Dunbonnet
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
He pauses a long time. His expression is utterly blank, save for his eyes, where I can see our entire history being played in his mind. I desperately want to say more, start explaining, but his hands tighten on me, and I stop.
I don't know what I expect his reaction to be, or what he is going to say. Whenever I thought of this moment, my imagination had never got so far. And that turns out to be a good thing.
Because I'd never have imagined what he does say.
"Is that why ye'ed nevar had a steak before?"
This is sufficiently nonsensical, and so gorgeously, delightfully trivial that all of the tension breaks, and we laugh. Together, this time. We haven't laughed together in days. . .
As soon as that thought hits me, I am serious again.
"You. . . Jamie. . . you. . . you're just going to believe me?"
"Dinnae have a reason not to, Sassenach."
And so he believes me.
Just like that.
It's impossible.
But it's true.
"But. . . but. . ."
I am completely at a loss for words.
This man.
This man.
"Oh, I dinnae understand – no' a bit. No' yet. But ye'll tell me, now. I ken that." He cuddles me close, "But in the mornin'. An' I do mean the mornin' this time. I promise I wilnae be tae mad tae listen. Or mad at all. An' I'll listen. An' I'll believe what ye tell me."
"But. . . steak, Jamie? No, we didn't have steak in my time. Not easily accessible to me, anyway. And that's all you want to know for tonight? Really?"
He shrugs a little, "Weel, I figure it's all part an' parcel, tae be honest. If that's the why of it in that case, it's probably also why ye asked for all those strange tools when ye were fixin' the Rover yer first day here, and why ye didnae have an ID or a com, or why ye use such strange idioms all the time – like saying 'a cob for' instead of 'a fig', or township instead of province, or chicken shite instead of pig or horse - an' probably why neither Frank nor anny'un else evar sent ye chocolates, an' why ye'ed nevar had a pet, an' why ye didnae ken what a skunk was, nor a bike either."
I stare at him, open-mouthed, "You. . . kept track? With all that's been happening these past months, you actually kept track of all those little things you let slide?"
He scoffs, "A'course I kept track. I love ye!"
I lean my head on his chest, and hold him tightly to me.
"How are you so perfect, Jamie? How?"
"I'm no' perfect, mo ghràidh," he lifts my chin and kisses me, "I'm only yours."
And that is, emphatically, enough for now.
My sleep is warm, and long, and blessedly without dreams.
I wake up to the smell of hot porridge and tea, and the sight of my husband, sitting in my old room at Lamb's manse, reading the two unfinished letters I was going to give him and Fergus before the plan became marriage.
And love. And commitment. And spectacularly incredible sex.
And now. . . truth.
Whole, unvarnished truth.
I get up, and get into the bathrobe he's laid out for me, and join him at the little table.
"I went tae put yer wee cloak away in yer bag this morning, Sorcha, an' found these," he hefts the letters, "I saw Fergus's name, an' mine, an'. . ."
I nod, "Not a bad place to start, actually."
"Ye arenae mad?"
"I. . . don't see how I have any right to be. Not at this point, Jamie. I'm still stunned you're going to. . . to. . . just. . . believe me. . ."
He shrugs, "Weel, ye'ev allus told me the truth before, and ye'ev promised ye allus will. I dinnae see why ye'ed suddenly lie about jus' this – seems a downright stupid thing tae invent for no reason, an' stupid ye mos' definitely are not."
"But. . . you don't think I'm crazy?"
"Weel. . ." he grins, teasingly, "Slightly tetched, on occasion, but we'er all that, aye?" he goes solemn, picks up my hand and kisses it, "No, Sassenach, if there's one thing ye are, it's sane. Only a sane woman could go up against Dougal an' win time after time. A crazy one might win once, bu' no' over an' over."
"That's your criteria for sanity? Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ."
"Agh. Fine then. Ye cuss tae well tae be insane. Better?"
I shake my head.
"Jamie. . ."
"The fact is, Sassenach, I dinnae care. These letters say ye were goin' tae leave. Leave leave. Back tae yer own time. Two nights ago I found ye in the very stone circle ye were goin' tae use." His hands clasp hard around his coffee mug, "I'll believe ye'er a she-devil sent tae personally damn my soul tae hell if ye'll only stay."
My jaw drops, "But. . . Jamie. . . I wrote those before I was going to marry you. Before I knew I loved you." I shake my head, "Do you really think I'd choose anything or anyone over you after I realized that?"
He puts his coffee down.
"Ye. . . chose me?"
"The very minute I knew I loved you, Jamie. I'd never leave after knowing that. Never. You're half my soul and all of my heart."
He holds his hands to his face a minute. They are wet when he pulls them away.
"Truly, Sassenach?"
I plant my hands flat on the table, "James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, if you have ever believed me about anything, believe that I love you, I chose you, I choose you, I will choose you, and there is nothing for me beyond those stones. Nothing. Except loneliness, and a dying world. All that I am, or ever was, is gone from there. It's all here. Now. With you."
I get up, and sit in his lap. I pull his face to mine, and kiss away all the tear tracks.
His arms wind around me, trembling with the most intense relief I've ever seen a man experience.
He buries his face in my chest, and speaks so low I have to strain to hear him.
"D'ye ken why I've been so desperate tae have ye? Tae keep ye?"
"No."
He sighs deeply, and manages to get himself under some control. He raises his head. "It's because I was givin' us a month. If we didnae work out by then – if ye didnae love me an' could say so, if we couldnae live wi' each other bein' allus in the same bed, if we couldnae choose each other, day by day – I was going tae give ye Balriggan."
"What? The place you said last night. . . ?"
He nods, "It's a cottage on Fraser land, jus' bordering Lallybroch. I dinnae exactly own it, but who gets tae live there is up tae me. An' it's on clan registered land. Ye'ed be safe there. As safe as Leoch, in any case. Lallybroch isnae registered, ken? I hadtae flee before I could make it official. But ye'ed be safe at Balriggan."
I lean back a little, and run my palms across his shoulders, "Is this what you said you'd explain to me once we got back to Leoch?
"Aye. It is."
"You were going to. . . let us live apart?"
He nods, "All I knew was that if ye didnae love me, I couldnae bear tae live wi' ye. Tae see ye evary day an' ken ye werenae mine. Tae share yer bed, an' nevar share yer heart. Tae ken the depths of yer body, but no' once tae have touched yer soul. I couldnae have lived like that, Sassenach. I'd stay married tae ye for yer protection, but I couldnae see ye. Evar."
He laughs, darkly, "Bu' I'm a selfish bastard. I wanted as much of ye as I could get before I gave ye up."
He pushes my hair aside, and kisses the base of my neck, "I did think all was well. An' then ye went from me. . ."
I sit silent a minute, stunned by the irony. "Well, you might be more selfish, but I'm more of a bastard. I was only going to give us one night."
His eyes go wide, "One night? That's all, Sorcha?" He cups my arse and squeezes it, "Christ, ye must'ha thought me a turribly green boy. . ."
"Oh, no, darling, no no no," I reassure him with a kiss, "You see, I was being selfish too. I was afraid I'd like it too much. . ." I wriggle in his lap a little, "And that I'd get addicted, and never leave. I thought I ought to leave, you see. That I had to leave." I kiss him again, "But regardless, then I had you. And I discovered just how deliciously addictive you really are."
"Oh." He kisses up my neck to a tingly spot behind my ear he just discovered last night. . . "That's what made ye love me then? My taste?"
"Mmm. It certainly didn't hurt, you sweet Jammie Dodger."
I turn and take his mouth, gripping his chin the way he held mine last night. I bury my other hand in his hair, and lose myself for a while.
I pull back to catch my breath, "Besides, I had to stay, Jamie. Where else could I have a hot bath every day if I wanted?"
He laughs, "Hot baths, Sassenach? That's what tipped the scales?"
"No. They never even occurred to me at the time. I just wanted to hear you laugh again."
His eyes go soft, "I do love ye, Claire. But if all that's so. . . why did ye sleepwalk tae those stones in the first place?"
"I don't know. I was. . . drawn there. In a. . . sort of dream. I don't know how or why. But I'm glad I was. I got to see Lamb one last time. He gave us his blessing."
"Ye had another vision, then?"
"Yes."
"An' he knew about us?"
"Yes. It was odd. Like I say, I don't know what's happening with that. In fact, I barely know what's happening with any of it. At all. All I know is, Quentin Lambert Beauchamp was there, and he offered us his blessing, if we wanted it. I will miss him – he's a dear. But that's nowhere near enough to keep me from you. . ."
I bend my head to kiss him again, but he stops me,
"Sassenach. . . yer uncle's name is Beauchamp? Yer father's brother?"
"Oh."
My stomach drops. I know where this is headed. . .
"Yes. Beauchamp is my maiden name."
"An' Moriston?"
"My mother's maiden name."
"Sae ye do have Scottish blood?"
"Yes. Just on my mother's side, not my father's."
He nods, slowly.
"An' so. . ."
He doesn't want to ask.
I don't want to tell him.
But I have to.
"Frank's full name was Franklin Wolverton Randall."
He takes it well, considering. He leans back, and looks off into the distance.
"He was related to. . . . . . this. . . Randall?"
"Yes. I don't know the exact connection. Lamb just told me he was the only ancestor he could find any record of for Frank."
He clenches his jaw, and looks very stern, but there is none of the frantic anger of yesterday.
I don't know yet if that's encouraging, or concerning. . .
"The really spooky part is. . . they look almost exactly similar."
"Do they now?"
"Yes. Scared the daylights out of me my first day here. The one person I knew for certain couldn't possibly be here. . . and he was. . . and so different. . . so instantly vicious and violent, when Frank was never that way." I shiver.
Jamie runs his hands up and down my arms, "When did ye. . . go back tae Beauchamp?"
"Three years ago. I was trying to forget, you see."
"Ye were? Trying to?"
"Yes. Desperately."
All the horrible things Frank said to me on his last day come back to me, for the first time tinged with relief. At last, I will be able to tell Jamie about them. Soon. Very soon. But not now. . .
"Sae how exactly did ye discover yer own personal Guardian of Forever? Yer letters stop before ye say."
"My own what?"
"Guardian of Forever. Auld episode of Star Trek. There's this stone on an alien planet. Ye go through it and end up back in time. Thought of it the minute ye mentioned what ye knew of Craigh na Dun," he taps the papers in front of him.
"Oh. I don't know if that episode survived World War III. I've never seen it."
"World War III?"
"Nuclear Armageddon."
"Ah."
"That's when Humanity moved to the skies. Most of Earth's surface is uninhabitable now, and the majority of us live on Skycities. I was born and raised on Skycity 15. We call it New Oxford."
"Ah. I was wonderin' when Oxford would enter the picture. I recall seein' somethin' strange - like a mechanical mountain floating in the sky – during that vision we shared while dancin' tae Hotel California. Didnae ken what tae make of it at the time. Is that why the sea was all dead too?"
"Yes."
There is a long pause. I get up from his lap, and go back over to eat my breakfast.
"C'n. . . c'n ye tell me why ye thought ye ought tae leave, Sassenach?" he asks, pouring himself more coffee.
"Of course. I thought you didn't love me. And I thought I couldn't love anymore at all. There's a great deal more to it than that, of course, but mostly. . . I thought the war had broken me."
"Which war is this now?"
"World War IV."
"Ah."
"My parents died at the start of it. Frank died in the middle of it. So did Faith. And I was dead by the end of it. Except my body forgot to die. And then I got sick."
"Aye, I expect ye did."
"Yes. So my doctor sent me to recuperate on Cold Island 12. Scotland."
"So. . . Scotland survived Armageddon?"
"Well. . . in a way. Yes."
"Mmphm."
I can see a whole lifetime of questions rising in him, but he holds them back.
"And I came here, to get better, and to visit Lamb. Here, here. This very house. This very room, in fact."
He looks around, almost as though all of a sudden he can see the ghosts in this room too. . .
"An' that's why ye reacted as ye did?"
"Yes. So many ghosts, Jamie. It was a worse trigger than watching Willie die. And that was very, very bad."
"I take it. . . ye'ev seen death, then?"
The night the Spire fell comes back to me. . .
"It's more visceral than that, Jamie. I've met Him. Many times. Sometimes, he's not unkind. But he's always terrible."
"Sae that's why ye. . . let Willie go?"
"Yes. I could tell. Death leaves His mark."
"I expect He does. . ."
He takes a few bites of porridge, thinking hard.
Then he blinks, and looks up at me sharply, "Ye ken what happens at Culloden! Ye must! Do we win?"
I nod sadly, "Yes. . . and no."
His brows close in confusion, "What d'ye mean, Sassenach?"
"That's a tale and half, and I don't want to go into it right now. But for now I'll say. . . It is possible to win. . . and still be on the wrong side of history."
He nods, a look of bitter irony in his eyes, "Aye, I ken that. Only too well. Is it at least an honourable victory?"
"I have no idea, Jamie. War's war. The sorts of honours earned in war. . . only make it a little easier for the survivors to live with themselves, afterward. It still doesn't fix anything."
He nods, "Weel, let's give that the go-by, for now. So, ye came here, tae visit Lamb. . ."
"Yes. . . and you know what? That's two tales and a half. Can we get back around to that later?"
He smiles indulgently, "A'course, Sassenach. Tell me more about these sky cities."
"Well, most of them are divided into townships – that's where my version of that idiom comes from – and a Core, and a Rim, and a Spire. I spent my last nine months camping on the Rim. Homeless. Peddling power-salvage next to black-market 'tillers - those are people with an alcohol distillery setup."
"Ah," he grins knowingly, "Sae that's where ye got yer hollow leg."
I chuckle, "Yeah. I can put away bootleg vodka with the best of them."
"Nae wonder ye damn near drank all of Leoch under the table the night of the concert."
"I met my match in that limoncello stuff, though." I shudder at the memory. "It was the first time I'd had jell-o shots, and if I have anything to say about it, it'll be my last."
"Probably a good idea, Sorcha. . ."
He trails off, thinking deeply again.
We finish our breakfast, and move to the couch, cuddling close under a huge blanket of tartan fleece.
"D'ye ken what's odd, a nighean?"
"The number three?"
He playfully smacks my shoulder, "I mean about yer story."
"Oh. Everything? Yeah, I'm going to go with everything is odd about it."
He snickers, "Aye, but other than that, I had the strangest feeling I'd heard some of it before. It sounded a bit like the auld tale of the Dunbonnet."
"Oh. Who's that?"
"Mysterious auld cuss, is who. They say he was a survivor of the '45, an' he came an' lived in a cave on Fraser land not far from Lallybroch. Camping – on the rim of society, as it were. Living on what he could scrounge an' hunt and get on the black market."
"It's not unlike what happened to me. But I bet stories like ours are a tenth-liter a dozen after any war."
"A tenth-liter? D'ye mean a dime?"
"Probably."
"Aye, and ye'er doubtless right. But I jus' remembered a bit of a doggerel verse about him, is all."
"Alright. Let's hear it."
"It's nothing spectacular. . . "The Dunbonnet's cap is a dusty gray, he comes for cakes on the first of May," an' then there's a whole lot of nonsense verses about rocks and the colours of the rainbow."
"Alright. . ."
"It's allus been implied that the second half of that meant he would come in tae town or summat for his birthday. Dinnae ken if that's exactly true, but. . . weel. It might be."
His voice goes very strange, "Sorcha – when were ye born?"
"May first. But that's not very odd, is it? It's more likely than you'd think, for two random people to have the same birthday."
"Aye. I ken that. But when were ye born? What year?"
"Oh. Twenty-two forty-fi-"
I break off, realizing.
"Forty five?"
"Oh. . ."
"Five hundred years on, Sorcha. From this Dunbonnet's birthday in the year the Risings began. Five hundred years exactly. To the very day, ye were born. That cannae be coincidence."
"Well. . . it can."
"Aye. Bu' I jus' cannae shake what Iona said about us havin' been reincarnated sae much we swapped souls."
"So. . . you think I am this Dunbonnet. . . reincarnated?"
He shakes his head, "Dinnae ken what I think. It's beyond me, Claire." He sighs, long and deep, "Why couldnae ye jus' have been an Auld One, Sorcha? T'would ha' been far easier tae understand."
I tap my fingernails together. "That's the thing, Jamie. I think I am an Old One. Too much has happened that confirms it. Two nights ago at Craigh na Dun was just the latest proof. So maybe. . . we're both right."
"But, the Dunbonnet wasnae an Auld One. . ."
"Do we know that?"
He blinks, brought up short, "Weel. . . no. We don't."
"And aren't we forgetting something?"
"What's that?"
"Well. . . If you and I are soulmates, and I am an Old One. . . then, by default almost. . . you must be an Old One too."
Notes:
For the full Dunbonnet poem, go here - https://archiveofourown.org/works/53423704
Chapter 96: The English Ladye
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
He sits up straighter, "Bu' that's-"
"And don't you dare say impossible, James Fraser!" I say, sharply but jovially, "I've said or thought that I don't know how many dozens of times these past three months, about an incredible range of things, and every one of them has happened, Jamie. So don't talk to me about impossible things. Six before breakfast is light work."
"Alright," he half smiles, and shakes his head, "Bu' there's nevar going tae be any way tae tell, ken? No' for either of us. No' for sure. Who's tae say what an Auld One evan looks like in these days? Besides, every different storyteller has their own take on fairies an' the like. An' ye may ha' noticed that most Scots are storytellers."
"Oh really? Why no, I hadn't noticed."
"Ye wee plague," he kisses me, briefly, "Evan that story I told Fergus an' the lads on Story Night was half made up from my own heid, an' half cobbled taegether from bits half-remembered of auld stories told tae me the same way. There's nae consensus. Nevar has been."
"So why did you ever tell me you thought I was an Old One, then?"
"Christ, Sorcha, I never thought I'd be called upon tae prove such a thing! My girlfriend was havin' frightening visions. I did all I could tae help soothe her, from the things I believe are good an' true. Tha's all."
I turn in his arms, and sit up a little, "So. . . the Pale Lady and the Ghillie Dhu?"
He nods, slowly, "If nothing else, I'm heart-sure they arenae reincarnations of anyone. They're jus' ideas, really. Immortal, because they've nevar been real. Bu' they arenae made up, either. They exist in a sort of. . . liminal space. They are liminal space. That's what fairyland. . . means. They dinnae exist – but they are. There's nothing there tae be reincarnated."
"But what if we aren't talking about reincarnation, as such? Not as we usually think of it, anyway. What if it's just sort of. . . manifesting? Mirror imaging. . . Echoing."
He tilts his head, not quite in agreement, "If we're right about the Dunbonnet, it would have tae be somethin' like that. . . But I dinnae ken how that could help us."
"Well. . . if my life in the future was mirrored by a man's life in the past, maybe your life now was mirrored by a woman's life, somewhere in history?"
He shrugs, "So. . . a healer at Leoch, on the run from an English invasion force, an' allied tae a group workin' towards Culloden."
"And. . . married to the Dunbonnet."
He shakes his head, "Dinnae think I evar heard he was marrit."
"In 1745? I'd just like to bet you he was."
"Mebbe so, but we'el never find proof of it. There's scarce enough information about him, let alone his kin."
"Alright – let's go back to the woman. In all your time learning about the old Castle Leoch, did you ever hear that there was a woman healer?"
"Aye. Three or four, down the years. There's a Glenna Fitzgibbons mentioned in some auld records as a "beaton", but I dinnae think that's her. No' if-"
"Beaton? Like Davie Beaton?"
"Aye, it's an auld name for a healer in these parts. It's just a surname now. Like Ferrier, or Carter, or Cook."
"Oh."
"But if her life is tae mirror mine, then it couldnae be her. She lived all her life at Leoch, an' died there, from all I know. An' I ken she wasnae marrit. There'd ha' been a record of it if she had been."
"Do you know when she lived?"
"Sixteen eighties or nineties, if I'm rememberin' right."
"Then that lets out the Culloden connection too."
"Aye. . . probably."
He doesn't sound too sure, but I agree with him anyway, "Probably."
"An' there isnae anyone else I c'n think of who got anywheer close tae-" he pauses, visibly searching through his memories, ". . . weel. Mebbe."
"Maybe what?"
"The English Ladye. It's jus' a story. About a rumour. About another story."
"Well now I'm intrigued."
He half smiles, "Aye. Weel. There's a Sir Walter Scott poem - "It Was an English Ladye Bright". It's about a titled Englishwoman who married a Scottish knight. But her family didnae want her to, and she died tragic, sae he went for a Crusader, and died tragic."
Lightly, I snort, "How tragical."
"Aye, it's the sort ov thing poets like. Dinnae ken why. Annyway, there's a rumour that it was based on real events back in the Crusade times."
"Okay. But I don't see what that leads to."
"Weel then there's this other connected story – more a fragment than a story, really, but still. 'Round about the '45, there was a kind of prisoner at Leoch – an Englishwoman. They called her The English Ladye, 'cause apparently she'd had a husband who died tragic. Dinnae ken how they knew that, or evar found out, but there it is. I've nevar heard she was a healer – only that she ran off wi' a tinker, or was abducted by an outlaw – I cannae remember which, now. But she was nevar heard from again, in any case."
I blink. "But. . . is that it?"
"Aye. She's barely a footnote in Leoch's records."
"But Jamie, why do you think she was at all like you?"
He shrugs, "Weel. I don't, exactly. But we were both. . . are both. . . trapped, in a way. At Leoch." He smiles at me, "An' ye might say I've run off wi' a tinker, eh?"
"I suppose one might say that. . ." my eyes drift to the bookshelf, "Sir Walter Scott, you said?"
"Aye."
I get up, and go over to where I found the bible, "I thought for sure I saw. . . here we are," I grab a book, look at the contents page, quickly turn to the spot indicated, and read aloud -
"It was an English ladye bright,
The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,
And she would marry a Scottish knight,
For Love will still be lord of all.
Blithely they saw the rising sun
When he shone fair on Carlisle wall,
But they were sad ere day was done,
Though Love was still the lord of all.
Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine,
Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,
Her brother gave but a flask of wine,
For ire that Love was lord of all.
For she had lands both meadow and lea,
Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,
And he swore her death, ere he would see
A Scottish knight the lord of all.
That wine she had not tasted well
The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,
When dead, in her true love's arms, she fell,
For Love was still the lord of all!
He pierced her brother to the heart,
Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,
So perish all would true love part,
That Love may still be lord of all!
And then he took the cross divine,
Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,
And died for her sake in Palestine,
So Love was still the lord of all.
Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove,
The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,
Pray for their souls who died for love,
For Love shall still be lord of all!"
I turn the book around and hand it to Jamie.
"Now that sounds more like a story that parallels yours, doesn't it?"
He takes it, and scans down the verses, "A bit. . . mebbe. But she died. They both died."
"Of course they did. You said yourself it's the kind of thing poets like to do. There's nothing to say the truth was like that."
"So. . ."
"So, what if she," I point at the poem, "Was the same she who ended up at Leoch about the time of the '45?"
"Ye'er sayin' she might'ha been a time traveler? That this medieval woman ended up in the eighteenth century, by the grace of Craigh na Dun?"
"It's a possibility, isn't it?"
"I suppose. . . but I'm no' a time traveler!"
"Except we don't know that, Jamie. And we aren't exactly likely to find out."
He shudders, "Nae fear."
I get back under the blanket, and cuddle up to him again.
"I suppose what I'm really saying is. . . well. . . remember Iona saying that soulmates meeting was a rare thing?"
"Aye."
"So. . . what if Leoch's English Ladye just. . . never met the Dunbonnet?"
"Or did meet him – an' that's who she ran off with."
A tiny, tense little something in the back of my mind is absurdly relieved by that thought. . .
"Maybe. . . I'm going to hope that was the way of it. But, either way, wouldn't you say that. . . well. . . things got left unfinished?"
"An' the purpose of soulmates is tae finish each other's work, ye mean?"
"Yes," I nod, "And that's why this cycle keeps repeating, all through history. There's something we have to do, Jamie. Something I think all of them were trying to do. And none of us have done it yet."
He's quiet a long time, thinking.
I think too.
Finally, I tell him,
"Lamb was here on Cold Island 12 researching Craigh na Dun, Jamie. Trying to send people into the past."
"Trying tae?"
"Yes. Trying to make a better past. . . so we could have a better future."
He looks at me for minute, then says, "Weel, after ye'ev seen Armageddon, and a whole 'nother world war into the bargain, I reckon that's a fair thing tae try an' accomplish."
"Yes," I nod, "And I was only able to go through the stones because he brought me in on the project."
"But. . . yer letters said t'was an accident!"
"It was. Or I thought it was. Until our wedding night, and I knew I loved you. Then. . . I thought. . . it was Fate."
I take him step by step through everything that happened during that ceremony at Craigh na Dun.
"And everything has been so. . . not exactly easy – no, far from easy – but so meant to be between us, Jamie. From the very first, we just fit. More than once I've caught myself thinking I've done something with you many, many, many times before. So what if it isn't reincarnation, what if it's a kind of. . . soulmate memory? Reflections. Echoes. Things we know without knowing why."
He shakes his head, "But how are we supposed tae even know that, Claire? How are we tae tell what's what? Or who is who, for that matter? All of it is sae vague and confusing. It makes a kind of pattern, I suppose, but there's patterns everywhere. We cannae start thinking trees are like rivars because they both have branches, or that brown chickens hatch from chocolate eggs!"
"That's not what I'm saying. I am saying that I think our souls know more than our brains."
"That's doubtless true. But what could either of us possibly do about it?"
I look down at my hands, then up into his eyes, "Well. . . I might be able to. . . have a vision. Use my Sight. Read. . . our minds."
He stares at me, "But. . . ye said. . . ye said ye couldnae do that, Sorcha."
"Jamie. . ."
I sigh. I really, really, really don't want to relive the memories of this.
But I'll do anything for this man. Anything at all.
"How much did Dougal tell you about my confrontation with Jack?"
Notes:
Scott poem can be found at - https://www.best-poems.net/sir_walter_scott/it_was_an_english_ladye_bright.html
Chapter 97: That Spirit Here
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Jamie puffs out his cheeks, exhaling slowly, "No' much, really. Mostly about how loyal ye were, playin' yer word games with Thomas and Randall, an' how brave he was for swoopin' in an' getting' ye out. An' that ye'd boaked on Jack."
I snort a little, "Typical. But maybe he was shielding you. Much as I don't want to give Dougal that much credit, it is just possible."
"What do ye mean, Sorcha?"
. . . He asked for it, you know. . .
I shake my head, "No. . . uhm. . . I'm getting ahead of myself."
. . . Every sweet, screaming stripe of it. . .
I take a long, shaky breath, and banish the whispering memories for just a little while longer.
"Iona is a time traveler too."
"Really?" he purses his lips and considers, "Somehow that isnae a surprise. Is that why there's sae many weird stories about her? An' why she seemingly didnae exist there for a bit?"
"Yes."
He kisses my forehead, and tucks the blanket a little closer around us, "Alright. But what does that havetae do wi' us?"
"Well, remember when you left us alone? She dropped the pretense then, and we talked all about the. . . consequences of time travel. What it means when you go through the stones. Apparently it. . . focuses some sort of power or another on you. She called it a Gift."
He looks up sharply at my fully pronounced capital, "Alright. . ."
I describe her Gift – or at least what little of it she showed me with that small incident with the taxidermied alligator.
"So. . . she c'n change things? Little things? An' make them allus ha' been that way?"
"For anyone who didn't directly see the change, yes, I think so. And I don't think she can change anything big, because Geillis said-"
"Geillis?" he interrupts, "What does Geillis havetae do wi' this, now?"
"Oh. . . uhm. . . she's a time traveler too. . ."
He bursts out laughing, "Saints preserve us, Sorcha! Four years in exile, only tae find out Cranesmuir an' Leoch are home tae the Three Weird Sisters!"
I smile with him, but don't laugh, "Well, Dougal isn't exactly MacBeth, of course, but you certainly have something there. . ."
He stops, sobering instantly, "Are ye. . . are ye serious, Sassenach?"
"A politically ambitious Scottish soldier who covets his brother's influence and power? And is willing to cheat, lie, manipulate and murder to get what he wants? And is emotionally and physically involved with a woman just as conniving and manipulative as he is?" I shrug, "The story itself may be totally different, but the driving spirit? Looks almost the same to me."
Jamie leans his head back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling for a minute.
"The driving spirit," he says, almost dreamily.
"Yes."
"I think it might be ye who has something there, Sorcha. . ."
"Well, be that as is may, Geillis said lots of things that day I had tea with her in town, and one of them has stuck with me, and it's this - You can change all sorts of things about the past, without actually changing what happens."
