A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [133]
“It needs to be a lot deeper,” she said, “maybe another three feet. But the dirt here is really good for digging; it’s soft, but it doesn’t crumble too much. I hope I can finish the hole before it starts to snow, but I don’t know.” She rubbed a knuckle under her nose, squinting dubiously at the hole. “I really need to card and spin enough more wool to weave the fabric for winter shirts for you and Jem, but I’ll have to pick and preserve for the next week or so, and—”
“I’ll dig it for you.”
She stood on tiptoe and kissed him, just under the ear, and he laughed, suddenly feeling better.
“Not for this winter,” she said, taking him contentedly by the arm, “but eventually—I’m wondering if I can vent some of the heat from the kiln, and run it under the floor of the cabin. You know what a Roman hypocaust is?”
“I do.” He turned to eye the foundation of his domicile, a simple hollow base of fieldstone on which the log walls were built. The notion of central heating in a crude mountain cabin made him want to laugh, but there was really nothing impossible about it, he supposed. “You’d what? Run pipes of warm air through the foundation stones?”
“Yes. Always assuming I can actually make good pipes, which remains to be seen. What do you think?”
He glanced from the proposed project up the hill to the Big House. Even at this distance, a mound of dirt by the foundation was visible, evidence of the white sow’s burrowing capabilities.
“I think ye run a great danger of having that big white buggeress transfer her affections to us, if ye make a cozy warm den under our house.”
“Buggeress?” she said, diverted. “Is that physically possible?”
“It’s a metaphysical description,” he informed her. “And ye saw what she tried to do to Major MacDonald.”
“That pig really doesn’t like Major MacDonald,” Bree said reflectively. “I wonder why not?”
“Ask your mother; she’s none so fond of him, either.”
“Oh, well, that—” She stopped suddenly, lips pursed, and looked thoughtfully at the Big House. A shadow passed the window of the surgery, someone moving inside. “Tell you what. You find Da and have a drink with him, and while you’re doing that, I’ll tell Mama about Marsali and Fergus. She might have a good idea.”
“I don’t know that it’s a medical problem, exactly,” he said. “But anesthetizing Germain would certainly be a start.”
27
THE MALTING-FLOOR
I COULD SMELL THE SWEET, musty scent of damp grain on the wind as I made my way up the trail. It was nothing like the heady pungency of the barm mash, the faintly coffeelike toasted smell of malting, nor yet the reek of distilling—but still spoke as strongly of whisky. It was a very fragrant business, making uisgebaugh, and the reason why the whisky clearing was located nearly a mile from the Big House. As it was, I often caught a wild faint scent of spirit through my open surgery windows when the wind was right and the mash was making.
The whisky-making had its own cycle, and one that everyone on the Ridge was subconsciously attuned to, whether directly involved in it or not. Which was how I knew without asking that the barley in the malting shed had just begun its germination, and therefore, Marsali would be there, turning and spreading the grain evenly before the malting fire was lit.
The grain must be allowed to germinate, to assure a maximal sweetness—but must not sprout, or the mash would have a bitter taste and be ruined. No more than twenty-four hours must pass after germination began, and I had smelled the fecund damp scent of the grain begin to rise as I foraged in the woods the afternoon before. The time was here.
It was by far the best place to have a private conversation with Marsali;