A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [130]
“He’s at Marsali’s. He and Germain are playing Vroom with the little cars you made them—or they were when I left him there.”
The knot of anxiety he had carried under his ribs for the last two weeks began slowly to relax. He nodded, a sudden spasm of the throat preventing him from speaking, then reached out and pulled her to him, crushing her against him in spite of her startled yelp and mud-stained clothes.
He held her hard, his own heart hammering loud in his ears, and wouldn’t—couldn’t—let go, until she wriggled out of his embrace. She kept her hands on his shoulders, but cocked her head to one side, one brow raised.
“Yeah, I missed you, too,” she said. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“Terrible things.” The burning, the little girl’s death—these had become dreamlike during their travel, their horror muted to the surreal by the monotonous labor of riding, walking, the constant whine of wind and crunch of boots on gravel, sand, pine needles, mud, the engulfing blur of greens and yellows in which they lost themselves beneath an endless sky.
But now he was home, no longer adrift in the wilderness. And the memory of the girl who had left her heart in his hand was suddenly as real as she had been in the moment she died.
“You come inside.” Brianna was peering closely at him, concerned. “You need something hot, Roger.”
“I’m all right,” he said, but followed her without protest.
He sat at the table while she put the kettle on for tea, and told her everything that had happened, head in his hands, staring down at the battered tabletop, with its homely spills and burn scars.
“I kept thinking there must be something . . . some way. But there wasn’t. Even while I—I put my hand over her face—I was sure it wasna really happening. But at the same time—” He sat up, then, looking into the palms of his hands. At the same time, it had been the most vivid experience of his life. He could not bear to think of it, save in the most fleeting way, but knew he could never forget the slightest thing about it. His throat closed suddenly again.
Brianna looked searchingly into his face, saw his hand touch the ragged rope scar on his throat.
“Can you breathe?” she said anxiously. He shook his head, but it wasn’t true, he was breathing, somehow, though it felt as though his throat had been crushed in some huge hand, larynx and windpipe mangled into a bloody mass.
He flapped a hand to indicate that he would be all right, much as he doubted it himself. She came round behind him, pulled his hand from his throat, and laid her own fingers lightly over the scar.
“It’ll be all right,” she said quietly. “Just breathe. Don’t think. Just breathe.”
Her fingers were cold and her hands smelled of dirt. There was water in his eyes. He blinked, wanting to see the room, the hearth and candle and dishes and loom, to convince himself of where he was. A drop of warm moisture rolled down his cheek.
He tried to tell her that it was all right, he wasn’t crying, but she merely pressed closer, holding him across the chest with one arm, the other hand still cool on the painful lump in his throat. Her breasts were soft against his back, and he could feel, rather than hear, her humming, the small tuneless noise she made when she was anxious, or concentrating very hard.
Finally, the spasm began to ease, and the feel of choking left him. His chest swelled with the unbelievable relief of a free breath, and she let go.
“What . . . is it . . . that ye’re digging?” he asked, with only a little effort. He looked round at her and smiled, with a lot more. “A bar . . . becue pit for . . . a hippopot . . . amus?”
The ghost of a smile touched her face, though her eyes were still dark with concern.
“No,” she said. “It’s a groundhog kiln.”
He tried for a moment to compose some witty remark about it being a really large hole for killing something as small as a groundhog, but he wasn’t up to it.
“Oh,” he said instead.
He took the hot mug of catnip tea she placed in his hand and held it near his face, letting the fragrant steam warm his nose and