"Meanin' like if ye went back in time an' changed how many children Queen Victoria the First had, or how long her Prince Albert had lived, it wouldnae change much about World War I? Or that World War I would happen?"
"That's exactly what I mean."
"So, again, what does tha' mean for us?"
"Well. . . apparently, in this case. . . Iona said our being soulmates means that whatever Gift I would have had. . . was given to you."
He stares at me, "But. . ."
"And in thinking about it, I've come to the conclusion that since we're soulmates, whatever Gift you would have had was given to me, and-"
He grips my wrist, "Wait, Sorcha, back up – this Gift, or power, or whatever, what is it?"
"Iona said it was different for everyone who goes through the stones."
"But I havenae gone through the stones, Sorcha. An' I'm no' about tae try."
I sigh, "Jamie, who knows how far back into history all this goes? It might have started thousands of years ago, for reasons we couldn't possibly understand today. You very well might have gone through the stones. . . when you weren't you yet."
He blinks, slowly, "But. . . if ye'er the Dunbonnet, an' I'm the English Ladye. . ."
I shake my head, "It's nowhere near that simple, Jamie. I mean, think about it, if they were also soulmates, it can't just be a. . . a. . . spiritual-body-swap, or whatever, because their soul-mating must have happened already too. So the re-manifestation part isn't what merges souls. It can't be. Remember, Iona said it had to be a choice. And no one chooses to be born."
I pause for a long heartbeat.
"No one Human, that is."
He leans his head on his palm, "Where are ye leadin' me, lass?"
I barely know myself, but I still forge ahead.
Iona said we'd understand when the time was right.
And Fiona, Lamb, and Geillis had all mentioned an Oldmother.
Geillis said Mrs. Graham was one, Lamb said I needed to find one. . . and Fiona seemed to think I was one. . .
All the answers must be within our reach. They must be.
"The Pale Lady, and the Ghillie Dhu. . . they've always been, you said?"
"Aye. In Fairyland, they've allus been."
"But, in that story you told, they both left Fairyland. And you told me you thought I had wandered so far as to forget who I was."
"Aye. I did think that. . ."
"So. . . essentially. . . they chose to be Human. And they chose each other at the same time. Taking up each other's burdens. Living each other's lives. Becoming one spirit."
"I give ye my body. . ." he whispers.
"That we two may be one."
"An' I give ye my spirit. . ."
"'Til our life shall be done."
He shakes his head, hard, "But we cannae be them, Sassenach. That's no' how the Fae Folk work!"
"No, but what if they are our "driving spirits"? What if that's what being an Old One looks like in this time and place? What if that's why the connection between us feels so ancient and elemental and perfect and. . . immortal? What if that's how soulmates are made?"
He stares at me for a long second, then gathers me to him, and kisses me, in the same gently astonished way he did that very first morning at Leoch, only with a deeper and richer sweetness, coming from all our experiences, and all our love.
And from all the force of the untold centuries or millennia that neither of us can remember. . .
It is an absurd thing to think, but I can't help wondering if I ever knew what it was to feel alive before I met this man. . .
He releases me just enough to let me breathe, "Tell me ye love me, Claire."
I smile against his mouth, "I love you, Jamie."
"Mmm. Again."
"I love you."
"Once more."
"I love you. Forever. To the end of days."
He huffs a laugh, "And here I thought I was just bein' romantic when I said that on our wedding night. . ."
"Oh, it was romantic all right. Never fear on that score."
"Seems ye were right tae insist on infinity. . ."
"And I still do, Jamie. I still do."
I kiss him some more, with all the soft, slow, lazy passion I wish we could indulge in right now. . .
I pull back, and sigh. We have to reach a conclusion on all this, or it will just sit between us forever. That would be worse than it being my secret. . .
There's work to be done.
"Iona was surprised when she read our auras, remember?"
He sighs too, and rests his fingers lightly on my lips for a moment, "Promise me something, Sassenach?"
"Anything."
"When we get back tae Leoch, ye'll give me a week."
"A week?"
"Aye. We'll spend time wi' Fergus, an' do things in each other's workshops, an' play chess, an' sleep taegether – just sleep - an' talk, an' laugh, an' be. . . with nae drama. For one week. As far as in ye lies, promise ye'll give me that. Please, Sassenach."
"You want me to promise you that?" I laugh, "I want you to promise me that!"
"Aye, let's both promise, then."
We do, and seal it with a kiss neither of us wants to break.
"Alright then," Jamie says, finally sitting back, "What about Iona and her wee magiks?"
"Do you remember the colours she talked about? For each of us?"
"Aye, some. I remember yer soul is ultramarine but I've got that colour in my aura, and my soul is orange, but ye've got that in yer aura. By which I assume she knew we were soulmates."
"Oh," I say, then stop, brought up a little short, "Funny. I hadn't actually noticed that bit."
"Weel what bits did ye notice then?"
"When I have my. . . visions, or. . . Sight episodes, or whatever they are – there seem to be themes. Certain colours, certain shapes, certain things that happen."
"Aye, seems that would naturally be so."
"Well. . ." I pause and blush. I don't know how to broach this. . .
You're being foolish, Beauchamp! The man has put various parts of himself inside you, in a wide variety of different ways, and you love him for doing so. You don't need to be squeamish about this, of all things. . .
But, somehow, this is even more intimate than sex.
If it was anyone else but Jamie. . .
But that's the point, Beauchamp! It is him! Now put on your big-girl pants and communicate!
"Uhm. . . yesterday morning? When you. . . touched me. . ."
He gives a tiny, gloating smirk, "Aye?"
"Did you. . . feel anything in particular? See anything?"
His eyes go soft, and his voice deepens, "Aye. T'was like ye turned tae living flames in my arms. I wanted tae throw myself inta ye an' be consumed. But I was too angry then tae properly enj-"
"What colour were the flames, Jamie?"
"What? Oh, blue, bu'-"
"I nearly always see blue flames in my visions, Jamie."
He blinks.
"Oh."
"I saw them too, while you were. . . tending to me. . . and it was you touching me like that which let me finally get some proper rest, and wake up feeling better. It wasn't consuming fire at all."
". . . . . . oh."
"And I think these visions and insights. . . my memory for faces and names. . . my ability to know things – and have the power to do things when I have to – when I'm challenged, when my blood is up, when I get angry, when I see red. . . I think that's my Gift, Jamie. I nearly always see something red in these dreams too. Iona said soulmates meeting was rare – I think it's reasonable to assume we're one of only very few she's met, if not the first. And so, I think it's also reasonable to assume she doesn't necessarily know everything about them. I think we both have a Gift. When I see red, that's when mine shows up. I think. But. . . what about yours?"
He is staring at the pale gray sky beyond the square panes of our windows.
"Mo Dhia," he breathes, "An' I thought I was seein' things."
"When?"
"Lots of times. When I put yer shoulder back in joint. When I taped up Fergus's ribs in Carter's back rooms. When I first showed ye Donas an' fed him by hand. When I gave Colum a massage that day ye worked on his prosthetic. An'. . ." he rests his left hand lightly on his right shoulder, "An' when I put my bruise ointment on that wee mark ye left on me. An' a dozen other times too. Two dozen. More, mebbe."
"What did you see?"
"Almost nowt. Nothin' tae speak of. . . a flash, here an' there. A. . . spark. A. . . gleam. A reflection brighter than mebbe it ought tae be. An afterimage a little stronger than natural," he exhales, slowly, "But always some shade of blue. . ."
I nod in confirmation, "And it didn't start until I got here?"
"Noo, it. . ." he twists his eyes shut, thinking hard, "I think it started. . . in the horse trailer. That furst night. Certainly the next mornin', when I tended to yer ankle. . ."
"And it's stronger when I'm near by you?"
"Oh, aye. That definitely."
"And whenever you see it. . . things heal. If not right away, then faster than normal. My shoulder, Donas's anxiety, Fergus's ribs, your bruise. My. . . depression. . . yesterday morning."
His expression goes very grim, "But not for Willie. Why, Sassenach?" his pained eyes meet mine, "Why didn't I see blue fire for him?"
"I. . . I don't know. . ."
He jumps up off the couch, and goes over to the Fraser jewel case, and pulls out a small green jasper pin. There is a lighter on one shelf, next to three candles, and he grabs it to sterilize the point.
I hold my hand out for the pin when he comes to sit back down.
"Sassenach, ye. . ."
I look sternly up at him, "You're going to test this out, yes?"
"Aye."
"Well, if it doesn't work, you'll have a mark on your skin. Let me do it instead."
He half grins, a fond reproach in his eyes, "Sorcha-"
"Besides, if it's my injury – however small – I might be able to have a vision. Test both our Gifts at once."
He hesitates a few more seconds, then wordlessly hands me the little jeweled pin.
I lightly tap the point on the back of my arm until I find a spot where I can barely feel it. Jamie settles himself very close to me, one hand cradling my elbow, and the other hovering close to where I am holding the pin.
"Are you ready?" I ask, looking into his eyes.
After a moment, he nods, "Aye."
I hold his gaze, "Blood of my blood."
"An' bone of my bone."
I give myself a quick, shallow jab. A bead of blood comes up, and a tiny little ache of pain. It isn't much at all, but I still focus on it, trying to fall into it, trying to chase it into oblivion, trying to find that seductive, beckoning edge that will take me into my dark pl-
ace. . .
The room in the manse is dark. The only light is the sickly aqua-green of the radioactive algae that coats the walls. The handwashing basin from the corner is now on the couch between us. A small brown bird lands in the water, and begins to wash itself. Water droplets fly, and sparkle like jewels. Some splashes on the walls, and they turn into tiny white pearls. They roll away into the dar-
k. . .
I blink, and the vision fades.
I look down at my arm, where Jamie's hand is covering the spot where I jabbed myself. He slowly takes his hand away. There is still a small smear of dried blood, but there is no puncture point. There's no bruising or discolouration either – there are no marks at all. There isn't even a scab. If it wasn't for the blood, there would be no evidence that anything at all had happened.
We look at each other, almost too scared to speak.
"Did you see what I saw?" I ask, very quietly.
Jamie nods.
"I'm going to do it again."
He resets himself, focusing on my arm, then nods again.
I stick myself with the pin. This time, I do not focus on the pain, instead trying to unfocus myself, and follow it down deliberately, into the barren, empty w-
aste. . .
The Manager's Barn at night. A low, pale blue light comes from the greenhouse, but everything else is dark. I carry a beaker of water to a tray of newly spouted plants, and pour it in. The tray overflows. As the water streams off the edge of the table, the drops become a string of freshwater pearls. Jamie's hand catches th-
em. . .
I blink, and look at my arm again. There are two smears of blood now, but still no puncture wounds.
Jamie takes the pin from me, and tosses it aside.
"Try once more, Sorcha. Try an' get there without pain, an' I'll try tae follow without needin' tae fix things as I go. Let's see what difference it makes."
"Alright. Don't try to be in the vision this time – try to stand outside it. I will too."
He almost asks why, but instead takes my left hand in his right, laces our fingers together, and holds tight.
"Blood of my blood."
"And bone of my bone."
I close my eyes, and slowly, one by one, turn off every insistent noise inside my brain. Every memory, every question, every present want and need, until I am left alone, in silence.
And silence is a great revealer. . .
I spread myself thin, but not like a cloud, instead solid and clear, like a film of ice over a pond, with life and vibrancy all the way to the cold, clean
depths. . .
There is a nest in the long grasses by the shores of Loch Ness. A pair of Greylag geese circle in the bright, crystal blue of an early Spring morning. The wind rustles 'round, stirring the air into a million scents and sensations. The geese land in their nest, coiling a long string of pearls all 'round them. A downy feather gets caught up in the wind and blows out away Westward, across the
loch. . .
The first thing I see this time, are Jamie's eyes looking into mine.
"Weel, that was something else, aye?"
"Yes."
I wince, and notice that my hand is aching. We're still holding each other's hands - much too tightly. . .
Slowly, we disengage our locked fingers, and massage the cramps out of them.
"So, did you gain any insight about Willie, or. . . anything?"
His lip twists a bit, "Aye, I think so. The first two times I was tryin' tae heal ye, an' water became pearls. The third time, I was jus' tryin' tae see, an' the water an' pearls were jus' there. An' what I felt each time. . ." he shakes his head, "Dinnae ken if I c'n describe it."
I laugh a little, "Welcome to a big chunk of my last three months!"
His eyebrows twitch, with humour and in sympathy, "Aye. I suppose ye could say I felt like I was. . . reaching. Reaching through somethin'. Somethin'. . . transformative. But invisible."
"You mean. . . Time?"
He blinks in mild surprise, "Aye. Tha's it, exactly. Reachin' through time. It was almost like I wasnae actually healin' anything at all. Jus' reachin' forward in time an' bringin' back the thing, healed as it would be naturally. An' the third time. . . there wasnae any reason to reach. So nothin' turned inta anything else."
"And so. . . with Willie. . ."
He shakes his head sadly, "He wasnae going tae heal. So I couldnae reach forward and bring him back better."
"Death leaves His mark?"
He sighs, and nods briefly.
"Why did ye want us tae try an' stand outside the vision, Sorcha?"
"I thought it might make the projected imagery a little clearer. Cleaner. Without our personalities influencing things."
"D'ye think it did?"
"Yes, I do. What's a Greylag goose? And why do I know what they're called when I've never seen them before, and don't know anything about them?"
"The birds in that last vision? All I c'n think is ye picked up on what I thought when I saw them," he shrugs, "Common sort of creatures, they are. They mate for life, but there's nowt else interesting about them. Other than they make good eating, a'course."
"Oh, of course," I roll my eyes, "God forbid an existential prophetic vision shows you anything unappetizing."
Both of our stomachs growl at this point, and we dissolve into laughter.
Jamie jumps up, takes off his bathrobe, and starts getting dressed, "I'll jus' go down tae the kitchens an' get our tea, shall I? After yesterday, I dinnae want tae subject the landlady tae any more of us than she absolutely must see."
I chortle, half highly amused, half painfully embarrassed, "She did deliver tea at exactly the wrong moment yesterday, didn't she?"
"Aye. Puir woman."
"Poor woman?" I scoff, "She's to be envied, Jamie. She did get to see you in rather less than your Sunday best, after all. I know lots of women would pay for that sort of thing."
I laugh triumphantly at his rosy cheeks and crimson ears.
He gets back with our tea in record time.
"No' that any of this hasnae been fun, an' all. . ." he says, laying out our meal, "But what all does it havetae do wi' ye an' Jack, Sorcha?"
I shiver, "I'll tell you, Jamie. But not while we're eating."
"Too right. Sorrae." He smiles ruefully into his barley soup.
I manage to hold back the whispers until after we're done with tea. I take Jamie back to the couch, and snuggle up, close and warm. I give a long, long sigh, and try to get in any way ready to remember that room with Jack.
If I survived the man himself, I can survive the memories of our encounter, surely. . .
He's not here now. He can't hurt me. . .
Of course, that's not how this works, and you know it, Beauchamp. . .
. . . it was like he wanted the pain. . .
I clutch Jamie tight, and begin.
"Jack got me alone. And the first thing he asked was about Frank."
"Frank?"
"Yes, that was all I said to him the first day. I'd called out "Frank?" in a very surprised and bewildered way."
"Justifiably so, if they look sae similar."
"Quite. But I was thinking of Frank right then too, for the same reason, and his question rattled me for a minute."
"Understandable."
. . . You, are a beautiful liar. . .
I shiver.
"Well, we started in on a verbal duel, and I realized I. . . might be out of my league."
"Ye? Out of your league?"
I nod.
His eyes harden, "If it were anyone else but Jack, I couldnae imagine it."
. . . Have you ever imagined it?. . .
I shiver again, and fight back the fear and disgust.
"Then he. . . seemed to know the dueling swords weren't working. So he. . . pulled out the battle axes. He. . . bragged to me about your back. He. . . he got excited by it."
I see Jamie's gall rise too, "Ye mean. . ."
"Yes. And he was using Frank's face. Frank's voice. His mannerisms. . ." I bury my face in Jamie's shirt for a minute, centering myself, "I was so. . . sickened I couldn't keep up the verbal duel with him."
He runs a soothing hand across my back, "D'ye think that's why he did it?"
"No. And I don't think it was because he's genuinely proud of himself either – even though he was. Is. No, he did it because I would be sickened by it. Full stop. That's what he wanted from me."
"Ye. . . ye'er leading me somewhere again, lass. Where is it?"
. . . Have you ever imagined complete. . . harmony?. . .
"He. . . started telling me stories of his. . . exploits. And I was so creeped out and horrified I. . . managed to slip into a vision state."
"Jus' like ye did here wi' me?"
I give a very flat laugh, "Hah! No, Jamie, not like today. Almost entirely as a defense mechanism then, I'm certain of it. But the results were. . . somewhat similar."
. . . Fraser was the first perfect subject I ever had. . .
"I. . . saw into him, Jamie. I read his soul. I. . . kenned him. And he wasn't Human. He looks it – but he isn't. He's. . . empty. Nothing but a. . . manifestation. A projection. Of a being of undiluted darkness. Of irredeemable evil."
"Claire," Jamie breathes, "Where have ye led me?"
I stare at him, wide eyed, "I. . . don't know, exactly - I just got here myself. I've thought most of these things before, but never so clearly."
Jamie rubs his eyes, and starts breathing like he's been running, "D'ye really mean tae say that. . . that. . . Black Jack. . . Black Jack, is an Auld One too?"
Notes:
Resources to view Hyper Orange and Stygian Blue can be found here -
https://www.luniere.com/2014/03/01/hyperbolic-orange-and-the-river-to-hell/
Chapter 98: Sacred Ground
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Jamie leaps up, and starts pacing back and forth.
"Black Jack is Jack the Lost? Wanderin' Jack? Jack of the Lantern? The Jack of the Lantern? Christ in heaven save us. . ."
He devolves into low, cursing Gàidhlig, and starts swinging his arms and punching the air as though he'd like to take down the walls of the room with nothing but his fists.
I can't understand even half of what he's saying, and I don't recognize any of the things he called Jack – but I do know the beginnings of a downward slide when I see one.
Again.
Alas, I highly doubt exploring something new in the bedroom is going to be helpful this time. . .
I get up, and reach out. There is the sound of flesh and bone meeting as I catch one of his hands in mine-
The wind rushes past our ears like surf crashing into a stony shore. We fly like kites, like clouds, like tiny winged creatures, over a flowing, coruscating galaxy. Points of light like the sparks from embers coalesce in great murmurations, and undulate, and wave, and move away outward. Then we flip, and float, and look up, and there are the stars, mirroring the sparks below-
We are torn from the vision by a great cry from Jamie. It is only in his mind, for all that reaches my ears is a groan, and a clipped curse as the real world returns with a ringing, stinging slap. Then frustration and anger and sorrow and fear bring him to his knees, his head in his hands.
I desperately scrape my consciousness back together, and kneel next to him, throwing my arms around him, and holding him tight.
Right after is always the worst part of a vision, and neither of us have been wrenched out of one so violently before. . .
He pulls back, and stares at me.
"How d'ye do it, Sorcha? Live wi' this. . . this constant noise in yer head? Images and feelings and. . . things. Knowing things you don't know. . . Nevar knowing when or what or. . . or who ye'll be. . . How d'ye stand it?"
I shake my head, "I don't."
He nods, a strange look on his face. It isn't wonder, or bewilderment, or confusion – it is all three, and none at all.
It's an expression I've felt on my own face too often not to recognize.
"I'm sorry I was ever angry at ye for runnin'. I'd run too, if it were me."
"Sometimes. . . it's the only thing left."
He nods, eyes forlorn.
No, bedroom fun isn't going to be anywhere near enough for this one. At least, not yet. . .
I stand up, "Just let me put on some clothes, Jamie, and then you can take me out to look at the stars. The real ones. That should help with-"
He grips my hand, as desperately as a falling man might, "No Claire. This far outside of town, an' after dark. . . I dinnae wantae risk the Watch. . ."
I shake my head and sigh, clutching him to me, and stroking his hair, "There was no attack by the Watch three months ago, my love. That was just a story I made up for Colum. Or, rather, a story he made up for me." I pull him to his feet, then slide my arms around his waist, "I only said I'd been attacked as an explanation for why I was stumbling around in the woods with no luggage to speak of, no money, no identification, and no transportation. He was the one who said it sounded like "the Watch's work", and I went along with it, because at that point, why wouldn't I?" I lean my head on his chest, "It was just one of the many lies that got in between us before we made our promise of truth, my sweet. One I couldn't fix until you knew. . ." I gesture expansively, "Well. Knew."
His arms settle protectively around me. He is quiet just long enough for both of us to notice the depth of the silence around us.
"Mak sure ye wrap up warrum."
A few minutes later, we're in the dilapidated kitchen gardens, side-by-side, leaning back against a mossed over dry stone wall, pointing out constellations to each other.
They say that all great religions got their start by Humans looking at the stars, and needing to invent some being to explain them somehow. Or to protect us from them. Or merely to mock them, perhaps, as no sane Human mind could find the compass to do.
Here, now, tonight, I find all that needlessly grandiose, and possibly, condescending to our ancestral intelligence.
The stars are no more inexplicable than other Humans. Sometimes you can even get nearer to the stars than you can your fellow men. And sometimes, get close enough to your fellow Humans, and you will find the stars already there amongst you. . .
Jamie lowers his arm from tracing a pattern in the cloud of the Milky Way, "Ye were right we needed to look at the sky, Sorcha. The real one. Everything seems smaller after ye look up."
"I will lift mine eyes unto the hills. . ."
"From whence cometh my help. . ." he sighs, "Ye didnae say ye were readin' Psalms yesterday, Sassenach. . ."
"I wasn't. I just remembered that one."
"Oh."
Very slowly, I take his hand.
"Aboard the Skycities, all schoolchildren are taught that the causes of nuclear Armageddon could be traced back in history to. . . to the British Cold War. . ." I swallow, and close my eyes for a second, "And the Second Battle of Culloden."
His fingers tighten for a moment around mine. Then he gets up without a word, takes my arm, and we go back inside, where it's warm. He orders us two mugs of hot cocoa as we pass by the kitchen. We sit silently on our couch until the landlady brings them.
He takes a long sip, and swallows.
"So. Ye'er sayin' ye think this whole thing – ye fallin' through the stones, meetin' me, the whole kit an' boodle of soulmates an' all. . ." His voice is hard, and bleak, with a vicious coldness dangerously close to the surface, "The purpose of it – the meaning of it. . . was only evar tae rob me of my revenge, sae ye could pay yer debt tae the future? Is that what ye'er sayin' tae me, Sassenach?"
Complete openness is the only thing that's going to get us through this now. . .
"No, Jamie," I say, plainly. "I'm saying history is cruel to the individual. It has always been so. And until I came here, and lived it, all this place was, all Scotland was – all you were. . . was history."
"But. . . you do want to stop Culloden?"
"I don't know, Jamie!" I give a very short, very exasperated sigh, "I don't know if stopping it is right, or just, or possible. And if somehow it is all three, I don't know if stopping it would even make much of a difference. There's nothing to say there wouldn't be another flame point that could lead the world to the exact same place. Two others. A dozen more. Wars always have long, complicated powder trails. Often more than one match is set to them, too."
I grip my cocoa mug hard, with both hands.
"But if you're asking me if your peace of mind is the price I'm willing to pay for justice, then the answer is a resounding no, Jamie." I pause and take a sip, "And if I didn't love you so much, and understand exactly why you're asking, I might be slightly furious you even dared think such a thing of me. . ."
He makes a fist so tight I'm afraid his fingernails might break the skin of his palm, "But Jack of the Lantern, Sorcha! Jack of the bloody feckin' Lantern!"
"I don't know who that is, Jamie! Or why you think Black Jack-"
"Jack o' lantern, Sassenach!" he plunks his mug down in frustration, "D'ye no' have silly grinnin' pumpkin things around for All Hallows Eve in the future?"
"Oh, those! What-"
"Aye. Those! They're nowt but a very prettified and highly sugar-coated version of a very dark an' ugly story. One I refuse tae burden either of us with right now. . ."
Some very dark and ugly memories of his own pass through his eyes.
"Alright," I say, carefully, "But why do you think that Jack is this Jack?"
He sighs, as long and as mournfully as a winter storm, "He's the only Auld One that fits, Sorcha. A lost, empty soul, that feeds on pain, an' fear, an' sorrow, an' horror. He doesnae bring Death – he brings far, far worse. He's a demon trapped in the Human world, for both God an' the Devil have thrown him out. A spirit that c'n drive a man tae things nae Human could dream of. Evil sae great they make songs an' legends about it. . ."
He's convinced me, but I can't stand for that last. . . "No, Jamie."
"What?"
"No," I shake my head, and put down my mug too, "Evil like that isn't real."
"What d'ye mean? Ye say ye saw inta him. Ye mus' know."
"Yes, exactly," I say, "And he isn't like that."
He stares at me, eyes wary.
"Oh, he's lost, and empty, alright. He's trapped in his own existence, and he feeds on others' pain and fear, most certainly. And he's very, very dangerous. But he's not superhuman, Jamie. He's no glorious genius. No legend. He's not even imaginative." I lean forward, very intent, "When your driving spirit is nothing but evil, you can't be grand, or great, or anything enduring. He's sub-Human, Jamie. Less-than, not more. He can cause damage, yes, but he'll never rise above his own degradation." I look into my husband's sweet, haunted blue eyes, "He can be defeated, Jamie. He can be forgotten. We can do it."
Jamie shakes his head, almost unbelievably sorrowful, "How d'ye ken that?"
"Because I did it."
"Ye what?"
"I did it, that day." My blood blazes at the memory, "I burnt him up. From the inside out. His soul cowered before me, Jamie. Collapsed. He is dead to me. And as soon as I conquer the memories of him. . ."
I swallow, thickly.
. . . Have you ever imagined it?. . .
". . . which won't be easy, but I will."
. . . The pure ecstasy of controlling someone. . .
"And as soon as I have, he'll be nothing to me. Less than nothing. Not even a meaningful memory."
. . . Their pain. . .
"There's nothing in evil, Jamie."
. . . Their pleasure. . .
"There's no substance to it."
. . . Their blood. . .
"That's where the emptiness comes from."
. . . Their breath. . .
"We like to think that isn't so, of course, because it makes for a better story."
. . . When they eat. . .
"It's more interesting that way."
. . . When they shit. . .
"We cartoonify it, fancy it up, and make it entertaining."
. . . Have you ever imagined complete harmony?. . .
"Or we glorify it, romanticize it, and make it thrilling."
. . . The total joining of a soul to yours. . .
"But it isn't any of those things really, my love."
. . . For eternity. . .
"He might. . . overwhelm."
. . . Fraser was the first perfect subject I ever had. . .
"But he can't rule."
. . . He was magnificent. . .
"Not unless we deliberately let him."
. . . I suppose you think that makes me a monster. . .
"He's no monster, Jamie. Monsters are Human. They're substantive, worthwhile beings. People we can learn from, and find value in, even as we condemn their beliefs and attitudes and actions. Monsters can be legends. And in most cases, they are the real enemy. People like Dougal, or the men when they give in to hateful, horrid attitudes. Most or all of the other Peace Agents. But Jack?"
I imagine it is Jamie instead of Dougal, bursting in, wielding a weapon to rescue me.
. . . Ah'll thank ye tae take yer hands. Off. My. Wife. . .
"Irredeemable evil isn't clever, my love. It isn't grand, or interesting, or even seductive, when you really see it for what it is. It's just the same things over and over, down the ages, the same goal, the same energy, and nothing new, ever. It's bland. It's stupid. It can't create. It can't grow. It can't invent. It can't explore. It can only destroy, and consume, and defile, and tear down."
In my mind, Jamie sets me down outside the room, and turns, and locks Jack in.
"You can reach the maximum of pain – trust me, I know. It isn't even particularly difficult. Pain is cheap. And when you choose to revolve your life around it? Well. You get what you pay for. You can tear everything down, and consume it all eventually. And then where are you?"
We're outside the room.
"He is dangerous, of course – he does have power. But so long as we don't give him any more, don't believe in him, don't let ourselves think he's already won, then he is entirely, totally, completely vulnerable. Whoever or whatever this Jack of the Lantern is, or was, or might be, at the end of the day, we've already won. We just have to fight the battles now. The war is already over."
I deliberately bring up my memories of my encounter with Jack. And they're there. But I don't hear any whispers.
We did it.
We left the room.
I couldn't do it alone, but Jamie came and rescued me.
That means if he'll only let me in, I can go and rescue him.
