A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [221]
“He’s all right?” she said, emerging after thirstily engulfing this. “Truly all right?”
“Well, he’s got two arms, two legs, and a head,” I said. “I hadn’t time to count the fingers and toes.”
Fergus laid the baby on the table beside Marsali.
“See for yourself, ma cher,” he said. He folded back the blanket. And blinked, then leaned closer, frowning.
Ian and Jamie stopped talking, seeing him.
“Is there something amiss, then?” Ian asked, coming over.
Sudden silence struck the room. Malva glanced from one face to another, bewildered.
“Maman?”
Germain stood in the doorway, swaying sleepily.
“Is he here? C’est Monsieur?”
Without waiting for answer or permission, he staggered forward and leaned on the bloodstained bedding, mouth a little open as he stared at his newborn brother.
“He looks funny,” he said, and frowned a little. “What’s wrong with him?”
Fergus had been standing stock-still, as had we all. At this, he looked down at Germain, then glanced back at the baby, then again to his firstborn son.
“Il est un nain,” he said, almost casually. He squeezed Germain’s shoulder, hard enough to elicit a yelp of startlement from the boy, then turned suddenly on his heel and went out. I heard the opening of the front door, and a cold draft swept down the hall and through the room.
Il est un nain. He is a dwarf.
Fergus hadn’t closed the door, and the wind blew out the candles, leaving us in semidarkness, lit only by the glow of the brazier.
36
WINTER WOLVES
LITTLE HENRI-CHRISTIAN appeared to be perfectly healthy; he was simply a dwarf. He was slightly jaundiced, though, with a faint gold cast to his skin that gave his round cheeks a delicate glow, like the petals of a daffodil. With a slick of black hair across the top of his head, he might have been a Chinese baby—bar the huge, round blue eyes.
In a way, I supposed I should feel grateful to him. Nothing less than the birth of a dwarf could have deflected the attention of the Ridge from me and the events of the past month. As it was, people no longer stared at my healing face or stumbled awkwardly to find something to say to me. They had quite a lot to say—to me, to each other, and not infrequently, to Marsali, if neither Bree nor I was in time to stop them.
I supposed they must be saying the same things to Fergus—if they saw him. He had come back, three days following the baby’s birth, silent and dark-faced. He had stayed long enough to assent to Marsali’s choice of name, and to have a brief, private conversation with her. Then he had left again.
If she knew where he was, she wasn’t saying. For the time being, she and the children remained at the Big House with us. She smiled and paid attention to the other children, as mothers must, though she seemed always to be listening for something that wasn’t there. Fergus’s footsteps? I wondered.
One good thing: she kept Henri-Christian always close to her, carrying him in a sling, or sitting by her feet in his basket of woven rushes. I’d seen parents who had given birth to children with defects; often, their response was to withdraw, unable to deal with the situation. Marsali dealt with it in the other way, becoming fiercely protective of him.
Visitors came, ostensibly to speak to Jamie about something or to get a bit of a tonic or a salve from me—but really in hopes of catching a glimpse of Henri-Christian. It was no surprise, therefore, that Marsali tensed, clutching Henri-Christian to her bosom, when the back door opened and a shadow fell across the threshold.
She relaxed a little, though, seeing that the visitor was Young Ian.
“Hello, coz,” he said, smiling at her. “Are ye well, then, and the bairn, too?”
“Verra well,” she said firmly. “Come to visit your new cousin, have ye?” I could see that she eyed him narrowly.
“I have, aye, and brought him a wee present, too.” He lifted one big hand, and touched his shirt, which bulged a little with whatever was inside it. “Ye’re well, too, I hope, Auntie Claire?”
“Hallo, Ian,”