A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [222]
Leaving them with refreshment, I escaped to my surgery and spent a pleasant quarter of an hour alone with the herbs, decanting infusions and separating a heap of rosemary to dry, surrounded by pungent scent and the peacefulness of plants. Such solitude was hard to come by these days, with children popping up underfoot like mushrooms. Marsali was anxious to go back to her own home, I knew—but I was loath to let her go without Fergus there to provide some help.
“Bloody man,” I muttered under my breath. “Selfish little beast.”
Evidently, I wasn’t the only one who thought so. As I came back down the hall, reeking of rosemary and ginseng root, I overheard Marsali expressing a similar opinion to Ian.
“Aye, I ken he’s taken back, who wouldna be?” she was saying, her voice full of hurt. “But why must he run awa, and leave us alone? Did ye speak to him, Ian? Did he say anything?”
So that was it. Ian had been gone on one of his mysterious journeys; he must have encountered Fergus somewhere, and told Marsali about it.
“Aye,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “Just a bit.” I hung back, not wanting to interrupt them, but I could see his face, the ferocity of his tattoos at odds with the sympathy that clouded his eyes. He leaned across the table, holding out his arms. “Can I hold him, coz? Please?”
Marsali’s back stiffened with surprise, but she handed over the baby, who squirmed and kicked a little in his wrappings, but quickly settled against Ian’s shoulder, making little smacking noises. Ian bent his head, smiling, and brushed his lips across Henri-Christian’s big round head.
He said something soft to the baby, in what I thought was Mohawk.
“What’s that ye said?” Marsali asked, curious.
“A sort of blessing, ye’d call it.” He patted Henri-Christian’s back, very softly. “Ye call upon the wind to welcome him, the sky to give him shelter, and the water and the earth to yield him food.”
“Oh.” Marsali’s voice was soft. “That’s so nice, Ian.” But then she squared her shoulders, unwilling to be distracted. “Ye spoke wi’ Fergus, ye said.”
Ian nodded, eyes closed. His cheek rested lightly on the baby’s head. He didn’t speak for a moment, but I saw his throat move, the big Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.
“I had a child, cousin,” he whispered, so softly that I barely heard him.
Marsali heard him. She froze, the needle she had picked up glinting in her hand. Then, moving very slowly, put it down again.
“Did ye, then?” she said just as softly. And rising, went round the table in a quiet rustle of skirts to sit beside him on the bench, close enough that he could feel her there, and laid a small hand against his elbow.
He didn’t open his eyes, but drew breath, and with the baby nestled against his heart, began to talk, in a voice hardly louder than the crackle of the fire.
HE WOKE OUT OF SLEEP, knowing that something was deeply wrong. He rolled toward the back of the bed platform, where his weapons lay at hand, but before he could seize knife or spear, he heard again the sound that must have wakened him. It came from behind him; no more than a slight catch of breath, but he heard both pain and fear in it.
The fire burned very low; he saw no more than the dark top of Wako’teqehsnonhsa’s head, a red glow outlining it, and the double mound of shoulder and hip beneath the furs. She didn’t move or make the sound again, but something in those still dark curves cleft through his heart like a tomahawk striking home.
He gripped her shoulder fiercely, willing her to be all right. Her bones were small and hard through her flesh. He could find no proper words; all the Kahnyen’kehaka had fled