We can defeat Jack. And we won't need Culloden.
Here, in the real world, I kneel in front of my husband, and take his hands. I bring them to my face, and kiss his fingers and palms, and hold them to me.
"We can win, right here, right now, Jamie, my love. Because we have each other."
I look into his eyes, and I know he can see I am speaking the truth.
"There's two of us now."
He pulls me onto his lap, and cradles me like a treasure.
Half a lifetime later – or ten minutes, I don't know which – he says,
"They do say Wanderin' Jack had twa weaknesses. The first was that he couldnae go onta anny consecrated ground – nae churches, nor graveyards, nor anny such place. Both Heaven an' Hell had thrown him out – sae he could nevar find rest, ye see. An' the second was tha' laughter would drive him off. He lived so on pain tha' anny happiness would gall him. They say tha's wheer the carved lanterns began – folk would bring hoom a skull from the graveyard, all grinnin' like they do, an' put a candle on it, oor in it, an' set it in the window, tae make a beacon he could see in his wanderin', tellin' him that that house was protected."
He runs his hands all over me, like he's rediscovering me after a long, long absence.
"I still dinnae ken exactly what all is going on, Sorcha. But ye love me, ye wilnae leave me, and this thing that we have. . ." he lays a gentle hand over my heart, "Whatever else we may call it, that at least is sacred ground. That's enough for now. Moor than."
He kisses me, undresses us both, and puts us to bed, snuggled close and warm.
I try hard not to think about the fact that no matter how much we may not need Culloden anymore, the world still might.
Because Culloden is sacred ground too. . .
Notes:
Soundtrack for this chapter - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qK3eJBTxha0
Chapter 99: Wild Mountain Time
Notes:
Chapter Rating - Soft M for non-graphic married nookie
Chapter Text
We give each other two days, as a down payment to our promised week without drama.
The first day, we range all over the manse's grounds, and a little ways into the woods too - me, as a botanist and farmer, gathering food plants like wintercress, ground elder, elf cup mushrooms, and alisanders, and Jamie, as an herbalist and soapmaker, focused on things like gorse flowers, chickweed, dandelions and sweet violets. We vie good-naturedly over several patches of young nettles, and both of us double, triple, and quadruple-check some wild garlic before we pick it. I recite a lot of Latin names, and go on a long time about the pros and cons of laboratory hybridization. Jamie tells me dozens of little stories, some mythical, some historic, and some personal experiences, but all of them about the many and varied things that grow in Scotland.
We find an enormous patch of wild thyme, just come into flower, and we quite lose track of time watching the bees harvest the abundances of its nectar and pollen.
"I've never seen bees before," I murmur, leaning on his shoulder.
"Weel now they've seen ye too," he smiles, and kisses my temple, "An' be sure they'll never forget ye."
He spreads a picnic blanket in a sheltered, sunny patch of dry grass, and makes love to me, slowly, and sweetly, under a sky so softly, warmly blue that when the pleasure washes over me, it is as though I am drowning in his eyes.
Afterwards, we feed each other bits of soda bread spread with soft cheese, and savoury bites of crispy bacon and briny, ripe green olives, and sips of dark, fragrant red wine, all in such a goofy, overdone, stereotypically romantic fashion we can barely eat for laughing so much.
Then the sky clouds over, the temperature drops, and the rain chases us indoors so suddenly, it is as though the entire world forgot it was ever springtime. He wraps the picnic blanket around us and hurries us back to the manse.
We dry off in the kitchen, where Jamie charms the landlady into using some of our foraged things in the omelets she was intending on making for our tea, and looks so proud of me as he explains how we found them, she actually warms a little towards me too.
I have no idea what she thought was happening when she walked in on us two days ago – but she very definitely Had Not Approved. Jamie told me that somehow, that had translated into It's All The Fault Of That Woman You Married, and You Just Wait And See What You Get, Young Man, and Really, Such Goings On!, and many other equally unnecessarily capitalized phrases.
I smile as she serves us our tea at the kitchen table, and even makes us her mother's special recipe for spiced hot cocoa, with a plate of the really good chocolate biscuits.
Thankfully, it appears all I have to do to be forgiven around here is to have a sweet, thoughtful, and very, very sexy husband.
In bed that night, we talk, and snuggle, and each make requests from the other as to what we will do next. We smirk at some of it, and laugh at each other sometimes, but we fall asleep promising to do all of it.
In the morning, I wake Jamie up with my mouth – wherever I want, for however long I want, and as hard as I want - just so long as I don't leave a mark, of course - but he gets to choose where and when he finds his pleasure.
I smirk as he descends into the Gàidhlig for the fourth time, finally pushes me off him, flips us over, pins me to the mattress, and proceeds to leave bite marks on me in a totally new area.
I am pleased, but not surprised by his choices. . .
We shower together after, and he washes and brushes my hair. Then we go back to bed, and unsuccessfully pretend to have just woken up when the landlady brings us breakfast there. Neither of us bothered to get dressed after our shower, and for all Jamie's chest gets a glance of approval, mine gets a Disapproving Frown.
I'd be annoyed by the hypocrisy of it, but Jamie is so clearly vastly amused, even in the midst of both our lingering embarrassment, it seems silly to make anything more of it than one woman's unimportant little quirk.
When we finally do get up, Jamie takes a long, long, slow, and unnecessarily provocative time putting on his plaid. The way he smooths each pleat, lovingly and gracefully, making me wish the wool was the curves of my legs. . . Then, he wraps it all around himself, and I wish it was my hands, my arms, or my legs, or all of me, draping across his thighs. . . He stands, slowly slips on a shirt, and, even more slowly, tucks it in. He flexes his arms as he puts on his jacket, then runs a hand up his neck and through his hair, before sweeping his curls under the band of his knit tartan cap.
He stalks towards me, light in his eyes, bending over where I fell back onto the bed, stunned by his whole performance.
"Well, Sassenach?"
"You win," I say, faintly, barely keeping myself from tearing into him, "Putting your clothes on. . . can be foreplay."
"Hmphm," he smirks, and holds out a hand.
I scribble an "X" on a small scrap of paper, and hand it to him, "One free kiss, to be redeemed at any time, any where."
"Any how," he smiles, puts the bit of paper in his breast pocket, and then suits actions to words. . .
Eventually, we see to the animals in the stable, Donas and Heather nickering and restive, happy to see us. Once they are fed and watered and combed and made much of, I deliberately make such a fuss over Auld Alec that Jamie's eyes flash with exaggerated jealousy.
"Noo then, wha' is the meanin' o' this?" he sneers cartoonishly, planting one fist on his hip.
I smile up from my seat on a hay bale, "Just what it looks like, my dear."
"Och aye? 'Cause et looks like my wife is payin' sae much attention tae a wee moggy tha' shee's ignorin' me. . ."
He makes a grab at my arm, but I dart away, leading him on a teasing chase through the gardens. I just manage to stay ahead of him, panting and giggling, but he finally outpaces me, right next to the garden shed. With a few grand, impulsive moves, he locks us in, and then he takes full advantage of his kilt, and finally, finally, proves to me he is a True Scotsman. . .
I saw him get dressed, so already I knew it, and anyway, I never truly disbelieved him, but I have been dreaming of him taking me like this ever since I first saw him in a plaid. . .
"And that," I say, as he puts me back on my feet, but my knees are still shaky, so I lean back on the shed wall for support, "Is why I think the kilt was invented by women."
"That?" he says, laughing, "Access, ye mean?"
"Certainly. Can you imagine if I was wearing skirts too?"
His eyes unfocus, and I can see he is imagining it, in some detail. . .
"Aye. An' I suppose ye might be right. But ye do ken that the whole way the kilt looks now is a much more modern notion than-"
I put two fingers to his lips. He breaks off, and kisses them.
"All I know, Jamie, is that my gorgeous Scottish warrior Laird outlaw Viking barbarian husband looks stunning in his kilt, and even better out of it, and best of all half out of it. And he will chase me though gardens, and play loving, happy games with me, and tell me stories, and listen when I ramble on about things, and be my husband, and give me everything I ever wanted, even before I knew I did."
I throw my arms around him, and cuddle into his chest.
"Ye dinnae wantae rejoin the men taemorrow, do ye?"
"Not at all, my love."
"Weel, what would ye say if I told ye I've decided not tae show my back at the Underground rally next week?"
I gape at him, "But Dougal. . ."
"Doesnae signify." He holds me close, "I was going tae give him 'til the end of this campaign, but everything's changed since I married ye, Sassenach. I wilnae be showin' myself off before anyone else but ye, now."
There is a sad smile in his voice.
"Oh, Jamie. I never thought-"
"I ken. But I cannae be lighthearted about it wi' anyone else, Sorcha. Have I thanked ye for that yet?"
"I don't think so."
"Weel, I do thank ye. I've been in a dark place about my body for four years. First because it happened at all, an' then because what wi' how Colum feels about modern medicine, I couldnae get treatments tae reduce the scarring until it was too late, an' then because of my deal wi' Dougal." He shakes his head, sorrowfully, "I've felt low, an' ugly, and evary kind of disgusting, an' no amount of shallow lust from folk who didnae ken me could do a blame bit of a thing tae help it." He strokes his fingers across my cheek, "It was ye who first made me think I might be alright one day. When ye stared at me that very first morning in the van on the way home tae Leoch. I saw want in yer eyes, aye, but. . . there was so much curiosity there too. So much personality. So much you. . ." He kisses me softly, and oh, so sweetly. . . "It was more than lust – I saw that from the first. T'was the first time in years somethin' physical felt clean, Sorcha. Pure." He half-smiles, ruefully, "Unmarked."
His kiss is decidedly less sweet this time, and he plants his hands firmly on my backside, "I cannae tell ye how terrified I was of showin' ye, though. I didnae wantae lose ye. But I had tae show ye, an' tell ye all about it, if I wanted tae keep ye. . ."
I laugh a little, "Kind of like if you had a rather inexplicable secret that made you act somewhat irrationally, until the one person you needed to tell but hadn't found a way to do so sort of forced the issue?"
He grunts a laugh, "Aye, I suppose we were in a similar place, really."
"I guess I shouldn't have been quite so surprised you believed me so easily. You've been on your own impossible journey, when you think about it."
"Aye. In a way." He nuzzles into my hair, "Bu' I got much the bettar half of the bargain. . ."
"Flatterer," I reach up under his kilt and pinch his rear, "We can have a compliment competition later. Right now I would like some tea and scones, and a long, lazy game of chess. And I don't mean that metaphorically."
He grins, and laughs, "Sorcha, if they'd asked me all that I wanted in a woman, and made ye in a factory, they'd never have got ye as perfect as ye are."
Warmth comes up on my cheeks, "Made for you, am I?"
"Aye. Jus' for me. Down tae the wee flecks of hazel green in the gold of yer eyes. An' the one wee freckle on yer neck, jus' at the best spot tae kiss."
He presses his lips there, and I groan, "How could I not be in love with a man who says such things? And goes on to prove he means them?"
"Mmm," he hums against my skin, "How indeed?"
"You're the very king of all men, James Fraser."
"Jus' sae long as ye'er my queen. . ."
Tea and scones and chess have to wait a while, but we do get to them eventually.
Chapter 100: The Red And The Black
Notes:
Chapter Rating – Soft M for language, and graphically suggestive catcalling
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"Can I ask you a personal question, Jamie?"
I glance over at him for a moment, from my seat behind the wheel of the Rover. His eyes flick up from his e-padd – "Are there any personal questions between us left tae ask, mo nighean donn?"
I smack his knee, "Smartarse."
He grins, "Give me two minutes, aye? I'm in the middle of a chapter. . ."
"Of course. Take however long it takes. My curiosity will keep."
I re-focus back on the road ahead. We'll be meeting Dougal and the men at our next scheduled village around lunchtime. Murtagh, the dear, drove the Rover all the way back to us last night, while the rest of the party went on from Inverness. He was there at the breakfast table to greet us this morning, all gruff and grumbling, and you'd think a total mood killer, but both Jamie and I have rarely been happier to see someone. After nearly a week of the manse's landlady, Murtagh's blunt, but honest and consistent dourness is intensely welcome. He's in the back seat now, snoring peacefully.
For all that, there wasn't enough time this morning for me to search the Rover properly for the mic-wire. Of all the things I've told Jamie in the past few days, that still hasn't been one of them, and so no matter how personal our conversations get, I'd better see to it they remain. . . innocent. Or what Dougal would call innocent, anyway. . .
I still don't trust the man, and he never promised to stop listening to us, violation of our original agreement though it would be.
Come to think of it, there isn't much of our original agreement left.
Him versus me. That's about all.
I shrug mentally. That's about all you need, when you're at war.
Jamie taps a few buttons on his e-padd, then looks over at me, "Sae what is this terribly personal question, then?"
I smile, "Oh, it isn't very terrible, I don't think. I've just been wondering why the signs Hugh called you translated to Black Son. It doesn't seem a particularly apposite name, all things considered. . ."
"Acgh, ye mean Mac Dubh?"
My mind scrambles for a minute, then finally puts the obvious together. "Oh, of course. I ought to have noticed that sooner. But I don't really know what Mac Dubh means either - the context of it anyway - you don't call yourself that very often, after all. And so why would Hugh?"
"It means Son of the Black One, Sorcha. Son of Black Brian." He smiles thoughtfully, "Weel. Sons. "Mic nan dubh!", we'd allus say. Bobby, Ian, Rob an' me. Jenny too, on the few occasions we were smart enough tae include her. "Buaidh do chloinn an dubh-aigein!" Victory to the children of the dark. Then we'd all howl like wolves, an' be off inta who kent what mischief." He chuckles, half rueful, half remembering, "Mam allus said she an' I were the only twa red sheep in a whole herd of black uns."
"You got your hair from her?"
"Oh, aye," his voice goes low, and contemplative, "Ellen MacKenzie – the Red Devil of Leoch. Firstborn tae auld Jacob MacKenzie. . . Seumas Ruadh. . . the Red from which the Devil got her name. . ."
Didnae ye ken? The Devil is a woman. . .
Well, that's a coincidence, isn't it Beauchamp?
It is a coincidence, right?
Right?
Have there been any coincidences in any of this whole adventure of yours? Oh, Beauchamp, Beauchamp, when will you stop asking questions you don't want the answers to?
I hesitate to bring Jamie in on it all, but only for a second. Coincidence or not, it's just too much not to. . .
"That's. . . kind of a funny thing to say, Jamie. . ."
Methodically, I tell him everything that happened between Dougal and I between his rescuing me that day in Brockton, and our re-joining the men past the checkpoint. The Devil's Spring, the mic wire, the other wire that might still be here in the Rover, my declaration to be queen of the fairies, what I told Dougal he must do about Sandringham, his plan for us to marry, The Devil's Eye carving, everything.
Jamie digests the story for a long time. Then he pulls Sawney out of his pocket.
"The same pattern as this, ye say?"
"A classic circuit labyrinth, yes. The carving on the wall had more circuits than that, and a fancier border carved around it, but that's all."
That, and this one has his mother's special nickname for him carved on it. . .
And his mother's nickname was The Red Devil. . .
"An' that stone carving was just like the labyrinth we walked at our wedding?"
I nod, "With points at the same eight places the priestesses stood around the circle."
"An' that first night ye went tae Craigh na Du-" he breaks off suddenly, remembering the possible mic-wire, and looking anxiously at the still-sleeping Murtagh too.
"Yes." I say, soothing him with a look. We haven't said anything Dougal could use, or even understand beyond the superficial, if he doesn't already know it. If he's even listening at all. It is possible, of course - but it is also possible he isn't. And the only problem there would be if Murtagh overheard something critical would be the time it would take to bring him up to speed. I wouldn't at all mind him knowing. In fact, I might actually prefer it if he did. . .
Something to consider. . .
"And I saw it again the night we had our fortunes told by Iona MacTavish."
And the day I talked to Geillis, but I'll tell him all about that later.
"Huh."
It's the same tone he took when he was filing away all those little bits of information about me. Waiting for the time to be ripe for him to understand.
I agree, we ought to leave this for now. . .
"Sae how did ye ken Sandringham was hidin' the Culloden money, Sorcha? I didnae ken tha'. Don't think annyun in the party save Ned an' Dougal possibly could. No' for sure, annyroad."
"Well. . ." I ponder what I can usefully tell him, in the presence of a possible listening device, and the who-knows-how-deeply-asleep Murtagh, without making trouble, or a situation we don't currently have time for. . . "Shall we say that one power peddler knows another?"
"Ah."
He relapses into a deeply contemplative silence. I join him there for a minute, then ask, "So, what are you reading?"
"Le Rouge Et Le Noir."
He picks up his e-padd again, but freezes before he turns it on, finally hearing what he just said.
Is it a coincidence?
Or fate?
At this point, does it matter?
"Classic."
"Aye."
And silence returns once more, but this time with the added undercurrent of both of us thinking furiously.
Eventually, I pull us in to the next village on Dougal's campaign trail, and bring the Rover 'round the back of the pub. There's a large dedicated stables here, apparently, right next to an historically accurate working blacksmith's shop. I wake Murtagh, and then Jamie escorts me inside.
"I wantae to settle ye wi' the men first," he says, "An' then I'll come back out an' help him wi' Donas an' Heather."
"I could help you with the horses, you know, and we could all go in together."
"Aye, we could." He takes my jacket, and hands it to the cloakroom attendant, "An' we'll do it that way if ye insist, bu' I thought, what with how ye'er dressed-" he gestures at the Moriston tartan dress taking off my jacket fully revealed, "That taeday it's more important for ye tae be Red Sorcha than it is Wee Jamie's Wife. In front of the men, a'least."
I smile and shake my head, "Will you never stop impressing me? You learned a lot, that night of Gwyllyn's concert, didn't you?"
"Aye. Didn't ye?"
"I did. Even more than I realized at the time." I sigh, "And you're right. Confronting the men first, and on my own for a little bit, is probably the right move in this instance."
"White Queen takes Black King's Castle?"
I pause a bit. No. . . I'm not expecting today to be anything like our long battle of threats to take Leoch from Dougal. But what am I expecting?
"No. Red Queen, White King, and White King's Knight, take Black King's pawns. And they do it in that order. Then Red Queen can safely become the White Queen."
Jamie chuckles, "There ye go, playin' Double Cranko again, when everyone else thinks they've got ye safely cornered on the chessboard."
I take his arm, and lean my head on his shoulder for a minute to ground myself, "Jamie, what is Double Cranko? You've mentioned it to me several times now, but you've never explained what you mean by it."
"Agch. It's no' much, really. Jus' a joke from a classic auld American TV show I like. It means ye get through impossible situations by either changin' the rules, or throwin' 'em out altogether. Tho' that last is Triple Cranko. Dinnae ken if things are that dire jus' now."
"Well, the rules are the real enemy, more often than not."
"Aye, I ken yer philosophy on games, Sorcha. It's how we got here, after all."
"I suppose you're right. . ."
I lift my head, and Jamie escorts me into the taproom. We spot Angus, just as Angus spots us, and he waves us over to his booth. On the way, we see the men of the MacKenzie campaign, filling nearly half of the available seating, crowded around tables and booths, but all huddled on one side of the room. This is odd, because from the looks of things, they ought to fill at least two thirds of the room, and it isn't like the men not to spread out when they can. Dougal, Ned, and most of Colum's men are seated comfortably at the bar, but the rest of them are very closely grouped together, not taking any open seats at any tables occupied by strangers, even when doing so would be drastically more comfortable for everyone.
I take a second look at said strangers, and to a man they are wearing a bright green and blue tartan I haven't seen before. . .
"Uh-oh," Jamie whispers to me.
"What?" I whisper back, "What is it?"
"I forgot. This is a Clan MacDonald campaign stop too. They've been here since yesterday, an' they're leavin' taenight, but there's a few hours overlap."
"And that's bad?"
"MacDonald and MacKenzie dinnae overlap well, mo nighean. Nae mattar for how short a time. They dinnae mix over well wi' Frasers either, come tae that."
"Ah." Warrior Claire rises in my heart, pleading, demanding to be set free, "So which ones are the Huggers, them or us?"
"The what?"
"The Highs and the Huggers, Jamie."
He blinks.
I bite back a sigh. I don't have time to fully explain, but of course they don't use those idioms here, Beauchamp, you idiot. . .
"The toffs and the plebs. The nobs and the gobs. The posh and the tosh. The Princes and the Paupers. The Red and the Black. Which clan is which? Quick now, I need to know."
I see understanding click in his mind, "Historically it's gone back an' forth, Sorcha. But jus' now MacDonald holds the honours. Which evary MacKenzie mightily resents."
"Perfect. Thank you."
I give Jamie a peck on the cheek, as Angus gets up, and makes Rupert stand too, so I might have a place to sit.
"Thanks boys." I take the place they've made for me, then look up at Jamie, "Hurry back, my love."
Jamie winks at me, and with only the slightest hesitation, turns to go.
Angus sits back down at the end of the booth, a shield between me and the rest of the room.
There is a long pause, and things are very quiet around the table.
"Soo. . . et is love then?" says Peter, from my other side.
I stare at him, quite wordless for a second.
"Of course it is. Why wouldn't it be?"
His face darkens. "Ye'er a sassenach, Sassenach. An' quality. That ye were havin' fun wi' wee Jam was one thing, but. . . marryin' him. . ."
I look around the table, and everyone save Angus is awkwardly nodding in agreement.
Oh. My lads. I should have known. I should have known from the first. Of course. Of course. They love him. And they thought I didn't. And that's why. . . My heart goes soft, and I smile at them. "Oh, you dear boys. I do have a bad habit of underestimating you. But let's be fair and admit that such underestimation often goes both ways between us, shall we?" I hold my head proudly, "No, lads. I'm Team Jamie all the way. One hundred percent. You don't have to worry about that."
Everyone looks some combination of awkward and abashed.
"I tried tae tell ye," grumbles Angus, "Murtagh tried tae tell ye. An' ye still wouldnae-"
I put a hand on his shoulder, "Let's just order some ale, Angus, and get something to eat. We can let go of everything else."
Reluctantly, he sits back, and resets his mouth. Then he nods at Rupert, who goes up to the bar to order for us.
I sit quietly, listening as conversations slowly start up around me.
I don't have any room to judge them. Not on this, anyway. I did come within a hair's breadth of leaving Jamie, after all. . .
Well. They don't need to know that. Now, to start all over with them, yet again-
A loud and mocking speech in the Gàidhlig comes from one or another of the MacDonald occupied tables.
Most of the MacKenzie men in my line of vision turn some shade of red or another, and Angus visibly bites back a curse.
The men give him sour, resentful looks, some of which spill over onto me.
Warrior Claire clamours to be let loose.
Well. . . I do owe them. . .
And it downright pains me to see them so pent up like this. . .
"What's up Angus? What's was that?"
I know, or can pretty well guess, but I need him to bring me in on it if I'm going to be able to do anything about it.
Back behind my heart, Warrior Claire grins, and rubs her hands together.
"Acgh. The bloody MacDonalds hev been windin' us up all day. But Dougal said we'd bettar no' throw the furst punch or he'd skelp the lot ov us." He sighs deeply, "'S'ben hell."
There is another nasty, sneering speech, loud enough for just about everyone in the room to hear, but delivered from behind a booth wall, so the speaker remains unseen to most of us.
"What did he say, Angus?"
His cheeks go a fierce red, "I. . . I couldnae repeat such things tae a la-"
I snort, "Nearly four months in your company, and now you're worried about my precious lady feelings?" I shake my head, and whisper fiercely, "Come on, Angus! Do you want me to go over there and defend the MacKenzie honour all by myself?"
"What? Why would ye. . . No!"
"No? Well, I still plan on fighting back, even if I have to sit here to do it. But no one can defend without a shield, and no one can attack without a weapon. So either be my ears and voice, or get out of my way and let me fight!"
He shakes his head, and mumbles a bit, then finally says, "The. . . the last thing he said was, "Who is that new red pustule on the arse of the MacKenzies?"
I nod sharply, "Say that's why you don't screw with us - we're contagious."
He blinks once or twice, then rattles off a string of harsh Gàidhlig. A similar speech is rapped out in return.
"He said he's heard a MacKenzie hoor c'n take thirty cocks in one night."
"Sixty. And she still wouldn't give it up to him."
The same exchange of loud and anonymous Gàidhlig.
"He says he wouldnae have ye – he'd havetae fit ye in between his morning woman an' his evening woman, an' they'd get jealous."
"His left hand might get jealous of his right, but that's about all."
I still might not know much Gàidhlig, but I do know some words very well, and I understand the viciously sputtered reply almost perfectly, even before Angus translates it -
"English twat!"
Finally. Took long enough. Angus must really have been holding the men in check if it's taken this much for me to wind the MacDonalds up. Inside my mind, Warrior Claire howls her battle cry, and I cup my hands around my mouth to call out my endgame-shot, in my most condescending, Central-est, English-est voice.
"Chicken nugget!"
Because there's no way the Highs in any intensely political and supremely Scottish feud want to be reminded that they share a name with American fast food. I've just called them cheap, unhealthy, jumped-up, and un-Scottish. And beneath the contempt of an Englishwoman into the bargain. Throw in that it's a double dig about their bravery and their height, and it really is the perfect opening punc-
There is a huge crash as at least two tables turn over at once, accompanied with a great deal of smashing, shouting, and stomping.
Angus looks at me frantically, "Sae what's yer plan fer this part, Sassenach?"
I scoot further behind the table as the booth very quickly empties, "What? This part is your plan! You get to fight them, and you didn't throw the first punch!"
"Fraoch eilean!" The first wave of MacDonalds break on a shield wall of MacKenzie chairs and side tables.
Angus flips the table up in front of me, scattering plates and utensils everywhere, "But ye did, ye daft wo-"
"I'm the bloody Sassenach, Angus! The minute I walked in, whatever happened here was going to get blamed on me anyway – I might as well deserve it!"
"Tullach Ard!" An answering wave of MacKenzies breaks through the MacDonald line.
Butter knives and salad plates might make for deeply unimpressive weaponry in most contexts, but at the moment they might as well be broadswords and shields in the hands of feuding clans. . .
"Aye, but. . ." Angus darts in to block me from several bannocks lobbed like grenades. They bounce off his head with a series of frankly hilarious thwaps.
I snort, "You outnumber them - and you're a MacKenzie – why are you still standing here talking, Angus?"
He hunches next to my table and deflects a few deadly spinning spoons, "Because I've seen ye fight hand tae hand, Sassenach! An' ye cannae. . ."
A MacDonald head shows over Angus's shoulder. I smash a plate against it. The shards spray across Angus's shirt front, and a goofy expression spreads across our opponent's face. He goes down like a stone.
"Alright, ye c'n do that fine. Bu'-"
"AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!"
"HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!"
Twin wordless battle cries come from the rear and side of the room. Jamie and Murtagh have chosen to return just as Dougal and Rupert execute a flanking move from behind the bar.
It is very quickly, and very decisively over.
Angus does manage to turn and get a few punches in before the end, but, like the rest of us, he is mostly transfixed on the sight of Jamie and Dougal, side by side, charging through the middle of the fray.
It truly is a sight to see. . .
So, why am I suddenly fiercely jealous?
What?
Of who? Or of what?
And why?
I shake my head at myself, and don't come out from behind my table until the groups of clan men are safely separated by the pub's staff, the uninjured MacKenzies are cleaning up their mess, and the injured ones are being seen to by Jamie.
Murtagh appears before me, and takes me over to where my husband is giving each man a very thorough talking to, in addition to bandaging their hurts.
After the fighting broke up, Dougal disappeared immediately with Ned, so Jamie is the only one left inclined to be at all reproachful about the incident.
He grumbles a long speech in darkly accented Gàidhlig to Alain while bandaging up his bruised knuckles. Then he clouts him on the back and orders him to join one of the cleaning teams. Alain goes. Angus is up next.
Jamie treats the few small scratches on Angus's face with something that clearly stings. He grunts in disapproval when Angus flinches.
"Aye, that's what ye get for fightin', lad! An' ye, Security Manager for Leoch!" he scoffs, "Ye might at least ha' considered the consequences beforehand! Christ, I've nevar met a biggar baby when it comes tae-"
"T'was yer wife I was protecting, Jam!"
Jamie rolls his eyes, "Protecting, was it? Have ye met her, man? From the sound of what ye all hev been sayin', she was protectin' all yer precious fragile egos, an' ye followed her to a man. An' that's the long an' the short of it, end of story!"
