A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [113]
“Did they really?” I said absently. I rose, and picked up the ether mask I had been staring at all through breakfast. “Well, if he does come, I suppose I’d best be ready.”
I had the ether mask Bree had made for me and the dropping bottle laid out ready in my surgery, next to the array of instruments I would need for the surgery itself. Unsure, I picked up the bottle, uncorked it, and waved a hand across the neck, wafting fumes toward my nose. The result was a reassuring wave of dizziness that blurred my vision for a moment. When it cleared, I recorked the bottle and set it down, feeling somewhat more confident.
Just in time. I heard voices at the back of the house, and footsteps in the hall.
I turned expectantly, to see Mr. Christie glowering at me from the doorway, his hand curled protectively into his chest.
“I have changed my mind.” Christie lowered his brows still further, to emphasize his position. “I have considered the matter, and prayed upon it, and I shall not allow ye to employ your foul potions upon me.”
“You stupid man,” I said, thoroughly put out. I stood up and glowered back. “What is the matter with you?”
He looked taken aback, as though a snake in the grass at his feet had dared to address him.
“There is nothing whatever the matter with me,” he said, quite gruff. He lifted his chin aggressively, bristling his short beard at me. “What is the matter with you, madam?”
“And I thought it was only Highlanders who were stubborn as rocks!”
He looked quite insulted at this comparison, but before he could take further issue with me, Jamie poked his head into the surgery, drawn by the sounds of altercation.
“Is there some difficulty?” he inquired politely.
“Yes! He refuses—”
“There is. She insists—”
The words collided, and we both broke off, glaring at each other. Jamie glanced from me to Mr. Christie, then at the apparatus on the table. He cast his eyes up to heaven, as though imploring guidance, then rubbed a finger thoughtfully beneath his nose.
“Aye,” he said. “Well. D’ye want your hand mended, Tom?”
Christie went on looking mulish, cradling the crippled hand protectively against his chest. After a moment, though, he nodded slowly.
“Aye,” he said. He gave me a deeply suspicious look. “But I shall not be having any of this Popish nonsense about it!”
“Popish?” Jamie and I spoke at the same time, Jamie sounding merely puzzled, myself deeply exasperated.
“Aye, and ye need not be thinking ye can cod me into it, either, Fraser!”
Jamie shot me an “I told ye so, Sassenach” sort of look, but squared himself to give it a try.
“Well, ye always were an awkward wee bugger, Tom,” he said mildly. “Ye must please yourself about it, to be sure—but I can tell ye from experience that it does hurt a great deal.”
I thought Christie paled a little.
“Tom. Look.” Jamie nodded at the tray of instruments: two scalpels, a probe, scissors, forceps, and two suture needles, already threaded with gut and floating in a jar of alcohol. They gleamed dully in the sunlight. “She means to cut into your hand, aye?”
“I know that,” Christie snapped, though his eyes slid away from the sinister assemblage of sharp edges.
“Aye, ye do. But ye’ve not the slightest notion what it’s like. I have. See here?” He held up his right hand, the back of it toward Christie, and waggled it. In that position, with the morning sun full on it, the thin white scars that laced his fingers were stark against the deep bronze skin.
“That bloody hurt,” he assured Christie. “Ye dinna want to do something like that, and there’s a choice about it—which there is.”
Christie barely glanced at the hand. Of course, I thought, he would be familiar with the look of it; he’d lived with Jamie for three years.
“I have made my choice,” Christie said with dignity. He sat down in the chair and laid his hand palm-up on the napkin. All the color had leached out of his face, and his free hand was clenched so hard that it