A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [245]
“Make us to know that Thy children are precious in Thy sight. . . .” He stopped, visibly struggling; the muscles of his throat worked, trying vainly to clear the obstruction in silence, but it was no good.
“Err . . . HRRM!” A sound, not quite laughter, ran through the room, and Bree made a small rumbling noise in her own throat, like a volcano getting ready to spew lava.
“Grannie!”
“Shh!”
“. . . thy sight. That they . . . live evermore with Thee and that Thy mercy—”
“Grannie!”
Jemmy was wiggling as though a colony of ants had taken up residence in his breeches, an expression of agonized urgency on his face.
“I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in Me, though he were dead . . . rr-hm . . . yet shall he live—” With the end in sight, Roger was making a gallant finish, forcing his voice past its limits, hoarser than ever and cracking on every other word, but firm and loud.
“Just a minute,” I hissed. “I’ll take you out in a—”
“No, Grannie! Look!”
I followed his outthrust finger, and for a moment, thought he was pointing at his father. But he wasn’t.
Old Mrs. Wilson had opened her eyes.
THERE WAS AN INSTANT’S silence, as everyone’s eyes fastened at once on Mrs. Wilson. Then there was a collective gasp, and an instinctive stepping back, with shrieks of dismay and cries of pain as toes were trodden on and people squashed against the unyielding rough logs of the walls.
Jamie grabbed Jemmy up off the floor in time to save his being crushed, inflated his lungs, and bellowed, “Sheas!” at the top of his voice. Such was his volume that the crowd did indeed freeze momentarily—long enough for him to thrust Jemmy into Brianna’s arms and elbow his way toward the table.
Roger had got hold of the erstwhile corpse, and was lifting her into a sitting position, her hand feebly flapping at the bandage round her jaws. I pushed after Jamie, ruthlessly shoving people out of the way.
“Give her a bit of air, please,” I said, raising my voice. The stunned silence was giving way to a rising murmur of excitement, but this quelled as I fumbled to untie the bandage. The room waited in quivering expectation as the corpse worked stiff jaws.
“Where am I?” she said in a quavering voice. Her gaze passed disbelievingly round the room, settling at last on her daughter’s face.
“Mairi?” she said dubiously, and Mrs. Crombie rushed forward and fell on her knees, bursting into tears as she gripped her mother’s hands.
“A Màthair! A Màthair!” she cried. The old woman set a trembling hand on her daughter’s hair, looking as though she were not quite sure she was real.
I, meanwhile, had been doing my best to check the old lady’s vital signs, which were not all that vital, but nonetheless fairly good for someone who had been dead a moment before. Respiration very shallow, labored, a color like week-old oatmeal, cold, clammy skin despite the heat in the room, and I couldn’t find a pulse at all—though plainly she must have one. Mustn’t she?
“How do you feel?” I asked.
She put a trembling hand to her belly.
“I do feel that wee bit poorly,” she whispered.
I put my own hand on her abdomen, and felt it instantly. A pulse, where no pulse should be. It was irregular, stumbling, and bumping—but most assuredly there.
“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” I said. I didn’t say it loudly, but Mrs. Crombie gasped, and I saw her apron twitch, as she doubtless made the horns beneath it.
I hadn’t time to bother with apology, but stood and grabbed Roger by the sleeve, pulling him aside.
“She has an aortic aneurysm,” I said to him very softly. “She must have been bleeding internally for some time, enough to make her lose consciousness and seem cold. It’s going to rupture very soon, and then she’ll die for real.”
He