"Aye, that's as may be – but hev ye met her, Jam?" Angus growls, "I dinnae care how well she c'n tongue-lash a body, she's pants at melee! One tae many fights like this'un an' she'll start somethin' she cannae finish." He looks apologetically at me, "Ye've more spirit than a case of whisky, yer brave as a badger, an' game as a duck, but ye havenae a scrap of trainin', Sassenach."
I smile ruefully, and pat Jamie's shoulder, "He's right, my love. Brains have a few deficiencies when it comes to hand-to-hand combat. They're not entirely useless, of course, but they get messy fast." Peter and a few of the other men squirm for second, and I can tell they're remembering the cow entrails.
I smirk a little.
Ha. Messy brains indeed.
"And in actual practice, I'm just not good at anything else. But, um. . ." I take a look around at the proud expressions and shared smiles of the men. Contrasted with half a hour ago, they are men now, as they simply were not before. They're a team. A force to be reckoned with. They weren't that before. They haven't been that, for all these long weeks on the road. More proof, as if I needed it, that Dougal's leadership, while more than adequate and certainly adept enough, just isn't in any way inspiring.
Something warm rises in my soul.
I've got you, boys. I ken you. Follow me instead. . .
"Well, I'd say I'm sorry but. . . well. . . I'm not."
They're proud of themselves. And they deserve that.
Heaven help me, I'm proud of them.
And I deserve that too. . .
I do.
I deserve to be around men I'm proud of.
Finally. It's taken you a disgustingly long time to get around to realizing that, Beauchamp.
Jamie doesn't smile at me. He does make eye contact with both Angus and Rupert. Then he tilts his head sharply, and both men leave the room, understanding something in the gesture that entirely baffles me.
It only takes a few more minutes for him to fix up the last few minor injuries. There are no more lectures. Then he takes me back out into the yard, where Rupert and Angus have set up a large folding table in front of the blacksmith's shop. Spread across it are stunpikes, stunbows, an impressive array of bladed weaponry, bracers, arm-shields, vests, specialized eyewear, and about two dozen things I can't even identify.
"Jamie? What is all this?"
His lip twists, "Triple Cranko, Sorcha. Time tae get ye properly kitted up."
I look dubiously over all the stuff laid out on the table. I have no idea what to call most of it, let alone how to use it. "Um. . . is that necessary?"
"I'll say it is. High time. Jus' give everythin' a good look an' take yer pick, an' we'll get ye checked out wi' it."
I don't reply, still transfixed on all the things before me that speak of violence. . .
I didn't realize such a wide range of weaponry was even allowed to groups like ours, let alone that we had all of it here on the trip with us. . .
Sorcha, d'ye really think all of Scotland is unarmed jus' because the English say we mus' be?
Jamie's voice echoes through my mind.
Parse that later, Beauchamp. Look this stuff over now. Make a good show of doing so. And then say you don't want any of it, so everyone can just move on. Right?
Right.
And yet. . .
One knife in particular caught my eye the moment Jamie brought me over. It's of middling size, but the blade is an odd shape, both angular and curved, and strangely faceted and grooved. The honed part is about half again the length of my hand, and an all over flat, matte black. The handle and hilt are made of something similar, except shiny, and flecked with silver.
Hesitatingly, I pick it up. Whatever the material is, it starts cold, but warms almost instantly in my hand. The attached sheath is some kind of shiny, tear-proof, metal-infused, high-tech faux-leather, also in black. All in all, the whole thing wouldn't look out of place in some ridiculously over the top science fiction show, or deliberately unrealistic fantasy video game.
Still. . . There's something about it. . . About this knife in particular, silly though it seems. . .
"What is this one called, Rupert?" I hold it out for inspection.
He looks over from chatting with Jamie and shrugs, casually.
"That? Oh, that's a sgian-dubh."
Notes:
Double Cranko clip - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v57JsLXHFEk
Chapter 101: Secret Weapon
Chapter Text
"A black knife? It's called a black knife?" I look at the all-black-coloured knife in my hand, "Isn't that just a bit on the nose?"
"Nae Sorcha," Jamie takes the dagger from me, and examines it, closely inspecting the weight, balance, and edge, "It more closely translates tae 'dark blade' – meanin' one ye c'n wear beneath yer clothes – secret like." He gives it a few experimental thrusts, "But aye, I'll concede this new modern type may ha' gone a bit too far wi' the aesthetics – still," he sheathes it and hands it back to me, "A nice weapon for when ye get a touch more advanced – I'd have ye pick somethin' a wee bit simpler tae begin wi', Sorcha."
I look at the thing, unimpressed, and don't close my hand around it.
"Jamie, it's a fancy pointed stick. Just how advanced are we talking here?"
"Ach," says Angus, taking it from me and doing something fiddly with the sheath-straps, "It's moor of a mattucashlass, really."
"More of a. . ." I blink, "Bless you, Angus, for thinking I know at all what that means."
"It only means that it's configured tae be strapped tae yer wrist or yer arm – no' jus' yer hip, thigh or knee," says Jamie, "There's nae functional difference."
He holds out his arm, and Angus straps the sheath to it, "Y'see, how it c'n easily be hid under yer clothes this way?" He draws the knife again, and holds it out, very carefully pointing it away from all of us.
Very belatedly, I realize we have an audience. Most of the men not on cleaning duty are watching us. Even Ned is here, smiling benignly on the whole tableau.
Jamie continues, not caring who is watching, "An' this model is advanced, Sorcha, because. . ." He subtly shifts his grip on the handle, and the blade separates into three, splitting along the facet lines into an even nastier science-fiction-looking thing. It looks sort of like a goth trident, or mechanical eagle's claw. "When it's in this configuration, it also does this. . ." Jamie shifts his grip again, and two arcs of caustic blue-white energy zap between the blade's points.
Okay. Now I'm impressed.
"And. . . how is this legal?"
Rupert and Angus laugh, and Jamie shakes his head bemusedly, "We're allowed as much non-lethal stun weaponry as we c'n afford, Sorcha. An' any an' all cultural an' ceremonial weapons are allowed automatically under the Clan Restoration Act."
"That, Jamie," I say, pointing at the still-zapping triple-tined blade, "Is about as relevant to Scottish culture as a lightsaber, and only about half as deadly!"
He shrugs, turns off the shock function, and transforms the three blades back into one, "Aye, weel. Ye asked how we were keeping things legal. No' how fair we were bein'."
"Ah. So that's why this is Triple Cranko, then?"
"Aye. If ye'er going' tae throw out the rules, ye may as well throw 'em all out."
"So I see." I shake my head.
"Heer, try a stunbow," says Rupert, holding one up to me.
I look dubiously at the clunky, heavy thing.
"I don't know. . . I-"
"Jus' try, Sassenach," says Rupert, interrupting by lifting my right arm and starting to strap the thing to me.
I roll my eyes and sigh, "First of all, Rupert, I'm not right handed - thanks for asking - and secondly, I can't aim for shit. Thanks for asking." I plant my left fist on my hip as Rupert hastily removes the stunbow, "I've tried target sports of several types before, and I'm crap at range."
"Mebbe," Rupert shrugs, "But stun-gel does have a wide area of effect, sae-"
I raise my eyebrows, "Are you really telling me you want to waste time and ammo testing me on something I know I'm bad at, Rupert? I may be shit at the actual fighting part of all this, but I'm good at strategy, and wasting time at this stage makes zero sense."
Angus grunts, "She has ye there, Rupe." He lifts a thing that looks a lot like an arm-sling without the supporting shoulder strap.
"It's an arm-shield an' tonfa combo," he says in response to my confused look, "Ye hold this bit here. . ." there is a hand grip at the front, and a long back panel that he straps to my forearm, "An' push that bit there," he shows me a little recessed switch in the hand piece.
When I do, a steel bar a couple of centimeters wide and twenty long extends from a narrow slot at the wrist.
It's like having a very sturdy club strapped to my arm. I move about in it a little.
"Alright. This one feels better. But it's on my right arm again."
Angus nods, "Aye, this'un is meant tae be a secondary defensive support weapon." He picks up the sgian-dubh and puts it in my left hand, "We might as weel start wi' this. Ye dinnae havetae learn the moor advanced functions all at once. We c'n start simple, an' work up. Aye?"
I see little enthusiasm in his eyes at the prospect, and besides, it's high time I finished this little charade.
"But you clearly don't want to teach me like that, Angus, and to be perfectly honest, I don't want to learn it either way. Thank you all for the insights into the martial practicalities of your operation, but I really don't want to be carrying weapons, lads – I really, really don't."
I put the sgian-dubh down, and start to take off the arm shield.
Jamie puts out a firm hand and stops me, "But. . . why no', Sorcha?"
I sigh, "It's. . . I suppose you might call it a moral issue. Certainly a morale issue. I'd just feel much better not, thank you all the same."
Jamie leans in close, "Sorcha, I feel jus' as strongly that ye should."
I sigh again, "In that case, why can't you teach me? Privately?"
"I can," he shrugs, "Weel – practice wi' ye, more like. Angus is the best among us at getting a beginner started. Weel, in fact Dougal is the best at it, but Angus is the best one I'll let within ten meters of ye."
I look with some distaste at the table of weapons again, "Why can't you just accept that I'm hopeless at this, Jamie, and let-"
"C'mon, Sassenach," Rupert interrupts, "Let Jam mek ye see-"
Jamie rounds on them sternly, "No' make, lads – persuade. Gi' us a minute."
He grabs the sgian-dubh, and pulls me through the blacksmith's shop to a smaller inner courtyard. It's empty here. We won't be overheard.
I cross my arms and look at him defiantly, "And just how do you think you're going to persuade me to-"
"I'm not."
"No?"
He shakes his head, "No. I'm no' goin' tae ask, either."
"Oh? So what-"
"I'm tellin' ye. That's all. Learn tae use the knife." He holds it out to me.
I don't make a move to take it.
"Or else?"
"There is no or else. It's an order, Sorcha. An' ye'll do it. Because it's me."
I blink. "And just what makes you think I take orders from anyone? Even you?"
His eyes darken as he advances towards me.
"Ye will learn how tae defend yerself, or sae help me, Claire, I'll spank ye fer real."
Red fire claws through my stomach, and my temper flares, "You wouldn't dare!"
He narrows his eyes, "Do ye really wantae try me?"
I snarl at him, "I wouldn't have to. The minute you did your own conscience would try you for the rest of your life, just you tell me it wouldn't!"
He hesitates for the briefest of seconds, "Aye. Perhaps it would. But if spankin' ye also made ye go learn tae be safe, I'd tek that risk."
I poke a finger hard into his chest, "If you ever lay a hand on me in anger, James Fraser, I'll cut your balls off and make you eat them, is that clear?"
"Aye, that's the spirit," he says, suddenly smiling, "Now, go learn tae stab things." He proffers the knife again.
I clench my jaw. He was just riling me up. The bastard.
I jab at his chest as though my finger is the dagger, "You bloody Scot," I growl, "If I ever have to kill someone after this - at any time, for any reason - I'm going to hold you personally responsible. Do you hear me?"
He nods, shortly, "Fine. Now go learn tae use yer wee pointy stick." He slaps the wretched thing into my hand, so I have no choice but to take it.
"Or you won't give me a wee 'pointy stick' tonight? Is that it?"
He rolls his eyes hugely, "By all the gods that may oor may not. . . what is all this, woman? Will ye relent, mo ghràidh?" he grabs my shoulders and shakes me a tiny bit, "This whole afternoon ought tae have shown ye - I cannae always be there tae protect ye! An' neither the Watch nor Peace Agents care how much I love ye!" His hands spasmodically clench and unclench on my shoulders, "Do ye get it now? I'll have ye safe! No matter what oor who oor when oor where!" He makes a domineering, imperious gesture, "Learn tae use th'wee knife, oor I'll shut ye up in our rooms at every village we come tae Claire - no' because I wan'tae, but because I love ye tae much not tae!"
He crashes his mouth into mine, in a kiss that could more rightly be called a blow. "Now, is that clear, Sassenach?" His breath is hot across my mouth, and his fingers are trembling, even as he grips me tight.
I twist my eyes shut for a minute, tears starting up behind them.
This isn't a conversation I ever expected to need to have. . . Not here, not now, and definitely not with Jamie. . .
"Do you know why I never went for a soldier, my love?"
My voice is soft, and he hears the sorrow in it, and releases me. He stands there, eyes still dark, but their expression open, listening.
"I could have, you know. Frank registered us both as conscientious objectors, but I still could have volunteered at any time. Even after Frank died. But I never did. It meant taking a pay cut in the later months of the war, and doing without veteran's benefits afterwards, but no matter how dire things got, I still never joined up. Do you know why?"
"No."
"Because I know myself. And I was terrified."
Confusion crosses his face, and he looks hard at me, "Claire. . . what. . ."
I hold out the knife, like it's a bomb about to explode, "Have you met me, Jamie? Do you know what I am capable of? I do. I know if you put killing inside my skill-set, you had better believe I am going to learn to kill. I am going to learn it, thoroughly, completely, and as well as I am physically and mentally capable of learning it. Teach me to kill. . . and I will kill. It will happen – there will be no avoiding it. I know that. I knew it just as well then. And I was terrified of what I might become."
I search for understanding in his eyes. I don't find it.
I groan in frustration, "My dear, sweet, lovely man, don't you see? Can't you tell? You've seen inside my heart – you are my heart - don't you know? Has your love for me truly blinded you to who I really am? The secret horrors of me?"
I heft the knife on my flat palm, like it is an offering, and my hand is an altar.
"I'm my own hidden blade, Jamie. My own secret weapon. There's a berserker in my heart, right next to a steel-eyed strategist, a coldly detached tactician, a horribly vengeful assassin, and a bloody-minded she-demon. And who knows how many more terrifying things. I've always chosen words as my weapons because they're safe. People rarely die of a well-turned phrase. But I'm not a safe person, Jamie. I wasn't in the future, and it's even more true here in the past. Let me out of my cage and who knows what I might destroy?"
Slowly, he nods. When he speaks, his voice is low, and very solemn.
"Ye'ev trusted me wi' yer love, Sorcha. Now, trust me wi' yer anger too."
Our safe place. He's offering me our safe place. In this context.
"Jamie. . ." I whisper, shocked almost speechless, "That means if. . . when I have to kill. . . Jamie, love. . . it would be on you. Are you really willing to. . .?"
He's offering to bear my burdens. To truly take responsibility for anything I might do as a result of this.
That was just a threat. I never expected he'd take me up on it. . .
But he nods, "Anything for ye, Sassenach. Up to, and including hell itself, tae keep ye safe." He closes my fingers around the knife.
I close my eyes, and give a long, long sigh.
Every atom of my body tries to resist.
But I can't resist him.
I can't.
Damn the man.
Without another word, I whirl around and stomp back to the makeshift training ground.
With a vicious snap of my teeth, I cut off the chuckles that welcome me.
"Right then," I say, infinitely coldly, "Which one of you jokers wants to be the practice dummy?"
That sobers them up - for the moment, at least. They can tell I'm not kidding.
I stomp over to my erstwhile instructors.
"Angus? Teach me how to kill people."
He nods, and jumps up, "Aye."
And that really shuts everyone up, because they know that not only am I not kidding, Angus isn't either.
They've all finally realized what I've known from the start.
Don't give me a weapon. Because you can bet I'll use it. And when I know my way around said weapon? Only the ignorant or the stupid dare stand against me.
Because I know I'm a relentless, cruel-minded bitch, with more ice-cold malice in my soul than all of the men combined, and Dougal on his worst day, into the bargain. There isn't a battle I won't wage, there isn't a chance I won't take, there isn't a sacrifice I won't endure, given cause or goal enough. Give me an end, and I will find the means, obstacles be damned.
And far, far too often, Human lives get reduced to obstacles. It's the way the world tends to do things. And so, once killing is put within my compass, sooner or later, killing will happen. It's too much to hope it won't. I'm too much of a fighter to prevent it.
And after I've tried so hard not to be a person defined by war. . .
Oh, when will you be honest with yourself Beauchamp?
You never tried that hard.
Shut up, Beauchamp.
And even now, aren't you secretly just thankful the man you love has given you an excuse to be yourself?
Shut up, Beauchamp!
Oh, you'll never shut me up, and you know it.
. . .
And do you know why?
. . .
It's because you don't want to shut me up, Beauchamp.
. . .
I'm everything you always wished you had the guts to admit you could be. I'm everything you always were underneath anyway. So why the hell not be me?
. . . Shut up, Beauchamp!
No. Because I. Am. You.
And you've always wanted this.
You might have been terrified of me. But you were never disgusted. Never sickened. Never truly afraid.
But do you know what you were, Beauchamp?
Jamie got it right, didn't he?
You were angry.
Angry at the world, angry at yourself. Angry that the life you chose and the person you chose to be just weren't enough for you.
You knew they should have been. You know they ought to have been. But they weren't.
And you were furious. So you punished yourself. Denied half your heart and soul.
But here? Now?
There he stands.
Half your heart and soul. He's right there. You can't deny it. You don't want to. Not really. And he just gave you permission to be yourself. Permission you needed, for some reason. . .
And that's why you were jealous of Jamie and Dougal while they were fighting the MacDonalds just now.
They got to be themselves in that fight. You needed permission.
Well, you have it now. You have yourself now. Jamie gave you back to yourself.
Again.
And now, you can let me out. . .
By all the gods, will you once and for all shut up Beauchamp?
Oh. . . I'm not Beauchamp.
. . .
But, you knew that, didn't you?
. . .
Oh, my dear. . . I'm Red Sorcha. . . You couldn't keep me locked up forever, darling. . . and why would you?
I'm everything you've always wished you could be.
Confident. Sexy. Powerful.
And while we're on the subject, just which one of us do you think it was who burnt up Black Jack? Do you really think it was the Pale Lady?
You need me. You want me. I've always been here.
Accept it.
Accept me.
I shake my head, and resolutely banish my own whispers from my mind.
There is more than one way to haunt yourself. . .
Sometimes it's easier to become a ghost than to confront one.
I sight down the blade as Angus teaches me a parrying move.
Putting this knife in my hands is the very definition of borrowing trouble. I know it, just as surely as Angus knows the defensive stances he's teaching me. The minute I picked up the damned thing, I fell hopelessly in debt to Fate.
And now, there's nothing for it. Despite anything Jamie says, or offers, when the time comes, I'll have to pay in full. . .
"Ri' then," says Angus, "Come at me from behind, an' practice the upward slash. Then I'll sweep 'round an' we'll spar a bit."
He positions himself firmly, implicitly trusting that I don't actually want to stab him. . .
Given my current mental state, it's a strange thing to accept about a former adversary.
My blade is just finishing its sweeping arc, and Angus is just beginning his answering slash, when a third blade joins the fray. It clashes against my knife, utterly halting its upward motion. I look up wildly at the tall, imposing figure that has come up behind Angus and I so quickly, so silently. . .
"Right," says Dougal, icily, "Let's see what ye'ev got, lass."
Chapter 102: No True Scotswoman
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Adrenaline spikes through my body. I take a deep breath, desperately trying to control it.
Wild instinct isn't going to get me through this one.
In an instant I have a grip on myself. Then I exhale, and let myself relax a little.
Tightly controlled fury isn't going to get me through this either.
Only cold determination and fire of mind, blent into a steel-hard line of purpose, will serve me now. I must not only control myself, I must wield myself too. I must be both the pilot, and the Silverwing. This isn't the course-setting I would have chosen, but no flight path is perfect, just as no ship is ever truly your own until you fly it solo.
Dougal is a worthy foe, and I've mastered him on other fields.
But he has height, reach, strength, and decades on me in this one.
I ought to be terrified.
So why am I suddenly happy?
I've heard of battle-joy, but this is ridiculous. . .
There is a ringing snap into the hush of the courtyard as our blades clash, and then disengage. We each take a step back. I raise my shield arm, and bring my knife up into a defense position.
My vision tries to narrow onto Dougal, with his longer blade, and shorter shield-brace, but I force my attention to stay on the broader situation. The cobbles of the courtyard. The stalls of the shops. The people, tables and chairs scattered around.
He may be a master at his own chosen weapons, but I am a master of surviving on whatever I can find.
This entire situation is my weapon. If I can find a way to use it, I might just have a chance here. . .
We circle slowly, sizing each other up.
I catch his first two slashes on my shield arm, and deflect his third with my knife. I twist back as he lunges, and then I jump sideways unexpectedly. He swings around to follow me. . . and his foot slips into a hole left by a missing cobblestone. The very hole I was aiming to drop him into. I manage a strike across his shield arm as he stumbles, and just barely nick the shoulder of his coat on the upswing.
The tearing sound is small, but it practically echoes across the courtyard.
I didn't reach skin, but first blood is still mine.
An odd expression crosses his face, but I don't have time to focus on it. He's back on his feet in an instant, using the momentum from his stumble to swing into a roundhouse lunge.
I just barely manage to dodge, throwing both my arms out for balance, and entirely accidentally, catch the back of his head with the edge of my arm-shield. The dull thudding sound descends straight into the pit of my stomach, even more directly than Dougal face-plants into the cobbles.
I smile, and suddenly want to scream at the top of my lungs.
If this is battle-joy, then it bears all the hallmarks of raging insanity. . .
Red Sorcha tosses her knife to reverse the blade, and brings it down swinging towards Dougal's neck. . .
And the Pale Lady stabs the collar of his jacket.
There is a clashing sound as the point of my knife hits stone through the cloth, and a tearing sound as I pull it free.
This time both noises are swallowed by the silence of shock.
I back up a pace, needing to catch my breath, and desperately trying to re-set my hold on both my weapon and myself. But I only get a bare second to regroup, as with a grunt, a leap, and a curse, Dougal is back on his feet, and this time snarling mad.
He advances hard. I am not used to dodging this much, or at all, and so our blades clash five, six times before he finally overreaches me, and I can get my dagger hand under his. I swing hard towards a nearby wall, and pin his wrist with mine. Our shield arms clash as we lean in, warring for leverage. He uses his height against me, but I twist, and angle my arm up, until my wrist is braced against his chin. He's forcing me back, and I can't hold much longer. . . My thumb hovers over the tonfa bar extension button. If I extend it, it will jam right into his windpipe. But I don't know what damage that would do, and this is absolutely not the time to find out.
Just because I can kill doesn't mean I have to. I've just proven that.
So now I prove it again.
I shove hard against his weight, and leap backwards out of his reach. When he staggers forward, off balance for a second, I meet his eyes, for the first time in this encounter. Then I hold up my shield arm, and extend the tonfa bar.
It only takes him a split second to understand.
Finality mixes with the shock in his eyes.
This next clash will be the end. One way or another.
You can do this, Beauchamp. He's better at fighting, but you're more of a fighter. He may be the expert at weapons, but you are the expert at him.
How does he expect this next attack to go? Use that, and then flip it against him.
"You never knew you were going to walk into a fallacy today, did you Dougal?"
I'm panting with exertion, but my voice is steady.
His eyes flash with annoyance.
If we didn't have an audience, he'd ignore me.
But we do. So he can't.
And when it comes to audiences, I have the advantage, and he knows it.
"No true Scotsman would fight a lady, would they, Dougal?"
We slowly circle each other again, waiting for the right moment, the right angle. . .
"Good thing I'm not a Scotsman, then, isn't it?"
I smirk as he blinks, and then, for the first time, I press my attack. My slashes are inept, but fast, and inexorable. None get past his defense, but that isn't the point of them.
The point is, he is the one defending. No matter what happens next, that's a victory.
And everyone in this courtyard knows it.
He retreats back close to the stables. Then, with one kick I manifestly do not see coming, he sweeps my legs from under me, and lands me on my backside, deep in a haystack.
I accept it for what it is – the expert taking out the novice with such casual ease as to make it clear just exactly what all the previous fuss and bother was actually about – and I lean back into the relative softness to catch my breath.
Jamie is almost instantly by my side, grinning broadly.
Extra proof, if I needed it, that it was all just a test. That Jamie hadn't stepped in to stop us at the beginning, and that no one else made any noises of protest at any point throughout had already told me so, but it is good to have this confirmation.
And that he's grinning so widely makes me think I might have actually passed. He helps me up, and leads me back over close to the pub entrance, where someone has set up a few chairs. I collapse into one, and lean my head in my hands, utterly exhausted.
Dougal goes in to the stables, and comes out leading Donas into the yard. He rummages in one of the big horse's saddlebags, and calls out, "Tarbh Dubh?"
"Aye, Fireun?" answers Angus.
"Take down some notes."
Slowly, Angus pulls out his e-padd.
"Skill," says Dougal, matter-of-factly, "Novice. Technique. Untrained, but intuitive. Strength. Average. Speed. Average. Agility. Unremarkable, needs work. Initiative. Strong, but with a tendency to overthink. Bodily awareness. Good for a beginner, but also needs work. Situational awareness. Excellent. Creativity. Masterful."
He finds whatever he was looking for in the saddlebag, and comes over to stand in front of my chair.
He crosses his arms as I look up at him. He meets my eyes.
"Fighting spirit. . . legendary."
He leans down, and takes the sgian-dubh from me. With the same motion, he lifts my hand, and nicks the heel of my palm with the point of the blade. Then he smears the blood down the flat of it, and smiles grimly.
I am too tired and surprised to react with more than a blink.
"Ye must allus blood a blade, tae let it ken its master. Now, 'tis bought an' paid for." He closes my fingers around the knife again, and lets my hand drop. Then, he hands me what he was looking for in Donas's saddlebags. It is an e-padd memory card, labeled "Training Lvl 1".
He grunts as I take it, "From now on, practice two hours a day. Every day. Half an hour strength training - Ye need tae be able tae land a forceful enough hit to make a dent wi'out relying entirely on power moves – ye cannae count on allus havin' the angle or the momentum. Half an hour reflex training - Yer reactive moves are a joke – there were fifteen times ye parried when ye should ha' dodged. Fifteen. Yer only excuse is that this is yer first day at it. An' one hour combat forms." He pauses, and gives a very, very small smile, "Ye'er a beginner – no' hopeless. I'll test ye again in a month. Dinnae let me down."
He backs up, and raises his voice.
"Evary man ov ye has my permission tae thump annyun who questions if this woman is a good an' loyal Scot. Bu' ye'el let her throw the first punch befoor puttin' yer oar in. Always. Understood?"
There is a very short pause, and then a chorus of agreement.
"A warrior chooses their own battles, an' whenever possible, the ground they're fought on. Ye will respect her right tae do so, as she respects yers. Understood?"
Another chorus of agreements
"An' given that all warriors under my command are given their own choice of a fightin' name, Mac Dubh's wife is now Claire tae ye. Or Mrs. Fraser. Nowt else, until or unless she tells ye ye'ev earnt the right tae call her Red Sorcha – or whichever such name she may choose. Annyun calls her Sassenach wi'out her express permission will answer tae me – personally. An' I'll be armed. Is that understood?"
The agreements are slightly louder this time.
I nearly cheer. He's taken them all back. Every man of them. He's leading them, as he hasn't been, this entire time. I've never admired Dougal more than I do at this moment.
And, it may look like he's putting me in my place, but I know what that means.
It means he's giving me a place.
He's saying we're allies. At last.
And, of course, by making a few concessions to me, it means he's got the upper hand again. But I have Jamie now. I barely care.
"Mac Dubh?"
"Aye, Iolaire-bhuidhe?"
"Would ye an' yer wife care tae have tea wi' me this e'en?"
Jamie doesn't look at me for confirmation. He knows what I'd say.
"We would."
"Good. 'Tis the third cottage from the end of this row jus' heer," he gestures vaguely, off to his left, "Dinnae be late."
Then Dougal lifts himself astride Donas, and clop-clops slowly out of the yard.
Notes:
Tarbh Dubh – Black Bull
Fireun/Iolaire-bhuidhe – “The True Bird”/Golden Eagle
Golden Eagle facts -
https://scottishwildlifetrust.org.uk/species/golden-eagle/
https://www.nts.org.uk/stories/the-golden-eagle-the-true-birdNo True Scotsman fallacy explained - https://www.scribbr.com/fallacies/no-true-scotsman-fallacy/
Chapter 103: The Eagle And The Fox
Notes:
Chapter Rating – Soft M for non-graphic married nookie
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"So, you won't let Dougal within ten meters of me, eh?" I tease Jamie, as I flop tiredly onto our hotel bed, "Brilliant strategy."
He half-smiles, "Weel. It was only that. . ." he sits down next to me and caresses my knee, "D'ye ken how often Dougal actually performs a student's assessment fight himself? Usually it's Angus, oor another trainer fightin' the student, an' Dougal watches, makin' notes as the fight goes along. He's trained hundreds of men in his day, and there must be. . . four. . . no, six – six assessments total, that I'm aware of, that he's actually fought himself. And the last one was me, eleven years ago. There may ha' been one or two since, but I think I would'a heard, if so. It's that notable, Sorcha. It isnae somethin' he does for just anyone. He's good at it, too. The assessment, I mean, no' jus' the fightin'."
I sit up, and lean against his shoulder.
"Tha's why I blamed him sae much for no' kennin' what he was gettin' inta with ye all this time, ye see. He ought tae have kent better. Kent ye better, annyway. Normally he would. That rundown he gave ye, Sorcha – it was spot on. I havenae seen that Dougal in evidence since before ye got here. If there's one man amongst us worth yer time tae fight, it's that Dougal, an' no mistake."
He lifts my hand and kisses it, "An' weel. . . considerin' the talk we'd had jus' beforehand," Jamie continues, "Well. . . I thought fightin' him might be a good thing for ye. A safe space I cannae quite give ye, ken?"
I pout with confusion, "But. . . you can fight, Jamie – I know, I've seen you."
"Oh fight, aye. An' well. But train a fighter?" he shakes his head, "I'm a doctor, mo chridhe – or as much of one as I can be. An' that means I've focused on certain things in my life, and the intricacies of training up soldiers are not among those things. Bandaging up soldiers, aye. Fighting beside soldiers when necessary, aye. But makin' more soldiers? Ye might have a moral objection tae becoming som'un who c'n kill, but I have a moral objection tae making any lad – or lass! - wi' dreams in their heart an' stars in their eyes become. . . become little more than a resource - tae men who think war is a feast, and men are like bread. Because tha's all most soldiers ever are, in war, Sorcha. Et up, used, wrung out, an' then sent away, dead, if they're lucky. I ken that, as well as ye do."
I nod, sadly.
He lifts an arm around me, and pulls me close, "Learning tae defend yerself is one thing. Fightin' when ye need to is one thing. Bein' a soldier is one thing. But makin' it yer job tae reduce people tae numbers, and their loves an' hopes an' hatreds tae levers tae be pushed when needed. . . tha's somethin' else. I couldnae ever separate how I feel about ye from how I treat ye, mo nighean donn. I need our safe space tae even be properly angry wi' ye wi'out pulling away from ye entirely. There's nae way I could slash at ye wi' a deadly weapon in anythin' more than the most prescribed fashion."
"You could practice with me, you mean, but not do the actual instruction?"
He nods, and kisses me gently on the forehead, "I kent Dougal would push ye, as I couldnae hope tae do. An' mebbe ye'd find yer own boundaries that way. Learn yer soul, as he was learning yer skills. I could always step in if things went too far. But I didnae think they would."
I smile, "You must have been worried when he went down, and I jumped at him."
He nuzzles into my hair, "I was, a bit. What happened?"
"The berserker tried to come out."
"Ah."
"I put her in her place."
He cups my cheek, and grins, "I knew ye would."
"And there at the end I brought her out again, on purpose."
He grins even wider, and laughs, "I knew it! I knew it Sorcha!" He gathers me to him, and hugs me tight, "Any woman who c'n invent a place safe enough tae let me beat her arse wi'out annyun getting hurt c'n make places inside her own soul safe enough tae hold pieces of herself secure." He pulls back, then kisses me soundly on the mouth, "I'm proud of ye, Claire."
I stare at him, "You. . . you. . . sly Sawney. . ." I slap his shoulder, "You knew I would. . . that is, that I wouldn't. . . you knew?"
It's official. This man will never stop impressing me.
He nods vigorously, "I ken ye, Sorcha. Like Dougal nevar will. He may think he knows ye now – but ye'er still just numbers and levers in his head. He doesnae ken a thing about ye – no' anything tha' really mattars." He runs the backs of his fingers down the side of my neck, raising tingles all over my body.
And now that I'm over the initial exhaustion, raising something else too. . .
"Do you remember what you said the night of the concert, Jamie? About how dancing was supposed to be as bad as fighting for what it could. . . do. . . to a man?"
His fingers slow, and his voice deepens, "Aye. An' a woman too."
"Well, I think you were wrong there."
"Oh aye?"
"Yes. I think fighting is much, much worse."
I slip into his lap, wrap my arms around him, and kiss him deeply, hungrily, for the first time since last night. It feels like ages. He pushes up the skirt of my dress, and I reach between us to work on the fastenings of his jeans. . .
"We do havetae be at Dougal's for tea-"
"It's not going to take that long, Jamie. . ."
We both gasp, and he grabs my backside with a barely restrained shout.
"By all the gods! I'm the luckiest man alive. . ."
He sinks his mouth into the curve of my neck, and makes doubly certain that it doesn't take that long. . .
Much as I want to just sit and cuddle with him after, I force myself to get up, needing to at least change my clothes before tea.
"What was that thing you called Dougal, Jamie? At the end there. Right before he rode away on Donas."
"Iolaire-bhuidhe?"
I rummage in my suitcase, and don't try to repeat the actual words, "Yes, that."
"It's his fighting name – weel, one of them. It means Golden Eagle."
"And what Angus called him? Feerune?"
"Fireun. Aye. That's the other. It means the same, but it's the more mythic way tae say it. "The True Bird". Scotland's national bird. The golden eagle. Bu' the men call him Fireun because it's easier tae say."
"I'll say it is," I chuckle, pulling out a clean shirt and trousers, shaking them to get rid of the wrinkles.
"Aye, bu' Dougal lets them because Fireun is more prestigious. Iolaire-bhuidhe is the one he chose, tho' – that's why I call him that."
"That's why you called him that, at that moment, you mean? Because he was talking about chosen names and who gets to call who what, and when?"
"Aye."
"And that's why he called you Mac Dubh?"
I take off the Moriston tartan dress, and put it in the bag with the rest of my dirty laundry.
"Aye. That's my fightin' name. Tho' he's no' used it since I finished trainin' wi' him. No one else does either – or no' verry often, annyroad. Bu' I don' mind. Issno' like I actually fight much. . ."
"So you have two fighting names too, then?"
"Eh?"
"The men have called you The Green Man all throughout this trip – and they understand that what you do is just as much of a skill as hand-to-hand, and just as worthwhile as fighting – if not more so. They love you for it, Jamie. And so do I." I throw my arms around him, and kiss him, soft and slow.
Jamie runs his hands over every bit of my exposed skin that he can reach, then gives me a light smack on the rear, "Ye need tae get dressed, mo chridhe. . . oor we really will be late for tea. . .
Dougal's cottage is small, but very clean and comfortable. He welcomes us himself, and leads us into the small back room that has been laid out with our meal. There's a dish of scalloped potatoes, another of buttered carrots, a tureen of mushroom soup, a large pitcher of cider, and, for a centerpiece, magnificently steaming hot from the oven. . .
"Fresh-caught salmon, lass." Dougal smiles thinly at my delighted staring, "Got it from a local fisherman this morning." He proudly serves up our plates, and gestures for us to sit in.
Even here and now, he hasn't any small talk, and so it is left to Jamie to maintain conversation. Fortunately for us all, my husband reads more than novels, and we spend the meal discussing the remarkable amount of published scholarship there has been regarding the local environmental concerns, and if managed forestry would indeed be a better option than a full rewilding effort, and which of the suggested keystone species it would be best to reintroduce to the area first. I make a few contributions regarding the value of food plants, and the importance of wild forage, not just for animal browse, but for Human consumption too, and am pleasantly shocked to discover that Jamie isn't the only one who agrees with me. I find Dougal surprisingly well informed about things like proper broad-spectrum biome management, and good soil nutrient control too. I'm not quite certain he cares, but that he even knows is more than I've come to expect from him.
Very probably he read up on all these things yesterday, in preparation for the speeches he'll make in this town. But, if Jamie and I get to reap the benefits too, so much the better.
We are just finishing a lovely little Bakewell tart when Dougal reaches over to the sideboard, and brings back a bottle of whisky, and three glasses.
He pours an equal portion for all of us, and toasts, "Alba gu bràth."
Jamie and I respond with the same. I take a sip, but even before I do, my nose tells me this particular whisky is too peaty for me. At least at this strength. . . I hand my glass to Jamie. He takes it without interrupting his discussion with Dougal, and adds a small spoonful of water. I taste it, and hand it back. It takes a few passes, but eventually the flavours have opened up enough for my tastes. I touch his hand in thanks.
Dougal watches our whole exchange without a break in his flow of words, but with a very strange expression deep in his eyes.
I am just starting to think that maybe all he wanted tonight was some pleasant company over a meal, when at last he sits forward, and asks one of the several questions I've been expecting him to ask all this time.
"Alright, lass. How did ye ken Sandringham was goin' tae betray us?"
Before I have a chance to answer, Jamie puts a hand on mine, forestalling me.
"No Dougal. We all ken tha' isnae the real question heer."
Dougal raises an eyebrow, not quite mockingly, but close, "Oh, we all ken tha', do we?"
Jamie nods, indicating me, "We do. The real question is why ye let Claire give ye orders, uncle. It doesnae mattar if they were justified or not – if ye didnae accept them, that's nowt. Ye'ev commanded men longer'n some of the men on this trip ha' been alive. Ye ken what it takes tae make a Scotsman do a thing, especially if he doesnae want tae do it. An' I ken ye, uncle. Ye arenae one tae be doing such things as Claire told ye tae do for only the reasons she gave ye – ye'll have needed yer own reasons inta the bargain. Sae why did ye follow her instructions? Start there. Because that's the key tae this, uncle – an' ye ken it."
Dougal shrugs, and takes a casual sip or two before answering. "Weel now, I may no' ha' learned very much in this life. Nae doubt less than I ought. But I did happen tae grow up wi' yer mam and yer aunts, lad. An' if there's one thing in all this world I ken, it's that when a Scottish woman tells ye she's ready, willin' and able tae kill ye, an' that she's no' particularly opposed tae doin' so. . . weel. Ye feckin' believe her." His eyes flick to me for a moment, then back to Jamie, "Words tae live by, lad. Or, more accurately, words tae survive by."
Huh.
Of all the things that passed between Dougal and I the morning after Jamie's and my wedding, I would not have thought the one direct physical threat would be the one that made any impact, but. . . here we are.
Jamie is quiet a long while, considering Dougal's answer. Then he also leans forward.
"Sandringham refused a bribe, didn't he? A bribe from the leaders of the Underground – an' possibly directly from ye. That's how he got control of the money in the first place. He refused a bribe, so ye trusted him with it."
I just barely keep the shock from my face. He figured it out too. Jamie figured it out too. On his own.
This man.
This man.
I am married to this man. . .
Dougal blinks, then slowly shakes his head, in utter disbelief.
"How, lad? How do ye ken all that?"
"I don't." Jamie looks significantly at me.
He does. But he wants me to be the one to explain it to Dougal. But why? We haven't talked much about Sandringham in the past few days, except for this morning. . .
Ah.
"One power peddler knows another," I say, testing Dougal's water.
"What d'ye mean by that, lass?"
There isn't enough recognition in his voice or eyes for me to think he's heard me say that before.
Maybe he has removed the wire from the Rover. . . Or hasn't been using it, anyway.
"She means The Eagle and the Fox, uncle."
Dougal sighs, exasperated, "That's a fable. An' there's half a dozen interpretations, none of which particularly apply here– "
"They all apply here, uncle-"
"All I ken is ye'ed bettar start makin' sense, oor-"
I raise my voice, "If there's one thing I know about politics, it's that you never do anything without an ulterior motive, alright?"
Both men stare at me.
I take a deep breath, center myself, and go back to a normal speaking tone, "When everything you do has weight, it's a waste of time, effort, resources and, frankly, brains, if everything you do only means one thing. You can't be straightforward. There's no time. Because everything is happening all at once, all the time, and it's all so convoluted you don't know for sure what sides exist – let alone which one you're on. You may think you know – but you don't. That's the nature of politics."
I look Dougal straight in the eyes.
"And that's why soldiers make bad politicians. Most of the time, anyway. Honour, justice, freedom – they're all simple things to a soldier. Or understandable things, at least. People might have different personal interpretations, but, to a soldier's mind, there's two sides – one right, one wrong, and any mixups are personal errors, not a fault in the system itself."
I shake my head, "But that isn't how politics work. The first person you learn to lie to is yourself. After that, the rest follows easily. If. . ."
I sigh.
"If all you care about is power."
Who knew being a minor power-salvage vendor on the Rim of Skycity 15 would end up being such a vital part of my life two hundred years in the past?
The universe really does have a strange sense of humour. . .
"Of course Sandringham was going to betray you. Just look at how much it does. Well, first, let's look at how much his refusing a bribe does-"
"But. . . how did ye ken he did, lass?"
I shrug, "He must have done. It's the only explanation. An English oppressor, living in Scotland during the Transitional Period, with the reputation that Sandringham has, and a powerful, secret, underground resistance force trusts him? How? Why? With what? And what for? The only explanation is that he must have proven himself to them somehow. And the only way someone like Sandringham would even get a chance to do that is if he was approached by someone within the movement – someone with power and influence in that movement – someone who was trying to further the cause of that movement."
I look significantly at Dougal.
He meets my gaze, but gives nothing away.
Not yet.
"Now, why would someone like that get anywhere near Sandringham, I wonder? Recruitment? Hardly. There's only two reasons that make sense – assassination or bribery. Well, there's also spying, but no one with as much power and influence as this person must have had could be a spy – spies have to blend in, and this person had to stand out. No. It was murder or money. I guessed money, since the target was clearly still alive and breathing, and walking about at the Burns Night supper without a whisper of a bodyguard. So. A bribe. But he was at the Burns Night supper. No one who accepts a bribe is going to be trusted – not like that – not by a resistance movement. So he must have refused it."
I tap my fingers on the sides of my glass.
"Now, I may not know much in the grand scheme of things, but I do happen to know that no one who refuses a bribe is to be trusted. Ever. There is always something behind doing a thing like that. Even if it is pure morality – which you'd have to go a long way to prove to me is true in Sandringham's case – then what you have there is a moral absolutist. And in politics those are some of the most dangerous people imaginable. They can be trusted. But shouldn't be. Not with power, anyway." I shake my head, "But Sandringham. . . I saw almost at once he was just a poor, plain little nothing of a man, seduced by power and drunk on his own common, homebrew evil. Pitiful, really. Dangerous. But pitiful." I take a sip of my drink. "Now why would a man like that refuse a bribe?"
Dougal's lip twitches, "Why indeed?"
"Well, look at how much it does. It gains your trust, it gains him access to a part of society he'd never have access to otherwise, it gains him some direct political power, and so much indirect political power I wonder that any of the other Underground leaders went along with it. And, above all, it gains him money. Because he's refused a bribe. That must mean he can be trusted with money. Right? Because no one in Sandringham's position could possibly have an ulterior motive, could they? Right, Dougal? Right?"
There is a long pause. Finally, Dougal nods at me.
"I've had Ned on the hunt all week. An' aye. Ye'er right. The money was all tied up in accounts such that only Sandringham could access most of it. If we'd tried tae go ahead wi' our plans he could've stopped us wi' one finger. Or stopped us havin' any sort of proper support, anyway. Doubt he could've stopped the whole operation. But he could have made it a bloodbath. Or ensured it was one for us too, a'tennyrate."
"Was? Could have?" I ask, hopefully.
Dougal smiles, "Ned's a genius, lass. An' we'er one of the most well-connected Clans in all of Scotland. Nae fear. We have control of the money back, or will soon, an' Sandringham'll be none the wiser."
I sigh with so much relief I don't think even Jamie will quite understand it. I put my head in my hands a minute, and just breathe.
That's one thing changed. One thing made better about the past. One big, very important thing.
Will it make the future better? I don't know. But one of the insistent voices clamouring in my head has been silenced at last.
Wherever you are, Lamb, I hope you know I love you. You're the father I always wanted, and never had. . .
"Sae now, lass, what do we-"
"Banrigh-bhàn."
"Pardon?"
My pronunciation wasn't perfect, but I know he understood me. . .
"You keep calling me lass, when you told the men I was Claire, Mrs. Fraser, or Red Sorcha, but only if they earned the latter. Or any other such name I might choose. Well, the men can call me Red Sorcha, when I tell them they've earned it, but I want you to call me Banrigh-bhàn. That's the name I choose. We can call it my fighting name if you want, but just you tell me I haven't earned it. From you. At the very least."
His forehead wrinkles in confusion, "The white queen?"
I shake my head, "The Pale Lady."
"Ah," his confusion clears, followed by a strange mixture of amusement and hesitation.
"And you were just about to ask me what you owe me anyway. Well, I want your respect, Dougal. In private, not just in front of the men. You owe me that much just as a Human being anyway, but if it takes my saving the lives of hundreds of Scots that wouldn't have had proper support at Culloden otherwise, then fine. That's what it takes."
"Took."
The amusement in his eyes grows.
"Pardon?"
"Yes."
He chuckles.
"Dougal, what are you talking about? What are you laughing about?"
He shakes his head, "It's jus' funny, is all, Claire. Y'see, it isnae me ye should be lookin' at, when ye speak of owing, this time. It's Auld Simon."
He puts a large manila envelope down on the table between us, and slides it towards Jamie.
"An' he owes ye."
Notes:
Iolaire-bhuidhe pronunciation - https://learngaelic.net/dictionary/index.jsp?abairt=Iolaire-bhuidhe&slang=both&wholeword=false
The Eagle And The Fox fable -
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Eagle_and_the_Fox
https://fablesofaesop.com/the-eagle-and-the-fox.html
http://mythfolklore.net/aesopica/townsend/253.htm
Chapter 104: Unwarranted
Chapter Text
Jamie opens the large envelope slowly, and extracts the paper within while staring dubiously at his uncle. Then he scans the paper, once, twice. . . he stops, and begins reading word for word, an expression of stunned disbelief overtaking his face. He soundlessly mouths some of the phrases, and then, with a jerk of either joy or disgust, he thrusts the paper at me.
I take it, more curious than anything, and begin to read it aloud.
"This is to signify. . ." my eyes read ahead, and I lose my voice. I glance up, and look rapidly between Jamie and Dougal for a wild second before returning to the paper in my hands, "This is to signify that the call for one James Fraser, Laird of Broch Tuarach, to appear before the Intermediate Judiciary Council for questioning in regards to a matter of murder has been deemed unwarranted. Any and all such legal petitions are hereby rescinded."
Then follows Sandringham's signature – large, flowery, and nearly illegible - and then a long list of other, smaller signatures, of, presumably, more minor dignitaries.
It isn't the sort of document that can be easily faked, and it wouldn't stand up to much if it was.
And given Jamie's reaction, and the light in Dougal's eyes. . .
It's genuine.
I look over at Dougal.
"You've gotten Jamie's warrant lifted."
He shakes his head.
"No. Auld Simon has."
"But. . ."
It isn't exactly a pardon, but that wasn't necessary anyway. It's more of a reprieve. And while it certainly doesn't offer him any further protection, it's still an enormous weight off Jamie's shoulders. And mine.
But. . . how?
And. . .
"But why?"
Dougal rolls his eyes, "It may – just – have escaped yer notice that we are a small group of men, out an' about on a political campaign – we arenae exactly goin' about fully equipped for a commando raid. We have enough stun-power tae defend ourselves from a modest Watch attack, aye, but if we were tae, say, try an' take down a guarded armored truck. . . weel. We'd need reinforcements, supplies, information, and a not insignificant amount of funds, and t'would be nice if none of it could be traced back tae us, dinnae ye think? An' tha's no' evan mentioning the plannin' and the carryin' out. I contacted Castle Beaufort – a'course I did – d'ye think I carry night-vision goggles up my arse?"
"Weel a'least they'd be useful there," quips Jamie, smirking.
The tension breaks as both men chuckle loudly.
And all at once I understand. For everything I've done and said the past few months, it is I who has never imagined what things would be like if Dougal and I were allies, not him. He's had the advantage on me all day, because he's been treating me like an ally, and I've been treating him like he's still an enemy.
I quickly begin to re-evaluate everything that's happened today. . .
Everything. . .
"Auld Simon came through handsomely, I'm glad tae say. We stopped the truck, tied up the guards, got all the information it was carryin' out unharmed, an' got away wi' nae moor than minor bruising tae all involved. An' we made it all look like the Watch's work into the bargain."
"Tha's grand a'course," says Jamie, contemplatively, "But why did the Auld Fox evan care about such a thing? It was like pullin' teeth tae get him tae acknowledge my Lairdship when I got back from Paris – it's why Lallybroch still isnae officially registered as Clan land. He delayed things sae much I hadtae flee tae Leoch before I could get things finalized. Sae why did he give twa shites about my warrant now?" He looks at the letter of reprieve, "Especially tae the point of. . ."
Dougal waves a hand, "Ye'er right. He doesnae care about that, lad. But it's still only a down payment – he says he owes ye thirty men, too – an'. . . weel, I've only had a brief look at most of the information we got, an' I'd say he's valuing it lightly."
Jamie blinks, "What. . ."
"That truck was full tae the brim wi' security videos, lad. From across the Second and Third Highland Quarters, an' goin' back years. We've got a case against at least two dozen Peace Agents we hadnae a whisper against before, and rock solid evidence against at least thirteen more that were shaky at best up 'til now."
Legal cases. I forgot those until just now.
The Scots had tried to justify the Second Battle of Culloden, of course. They contended that every Peace Agent they lured and attacked had been previously tried and convicted in absentia, and they had the paperwork to prove it. . .
I've never realized before that their claim was the truth. The history books always said it was a lie.
History books written by the descendants, perhaps, of the very Englishmen the Scots had to build up their cases against. . .
"An' again – tha's grand," says Jamie, a little more than slightly frustrated, "But why does Auld Simon owe me for any of it?"
"Because there's at least twenty videos of Randall, man!" Dougal snaps, "No' just of what he did tae ye, but what he did tae half a dozen other puir souls too. An' he's the one who killed that guard the night Murtagh got ye out of lockup. D'ye ken how difficult it's been tae get anything on Black Jack? More folk have complained against him than the next five worst Peace Agents combined, and there's never a single shred of evidence against him beyond circumstantial and he-said/she-said!" Dougal grits his teeth in frustration, then relaxes a little and sits back, "An' if we'er tae use this evidence for Culloden, we cannae use it for ye personally. Sae it's only justice ye get yer freedom now. An' that's putting aside the fact that ye were the one who sifted through all the information an' found the truck's schedule in the first place. The Auld Fox did laugh a bit when I told him that. . . an' he positively reveled in calling up Sandringham an' forcin' him tae sign yer reprieve." Dougal grimaces, only half in amusement, "But that's Auld Simon for ye. . ."
"I've wondered about him, I mus' admit. It's reassuring tae ken he's one of us after all."
Dougal snorts into his whisky, and laughs aloud, "One of us? One of us? Lad, he is us. This whole kit an' boodle was his idea from the start! Culloden, the Underground, usin' the candidates tae get the message out tae all the smaller villages – all of it started in that gurt auld grey heid of his. He was the one who got most of the Chiefs on board, an' he's been bankrolling half their resistance operations inta the bargain. I thought ye kent that?"
Jamie shakes his head. "My mind has. . . been elsewhere, for most of these past four years, uncle."
Dougal gives a long pause, then nods at Jamie, almost in sympathy, "Aye. I ken." Then his voice perks up dramatically, "An' speaking of Sandringham, ye never did say how ye kent he would betray us."
Both men glance at me, but I am still deep in my own personal thoughts, and wave their looks away.
Jamie nods briefly at me, and takes up the narrative, "Jus' look at what Sandringham betraying us does for him, uncle. It turns the Underground inta a problem that will sort itself out – sae he doesnae havetae think about it more'n superficially. But, more importantly, letting Culloden go ahead turns the Peace Agents inta a problem that sorts itself out too. He doesnae havetae care what they get up to - we will swoop in and clean up after them anyway." He takes a sip of his whisky, and savours it a moment before continuing, "An' above all, it gives him an awful lot of money that he doesnae havetae explain tae anyone. The man would havetae be daft not tae betray us."
Dougal rolls his glass between his hands, "Unless. . . he were genuine?"
Jamie nods slowly, "Aye. That's a possibility. Or was. An' was only ever a very small one at any point, aye?"
Both men look at me again. I wave them away again.
"Soo what's yer plan then, lad?" Dougal says, gesturing at the letter of reprieve.
Jamie shrugs, "Dinnae ken, yet. There's Fergus tae consider. An' everyone at Lallybroch. An' our jobs at Leoch, not least of all. I'm certainly no' intendin' on jus' uprooting everyone an' everything all in a minute."
"Aye lad, very wise. Why don' ye take Murtagh an' one of the smaller cars an' go back tae Leoch taemorrow? We're jus' on the edge of MacKenzie land heer – ye c'n stop by a couple of villages, an' check up on a few things on yer way. Aye?"
"Aye."
Jamie is staring steadily at me.
Dougal is too.
I smile a little, amused. They are both so unused to me not taking part in the conversation. . .
Well then. . .
"Did you order Angus to complain about my lack of hand-to-hand training, or did you just order him to protect me during the scrum and hope for the best?"
Jamie's eyes go wide, but Dougal only grunts,
"Neither. I only asked Greg tae leave a dozen or so of his rowdiest men in the pub for a few hours longer than the rest, told my men I'd tan their hides if they started annythin', an' sat back an' waited tae see what ye'ed do when ye got there."
Now my eyes go wide, "Wait, wait. . . Greg?"
"Aye, Gregory MacDonald's an auld school friend of mine. We never thought we'd be runnin' for the same Council seat, but, here we are." He grins at my confused expression, "MacDonald is an enormous clan, Claire – it'd be utterly stupid tae try an' prevent personal friendships between all of them an' folk connected tae any clan they have a rivalry wi'. In fact, that's nevar been much of an impediment annyroad. Friendships, business partnerships, even marriages happen across feud lines all the time. It makes things terribly confusing, a'course, an' wretchedly complicated." He shrugs, "But tha's life."
I press a hand to my forehead, "But. . . regardless. . . the pub was a setup, yes?"
"Oh aye. Ye came up wi' some of the best jabs I've heard in a while tho'. Chicken nugget. Ha!" He laughs quietly for a bit, "They've all heard that one before, a'course, but I highly doubt they've evar heard it said with such perfect disdain. It was beautiful."
I squeeze my eyes tight for a second, "So that really was all part of the test?"
He shakes his head, "No, not part, Claire. That was the test. Standin' up tae Peace Agents in their own lair is one thing. Defending your Clan's honour in public is somethin' else." He puts up a hand to forestall any protest, "An' it doesnae actually mattar which Clan ye may choose tae endow wi' yer fealty at this point – I'm sayin' I needed tae ken if ye were a Scot. Gettin' tae assess ye hand-tae-hand was entirely fortuitous."
He pauses, and runs a finger along the rim of his glass.
"I've respected ye evar since ye refused tae use Hamish as a bargaining chip, Claire. Evan when my actions I said I didn't, I did, really. What I havenae done, is understood or trusted ye. An' ye demanded trust at the Devil's Spring. Understandin' could wait until now."
He finishes his drink with a long, slow sip.
"The only thing that truly changed that mornin' is I stopped thinkin' wi' my cock." He shrugs, "Once ye started threatening murder, I figured it was time. Sae here we are."
"And. . . and now you just. . . let us go?" I look at the patterns of light as they shine through the cut crystal of my glass, "You don't even want Jamie to be at the rally tomorrow night?"
Dougal looks at me solemnly, "D'ye think I'll need him, Banrigh-bhàn?"
That brings me up short.
"You. . . care what I think?"
"I do."
I lean back, surprised yet again. He does care. I can see the truth of it, in his eyes, in the strange little expression he has hovering around his mouth. And I can see more than just his spoken truth, as well.
He's cared about what I think from the first too.
Now, he cares how I feel.
Allies indeed. . .
"I. . . have every faith that from now on you'll be able to inspire your audience by yourself." I say, sincerely, "Every faith."
And I do. He's a better man now than I've ever known him to be before. That will come through in his speeches – I haven't the least doubt of it.
A wonderfully irrepressible spark of mischief glitters in his eyes, "A bit better at playing the long game than you thought, perhaps?"
Okay. I deserved that one.
"Well. . ." I smirk, "You're a beginner - not hopeless."
His eyes blaze a moment, but then he accepts it for what it is. An expert taking another expert down a notch or two, on purpose, to show them the bigger picture, and how much work there is still to be done.
But we can do that work together now, and that makes all the difference. . .
Without another word, I finish my drink, wipe my mouth with my napkin, and rise. Jamie does too. I take his arm, nod respectfully at Dougal, and turn to go.
We're halfway to the door when Dougal calls after us.
"It wasnae only lust, Claire."
We stop, and turn to stare at him. He leans back in his chair, and puts his feet up.
"Nevar only that. An' ye'er smart enough tae realize it."
He nonchalantly pours himself another dram.
I blink, slightly stunned, "All I ever wanted was allegiance, Dougal. Working towards the same goal, or at least facing the same direction. Nothing else."
"Aye." He half-smiles at me, "Shame we couldnae be screwing while we were tho'. I like a lass who kens what she wants. In life, in whisky. . . an' in a shag," he shrugs a little, "Pity."
I grip Jamie's arm tightly. Heaven only knows what his reaction is going to be to that.
Well. . . that's not quite true.
I do know, fairly well.
I manage to almost entirely hide my wince.
I think.
"Not a very great pity. But. . ." I look at him meaningfully, "Thank you."
It's the thank you he demanded at our last confrontation, transformed into a byword between us.
He gives me a very small nod, with a knowing look in his eyes – a look which in practically any other context might well be called a bedroom look. It is extremely intimate, anyway, and entirely presumptuous. An outside observer could easily be forgiven for wondering why I am not taking wild offense at it this very minute.
But I know this man. I know his masks, I know his moods, I know his tricks and his tells. And I know who he is underneath them all, now. Even who he can be. Who he can become, if he tries. Hand-to-hand combat is the only place he has anything left to teach me.
Well, that and the intricacies of Clan rivalries. . .
But I know what he's trying to say with all this blunt, inept dirty talk, all this causal, ineffectual flirting. And what he's trying to do.
I take it all as meant.
Of course, Jamie probably won't. Can't. . .
As soon as we get back to our room, I'll have to explain it to him. . .
I give Dougal a curt nod, and we once more turn to go.
This time, he lets us leave.
Chapter 105: Steel And Ivory
Notes:
Chapter Rating - Soft M for non-graphic married nookie.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
We're back in our room for less than ten seconds before Jamie rounds on me, more confused than angry, but still very angry too -
"What was that, Sorcha? Ye said Dougal made suggestions tae ye that mornin', an' that ye'ed tongue-lashed him for it, an' then gave him orders tae help us an' leave us alone - no' that ye'ed. . . co-founded the Ministry of Dirty Looks taegether oor summat!"
I sigh, and collapse onto the couch, nearly more exhausted from having tea with Dougal than having a knife fight with him, "Yes, well, it was the morning after our wedding night, Jamie! I couldn't exactly tell you everything we'd said, now could I? I hadn't even told you I loved you yet, so how exactly was I going to tell you I'd told your uncle that I loved you?"
The hard look in his eyes softens a touch, "Ye did?"
"Of course I did! How do you think I tongue-lashed him? I broke him down into bits first, and then sang your praises. I believe the word perfection was used. So was the phrase "best man I've ever met". That was around about the time I told him I could kill him for the awful "advice" he gave you for our wedding night. Messing with your head like that, the snake." I sneer at the memory, "I meant it, Jamie. Every word of all of it. I totally stomped on all the bits of him, and I used you to do so. Took the wind out of his sails entirely. Or the blood out of his shorts, if he's to be believed. Which, in this instance, I think he is."
"So why did he-" he gestures angrily, still upset.
"Jamie. . ." I sigh again, "You've spent a rather significant percentage of your life in company with Dougal – yes?"
And all of a sudden, he calms.
"Ye ken I have."
His voice is nearly back to normal, gentle and clear. He's not really upset with me. But his natural protective instincts make these sorts of things more difficult for him to understand, and then his impulsive, stubborn, Scottish personality gets in his way.
He might be brilliant, studious, insightful, and very often wise, but sometimes, he's still my young, inexperienced, sweet Jammie Dodger. . .
"Right. So tell me, what does it sound like when he says "I'm sorry"?"
"Well he-" Jamie breaks off, and sits down next to me, his expression a mixture of confusion and desperate remembering, "I. . . dinnae think he's evar. . ."
"Exactly. And what does it sound like when he says "thank you"?"
"He. . ." Jamie blinks in shock, "He doesnae say that either."
"Correct. Now. With all that in mind, what do you think he was saying with all that clunky guff just now? Do you really think, after everything that's happened, that he was coming-on to me again? In your presence, after I've shown myself to be ready, willing and able to kill him, and he's acknowledged that very fact to you directly? Don't focus on what he said, Jamie – or what he looked – or what he did – ask yourself - what was he saying? What did he mean, back behind it all?"
"I. . . a'course there's more behind it, bu' I'm no' sure if I. . ."
I roll my eyes, "Oh, come on Jamie. . . anyone who can figure out Sandringham's game without the benefit of two hundred years worth of history books can parse Dougal easily enough. In fact, the one and only thing exactly similar about the two men – thank heaven! - is that they're both much simpler souls than they fondly suppose. Now, I will allow that Dougal has some highly complex musculature, and a very well put-together set of bones, but at the core? He's just a soldier. Colum knows that – I know that – and you know that."
"Weel. . ." Jamie shrugs, and still looks stubbornly confused.
"And beyond that – well – he's just a man." I smile, and kiss his shoulder. "And men, for the most part, are simple creatures – not even saving your presence, my dear."
He smiles ruefully, "Aye, I ken ye'er right – for the most part – bu'. . . weel, I think I'm too close tae see it. . ."
I nod, "Yes, that can happen. Alright, let me walk you through it." I start to tick points off on my fingers, "First, he said it wasn't only lust – not his feelings, or anyone's specifically, just "it" in general. Therefore, I'm worth loving – and he knows that you love me. Then, he repeated himself, and said I was smart – I'm a little less sure about what he meant there, but I think he was apologizing for being such a pain in the arse to me for so long. Then he agreed with my stated goals for our relationship – which of course was his way of thanking me for not killing or injuring him both times I had the chance-"
Jamie holds up a hand, "Wait, both?"
I explain about the tonfa bar.
"Ah. Strange, I didnae notice that bit while ye were sparrin'. But. . . ye were the one who said thank you, Sorcha."
"Of course I was, Jamie. He can't actually say it. His ego is so far gone I'll bet you it's nearly physically impossible for him to say it nowadays, if he ever could. That and "I'm sorry". But my thank you meant something else anyway, and I'll tell you in just a minute – because then, when he said it was a pity we couldn't be screwing, he meant you are the better man, James Fraser. And when he said he likes a woman who knows what she wants, he meant he's proud of me for choosing you, and being a loyal wife to you. And if I know the man at all, he was probably also telling you to be a good husband to me or he'll end you. . . and maybe make a pass at me at your funeral while he's about it."
At last, Jamie chuckles, "Now, that I believe."
I smile, briefly, then pause, "And then. . ."
I sigh a little, "The first thing he said to me that morning after our wedding was - "Aren't you going to thank me for finding you someone better to do than mucking up my campaign?"
"Someone?"
"Yes. He was trying to use you against me, my love. And he wasn't just trying to make me feel like I owed him for giving you to me either – he was also trying to make me feel bought and paid for. Degrading me. Cheapening us. And that's why the main point of all my counter-strikes were "No, Dougal – I'm better than you – we are better than you." I just kept repeating that, over and over, in as many ways as I could find, until he finally got the point."
I sit up, settle myself against Jamie's back, and wrap my arms around him, "So, by saying thank you to him just now, in that context. . . that was me telling him I consider everything square between us, now that I know he's not trying to degrade us anymore. And more than that – now, I consider him our equal. That's why he gave me that terribly presuming look. I've never validated him before – not like that, anyway, with a private, intimate byword – and he was telling me he appreciates that I did. Saying thank you again, you see. Without saying it."
Jamie runs his hands along my wrists, and lightly massages my fingers, but doesn't say anything for a long few minutes.
"Weel," he finally says, nodding, "Mebbe ye'er right."
I kiss behind his ear, "Count on it, my love. Of course, he only did it that way to show off that he really is a good politician, and just as good at battling with words as I am. Which, personally, I am willing to let him believe, regardless of if it's true or not."
He only grunts, and reaches back to touch my knee, and caress a little up my thigh. . .
I nuzzle into his hair. He ran out of his homemade shampoo three days ago, and while I miss the smell terribly, I am loving the scent of pure, very male Jamie, "And of course, he was trying to get a little of his own back on you at the same time. I mean, you've always been a huge threat to him all by yourself, and I've always been a wild card, so just how much of a threat are we going to be now we're married? He isn't sending us back to Leoch early out of pure altruism, I know that much. Especially when you consider that he'd have to be in a coma to miss how much we love each other." I kiss the back of his head, and run a thumb along the side of his neck, "He's jealous, my sweet. Deeply, bitterly, painfully jealous. Of both of us – for highly related and yet wildly divergent reasons – all of which is probably working quite a number on his soul this very minute. But I'm not going to hold any of it against him – or not much of it, anyway, because we're allies now, Jamie – Dougal is our ally. Just barely, and none of us are used to it yet, but we are. That's more than enough of a win, as far as I'm concerned."
He leans sideways a little, giving me better access, "Jus' so long as ye'er sure, mo ghràidh."
"Oh, I'm sure alright." I smile as I run a line of kisses down his neck, "Mmm, your skin is so nice, Jamie. So warm, and smooth, and smelling like you. . ." I nuzzle against his pulse point, "I saw some ivory carvings once – lovely things, made of long, graceful shapes, all charming and touchable – and your skin would remind of them, except that I can feel your heart beating, right here. . ." I lavish the spot with open-mouthed kisses, then lave my tongue across it, tasting him again and again, "You're so alive, Jamie. So vital and brilliant. Don't let that righteous husbandly jealousy of yours get too much in the way of seeing things as they really are, my love. And besides. Righteous husbandly jealousy has so many other, much more fun applications." I slide my hands down his chest, and run a line of kisses up his jaw.
"Oh aye?"
"Mm. Certainly. Why don't you come join me in the shower and I can explain some more?"
"Aye. Bu' is there much left tae explain?"
"Of course. All sorts of. . ." I lightly nip his ear, ". . . details. Lovely. . . intimate. . . delicious. . . details."
He reaches around and pulls me into his lap, lowering his mouth to mine, and his hand to my rear. . .
"Hmm. Ye'ed bettar get started then, Sorcha."
"Mm-" I grunt when he releases me, but just long enough to find the fastenings of my trousers, "Can't when you-" he takes my mouth again, "Keep on kissing me so mu-"
I break off with a gasp as his fingers find a sweet spot, and for a while I give up on words entirely. . .
"This afternoon went much tae quick, Sassenach. Taenight, I mean tae take my time. . ."
"Ohhh. . . god. . ." My head lolls back onto the arm of the couch.
"Noo, mo chridhe. Jus' me. . ."
It takes us a long time to get to our shower, and even longer to finish it.
When we're finally cuddled up in bed, I ask him,
"What does it mean that Old Simon owes you thirty men? He can't mean actual men, can he?"
He grimaces a bit, "Weel. . . no' exactly. No' these days. It means thirty fightin' men. Or a'least it used t-"
"Wait, wait. . . Old Simon holds to the noble vows of service? Really? In 2079?"
"Of course he does, mo nighean. It's 2079 in the Scottish Highlands. Ye ken there's more medieval social structures around here than ye c'n shake a stick at, Sorcha."
"Well, yes, but-"
"An' jus' how d'ye think I kent enough about noble warfare tae question why ye kent sae much about it?"
"Oh. Right. Good point." I sit up, "But. . . that must mean he acknowledges you as a fellow landowner, and at least his equal in the nobility. He says he owes you fighting men? You can't owe someone steel unless they're of equal or higher rank! You can pledge someone of lower rank protection, and that might include fighting men, but pledging the men themselves. . ." I run a hand across my forehead, "Old Simon is the Chieftain of Clan Fraser, yes?"
Jamie nods, "Aye. That's what's notable about it all. Even if I nevar collect on the debt, it's a mightily important gesture. No' just of solidarity, but of respect, familial trust, and. . . well, of deeply Scottish identity." He sighs. "My only livin' grandsire hasnae paid me more'n a whisper of attention my whole life, an' now he's offerin' noble brotherhood like it's feckin' candy? Highly sought-after videos to use against Black Jack or no', tae say I'm suspicious would be an understatement, mo ghràidh." He sighs, runs his hand up my back, and starts to play with my long, newly-combed curls, "But the letter of reprieve is real. Right now, tha's all that mattars."
I think silently for a bit.
"This might seem like a silly question, Jamie, but. . . does Old Simon have any legitimate children? I know he's. . . engendered a lot of them – but when I was looking at facts about Clan Fraser I was only looking for English people who had been incorporated into the line in some way – to use to make a point to Colum if I ever needed to defend my "Englishness" again. And I found Davina Porter. And. . . well. . . others. Lots of others. But I never looked to see if Old Simon had any official heirs. Does he?"
Slowly, Jamie nods, "Aye. Young Simone. Puir lass."
"Poor lass? What's wrong with her?"
He clicks his tongue, "Bad case of Anne de Bourgh Syndrome."
I raise an eyebrow, "And. . . what is that, exactly?"
"Agh. Ye have Pride And Prejudice in the future, aye?"
"Yes, of course. It's been a long time since I've read it, but yes."
"Weel, if ye'el recall, Anne de Bourgh was the daughter of Lady Catherine de Bourgh. . ."
"Ah. I see. Poor lass indeed."
"Jus' so. The only thing wrong with Young Simone is bein' the daughter of Auld Simon. Bu' that's enough tae make her fair unbearable – even by Fraser standards. . ."
"Ha!" I chuckle, fondly, "You know all about that, right enough," I lay back down, and kiss him, "Well, it's a lot to think about, and no mistake. . ."
Jamie yawns, "Aye. An' I cannae wait tae tell Murtagh. About the reprieve, a'tennyrate. But in the morning."
I cuddle closer into his arms, and nod, "In the morning."
But before we can drop off, he stirs, "Sassenach?"
"Yes?"
"What's a "hugger"?"
I laugh heartily, and explain before we go to sleep.
Over breakfast, we show Murtagh the letter of reprieve.
Very rarely have I seen so many emotions on someone's face at the same time, let alone our dear, gruff, stoic Murtagh. He leaves his breakfast uneaten, and has all our things transferred from the Rover in record time.
The three of us are on the road back to Leoch before most of the rest of the party has even finished their morning porridge.
"Wheer did'ye go while I was loadin' up, lad?" Murtagh asks, from behind the wheel of the small support car.
Jamie looks up from cuddling with me in the back seat, "Hm? Dougal's cottage. I settled up wi' him. Used nearly all the money we were given at the wedding - paid him back for almost evarythin' he spent on us – but he insisted on payin' for the reception feast. An' given errything, weel. . . I decided tae accept." He smiles at me, "What wi' one thing an' another, I figure he owes us that much."
Murtagh grunts, "Aye, a'least. An' speakin' of, lad – I've got the top tier of yer weddin' cake in a freezebox in the boot."
"Thankee," he grins, "We forgot it entirely."
"Aye, I ken, but auld Lia won't've, an' if ye talk tae her before I do, she'll wan'tae ken about it."
"Lia?" I ask.
"Mrs. Fitz's first name is Amelia, Sorcha."
"Oh."
"Aye, an' I was plannin' on callin' ahead tae Leoch at the furst village we come to," he says to Murtagh, "If I ken Mrs. Fitz at all, she'll skelp the lot of us if we dinnae let her throw the decade's best party for us when we get back, so I'd better tell her we mean tae take things slow-"
"Do we mean to take things slow?" I ask.
I look up at him, and he gives me a tiny, teasing smirk, "Aye. Nae reason not to. There's four villages on MacKenzie land we need tae visit on our way – on business for Leoch, ye ken – an' there's nae need tae rush in any case."
"An' that bein' so, ye c'n take back callin' that wee lad of yours," says Murtagh, half-smirking at us in the rear-view mirror, "I'm tired o' dodgin' all his questions about the twa of ye. I ken ye want a honeymoon, but a week and a half is long enough for an auld cuss like me tae be seein' tae a wean all by myself. An' annyroad, ye adopted the rascal – ye c'n see tae him."
"You're absolutely right, Murtagh," I say, relaxing against Jamie's shoulder again, and scanning over whatever he's reading on his e-padd, "I'll call him tonight."
He grunts again, and doesn't speak any more until he pulls us in to our first village on MacKenzie land. It's a small place, but charming, with a very picturesque row of shops. Jamie gets out to call Mrs. Fitz, and Murtagh takes me on a stroll down the little main street. There are the usual cafs and tea rooms, bakeries and camping goods places, but the first place we go into is a dim and dusty antique shop, where Murtagh saw a pair of what he called "dancing swords" in the window, and insisted on asking the proprietor if he could look at them more closely.
I browse around, as the two men have what sounds to me like a contentious and highly technical discussion in the Gàidhlig, and I discover a small counter in a back corner that intrigues me. It's full to overflowing with custom bookmarks, cards and jewelry, and there's a little machine in the middle of it all labeled "Donner's Keepsakes". A small cardboard placard next to it lists out instructions for how to use the thing, and winds up with a cheery – "Why not turn yesterday's trash into tomorrow's treasure!"
I look at it for a long while, then rummage in my shoulder pack. Slowly, I bring out the long ivory ribbon Murtagh gave me for my something old. Then, decided, I feed the ribbon into a slot, and punch a lot of buttons on the control pad.
It takes the full fifteen minutes it said it would take, but eventually, the machine beeps, and delivers the ribbon back to me, suspended in chronicler's resin, and transformed into a short necklace of barrel shaped beads, and two cuff-bracelets. The resin is beautifully clear, and shows off the segments of ribbon perfectly. I slip the beads back into my pack, and go looking for Murtagh.
I find him looking for me.
"Didnae end up getting' the swords, lass," he says, dourly, "They looked genuine enough, bu' the style's no' quite right for me – I like a bit moor class in my dancin' accessories."
He raises his voice and puts such venom into the word "class" that I am certain this shopkeeper will have some interesting stories to tell about us when we're gone. . .
I smile at him, "Well, come see this other thing I've found then, and. . . well, I know you aren't the sort to take thanks for things very often but. . ." a blush comes up on both our faces, "Would you take a tribute from a happy bride who owes you much and loves you dear?"
I hold out the ivory coloured bracelets.
He recognizes what they are made from at once, of course, and very slowly, puts out his hand, touching them reverently for a minute before finally picking them up.
"He's. . . a son tae me, Claire."
I pat his shoulder affectionately, "I know. Come see what I've found for him. It probably isn't real, but we take what we can get in this life, don't we?"
"Aye, we do."
I lead him back into the shadowy aisles of the shop, and show him one shelf, crowded with all manner of daggers and knives. I point at one in particular.
Murtagh picks it up, and hefts it, examining it closely for a great deal longer than I expected he would. Eventually, he puts it back on its stand, and he murmurs, almost wonderingly, "Weel, would ye look a' that. A genuine auld Fraser dirk."
Notes:
Monty Python reference - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iV2ViNJFZC8
“Core Huggers” explained - https://archiveofourown.org/works/21512920/chapters/51439195
Chapter 106: By The Pricking Of Our Thumbs
Notes:
Chapter Rating – Soft M for non-graphic married nookie.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"Goodnight, mon fils." I kiss my hand at the smiling image on my screen.
"Goodnight maman," says Fergus, kissing his hand back as me, "Hurry home!"
I smile softly at his wide-eyed, eager impatience, "We are, darling. We can't wait to see you."
One more round of kisses and endearments, and the screen goes blank.
I put my com in my pocket, and begin to make my way upstairs from the taproom.
It's a bit strange for me to realize we're going back to Leoch, and even stranger to talk to Fergus like it's home. For all we have tried to make it a home for him, Leoch has never been that to me, and I know it hasn't been to Jamie either. It most certainly hasn't suddenly become so now just because we are returning to it after a prolonged absence. I'm not entirely certain how I feel about going back at all, let alone how I feel now Jamie has got his reprieve. Going back is one thing, but now we don't even know how long we're going to stay. . .
I smile again, and touch my pocket. And yet. . . anywhere that has given us a son - and especially a son like Fergus – has at least been more than a mere utility – more than a workplace.
Jamie is on to something, I think, calling his time there an exile. It's been. . . a waiting space. A shelter we've both been grateful for, but we also want to end as soon as possible. A. . . sanctuary, I suppose. Though that sounds far too formal and religious for what it has actually been, it defines it as well as anything at this point.
Slowly, I make my way upstairs to our room.
Jamie won't be there yet – he and Murtagh left directly after tea to "go check up on a few folks", which I gather is Murtagh's way of saying there are some tenants late with their rent, and he and Jamie are going to give them a gentle reminder of that fact. Jamie had smirked a little ruefully, as if to say "well, what can you do?", had kissed me briefly, and followed his godfather without a word.
It is strange too, being back on MacKenzie land. Colum's name has weight here, and so does Dougal's, except without being attached to any his slogans or campaign trappings. Jamie is known here, even if it is by the name MacTavish, and he is known to be closely related to the Chieftain too. Nearly everyone we meet shows him automatic respect and deference, even beyond what Jamie usually commands. And, as his wife, not only do I receive that too, I am a Scot first, and a Sassenach only if any of them hear me speak, and not always then.
It's a lot of change to get used to, a lot of it thoroughly unexpected, and all of it weeks before I was expecting any of it to happen. Nearly six weeks on the road is no small amount of time - certainly enough time to get used to a routine, even one as rough and emotionally disruptive as mine has been on this trip. Leaving it behind is much harder than I thought it would be.
And so much has happened since we started out. . .
Hell, I'm still processing my friendship with Ned, let alone my place among the men. All of the men – the men of the campaign – the men of Leoch – the men of Clan MacKenzie. And now, the men of Clan Fraser, as well. . . Add in my encounter with Black Jack, my marriage to Jamie, and our newly minted alliance with Dougal, and it's no wonder my emotional identity currently resembles a large vat of mysterious and highly dubious soup.
Was it really just a few weeks ago that I had determined I would go back through the stones of Craigh na Dun? Was it really less than two weeks ago I briefly thought I might have to do so without even saying goodbye to Jamie? Has it only been a few days since we learned we love each other more than life itself? Has it really been even less time since he's known and accepted my secret?
Was it truly only yesterday that I fought Dougal hand-to-hand with daggers, to the point that he publicly declared me to be a good and loyal Scot?
And speaking of which. . .
I open the door to our room, and dump my shoulder bag and com on the couch. I go over to Jamie's luggage, and rummage around until I find his e-padd. Then, I retrieve my sgian-dubh and the training card from my pack, and set up in the open space between the foot of the bed and the room's old converted fireplace.
There isn't really enough room in here, but I'll make it work. . .
I put in the card, prop the e-padd against a pillow, scan the files, make a quick showlist, and hit play.
Then I draw my knife, and take the stance the on-screen trainer says.
An hour and a half later, I'm significantly sweatier, and just finishing an agility supplement, when Jamie walks in and sees me practicing.
"Strength training supplement one," says a flat, businesslike recording of Dougal's voice.
Jamie meets my eyes and smiles.
The younger, brighter male voice of the on-screen trainer follows, "These forms are bettar wi' a sparrin' partner, but any freestandin' structure tha' c'n tek yer weight wi'out harm will do."
Jamie smirks at the screen as he removes his jacket, and with almost the same motion, he draws his wrist-knife. He raises his brows at me, wordlessly asking to join in the sparring routine.
I smile and nod, and once again carefully take the stance the screen shows me. Smoothly, Jamie does the same, standing as the perfect foil for the moves the screen is telling me to make.
It is a difficult half hour, but by far the most pleasant one I've had since hanging up with Fergus. When the routine finishes at last, I put my dagger away, and go over to the washbasin to rinse my face and hands.
"So, did you and Murtagh see everyone you intended to tonight?"
"Aye," Jamie says, sheathing his knife too, and throwing himself into a sprawl across the bed, "Two tenants late wi' the rent, four smallholders wi' complaints about the roads an' turnouts, an' about half the shopkeepers in town goin' on an' on about how bad the drains are heer, when I gather t'was onlay an auld moggy crawled up a drainpipe tae die, an' set up a right honkin' stink for a few days before they found it, puir wee thing."
I wrinkle my nose at the thought, "Must have been quite unpleasant nevertheless. I'm sure they all feel better now they've had a good complain about it in the hearing of the Laird's nephew." I sit next to him on the bed, bouncing a little.
"Aye. Nae doubt. It did put me in mind of something I could get for ye, tho'." He jumps up and goes to retrieve something from the couch.
"Uhm. . ." I snort a laugh, "Should I be worried?"
He chuckles, "Nae. All the talk of stink jus' reminded me how much ye like things that smell good, an' made me wonder if ye'ed evar smelled these particular things at all. . ." he holds up a box with four tiny amber coloured bottles in it, "The local herbalist was there, an' he let me see some of his private stock." He removes one of the bottles and hands it to me, "I ken Valentine's Day isn't until next week, but there's nae harm in givin' this'un tae ye now."
I smile, and pull him back over to sit next to me, "Oh, you giant darling," I cuddle into his side, "I didn't expect anything – I forgot about the day entirely, to be honest. We barely celebrate it on the Skycities at all anymore. All the trappings – nice paper cards, pictures, candy, flowers, ribbons and all are only really available to the extremely rich, and even they don't usually throw such things about all hither and yon."
"So I gathered. That's why I wondered, y'see. . ." He nods at the little bottle.
I read the label aloud, "Jasmine Absolute, pure essential oil." I peel off the seal, twist the cap, and lean over to take a sniff, "I've heard of the plant, of course, but never actually – oooh." The sweetest, most deliciously sensual odor envelops me, with an intense, almost aggressive softness, and a heady, breathless savour. I instantly think about when Jamie. . . kisses me. . . not exactly on the lips. . . and how the press of his cool fingers stroke and soothe against my burning skin. . .
I close my eyes and just breathe for a minute.
That isn't the only rather shocking image that is flashing through my brain every time I inhale. . .
Are they fantasies?
Desires?
Dreams?
Memories?
Or some combination of them all?
I don't know, but suddenly I want to sit here and just breathe for hours. . .
I curl an arm around Jamie, still inhaling deeply from the little bottle, "Wow. That. . . . that's almost as good as freshly showered you. . ."
He gives a very small smile, clearly focused on enjoying my reaction to his gift. With slight difficulty, he takes the bottle from me. He tips out a tiny drop, and then rubs it into the back of my neck with his fingertips. I arch into his touch.
"That way I'll smell it when I kiss ye. . ." he whispers huskily, a small smirk on his lips, and a lovely glint in his eyes.
He takes another tiny dab and touches it behind his ears.
"An' ye'll smell it when ye kiss me."
This time he draws his fingertips down his neck, hooking them onto the collar of his shirt, and pulling it sideways and down, exposing the clean, graceful curves of his collarbones.
I take the bottle back, twist the lid onto it, drop it almost heedlessly on a side table, and proceed to wrap myself around my husband, in several different ways.
Forget combat training, this is what I want to practice for at least two hours every day.
This, and the stream of passionate Gàidhlig Jamie is pouring out across my skin. . .
The rich floral perfume of the oil enhances things in ways I didn't expect. There is a green flavour back behind the sweetness that brings up the memory of bees and wild thyme around the manse a few days ago, and a deep earthen note that brings back the kisses we shared in the vestry stable on Burns night. The two instances mix in my mind, lending a delicious vibrancy to the things he's doing to me right now. He is very, intensely present in my arms, but this new, exciting scent of him fires my imagination too.
Then Jamie moans my name in two languages, and the present and memory and imagination combine, and it is like making love with three versions of him at once.
Or four. Or five. Or an innumerable infinity that is somehow both utterly overwhelming, and nowhere near enough. I clutch him tight, and let him take us wherever it is we're going. . .
I don't know where it is, nor do I care – I only know that it is unutterably beautiful. . .
I don't let go of him after, my face still buried in his neck, trying to inhale every last nuance of the beautiful, delightful, utterly ecstatic man I married.
"Mmmm," I hum, relaxing at last, "Wow."
"Aye."
"What's in the other three bottles?"
"Wild rose, sandalwood, and myrrh."
"Are they all as good as that?"
"Mm," he huffs a pleasantly sleepy chuckle, "We'el havetae see, won't we?"
"And you don't mind that I didn't get a Valentine's Day gift for you?"
He makes a deep Scottish noise, "Hmphm. Ye mean that wasnae for me jus' now?"
I laugh, and slap his shoulder, "You greedy beast. It was, but you know what I mean."
He smiles mischievously, "Aye, I do. An' sayin' that is gift enough tae me."
"Saying? Saying what?"
"Beast. An' greedy too."
"Wh. . . what?"
"Aye. I've missed ye callin' me those. An' insufferable. An' that fond way ye say ye hate me that so clearly means the opposite."
"But. . ."
"Oh, dinnae take it wrong, Sorcha," he runs his hands up and down my arms, "I do love bein' yer sweet an' yer darling, but I fell in love wi' the sharpness of ye too. The edge, an' the snap of ye." He runs the tip of his nose across my cheekbone, "There's more'n one reason I love sparrin' wi' ye, ye ken. . ."
"But that. . . it. . . it's just that I love you too much to call you those sorts of things very often now, Jamie, even fondly or in jest."
"Aye. I ken. But I've missed them."
"But why?"
He grins, "Weel, when ye wantae give censure wi'out causin' offense, ye'er mightily attractive, Sassenach. A wee bundle of pure outrageous womanhood. An' evan when ye do wantae cause offense, ye'er nearly divine about it. There's nae mystery tae me why practically evary man is ready tae drop tae his knees an' worship ye within ten minutes of meetin' ye."
I scoff, "Oh, they are, are they? Talk about being outrageous. None of that can possibly be true, Jamie."
"But it is, mo nighean. Havenae ye evar noticed?"
"I can't say that I have."
"Well, mebbe some men c'n hide it better than a Highland Scotsman can."
I snort. "Scots or not, men don't worship me, Jamie!"
"Och. Aye, they do, Sorcha. Or they want tae. I daresay most dinnae wantae brave ye enough tae try it out. But they do. Trust me. It's plain as day tae the eyes of a jealous husband, Sassenach."
I gape at him, utterly flabbertgasted, "But. . . but. . . why?"
He smiles knowingly, "Weel. Ye'll order a man about, an' direct him, an' sneer at him, an' cuss him out, an' downright demand things of him – but ye'er allus demanding somethin' the fellow already wants tae give ye anyway. An' if he didn't at the start, he allus does after ye'ev cussed him out proper, because ye'ev met him square, wi' nae backhanded softness. An' that soothes the sting of yer lash, because then when ye say somethin' kind, there's nae wondering what ye mean by it. A man'll change his mind about ye if ye reassure him he'll allus ken where he is wi' ye, an' that's jus' what ye allus do. Ye insist on a place, an' prove ye'er worthy of it all in the same moment. 'Tis fascinatin' tae watch, an' pretty much unbearably allurin'."
I stare at him, speechless for a minute. "But. . . but how can you say that, Jamie? When you know I've been "the damned Sassenach" to nearly everyone here, and practically always hated on sight!"
"Agch. Every man reacts differently tae meetin' a goddess, Sorcha. Stands tae reason they arenae all happy about it – ye'er more'n most men ken they c'n stand, that ye are."
I roll my eyes, "But you can handle me, is that it?"
"Mm. Aye. Most of the time. An' when I cannae, 'tis a beautiful defeat, mo chridhe." He nuzzles against one of the little stinging love bites he's left on my neck.
I slap his shoulder again, "You are a ridiculous Human being, James Fraser. All I wanted to know was if it was okay that I don't have anything to give you for Val-" I break off, and smack my forehead, "Oh, how stupid of me."
He lifts his head, "What's that, Sorcha?"
"I found something this afternoon." I smile coyly at him. "It won't exactly be a gift, as such, but it'll be something, at least."
I gently poke his shoulder, "Get up and go look in the jewel case. It's among the water tokens in the second drawer."
"The water tokens?" He gets up, but looks down at me, confused.
"Well. I don't quite know what they are. But they reminded me of water tokens."
"Huh."
He reaches behind the easy chair next to the wall heater, and with a sharp grunt and a heave, he lifts the jewel case onto the coffee table. Then he opens the second drawer down, and pokes around a little.
"Ah!" he exclaims, smiling, "There's a bunch of auld gaberlunzies heer. Those must be what ye mean by water tokens"
"Mm. Must be. But what are they?"
He shrugs, "Auld beggar's permits, I suppose ye'ed call 'em. Hugh collects them. Dinnae ken what a bunch of 'em are doing amongst the Fraser jewels, tho'."
"Well, keep looking and tell me if any one of them looks. . . out of place."
He scoffs mildly, "The whole lot of 'em are out of place, Sorcha, I dinnae see what. . . oh." He smiles, pleased and surprised, "Weel, would ye look a' that. An auld silver shillin'." He holds it up to inspect it more closely, "Nae wonder why this'un's in heer, a'least. It might well be one of the most valuable things in the whole collection – I dinnae ken how much this year an' strikin' are worth." He flips and catches it a few times, then looks over at me playfully, "No' that I'm complainin' Sassenach, but why exactly did ye want me tae have a wee auld coin?"
"I didn't say I did." I smile indulgently, "I want you to give me that wee auld coin."
He blinks several times before he understands. Then, he strides quickly back to me, presses the coin into my palm, and looks at me expectantly.
I run my fingers fondly down his jaw, "Third drawer down. Look all the way in the back."
He goes back to the jewel case, and searches eagerly for moment. Then he pulls out the Fraser dirk, grinning triumphantly. He runs his fingers reverently across it, sights down the blade, and strikes at the air with it a few times.
"It's perfect. Wheer evar did ye find it, mo chridhe?"
"I was exploring the jewel case a bit this afternoon, and it was right there."
"Really?" his forehead creases in a frown, "I dinnae recall seein'. . ." He opens the top compartment, and pulls out the inventory list. He scans down it for a couple pages, then points sharply at an entry, "Aye, ye'er right, heer it is. Right above an entry for twa cuff bracelets, ivory. Odd, I dinnae remember seein' those listed before either." His lips twist in thought.
"Oh, yes. Those weren't real ivory – they were resin, with an ivory ribbon from your mother's wedding dress. I gave them to Murtagh this afternoon. I thought they'd be a nice keepsake for him."
Jamie halts, and looks back and forth between me and the list, very clearly confused, "The same ribbon he gave ye for yer somethin' auld, ye mean?"
I halt too, suddenly feeling a part of the world shifting uncomfortably around me, "Oh. . . Yes, I suppose it must have been."
"Then how did they get listed on the inventory, Sorcha?"
"I. . . I don't know."
He looks grimly down at the open case, "What was yer opinion of these auld weddin' crowns, Sassenach?"
"I. . . don't think I've seen them."
He looks at me, more confused than ever, "Ye went through this case this afternoon, but didnae see what's right on top?"
"N. . . no. . ."
He closes the lid, sets the Fraser dirk atop it, and sits back.
"What's goin' on, Sorcha?"
"I. . . wish I knew."
We are both quiet a long time.
Eventually, slowly, he says, "D'ye remember tellin' me about Iona's Gift, and how she showed ye wi' that alligator?"
"Yes?"
"Weel, I recall it at the time. It felt strange tae me then too, though I didnae ken why." He gingerly taps the handle of the dirk, "This feels the same. No' wrong. . . no' quite. . . jus'. . ."
"Shifted?"
He blinks, "Aye, that's it exactly."
"Echoes," I say.
"What about echoes, Sorcha?"
"I don't know. Iona mentioned echoes in relation to my visions. Or maybe it was reflections. I can't quite recall. But either way, she didn't explain." I give a very frustrated sigh, "Other than Lamb, practically everyone I've met who has any knowledge about any of this time travel stuff has consistently refused to just explain. It's been infuriating."
"Mmphm. Weel, I'm no' takin' any chances." He nicks the heel of his palm with the point of the dirk, then bloods one side of the blade. Then he comes over to me, and has me do the same to the other side. "We dinnae ken who gave this tae who, so we'll both buy it off the other, aye?"
"But I don't-" I start, then break off, and jump out of bed. I go over to the couch, "I don't have any real for-spending money, but I do have this," I rummage in my shoulder sack for a while, and finally come up with the sixpence Avota and the girls gave me to put in my shoe for our wedding. "I hope that will do?" I hand it to him.
He smiles at it.
"Aye. Admirably."
I reach back into my pack, and pull out my old steel bottle.
"Jamie?"
"Aye?"
"This. . ." I hold it out to him, "This is the only thing I have of my mother's. It was very dear to me before I came through the stones, and now. . . well, now it's all I have of my old life at all. Can it go into the jewel case too?"
He takes it from me, solemnly, "Aye. A'course."
He lays it, the dirk, and the sixpence reverently in the top compartment, then locks the case and puts it away.
Notes:
Soundtrack for this chapter - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s_a0Ymq5P_M
Chapter 107: Heart's Blood
Chapter Text
Four days go by, in a strange but not uninteresting routine.
Jamie and Murtagh, clearly well used to running Colum and Dougal's errands, range all through the villages, small holdings, and rented lands on our route, falling back into their role as a co-management team for Leoch almost without thinking about it. They take me with them sometimes, and at others I stay at the hotel, or explore the town, or go foraging round the edges of back gardens and in hedgerows and lower fields. Either way, I meet the people who live at the farms, or in the nearby cottages, and am constantly reminded of Mr. and Mrs. Graham, and all the small folk of Cold Island 12, and Lamb, and just how devastatingly much the world can change without seemingly changing people at all.
The faces I see here and now may be different than the ones I knew on Skycity 15, their voices may be different, and their language might still be strange enough to me that most of my attempts at even minor conversations in the Gàidhlig reach the point of mutual incomprehensibility terribly quickly, but their eyes are the same as they ever were. They have looked at different skies, but they see the same dreams. They sing different songs, but the music is just as beautiful. They hope for a different future, but the shape of it hasn't changed.
These are all things I have known the whole time I have been here in the past, of course, but to learn them again, now, in peaceful, harmonious company with two men I love and who love me, is to learn everything anew as if for the first time.
Jamie felt like home from the first. Scotland hasn't felt like home until now.
For the first time in far more years than I care to count, I wake up every morning looking forward to the day, and fall asleep at night thankful to be alive.
It's more than being Jamie's wife. It's more than being his lover. It's more than loving life. It's more than love.
For the first time since I was at school, I feel like I can grow. I feel safe enough, and strong enough, and well established enough to put forth the tiniest wee leaf-sprout into something new.
Well, not entirely new, but new enough, to me. . .
Jamie finds me in the kitchens at lunchtime, having a serious discussion with our landlady on how to properly root herb-cuttings.
He sidles up next to me and kisses me briefly on the temple. "Smells good in heer," he says during a break in our conversation, "Any chance of a meal befoor Murtagh and I must go back out tae Mill Farm?"
I frown, concerned, "All the way back out there? The place past those two boggy stretches of riverbank?"
"Aye. Alas."
"But the only way to get there is by that really rough track." I shake my head, "Awfully inconvenient place for a watermill, if you ask me."
"Aye. Except that it's some sort of culturally important historical recreation, or restoration, or whatever they call those kinds of things, an' happens tae have been built on the exact site where the village usedtae be, some five or six hundred years ago."
I consider, then shrug, "Okay, I'll grant you that one, but why do you need to go back there at all, love?"
"Said mill is actin' up, an' Murtagh an' I are cheaper than callin' out a divin' team an' a crew of experimental archaeologists."
I snort, "I'll say."
The landlady has been bustling around, and now comes up to us with two heaped plates, "Early tea for ye, Mr. MacTavish." She nods cheerfully at me, "We'er both blessed taeday. Yer wife cooked for ye." She hefts the plates, then sets them in front of us at the table, and leaves us to eat.
My stomach tightens a bit as I look down at our two portions of scrambled eggs on toast with onion gravy.
I know it's not terrible – the landlady has already told me as much – but I don't know if he will like it yet. . .
Jamie inspects his plate, smiling, "I didnae ken ye could cook, Sassenach."
"Well. . . I can't really. Yet. I know how to heat and re-heat, and stir, and chop, a bit, but that's about all I ever managed to learn on Skycity 15. And I've just been feeling. . . well. . . like I want to branch out a little. So I asked the landlady to walk me through the basics."
"Mm." He sniffs delicately, "Smells good. Daresay it won't try'n bite me back. Ye dinnae need tae look sae scairt, mo Sorcha. It isnae poison, is it?" He winks, playfully.
I smile, but shift a bit awkwardly, "No, it. . ." I slouch over my plate a little, "I'm just. . . well, trying to be ready for you to be brutally honest, I suppose. . ."
His eyes widen, "Agch. Honest I'll be, but am I likely tae be brutal wi' ye Sorcha?"
My cheeks go warm, "Well I. . . it's just that this is the first new thing I've tried to learn in a long time. So much of my time here in the past really has felt like the past for me, Jamie. Personally, not just historically. I've been relying on all my old talents for so long - things I learned by heart as a child, or did at school, or things I saw or did once or twice ages ago. Even learning Gàidhlig has just been an extension of singing for me, really," I gesture down at my plate, "This is the first time in a long time I feel like I'm truly moving forward, not back. Finally leaving my past behind. Even though that past happens to be in the future. So I guess I'm nervous, that's all."
His eyes soften, and he takes my hand, "Weel then. What are ye most proud of doin'?"
"The gravy. It was lumpy the first time I tried to do it, and the cream split. But I got it on the second try."
"Well there ye go. Ye'ev had one triumph, at least, nae mattar how the rest of it is. Build on that, an' ye'll be Francesca Durini in no time."
I blink.
"Famous television chef, Sassenach."
"Oh."
He smiles, and then takes up his knife and fork, and begins to eat. He's deliberate, and very businesslike about it, showing almost no reaction other than pleasant tolerance. He's remarkably fast about it too. No matter how well he likes my cooking, he must be terribly hungry. . .
I eat too, though more slowly than he does.
He waits for me to finish, then goes over to the tea cupboard and switches on the kettle there. We don't talk as he makes a hot drink for each of us.
He brings back our tea and coffee, sits next to me this time, and puts an arm around my shoulders.
"So then, Sorcha. Ready for the verdict?"
I sigh, "Yes. . ."
"Perfectly edible."
I grimace, "But?"
"Not enough you."
I blink. "What?"
"Not enough you, Sassenach." He nods at our empty plates, "If ye'ed served me that an' hadn't said anything, I doubt I'd have noticed anyone different had cooked it. It's early days, a'course, but it didnae show yer spirit. Considerin' it's yer first try tho? I'd say t'was a grand success - but I do hope ye'll learn fast. Ye'er too creative tae get stuck over eggs an' toast an' gravy, my heart. Sweet acorn flour cookies wi' candy-cap mushrooms in 'em, an' some sort of experimental gorse flower icing'd be more yer style. Or some huge impossible bread sculpture that's also a functional water fountain oor summat." He takes a long drink of coffee, "Things that any reasoning person would think cannae possibly work, but somehow it does, and they must take pictures of it immediately or nae'un will believe t'was real when they tell stories of it."
He's serious. I can't help but laugh. "You really think I-"
"I know ye can, Sassenach," he interrupts with a kiss on my cheek, "It's cookin'. 'Tis nowt but chemistry with a detailed instruction manual. Ye'er a scientist, a farm manager, a mechanic, and a Scot-wrangler. What's a few ingredients and an auld recipe book tae those? An' even if you somehow turn out no' tae be overly skilled, who cares? Nine times out of ten, practice makes up for talent anyway. Christ, if a kid at uni c'n manage tae cook, a grown professional like yourself ought tae be more than able. If ye want tae take the time an' make the effort tae learn how. Which ye do. Sae there's an end of it."
I smile softly, heart overflowing, "Or a start."
He grins and nods, "As ye say." He stands, and offers a hand, "Come wi' us tae Mill Farm?"
I take his hand, let him help me up, and then link my arm through his, "Are you sure you want to go back there today, Jamie? By the sound of things it might be dark by the time you're done – will it be safe for you two to be out and about by then?"
"Ach. The farmer will drive us back if we'er at all worried about getting lost on our own."
"Oh, I didn't mean that, I meant. . ."
"Aye?"
"Aren't you concerned about the Watch anymore?"
"No' on MacKenzie land, Sorcha," he shakes his head and points to the sgian-dubh I have sheathed on my hip, "Dougal's taught them enough lessons in the past four years they keep away now."
"Oh." I pause a bit, and consider, "And you really think you and Murtagh can fix whatever ails the watermill?"
"Aye, probably. It's similar enough tae the ones I saw in Broch Mordha growin' up. An' if we can't do it, ye'el be there, aye?"
I snort a laugh, "Me? Jamie, even if I knew anything about the inner workings of reproduction antique water-powered mills - which I don't – you mentioned a diving team, so I assume there's a fair chance that fixing it is going to involve swimming – which I can't."
"Ye cannae swim, Sassenach?"
I shake my head, bemusedly, "And just when and where do you think I'd ever have had a chance to learn how to swim, my love?" I chuckle, "The ocean is deadly toxic, hydroponic vats are too small, and, strangely enough, steamshowers use steam."
He shrugs, "Aye, point taken."
"And besides – water is one of our currencies. I might have been born rich, but we were hardly Scrooge McDuck rich."
"So d'ye wantae stay here, then?"
"No. I saw some wild herbs in early flower out there yesterday, and if you have to go back, I might as well forage a bit while you work."
"An' failin' all else, ye c'n hold my towel."
"Exactly."
He smiles, and kisses me briefly on the lips. "I'll meet ye in the courtyard in ten minutes."
"Deal."
The track out to Mill Farm is narrow, lumpy, soggy, pitted, and several more types of very poorly maintained. I'd complain about it to Murtagh, but he is too busy complaining about it to me.
"The tenants ha' all been onta Colum about trackway maintenance for ages, bu' there's allus been something else more pressin'," he grunts as we finally pull up next to the mill, "Weel he'll be hearin' from me next."
"Us," says Jamie, grinning.
"Aye. An' we c'n be very pressin'."
"I'm sure you can," I say, and take one long look around before I leave them to it.
I find the grassy, tussocky, squidgy ground around the mill is ideal for herbs that like the wet – like watercress, or mint, and I even spy some wild celery. There are a few tiny hillocks that stand clear of the water line enough to bear some plants that need well-drained soil too, and all the labyrinthine gullies in between hide some truly fascinating miniature Edens. Even harvesting very conservatively, I still fill the little basket I brought, finishing up with a double handful of beautiful heartsease pansy blossoms. Perhaps I can convince our landlady to show me how to candy flower petals. . .
Suddenly, Murtagh is beside me, clapping a hand over my mouth and making me drop my basket. He drags me in the direction of the mill for a few steps before I manage to slap his hand away, but I don't scream, or wonder, or beg, or plead. I don't even ask questions, just nod at him without a word, draw my knife, and feel the cold fire of Red Sorcha turn herself uppermost in my mind.
Jamie is in danger, that much is clear. And he's probably unarmed, since Murtagh chose to come get me for backup. But the danger can't have been too immediate, since Murtagh left him to come get me.
We're creeping up behind the mill when I whisper, "The Watch?"
"Nae. Agents," he whispers back, "Renegades. Deserters. Lookin' tae join the Watch."
"Jamie?"
"Millpond. Told him no' tae go in. Air felt wrong. Went in annyway."
"How many?"
"Guessin' two. Might be three. Comin' up the trackway. Loud. We'll hear 'em before we see 'em."
"Armed?"
"Likely."
"You lead, I'll follow."
"Aye."
We both ease around the corner of the mill just enough to see the pathway leading up to it. We are out of sight of the pond, but the soft sound of water slapping tells me the wheel is turning now when it wasn't before.
"Fixed it," I breathe.
"Aye."
There is a brief, sharp zapping sound, not too far distant. A few small birds fly up out of the nearby hedges, and some blunt, raucous laughter reaches us. Then the hedges part, and two male figures appear, dressed in white and dark blue, their jackets slung untidily over their shoulders.
Murtagh and I pull back into hiding. We hear the moment they see Jamie, though their exact words are obscured by the rising sound of the cascading wheel.
"Fe. . . math. . . grich."
". . . dy Scot."
"Bet. . . you wo. . . he will. . . an't"
Murtagh gives me some gestured instructions that I understand very well. He turns to go around the mill, and I turn back in the direction of the pond, steeling myself for some very quick action.
I peek around the corner again. One of the men has drawn his blast pistol, and is pointing it crossways at something I cannot see, but I assume is Jamie. The second man is a pace or two back from the other, but angled away from me.
"Don't be. . . ou kno. . . uick."
"See if. . . rm you up."
It is a long few seconds before I hear Murtagh's battle cry, but when he does charge, it's so sudden it shocks me too.
"AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHGGGGGGHHHHHHH!"
Both Agents whirl towards the noise, and I see Murtagh dart in so fast he gets under the first man's gun arm, and bats it away. Then he attacks his chest somehow, but I have no more time to watch, because I am leaping from my hiding place, and charging straight in to the one with his back to me.
I don't think. I don't plan. I just act. My dagger buries itself into his lower back, all the way up to the hilt. Then I twist my grip, as I have recently learned to do, and with a sharply mechanical click, the dagger transforms, spreading metal spikes wide within his body.
The momentum of my attack sends us both forward, crumpling us to the ground in a tangle of cloth, and limbs, and flying, pouring, gushing blood. I land hard on top of him, crushing his chest beneath my full weight, but the only sound he makes is one of desperately escaping air. There are no screams, no groans. There isn't even a whimper.
One minute he was alive. The next he was not.
One minute I was a forager. Now I am a killer.
It is all so utterly, terrifyingly simple.
I look up, and see Murtagh has dealt with his Agent too, and now is helping Jamie out of the millpond.
He settles him on a nearby log, and then comes over to me, and looks down at my dead man for a very long moment.
Then he stoops, and helps me up. He makes me sit next to Jamie, and then makes both of us take a drink from a flask he hands us.
"Did it evar occur tae ye that gettin' married may no' have been the wisest thing ye evar did, mo chuisle?"
Both shivering, neither of us answer him.
Mo chuisle.
My pulse.
Bitterness gathers in the back of my throat.
Mo chuisle.
My heart's blood.
Trust Murtagh to either totally miss the irony in saying such a thing at such a time, or to not in the least care about it.
Mo chuisle. . .
My dear child. . .
It isn't until hours later that I think to question which one of us he was speaking to.
By then, I know it doesn't matter.
Notes:
“Feasgar math dhuibh, a choigrich.” - Good evening to you, strangers.
Soundtrack for this chapter - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HH5qyyVXfI8
Mo chuisle pronunciation - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gymlM54grBM
Chapter 108: Retribution
Notes:
Chapter Rating – M for angst, adult themes, and consensual kinkiness. Play safe, my lovelies!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
I am nearly blank on how we get back to the hotel. Things happen around me, people come and go from my range of vision, words are spoken, showers are taken, clothes are changed, and all I can really comprehend is what the farmer's wife says while helping me scrub the blood off my hands.
"We'el see tae the bastards' bodies, dinnae fash, pet. They arenae the furst renegades tae disappear 'round heer, an' wilnae be the last, more's the pity. T'wilnae be any reprisals, hen."
Reprisals.
Reprisals.
Re, meaning in consequence, and prisal, meaning forced seizure of property for the payment of a debt.
Reprisal.
Because you have done this, now you owe us.
Requital. Revenge. Retribution.
Like lives are nothing but items in a salvage shop, with prices written on little plastic tags tied to them.
Like death is a minor business dispute.
It's a strange way of thinking about manslaughter.
Or justifiable homicide. Or self defense.
Or just plain murder. . .
I blink at the hotel room around me, vaguely aware that Jamie just said he needed to go do something, but entirely unaware of what he actually said.
"I'll be right back, Sassenach."
I nod, and watch the door close behind him.
I wander over to the window, and push back the long curtain with one hand, gazing blankly out over the town square, to the last sparks of light fading from the sunset.
I don't know if we can call it murder.
But it was still killing.
No matter what we call it, I now hold Death in my hand.
A hard knot of. . . something. . . settles in my chest.
I kill.
I killed.
I killed a man.
I killed.
I kill.
It doesn't matter in the least if he was a bad man, or if I killed him for the right reasons or not, or if I only did it because it was necessary. I have still crossed a line I swore to myself long ago I would never cross. And I did it for Jamie. I learned how to do it at his insistence, and I only followed through because he was in mortal danger.
My love.
I love you.
I'll kill for you. . .
I once held Death in my body. . . but then I let Faith go.
Now I hold Death in my hand, and He will stay with me forever.
Because of Jamie.
The hardness in my chest uncoils like snakes. Horrible feelings twist through me, far more viciously than any sgian-dubh.
I have no idea what to do about any of them, so I just stand still, holding back the curtain, and looking out of the window.
The act was horrifically simple.
The aftermath is devastatingly complicated.
I hear the sound of the door handle turning, and in the window's reflection, I see Jamie reenter our room. He locks the door behind him, and then looks over at me, his posture tense, and hesitant.
He doesn't say anything, or move toward me at all.
When I speak, my voice is tight, and flat, as though any definitive expression would be the end of me.
I am very much afraid it might be. . .
"I had to kill a man tonight, because of you, Jamie."
"Aye. Ye did."
"You let your guard down, you put yourself in danger, you made Murtagh and I rescue you, and you-" my voice catches harshly, "-you made me kill for you."
"D'ye hate me for it, Claire?"
His voice sounds more hollow than a cave.
Truth, Beauchamp. You've promised him the truth.
"I did. For a moment."
I can feel his pain, even from across the room.
I hate myself for causing it, far more than I could ever hate him.
But I hate this world even more, for ever putting us in this situation.
And worst of all, I hate that I am thankful I did it – that I'm glad I killed that man, so mine could live.
I might have deprived a woman of her beloved, separated a son from his parents, deprived children of their father – all so I might have my own husband.
And I'm glad I did it. I would do it again. I will do it again, the very next time a sufficiently dire threat presents itself. For Jamie, I will kill, again and again, as often as necessary. There is no doubt in my mind about it at all.
You are a vicious, vengeful, murdering bitch, Claire Beauchamp.
It doesn't matter how much you love him, you'll never deserve him, Claire Beauchamp.
All you'll ever deserve is misery, Claire Beauchamp.
And here we are. At the maximum. Pain and hate and all such feelings reach their end so easily. There's nothing in them.
Or not enough, anyway.
I shake my head, fiercely, "But hatred. . . it's too simple a feeling, right now, Jamie. It doesn't go far enough. Anger's no better. Neither is guilt, or shame, or sorrow. Grief. . ." my breathing stutters for a second, but I push through it, ". . . doesn't fit. I don't know who I'd be grieving. Or what. Fear is utterly foolish at this point. Horror is closer. Disgust even more so. But neither of them are feelings I can just summon, and even if I could, I do not know what I'd do with either one right now. And emptiness. . . is much too easy."
No. Running won't help with this. There's nowhere to run anyway.
Can a ghost haunt itself?
"Thorough confusion is. . . mostly accurate, I suppose. . ." I shake my head again, "But that's not in the least useful, Jamie. There's no comfort in chaos. Or at least, not for me."
I deliberately do not make eye contact with him in the window's reflection.
"But. . . but if I don't choose what to feel soon, I'm going to end up feeling all of it at once, and that will tear me apart. . ."
He closes the distance between us in two strides, but stops himself before he touches me.
"I'm so lost, Jamie. So. . . adrift. . ."
And trapped at the same time.
You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave. . .
Welcome to the Hotel California. . .
Very tentatively, he touches my shoulder.
"Will ye let me anchor ye? Let me take re. . ."
I round on him, and take his face in my hands, "I can't, Jamie! Not that! By the gods, anything but that. I love you. I love you. So much, Jamie. So, so much. It's because I love you so much that. . . that. . ." I can feel the edges of myself breaking, looking into his dear, worried blue eyes. . . "Oh, gods, you're so sweet, so perfect, so wonderful, I just. . . I just can't. . ."
I can't put this on him. Not like this. Not my good, dear, wholesome Jammie Dodger. I can't trap him in here with me.
Not my innocent husband.
I know he isn't, not really. Not any more than most of us. But I have so little to hold on to, just now. Practically all I've got is an idealized image of Jamie, out in the world, gallant, pure, lovely and free. . .
My eyes burn with tears I don't dare cry, and my heart pounds with feelings I don't dare feel.
Much more of this and I am going to tear the both of us apart. . .
Gently, Jamie puts my hands from him. Then, he goes over to his luggage, and starts searching through one of the outer pockets, eventually coming up with a thin, soft belt woven from tiny strips of black leather. He doesn't often wear it – I think I've only seen it twice before now. . .
I take a few steps towards him, more curious than anything.
He does something simple yet incomprehensible with the buckle, curling the long end through and around somehow, and ends up with two loops he puts his hands halfway through. Then he pulls the long end with his teeth, and the belt tightens around his palms. He laces his fingers together, and lets his arms drop.
What on earth is he doing?
He's barely restrained – if you could even call it that. He is holding the belt, far more than the other way around. One flex of his hands and it would fall away.
But. . .
But it gives the illusion. . .
He stands awkwardly, suddenly looking terribly uncomfortable, and holding his head in a dejected, morose fashion.
"Did ye have tae ha' me arrested?"
"What?"
"I mean, ye could'ha jus' had the damm'ned hounds chase me off the property like the previous owners allus did – a'tually gettin' me inta trouble wi' the law s'goin' a bit far, in't it?"
His voice is deliberately deeper than usual, his accent is rougher, and his whole attitude one of enforced, grudging, resentful. . . servility. . .
Oh.
Oh.
My breath catches in my throat again.
Oh.
I take a few more steps closer. He's only an arm's length in front of me now, slouching and shrugging and practically sneering with indignation. . .
"I ken the English ha' gi'en ye this estate, but t'was only a few grouse – hardly poachin', aye? T'ere was nae need tae set yer men on me, Mistres-."
I slap him across the face.
Not very hard – there isn't even a blush on his cheek to show where my fingers connected – but it was still sharp enough to make his eyes blaze with surprise.
But now my entire self stutters to a halt, in utter, complete shock.
I. . .
Shock, and. . . something else.
I'm. . .
My hand tingles with the same something.
It's. . .
He's. . .
Oh god. . .
A hot cavern of liquid heat opens in my stomach. . .
But. . . it isn't just arousal, it's also. . . relief.
Pure, undiluted, insane relief.
What in all the hells, Beauchamp?
I look down at my palm, and run my thumb across my fingers.
This.
This. . .
I make a fist.
Say it to yourself, Beauchamp. Be honest.
You've imagined it this way around almost as often as the other, haven't you, Beauchamp?
Yes. But not like this.
Not. . . not when I'm feeling like this. . .
Not for these reasons. Not in this context.
Not as a tool.
Jamie is my husband. My heart. My other half. My second soul. So so so much more than a thing to be used.
And yet, this is what a safe space is for, Beauchamp.
Yes. But. . .
This is bad. This is very very bad, and you feel relief?
Yes. But?
But. . . it's. . .
Yes?
But it's also as bad as things ever need to get.
Just this. This and no worse.
And. . . we. . . we can handle this. . .
We can.
The intense, glorious relief morphs all at once into a dark, scalding, entirely ruthless power, spiked with the most intoxicating lust I've ever felt.
It is horrible. It is terrifying.
But it is also controllable. It is quantifiable. Understandable.
He was right to start this – because this, he can help me bear.
If I can do it without making him hate me, of course. . .
Assuming he doesn't already. . .
"You bloody Scot!" I hiss, "How dare you! I will decide what is or is not poaching around here, my lad." I take a fistful of his curls and pull his head back, forcing him to stumble backwards into a chair. He sits with a thump, and I tighten my grip, dragging his face to mine, "And my name is Madame Elizabeth, and you had better not forget that."
He swallows heavily, "Yes Mada-."
I tighten my grip even more, "I did not give you permission to speak. By god, I ought to banish you to Lallybroch!"
So here we are. With some trepidation, I meet his eyes.
And I see only good things in them.
Anticipation. Arousal. Trust. Pride.
I blink.
He's proud of me. . .
By all the gods that may or may not exist. . .
Of all the things I can't handle right now, I never thought Jamie being proud of me would be the worst of them by far.
Tears start into my eyes, as the word Oxfordshire forms on my lips.
I ought to drop all this. Stop at once and do something normal. . . something rational. . . something. . . sane. But I simply do not know if straddling him, cursing at him and weeping into his chest would be enough for me right now. . .
Or maybe I should just go implode. . .
"Lallybroch issno banishment tae me, Madame."
His confirmation of our check-in suddenly halts my doubts.
At least partially. . .
He is offering me this. He doesn't have to do it. He is choosing to do it. He is giving it to me. Space, boundaries, identities I don't have to think about, an impetus I don't have to justify. . . and his body.
I need them all, right now.
And, oh. . . I want to take them.
I know can trust Jamie to hold the boundaries firm, and keep me safe. Keep us both safe.
And that look in his eyes means that he. . .
He. . .
He is going to enjoy this. Just as much as I will. . .
If I choose to do it.
Suddenly, I don't have to do this either. We can find another way, if I choose not to.
Nothing is necessary.
Which means everything is possible.
I release his hair, and turn my back on him for a moment. The raging power in me hasn't subsided at all – Beauchamp is simply not equipped to handle such a thing. Slowly, carefully, I take her off, and put her safely away.
Slowly, carefully, I put on Madame Elizabeth.
My posture straightens, and the power in me is still there. . . but it no longer rages. . .
Like with all other things, this one starts with self-control. Everything else comes from that.
Start with what you know. And learn from there. . .
"Get up." I order, my voice shockingly cold, even in my own ears.
"Madame?"
"Get. Up." I whirl on him, and point to a spot on the floor, "Now!"
Quickly, he goes to stand where I pointed.
His hands are still tied in front of him. I slowly circle around him, inspecting him dispassionately, as though he were some strange, impossible creature, from fairyland or beyond.
Very, very slowly, I unbutton the top two buttons of his shirt.
Then, in a methodical, businesslike, almost medical sort of way, I press a finger to the soft little dip in between his collarbones. Pressure there gets uncomfortable for him faster than almost anywhere else on his chest, so I know I can push him to the point of pain like this, but without harm, and without bruising or marking him in any way.
Boundaries. . .
They keep us both safe. . .
I see his pulse point flutter at my touch, and his breathing gets much deeper. I poke a little harder, to emphasize my words.
"The crime of poaching carries a sentence of flogging, my lad. And three hours in the public stocks after that. You knew this." I narrow my eyes, "And yet. . . you did it anyway." I scoff, derisively, "Setting my men on you was a mercy."
I draw my finger slowly down his chest, then poke him firmly in the belly. I thrill a little as I feel his muscles contract beneath the pressure.
"Because. . . they brought you to me."
My voice lowers seductively.
"And all I will make you do. . . is kneel."
His eyes widen a bit, and his nostrils flare.
I lick my lips, and lift my head, in a pompous, haughty, heartless gesture, "And I'll even reward you for it afterwards. Doesn't that sound. . . better?"
I drag my finger a little lower, and pluck at the top edge of his belt buckle. The one around his waist, not around his hands. Just one, very brief twitch. It's barely even a pull.
But I see his whole body jolt with it.
That's my lad. So sensitive. So inexperienced. So naïve. So. . .
Delicious. . .
I give a broad, yet chilly smile, "It'd be quite a shame to flog such a. . . pretty package. . ." I step much too close to him, pressing my lower belly against his bound hands, and letting my arms slide around him. Ever, ever so lightly, my fingers trace the curves of his rear, "Unless that's the reward you want for kneeling to me, of course. . ."
A beautiful glint of excited mischief sparkles in his eyes, and his lips try to smirk. He suppresses it quickly, and after a moment's pause, his expression contorts into an ugly sneer, "I kneel tae noo un! 'Specially no' English usurpars!" He jerks his body away from me, and looks me up and down with gorgeous defiance, ". . . Libby."
I slap his face again. Still not very hard. Still my hand tingles delightfully.
And this time, a positively sinful jolt of electricity goes up my spine.
It feels so impossibly, terrifyingly good that I screech to a halt again, panting as though I've just slain fifty renegade Peace Agents, not one. I can only stand here, now, waiting for Jamie to use our word, tell me it is over, that this is too much, that I need to stop.
No one can contain this, can they? Not all of this?
Can they?
He can't. . . want me. . .
Not like this. . .
Not this me. . .
Can he?
But when he turns back to face me, more than just his cheek is flushed, and he is far more breathless than any blow as weak as that one was should rightfully account for. . .
His eyes blaze again, and a willful little grin plays around his mouth, "Weel, gi' oon wi' yer wee floggin', then. T'ere's nae enough English vixens in t'whole world tae mak a Scot yield."
Something triumphant in me roars - with either horror or perverse joy, it's impossible to tell - and I grab a fistful of his hair once more.
"Oh no?" I say, baring my teeth and giving him a very tiny shake, "Well, my lad. We shall see."
It takes an hour, but, in the end, we do.
Notes:
Soundtrack for this chapter - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XbAFmBIY6DQ
Chapter 109: Soul Of My Soul
Chapter Text
It takes us quite a while to equalize ourselves after we stop being Madame Elizabeth and my lad.
I lead Jamie to the bathroom, and draw us a very, very hot bath. Slowly, we wash each other, reveling in touches that come without expectations, and taking comfort in reconnecting in a way that does not need to be one of constant transaction. I carefully scrub his face and neck, and he delicately rubs my shoulders as he splashes suds off of them. Finally, we can kiss again, as we have not done for the past however many hours, and as we do, all the sweetness of life flows back into us. Tenderness returns as we wash each other's hair, with soft, gentle fingers, soaping, massaging and rinsing, in a wonderful, reassuring, steady rhythm. Then we get out, and dry each other off, and go sit in front of our room's little wall heater unit, with combs and condition-spray, for the full hour it takes for both our curls to be cared for. The long, careful strokes bring us fully back to ourselves, grounding us each in the other's reality.
It is far too late for tea when we're done, but Jamie has a bag of crunchy potato snacks that he divides between us, and I share the emergency bar of chocolate and pack of dry-preserved beef I always keep in my shoulder sack.
I open my last two water bottles, and hand one to him before sliding into his lap. I snuggle into him, and his arms go around me, wonderfully strong and gentle.
Delicately, his lips brush my forehead.
"Forgiven, Sassenach?"
I blink. "Of course, Jamie." I snuggle my face into the warm skin of his neck, "The truth is, the moment I knew you were mine and I was yours, I forgave you, for practically anything and everything you could possibly do, for the rest of our lives. That's what falling in love means to me, my sweet – no grudges, no needling, no keeping score at all. No holding things over one another. There's nothing owing between us, Jamie, and I mean to make sure that's always the case."
"And I cherish that about ye – about us – tae be sure, but. . ."
"Yes?"
His lip twists a little, "But I didnae mean me."
A slow, hot wave of sorrow starts in my stomach, and rolls through me with such power that at first, all I can do is call out, wordlessly, to the unfeeling sky. Then the tears come in a panting, breathless rush. I tremble so hard with them I am certain that if Jamie wasn't holding me, I'd fly apart. I cry, and weep, and mourn at last, the person I was this morning, and the woman I have long hoped I might become. I can never be her again, and I cannot become her anymore.
Here in the past, my future has changed.
For the better?
I cannot tell. At the moment it seems not, but who am I to say?
Who I am now, and who I must become now, will always be edged with Stygian Blue.
Slowly, I find calm in Jamie's arms.
And peace. And hope. And. . . acceptance.
I can accept the necessity of defending one's self and one's loved ones, to the death, if necessary.
It is sad. I am right to weep. But that doesn't make it any less true.
And that is the world's fault, not mine.
I can accept that some – most perhaps – of the blame in fact falls upon the man who was standing idly by as his comrade needlessly threatened the life of an innocent man.
I can accept that I am in no way unique or special for having taken a life. I have merely joined the ranks upon ranks of people throughout history who have done so.
And I can accept the man. He was not a number, nor an obstacle. He was not a thing. He was Human. Just as Human as I. He was a stranger, and an enemy, but he was still one of us. He was still a man.
Moreover, I can accept that he is only the first man. I still hold Death in my hand. This will happen again. No matter how many tears I shed, neither Jamie nor I will be able to prevent it.
Just a few hours ago, such knowledge nearly broke me.
Now, after tonight, here in my husband's arms, I think I may be able to live with it.
The irony of this is not lost on me.
A box of tissues appears in front of me, almost as if by magic.
Jamie smiles at me.
I take a long time to clean myself up. He waits, without a word.
Then, I stand up, and gesture at the bed, wordlessly asking him to get in first.
He smiles and nods, but before he does, he picks the soft leather belt up off the floor, and drapes it over the headboard. Then he slides beneath the covers, and pats the pillow next to his.
I smile at the symbolism of both gestures, and then follow him in, snuggling him close. Then I pull back, and very deliberately push at him until he is the little spoon again.
Comfortable at last, I sigh contentedly, settling myself against the broad planes and sturdy angles of his back, enjoying holding such a strong, stubborn, beautiful, generous man to my heart. He is such a treasure. My treasure. . .
I kiss his shoulders, and raise one hand to tap the headboard next to the belt.
"You are much too good at that, Jamie Fraser."
He hums, and there is a smile in his voice, "Which "that" are ye referrin' to, Sassenach? Givin' ye your head? Oor. . . givin' ye both of mine?"
I snort, taking mock offense that I didn't think of the pun first, "Either," I throw back my head and laugh, "Take your pick! All of the above. . ." Then I sober quickly, and gently kiss his neck, "But actually, I meant. . . containing me. Making me contain myself. Reading the moment. Reading me. Drawing things out, pushing, pulling back, escalating, calming, giving, taking. . . communicating. Timing everything just right." I moan a little, remembering, "It was almost unbearable, but it was also wonderful, my love."
"Aye. It was," he nods, "I've learned a lot from ye."
"It's more than that, Jamie. No one has ever read me like that. Not even you, until now."
He rolls over to face me, "But all I did was what ye did last week. Take all the decisions, give all the power. So that way ye could feel an' do whate'er ye needed tae feel an' do, in a different context, an' it wouldnae rip yer insides apart. An' I could enjoy it while ye did. That is all ye did for me, last week, aye?"
I gape a little at him. He understands. He actually understands. . .
I mean, I knew he did, but. . . not like this. I thought I would have to explain at least some of it. . .
"Yes. It was. But, Jamie, just over two weeks ago, you were a virgin. Where is all this wisdom coming from, my love?"
He runs his fingers across my palm, and takes my hand in his, "Weel, I've been thinkin' of it like riding a wild horse, and bringing them tae the taming – d'ye ken what that means?"
I shake my head, lost in wonder.
He nods, and continues, "When a fierce, wild thing is driven hard, pushed to the limit, dragged over the edge, an' drained tae nowt but a gasping pair of lungs, somethin' shifts. There's a turning. A. . . transformation, inside. They arenae any less fierce, but the wildness is contained. Made into power, no' just force. Put to use. And when s'done wi' a skilled hand, nothin' breaks, and nothin' is lost, either. Done right, it makes everythin' better, no' worse. It's all made meaningful then, ye see? Ye did that for me, last week, ye ken you did. You pushed me. Drove me tae the edge, an' made me contain myself, even as ye set me free. Did ye not?"
My eyes rove all over his face. He doesn't look upset in any way. . . Granted that it was consensual emotional manipulation, but that's still what it was. "Yes. I very much did."
"Weel. Tae discover I c'n do all that for ye too? Ye took your own pleasure from it last week. So if I cannae delight in it, explore it an' enjoy it the same way, then what are we even doing this for?"
"And. . ." I open and close my mouth soundlessly a few times, "And you understood all this instinctively. . . and then just. . . trusted me? With the raw power that had just killed a man? Without knowing how I would react, or exactly what I would do?"
He considers a moment, "Aye. More or less."
"But. . . at the risk of. . . of. . ."
Of his mind. Of his heart. Of his soul. . .
I don't even have the words to say. And I was the one who went on and on about trust last week! To discover he trusts me like this. . .
He waves my incredulity away, "There's always risk, Sassenach. Ye ken that."
"Jamie," I breathe, "I've never heard of such bravery."
But he waves this away too, "Agch, It's only when ye cannae say no it takes bravery. Ye might havetae give yer self up then. And that's always a scary thing - an' ought tae be. But when ye choose tae do a thing, ye c'n make sure your self is safe. All it takes then is trust. An' respect." He pecks my cheek, "An' love."
"Yes. But. . . Jamie, I'm. . . just beyond impressed. Humbled too. I wouldn't have thought anyone with only two weeks of experience would even understand that last week, they were the one obeying orders, and that I was the one directing things. I was expecting to have to explain that rather carefully to you before we did it again. I never thought you would know it all so well on your own you could Swop, and direct me like that instead. Especially in the context I needed you to do it. And to do it so well? Two weeks, Jamie. And here we are playing scenarios like we've been doing this for decades."
And it isn't like I have some vast experience to draw on either. . .
"Do or do no'– there is no try," he quotes with a shrug.
Flatly, I huff a laugh, "What kind of passive aggressive bullcrap is that?"
"Yoda, from S-"
"I know where it's from, but that doesn't make it any less crap. Of course there is try. Doing something and not succeeding the first time out is still doing something. Someone isn't suddenly a total failure for needing more than one go at a thing."
He smirks, "Fine. What would ye say instead then?"
I hesitate, but only one phrase comes to me. "When our actions do not, our fears do make us traitors."
"MacBeth again?"
I shrug helplessly, "If the shoe fits. . ."
He shakes his head, "Ye didnae complain while it was happenin'. . ."
"Oh, you lovely darling," I relent, and roll my eyes, playfully, "I'm not complaining – but I was hardly in any condition to think about any of this very logically while it was happening either, was I?"
"Suppose not. . ."
"And it's. . ." I hesitate, "It's. . . it's only that I know what love can do, my dear, and this is more than that. I don't even know if our being soulmates can properly account for it all, Jamie. Love is an immense factor for us in things like this – of course. But it isn't the only factor."
He looks contemplative, "What others are ye thinkin' of then?"
"Well, there's plain practicality, for instance – no one could reasonably expect you to lose your virginity one week, learn the basics about this sort of thing only four days later, and take full charge of a scenario the very next week. I don't care how brilliant you are, or how intensely curious you've been all your life – it's simply impractical to expect you to get everything perfectly right on your first go. Even with the help of literal fairy magic, that's a bit much, wouldn't you say?"
He shrugs, "Mebbe."
I shake my head, "There's no maybe about it. There's more going on here. Maybe it is our soulmate connection, but if so, it's an aspect of it neither of us is fully aware of yet." I run my hands fondly up and down his chest, "It's going on with me too, not just with you, my love. I'm not a natural obedient, and I'm no true Mistress either – I need both to be on the cards if I'm to play either one. I'm a full Swop."
"Aye." He nods. "As am I. I havenae thought about it in exactly those terms, but that sums it up verrah neatly."
"But. . . Jamie, it took me years just to figure that out about myself. Let alone start thinking out scenarios I wanted to try. Last week was my first go at it too, you know. I don't have any more practical experience with this than you do. And beyond that, it isn't just that we've only been married for two weeks, it's that we've only known each other three and a half months. How can we. . . how are we able to do this? And perfectly? You do realize neither of us has used our stop word yet, right? We've checked in a lot, but everything is always just right. Christ, Jamie, there must be more going on."
He grins, and shakes his head, "It's only storytellin', Sassenach. All Scots love a good tale, an' most of us c'n tell a good'n too. Ye told the story last week, I told the story this week. It isnae complicated."
"Isn't compl. . ." I nearly choke on my incredulity, "Jamie! You think this isn't complicated?"
"Don' see why it has tae be."
My head positively whirls, "But. . . but. . . Jamie. My love. How can you have lived through the same past two weeks as I have, and not think there has to be more going on here?"
The look in his eyes hardens a bit, and he is quiet as he considers. A long few minutes pass.
"Aye. Ye'er right," he says, slowly, "'Specially since ye'er so convinced of it, an' still havenae noticed yet."
"Noticed. . ." I blink, hardly knowing what to say.
He only shrugs again, "I figure it comes from all ye'ev had happen tae ye. Or rather, all ye'ev not had. Ye'ev had sorrow, and tragedy, an' war, tae be sure. An' they're no' nothin' – I'd nevar think that. Bu' ye'ev nevar been abused, Sassenach. No' by any one person. No' with intent. Ye've been misunderstood often, an' some folk have misused ye, on occasion, aye, bu' never so's ye couldnae fight back, or were evar expected no' tae. So it's nae wonder ye havenae thought of it."
I'm utterly bewildered at such a speech, "You're no doubt right my dear, but think of what, Jamie?"
He smiles, sadly, "Weel. Jus' now, wi' those things we did. What ye did? Especially that tongue-lashin' ye gave me, an' all those seeming insinuations an' threats ye made after. Have ye thought what ye sounded like? Who ye sounded like? Or, a'least, who ye must've sounded like, tae me? Makin' suggestions like that – pushin' yer attentions on me. . . punishin' me for sayin' no. . ."
Ice water snakes its way through my belly, and hardens there, weighing down my entire soul. I shiver, in sudden and terrified disgust at myself.
"Oh. . . oh, no, Jamie. . . no. . . no!" Shame threatens to completely flatten me, "I. . . I was so caught up in my own feelings I didn't even think of that. . ." I clutch him to me, "Oh, my love, we could have found another way - why didn't you stop me?" I groan, heart racing, "Why, Jamie?"
"Because I didnae want ye tae stop."
I jerk back, utterly shocked, "But. . . but. . ."
He cradles the back of my head, and kisses the tip of my nose, "I dinnae ken exactly how he bragged tae ye about me that day, bu' I c'n guess. He probably said somethin' along the lines of "the damned Scot was askin' for it" – aye?"
I shudder, intensely sick to my stomach at the memory, "Y. . . yes."
"Aye. Weel. From his perspective, I did."
My jaw drops again, "Wh. . ."
"Sorcha," he interrupts, reproachfully, "It was defiance. Not consent. He threatened me, an' I snapped back. And aye, it was in fairly similar words and in much the same way as I did tae ye taenight. But I ken the difference – an' so do ye." He pauses a little and smirks, "I am a fairly thoroughly damned Scot, ye ken. I c'n hardly help giving defiance – it's in my blood."
"B-bu-"
He presses his fingers to my lips, both a command and a caress in the gesture, "Boundaries are all very well, Sassenach, but they arenae the only thing - same as love, really. There's the mind tae consider. Aye, and the heart."
"But. . ."
He grips me hard by the shoulders, "Agch, Sorcha, mo chridhe. There's a time tae run. I've learnt that now. It's just one of the many things I've learnt from ye. But how do ye no' see that there's also a time tae stand an' fight?"
"I. . ." I twist my eyes closed, and manage to shake some order into my wild jumble of self-recriminatory thoughts, "You. . . you're right, of course. I just. . . never meant to force you to-"
I shudder again. Beauchamp, you selfish, thoughtless, worthless-
He shakes me a little, "Ye didnae, Sassenach. An' don't ye run from me in thinkin' ye did, d'ye hear? I was the one tellin' the story, remember? I kent what I was doing. I saw it comin', an' I chose tae let it be. Dinnae ye see the difference? Dinnae ye see the difference that it makes?" He gives a very long sigh, "Sorcha. . . I ken ye were dealin' wi' yer own dark things, an' still are, but. . . can ye trust me an' just believe that ye did me good? Because ye did. It did me good. All of it." He takes my hand, and weaves our fingers together, in our gesture of trust and connection.
I still can't shake the sickeningly cold block of ice in my stomach. . .
"But. . ." I whisper, hardly able to say the words aloud, "But to remind you of. . . of Jack. . ."
My very bones revolt at the thought.
And yet Jamie only smiles, "Claire. Ye didnae remind me of him. Havenae ye understood me yet? Ye replaced him." He pulls my mouth to his and kisses me soundly. "What was said was similar enough tae bring a few memories up, but then what we did, an' how we did it. . . It was all so different, mo chridhe. The why of it too. . . and the for what." He strokes my cheek, very gently, "Now, I. . . I c'n think of. . . someone makin' suggestions tae me like that, for a little bit, an' it's ye I think of first, no' him. No' totally – his memories are still there, but you've pulled the teeth of them, in that one spot. Your eyes, your scent, your voice - all come first. Our safe place has more power there. An' that means I control it, an' I c'n say no if I wantae, an' it's jus' a bit of fun, really. Useful fun too. Purposeful. Meaningful. Ye needed what we did, an' I was able tae give it tae ye. It was all good, mo nighean. Ye were good. Regardless of what ye were dealin' wi', ye still cared whether or no' ye hurt me. Ye cared if I found pleasure in it or not, an' that my mind was safe as well as my body. Ye cared the whole time. It was yer main concern. Or one of 'em. Wasn't it?"
The edges of the ice inside me start to melt, but the weight of it does not grow less. Not yet.
"Yes. It was. But I still didn't even think-"
"No, ye didnae, an' that's the best part, to me."
Speechless doesn't begin to cover my reaction to that one. . .
"It's because the pain and the torture and the fear – now that's all on him, Sorcha. A totally different story. A memory that doesnae belong tae me. It's his. No' mine. I dinnae havetae carry it anymore. No' for that one small piece of the whole long string of those memories. His version isnae even real anymore. In that spot, the real memory is yours. Ours. Because there isnae a thought of hurt in it." He runs the backs of his fingers down my neck, "It was pure this time, Sorcha. Unmarked. Clean. Whatever was done in the past by someone else was just a pale, twisted, cruel perversion of the real thing. It was empty then. I c'n accept that now. It was meaningless."
He takes a deep breath, and his eyes shine with tears.
"Jus' like ye said."
He shakes his head, "I nevar meant tae let my fears an' darkest memories cripple me forever, bu' I nevar dreamt salvation could come like this. I thought I needed revenge, Sorcha. I thought my body needed it, an' I thought my soul needed it even more. I've built everything up on the idea of it for four years now." He sighs, deeply and ruefully, "An', d'ye know, it's odd. . . I'd always heard revenge is best served cold – folks allus say it that way, it's cliché - but mebbe. . . after all. . . really what that means is that coldness and sorrow are the best any'un can expect tae get from revenge." He leans his forehead against mine, "Sorcha, mo Sorcha – my heart an' light of my life, dinnae ye ken now? Ye'er right. It's our soulmate connection that's lettin' us do-" he gestures at the belt on the headboard, "- all this, but. . . when we lean on that connection, put all our weight against it, rely on it. . . it lets us use our Gifts."
He takes a long, deep breath, "We can see, we can know, and learn, and understand – more than we ever could before. We c'n fight, an' we c'n heal, an' always better around the other, because the power tae do so is bound up in us being taegether. No' because ye'ev traveled through time, exactly, but because bein' brought so close tae each other woke us up. We arenae two souls working taegether, Sassenach. We're one spirit in two bodies. We can win, Sorcha," he gathers me close, and kisses the top of my head, "Ye were right."
I look up at him, still not quite believing it. I don't want to be right – I want Jamie to be happy.
Well. I do want to be right. But I want his happiness more.
So, so much more. . .
"Iona may have called it a Gift, mo chridhe. But it isnae quite that. It's coming from inside us, not something imposed from outside. Whatever we put our minds to, now, we can do. We can win. We can heal. He's forgettable, an' your demons are too. No' easily. But they can be forgot. It'll take time. An' work. An' probably a lot of trouble too. But we can do it, Sorcha. Together. Because there's the two of us now."
He pushes some curls behind my ear, and runs his fingertips around my ear.
"An' that's not the best revenge – that's better. Better than any revenge could ever be. Because it's life. No' death."
Very, very slowly, the chill in my belly starts to warm.
Life.
Jamie is so alive. . .
"You. . . you're right too, Jamie. You've helped me more than I can say. Not just tonight, or in this way – it's so, so much more than that." I pause, and lean my head on his chest, "That day at the manse. . . the whole time I was telling you about Jack, the memories were playing out in my mind. I was trying to banish them, but they just kept on intruding."
"Aye, they do that."
"Yes. But then. . . I imagined you bursting into the room, and rescuing me, instead of Dougal. And you did, and you shut the door behind us. Then, I could silence the whispers."
"Weel that pretty much proves it, doesn't it mo ghràidh?"
The cold slowly drains out of me, in the form of two very hot tears.
I nod. Just once, but decisively.
Solemnly, Jamie kisses my tears away.
"I love ye so much, Sorcha," he murmurs, caressing me luxuriously, "I dinnae ken how tae express it. It's more than words. The language's nevar been made, I suppose. Or mebbe it's sae old nae'un remembers it."
"I still understand, Jamie. And I love you just as much."
I hold him to me, by his head and his hip, pressing myself to him, full-length, and skin-to-skin, and yet still wishing somehow we could be even closer. I gently scritch the back of his neck, and he arches into my fingers, practically purring at the sensation.
"Blood of my blood," he croons, "An' soul of my soul."
Then he kisses me, so warmly, and so sweetly that I have to give up all my doubts and fears, and simply trust and love him.
And hope.
And hope.
And hope. . .
His arms are strong and sure around me, and slowly, the feel of his surety and his wonderment and his joy knit themselves into my soul.
"Please. . . hold me. . . while we sleep, Jamie," I plead, in between kisses, "I need that. . . right now. Please hold me close."
He smiles softly, and I can see he needs it too.
"Always, my love."
Notes:
Soundtrack for this chapter - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aPquGh8avsQ